PEACE + QUIET:

THE JAIN FESTIVAL OF PARYUSANA PARVA THROUGH IGNORANT EYES

I can hear sounds from inside: the clinking of plates, the rushed pummeling of children’s feet on hardwood, the rapid whispers of planning parents.

The front door is closed.  I knock on it – no answer.  It’s noisy inside, and I imagine it would be difficult to hear my sheepish tapping over the festivities at hand.  

I look up at the building: it’s a modest one.  The red colonial brick makes the place appear closer to a poorly-funded elementary school than an exotic place of worship.  I doubt one would ever guess its function if it wasn’t for the hand-painted sign facing the suburban street, reading “Cloverly Jain Center.”

I knock again and wait, with mild impatience – Forge Press should have let them know that I was to arrive at 5:30.  I wonder if they told the members of the center what the story was supposed to cover; they barely even told me, to be honest.  “Write a narrative about the festival of Paryusana Parva,” they said, Anglo tongues tripping over the syllables (not that I could do any better).

So, here I am: shoulders hunched in the rain, penning a mental narrative about the importance of doorbell installation.  I knock again to no avail, and decide to simply step inside.

The front room is dark, lit only by the gray September sky filtering through the thick bottle-glass windows.  I have to tiptoe on the few exposed islands of white tile floor – the rest is camouflaged by canvas sandals of various sizes.  I begin to untie my shoes: my black steel-toed combat boots in stark contrast to the surrounding footwear.  I suddenly feel very aware of how aggressively chic I’m dressed compared to example set by these humble shoes, each pair barely distinguishable from the rest.

But that’s what Jainism is about: the experience of being humbled.  It’s a religion that some would say makes Buddhism seem positively “laid-back.”  Similar to Buddhists, Jains believe in the accumulation of karma and the lack of a cosmic creator, but their celebrations, dogma, and internalized logic differ greatly.

Jains, for example, don’t rank a creature’s physical form on any sort of totem pole.  Buddhists believe that there is a linear progression in reincarnation that will eventually lead to an inevitable end goal: enlightenment.  Jains, however, maintain that all species are equal: people, animals, plants, bacteria, and even elements have souls and the capacity to both experience and cause suffering.

This takes the pacifistic lifestyle portrayed by Buddhists and Hindus to astounding extremes: many Jains refuse to eat fruit until it has already fallen from its tree, by which point it is truly “dead.”  Others wear surgeon’s masks to prevent the inhalation of microscopic creatures and constantly sweep a small broom in front of them to safely push insects out of harm’s way as they move through the world.

The determination of Jains is often described as superhuman.  I’ll admit I am intimidated to be dealing with such a self-controlled and self-affirmed collection of human beings.  This is a group of people who preach complete detachment from even the vaguest hints of materialism, yet here I am taking my iPhone out of my skinny jeans to set it to “silent.”  Before I can fully comprehend my spiritual inferiority, my subconscious monologue is cut off by a booming, amiable voice.

“You must be Mr. Turner!”

I turn around, and before I can even respond, a heavy hand grips mine and pulls me into a handshake and half-hug.  I answer that yes, that’s me, I’m him – my syllables stuttering in sharp staccato in response to his hearty pats on my back.  

This was Ajay Advani, one of the organizers of the Jain Center and the leader of today’s celebration in the eight-day festival of Paryusana Parva.  

“Come, come!  Please, get dry!” he enthusiastically draws me from the dark gray of the shoe sanctum into the warm orange light of the prayer quarters.  A long table is set up, with aluminum serving trays filled with steamed vegetables and aromatic breads.  Small children in traditional dress chase each other under chairs.  Their parents shovel food on to wooden plates, laughing and gossiping between each other.  This is not the clan of ascetics I expected.

I ask Advani if the center has any of the broom-wielding worshipers I read about.  “There are very few ‘orthodox’ Jains here,” he explains, “but we still believe in the same basic tenants.  And our diets are strictly vegan.  But it can be almost impossible to live in that way in this day and age, you know.”

He describes some of the strange contradictions that arise when being a Jain in modern America.  For example, several of the members are doctors and veterinarians, and though they are helping heal humans and animals, their jobs often include killing parasites and malignant cells.  

“Some would see that as a sin, if you looked at it in a very strict sense, but clearly these people just want to help others as best they can.  Compromise and understanding are key in this age.”  He gazes out the window and across the rain-drenched field, “Good intentions and good efforts can be plenty.”

The entire conversation is undercut by the chatter of the surrounding families.  “You must excuse us.  Many are eating now, as we fast during the days during this festival, so at nights spirits get very high.”

“Do you know what Paryushana Parva means, Mr. Turner?”  I have an idea, but still ask him to continue.  “Paryushana comes from two words, which mean ‘a year’ and ‘a return.’  It’s a time where once a year you repent for all of your misgivings and ‘return’ to the arms of the infinite.  Where you can wash yourself from your day-to-day problems and remember the true meaning of things.”

Advani goes on to explain the festival and all of its eight days and how he personally fasted, day and night, for four days of it.  “You’re lucky you caught me on a day I can eat, however – I tend to have much more energy after I’ve had my wife’s chaat!”  He points to a tray of piping hot dough, garnished with chutney and onions.  He picks up a plate and fills it enthusiastically, recounting how he and several others had awoken at 5 a.m. that morning to participate it “pratikraman,” a three-hour group prayer for peace and unity.

He invites me to participate in that evening’s pratikraman.  I unfortunately have a ride coming to pick me up in an hour or so, and didn’t want to interrupt the service.  He waves his hand in a playful p’shaw.

“Any amount of prayer is good for you, that is a fact,” he says with a convivial smile.

After briefly explaining some of the history of Jainism and showing me pictures of his favorite temple in India (Ranakpur Jain Temple – google it, it’s breathtaking), Advani hastily corrals everyone together, leading them to the main room like a street magician preparing for a trick.

The prayer room, like the building’s exterior, is also very simple: folding tables, faded rugs, and oversaturated photos in inexpensive frames adorn the space.  What it lacks in awe-inspiring glamour, however, it more than makes up for in the passion and eagerness in its worshippers.

Advani opens the Kalpa Sutra, a holy book that shares the oldest Jains’ biographies, even detailing their ascension into Nirvana.  He begins to tell the tale of Lord Mahavira’s birth with the craft of a veteran storyteller, narrating with excited flourishes that leave the children rapt in the same way that I’ve seen other kids on Christmas Eve.  But these kids aren’t excited for potential presents – they’re excited for the parables themselves.  It is a far cry from the scattered naps my sister and I used to take in back pews during services at our Methodist church.

After finishing the reading, he prepares the sanctuary for pratikraman.  We all set aside our folding chairs, place down pillows, and sit cross-legged and to attention.  Advani begins speaking in Marwari at a swift and crackling clip, like a subdued Baptist pastor.  Some speak along with him, some nod in affirmation, some press their foreheads to the floor intermittently, and I… just try to soak up the ambiance, I suppose.  I jokingly wonder if I should’ve boned up on my Marwari before coming out – but it wasn’t as big of a deal as I thought.  The texture of the words, the active call and response, the quivering smiles and focused eyes of the followers… all of these things show the sincerity and surrendering humility that these people take to heart.

A surprisingly swift ninety minutes later, my phone vibrates in my pocket, its deep hum like the muffled moo of a sacred cow.  My ride is nearly here.

I try to slink out as subtly as possible, silently lacing up my boots in the dark cobalt of the entryway.  I slip outside and wait in the gravel parking lot, checking my phone intermittently.  I hear the shifting of small stones behind me, and look back: an elderly woman is shuffling towards me.

“Hello, sir.  Are you okay?”  

I chuckle and say that yes, I am quite alright – she explains that she was concerned that I didn’t have a ride home and was excited to offer one.  I thank her for her kindness; she dismisses it as nothing, and heads back towards the sanctuary, bidding me “good night.”  

As I wait for the 1999 Pontiac Sunfire to round the corner, I begin to think about how I would have approached that situation.  If I offered a ride to a stranger, I’m sure I would’ve been very wary of whom I’d offer it to (and I certainly doubt I’d give me one – me: chain smoking in steel-toed shoes).  If I did decide to, I’m sure I’d openly volunteer the story of my Christlike good-heartedness at every socially acceptable opportunity in the coming weeks.

For the members of that Jain Center, however, and for the religions 6 million or so other followers, that sense of “giving” is intrinsic to the point of being automatic.  Like the brick one-story house of worship, the collection of well-worn canvas sandals, the wooden plates of vegan delicacies, or the beautifully reserved celebration of Paryushana Parva, a Jain’s life force seems to resonate from that singular enviable virtue of humility.  

I consider this and sigh in admiration at the honesty of such an existence.

And then I hear Bad Brains bursting from my friends new subwoofer as his car approaches.  I get in and light a cigarette, the ash shaking off from the vibrations of the superfluously overpowered bass.  As he chatters on about a house show that night in Baltimore, I breathe the chilled air in deep and contemplate a life without so many trappings, and so much noise.