BENGALURU: A few days back, I was boarding a flight from Kochi when I heard the call that strikes terror into the hearts of passengers everywhere in South India: “Swami, vazhi! (Swami, (please) give way)
Yep, it’s Sabarimala season. That time of the year which brings joy to makers of black dhotis everywhere, that time when lakhs of people from all across the country come to Kerala. I turned around to find what I expected: a bunch of people with long beards, lots of holy ash liberally sprinkled all over and each one carrying what seemed to be about 30 cans of the famous aravana payasam of Sabarimala.
It was in 2006 that I last made the mistake of agreeing to undertake the Sabarimala trek. Surprisingly, my mother didn’t have to force me too much. I of course didn’t bother with the 41 day fasting since that would have alarmed my well wishers, but I also didn’t take into consideration that I’d actually have to walk for a few endless hours.
Many people take the famous trek from Erumeli, and an equal number probably walk all the way from wherever they come. The people I was with, however, were middle-aged, well off and came in a van. We drove till the Pamba river, from where I was informed that we’d have to leg it.
The second thing that strikes you about the route is the number of people around you.
All ages, all sizes, although not all sexes most times, and of course, all the adults looking famished and dangerous, which is of course what most of them are since they’ve been off the good stuff for over a month.
The first thing, of course, is that the climb just seems to be going up and up, and up. Religious fervour makes people do a lot of unthinkable things, and walking all the way up a hill, barefoot and carrying a sack on your head while singing songs is certainly one of them. Unfortunately, for the religiously uninclined like myself, all we see is a hill, a road made of rocks, and of course, plenty of people singing badly.
I was so fat and unfit that it took me about 10 steps to turn into a mass of flesh that I suspect resembled a beached whale. Fortunately, one man in our group had taken pity on me and had stayed back to make sure I didn’t become the first casualty of the season. He managed to drag me up another 20 steps before he realized that this was going nowhere, wished me good luck, and well, walked off.
I managed to make another 20 metres uphill when I realized I’d forgotten my cellphone in the van. I would have cried, but by then I was already dehydrated. Then I realized that the all the water bottles were with the other chaps, who were half way to the asteroid belt for all I knew.
I sat down to take stock of the situation when I saw this most entertaining of sights: a group of people, probably my age, walking towards me singing. The song they were singing was a popular one on the route: it goes “kallum mullum kaalkku methai..” (the rocks and thorns are the bed on which we walk). Considering that the trip has to be done on bare feet, nothing could be more appropriate.
They were walking at a brisk pace which, frankly, was quite beyond comprehension for someone in my BMI range. For a moment, I have to confess, I nearly believed in the miracles of religion. Here were a bunch of people who were so devoted to the cause that they were walking the talk- putting their feet where the rocks and thorns were. I was inspired- I decided to join this gang and catch up with the rest of my group. I hung my head in shame on seeing the power of faith.
At which point I looked at their legs. On every foot were trekking boots of excellent make, with cozy socks covering their legs up to the knees. They walked past me, mountain boots pounding the rocks and crushing the thorns.
I sat for a few more moments, gave myself a mental slap, and took a sip of water from a chap who was passing by.
Then I got up, threw away the coconuts I was supposed to carry uphill to the temple, and slowly started walking down hill.
(Hrishikesh Varma blogs at hvrhome.blogspot.com)