Personal Pinnings
My mom thinks I’m a bit of a nerd. I devour books. I also spend a copious amount of time watching YouTube videos on things like engineering principles, bridge construction, or woodworking. I lurk quite a bit on Reddit as well.
Very recently on the former platform, I came across this video demonstrating a phenomenon known as quantum locking or flux pinning. It occurs when a superconductor, becomes ‘trapped’ within a magnetic field above or below a magnet under certain temperature conditions, giving the appearance of a floating object. It does this by expelling the magnetic field inside of it. When this happens, the superconductor ‘locks in space’ and will not move unless acted on by an external force. Sounds complicated, I know. But it’s pretty cool stuff, I’d say.
Having watched the video a few times over, it got me thinking about “quantum lockings” that exist in our own lives. The type that keep us in flux within a magnetic field, no matter how life tilts and turns us, keeping us rooted to who we are and the person we are becoming. I guess it’s unique to each one of us. Everyone’s pinning is different. The query for my own quantum locking took me numerous decades into my past, back to a childhood memory.
It was an early morning, full of light. Yet, my seven-year-old eyes remained unwelcoming to the rising sun. When the car engine finally rested, I awakened with heavy eyes. “We’re here,” I heard my father say, watching him lean into the steering wheel and peer high to the top of the windshield at something outside. What was he looking at, I thought. As I stepped outside, I felt my mom tugging and straightening my attire. When I looked up from my now perfectly tucked, silvery, and colorful dupatta, I was amazed by what manifested before me. It was marvelous! And it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen!
It was so white, like a big cloud in a deep blue sky. And it was grand — wide in its stance and high in its stature. Its steps welcomed us, beckoning us to come inside. But before we could go in, we were ushered to a modest shoe stall. Removing our shoes, my mom explained, was a gesture of dual meaning. It not only helped maintain and respect the sanctity of the place but signified the shedding of the world behind, helping us to focus and take in what we were about to experience — the mandir, a Hindu place of worship, and the home of God.
Atop the stairs, before the entrances to the inner shrines, I discovered where the mesmerizing sounds I had heard since our arrival were coming from. It was the ghanti, the bell, which hung from atop the dome ceiling. My father picked me up and showed me how to ring it. I took the center clapper and struck it to the side of the bell, creating an auspicious sound, which while being loud, ironically, felt also incredibly calming. He explained to me that in mandirs, the ghanti is rung to dispel our worldly thoughts, calling the mind to a cleaned slate. Only when you empty your cup, he said, can you fill it. And this critical step of disconnecting was foundational to building a pure and personal connection with God. It was also a way to announce to God, our arrival at the mandir and expressing the desire to meet.
As we walked towards the center shrine, I was taken in by the scents of the burning agarbattis, or incense sticks. It was a scent unlike anything I had taken in before. I inhaled and tried to capture it deep within. I asked my father why it smelled so nice. He explained to me that agarbattis are lit in many Hindu rituals. Dhoop is one of the sixteen ways of offering devotion to God and burning fragrant substances such as the agarbatti was one such method. Its burning purifies the air and induces positive vibrations in the brain. It helps us concentrate and easily meditate on the murtis, or images, of God we were about to witness. He also explained that just as the incense burns itself while offering its goodness to those in its presence, similarly, it exemplifies that we too should sacrifice, serve, and do good for others.
We then walked into the inner shrine to behold the darshan of God. Derived from the Sanskrit verb-root drush, meaning to see or perceive, darshan, a form of worship, refers to the act of beholding the divine images and all associated elements with reverence and adoration. It is also the reciprocity of being seen. What does one do during such a divine meeting? I wasn’t sure. Sensing my anxiousness, my mom showed me how to fold my hands. I watched my mom, as she looked at the murtis of God intensely, close her eyes, and bow her head with humility. I followed suit. My mother told me, that with faith, intense attachment, and zeal, I too could use this time to talk to God. What did I want God to know? What did I want to pray to God for? This was my time…our time, together.
After darshan and prostrations, we were given almonds, golden raisins, and sugar crystals from the sanctified offerings made to the murtis of God. I still remember picking out the raisins for myself, while my mother explained the significance of the prasaad to me: meaning grace and joy, prasaad was an extension of partaking in God’s grace, a spiritual joy, that was beyond the taste of the food itself. Smiling, I took a raisin, popped it into my mouth and said, “I really enjoy getting full on spiritual joy.” I still recall my mother’s laughter, which was followed by encouragement to partake in more “spiritual joy” — handing me picked-out raisins from her own prasaad.
We all encounter triggers that immediately bring us back to specific moments in our past — moments that hold incredible meaning and value, keep us in a type of magnetic flux, and shape the identities we hold today- like perhaps the scent of a grandparent’s sweater you recall as you slept in their arms, the aroma of a food dish prepared by a mother; the sound of a bicycle bell during a father-daughter riding lesson; or the sight of a full theatre during a work achievement assembly, or a bright, full moon on a summer night spent with a partner.
This childhood memory distilled in its distinctive sights, sounds, smells, and tastes, mark the moments of my first visit to the BAPS Swaminarayan mandir in Ahmedabad, India. Full of innocence and discovery, it’s a cherished memory of the time spent with my mom and dad. Sacred and pure, it is also a mark of my first introduction and meeting with God.
A couple of years later after this visit, we moved to the United States and settled in the small but busied town of West New York in northern New Jersey. But despite being so far away from Ahmedabad, I’ve been fortunate enough to frequent the local BAPS Swaminarayan mandirs hundreds of times, now a daily Sunday ritual. And while I still reflect on the elements of the mandir that drew me in as a child, my affinity to the place, has only grown deeper and stronger. It’s where I go to disengage from the busyness, troubles, and trifles of life. It’s become a place of reset and recalibration — a sanctum that helps expel my relentless ‘fields’ of fears and doubts; and in turn, find serenity and strength. It’s a place where I connect with the divine, and now, I too call home. When I think about all the experiences, people, and things in my life that have helped me to become who I am today and the type of person I wish to still become, I find that the mandir has played an immeasurable role. It has been, and continues to be, my quantum locking, my very own and personal flux pinning.
What’s yours?
Bhavisha Doshi, New Jersey
Civil Engineer
