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rode for an afternoon through the dust and wheat fields of Madras with Philip Glass, visiting Hindu temples. Along the road, people tossed freshly harvested golden stalks under the wheels of our passing taxi to separate the grains from the chaff. Glass, who speaks four or five languages fluently – including Tibetan – talked about the many obstacles one encounters when choosing a spiritual path. He explained how the Dalai Lama teaches that we have two choices: reason or faith. "Which do you think the Dalai Lama encourages?" he asked me. "Faith, of course!" I said. "Reason!" he replied with a smile. We discussed this for days. I'd been invited to accompany Philip as he showed his son and daughter India: a source to which he has returned throughout his career for inspiration. We started in Dehli, shopping in the bazaars for fabric. Then Agra and the Taj Mahal. Then south to Cochin to see the fabulous dance-drama known as Kathakali. The Kathakali's elaborate costuming and face-painting, which transform male actors into women and gods, require hours, and the dance itself lasts all night. Each performance also requires a patron, and for this one, it was Philip Glass. He had arranged this in advance – it was one of the moments he was most excited to share with his kids. That afternoon, all along the way, we met equally excited people telling us that there would be a performance tonight, not realizing that Philip was the one responsible. We arrived early, bearing bags of curried rice and vegetables to sustain us during the long night with the tea that is served periodically. First we watched a four-hour ritual of the actors applying face paint and layers of clothing in 110 degree heat: a discipline that, like the dance, is a meditation unto itself . Then, suddenly, the open-air hall filled with hundreds of people behind us: women on the left, men on the right. It was dance with no singing, involving exaggerated expressions combined with subtle movements: the tilt of a head crowned with a miniature pagoda was enough to describe a world of concepts. Throughout were the drumbeats of the tabla players – at least 15 of them. The spellbinding rhythm was like pranayama – yogic breath meditation. I realized then that this is what much of Philp Glass's music is about: his repetitions, his disciplined grasp of the structure of music, reflecting the perpetual state of grace that – whether here or in his New York studio – he always seems to be in. © Nubar Alexaniun 1996, all rights reserved.