On Sunday mornings, with the first coo of the pigeons below the bedroom window, with the first lazy yawn of the dog downstairs, when the household is asleep having a long Sunday morning sweet, warm and comfortable dream in the twilight of the closed curtains with the eternal clink clank of the fan on the ceiling, I get up. I take the Sunday papers from the door and put the kettle on. This side of the flat is brighter and hotter. I have my tea reading the papers; there is nothing scandalous in Mumbai this Sunday. All is well.
Almost every Sunday I go to an old small temple opposite the big modern Hare Krishna Temple. I leave after the morning cup, when the streets are dotted with sleeping dogs, sleeping men and children. Crossing the roads is easy; there are only a couple of autos around. One by one they come and offer to take me to places. At the end of the street the peacock is already up and standing on the gate of a bungalow. He is hungry and quiet, hasn’t opened its tail yet. The street seller prepares the first puri of the day. Men standing around wait for their turns to have small portions of what looks like left over rice and onion shavings. I look around; there is no reason for the men to be there on that corner. It is not a bus stop; there is not a construction site, only a cricket ground and some street urchins scratching their matted hair. It is so natural by men to get together who have nothing else to do on a corner of a street and the puri men know this like 6th sense. A few steps away one little child has already started the day with the first call of the nature on a gulley grating.
The market between me and the temple is just waking up, little kittens prod little orange flowers left over from yesterday, the vegetable sellers are examining their faded green cucumbers and yellow tomatoes and several green examples of fine Mumbai flora deciding how to arrange them on their stall today. The bindi shop is not open yet, the glass bangle stall owner, the bindi man’s sister in law is looking for the key in the waves of her sari. I walk on.
My friend is already there. She has already taken her shoes off and she is in, she comes towards me with two little plastic baskets. A coconut, two small bananas, a couple of white long stemmed buds, a cracked beetle nut and a piece of paper with my carefully written name. The letters have round edges and curls. ‘Robert Son’. ‘Today we are going to do the Sun Pooja.’ she says, a warm smile in her deep jet black eyes. I follow her. Her name sounds like waterfalls, cool waves of the ocean meeting the shore in a cooler season. We go in the temple; the young man sitting on the floor with his prayer books, and oil cups smiles at me. I smile back. Last week he put a red and yellow powder on my forehead. The first god is the Monkey God. Hannuman with his human body and a monkey tail, palms together stands gazing calmly at these two ladies putting their baskets on the mantel piece. ‘Oh Hannuman’ I say, ‘You are a great traveler, you are the friend of the Mighty one.’ I have read your stories about your journey to Hindustan from China. I hope this travel of mine will be as fulfilling as yours.’ He does not promise anything. The next room we go in is a windowless one with a coiled metal cobra right in the middle. There is a big colourful mural on one of the walls with everyone. Shiva is there, his wife, their human formed child and elephant headed one, the little mouse , the monkey god, they are all there, sitting by a big mountain, very happy, very content with people down below. There is a sign on the wall to remind people to pray for themselves and not to send their maids or drivers to do it for them. A quiet recording of ‘Om Namas Shivaya’ repeats in the air. ‘Oh big cobra!. You are alert and erect and strong. I know some of your stories. I don’t know why I dribble milky water on your head but I am following everybody else and the sound of water is good.' I know this ritual is important for them. I am there, in their territory, it makes it important for me too. Then we visit other figures of serene faced, smiling, bright eyes colossally kajaled, lovingly decorated gods. We put little flowers on their toes, look at their comfortable and confident smiles, earrings, necklaces and little shiny cloaks over their heads. There is a lovely big cow sitting facing the cobra, garlanded with orange flowers. I do not talk to the cow. There is a limit to my conversation.
Outside a tree with arrow shaped leaves as rooted as our families stands reclined to one side . Seven times we circumnavigate it clinging to our little basket of coconut and bananas. ‘Oh big tree, I hope my family lives as long as you have’ I say, tiny little ants and flies join the walk with me. Then we water the sacred tulsi plant. It is Indian basil. Its leaves are smaller than Italian and bigger than the Turkish . It has a sweet delicate smell.
Then it is over; we transfer our little baskets in the little bags they give us. All through the temple we talk about gods, universe, stars, Caesar, films we have seen, books we haven’t read. We look at the people coming in and out of the temple, I touch the bell and it gives out a lively brass sound reminding me of other bells, other temples by the rivers. I now know what the secret message hanging by the bell is.* We put our shoes on and leave the small temple to people from the South with yellow powder on their forehead who have come all the way here on a Sunday morning. It is getting busy.
My friend leaves to the left, I go to the right. There is a long, hot market to go through. I walk purposefully swinging my little white plastic bag full of hope, coconut, and two little bananas.
Until next Sunday.
·*It is sign by the bells on the ceiling and I assumed it said something like. ‘Don’t touch the bell if you are not a believer’. Or ‘only at sunset’ or ‘5 times after the prayer’. I asked my friend what it meant. She said
It read ‘turn your mobile off’.
No comments:
Post a Comment