I was trying to concentrate on writing my annual report for work when I got a visitation. A warm breeze wafted through my chilly office, carrying with it the scents of incense, cardomom, and sweet milk. "Your report needs more anecdotes", Ganpati-Baba said.

I didn’t look up. "There’s not much room for anecdotes in a two page report."

"Leave out some facts. You do not need them all."

I turned around, but couldn’t get to my files anymore. Ganpati had settled himself, much the way a cat would, on the very papers that I needed to consult to write my report. The long table groaned under his weight.

Now I frowned. "Why don’t you float in the air, like other Gods?"

"Why don’t you show your muse more respect?" He looked thoughtful. "Or at least a proper offering. The Pop-Tarts that you have hidden in your desk drawer will do nicely."

I sighed and opened the Pop-Tarts for him.

He delicately broke off pieces of Pop-Tart with his long trunk and stuffed them into his mouth. "Don’t talk about all the people that your program helped as if they were a faceless crowd. Pick a few, and be specific about it. Why not tell them about the Somali woman who cried when she saw photos of her homeland in a library book? Why not tell them about the Hmong children who took new pride in their heritage when Pheng started reading to them in their own language? Why not tell them about how Nydia signs people up for library cards when they are waiting in line at the vegetable market?"

"But..."

He held up a hand to silence the rest of my protest. The last of the Pop-Tart had disappeared. "Statistics are all very well and good," he said, pausing to lick the last of the crumbs off his trunk, "but it’s the stories your readers will remember."

My friend Jim asked me recently about how I got my muse. It’s really, really hard to explain my relationship with Ganpati-Baba (also known as Ganesh) to others. I view him not so much as a source of inspiration, but as a true collaborator. He is a peculiar inner voice that is most annoying when it is right. On the surface, I suppose that an elephant-headed Hindu deity seems an odd choice of a muse for a Quaker from Minnesota. But I honestly believe that writers don’t choose their own muses. I certainly didn’t.

I first made my acquaintance with Ganpati in 1987, when I was an exchange student in India and undergoing the worst identity crisis of my life. My problem involved memory: I kept remembering stuff that I shouldn't have.

I'm a good linguist, but Marathi was the fastest I've ever learned a language. We had a few weeks orientation before we left for India, and in that time I leaned enough Marathi to carry on an intelligent conversation. My Marathi professor was shocked to note that not only did I speak with a Pune accent, I had picked up words she had never taught me.

Within a month of arrival in India, I was fluent enough that people assumed that I was Indian, pale skin and all. They just thought that I was from the north: Kashmir, maybe. I could find my way down streets where I had never been to before, so long as they were in the old part of the city. The only times I lost my way in the old city were in sections that had been revamped--buildings torn down, roads changed.

I came to the conclusion that I had lived in Pune before, and probably during World War II. I started to wonder what I was being drawn back into. Was I really Indian? Was this my destiny? Had I been pulled bodily out of my current life to resolve issues in my former one? That was when I started hearing Ganpati's voice in my head.

There's an old saying that when man talks to God, it is called prayer, but when God talks to man it is called schizophrenia. I know that as a good American, I should have sought out counseling to clear my head of the "voices". I didn't. Ganpati proved a calming influence for me, and reconciled me to the idea that one did in the past is not nearly so important as what one does in the now. I guess you can say that he helped me find "me" again.

That was when I first started writing fiction, too. No surprise there -- Ganpati has long been a friend to writers and storytellers.

The Bible, the Koran and the Torah are all supposed to the words of God, but in each case the deity used human scribes to get the message published. One of the things that appeals to me about Ganpati is that he is the only God I know who acted as a scribe for a mortal author. Here is my retelling of a story I originally heard in Marathi:

One day the Sage Vyasa awoke with a great and beautiful story in his head. It filled every corner of his mind and he could explore it at length, marveling at its vast and intricate structure. Vyasa knew that he could not keep such a story forever. It pushed within him, demanding to be let out and shared with the world. But the moment that Vyasa reached for his pen, he felt the story fade a little in his head.

He stopped and meditated upon the story until it was again firm in his mind, but now he was frightened. What if he should lose the story as he wrote it? What if it died within him, or survived only as a tiny fragment? He could not let that happen. So, continuing to hold the story in his mind, he prayed.

For a year and a day he neither ate nor slept. The heat of his prayer burned Rajastan into desert sands, and melted the snowy caps of the Himalayas. At length, that heat could be felt even in the land of the Devas. Filled with curiosity, Ganpati came to investigate.

"Why have you called?" the God asked.

The sage looked up and marveled at the shining deity before him. Ganpati’s dark eyes were wise and deep, and his belly was large enough to be a storehouse for the wonders of the universe. But most of all, the sage noted the magnificent gleaming tusks. The curves were perfection itself, and the sage longed to meditate upon them. What secrets could be revealed in their precious symmetry?

But there was no time. The sage sighed and said, "O Lord, I hold a great story within me, unlike any I have ever told before. It is vast, and hammers at the edges of my soul begging release."

"Then why do you not tell it?"

Vyasa bowed before the God and explained that the verses of the story flowed from beginning to end as the Ganges did to the sea. He knew that once he started reciting the story, he would not be able to stop. "This story must be written, O Lord of Planets. It must be shared with all people and all times. Yet if I pause to write it down, I will surely lose it."

The power of the untold story radiated from the sage in waves that threatened to rip the fabric of the three worlds. Trembling, the sage pleaded, "Do me the honor of being my scribe."

The God paused. "Why me?"

"Because obstacles evaporate before you the way mist clears before the light of the sun."

Ganpati snorted. "Very pretty, but that is not the real reason."

The sage sighed and looked sheepish. "I need someone, and you were the only one who came."

And so Ganpati pulled out his pen and said, "Then start."

"Om!" Vyasa chanted, singing the sound of creation, the sound that the Universe made when it first began. "Om! Listen. Long ago, when the ocean was milk, this story has its beginning..."

And as Vyasa chanted, the verses rang out across the three worlds. And all who lived in them paused and fell silent in awe. Only Ganpati continued working, his pen writing furiously to keep up with the verses of the sage. For hundreds of days, Vyasa chanted without rest or pause. Until his story was interrupted by a small snapping sound.

"My pen!" cried Ganpati.

Vyasa had no choice but to continue with the tale, so he plunged onwards with the next verse while Ganpati searched in vain for a replacement for the pen that was broken. But all around them was nothing but the grassy plain. Then Ganpati reached up and touched his beautiful, perfectly formed tusks. He took the right one in his hand, and broke it. Then he dipped the tusk in his inkwell and wrote, at length catching up with the sage again. The story took Vyasa and Ganpati three years and a hundred thousand verses to complete.

And thus the Mahabharata became the first tale to be co-authored by a God. When they were done, the story had woven itself seamlessly into the fabric of the three worlds.

When I was an exchange student, I witnessed the daily devotions of my host mother, Aii, in the room that I shared with my host sisters. Right next to the back window, along the only wall that did not have a bed, was a small altar with a number of gods. They were an eclectic bunch, in statues of wood, stone, brass, silver and plaster. Some were no larger than my thumb, others were as fat as my thigh and two hands high. Aii took good care of the pantheon on her altar, placing an orange slice or a flower by each deity, even the plastic statue of Jesus that had been given to her by a previous host student.

When I asked Aii about Jesus, she told me that he had sounded like a nice God, so she started worshipping him along with all the others. Although many Christians would be mortified by this, I understood that Aii was simply interpreting Jesus through the perspectives and values of a Hindu.

I know that some readers might accuse me of cultural colonialism. Aren't I just co-opting and belittling a deity from one of the world’s oldest and most complex religions? Co-opting and belittling? No. But I will admit to interpreting Ganpati through my own perspectives and values.

Do I believe in reincarnation? Yeah. Am I a Hindu? No. Nonetheless, I feel a powerful connection to the Remover of Obstacles. I cannot pledge him my worship, so I offered him stories instead.

What? Oh, that was my muse reminding me that I need to finish that annual report so that I can get back to working on important stuff, like the story I promised him recently.

Hope everyone has a prosperous New Year,

Hmm
Originally written 12/27/2000