Spitting for good

I'm getting a lot of questions at the moment about what I'm doing for Christmas, not just from friends and family but also from fellow village dwellers. I get the sense that they'll be quite disappointed if they don't witness something impressive. Since I bought a set of speakers last week, I'll at least be able to share Mariah's 'Merry Christmas' album at full volume.

I'm thinking it might be best to go away for a night to mark the occasion. My bosses are in town for a family gathering and whenever they're around they don't mind dropping in to my house any time for a work discussion. Whatever happens, it's probably going to be a very reflective Christmas, different to my last few, which were great fun but mostly about cooking.

I've had a bit of a religious resurgence since I came to India. Partly it's been prompted by the isolation and increased thinking time. It's also because I'm enjoying being able to partake in other religious traditions, something that I didn't feel I could do when I had much more conservative Christian views. The more I learn, the more it becomes obvious that every religion has a good side and bad.

There's no shortage of places of worship in my area; Jain, Hindu or Muslim. After a lot of visiting, my place of preference by far is a Sufi shrine in the next village. Though everything I hear about Sufism is good, I go there mainly because I've found it very friendly, peaceful and spiritual. Plus, I see a wide cross section of society visiting so it passes my discrimination test.


I went this morning and wasn't allowed through the door until I'd drunk tea with the old men who sit around all day. The actual shrine is usually empty inside and that suits me. I have a preference for religious experiences where I'm not dependent on someone else to do something for me. Just occasionally, one of the old men will come and wave a cloth from the saint's tomb over my head.

Today, however, was quite different in a strange but lovely way. When I knelt down in the shrine there was an old man chanting. I recognised the Arabic expressions as ones that my Moroccan students in London used to say. He then took the cloth and waved it over my head. Next he blew in each of my ears and spat on me very lightly. After that, he fed me two rose petals and showed me how to kiss the tomb.

It didn't feel right to ask at the time but I suppose that the blowing and spitting was a purifying ritual. I was so touched. Never in my life did I imagine that being spat on could be a spiritual experience.