After a lovely
pre-dawn, two-hour drive we reached the Mallikarjun Devasthan, Canacona, before
the sun rose thirty degrees above the horizon. We entered the Sristhal
industrial area in which this old and revered temple stands. The vibes, those
in the know tell me, in temples are perfect. I’ve don’t know what that means; the
traffic-obstructing temple near the Campal grounds gives me the heebie-jeebies
because I don’t know whether a growling motorcycle lurking behind it might
lunge and cause an accident.
The Mallikarjun temple, like other such
institutions, has been modernized. There’s a tiled hall constructed near it. A
dormitory/hotel/dharmala is rising along another side. There’s some gravelly space
kept for parking cars. Steps old and new lead to all the buildings from there.
There is no ramp/lift for those with restricted mobility. A sticker told us
why. It said, Devak kaalljee (in translation: ‘God will worry’ about those).
Limp away, painful joint-holder, I told myself, let the guiding spirit lead the
way.
I was there to
attend a wedding. The plastic chairs stacked by the windows, all undusted and
some cracked, were arranged in rows for the damp-with-sweat, decked-in-silk
guests. Each arrival first visited the temple, bowed graciously before the deity
and then waddled into the hall. From the way they held the prasad, one knew it
was precious. Fingers curled around the sticky sweet nestled in the palm.
Afterwards,
tissues that were distributed to wipe the stickiness were crushed and tossed in
a small, frayed cardboard carton kept in a corner for the purpose. I was happy
someone had thought of keeping it. It displayed similar, overflowing garbage of
a previous party. Regularly cleared dustbins apparently have something against
spirituality. Or vice-versa.
After a while, because I’ve seen
cleaner taps and surroundings in the heart of Dharavi and Moradabad, which
anyone might vote are amongst the dirtiest places in India, possibly the world,
I avoided the leaky, slime-covered PWD provision and opted to drink from another,
bottled source. Perhaps similar pathogens inhabited it, but thirst threw
caution aside and I drank with a prayer on my lips, imploring Mallikarjun to
keep me safe from tummy-related infections/ailments.
In between, the manglashtaka was sung,
the var-malas
exchanged and the saat phere’s walked. The couple was now officially woman and
husband – these days I believe no one pronounces a twosome man and wife lest
some television channel have a debate on its political correctness. Perhaps person
and spouse would be better, devs/devis willing.
Once the toe-touching and
envelope-handing-over was done, Nature called (me). Some were half way through
their lunch, some awaiting it, when I asked where the loo was. Blank looks came
my way. Bathroom, I said. Toilet. Restroom. Washroom. I used colloquial
vocabulary, explained my predicament. A common embarrassed expression was
passed around from face to face. A mere mortal was referring to unmentionable
things in the house of god. My physiological needs overruled spiritual stuff.
Blasphemy.
A finger directed me towards the
rooms dedicated to ‘bride’s side’ and ‘groom’s side’. The former, in which sat
many women, inexplicably had only a gents’ version. So I went across to the
grooms’ room, which logically would have the female loo in it. That room was occupied
by only men. Tradition says, segregate the gender, practicality be damned. No
board or sign indicated where the toilet was. I pushed aside a pile of cloths
and found a camouflaged door. I thanked whichever god was helping me at the
moment and stepped in. Only to discover that unless I stood like a flamingo,
with one knee bent towards a corner, I couldn’t fit inside. I’m not fat, just
plump, after being wrapped in six yards of sari. I’m now convinced other women
pray harder than I do… else, how do they fit in a space so small with or
without doing contorting callisthenics? It has to be something miraculous. For
them, faith works. In my case, dependable safety-pins and daily yogasana doses
for suppleness.
The apparatus was a white,
less-than-a-foot long ceramic plate cemented into the floor. I tried to guess
where and how any liquid that splashed on it would flow. Gravity has its
limitations. Only God’s will would work, I was convinced.
I’ve seen worse temple toilets: a memorable
one at Shantadurga’s Kavlem residence, where I thought I might sink through the
floor. Crushed, stained tiles, daylight diffusing in through a cobweb-curtained
window… the stuff that oozed over and
across the floor seemed to be more than just mud and plaster. I might have
fainted at the sight, but the stench of urine fresh and stale kept my senses
alert. God works in mysterious ways: I was able to ‘hold’ that day right until
I reached home.
Mind over matter works. Visits to
temples have taught me that.
Heights of spirituality can be
achieved by 1) fasting --control over thirst and hunger, and 2) having no
toilets—control over the nether end orifices.
An acquaintance was once troubled
with something lovingly called ‘motions’. You can’t pray your way out of that,
even the super-religious agree. This chap visits a particular temple every
Monday, come Bhadrapad or Falgun. When generosity strikes, he gifts it
silverware. His wife donates expensive saris (only silk and with blouse-piece
attached, otherwise the god/dess doesn’t approve) which are later auctioned to
other women devotees. He told me that he had sponsored tiling of the temple
premises. Twice. Know what? Each time, the tiles came out. That god/dess just
wasn’t willing to get the temple tiled. Strangely, no one thought of asking the
contractor why the work was shabby/sub-standard.
But then, to question is to follow
the way of the flesh. Spirituality has its own logic, I thought as we drove
back from Mallikarjun.
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