The sudden revival of the drums brought him out of his reverie. He looked around, taking in the riot of colours and people, as the sights swam back into focus – having been pulled back from his far-away thoughts. He’d always wanted to visit the temple at Vadakkanthara, Palakkad. He wasn’t sure why he’d finally chosen to visit now, when the crowds were at their peak for the festival, but the thought of visiting had always been there.
She couldn’t quite figure out why she’d agreed to go to the temple with her aunt. Of course, the chariots and festivities were one of a kind at the Vadakkanthara temple, but that was something she had witnessed several times before. The reluctant adult in her wasn’t expecting to discover anything new now. While she had enjoyed the bustle of the festival as a young child, she wasn’t sure about how she felt now. The crowds seemed tedious, after a point. She would have done better to stay at home, reading under the cool shade of her favourite mango tree in the courtyard at home. Yet she had made the effort to change, and come down. Why? Even as her aunt had insisted, she was already thinking of excuses to not go. And then she was handed a bag – one in which Paatti had stashed away a few of her old, traditional clothes that she had left behind when she went back to her parents and the city. A shiny pattu pavadai from several years ago. A simple saree that Paatti had always said she looked angelic in. Of course, she’d say that – she had gotten it for her to begin with. She sighed in exasperation – what would she not give, to be able to have her help drape it once again, and having made the necessary adjustments, have her stand back and appreciatively admire her grandchild, showering her with smiles!
He’d pulled on a grey shirt – one of many he had, and a mundu, as he left for the temple. There was no question of denims given the heat and humidity, and shorts somehow didn’t seem appropriate. Of course, he enjoyed sporting a mundu whenever he could. To him, it went beyond just being a practical and comfortable garment – it was an undeniable part of an expression of his identity. More so, when he was in Kerala, establishing a sense of belonging and pride. The grey too, seemed a reflection of his views on the world – he had undertaken the journey from bright colours to the sagacity of black and white, and had eventually found his way to the inevitable complexity of grey. Grey is where everything in life found a home, at one point or another. The crowds, the temple setting, the flowers, the cultural immersion – it was starting to get a little overwhelming for him. He wondered whether he’d made a mistake to finally come here while the chariot festival was in progress. Of course, he could have visited the temple another time, when it would be calm, and the crowds would be non-existent. But what was it that had prompted him to extend his stay at Pakakkad by another day, and visit the temple today, of all days?! This was the first time he was here at the temple, and despite having caught it in all its pomp and glory, he found his mind wandering. There was something about all the elements that were coming together – the sudden wave of culture and context that had washed over him, that was making him a little unsettled. ‘Aligning of the stars’, she’d have called it – he thought with a smile. But then why were such thoughts finding their way to his mind today? There was so much else to immerse oneself in.
Despite her best efforts to focus on the music from the temple that was making its way to her in waves, she found her thoughts being dragged back to him. They had often spoken about Palakkad – the agrahaaram, the searing heat of summer, the temples, soul food, people and home. As though in response to her errant thought, her eyes settled upon a distant figure in a grey shirt near the temple gates. She smiled as she chided herself, for letting her brain flit from one possibility to the next so quickly. Grey – that’s what he’d wear, of course. The solitary dab of grey in the sea of otherwise bright and boisterous colours. She could relate to how he identified with grey and didn’t feel the need for more now – much like she could relate to most things about him. She idly wondered if he still felt the same way, knowing that is how it remained, each time they met. There was a strange sense of comfort and reassurance in establishing that connect over and over again. In knowing that it was always there, like a solid presence. She narrowed her gaze as she focused on the grey shirt from afar once again. Was there a smattering of grey in his hair as his hand came up to run through it? More or less the same slant of shoulder from this distance, she told herself – her amusement building up with each such comparison she made. What would he look like, now? She shook her head, taking a moment to chuckle to herself – he’d always told her how he’d go back to being a nervous teenager when around her, but she’d never let on that she often felt the same too. She wouldn’t admit to that, ever! But then why was that familiar flutter rising in her heart now, of all the strange things that could happen?! She lowered her gaze to her feet, raising a questioning eyebrow to herself, as a curtain of her hair settled over her eyes. Why was her mind insisting on playing tricks now?
Drifting away from the crowds, he walked over to a Peepal tree that graced a corner of the temple compound. Branches spread benevolently in every direction, it had a silently dignified presence – strong, yet sensitive. Moving a few carelessly discarded plastic bottles to the side, he settled down on the plinth under the tree, letting the calm of the canopy settle over him. A small sigh of wonder escaped his lips as he surveyed the explosion of colour around him. The bright red, green and yellow of the halwa and the sweetmeats being sold; the myriad hues of pattu – be it sarees or pavadais; colourful balloons, toys, sunglasses, cheap flowers as well as leaves that were used in profusion for decoration; the tinsel and electric colours of the streamers, plastic decorations; and of course, LED lights lining every corner – which were switched off as of now since it was still light – but he was sure, they would shine in every possible hue one could think of, once darkness set in. There wasn’t a direction that one could look in, without being assaulted by a barrage of colours. So many colours, he thought with a smile – more than she could ever manage in a kolam! The corners of his mouth cracked into a rare smile as he cast his mind back to the time she’d send pictures of her art – it could be a kolam she’d tried out, an illustration for a poem, or even sketches – there was a sketch of the walking father-son duo that she had once sent, which he remembered so vividly . Art took effort, as he knew too well – and it was a special feeling each time she shared her efforts with him. Their shared world grew a little bigger each time that happened. The fact that she felt comfortable enough to share her work with him, irrespective of how it’d turned out – meant a lot. Baring one’s soul to another was a very brave act in his mind – one he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to do. And he had immense regard for anyone who he saw, who could.
As she walked around the temple compound, the excitement of the festivities took over her senses – the bustle of the constantly moving crowd that welcomed the revelry; the traditional decorations jostling for prominence among the more populous modern plastic adornments; the loud music interspersed with announcements and program updates from the temple committee; greetings, inquiries, reprimands, loud squeals as well as appeals – from neighbours, friends, hassled parents, happy children and hawkers; myriad smells of flowers, fried snacks, sweets and raw mangoes – all of which were on offer for the boisterous temple-goers that day; and of course colours – every hue and shade one could think of, ever. She smiled as she let the confusion of the surroundings wash over her. As she admired the temple and its gopuram, her eyes settled on the canopy of a Peepal tree at the far end of the compound, which was visible over the red tiles of the roof of the temple. The translucent green of the newer leaves stood out nicely against the deep red of the freshly painted roof tiles. A green he’d have admired, she thought with a smile. He never missed a chance to talk about the varied hues of green that nature exhibited in the form of leaves and greenery. He’d probably make a beeline for the tree had he been here, she thought – an oasis of calm amidst the cacophony of celebration.
He made himself comfortable under the tree, wondering how a lot of what he could see and sense seemed oddly familiar, despite never having been to this temple earlier. Watching the multitudes milling around the temple complex now, he smiled as he saw friends, cousins, neighbours, townsfolk and tourists – everybody coming together, setting aside their worries and their worlds for a while. He found it quite inspiring how such community events generated such collective goodness, and how villages somehow managed to retain such spirit, despite the deteriorating influences of modern day technology and urban life. She always had a tale from her village to tell him about, whenever they met. Whether it was about how she found solace while on a big swing at Paatti’s house, tales of the Mallika tree in the backyard that was perennially teeming with insects, or the multiple trips to the temple nearby. Each story opened up a little more of her to him, a tiny piece of soul he hadn’t been privy to, earlier. Theirs was a world pieced together with stories. It had been a long while since they’d met. ‘Life happens’, as they’d keep saying, and of course, it was seldom that their worlds would ‘align’. The intensity could never be clouded though – not by time, distance, or even silence. Of course, that’s why the familiarity – he suddenly realized. Koduvayur, Pallasana, Elavancherry – all these were towns that weren’t too far from where he was now. She’d spoken about this little corner of Kerala so often, that he sometimes felt he’d been here already, despite having never had.
As she stood amidst the bustle in the temple compound, the forlorn horn of a train passing by in the distance broke into her thoughts. She quite liked trains. And she’d found it amusing to see how he transformed into a little boy when at the railway station, gazing in amazement at the engines and the trains. She thought back to the time they’d taken a train together. She’d surprised herself, when she readily agreed to his suggestion of traveling by train. Not travel – he’d called it a journey. A journey was an experience beyond the plain teleporting of travel or transport, he claimed – and that is exactly what the trip had turned out to be. She still had an old picture of him from that day – one she had taken as he stood on the platform engrossed, waiting and watching for trains. Though they’d only spent a few hours on the train that day, they had shared a lifetime’s worth of stories – some said, some unsaid. The wind had been a constant companion – a messenger that helped them trade stories amidst fluttering hair, shirt and dress, as they stood by the door in silence. She’d caught admiring glances from other elderly passengers, as they both stood by the door. ‘What were they thinking then?’, she wondered now. There was the odd smile that they’d exchange, as conversations progressed sparingly amidst the clanking of rails and the rhythmic chugging of the coaches.
It wouldn’t do to sit under the tree and drown in nostalgia, he told himself- though that seemed the easiest thing to do then. The sound of the passing train took him back to railway stations, train trips, and the time they had gone on a train journey together. There were alternatives of course, but they had both wanted to travel by train. It had been a calming trip – trains always had that effect on him. From waiting for the train at the platform to watching trains and engines trundle by, to traveling in an ordinary second class coach with people from all walks of life crowding around – they had witnessed varied dramatic hues of life in all its glory. There had been some music, much talking and several shared moments of silence. He vividly remembered standing by the door of the coach with her, watching the green landscape whizz past. Neither felt the need to say anything – the wind on their faces trading stories between them. They had stood in silent companionship, staring at the vistas of green and the railway tracks that ran beside the train. She had once remarked that their lives would be like those tracks – stretching out together in parallel, never meeting, yet staying alongside, all the way to a never-ending horizon. ‘Always alongside’, she’d told him with a laugh – a statement he found oddly reassuring.
As she took in the sights and the sounds of her immediate surroundings, she seemed to drift back several years. She used to love attending temple festivities with her Paatti then. They’d leave home after an early evening snack, so as to be at the temple in time for the evening pooja. A leisurely 10 minute stroll to the temple – would take over 20 minutes as Paatti would have to stop and talk to everyone. Paatti was as old as the village, she liked to think – and just like she knew everyone, they all knew (and loved) her too. There would be quick inquiries of a grandchild in the US, a short discussion about an ailment that was taking time to settle, a cursory look at the skies as the rains were referenced, a loving glance at a sapling as gardens were discussed, and a conspiratorial shake of the head as the latest gossip was traded. She’d be present as all this unfolded, but lost in her own magical world – that of a curious 7 year old – admiring the sturdy trees and the rich green leaves, picking up the odd stone, or becoming completely absorbed in following some colourful insect she chanced upon. Paatti often had to double back, looking for her. “Kanna, come along now – or you’ll miss the payasam from the temple”, she’d warn her. The little 7 year old would remain unfazed though, knowing full well that the priest at the temple would set aside some of the offering for one of his favourite visitors. Her twinkling eyes, impish grin and tousled hair ensured she never ran out of naughty charm as well as admirers and friends as a little girl. She chuckled to herself as she thought of how he’d remarked exactly the same thing to her 25 year old self, several years later. “And why would I ever turn this off?!” had been the challenge she threw back at him, flashing some of the same charm with an impish grin and a flick of her hair. He had silently acknowledged, a slow grin spreading across his face.
He had skipped lunch, not being too hungry – thanks to a filling breakfast at a tiny food stall next to the hotel. The hotel had breakfast on offer too, but the sight of bread and cornflakes didn’t really appeal to him. He had stepped out, walking to the little food stall across the road. There were succulent idlis and crunchy vadas on offer, to an accompaniment of chutneys – both coconut as well as onion. ‘This seems about right’, he thought to himself – as he tucked into the fluffy idlis and washed them down with piping hot filter kaapi. Lunch had seemed quite unnecessary as he left for the temple late in the afternoon. It was early evening now though, and his stomach felt quite differently about it. He got up from under the tree, and made his way in the general direction of the food stalls, letting his nose guide him. A few maamis had set up some food stalls along with the menfolk, and he stood by and watched appreciatively as they went about their business. The food was fresh of course, and he nodded admiringly to see how they ensured that the stall and the surroundings remained clean, despite the press of the growing crowd. He glanced at the variety of dishes on offer, wondering what he’d sample. The sizzling dosas looked inviting, and he could sense the crispiness of the vada without even touching it. Of course, he would end up trying most of it, he thought with a wide grin – the kind that could wet ones ears, stretching from ear-to-ear! It was then that his gaze came to rest on the paniyarams. ‘Little dollops of heaven’, she had called them.
She walked around the temple complex, marveling at the stalls that had popped up, and their colourful wares. She recognized several toys she had played with as a child – trinkets she had often adamantly gotten Paatti to buy for her. Those little pieces of ribbon and glass that then meant the world to her were still on display, but her gaze viewed them differently now. There were other little girls vying for them now, demanding attention from parents who were otherwise occupied. She fished out her phone to capture a few quick pictures – reminders of memories that were now starting to fade. The sizzle of batter and the smells of food caught her attention, and she wandered on to the food stalls to the welcome sight of fresh batter being ladled out generously. Her stomach grumbled a little as her senses awakened to the proximity of food. She shouldn’t have skimped on lunch, she thought woefully. Her gaze traveled over the dosas, the fresh chutney in serving bowls, roving further until it came to rest on a serving of divine looking paniyarams. Little dollops of heaven doing their lithe dance of joy, as they turned golden-brown in the well oiled pan. She sighed longingly – she would have to get a few of these before she left. As she reluctantly turned away from the tantalizing smells and sights, she thought she noticed grey shirt in the periphery of her vision, heading toward the stall. ‘Who wouldn’t?!’, she told herself with a smile as she walked away back towards the temple.
He wandered over to the front of the temple, as the drums and music assaulted him from all sides, filling any gaps in his thoughts. His IV, she’d dubbed the music – which he knew to be true. Music could transport, transform or entrap him – any day, any time of the day. He listened to the rhythms as the drums gathered pace, shifting his weight from one foot to another. The music was turned down a little as the priests started chanting mantras, preparing to bring the deity outside the temple for the ritual procession. The skies had started to gather grey clouds – he’d heard the locals discuss how there would always be a shower of rain when the Goddess set out in procession. As the priests arrived with the deity, the air was filled with a soulful rendition of ‘Seeta kalyana.. Vaibhogame..’ The corners of his mouth curled up in bemusement as he involuntarily looked up at the loudspeaker on the roof of the temple. His eyes took on a faraway look as the strains of the song descended on him from the old loudspeaker, accompanied by the reverential chorus of several maamis standing around him. The priests chanted louder as they lifted the idol of the Goddess onto the chariot. The sound of a conch rent the air, proclaiming the beginning of the procession. A gathering rumble of thunder signaled approaching rains, even as a flash of lightning illuminated the skies. The crowds pressed around him, getting on their toes to get a better view, their hands raised in devotion. The song continued to play in the background, an anchor to the proceedings. Why was he suddenly being encircled with so many memories from so long ago – he wondered.
She knew all the stories about the temple. Paatti had told her every single story that there was, about the Goddess. She had been watching the priests as they readied the ceremonial chariot for the procession in the evening. There were still people fussing over the decorations, as a bevy of priests went into the temple, chanting mantras. They soon reappeared carrying the idol of the Goddess, and their chanting grew louder. There was a sudden change in the atmosphere around her, as the crowds got on to their toes, raising their hands in supplication. The suddenness of the song from the loudspeakers startled her as it started, and most maamis around her automatically joined in, singing in chorus. “Seeta kalyana… vaibhogame…”. She involuntarily gazed up at the old loudspeaker on the roof of the temple, from which the notes of the song seemed to descend on her. Staring at it for a while, she slowly lowered her gaze, unconsciously scanning the crowd in front of her, letting her mind wander as the strains of the song were swept past her by the wind. A song from a long, long time ago. The sound of a conch drew her gaze in the direction of the chariot, from where it seemed to issue. The chariot is not what she saw though, even as she looked in that direction. Grey shirt swam into focus as he filled her line of sight. He was facing away from her, his head cocked to a side, seemingly looking up at the loudspeaker. Of course, that is what he would have done if he heard the song – she thought. She took a hesitant step forward, her pulse quickening. It had been several years since they’d met now, and it was likely her mind was playing tricks on her – but why was she being presented with so many coincidences all at once?
She felt the wind tug at her, sweeping up twirling strands of her hair as she fixed her gaze on Grey shirt. An odd sense of familiarity seemed to envelope her, as the sounds of the drums and the song came together. A gradual rumble of thunder ensued as she looked on at him, watching him shift his weight from one foot to another. He was looking away from her, towards the priests and the chariot – much like everyone else. Something about all of it felt strange, despite her best efforts at trying to push the feeling aside.
So many years apart – yet, what were the chances? She took a slow step forward, one half of her willing him to turn around, while the other half chided herself for being silly. The crowd was awash with devotion, and they pressed her forward even as they continued chanting loudly. She took another hesitant step ahead, her mind reeling with probability, improbability, certainty and uncertainty.
A fine drizzle had begun to grace the procession. Even as the crowds surged ahead, he felt an undeniable need to look elsewhere – as though someone were calling out to him, tugging at his collar from behind. As the sounds of the conch melted into the fading rumble of thunder, he took a deliberate, deep breath, and slowly turned around.
Author’s note : For fiction is sometimes stranger than fact.
Out of breath 