Temple Run

Being from an extremely orthodox Brahmin family, temple visits are as unavoidable as the rolls of fat that overflow from the not-so-young mamis in their saris. And my palace of constancy is the Guruvayoor temple in Kerala.
Now, I have no problem with coming here since somewhere deep down, I love the atmosphere around it. But it's hard to get excited about the atmosphere when you have to get up at 3am to beat the rush and get a glimpse of the idol. But then, no one ever said God sleeps (though I'm sure he does wink or two in an attempt to deal with what is expected of him). But, as with every trip I go on my family with, it always seems like there's an appointment to attend at every temple so all it boils down to is a sort of 'temple run' as we move from one temple to the other in an attempt to cover as many of them as possible, to have an insurance policy of sorts; if one of them doesn't hear us, the other 20 definitely would have. To my knowledge, it's been a very long time since I ever went on a proper vacation with my family; no temples, no prayers and definitely no relatives whose names and relationships I can never seem to memorise. This inability to have a virtual family tree spanning at least 2 generations at the tip of my fingers gives my mother another weapon to tease me: "How many times do I have to explain who Jaya akka is? She's Ammaji's cousin's daughter-in-law and Rammohan mama's sister. Don't you remember how she got you cashew nuts when you were 5 years old? How can you forget these things?..." and so on and so forth.
Food seems to be the only solace I gain on these trips, seeing how I get a full breakfast, lunch and dinner to make up for the constant energy drain of standing in lines, travelling several kilometres and appealing to a dozen Gods to provide happiness and a good future. I gave up questioning these constant temple trips long ago and just follow my parents wherever I must go in order to maintain a façade of family time. "We're doing this for you only! Stop sulking so much and pray properly. Otherwise God will not take care of you", a constant refrain of my mother's. With the recent demise of my MP3 player, I've also lost my only source of release from the boredom of the trip, both during the journey to and from the temples. Staring out the window during a train journey has replaced this pastime of mine, but with the person beside you trying to engage you in a treatise on morality and Tamil literature, even that has begun to lose its charm.
And so, I do my best to survive these trips of torturous boredom with my camera as and when I can, but it remains to be seen if I shall ever be rid of them. I can almost smell camphor burning again...

Çiao!

Here's the not-so-long awaited sequel to that clichéd short story I put up a while ago. I wonder if this one is any better...

 Taste 2: Spicy

 

It was another lazy afternoon. The beach seemed crisp and powdery, a shade of bronzed yellow almost, mimicking the voluptuous blondes that were sun-bathing themselves. While the tourists seemed all eyes for the pristine beauty, both natural and otherwise, no one noticed him slip into a wicker chair outside the cabana, overlooking the sea. As the sweet ocean spray wafted in the breeze, Juan España sipped a Cuba Libré, enjoying the breeze. A thin scar ran down his temple, a reminder of his past….

Sao Paolo had always been a discovery for him. The back streets filled with the gaiety of life and the scent of paprika blending in with the maracas, celebrating the vitality of life. And Mardi Gras was just the culmination of the city’s entire energy. She had fallen from heaven, literally, as he had caught her when she fell off her float. One look and he had fallen too, fallen into the passion that seems to run within the very veins of Latin men. She apologised and leapt out of his arms to join the float once again. But he had made his mark and when he lay in bed, he heard the door open and felt her slither in beside him, a smell of paprika and roses melding into him. All night, as the city made merry, they did the same, their passion blazing like the Brazilian sun. The morning brought reality back to them but the bond had been made. He had continued to meet her and their romance blossomed amongst the shaded cafés and streets. She was free-spirited, lively and a woman of impulse and passion, a complete contrast to Juan, who was a quiet, soulful man. Yet they found bliss in their dichotomy as they frolicked all throughout Sao Paolo. The entire world seemed to pale before their love as Juan could not help but dream of their future together. But his dream was shattered one evening when, as they walked back, a hustler stuck a knife in his back and demanded his belongings. Quick as a flash, Juan tried to grasp the man’s wrist and incapacitate him when the hustler swung wildly, scraping his temple. Blinded by his blood for an instant, he did not see him stab her and make off. The world seemed to slow down as he saw the blood gushing from her heart. That night was a blur of activity as he somehow found help to get her to a hospital and rushed her to the Operating Room. He could hear his heart drumming against his chest, blotting out the whole world. All of a sudden, he heard the doors open. All he could make out was the doctor’s silhouette, blood-spattered and ethereal, the light blocking his face…

Juan suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and a whiff of paprika and roses swept his senses. “You always did love that perfume, didn’t you?” he said, with a hint of smile, looking into the same eyes that had ignited his passion 30 years ago.