At least once a year, my sister and I pray at the temples in the villages where our parents grew up. This year, too, we visited my mother’s village for the annual Pooja. I always look forward to these visits because to me, it’s a way of communing with my parents – both died more than four decades ago.
The temple in my father’s village is famous and crowded. After my prayer is over, I spend some time in the court yard of the temple. I feel the stones beneath my feet, take in the sight of the sun on the surface of the river, the occasional sound of the temple bell and the lapping of the river against the temple steps. I imagine my father as a boy and try and see the temple through his eyes. What dreams would have taken shape in his mind? As I take in the sounds and smells of the temple, I feel one with him.
It is exactly the same with the temple in my mother’s village – the one where she used to pray regularly. Everything about it is wonderful – the only sounds are birds and the creak of trees. It is a profoundly moving experience. The sight of the temple lit only by lamps, the deity appearing to flicker, makes for an almost mystical experience. Here too, the best part of the visit is the thought that my mother would have prayed at this temple. I can picture a seven-year-old girl praying with the undiluted belief that only the young and innocent can claim. I try and conjure up in my mind what the temple must have looked like at that time – more than eight decades ago. What would have remained constant? If someone were to visit the temple after a gap of 80 years, what would he find unchanged in the temple of his youth? Surely the gate, the cement steps, electric lighting and framed pictures of various deities would be unfamiliar additions?
Then it strikes me. One constant would be the sounds of the birds. Set away and below the nearest path, the sounds of the present do not intrude here. Only the sound of the birds remain unchanged. For hundreds of years these birds made these trees their home. They were born, grew, lived and died in these trees. Listening to the bird is to be transported back in time. It is as if the same bird had sung the same song for more than a hundred years. I close my eyes, listen to the bird and tell myself my mother would have heard the same sound 80 years ago. I see here, the source of my father’s courage and my mother’s equanimity and their commonly shared, unstinting generosity. Imagine a daily routine, walking down that path, descending the steps to the peace and quiet of the temple, the sounds of those birds and the smell of camphor and oil – the calm that comes from belief. Imagine that experience repeated four thousand times over before one grows to adulthood.
The temple was here centuries before me, and it will remain centuries after I am gone. The birds will continue to sing as they always have. It is a humbling thought, but comforting as well. For, as with birdsong, if we choose, we can ensure our values will live on in our descendants for centuries after we are gone.
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