And life goes on...

THE MOISTURE-laden evening sea breeze gustily tunnels its way through the massive wooden gateways bringing along with it the much needed respite from the oppressive heat and humidity of Chennai. The surroundings cocoon us from the cacophonous and bustling mada vidhis with their brightly-lit shop fronts, the never ending traffic and the roadside vendors. I battle my way through unruly auto drivers and cycle rickshaw drivers who accost you with: "Vaangama, enga ponum?"

I am finally inside the Mylapore Kapaleeshwarar temple and I look around taking in the ambience and the visitors to the temple as I shamelessly listen to conversations not meant for me. It is around 6-45 p.m. The regulars and the curious, the religious and the spiritual, the passerby and the first-timers, walk in, some ambling in, others striding in with a purpose. They step inside the courtyard, relishing the feel of the great "outdoors" that the temple offers in a non-green, concrete environment. The visitors include all age groups, the elderly, children and their families, tourists...they all come into the temple and leave their mark on what is the living symbol of historic Chennai and perhaps the current one too.

The courtyard of this 17th Century temple, though its antecedents may be traced to earlier times, unfolds a fascinating microcosm of everyday life. "And so what did they say at the interview?" asks a girl, dressed in jeans and a colourful T-shirt as she walks towards the sanctum with two 20 something men. "They have said they'll get back to me. Lets see... By the way, I saw "Dum Dum Dum" yesterday." "With whom?" "With the gang after Logi's class. Jyothika is great... That song is really good." "But nothing to beat "Vaseegara"... Harris Jayaraj has really given us some mind-blowing music..." The conversation peters out... as they walk on.

A group of elderly people are seated on the cool, cement flooring, talking about everything under the sun, from politics to philosophy, from good health and sickness to the mundane routine. "You know I come to this temple every day at around 6-15 a.m. For one, I am out of my daughter-in-law's way and two, it gives me peace of mind when I look at the gopurams. I walk around this courtyard three times and this keeps my diabetes in check. You know, I have calculated the distance that I walk every day. One perambulation means about half a kilometre. So I walk around two-to-three kilometres every day, which is a very good exercise," a 70-year old Mylaporean enlightens his temple friend, "Why don't you also join me in the morning? It will definitely help your arthritic knees. The place is not at all crowded. And there is no traffic to give you blood pressure..."

Two women and three men are seated in a circle, in the open hall opposite the prahara of the main deity. They are engrossed in their work, oblivious to their surroundings. One of them has a writing pad in hand and is jotting down the details of bills spread in front of them. They are obviously finalising accounts of some function, probably a marriage. "And so how much did you pay for the flowers?" "Sashi has already paid for the taxi services from her office." "I think one bill is pending, the shamiana bill...." The temple has stretched out a space that would not be available in a small 10 by 12 feet "hall" of a middle class home.

A typical office executive, nattily attired in branded apparel, talks into the cell phone displaying an unnecessary urgency that has become the hallmark of most cell users. "Yes sir, I have just collected the quotation. Venkatesh wasn't there, so I had to wait for almost an hour. I have finished my work and I will be there in another fifteen or twenty minutes..." Quickening steps and harassed gestures disappear into the milling crowd of devotees to pay obeisance to God for his role in the success of the enterprise.

In a corner of the courtyard, in peaceful anonymity, a young man and woman are deep in conversation. Communication is shared in animated gestures, blazing eyes, frequent smiles and laughter. Every word uttered has a hidden meaning, sometimes teasing, sometimes serious. They are in their own world of suspended time, uninterrupted by the daily grind of conformed living.

I slowly make my way to the main complex. A Shiva Bhakta is standing before the deity reciting the Thevaram. He is oblivious to other sounds, to the devotees, some of whom are chanting their prayers loudly and some under their breath.

An old woman is sitting on the polished floor of the prahara, stretching out her hands and blessing any one who cares to look at her. Some ignore her, some stop to throw a coin or two in her direction. She looks at the coins through dimmed eyes, tucks them in her saree and continues with her routine in the hope of some more charity.

In the midst of the devotees stands a garlanded, newly-married couple, waiting patiently to offer special prayers and seek blessings on their important day.

In front of the deity, a wave of anticipation and expectancy sweeps through the crowd as all eyes are directed to the 'All- powerful' and 'Omnipotent.' Each face registers a soulful prayer, a poignant thought, a personal wish, an overwhelming joy and happiness. I pay my respects to the Infinite, casting away for a moment my constant desire for a higher perch in a self-centred life.

LATA RAMASESHAN

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