Habana, Cuba
Books
After a walk of a
brisk nature, on Bloor Street in Toronto last night, I gave my sister Rose Ann a call, wishing her
a Happy Birthday.
“Rose Ann, do you
remember when in 1963, you and I had walked home from school together, it was announced that U.S. president John F.
Kennedy got assassinated that day, and we were wondering what this would mean for
the world in which we live—this crazy world?”
“Yes,” she said, “I
remember it well.”
“Well,” I said to my
59 year old sister, “we’re still around.”
That indeed was an
incident to remember. Now, today, time
did not allow for walking as I was in flight to Varadero, Cuba, and then in car to Habana
for an evening sanga (gathering of talks
and song).
It was interesting at
the airport’s customs. I stood in line
for inspection while officers were looking at the various cereals a Canadian couple
brought along for their stay in Cuba. An
official came and inquired about the box I had on the trolley.
“Just some
books.” He went away with a blank
stare. A woman followed and asked the
same. I gave the same answer. This repeated itself with a third person. Finally, I was called to a table of five inspectors.
“Books,” I said. “A set
(of Bhagavatams) for the Indian
Embassy.” I was asked to open the box With strain, I tore the tape off. They looked and were amazed; couldn’t make
head nor
tails. Then I said, “Yoga. Books on
yoga!” They nodded and said, “Si!”
I was cleared.
May the Source be with
you! (What is
the force that compels one to do wrong?)
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