From the day I turned 55 (which I felt was the right age to make the trip) I had planned a pilgrimage to the abode of Lord Ayyappa, at the hill shrine atop Sabarimala. Five years passed and still I was not able to fulfil my vow. Each year some obstacle or the other appeared out of the blue and I was forced to postpone my trip. My husband exclaimed that they were man-made obstacles; there was no point blaming destiny. This was a barb directed at me. My reply was, “the Lord himself decides the right time for his devotees to seek his blessings and it’s not the other way round. I feel my time has just not arrived.”
Then, without any warning “D-Day” arrived after a five-year wait. The group comprised five members, all relatives, all of them much younger to me. My family bombarded me with all sorts of suggestions: get your heart checked, your lungs, your blood pressure, your wobbly legs, so on and so forth. But there was no time to do any of these tests before departure. The rest of them had planned their trip much earlier and I joined them only the previous day. Come what may, I decided to take the plunge. Though not the religious type who keeps chanting slokas all through the day, I do pray to god daily but in simple prose. Even as a student I had found it hard to learn ‘by-heart’ my lessons let alone the difficult vedic mantras. After all, whatever medium you choose to pray, “the good Lord hears them all”.
And back to the trip. We arrived at the foot of the hill at 4 a.m. and without wasting any time started our climb. My fellow-pilgrims had no difficulty in trekking up the stony path. They walked in front of me chanting the name of Ayyappa in chorus. One of them, the seniormost, kept me company. After a few minutes of trekking up the hill, suddenly I felt my knees go weak and my legs refused to budge an inch further. After a few minutes I found myself lagging far behind with my companion in tow. My throat turned dry and my legs felt like two wooden stumps and refused to move. I had to hold on to each of my legs and place them on the steps one after the other.
In the meantime my companion kept offering orange pods to suck to moisten my throat. On and off he would allow me a few seconds to rest – but mind you only for a few seconds. According to him if he allowed me more time to rest then I would find my remaining time more difficult. The second time I rested, a hand suddenly appeared before me, holding a small white packet. It was a fellow pilgrim from Andhra Pradesh. Seeing my plight he asked me to swallow the powder. I hesitated to accept it, but my companion assured me it was glucose powder. I thanked the fellow pilgrim and swallowed the whole lot in one go, hoping it would supply me with all the energy I would need for the rest of the climb. By this time I felt my companion must have cursed me in the heart of hearts for having decided to take me along but then since curses are banned on a holy trip, I consoled myself that he must have spared me from them.
The rest of the group had already reached the top and were frantically waving to us to join them. As I “hemmed and hawed” my way to the top, they received me as though I had scaled Mt Everest. And my poor companion, may god bless him, did not utter a single word about the ordeal he had to go through to keep me company; nor did he divulge the pathetic plight of my trip up the hill. All he did was to just smile. Once I reached the top all my weariness suddenly disappeared and I felt fit as a fiddle. And as I stood before the Lord I was tongue-tied, but I was convinced that my silent prayer would convey all that I had intended to submit.
The downward journey was not as difficult as the climb. Maybe the Lord had forgiven me a part of my sins. Anyway I was thankful I got back home in one piece. When I related my ordeal to my family, my daughter remarked: “I have come across so many people who had gone to the hill shrine year after year but not one of them had ever complained that the climb was extremely difficult.” My husband, a man of few words, made this cryptic comment: “The Lord makes the climb a path of thorns for the sinners and for the others a bed of roses”. What a welcome home! I was branded a sinner by my family.
Suddenly I remembered what my friend had once remarked that in the olden days among those who went on a pilgrimage to the holy city of Banaras (Kasi) only a few returned home. And those who did return, gave up something to which they were addicted to as a thanksgiving offer to the Lord for their safe return.
This set me thinking. I decided I would give up my craze to dye my hair, which otherwise I would have never given up even they had offered me the crown jewels. So from that day I decide to grow old “greyfully!”.
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