"Aarti? Ready!"
"Devotee's wallet visible? Roger that"
"Let's start. Om Hocusey-Pocusey Namaha!"
These days, i frequently visit temples. It's not because i've not bagged a job yet; the reason is "scientific study". A study of devotee, devoted and the antics of everyone in between.
The God doesn't change throughout the year. Yet, on specific days, He or She assumes more significance. People, who haggle over morning milk, stand patiently to get a glimpse of the Lord. Strangely, the Q is co-ed. Men are supposed to stand on the right, the ladies they stare on the left, and far behind, obscured from view, their wives. Even if one bends over the railing, the rest scream and shout. Pushing and jostling ensues. Angry looks and not-so-holy words are exchanged. Once the screen is removed and the radiant God is revealed in all his tax-payer paid jewelry and glory, hands are folded and self-slapping occurs from one chin to the other. This a showstopper that Prada, Gucci and Louis Vuitton have been trying for ages, and are still at it.
There's a mad rush to get the hands on the aarti. Heads are knocked out, pulled, crushed, beaten and in some cases, wigs stolen or worse, falls on the aarti plate as dakshina! The bald pandit is all to happy to take it as a token of appreciation. As for the theerta, their's many a slip between the cusp and the lip. The ones in the front are pushed, so they inhale the liquid. The ones in the back are given a face wash, enough to quench Tamil Nadu's thirst for water.
Some families try to outdo their relatives and neighbors by throwing in notes as Dakshina, inspite of clear instructions to put them in the hundi. The temple is all too glad at this. However, the pandit does frown when for all his efforts, only coins are donated. He looks at you with such disgust, that you immediately throw in another 10 bucks to ensure he puts in a good word for you with God. Infact, temples collect so many coins that they give the Reserve Bank a run for their own money! In these times, where tendering exact change is more important that electing a competent Prime Minister, temples collect hefty commission in exchanging notes for coins.
One of my favorite moments is when you are supposed to utter your and your family's name, the stars under which they were born, the whole deal for the archane; the pundit repeats them with peppering of "swaha". Sometimes he underestimates the strength in numbers of joint families. Twenty or forty, from mamas' in Bellary to mamis' in Vijayvada. Further embarrassment occurs when he's perplexed by the names. Vijay Anrogyabhasysundaram Jamilpetti, or there's a Vanita Nagendra Saravannaamma Mugilpete. And he thought mastering the schlokas (holy verses) was tough!
The mad scramble for prasadam is a sight to be seen. For once, the autodriver pushes the Audi owner, the cricket lover beats the sop opera lady. If the menu is ladoo and sweet pongal (Indian delicacies), the scramble is faster that F-16s and F-22s. The devotees eat it contently, and dump the plates and cups wholeheartedly within the temple premises. And a loud burp signals the Heaven that it was well received. It is immediately followed by a cigarette or a spit. To err is human, to forgive divine. In that case, the guy who ran away with our sandals and shoes is not guilty. He had plenty of time to shop, choose his size and brand. And walked a mile in another man's shoes before realizing it was the perfect fit.
The little boys can even sneak away with a pee, given the size of the temple's compound. And children are the forms of God, and the Devil, depending on what pocket money they earn. They run around the temple, pulling the dhotis' and baring the inner secret, that even priests are "Just Jockeying". This is as real as it gets for them to play Temple Run.
The father's dare not spank the child, lest the other pretty ladies think low of them, never mind the wife is horrified. Why, he even offers to pick up the son, place him on his shoulders to get a balcony view of the God. But, he just steals a peek on the opposite row's deep necklines. Like father, like son. With lax rules for dress etiquette at temples, more men are drawn in their Bermudas and T-shirts. Their gaze is stronger than Shiva's third eye and the women seem to don't mind it. Marriages might be made in heaven, but temples, some with huge parks, seem to have become dating grounds.
The next day; the same God, the same temple and the same pandit. The next day. But the only devotees seem to be the pigeon, the monkey and the fly. It's as if the Gods have lost their Midas touch. Sayonara God and hello daily life, until the next event on the religious calender.
Exhausted for the week? Free time to kill? Still a Bachelor or an attractive damsel? The Om Shanti Om Circus has rolled into town. Showing at at temple near you.
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