temple on a sunday

 Almost every Sunday I go to an old small temple opposite the big modern Hare Krishna Temple in Juhu. I leave early in the morning when the streets are dotted with sleeping dogs, sleeping men and children. At the end of the street a peacock is already up and standing on the gate of a bungalow. He is hungry but quiet, hasn’t opened its tail yet, looking towards the market for people to bring him some food.

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 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.  The street misty with smells of sweet incense offerings.

 The temple is easily found, Shiva is sitting on the temple roof with a crescent moon on his head and real water sprouting out of his matted hair. I go in under two black elephants and in a small basket I collect a coconut, two small bananas, a couple of white long stemmed buds, a cracked beetle nut. I go in the temple with the basket; there is a bell dangling from the ceiling- a sign in Hindu next to it and a young man sitting on the floor with his prayer books and oil cups. Last week he stamped red powder on my forehead, this week he smiles at me.  The first god I go to is the Monkey God. Hannuman with his human body and monkey tail, palms together stands gazing calmly at me putting my basket on the mantelpiece. 

The next windowless room has a coiled metal cobra right in the middle. The mural on the wall shows everybody immortal. 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 us mortals down below. There is a sign on the wall to remind devotees 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. Then I visit other figures of serene faced, smiling, bright eyes colossally kajaled, lovingly decorated gods. I put little flowers on their toes, look at their comfortable and confident smiles, earrings, necklaces and little shiny cloaks over their heads.  A big, jet black cow sits facing the cobra, garlanded with orange flowers.

Outside a tree as old as our families reclines to one side. Seven times it needs to be circumnavigated, I cling to the little basket of coconut and bananas, tiny little ants and flies join the walk with me. Next to the tree little sacred Tulsi plant waits for its turn to be watered.  Dizzy with the journey around the tree my small cup of water goes allover the plant.

Then it is over; I transfer my little basket of goods to a small bag. I touch the bell hesitantly and it gives out a lively brass sound promising other bells to be rung, other temples to be visited. The young man on the floor puts another red dot between my eyebrows and reveals the secret message by the bell*. I find my shoes and leave the small temple to a bus full of people with yellow powder on their forehead. It is getting busy.

There is a long, hot and crowded market to go through. I walk purposefully swinging my little white plastic bag full of hope, coconut, and two little bananas. Until next Sunday.

*I assumed it said something like ‘Don’t touch the bell if you are not a believer’ or ‘ Ring only at sunset’ or ‘5 times after the prayer’. I asked what it meant.

It reads  ‘turn your mobile off’.