Asian Mystique

My mother, Tooriya, is an Asian Art Historian and it is no coincidence that currently, at age 87, she is writing a book about the Laquer Pavillion. She has already published a few seminal articles about the interior murals illustrating the Ramayana and the lives of the Buddha.

It all started one fine day when my father, an eager highschool student at Middlesex in Massachusetts, suddenly sensed the world extended far beyond Lexington and Concord. At Harvard he managed to get himself to China in his second year, and went to Lingnan University in 1936, travelling through Asia on a bicycle during the holidays with one destination: Cambodia's famed Angkor Wat. One happy monsoon night he and his mate were pedalling along as furiously as one can in gale winds, desperately anxious to reach the massive architectural mandala, when lightening struck and to his mild horror, he had been about to dive into the moat of Angkor Wat and be baptized by Asian waters, bicycle and all. He simply could not wait through another night to see what for him became a place of pilgrimage on subsequent visits to Asia. And he made many. Apparently he would slip unnoticed inside the sacred place, find a contemplative spot, and enter a naturally transcendent, meditative state.

I was the last remaining member of my family to visit Angkor Wat, and that was in the recent past. Sri Chinmoy and several dozen of his students were visiting Cambodia, and coincidentally so was my mother Tooriya and elder sister Kit (who were living in Bangkok and Chaing Mai respectively at the time). I flew from Cambodia's capital to meet them in the land of legends, whose lure had been told and retold by both parents for decades:  Tooriya was a frequent lecturer on Angkor Wat's mystique as well as an indefatigeable tour guide throughout all of Asia. Tooriya led us from cavernous hall to cavernous hall, describing in detail the meanings of the murals on walls illustrating the great Indian epic, the Mahabharata. Here was Arjuna in glorious battle, horses thundering, and Krishna serenely guiding him through the perils of human life as immortalized in the Bhagavad Gita, or Song Celestial.

And on and on we went. Kit is an accomplished polyglot, as a concert pianist her ear is finely tuned. Being naturally gifted, she learned far more Thai as a child than I, and lived there many years as an adult as well.  She speaks like a native: over the phone, Thais always think she is Thai! She also has learned Burmese, and was able to decipher many of the glyphs on the columns that people have left through the years. Being with Kit and Tooriya at the same time at Angkor Wat was a rare treat.  Kit now lives in Yangon, Myanmar and has founded a music school for Burmese students called Gitameit.  In Pali and Burmese "gita" means music (the very same as in the Bhagavad Gita), and rhymes a bit with Kit, and "meit" means friendship. If you know of any musicians willing to donate their talents and go teach there for a month or two, she'll book you a ticket in a nano-second.

Now a number of you have met Tooriya and have encountered her majestic and commanding presence. She insisted that her two daughters climb to the highest citadel to see the Khmer empire from above spreading outwards over the endless plains. Not for her were the faint-hearted. She was well over 80 at the time, and charged right up the steepest of steps: I swear they were going straight to Heaven at a 90 degree angle. By that time Tooriya had also drawn quite a crowd of innocent listeners who all followed her dutifully upward.

I know I have a touch of vertigo, but little suspected that Kit, a gymnast and athlete in her own right (we are opposites also in that), had not a severe touch but an avalanche. But what could we do? Tooriya was dancing about at the top and her faithful were flocking. I barely managed to get there, while Tooriya kept leaning over the ramparts into thin air with her arms gesticulating in excitment and nimbly leaping over broad gaps in the stones. I nearly had a coronary from the combined strain of trying to keep up with my octogenarian mother and simultaneously concealing my pounding heart, wobbly knees and paralyzed limbs from her flock. What! I have to step OVER the gap? And Tooriya would exude about this vista, and wax eloquent about that temple, light shining from her eyes to be home again at the peak of the sacred mandala. She recently received the name 'Tooriya' from Sri Chinmoy, and it means 'The absolute summit-height. It is from this height that divinity descends with infinite power, light and delight.' Recalling her now , powerfully striding in sheer delight at the summit of Angkor Wat, with her face alight, fearless and free, she indeed was and is Tooriya.  And even so in this photograph she stands glorious while Kit and I are not entirely sure of the benefits for children of pomp and circumstance in 100 degrees and rising: Rather we are no doubt wondering when the iced lime juice would arrive and just where is that air-conditioned captain's cabin and can we make a run for it unnoticed?  Never underestimate a child's hidden agenda.  Is Tooriya holding me back from bolting or am I staunchly committed to the cause, while it is Kit who is have second thoughts?   For you can see just behind Tooriya, we are all being saluted by the US Navy in Thailand. Notice the matching outfits.  Not easy for Kit four years my senior!

Poor Kit never did make it to the top, but stayed at the plateau immediately below.  She clung to its vast expanse of 3 feet and leaned against its wall to calm herself, an unnatural smile stretched tautly across her face, standing motionless, white faced, talking to herself. She could not even make it up the four remaining rather reasonable steps. Tooriya would call out, "Kit, honey! Come see this outstanding view of Siem Reap! Your father would stand here in just this spot!" and Kit would weakly reply "I quite like it right here where I am, Mom".

It is one thing getting the shakes going up, but it is always absolutely terrifying going back down. Fortunately I could show off because Kit was in an even more pathetic state than I and this gave me great strength. And I also kept chanting God's name at every downward step. Meanwhile, Tooriya flew back down, and to my chagrin there were a number of Sri Chinmoy's students at the bottom whom I very much hoped had not been observing the proceedings, but have little doubt as to what those smiles signified!

It was profoundly moving to be at Angkor Wat and know my father had been there many times decades before, even as Tooriya would gently point out areas where he would love to sit and contemplate. I had not known that about him, and I thank Sri Chinmoy from the depths of my heart for bringing us to Cambodia so I could discover this unknown treasured facet of him that I will always cherish. The lure of Angkor Wat was inevitable, awakening his soul's cry for the inner depth of the millennia.

After his near baptism in the waters of Angkor, he returned to Harvard and became  a protege of John Kenneth Galbraith and Edwin O. Reischauer, both towering figures in America's Asian diplomatic and government circles. The paragraphs soon to come are dedicated to him, Kenneth Todd Young, Jr., a man, above all, of character. He firmly led me into the spiritual life, despite his earthly absence, his Heavenly presence was a constant reminder of all that is good, noble and worth living for.