Sarvam Sree Krishnaarpanam Astu
Some Grace
after the Fall:
“Where
to?” asked the conductor, leaning against a metal pole, wobbling as the relatively
new bus moved over a rare pot-hole on the roads of Thanjavur. He held his
leather bag full of changes under his left armpit, as he fiddled with a ticket
machine, hanging from around his neck, over his pot-belly. “Periyavare! (Old
man), I’m asking you,” repeated the conductor in Tamil, sensing a lack of
attention from the old man seated to his front.
“Huh?
Me? Koviladi…Kovil-Koviladi village,” said the old man, with his right hand
over his ear, and his left hand struggling to pull out some money from his
shirt pocket.
“Hurry
up…Fifty Rupees…Fifty…fifty,” the conductor gestured with his hand, as he
ripped a ticket from his ticketing machine using his other hand.
The
old man picked four folded hundred rupees notes from his pocket and kept trying
to separate them from each other, checking twice, thrice to ensure he didn’t
give two hundred rupees notes stuck together. His tongue kept peeking out of
his toothless mouth, as he kept trying to sort through his hundred rupees notes.
“Ah,
a tongue dancer…” chuckled the conductor to himself, as he received the hundred
rupees note, after handing the ticket to the old man. “Are you on your own?”
“Huh?”
“Isn’t
there someone accompanying you?” repeated the conductor louder.
The
old man shook his head, as he put the other hundred rupees notes and the ticket
into his pocket and kept staring at the currency note that went into the
conductor’s bag. The conductor shook his bag a couple of times, as he searched
for the balance, the coins within making tinkling noises, as they rubbed
against each other within the bag.
“I’ve run out of change. Get the fifty rupees
back when you get down,” said the conductor.
“My
change…My fifty rupees…” said the old man, with spittle escaping out of his
mouth.
“I’ve
run out of change…What would I do if everyone keeps giving me hundred rupees
notes? How many fifties can I bring with me each time…” lamented the conductor.
He then realized it was useless explaining to the old man who seemed to be
auditorily challenged. “Get the change when you get down!” he said in a louder
voice.
“Oh…hmmm,”
the old man sighed disappointedly, as the conductor moved to the next seat
without bothering for a response.
The
old man eyed the scenes passing swiftly outside the window of the bus. The
gentle breeze from outside soothed the old man and the steady movement of the
bus mesmerized him into a sleep-like state. Crowded shops, multi-storied
residential apartments, a newly sprouted church or two, smaller temples, all
changed into green farmlands, banana orchards, mango, coconut, and banyan
trees, with a few thatched huts here and there. Goats and ducks were being
herded by young boys in torn shorts. A distant memory became his destination,
while he traveled in the bus.
“Where
to?” asked the conductor, leaning against a metal pole, wobbling and struggling
to keep his balance, as the old bus moved over the roads of Thanjavur that were
then rich in pot-holes. He held his leather bag full of changes under his left
armpit, as he fiddled with a copper whistle, some two rupees, and five rupees
notes, and a stack of tickets stuck between his fingers. “Thambi! (Young man),
I’m asking you,” repeated the conductor in Tamil, sensing lack of attention
from the thirteen-year-old boy seated to his front, who was peering excitedly
out through the window, being soothed by the wind.
“Oh,
me? Ko-Ko-Koviladi village, anna (brother),” stuttered the nervous boy, his hair
oiled and combed slick. Think talcum powder was applied all over his neck and
his cheeks, almost in a border fight with the white holy ash, then turned
darker by the sweat, covering the entirety of his forehead. He wore a new white
shirt with green stripes on it and a brown pair of shorts.
“Slow
down, why the rush…that would be 1 rupee and seventy-five paise…” the conductor
ripped a ticket from his stack of tickets.
The
young man picked some coins from his pocket and kept counting them, checking
twice, thrice to ensure he didn’t give a five rupees coin accidentally instead
of lesser valued coins, as his granny had warned him. His tongue kept peeking
out between his two neat rows of white teeth, as he kept trying to sort through
his coins.
“What’s
with the dancing tongue?” chuckled the conductor. The boy smiled back and
handed him two, one-rupee coins while putting the rest of the coins back into
his pocket.
“Are
you on your own?” asked the conductor as he shook his bag a couple of times,
searching for the twenty-five paise balance, the coins within making tinkling
noises, as they rubbed against each other within the bag.
“Yes…My
a-a-ayya (father) a-a-asked me to v-v-v-visit our f-f-family deity’s temple at
K-K-Koviladi f-f-for my b-b-birthd-d-day…” stuttered the boy.
“Have
you stuttered right from your childhood?” asked the conductor mindlessly, not
bothered about civility, and still sifting through his bag for the balance.
The
boy’s excitement was replaced by shame. Normally he would have lowered his head
in embarrassment, trying to imagine that he shrunk below a rock or a desk. But
this time, he kept intently staring at the conductor’s bag for the change.
“I’ve
run out of change…Get it from me when you get down…” the conductor nonchalantly
moved to the seats at the front portion of the bus.
The
boy stood up from his seat and tried to speak, but only his head wobbled and
puffs of air seeped through his lips. The conductor was then far gone. The boy
sat back down and shifted his focus outside. The fresh wind caressed his face
and the smell of green was all around. Every time the bus stopped, his heart leaped
within his chest, wondering if his destination had come. Every time a new
passenger had received a ticket in exchange for money from the conductor, the
boy stared at him, hoping to be called to return his change. But the call never
came.
After
about eight stops, the boy’s destination had come, and he moved toward the
conductor’s seat near the exit. The conductor noticed the boy staring at him
and asked him what he had wanted, forgetting all about the change that he was
supposed to give him. The other people who had wanted to get off at Koviladi
already did so. Those who had wanted to get onto the bus already did so and
were waiting for the attention of the conductor for their tickets. The driver
at the front portion of the bus was staring, looking annoyed by the prolonged
stoppage, his left hand already on the gear and his right hand on the steering
wheel, his right leg hovering over the accelerator, sweat under his armpits,
his neck and on his forehead. Too much pressure. He wouldn’t get the right
words out in time, the boy convinced himself. He shook his head and leaped off.
A whistle blew and the bus rolled away, leaving grey smoke as a birthday
present on the boy’s face.
A board on the side of the
road read, “Arulmigu (Graceful) Koviladi Pillayar Temple.” An arrow below it
pointed to a small street nearby. The street was full of small single-floored
houses, some of which had been turned into shops. At the far end of the street,
the boy could see the ornate tower of the ‘Pillayar’ Temple. The boy had
visited this temple almost two dozen times in the past seven years and had been
taken by his parents there since his birth a ‘million’ times more. Almost every
occasion, every festivity, every prospect of trouble, and every resolution of
it, the family had visited this particular temple to pray, to thank, and to
celebrate. As per his grandmother, this small temple had been built by his
grandfather’s great-grandfather about two hundred and fifty years ago. This was
however his first time visiting the temple alone.
“Your periya ayya (grandfather) is ill. We need to be with
him at the hospital. And it’s your birthday. You are almost a grown man now.
You know the route and the routine. Go safe, be vigilant. Pray for him, pray
for yourself and pray for us all,” his ayya (father) had said, as he had placed
some coins for his trip, into his shirt pocket.
He walked proudly and resolutely toward the temple. He was
a grown man. He had a purpose for his visit and he had made this trip alone
thus far. His walk slowed down as he took a few moments to enjoy everything
present all around him for this was a festive day as well, prompting a larger
than usual crowd. Large garlands made of roses, jasmine, crossandra,
chrysanthemums, and hibiscus, were hanging from the roof of some flower shops.
Coils of the same were also within small wooden baskets on the desk of these
shops. Some women were seated on the floor tying together the flowers into
garlands. He stood before each of the garlands and took in the aroma.
“Which one do you want, dear? Each Mulam (1.5 feet) is 50
paise. The garlands vary from 1 rupee to 50 rupees, depending on the length,
and the flowers used” said the old lady in the garland shop.
The boy moved closer to one of the garlands, took in a deep
sniff, smiled at the old lady, and ran away.
“Tender coconuts, one coconut for 2 rupees. Full of water.
Refresh yourself during this hot summer,” the boy heard a coconut vendor making
his sales pitch, out loud. The boy’s jaws tightened, and his tongue longed for
the sweetness of the coconut water and the scoop of the coconut’s innards given
at the end. He took the coins from his pocket and went through them. He had
just enough for the return ticket. With a disappointed look, he walked past it.
A guy stood with a large board, with a bamboo stand below
it. On the board were various plastic items and balloons of different colors.
Plastic sunglasses, a mini plastic carrom-board with coins, plastic whistles
and pompoms, fake plastic watches, little bags of plastic balls, plastic dolls
with crunched noses and cheeks, every single item on the board made the boy
yearn for them. Colorful paper fan on sticks peeked from the top portion of the
board, rotating in the air. The guy holding the board wore one of those plastic
goofy glasses and fake plastic watches.
He didn’t utter a word and kept blowing a whistle that he
had in his mouth and honked a little horn in his hand, showing off the watch
and the items on the board.
The boy, with a long pout, moved away, fearing that he
would lose his bus money to the temptation of buying a toy.
Next, he came across a sweet stall, the smell of ghee,
jaggery, nuts, and dry fruits from within, lured him towards it. He saw pieces
of red halwas with a nut or two in each piece, diamond-shaped cashew sweets,
gulab jamuns, milk sweets with different colors, all arranged in different
racks of a glass shelf.
“Welcome, son…Which one do you want? And how many kilos
should I pack?” asked the shopkeeper, with a smile.
The boy kept staring at the sweets, with his tongue out
once again, without his knowledge.
“Don’t feel shy. It’s all fresh and the best tasting in the
whole of Tamil Nadu,” hyped the shopkeeper.
“D-Do…you…” the boy gulped and stuttered as he spoke. “I
mean…s-s-samples…”
The shopkeeper smiled, picked a milk sweet from a tray
within one compartment, broke it into half, and placed it into the boy’s hands.
He, at once, put the sweet into his mouth and closed his eyes, cherishing every
bite of the small sample given to him.
“So…how
is it?” asked the shopkeeper.
The
boy smiled and swirled his head, with his eyes still closed and his cheeks
bloated by the sweet within.
“Shall
I pack a kilo of it?” asked the shopkeeper, playfully.
The
boy opened his eyes, stared anxiously at the shopkeeper, and shook his head,
then ran away. The shopkeeper sighed and shook his head, pretty used to this
sort of event.
A
little cart with groundnuts over sacks on them was being dragged by a man. “A
quarter of a padi for 10 annas,” cried the vendor, as he dragged the cart.
Surely, he should be able to afford this, thought the young boy, but his amma
had asked him not to eat anything till he was done visiting the temple. He had
already failed with the sample sweet, but it was just a little piece. Unlike
the other vendors, this one was moving, and there was no guarantee he would
still be in that street by the time, the boy was done with his temple visit.
But what if he bought some and kept it in his pocket? No, whatever food item
you take into the temple, you have to offer it to the Lord, his amma had said.
Not
far behind the groundnut cart, was an ice cream cart being dragged by another
vendor.
“Oh
no…not ice creams.” The boy closed his ears and tried his best to avert his
gaze away from the cart, till it moved past him. He didn’t even want to know
what was on offer and how much they cost. He would not survive this temptation.
Moving
closer to the temple, the boy observed an old man, seated on a corner, with
plenty of slippers in front of him.
“Going
to the temple, are you? Leave your slippers here,” said the old man.
The
boy was hesitant at first, but removed his cheap flip-flops, after seeing a
young couple, leaving their more expensive-looking leather sandals near the old
man.
A
bunch of homeless kids with torn clothes, messy hair, snot dripping noses, and
dirt-covered cheeks, stood in a corner eyeing the boy. He had heard stories of
such kids beating up kids who were on their own and stealing everything they
had. He didn’t bother to know the truth of such stories. The boy, at once,
covered his pocket with both his hands and walked past them, staring nervously.
Their gaze seemed to him to be on him as well.
“Move
aside, child,” a voice said to the boy, who turned his gaze away from the kids
and towards the source.
A shirtless
bald man, wearing an expensive dhoti, with gold chains over his neck, sandal
applied all over his torso, and holy ash all over his forehead, which had much
more ground to cover than the boy’s own, stood outside the temple, with a
coconut between his arms. He sang a little prayer song and threw the coconut
hard against the ground, splitting it into a dozen pieces. The homeless kids
rushed past the boy, making a ruckus, trying to collect as many pieces as they
could from the ground, almost pushing the bald man aside, who just mumbled some
expletives and walked away shaking his head.
The
temple was not a large one. Some of the houses in the same street were larger
than the temple if the ornate tower was not taken into account. It had
sculptures of Pillayar, the elephant-headed primary deity of the temple;
several instances of a mouse, which was his mount; and several demons with big
bellies, big breasts, sharp teeth, and big eyes, breathing fire or blowing
horns, on the sides. Statues of Lord Shiva (Him holding a Trident, with a
crescent moon on his matted hair and the river Ganges pouring from the top of
his head), the green-skinned Goddess Parvati (with beautiful eyes and a kind
countenance), the parents of Pillayar, and his younger brother Lord Murugan,
the God of War, (with his famed spear in his hand, and his mount, a peacock at
his foot) all seated together on mount Kailash, with their right palms opened
toward the devotee offering their grace and benevolence, were depicted at the
central portion of the tower. The statue of Goddess Lakshmi (seated on top of a
large Lotus, with a pot of gold, on her thighs, pouring down coins, two of her
four hands holding flowers and the other two blessings the devotees), the
Goddess of wealth, was at the entrance. All the statues had been newly painted.
Blue, red, green, and every color in between made the tower a large piece of
art. Floral patterns were on the walls and the ceilings.
The
boy gazed at it all in wonder, with his mouth wide open, as if it was his first
time. As he entered the temple, he saw rows of oil lamps being lit for the
festive day. As to what that festive day was, he had no idea. Maybe they were
all celebrating his birthday. He chuckled to himself. A notice board was on the
wall opposite to where the lamps were being lit. It listed down the names of
people who had contributed to the building and the funding of the small temple.
The boy wondered if his grandfather’s great-grandfather’s name would be on the list.
But he had no idea what his name was…
There
was just enough crowd to fill the temple and the boy stood behind a long queue
waiting at the main sanctum. This was the part he hated the most. It always
bored him, made him yawn, then sleepy and lethargic for the rest of the day.
Today was his birthday and he didn’t want to be lethargic.
He
could hear some people standing around some musicians playing Carnatic music,
adding more divinity to the ambiance of the temple. Two men played ‘Nadhaswarams,’
the long wind instrument that was common in all temple festivities. One man was
playing on a ‘Thavil,’ a percussion instrument, following the ‘Nadhaswaram’
players. On the right side of the main sanctum was a large bell, which kept
tolling, as special prayers were being conducted to the main deity. A lady
wearing a ‘madisaar,’ a traditional brahmin attire, was distributing ‘sweet Pongal
in little bowls made of leaves.
The
boy was tempted to try it, but if he moved from the queue, he might have to
join back even further. He noticed the queue behind him had already grown long.
Also, no food, before visiting the deity.
A
bunch of girls in colorful ‘dhavani’ attire were singing songs, that aligned
well with the musicians playing their instruments. The girls were in the same
age range as the boy, and during some of his previous visits, his grandmother had
teased him that one of those could be his future wife. He had found the thought
weird and yucky in the past. Now the mere thought of it made him blush. He was
indeed a grown man…
The
air was rich in aroma. Sandal, holy ash, camphor, incense, vermilion, and oil
lamps, the familiar scents made the boy feel at home. As the queue moved him
closer to the main deity, he could see holy men, in orange and white robes,
standing to the side of the main deity’s sanctum and reading hymns and prayers.
They all seemed covered in sweat and looked exhausted, but that didn’t slow
their recitals down.
After
what seemed to be an eternity, the boy was finally close to the main deity’s
shrine. The elephant-headed God was all doled up, with sandal pastes applied
all over him, large amounts of garlands around his neck, and piles of flowers
at his feet. The gold crown on his head glinted in the lamps hanging around.
The chains with blue and red lockets on them, around his neck made him seem
like a rich businessman. Piles of ‘arugumpull’ or scrutch grass were also near
his feet, along with a plate of ‘Kozhukattais’ and ‘Athursams,’ sweets, that
were deemed favorites of the compassionate God.
The boy had a few seconds before he would be pushed away by
the people behind him. He clasped his hands together in prayer and closed his
eyes. He prayed for the health of his grandfather. He prayed for the Lord’s
grace for his birthday. He expected some hands to push him away. But nothing
happened.
As the old man opened his eyes, he was standing in front of
an abandoned and worn-down shrine. The main deity was bare, covered in soot,
dust, and debris. A limb or two were broken. There were no lamps, no crown, no
glinting jewelry, no flowers, no delicacies, no sandal, no aroma, no priest, no
hymn reciting holy men, no singing girls, no musicians, no crowd, no bells, no
walls, no colors, and no ornate tower. Just the broken statue of the deity
amidst some debris, a pile of leaves, a flower or two, and pieces of small
fruits that had dried up, probably fallen from the tree above. The street was
deserted. No shops or vendors anymore.
“Sixty-five years…How far we’ve both fallen…” said the old
man. “I thought my life was hard, but look at you…” The old man couldn’t stand
for long, so he moved slowly and sat over a piece of rock nearby. “I can’t
complain too much, to be honest. I’ve had a content life. Studied okay, had a
decent job, lost loved ones, gained new ones, made money, lost money, had bad
health, recovered, had a good wife, lost her to old age, had a daughter, raised
her well, the two of us. She is abroad now with a family of her own…I have a
granddaughter. She is ten now… Lost most of my friends to death. Don’t have
much in terms of relatives anymore. Long life isn’t always a blessing… Now
I’m…just left behind…unattended…just like you…”
The old man’s voice quivered and his eyes became moist. He
took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his eyes and his remaining three
hundred rupees and the bus ticket worth fifty rupees fell out. He collected
them up with great difficulty and put the money back into his pocket.
“Somethings never change though” the old man chuckled as he crushed the ticket
and threw it away. “Today is my seventy-eighth birthday… I know I haven’t been
here for a long time. As the elders in our family passed away, the tradition of
frequent visits also stopped. Please don’t be mad at me…Offer me some
grace…loneliness is painful…I need some grace…We both need,” prayed for the old
man.
A young homeless girl, about ten years old, passed by the
street with a younger boy, probably her brother. They had messy hair, dirt-covered
faces, torn clothes, and cracked heels. The old man noticed them and his hands
automatically covered his pocket. Old habits die hard.
The
two children were dividing small pieces of guava fruit, that they had brought
down from a nearby tree, using stones. The younger one was about to eat his
share when the girl slapped his hand lightly.
“What
have I told you? The first share goes to Pillayaar,” said the girl. She placed
a portion of the guava fruit in front of the crumbled statue, next to past
offerings that remained dried then. She looked around and noticed the old man
sitting on a rock, mumbling something to himself. “Looks like a mad man…let’s
not stay here for long,” she whispered to her brother, held his arm, and led
him away, both munching on their share of the guava fruit.
The old man’s phone rung in his pant pocket. Probably a
phone scammer or a bank offering loan he grunted, as he pulled the phone from
his pocket. The photo of his smiling granddaughter appeared on-screen. Some
grace at last.
- SriVishnudaasan
