Some Grace after the Fall

 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