A Familiar Stranger

On temples, memory, and the roots of unbelief

What am I doing here? I wonder, caught in a tide of devotees, elbowed and cornered, my palms joined in prayer and in gentle deference to my upbringing. My shoes are off, my soles burn on marble that holds the day’s heat. A priest’s wet finger appears from nowhere, smearing a giant red dot between my eyes. Rice grains cling to it, then tumble into my lashes. All I see is red, orange, and blur. I walk about like a sightseer in a sanctum. At twelve, obedience is my only inheritance. Imitation, my only prayer.

I’ve been elbowed and cornered and confused at these gatherings since I could walk. That’s a different kind of tradition. I climb the marble stairs, and stop myself from touching the last one. Then comes the next habituated act: I ring the big iron bell hanging over my head. Its toll reverberates through my tiny body in short, shuddery waves. Soon, the mantras swell, defying every speech sound known to me. Drums beat in rhythm with tiny hand cymbals too loud for their size. Someone swings a thali with oil lamps in it from side to side, shadows leaping across the walls. A child, perched on her father’s shoulders, rings a hand bell with wild delight.

Eventually, the aarti ebbs with a screech of speakers. The fervour quiets. People scuttle in different directions with overwhelmed sniffles, prasaad and petals clutched in damp palms. The big iron bell tolls again as other people feel the shudders through them. Evening sinks in, thinning the air. The gilded ceiling glitters above me, held by ornate columns that root into the cold marble floor. Shrines and sculptures line the walls, their carved stillness speaking to me like art does – pleasant, silent, untouchable. They say that this art is sacred, unassailable. I wonder what that means.

A day is what it took from me – this building where I’m at. The focus of people’s faith. A symbol of hope. I feel the imposition of ritual, the monotony of command, as I step out. I wonder: what will happen when these temples become obsolete? Who will care for this building that once stood tall and confident in belief and holiness? What would happen to the big iron bell, the exotic oil lamps, the stone idols, the decorous altars? Would anyone come to change the flowers, brownish then? What would people turn to then? This day, perhaps, planted the first roots of atheism in my young mind. The place felt strange, but I still stopped by here. In fact, I often do.

***

Now, weeds claim the pathway. Dead leaves blanket the earth, as if hiding something gory underneath. Standing by the porch, I see a shape, a structure, less recognisable with every visit. There stands the building – once full of visitors – now yellowed, dusty, drained of colour. No tolling bells, no chanting, no drums. Only silence.

I step inside in awkward reverence. The bell that gave me shudders is gone. The idols have crumbled to bits. The columns and altars remain, stripped of their splendour. No lamps burn. I wonder who last saw this place for what it was. Perhaps, a wanderer seeking shelter. Or a parent guiding a child’s hand to touch a stone or two. Or someone like me might have returned, curious, to see the place she heard made people wise.

It pleases me to stand here. The silence still reverberates – that never goes away. I’m still a familiar stranger to this place. That won’t too.