It was the winter of 2015 and my sister and I were performing a circumambulation ( parikrama ) around a certain holy shrine. I am intentionally choosing to keep the name of the place under wraps lest the aggressive worshippers (as oxymoronic as it sounds) take offence.
Personally, my faith in organised religion lies nestled between dissent and denial, but I did not want my conviction in the non-existence of the non-visible to challenge my sister’s unwavering belief. So we had decided to brave the cold and visit a couple of temples before the winter vacations ended.
As we finished the final stretch, I heard someone walking behind us, muttering a barrage of incessant mantras . Another ardent devotee, I presumed, without giving it much thought. When we finally stopped, the man behind us came forward, extended his hand and said, dakshina ?
As per my limited knowledge of the Indian structure of religious appeasement, a dakshina entailed a fee or a gift which must be given, of your own free will, to the person who performs a puja for your benefit. The said benefit could be spiritual or material. Since we hadn’t exactly commissioned his services, I asked him why we should pay him.
“I walked behind you and prayed the Almighty to give you whatever you want”, he stated in a casual tone. “But we didn’t ask you to,” I chipped in.
“So what?” he countered, “A priest does his duty whether you ask him to do it or not.” Assuming that this argument was bound to escalate into needless friction, we started to walk away but the man didn’t relent.
“God will be displeased if you don’t pay me,” he said, sounding belligerent. “Nothing that you’ve prayed for will ever fructify.” “Why?” I responded without turning, “Does he not listen to anyone but you?” He answered, “He listens only to us.”
His statement made me realise that the dream of a casteless India was not going to be fulfilled anytime soon. No forces of globalisation could open the windows of a mind which had been caged by an entrenched sense of privilege. Economic prowess might lend wind to our sails but societal attitudes would always be our anchor.
We visited a few other shrines across central India and a pattern began to emerge. God was apparently under arrest. The temples and their premises had been appropriated by a class of priests who served as a conduit between the deity and the devotee. Faith had become a transaction. If you had the money, divine blessings were all yours to corner.
A short-cut
Somewhere in Madhya Pradesh we were asked if we wanted to stand in the queue and kill hours, or pay a crisp note of the now demonetised currency to get into a ‘VIP lane’. This line moved quicker, was given more time to bow in front of the Lord and was provided with a rare opportunity to pay dakshina directly to the head priest. Of course the loss would be of the temple trust, but who cared! After all, paying the God’s messenger visible in the sanctum sanctorum was way better than donating to an unknown and invisible administrative entity.
I wondered if the modern argumentative religion had any place for those who simply wanted to close their eyes, concentrate their mind and connect with the universe in silence, without seeking divine validation.
I didn’t come back from the trip with memories worth cherishing. The unstructured chaos had pushed me into a pit and no Petyr Baelish could turn it into a ladder. Nevertheless, a year later my sister convinced me to accompany her and her fiancé to the temple of a goddess in Kolkata.
There was nothing different here, except that the VIP lanes were more diversified and were divided into Rs. 200, 500 and 1,000 categories. As we headed out, another man began following us.
“Money, give me money”, he said looking at my sister and her betrothed, “Goddess will bless you with a son”. The irony was astounding. “Why not a daughter?” I asked, “You’re praying to a goddess”.
“Of what use is a daughter?” he asked. “Too much trouble to keep them safe.”
These visits served as a lesson to me. Somewhere between the need to find a god and claim undying fidelity to her, we have forgotten to grow up.
akilbakhshi@yahoo.co.in
