Temple Again

No doubt due to the corrosion caused by the western influence, as someone I know would say, only after having met with all my friends and relatives did I realize that I ought to pay a visit to goddess Meenakshi, when I visited Madurai last. There I was, enjoying my morning coffee without a care in the world, when one of the countless acquaintances, with the liberty of having seen me since I was a kid, pointed out in the most accusatory and incredulous tone that I hadn't yet gone to the temple.

So, that auspicious day, though I didn't know that at the time and would have postponed it otherwise, with two toddlers in tow, we set off to the temple. We crossed the grand threshold happily enough, joining all the people milling about, chanting and chatting - me pointing out the wonderful sculptures, the kids getting a thump on their heads by the cute little elephant, oh it was all very merry. The first sign of things to come was the wedding parties around the holy pool, but I missed it completely. I was still smiling happily as I turned around, stood in a queue, another sign I missed, and got the tickets, and only when we entered the sanctum and encountered a mass of heads, did it dawn upon me what it meant to visit Goddess Meenakshi on an auspicious day.

Mind you, I am not new to crowds, but this was the mother of all crowds. There was absolutely no space and the sanctum was filled with people. One moment we were standing there mouth agape and the next we were going with the flow, so to speak, strange elbows nudging us, strange voices booming all around us. With enormous effort I broke away from the general direction the crowd was moving and came to the special queue for the ticket holders. My uncle murmured in a low voice that if I was willing to grease some palms, we could move ahead through the wicket gate. I, though not promptly, disagreed and declined to this blatant, though wise in retrospect, idea and joined the long queue. This was a hot day and the fans mounted on the walls were of little use. We fashioned some hand fans out of the odds and ends we had and tried to keep the kids busy as we waited.

We stood and stood as the queue inched at asnail's pace, all the while watching the wicket gate being opened with dexterity allowing herds of people into the sanctum sanctorium. The noise, a meaningless jumble of a thousand words, echoing on the dark stone walls, the draining heat and the dim light bulbs were all getting to us now. The kids were beginning to get uneasy, we were sweating at a rate of fast approaching dehydration, beginning to get hungry and thoroughly disgruntled and our tolerance was fast evaporating. The fates of those who hadn't bought the special tickets were even worse. Farther away from the special queue, this other crowd was getting bigger and more unforgiving by the minute and they were being pushed and pulled as they struggled to get a glimpse of Her. By the time we crossed the gate and entered the inner sanctum, I was beginning to seriously doubt the purpose of my presence there. Where was the peace and serenity that I was expecting?

The inner sanctum was another story. Some wise guy had deemed that those with the special tickets deserved to sit in the small chamber in front of the deity for a few minutes. Now there was already enormous traffic, those entering into the chamber, the priests and the assorted staff regulating the flow. To top it, the good people in the chamber hardly seemed satisfied with the opportunity given to them and were sitting rooted to their spots or worse, upon entreated to leave, were standing right there, blocking the view of the less unfortunate ticket less mass of people, who could hardly stand let alone sit, passing by beyond the chamber straining to see the deity. The priests vying to get our attention, the incessant monotonous chanting with no depth to it, the police woman desperately cursing to get the attention of the blockers, the faceless crowd with a thousand folded hands moving like an automaton, crying for help.. I felt suffocated, even guilty and need to run away from there arose from the middle of my being, constricting my throat. With barely a glimpse at the deity I rushed out at the first opportunity gasping for breath and as soon as my family joined me, we all trudged out without a word. I knew I couldn't really blame anybody there but I felt like bursting into tears.

As I walked around a huge pillar, disillusioned, a strange despair filling my heart, a wave of fresh air wrapped around me in a gentle caress. And I noticed him. An old man, doing his hereditary job, shirtless, his bones sticking out of his bare chest was swaying his fan , fashioned of peacock feathers, seemingly heavier than his thin frame, with all his might, unmindful of the heat and the sweat and the waves of uncaring devotees walking past him, with a certain soul shaking single minded devotion. With a muffled sob, I pressed some money into his rough, ancient hands. Without a word, he swept the fan of feathers and for a few brief moments let it touch my head and fill my parched heart, in a gesture of tranquility and benediction.

Friends

I still remember seeing her for the first time, beyond the glass panes, on a lazy afternoon, gazing wonderingly at us. A school girl barely into her teens, with two long braids, looking very conscious, she immediately caught my attention. I was very much surprised when after browsing for a little while she chose to go home with me. So, she thought she could understand me. I found out later that day that she already had a small but interesting collection. We were all clumped together, in a wooden shelf and since I never had any interest in interacting with my mates, I was content in observing her and her family and friends.

It was pretty obvious she loved us all, well some perhaps a little more than the others. She would make a beeline for us as soon as she came back from school, and having flung her bag in some corner, pick up a couple of us and retire into that oversize chair that was her favorite, and stay in the patio till the late afternoon faded into dusk and till her mother came back from work, and forcefully made her get up and eat something. I have seen that dreamy look in her eyes so often that I have wondered if she was seeing the words or some miniature figures enacting something for her on the white pages. The summer holidays were both happy and tiresome times for us. She would cover us and re-cover us, sometime with brown paper, sometime with a color paper according to the subject and then we would get numbers stuck to us according to authors. She would torture us to so much of disorganizing in those early days. She would throw us all down from the shelf, clean the shelf and start picking us up one after the other. Then after putting back about a third she would decide to give in to the temptation of reading just one. And soon it will be late evening and upon hearing her father's return she would shove us under the cot and leave us there through the night. Sometimes she would read us with a torch light in the night with her blanket covering us.

We were proud of our influence on her thoughts and deeds and we loved her so much. Then came the time when she got into lots of fights with her mom over us. As soon as she came back from school, she would pick one of us and carry with her all the time. Her grandma's endearments would go into deaf ears. Where do you think I got that stain on my back from? From drops of rasam she spilled on me while eating. Her habits really annoyed and worried her mother, oh I remember the day her mom pulled a 'Sujatha' from her hands and flung him across the room. The poor chap still has a dislodged back. And the Ee.Pa her teacher confiscated. And the day her grandma hid the keys from her. Thrilling times indeed.

Pretty soon she had her own tastes and individuality. She would wear those glasses and a long shoulder bag and talk of her opinion on this and that. But to me she was always that little girl. I remember the times she started bringing the psychology books. Freud was beginning to make us all nervous, thankfully she didn't fall much for him. She couldn't fit us in a couple of shelves anymore. And what a varied lot we were now. There are some scintillating poetry (I dont like them, they made her cry), some boring historic accounts, those mythical ones who talked about ancient Greece and Egypt and India,some religious ones, oh the whole nine yards. I remember the day she brought in those new french guys, old Barathi who was by now in a really worn condition with marks all over him and clinging on to his pages, jumped up as much as his weak physique would allow, and went on in his booming voice about the french revolution. The two new guys blinked and muttered something charmingly in french, turns out they were into fashion and had no idea about the revolution.

Then when she went off to work in another town, after losing a few of us, she decided to lock us up in a big old wooden box. It was safer but I missed the ability to observe the people who walk by me. Atleast then she would come home every weekend and spend long hours with us. She told us one day she was getting married. We all sat proudly on display the day the groom came to see us. As they inspected us, she pointed to 'Love Story', in response to which he pointed at 'The Future shock' with a twinkle in his eyes. We all liked him. The next day came the shocking news that she was going to go to that far away land. I remember that day. It was a gray autumn day. And we were waiting for her to open the box that weekend. Unlike the other times she didnt open us till much later and when she did she just stood gazing at us with a strange look on her eyes. There was a long silence in the box that day, in spite of the crowd. Our fears came true when she told us she couldnt take us all with her. I could see the tears in her eyes. Except for a few of us who she took for sentimental reasons I am sure, the rest of us were banished into this cold dreary box.

We just sit here day after day, surrounded by the stuffy smell of wood, moth balls, with faint light, untouched, waiting to hear the creaking of the box opening...