Devotees have myriad ways of worship. Some do puja as a marathon from sunup to sundown without even sipping water, busy chanting mantras or slokas. Some would circumambulate the sanctum sanctorum in wet clothes; some would walk around placing one foot ahead of the other seamlessly, an exercise that looks simple when narrated but is difficult to execute by the aged. Some merely touch their chest and head in a hurry while passing by a temple.
My grandpa, being puja-centric, had a compact trunk made of steel that contained gold-plated statuettes of Gods along with the puja materials. It was his mobile puja room that went with him whenever he travelled out of our town. Elaborate pujas on special days would require the services of an assistant, a role essayed by my grandma. She would be at hand to give him a plate of flowers, a match box, a chunk of camphor, a brass bell, etc., at a mere glance from him. Yet another job she would have to perform was the preparation of the food as offering to the Gods. Invariably, it would be rice pongal cooked in a charcoal oven. The dish, glistening with a film of ghee and punctuated with broken cashew nut pieces, would taste divine, though there would have been no taste test.
The secret additive would be unwavering devotion. Our sprawling house had a room reserved for ladies, and my grandma was in charge of its usage. Women went into labour there, screaming at the dead of night with grandma bouncing in and out. There were times when a mother and her daughter went into labour together, the nephew or niece becoming older than the uncle after birth. While her role was commendable, my grandma had her own ways of treatment.
Once, a child aged three was ill with high fever. The town’s only doctor was away. Grandma sat by the side of the child, who was lying prostrate on an oil cloth, moaning and driveling in high fever. I was startled to hear her addressing her God all of a sudden in a strange voice, “Where are you? You are supposed to be everywhere. How many times have I offered you fruits, flowers, prayers and such. And what are you doing in return? Tormenting a little child? Can’t you choose me, an oldie, instead? If you don’t cure him, I will disown you, did you hear? I’ll disown you.” Her voice trailed off. The child opened its eyes in half an hour.
J S RAGHAVAN Email: jsraghavan@yahoo.com