My insightful talk with my Sikh architect Dad about the religious diversity in India sparked my curiosity. The tiger in me awakened: I was hungry for knowledge. As my eight-year-old girl’s eyes widened, Dad continued, “Many experts, both Western and Indian, question the caste system and the mistreatment of girls, as I do.”

I told Dad that besides Sikhism, I also wanted to follow Buddhism’s moderation teachings and Jainism’s non-violence principles. I wanted to reject discrimination and segregation, just like he did. Since then, I’ve tried to live by these Dharmic principles.

Besides, I found Hindu mythology fascinating because of the multifaceted personalities of its gods. Their intertwined stories were full of surprises, making it impossible to predict the outcome.

However, I was apprehensive about Shiva, the god of destruction. I thought he was frightening, even if Dad assured me that Shiva only destroyed evil. Shiva was also the god of time, arts, meditation, and yoga. Still, I preferred to trust Brahma, his counterpart. Brahma was the god of creation, supreme knowledge, and the creator of the Universe. In my young mind, I wished I could live forever, and I believed Brahma could grant that.

Dad explained, “Shiva and Brahma are not opposites; they complement each other. They are not solely good or bad gods; both can create and destroy, just like humans.” Both gods were essential for maintaining balance in the Universe. He added, “Nobody lives forever in this world, not even the gods. Remember, Krishna died in a hunting accident.”

I also feared Krishna and some of Dad’s beliefs because Mommy did. She cautioned us about the Hare Krishna “sect,” believing its “gurus” were dangerous, as she saw on TV. Despite her warnings, I was too curious to cover my ears. So, I listened to Dad as if watching an intriguing, scary movie.

Daddy explained that many people base their opinions on false views because humans are born ignorant. His enlightening words echoed the unsettling, profound ignorance I’d felt, tormenting my guts since I was born. I did everything to get rid of it: reading dictionaries, watching documentaries, and reading incomprehensible newspapers behind my parents’ backs. Yet, nothing made it go away. Father clarified that ignorance, “Avidya,” distorted how we saw the world. It contaminated our perceptions with fear, longing, anger, a clinging tendency, and then, worst of all, our ego, “Ahankara.” The ego was a false person in us built from ignorance’s imagination, Avidya, which also means unwisdom.

I imagined an evil double taking over me at night, running amok and hurting people behind my back. My eyes brimmed as I said through the sudden knot in my throat, “But there’s no false Linda, only a real one!” Daddy comforted my racing heart when he clarified children only have a little ego. It grew as we aged. Still, his enlightening story sounded like a horror movie. I didn’t want to let that awful person, the false Linda, out there. “I don’t wanna grow up,” I whined.

Father chuckled and replied growing up was life. He added, “You have many nice things to look forward to, like going to college and learning, traveling around the world, and making plenty of nice friends.” Daddy knew my dreams: I felt reassured I could become the adult I wanted to be.

“And there is a false Linda, only if you let her be. You can grow the real Linda: she is your consciousness, the best of your mind. You can make her the strongest and biggest to thwart the false Linda,” Dad said. We could avoid Ahankara (ego) and its companion, Avidya (ignorance), with knowledge, wisdom, humility, generosity, contentment, letting things go, calmness, and balance. I nodded as he clarified that it was about being nice to others and not greedy. When he emphasized that meditation helped to calm the mind and see the world clearly, I replied that I still didn’t understand.

Daddy said, “We see reality through our senses, and our senses are misleading because all of us feel differently. For example, you love strawberry ice cream, don’t you?” I nodded because it was my favorite ice cream. “And you know that I don’t. It doesn’t mean that strawberry ice cream is good or bad. It just means we have different tastes. We experience strawberry ice cream differently. It’s true for everything in life because it’s the nature of reality. If you remember that when you grow up, you will go along with everybody and make true friends.”

Father explained that meditating helped him build perspective, as when he designed architecture. When we stopped and calmed down, we could understand that we all experienced strawberry ice cream differently. Some liked it like me, others didn’t, like Daddy: nobody was right or wrong. I tucked this lesson deep into my young, growing mind: I wanted to be friends with everyone; I followed a philosophy now.

Besides, Daddy stressed that “Guru” only meant “spiritual leader” in Sanskrit. Many Westerners used the term incorrectly. They applied it to leaders of religions they feared. Meanwhile, the original meaning of sect was an offshoot from another religion.

As Dad’s words troubled my eight-year-old’s mind, I tried to use my invisible third eye, wrinkling my forehead. Daddy said it was the only eye that saw reality clearly.

Observing my concentration, Father added, “For example, Christianity is a sect from Judaism, but the Westerners do not say that because they value Christianity. They like it and think it right, and do not like other religions and think those are wrong.”

Daddy nodded and smiled when I said, “So religion is like strawberry ice cream: people experience it differently?”

 Dad added, “Westerners use ‘sect’ and ‘guru’ for other religions than theirs, like Hinduism. Why don’t the Westerners use the words ‘religion’ and ‘priest’ instead?” To my shrug, he replied, “Because using less valued words for Hinduism to put it down and using more valued words for Christianity keeps the latter’s image up. It’s called discrimination.” Likewise, the Western media didn’t label the burning cross and lynching of Americans with African roots as terrorism I saw in my older sister’s book. It reserved that demeaning designation to Islam, another Indian religion originating from the Middle East, like Christianity. The media executives’ distorted perception came from the discriminating ego, Ahankara, “unenlightenment,” Avidya, and the lack of understanding of strawberry ice cream.

Daddy continued, “Discerning is the contrary of discriminating. We see and accept others for who they are when we discern.” It was “Bonga Bouna” in Kikongo, the translation of our family name. He said, “When we discriminate, we do not see others. We believe everybody should love strawberry ice cream because we do, and they are wrong if they do not. So, we wrong them.”

As I nodded, Dad said, “It’s called projecting our beliefs onto others. We deny them the ability to decide and impose our opinions. Would you like me to force you to eat raspberry ice cream because it looks the same, and I like it?” Wincing, I shook my head because it was my most disliked ice cream. “That’s what happens when people impose their opinions and beliefs onto others,” he said to my grimace.

“Still, I don’t understand why people do that. Why are they mean, lie, put down others, and force themselves if they know it’s Ankara and Avida,” I said about Ahankara, ego, and Avidya, unwisdom.

“In Africa, we say there is no shame in not knowing. It’s okay not to know because ignorance is human nature: the shame lies in not finding out,” Daddy said. As this African proverb resonated with my curious young soul, he continued, “Willful ignorance is when we refuse to learn. Some people prefer to be mean and lie to others to avoid learning about others. They fear that if they learn more, they will change their mind, how they experience and see the world.” 

When I asked Dad what was wrong with changing our minds, he replied some people didn’t like it because they didn’t like to feel ignorant. It made no sense to my ignorant 8-year-old brain. I asked, “If we are ignorant and don’t want to learn because we don’t want to feel ignorant, how are we supposed to become unignorant?”

Smiling, Daddy replied, “By not letting our false self, our ego, learn. The false self learns and doesn’t simultaneously because it’s not real.” I replied I didn’t understand. He said, “The false self is both real and unreal.” My eyes widened at his confusing words. “When the false self learns, it can only learn false things,” he said. I nodded.

Reality blindness and willful ignorance, meaning Avidya, was how the Western culture created a twisted reality in which it felt it was superior to other parts of the world and believed it had the right to exclude and mistreat others, meaning to discriminate. It was the European time Coco, the wise Kongo elder I met during my trip to Congo, taught me. Papa added, “In Africa, we say, knowledge without wisdom is like water without sand. Everything the West learns about other cultures is false and does not hold when it learns it from Ahankara, the ego.”

Daddy lifted me from the grey linoleum floor of our two-bedroom apartment in the pink public housing complex on the seventh floor. He asked me to look out of the shabby burgundy wooden window, about 200 meters away, and said, “Can you see who is walking over there, near the river?” I barely saw shadows moving. As the European proverb goes, ‘Seeing is believing.’ This is why adults believed the Earth was flat until they saw it from space. Since I couldn’t see anyone, my eight-year-old mind couldn’t believe anyone was there, hanging from my father’s strong arms.

Dad replied, “The ego learns and teaches from a position of superiority.” His chin pointed outside, “That’s what the ego sees: nothing. Most Westerners learned to observe the rest of the world as if they were on the seventh floor. That’s why sometimes, they do not see us nor believe us. But if we are close to them, they see us better, although rarely as well as you see me now because many do not want to go downstairs and play with us.”

I felt sad that those adults were like the baby albinos I saw in Congo: they couldn’t wander free and see the world clearly. Perhaps their fragile skin and blind eyes could also burn if they received too much light, so they were afraid to get hurt outside. Indeed, some friends turned red under the summer sun. We played in the safe shadow to accommodate their fragility.

When I asked Daddy why those grown-ups stayed upstairs, he smiled and replied, “They fear the weather. They prefer to stay inside where the comfortable temperature is always the same.” When I asked why they didn’t even try, he replied, “Because they want to wear the same clothes they are used to. They refuse to wear coats when it’s rainy and cold, nor remove their clothes when it’s hot. They only want to feel comfortable all the time and stay the same. They do not want to weather.”

I felt confused that some people loved their cozy homes and comfortable clothes so much that they refused to explore the world. I learned much more when playing outside and learning from nature was one of my favorite activities. I studied the surrounding lush bushes, scented blooming trees, sandy soils, and mushy riverbanks. I observed the hissing feral cats, dirty pigeons, and brisk sparrows. Noting my observations deep in my mind, I compared them with the subsequent encounters until, triumphantly, they revealed a hidden behavior.

Coco, the sage Kongo elder, stressed that the Europeans (Mundelé in Kikongo) went everywhere and still didn’t know anything about the lands they were in because they believed they knew everything. Then, European scientists studied us as I studied animals when I played, except we were humans. From the seventh floor of their comfortable lab they declared we were what they saw: insignificant because perception was reality in the West, the seventh floor of the world. Mommy called it ‘anthropology.’ In the eighties, TV documentaries and magazines still often showcased us as savages in Wilderness, as National Geographic did, unlike the skyscrapers, concrete roads, and fully-clothed Africans I saw during my trip to Congo, my ancestral land.  It was as if the media showed only Africa’s most remote countryside.

Coco’s wise words resonated: “There is a difference between knowledge and wisdom. Wisdom is the knowledge that gets us somewhere and takes time to grow. The Mundelé seem to have any of that wisdom because they have no time. So, they go nowhere, thinking they go somewhere.” I wished I could tell Coco Europeans had time, only to stay in their home’s comfort with the same clothes where they learned with their egos. They had time only for themselves. I thought their outfits might stink if they didn’t change them. Daddy said, “They remove and throw away their clothes when they smell too strong and put on the same clean ones. Again and again. That’s how many Europeans change.”

“I replied, ‘At least my friends often wear diverse clothes, like dresses, skirts, and pants with different colors. They also have parkas and singlets.’ As Dad laughed and stroked my soft, coiled black hair worn in cornrows, I couldn’t imagine how my dear friends could turn like those ignorant grown-ups. Even the most clueless of my schoolmates only repeated their parents’ unwise words. Growing up was about learning as much as we could: the disturbing behavior Dad described was an adult’s problem, so it was something of the past. It’d be different in my future grown-ups’ time.”

Daddy stressed that the French came with their homes when they moved to Congo in his childhood. Then, they transformed it into France, so they didn’t have to change, as the British did when they came to North America, the Native Americans’ ancestral land. His knowledge echoed Coco when she emphasized that “Mundelé” changed everything, broke families, and left thinking they improved Africans. It made sense: Mommy also stressed the Europeans didn’t change. Instead, they expected us, and all the rest of humanity, to adapt to their way. In this context, anthropology’s unchanged demeaning image of Africans made sense. Yet, Daddy’s viewpoint seemed so evident that I couldn’t believe it. Why did school and TV didn’t talk about it? So, I felt he sometimes had outlandish ideas. Still, his jarring explanation felt better than when Mommy replied with my most disliked five little words: “It is what it is.”

Dad continued, “There are good and bad people in Europe, like everywhere. A few people hijacked Hare Krishna, as some Europeans hijacked Christianity. For example, you learned at school that the Inquisition did many terrible things to humans. If those people do not make Christianity evil, it’s the same for Hare Krishna.”

Pointing outside through the dusty windowpane, Dad added, “We cannot judge something we cannot see.” Yet, many Europeans could see no one else but themselves. Since many didn’t want to see themselves when they did wrong, they didn’t perceive themselves either. I didn’t understand it, but I knew I wanted to become an adult who could see whatever Dad said.

While my gaze followed Daddy’s fingers to the clear blue sky, he added, “So, do you want to hear more about Krishna?” My curiosity nodded, trying to stop Mama’s cautious words about the Hindu God from whispering in my young head.

Lord Krishna wasn’t dead for good. He was a reincarnation of Vishnu, the God of transformation, compassion, love, and peace. Preserver and protector of the universe, he bore order, righteousness, and truth. Vishnu reincarnated several times and would reincarnate one last time before the end of this world. “Of course, there are several parallel Universes. And when this one dies, another will birth. That’s the cycle of life, as humans go through,” Dad replied as my little jaw dropped.

The Indian 3000-year-old multiverse theory felt like science fiction because Western science was the only source of Truth, according to the TV news and documentaries. When Western scientists didn’t think about a concept nor create it, they declared it was fiction for all humankind. They stressed the Vedic multiverse concept wasn’t Western science, so it didn’t count and was wrong. So, sometimes, I didn’t know if I could believe Dad.

Daddy believed the universe had a mind connected to ours because all God’s creations had a bit of the universe inside them. Likewise, in 1980, 3,000 years after the Indian scholars, American astronomer Carl Sagan clarified that we all had stardust inside us, and I didn’t understand how it worked either. So, I accepted my Sikh father’s equally confusing statement.

Father said, “We are all connected to each other and to the universe. Because it dies and rebirths, everything does.” I loved the idea of reincarnation, even if I feared I’d reincarnate in a worse form, like a mindless ant, a disgusting cockroach, or some unwanted weed. Daddy stressed that I had to behave well to avoid that. As I wanted to be a good girl, I said I’d try to follow the Vedic kind-hearted philosophy that was now mine.

Despite my love of knowledge and desire for creativity, the Hindu God felt most connected to was Ganesha, the remover of obstacles. It was maybe because there was a poster of the elephant head God with his potbellied human body in our home’s entrance. The familiar picture carried the seven chakras, the colorful soul and body energetic centers. Daddy said working on the chakras helped to keep wellbeing and health and chased illnesses, but I didn’t understand how despite his explanations. In any case, my guts sensed Ganesha was with me, even if I hadn’t invited Him in my life. It was like someone else did.

My Dad’s Dharmic words became my first understanding of life because Western knowledge felt distorted and confusing for a Congolese immigrant’s child raised in Dharmic Indian philosophy whose part of the family lived in Soviet Russia. In my close spiritual relationship with my dad, life was about creation that I loved, destruction that I feared, and transformation that I wanted: Brahma, Shiva, and Vishnu. Yet, Papa said, “You need to embrace all three of them equally to live a true life.”

Even before I replied, I didn’t grasp his cloudy words. Daddy continued, “You will understand when you grow up,” – Smiling, he poked my soft belly and added, “If you don’t develop a big ego.” My scared 8-year-old young heart swore I’d never have a false Linda out there, a horrible double running amok and stabbing people with her willful ignorance behind my back. Daddy repeated that meditation could help to tame the false Linda.

As before, we kids could participate in Dad’s twice-daily meditation and yoga sessions. I’d done it once when I was three years old, mainly giggling until he told me off as my nursery school student’s attention span wore down alongside his patience. My 8-year-old mind and body still didn’t get the idea of sitting still: I had to tame the false Linda in another way.