I stand forlorn on a hill overlooking the valley, crumbling with the winds of time.
There was a time when I was revered and famous. My tapering ceilings are decorated with amorous apsaras, posing gods. Statues of bellowing elephants guarded my doors.
Hardly anyone ever comes to me anymore. But there was a time when sounds of bells and prayers filled the air. Kings and courtiers, peasants and commoners all came to me to seek blessings of the Gods that lived in my center clad in the finest of linen and authentic gold jewelry.
I can still hear the mantras the priests used to chant to praise the gods.
The songs of gratitude still echo in my ears and so do the grievances of the worshipers and wails of the sufferers.
I have witnessed childless women praying for sons, unmarried young women seeking worthy husbands, young men seeking blessing for success in their endeavors, and older men asking for prosperity and peace.
Today, I have nothing better to do in my twilight years but reminisce about my devotees and wonder what happened to them. Their stories keep me wondering.
Many experiences have left an everlasting mark on my mind. I can entertain you with a different story every day if you want me to. I remember them as if they had happened yesterday.
This one is about a young girl of marriageable age in the thirteen century.
I was young too, then. Recently built. I was still getting to know my role in society. Three priests handled my upkeep, taking turns in doing prayers and building my reputation. An army of devotees kept the premises clean and collected offerings.
Her name was Champa. She came with her parents, carrying a silver platter full of offerings to ask for a worthy husband.
She was fresh, like the jasmine flowers she wore in her hair. Fair-skinned, short-stature, her sensual body was hard to forget. Maybe that is why she is stuck in my memory.
Gods probably also noticed her because they granted her a wish.
Less than a year later, she came back. This time with her husband, the only son of a personage. The parents accompanied the young couple, too. They did puja and asked for offspring to complete their happiness.
There must be something lacking in their prayers. This time, gods didn’t respond to their prayers for many years.
It came to the point that the young man’s family started pressuring him to seek another wife. “The girl might be barren,” was their argument. But the young man was hopelessly in love with the girl and wouldn’t hear of any alternative.
The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with the couple. “This is something in God’s hands” was all they could offer.
A few more years passed.
Now the family was getting anxious. If the couple didn’t produce a son soon, the family name would vanish.
The boy’s parents consulted the elders, the astrologers, and priests. Finally, a solution was agreed upon without the knowledge of the couple.
Next month, on a full moon night, the girl and her mother-in-law came to me with many offerings of fruits, flowers, and coconuts. The temple was kept open late that night just for them.
All three priests were present. Led by the head priest, they performed a special puja. Champa was asked to do parikarma twenty-one times around the deities, reciting the mantra the head priest gave her.
While she was still doing the parikarma, the mother-in-law left the temple. Fully immersed in the puja, Champa didn’t even notice her departure. When she finished the final round and stood in front of the deities, hands folded, head bent, and eyes closed. Suddenly, everything went still. I drew in my breath.
Champa probably felt the stillness, too.
She opened her eyes. The head priest stood a few feet from her, leering at her. She didn’t like what she saw. Looking around for her mother-in-law, she backed towards the door. When she couldn’t find her, she ran. My carved gilded doors, which should remain open at all times, were closed.
I knew what I was about to witness but couldn’t do anything to prevent it.
Champa banged and banged. Even I couldn’t open my door. She begged when the head priest tore the sari from her body. He laughed at her, begging through his stained teeth. She ran back inside the temple, this time to plead with the gods. It was time for me to discover that those idols whom the entire world came to get their wishes granted were nothing more than stone statues. The head priest took her right there on the altar, followed by the other two.
My whole being shuddered with disgust. That night, I learned the meaning of sanctity. A place can’t be sacred if the hearts are not. Ashamed at myself, more than anyone else, I figured out what my role would be—the one of a mute observer.
A few months later, Champa came back with her husband and his family. A baby in her arms. She followed the priest’s instructions to get her son blessed.
But she didn’t bow her head, either in front of the priest or the gods.
If you are ever in the South of India, come and visit me.
I stand forlorn on a hill overlooking the valley, crumbling with the winds of time.
There was a time when I was revered and famous. My tapering ceilings are decorated with amorous apsaras, posing gods. Statues of bellowing elephants guarded my doors.
Hardly anyone ever comes to me anymore. But there was a time when sounds of bells and prayers filled the air. Kings and courtiers, peasants and commoners all came to me to seek blessings of the Gods that lived in my center clad in the finest of linen and authentic gold jewelry.
I can still hear the mantras the priests used to chant to praise the gods.
The songs of gratitude still echo in my ears and so do the grievances of the worshipers and wails of the sufferers.
I have witnessed childless women praying for sons, unmarried young women seeking worthy husbands, young men seeking blessing for success in their endeavors, and older men asking for prosperity and peace.
Today, I have nothing better to do in my twilight years but reminisce about my devotees and wonder what happened to them. Their stories keep me wondering.
Many experiences have left an everlasting mark on my mind. I can entertain you with a different story every day if you want me to. I remember them as if they had happened yesterday.
This one is about a young girl of marriageable age in the thirteen century.
I was young too, then. Recently built. I was still getting to know my role in society. Three priests handled my upkeep, taking turns in doing prayers and building my reputation. An army of devotees kept the premises clean and collected offerings.
Her name was Champa. She came with her parents, carrying a silver platter full of offerings to ask for a worthy husband.
She was fresh, like the jasmine flowers she wore in her hair. Fair-skinned, short-stature, her sensual body was hard to forget. Maybe that is why she is stuck in my memory.
Gods probably also noticed her because they granted her a wish.
Less than a year later, she came back. This time with her husband, the only son of a personage. The parents accompanied the young couple, too. They did puja and asked for offspring to complete their happiness.
There must be something lacking in their prayers. This time, gods didn’t respond to their prayers for many years.
It came to the point that the young man’s family started pressuring him to seek another wife. “The girl might be barren,” was their argument. But the young man was hopelessly in love with the girl and wouldn’t hear of any alternative.
The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with the couple. “This is something in God’s hands” was all they could offer.
A few more years passed.
Now the family was getting anxious. If the couple didn’t produce a son soon, the family name would vanish.
The boy’s parents consulted the elders, the astrologers, and priests. Finally, a solution was agreed upon without the knowledge of the couple.
Next month, on a full moon night, the girl and her mother-in-law came to me with many offerings of fruits, flowers, and coconuts. The temple was kept open late that night just for them.
All three priests were present. Led by the head priest, they performed a special puja. Champa was asked to do parikarma twenty-one times around the deities, reciting the mantra the head priest gave her.
While she was still doing the parikarma, the mother-in-law left the temple. Fully immersed in the puja, Champa didn’t even notice her departure. When she finished the final round and stood in front of the deities, hands folded, head bent, and eyes closed. Suddenly, everything went still. I drew in my breath.
Champa probably felt the stillness, too.
She opened her eyes. The head priest stood a few feet from her, leering at her. She didn’t like what she saw. Looking around for her mother-in-law, she backed towards the door. When she couldn’t find her, she ran. My carved gilded doors, which should remain open at all times, were closed.
I knew what I was about to witness but couldn’t do anything to prevent it.
Champa banged and banged. Even I couldn’t open my door. She begged when the head priest tore the sari from her body. He laughed at her, begging through his stained teeth. She ran back inside the temple, this time to plead with the gods. It was time for me to discover that those idols whom the entire world came to get their wishes granted were nothing more than stone statues. The head priest took her right there on the altar, followed by the other two.
My whole being shuddered with disgust. That night, I learned the meaning of sanctity. A place can’t be sacred if the hearts are not. Ashamed at myself, more than anyone else, I figured out what my role would be—the one of a mute observer.
A few months later, Champa came back with her husband and his family. A baby in her arms. She followed the priest’s instructions to get her son blessed.
But she didn’t bow her head, either in front of the priest or the gods.
© Neera Mahajan, December 2014
On alternate Wednesdays, I publish a short story. This is in addition to my Friday letters. I want to get back to fiction writing for some time now but non-fiction has been taking all my time. A fortnightly commitment to post a story seems like a good idea to get me started.
A beautiful and sensitively written story