The Lord’s Chariot

The Rathyatra,apart from being the easiest junior school essay topic,was

probably one in the

hundreds of religious

festivals which didn’t require me and my capsule of three brothers to fold my hands and stand aside in a solemn wait for narus and assorted fruits. We didn’t quite know why we were dragging the three-storey doll’s house around the neighbourhood,down the stairs and across the kitchen but an overwhelming sense of responsibility made sure,nothing else ever crossed our mind. The figurines shouldn’t topple over,the

little steel plates with

gujiyas should sit pretty in front of the clay gods,and yes,the painstakingly done marble-paper decorations shouldn’t come off.

And when the mother thrust us at the wall of people standing before the coveted ropes to the temple rath on the streets,it was an absolute sense of achievement that followed the 10 minutes of clawing,wriggling and elbowing that led to touching the ropes.

Age,like I was saying,is annoyingly dubious. When you sit in a cab,lost in the music player,the horde of sooty kids milling around the rath stirs the cynic in you. You wonder why the people inside can’t step down and distribute those tiny envelopes of prasad if they really intend any good. You wonder why the rath has to take the same road that’s a short cut to your office. You wonder how the gods and the taxi drivers have connived against the pretty purse,now cowering inside your bag. You wonder what killed that childish stir in your heart,every time the lofty,colourful vehicle

trundled into the street

before your house,it’s

wobbly peak brushing against the trees,and

endless,unyeilding,coarse rope slipping out of your stubborn grip…

But then,thank god for taxi meters. They let little else to be on your mind for long…