Nam Myoho Renge Kyo

Minu is my mother. A woman devoutly lacking any principles whatsoever. In a piously time honoured and wifely manner, my mother joined Buddhist chanting classes (chanting allegedly dissipates the desire to kill retired men buzzing around in her domain) in search of inner peace in lieu of nagging her absentee brood. Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. For some deeply mystifying reason, those with higher consciousness (one assumes) have decreed that all practitioners of said sport must sit for an exam. Given the zen-like philosophy that is Buddhism, the irony of being tested on a faith that is non prescriptive is irresistible. My mother slips into matyr mode and cancels a trip to Lonavala as there are 8 dates to be provided on demand. Apparently, knowing when the ultimate truth was proclaimed and gloriously spread is as critical as the ability to chant nam myoho renge kyo with unsullied determination. You really wouldn’t want a bunch of irresponsible students to actually pretend to aspire to live life the way Buddha was inclined. Still, it gives me hope that there is a place for ancient teachings when the incorrigible one confides in me that her first thought was to copy the dates on to her palm and cheat her way through :). A sound plan, except, the writing will have to be discreet and anything less than a size 14 font is going to have her adjusting her reading glasses and peering suspiciously at her appendage before asking for assistance :):). That woman is so going to flunk! But it's only a silly exam. The committee of greater consciousness is blithely ignorant of the Incorrigible One's true powers.
'Ninu' is the sound an ambulance makes in Hungary. Otherwise known as the epitome of Freudian slips, when Csikoskar referred to her as Aunty Ninu instead of Minu. The mere memory of the Formidable One, enough to send three fully grown women into catatonic displays of panic in the middle of a store. There we were diligently applying ourselves to the art of spending money, oohing and aaahing over how alluring we looked in the bright coloured silks, when suddenly, realisation struck! 1300!! We'd missed our 1230 dose of cold abating homeopathy medication (safely sequestered along with a small bottle of water and get this, a SPOON!). A tableau to give Bollywood a run for their money; 3 women looking at each other in horror, frozen in shock for 3 ½ seconds before wily nily flinging away everything in their hands to dive for the bag (this would be awesome in slow motion, as we shout naaaaahiiiiin…). A poetically frenzied moment of perfect co-ordination as Judith takes control of the paraphernalia while Csikoskar and I dose each other; liquid, pill; pill liquid.... an affirmative nod from Judith, we’re clear. We slump in relief, erratic heartbeats calming. It’s safe to breathe now… we sheepishly hand back our discarded finery, murmuring our thanks to the middle of a forehead creased with astonishment and slink our way out, too traumatised by the potential disaster so closely averted, to consider signing for purchases a viable option. True power, all pervasive, all knowing, all terrifying defies the trifling efforts of silly examiners obsessed with dates. Ninu the Fierce wields it with style. What happens in Fab India, stays in Fab India. Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.