A receptacle for our hopes and fears
So there’s a new temple that has opened its doors close by. A temple with Gods of every denomination to please devotees of every calling. Gods to grant boons in return for cash. Gods who sit impassive in marble splendour, listening to everything. To impassioned entreaties, to earnest promises of good behaviour, to genuine but often temporary repentance for sins of all levels committed in secret. They listen to all this and more. But above all to the loud music that every place of worship now believes it needs to play to let the devout know of a temple’s existence.
The day the temple was opened, everyone from the nearby colonies, the high rises and the hutments around, thronged to pay their respects to the new, holy neighbour that had come to stay in their midst. To many, it was a convenience; cutting the distance they had to traverse to the older temple which was further away. For some it was the courtyard swept by soft breezes that was most alluring to sit around in, chatting or gossiping through the warm sultry evenings. And to the less devout it was but a convenient landmark to guide the way to their place.
The day the temple was opened was marked by worship. Three main shrines had to be consecrated and the deities within duly worshipped. An ancient, sacred ritual invested with prayers that contained in them layers of meaning, as they sought blessings and peace for all. For the benefit of all the pious people in a kilometre’s radius, a loudspeaker carried the priest’s voice intoning the mantras, far and wide, till the very air quivered with reverence.
Drawn by the magnetism of the chanting, the populace wended its way to partake in the festivities, to watch the rituals and sing the aarti. The full fervour of myriad tuneless voices being raised in song after song, to the accompaniment of sharp-toned bells was dynamic. The birds in the trees fell silent in awe.
Once the main deities were appeased, it was the turn of the smaller idols. Ensuring no devotee was turned away because the temple had failed to house his favourite version of divinity, the temple authorities had ensured they installed a line of smaller marble idols of other deities not in the three main alcoves. And the consecration of each of them was done with the same care and love. With mantras of worship and appeasement, and the singing of the aartis.
By lunchtime, everyone was happy. The Gods had blessed the priests richly, the devotees felt cleansed.
Through the afternoon celebratory songs from popular films, were released into the sanctified air. Come evening, with the fervour still high, speech makers took turns to share their views with whosoever was prepared to listen.
Do the temples we build actually house Gods, or are they more a receptacle for our hopes and fears, and to serve our needs?
Sathya Saran
Author & Consulting Editor, Penguin Random House
saran.sathya@gmail.com