Knocking On Heavens Door
I make a mental note to squeeze in a Kovalam bath in the four days that Im here. But my main reason for returning is not to revisit tourist traps. Like so many other prodigal sons of the state, Im here to make an ascent onto the holy shrine Sabarimala. This will be my fourth ascent, preceded by 41 days of abstinence. Its the yearning to get in touch with my spiritual side that keeps me coming back, the yearning to expend sheer effort, expecting nothing in return.
Except, perhaps, to be rained on. The five years I spent in Trivandrum are replete with memories of how the heavens would open up with no warning at all there was literally water round the year, one of the things you look back on fondly when youve been transplanted to arid Delhi. The first of June marked the official start of the rains, synchronised perfectly with the opening of schools across the state. Little children gleefully muddied their socks and skirts in muddy-red waters in order to let mummy test out her newly acquired Videocon washing machine.
The rains come back with renewed force in early November my railway booking agent efficiently labelled this the return monsoon for easy reference. Then, around the time thousands in different parts of India prepared to carry out the annual washing-of-the years-crimes in the holy waters of the Pamba, the rains considerately recede.
Its best to pay obeisance with a group hire an Ambassador perhaps, which costs just about Rs 3,000 to do the round trip from Trivandrum. Or do it in less comfort but with more companionship in a bus. My guruswami was not in town. Hes the one who shows you the righteous path as opposed to the more well-trodden way of all flesh, but in his absence Im going to have to make this pilgrimage alone.
I book a seat on the Varma Transport bus, which offers a round trip to Sabarimala in reasonable comfort. Theres PVC-cushioned seating, no video, no audio, just peace and friendly fellow Swamis sitting in as representatives of the Almighty, as all those who are bound for Sabarimala are addressed in this fondly Marxist land. The bus leaves Trivandrum at nine pm after we break a traditional coconut at the Pazhavangady Ganapathy temple a truly sankatvimochana sarbajanin pratishthan.
The skilful steering takes us through countryside so beautiful that I wish night could be banished so we wouldnt have to stop looking. At midnight we stop at Kotarakara at the usual Potti (brahmin, supposedly) restaurant for hot tea, where my fellow Swamis downed paper roast dosais by the dozen. Since yesterday afternoon, Ive been on a liquid diet, best for the steep four kilometre ascent on the shrine.
Three am, and were on the banks of the holy Pamba. Its nowhere as dirty as made out in a recent report in the self-righteous The Hindu. And microorganisms in water can be found even at the Copper Stop or Silver Chimney in you know where. The state has deployed policemen at 100-foot intervals, to prevent pilgrims from using the place as an open-air toilet, as they are wont to. The unclean are relatively few among the brethren, but their habits are stoically accepted in exchange for the large sums of money that they pour on to the conveyor belts of the shrine. This year the temple management has banned polythene bags a fillip for the ravaged ecology of the surrounding forests.
Three am also means a cold, non-Liril rejuvenating bath in the freezing Pamba. Teeth chattering, I pretend that Im not aware of anything except an Overwhelming All Seeing Presence. I break the coconut at the foot of Sabarimala and light the clump of incense-sticks at the Ganapathy shrine at the bottom.
The first 200 metres are pleasant. The slopes gradual, comfortable, your path to God paved by orderly cement concrete steps. Then the real world comes roaring back. Rocks left as jagged as God made them, marked faintly by crude upward pathways fashioned by millions of footsteps. Every pebble has me calling out to my Protector, thanks to the bare feet, bare as my soul, before Him. After a five-minute rest at the three km point, I reach the hilltop at 4.45 am. Its early December so the crowds are modest. I wait for only two hours before proceeding to the sanctum sanctorum.
Each swami stands there in the traditional black mundu (dhoti) and thorthu (towel), carrying the eerumudi (the burden of his worldly existence plus the offering of raw rice and sandalwood for the OASP) on his head. The number of saffron BJP mundus have increased over the years.
The first year I climbed the hill, I was attired in a virgin white mundu as befits a kanni swami an initiate. Now Im familiar with the process, I can climb up the 18 ghee-bathed, gold-plated steps with ease. Helpful policemen will tug you up if the burden of your worldly shenanigans is dragging you down as you come face-to-face with your Creator.
By 6.45 am I am there. Ive reached in time for the neyya-bhishekham, the traditional anointing of the deity with ghee donated by the devotees. Incense and piety fill the air. I do the circumambulation, have a bath in the bhasmakund the temple tank. In my wet mundu, the gusts of mountain air raising goose pimples, I do the shayanapradarshina prostrate myself and circle the sanctum sanctorum in that position. Im praying, wishing the world well. The shayanapradarshina carries a bonus with it the melshanti (head priest) himself showers vibhuti on you from inside the sanctum sanctorum.
Its broad daylight, and Im at peace with the world. Hope it lasts till next years trip comes round. After an hours contented trudging downhill Im back at the Pamba. One dip in the sparkling waters and I come up having sloughed off the physical fatigue of this eight-kilometre annual trek. Back in the bus, we catch a glimpse of the Pamba at the Upper Reach. Blue mountains on the horizon, the perfume of cardamoms at the roadside tea stall and well-earned masala dosais at the Kottarakara Pottis Chimney.
Im back at the Pazhavangadi temple, feeling better for this annual spring cleaning of the soul. Mone (son) have you been to Sabarimala or are you going there? asks a genial middle-aged woman at the bus stop. She reminds me of my mother, lost to lung cancer some 13 years ago. Yes, amma, Ive been to Sabarimala. How was it? Very satisfying. Fulfilling.
The main task accomplished, I set off to Kovalam at daybreak. I spend two hours lolling in the azure blue sea, just me and the waves, and that great Indian intoxicant, fresh coconut. Shaking sand out of my ears, I emerge to pig out on hot appams and chicken curry for breakfast.
Capt Sam Kumaran shepherds me and the other passengers out of Gods own country, back into the land of pollution and underfed, overworked begging children. In Delhis heat, they look as though theyd gladly drink water from the finger-bowls emptied into the gutters of the Copper (or is it Silver) Chimney. Back in Kerala, the last rains of the season would just have begun pattering down like a gentle benediction.