The Holy Trail

THE last thing any holy man’s habitat should remind you of is bananas. But that is exactly what happened with me.

It was an unplanned visit. There was time to kill, and what better way to kill it than with curiosity? The drive from Trivandrum airport in Kerala was uneventful. The same swaying palms, fruits perched on bicycles; I had done these roads so often that I could tell one coconut from the other.

At last, I arrived at a gateless gate. Upon entering the ashram I was surprised to find no foreigners in transparent pajamas ambling around with a glazed look in their eyes, which has somehow become mandatory in just about all the abodes of holy men and women. Instead, there were many locals squatting in almost scatological submission on the sandy floor. They definitely seemed as though they were close to their next goal.

They were. Half an hour later free lunch was served. I too was invited. Being from the big city, some of us were taken to a separate room and allowed to sit at a long plank of wood that passed for a table. Plantain leaves were put before us and thick globules of sticky rice from a straw basket were served topped with spicy rasam, a sort of peppery-watery grave for the intestines. Vegetables, curd, pickles and sweets completed the meal.

Then we were told to drop our pants.

As a concession to my gender I could retain mine, but I would have to wear a dhoti over it as it was the required uniform if you wanted to be ushered into the Guru’s presence. I gamely wrapped mine, even managing a neat lit­tle pleat.

Guruji sat in an ornate backless, armless seat with a two-foot wide low desk in front of him, the idea being that no one must touch His Holiness. One intrepid couple did a smart thing – they squeezed themselves beneath the stand to touch his feet!

We were about five of us special creatures who had been permitted to sit on the mat and watch as a line-up of devotees filed past, prostrated on the floor and made their offerings, the last one a compulsory condition for getting his blessings. I have no quarrel with this, but seeing such blind belief I did begin to wonder what these people got in return. A smile? Advice? Peace of mind? What?
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A couple had brought their infant daughter to be named. He, barely touching the child or looking at her, pronounced, “Archana”, and turned to the next person in line. It was obvious that he wanted to get over with this; I secretly hoped he genuinely believed that the darshan business was a facade.

The truth is that he was waiting for the big moment with the microphone, with the rapt audience outside and, more specifically, the five in front of him from far-off places. To be fair to him, he was not a publicity hound. We would not have heard of him but for a report about a Mexican who, hav­ing experienced his aura, found him a most enlightened human being. He probably is, but to be a guru he offers nothing new ­except for the usual “oneness of god, truth, peace and sham of science” line.

Is it worth waiting for hours in the sun? Don’t we already know that good is good? Should we merely indulge some­one only because he likes listening to his own voice? The moment we announced that we had to leave early he got an emissary to tell us that it was not possible to understand his message in such a short span of time.

I agreed. He handed me a red banana from the lot he had received. I was told it was a divine offering. No prayer, no sacred touch, only a fruit. I ate it hungrily and found bliss at the exit door.

Apparently, heaven was not quite done with me. My next stop was a temple in Thrissur several kilometers away. The purpose of the visit, however, was not pious. An acquaintance had been dumped with me because my friends did not think I was ‘proper’ enough for the small-town. The person assigned with the task of looking after my welfare for a couple of hours had no better idea. So, after discussing time management and girlfriend problems, he veered the car towards the ‘tembal’, as he pronounced it.

It was beautiful and serene, and the first time I had visited a place of worship in this light of darkness. There were spaces where I had to walk carefully and find a toehold. I had the opportunity of understanding things from the perspective of a devotee rather than getting a description about the architectural marvels from a tourist guide.

He lit an oil lamp and folded his hands. I felt like an actor onstage waiting for the cue. He then walked me around various idols; standing before each one, he would clap. I stood silently. He urged me to do the same. “That is for god to listen,” he said in all seriousness. Rather self-consciously, I clapped. It was strangely beautiful; there was clapping all around like at a musical concert. Thup, thup, thup. I could have danced all night.

Finally, we arrived at the sanctum. He took off his shirt. I asked him whether I was supposed to follow suit. He shushed me up with a, “People are listening, this is not Bombay”. Then he lay down flat on his belly, his folded hands extended towards a mute witness in stone.

That vision will haunt me forever. No sermons, no congregation, and no bananas. I, as a mere observer, was given a glimpse of divine communion even as I stood apart as a non-believer. Heaven, more than hell, is about other people.

(This was published in The Friday Times.)