Even as a child, I used to accompany my mother, who is entrusted with the work of cleaning utensils, used for cooking rice, pudding etc. for offering to our Deity of Lord Sastha, making garlands for adorning it and general cleanliness inside the temple. Only the family specifically allotted for the work, may do it. People belonging to other castes are not allowed. At thirteen, I could manage alone, when mother was polluted during her monthly periods.
The poojary was a very old namboodiri, past eighty, somehow performing his duties. One room in our house was kept ready for him to sleep. After 8 in the evening it was impossible to walk two miles along the narrow path, which was a water channel, during monsoon. Our temple is in a forest. There were none living near by.
After the morning duties, the old man will leave for his home and return by five in the evening. He will take bath in the temple pond, before entering the temple.
Father worked in a factory in the town. He keeps his bicycle at a house, in the road to the town, which becomes a dust zone, whenever a vehicle passes along. There were few buses. People will wait for half an hour to get a bus.
Mother died when I was fifteen. I suggested that we move to some temple in the town, where we may get more money for our work, from offerings to the Deity. Father said that we are working for Him, not for money.
I could not go to a school. Father thought it unwise to allow girls to go out alone. He taught me Malayalam and simple arithmetic. I used to read the newspaper brought from the factory, when father returns.
I became tuned to loneliness. From our temple, which stood at a height, I could enjoy the scenery. The colour changed in the morning freshness and in the quiet of the evening. I could see the trains passing, running slow, it seems from the distance.
In the winter, when the sky is cloudless, I would watch the stars, appearing one after another. Father knew much but I too recognized some bright ones. Probably they are planets like Venus and Jupiter.
When the old man became too weak, his son started doing the rites. He was almost my age, seventeen at that time. It was a welcome change. The boy was handsome and very talkative. Most of the time, we were alone and I helped him in cooking too, as he was a novice. Once father saw it and scolded me: in another year, you may get married. Be more circumspect.
My marriage was fixed long ago, to my uncle’s son Krishnan, who is studying in the college. He used to come during vacations. Several times I enjoyed sex with him and now I used that experience, to seduce our young poojary. We did it even in the temple kitchen. No one enters the kitchen.
Once I accompanied him on his way back, after completing the morning rites in the temple. After about half an hour, we saw a big hill on the left side. I like climbing hills and suggested going up. It was very steep and somehow we made it to the summit. A breath taking view, with the river meandering through rice fields and hills, a number of tall buildings in the distant city and blue mountains in the Eastern horizon…God is an imaginative architect in landscaping!
My friend pointed out excitedly. I turned and saw a dilapidated structure, resembling a temple. We traced our steps towards it.
There were only small sections of the wall still remaining. The sanctum was intact. Poojary scrutinized the image of the deity and confirmed it was Satha! We hurriedly came down and reached the junction of the dirt road, with the bus root.
There was a bus going to the town and we went immediately. I called Krishnan on phone. He had some friends in the press and they all came to see the new Shabarimala. Soon the local papers mentioned my name as the discoverer of this ancient temple. A flurry of activities followed. The dirt road was widened. A new road, with stone steps where the land was steep, culverts for crossing small streams etc. began, with money pouring in from all over India and outside.
As the new road began from our temple, we became the focus. Our earnings went up. Father maintains that it is all His will.
I married Krishnan and managed to give the poor boy a stolen kiss!
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tagged: COOKONG RICE, FAMILY, HOME, KRISHNAN, MORNING, SHABARIMALA, STOLEN KISS, TEMPLE, UTENCILS | Leave a comment »