The Journey Home – A Cherished Struggle.

Sipra Pati

There's a part of me that struggles with a part of me. Nothing could be more clichéd than that. I do not believe in God. At least in the version 'God' as manifested in the human domain. I consider the adulation of Krishna who unabashedly consorted with multiple women several shades ridiculous. I find the worship of Shiva and his genitalia a tad too repulsive. I believe these multiple Gods and Goddesses who inundate our religion are the outcome(s) of very fertile imagination - human imagination. Although I am tempted to probe and analyse the overwhelming patriarchal overtures here, I realize I will, as a consequence, digress from the intent I began with. 

So coming back to me being a non-believer. As long as I can remember I have always asked my Mom or Grandma or Aunt or Uncle or some older family member about the whys and wherefores of why 'should' we 'do' things a certain way. The abstinence from a non-vegetarian diet, for instance, or the absolute ‘no-no’ of trimming nails or hair on certain days, on why I should wear bangles on both hands, or not... I could go on. Reactions to these questions have been varied - a casual dismissal, a story (always a favorite), a scolding, a look of irritation, and more often than not, an answer which usually was "that's the way things are" or some variation of it. 

However, this scepticism, never deterred me from partaking in Pujas and festivals - they were too much fun. Not all of them. But most of them. I simply loved cutting paper to decorate for Ganesh or Saraswati Puja, watching my Mom and aunts create a Savitri idol from haldi paste and listening to them read her heart-wrenching love story, dress up on Dussehra, worship the moon on Kumarpurnima... I loved the family gathering, the preparation of festival-specific food, and just reveling in the general camaraderie. 

I was not (still am not) a big fan of temples - I found the present-day institutions too sterile and wanting in sanctity. The medieval temples, however, were another story. I loved visiting them. Not because I felt devout. These medieval feats of architecture created an overwhelming sense of awe in me and I always found myself standing in the middle of the courtyard, neck craned towards the top of the monument, till someone tugged on my hand or shouted my name from a distance. The Jaganath temple in Puri was one such temple. Tumultuous as my feelings towards the concept of a human-created God were, this temple never failed to stir my aesthetic leanings. I was always in awe - of the sheer magnitude of the physical structure, the expanse of its campus and other structures, the devotees - their belief in Sanatan Dharma and their complete surrender, the unique sense of belonging of and to  this black-skinned half-limbed God, the chaos, and even the protocol of a visit to the temple. That one half of my family were from Puri, of course, had a lot to do with this. 

My visit to the Jaganath temple in the early part of November this year came after a nine-year long hiatus. And it was a gap that nagged me. I was expecting to see a new Jaganath and siblings. And, that was about all that had changed. Well, almost. Structural modifications to control crowds and their surges were evident in the parallel steel structures on the north side of the temple. More importantly, and disconcertingly, our usual walk-through the temple beda had changed. After the climb-up the baaesi pahancha, we headed, uncharacteristically, straight to the main temple. Given the time of the day (late afternoon), tourists/ pilgrims outnumbered the locals and there appeared to be more unconcealed attempts by the temple servers to fleece money off the devout. Neither these changes nor my aforementioned status of belief deterred me - for I held my palms over the flames of a large dipa and touched the top of my head with them; I moved my neck back and forth and stood on my toes - all to get a better view of the Lord of Puri, the Universe, and his siblings. As I kneeled and put my forehead to the ground, tears flowed, unbid. I wiped my eyes as I stood up and looked at the murals as I had always done in the past, the sting in my eyes refused to stop. I could almost hear my grandmother, my Aai, ask me, "So which mural are you looking at today?" I shut my eyes savoring her memory; a simultaneous effort refusing to let the sting in my eyes condense to liquid. I did a 360-degree turn with my eyes on the murals (like I had always done in the past, looking, not seeing) and navigated through the throng to the south exit. Then we began our ritualistic walk-through - Satyanarayan, then Bata Ganesha, then Maa Mangala, then the customary couple-minute hang around the mukti mandap, followed by stops at Goddesses Bimala, Lakhsmi, Saraswati and Savitri, Sakhigopal, and then Surjya. And the exit through Anand Bazaar down those twenty-two. 

The emotions this very fertile figment of human imagination could stir within me defied rationale. I know, in retrospect, this here was the very epitome of my connection to my roots, non-believer, or not. I know a part of me will always struggle with a part of me. I owe this struggle to the Lord of Puri. No regrets.