‘It may be a chance of a lifetime. Tirupati is the most visited place of worship in the world. People go there from every corner of India and from every country; thousands of pilgrims every day.’
‘What is so special about it?’ Tulsi Nath was asking questions like an inquisitive child.
‘The idol of Balaji. No human hand has made it. It is self-manifested, like the lingum of snow that waxes and wanes with the moon inside the holy Amarnath cave in your part of the country. In our religious lore, one can attain mukti just by one darshan of Balaji.’
This was tantalising. Besides, there really seemed to be a design in it. How did the picture of Balaji land in that remote tiny bookshop near his home at Rainawari? How did he make that averment when he was just a kid that he would visit Balaji one day although he had no idea what he was speaking about? Wherefore did the ticket checker single him out from amongst the many passengers, to engage him in a conversation? Why was he insisting on their pilgrimage to Tirupati?
Tulsi Nath looked at his wife. She was beaming with the excitement of a possible darshan of the great lord she had not even heard about. She had nurtured the desire to perform all the pilgrimages prescribed for a devout Hindu—Haridwar, Mathura, Amarnath, Kedarnath, Badrinath, etc. She had heard about some pilgrimages in the south of India but they seemed a far cry, an impossible dream. Here was an opportunity knocking at the door. It was like the lord coming to them rather than the other way. How could they even think of missing this chance, especially since they would not have to make any radical changes to their timetable?
‘This is a godsend; we can’t miss it,’ she pleaded.
‘You can reschedule your travel dates at the ticketing counter on reaching Renigunta,’ the ticket checker reminded him.
The train stopped at the next station. In the rush of passengers getting off and boarding, the ticket checker appeared to vanish as mysteriously as he had appeared. The train moved on. Tulsi Nath had made up his mind.
The train halted at Renigunta. Tulsi Nath and his family got off and took a bus to Tirumalai Venketeshwara. It was a picturesque drive through hill country and dense foliage reminiscent of Kashmir. The sky was deep blue, stray lovelorn clouds hovered over the peaks. The Tirumala Hill was a huge plateau, a mini town bustling with human activity. There were several smaller temples for different deities in the town, with hundreds of inscriptions engraved on their walls. The main temple complex with a golden-roofed tower shining bright lay on the southern banks of a holy water tank. The place was teeming with pilgrims milling in the temple yard and the waiting halls. Tulsi Nath and his family were overrun by touts even before they could check in for board and lodge.
‘Sir, it will take you nearly two days to get your turn for a darshan,’ a tout alerted him. ‘And then, you will hardly get the time for a fleeting glimpse of Balaji—not more than a few seconds. We can arrange a special darshan for a little gratification.’
Tulsi Nath had remained scrupulously honest all his life, never bribed anyone and never accepted a bribe. How could he break that rule in the very house of God? That would make him unhappy for the rest of his life. God had ordained this meeting, predetermined it three decades back. God was paving the way for it now and Tulsi Nath was here in good faith and with a pure heart. He would wait for his turn like every devout pilgrim. If it took two days so be it.
They checked into a tourist hut, deposited their baggage and went for a quick dinner. The hotelier informed them that there were special categories of pilgrims for an early darshan, if they so desired—a separate queue for people with tonsured heads and another one for belly walkers. He was amused to hear this and wondered if he should try any of the two options.
He would not mind a tonsure. He had tonsured his head twice, the first time when he wore the sacred thread and the second time when his father had died. There was no harm in getting a third tonsure now, but what about his wife. He had neither seen nor heard any woman tonsuring her head for any reason whatsoever back home in Kashmir. He would not ask his wife to do it just to gain an early entry.
As for belly walking, it would not be difficult for him to crawl on his belly, but to get there on bellies before others seemed to him a travesty of a sincere pilgrimage. Why crawl on bellies when the Lord wants you to come to Him upright in stance and upright in your heart and soul, as a seeker of truth and not a cringing slave?
Just as he dismissed these options for an early darshan from his mind, a stranger approached him. ‘Are you ready for the tonsure, sir?’
‘Why should tonsured pilgrims get preferential treatment?’ Tulsi Nath asked him.
‘Because the Lord has ordained his devotees to render their hair to him,’ he said.
‘Pray why must the Lord need my hair when he can grow his own to cover the whole universe?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘So it goes to Neela Devi, the Gandharva princess.’
‘Is there a legend?’
‘Yes, sir. Once upon a time, Lord Balaji was hit on his head by a shepherd. The injured portion of the scalp turned bald. The Gandharva princess cut a portion of her beautiful hair and planted it onto the scalp of the Lord. He gave her a boon that all devotees coming to him would offer their hair to her in thanksgiving.’
‘But you need not inveigle pilgrims into getting a tonsure to claim preferential entry for the darshan. Offering of hair should be voluntary and without any reward. I will prefer to stand in the regular queue and wait my turn.’
The sarvadarshan, darshan for everyone, began every day at three in the morning. The place started humming with pilgrims from midnight—men, women and children standing in a number of long rows. A bandanna tied around his head, a saffron tilak in the centre of his forehead, and mantras on his tongue, Tulsi Nath took his place in one of the queues, his family in tandem—the kids with flower stalks in their hands and wife carrying a thali of flowers, almonds, coins, saffron and sindoor. It was an endless column of humans, bodies in close contact, jostling, moving at a snail’s pace. Someone asked his wife why she was carrying the thali.
‘To do the puja,’ she replied.
That brought guffaws from everyone. ‘If you get just a wink at the Lord you should feel vindicated,’ they said.
She blushed.
‘How far from here is the darshan?’ Tulsi Nath asked.
‘As you proceed and reach the gate of the garhba griha, the sanctum sanctorum, you will look left while you are moving forward; you will get a glimpse of the Lord inside the sanctum for a brief moment. You are not allowed to stop, ask any questions, nor cause any distraction; you just move on.’
If that is how it has to be, so be it, thought Tulsi Nath. What did it take the Lord to create the cosmos? A bang. A fraction of a moment in time. If that is enough to create the whole universe, how much do we deserve of his darshan? Even a fleeting glimpse should be enough. Just one look; one look of eternity.
Great thoughts indeed, but he still cherished a good, mighty and lingering glimpse, now that his forgotten vow was being realised. After all, it was the strange picture that had provoked his curiosity when he was a child. It would take some time to see if that matched with the original that he was about to confront.
The queue moved slowly, endlessly, like a lazy stream before rainfall. Tulsi Nath had no idea when his wish would fructify, when he would see the Lord face to face.
Then something incredible happened.
A man dressed like a priest appeared as if from nowhere and called out. ‘Hey, you; come out of the queue; come out.’
Everyone standing in the queue turned their heads towards him, not sure whom the priest was addressing.
He pointed at Tulsi Nath and shouted, ‘Step out of the queue.’
‘Why do you single me out, sir? I have done no wrong. I am with my family. We have been standing here since three in the morning. Now that we are almost at the Lord’s portal, why are you asking me to come out? Please let me stay in the queue,’ he pleaded.
‘Step out; quickly.’ The priest repeated in a tone as much of authority as of persuasion.
‘In that case, my wife and children will also come out with me.’
‘Only you. Don’t waste any time and don’t worry about them; you will join them again.’
Reluctantly, Tulsi Nath left the queue and walked toward the priest, sore that he would miss the darshan after having gone through the exercise since midnight. Just as he was cursing his luck, the priest held him by the arm and took him near the gate of the garbha griha.
‘Go inside; stay there as long as you like,’ he said.
Tulsi Nath was speechless. He couldn’t believe it. He thought he heard wrong.
‘Why only me; what about my wife, son and daughter?’ he asked.
‘Only you,’ the priest declared in a tone of finality and ambled away hurriedly, leaving him mystified.
Was he dreaming? Tulsi Nath pinched his arm; no, this was real. He looked at the long line of pilgrims, among them his wife and children. The line moved almost imperceptibly toward the golden entrance leading to the portals of the garbha griha where he stood now. Beyond this, the pilgrims were not allowed to enter the sanctum. Only him!
There were two tall copper images of the dwar-palikas on either side of the door. The thick wooden door was covered with gilt plates depicting something he did not care to understand.
He stepped inside the sanctum and stood transfixed. The awe-inspiring idol of the Lord of the Seven Hills known simply and endearingly as Balaji stood directly beneath a gilt dome— resplendent, mesmerising. It was the moment of truth for him, incredible that he was finally face to face with the lord of lords, specially chosen to be close to him. He could not take it all in, even as he had consoled himself and his wife earlier that one glimpse would be enough. He stood there, not wanting to lift his gaze off Balaji, taking in each and every attribute, exulting in his good fortune, again wondering if he was dreaming, if it was all real.
He recalled the words of the ticket checker that this exquisitely wrought deity was self-manifested. How could human hands make such a beautiful figure? The Lord, in ochre dress tied with golden strings and a golden belt with golden bells, wore a golden crown. A thick double tilak drawn on his forehead screened his eyes. His ears were decorated with golden earrings. The right hand rested on his lap, the left hand akimbo. His feet wore golden anklets. Everything was perfect, yet there was something amiss in his vision of the Lord, something that his eyes could not sense.
Tulsi Nath closed his eyes. Beyond the physical, it was the divine and mystical ambience that held him in awe. He saw what he could not when his eyes were open; he saw the eyes of the Lord—deep and intense, kind and compassionate, benevolent and affectionate. Transfixed in that pose, he lost all idea of time and space. And then, tears trickled in a stream down his cheeks and onto his folded hands. He jerked back into conscious state and opened his eyes. He was crying. He did not know how long he stood there. He did not care. He looked again at the Lord.
‘Imagine, I had forgotten all about it even as I had made a vow to come here when I was a boy,’ Tulsi Nath murmured to himself.
‘But I had not,’ he heard the Lord speak; ‘How could I forget the vow of a nine-year-old?’
NOTES
Navishta – A note to the teacher from a father, certifying his son’s good behaviour at home
Thokur Kuth – Prayer room
darshan – audience
garbha griha – Sanctum sanctorum
dwar-palikas – Female door keepers
THE MIND OF A TERRORIST
Kakaji Gurtoo, the son of a business family of Shali Store, and Mushtaq Ahmad alias Nalicha, the son of a small trader, were neighbours. They were about the same age, went to the same school and played together with other children in the lanes and by lanes of this densely populated neighbourhood of Srinagar. In physique and bearing, they were quite the opposite of each other—Kakaji, small, slim and shy; Nalicha, tall, broad and brash; Kakaji, hardworking and punctual; Nalicha, laid-back and a habitual truant; Kakaji, gentle, soft-spoken and docile; Nalicha, arrogant, bad-mouthed and combative. As they grew up and graduated from high school, Kakaji joined college while Nalicha dropped out and joined his father’s vocation. Even as the lives of the two friends took a divergent course, they managed to catch up with each other now and then.
Then bad times struck. In the winter of 1989, terrorism tore the heart of Kashmir asunder. Processions and protest rallies, shutdowns and strikes, gunfights and bomb blasts were the order of the day. Schools and colleges remained closed for several days at a stretch as the militants beckoned the boys to join the Jihad. Young Muslim boys started disappearing from neighbourhoods. Word went around that they were crossing the border over to Pakistan-occupied Kashmir. Many Pandits were bullied, abducted, tortured and killed. They were warned to leave Kashmir or face death. As the kidnappings and killings continued unabated, Pandits started leaving for destinations known and unknown. They fled from neighbourhoods where they were a stark minority. But there were some who opted to stay back and face the travails of militancy rather than sail into the uncharted seas of exile.
The Gurtoos of Shali Store were one such Pandit family that decided not to leave their home and hearth, no matter what. They had several businesses, including a seed farm and a hardware store. The very idea of leaving all this behind was sacrilegious, especially when Kakaji, the scion, had just joined the family business. They kept a low profile as they helplessly watched their relatives and friends depart one by one.
Kakaji had not seen Mushtaq Nalicha for several months. Where could he have gone? Nalicha was known for his religious fanaticism. He would grab any opportunity to prove his credentials as a staunch Muslim committed to ‘liberate’ Kashmir from ‘India’s yoke’ and merge it with Pakistan. His disappearance gave credence to rumours that Nalicha had crossed over to Pakistan for training in arms and militancy.
The leading dairy owner of the neighbourhood, Abdul Rahim, lived close to the Gurtoos. He sold milk to almost every Pandit household of the locality. His son, Aziz, nearly the same age as Kakaji, never attended school but grew up working in his father’s business, delivering milk to regular customers, including the Gurtoos. But, for several weeks now, it was Abdul Rahim himself who delivered the milk. When Kakaji inquired about Aziz, he was given a different story each time: ‘Aziz has gone to Punjab to buy cows’; ‘he has gone on an errand’; ‘he is down with flu’, and so on.
One morning, Kakaji wanted to buy cheese. There was no one in the shop. The dairy was an extension of Abdul Rahim’s house. Kakaji ventured inside the courtyard and knocked on the door. Aziz opened the door just enough for a peek and quipped, ‘Phew, it is the Dalae Batta.’
Kakaji recoiled at this unflattering soubriquet hurled at him for the first time ever by Aziz but did not lose his calm. ‘Good to see you, Aziz. I came for a kilo of fresh cheese; there is no one in your shop,’ he explained.
‘Who is it?’ a familiar voice from inside the house startled Kakaji.
‘Your Dalae Batta friend,’ Aziz shouted back.
‘My friend?’ bellowed the voice from within as the door flung open and Kakaji was face to face with Mushtaq Nalicha.
‘Ah, it is you, Nalicha; have not seen you for ages.’ exclaimed Kakaji.
Nalicha and Aziz exchanged glances momentarily.
‘Have been busy with one thing or other. Work never seems to end. Say, how are you faring?’ Nalicha asked.
‘These are bad times. Bomb blasts and curfews have created panic. Everyone is scared. Business is slow. Our store is closed more days than it is open.’
‘I know, I know. Everything has changed.’
‘Pandits are leaving in droves. My family is in a big dilemma. The thought of leaving home is agonising.’
‘Yet that might be the safe option.’
‘You don’t advise me to leave, do you?’
‘Well, this is only the beginning.’
�
�Is it going to get worse?’
‘It will be terrible.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Who else should know if not Nalicha?’
‘Are you in it?’ Kakaji whispered in his ear.
‘In what?’ Nalicha frowned.
‘Militancy.’
‘Don’t call it militancy,’ Nalicha chided him; ‘Call it Azadi, a freedom movement.’
‘And you are in?’
‘Stop asking stupid questions. I am in a hurry; see you some other time. Khuda Hafiz for now; Khuda Hafiz, Aziz.’ He left in haste.
Kakaji turned to Aziz, ‘And, where have you been, Aziz? We don’t see you in the shop. You don’t deliver milk.’
Aziz looked at him severely and growled, ‘Since when have you made it your business to be on my trail? Are you a secret agent or a mole? I might as well inform you, we have decided to stop home delivery to infidels.’
This unprovoked hostility from a delivery man shook Kakaji to the core. Aziz and his family had supplied milk to generations of Gurtoos. What had changed suddenly to overturn a genial relationship? Aziz and Nalicha were never close friends. What had brought them together? Possibly, Nalicha was in it, and Aziz too; and their families knew.
Kakaji left without buying cheese from the shop. He was thoroughly shaken. The incident stirred a serious debate within the family. If people as dependable as the dairyman’s family turn hostile for no reason whatsoever, how could one trust others? If Nalicha said things were going to be terrible, it would be foolish to dismiss it as hyperbole. Yet the incident didn’t seem serious enough to change their decision to stay put.
But events soon took a dangerous turn. Within days of the encounter with Aziz and Nalicha, a Pandit youth of the neighbourhood¸ Ashok Tiku, was gunned down in full view of people. Nalicha’s name floated in whispers, but fear had paralysed everyone and none dared to speak in the open about the murder. Kakaji would not believe that Nalicha was capable of this heinous crime.
A spate of killings of Pandits from different parts of the city followed. Nalicha’s name came up every time. Kakaji still refused to believe that his classmate had transformed into a fiend. The events caused a lot of torment in the Gurtoos. They continued to debate if they should leave or stay back but remained mired in indecision.
Room in our Hearts and Other Stories Page 2