Holy be thy Name

"After Vatican City, Tirupati generates the most revenue in the form of donations" remembered Abhimanyu Iyenger. So many people had so much to say. He was travelling to Madurai, his yearly visit this, from Chennai. His birth, claimed his parents, were due to the divine blessings from Meenakshi Amman. Over the last twenty years he had found the perfect time to visit it so as not to waste time in the queue. It was the decorum of his life, every August. He used up one of his precious CLs before the Independence Day to make it. And every year from the morning window of his hotel, he hoped not to return the next year. He checked-in and unpacked for the night.

Deep within the hollows of the temples were chambers assigned for the priests. Shining priests in their semi-nude attire who emerged to the worship of the various idols inside the iconic temple. Karthik Gurukkal could not remember a day of his life without having to face the maddening queue. If anything, it only grew thicker and longer with time. As faith grew feeble, formidable devotion replaced it. He did not remember being jostled out of the nursing home by a team of secretive nurses led by doctors to be given away to one Chandrasekhar Iyer. All through the pregnency the Iyengers were informed of one healthy baby, and it did not raise any complication. The recognised son was named Abhimanyu and the other was given away to the Iyers. The Iyers were business barons and in desperate need of a pure-blood legacy to take forward their profits. They named their two day old cherished son, Karthik.

On the auspicious occasion of the sixth day of their divine existence, mystically, Abhimanyu and Karthik were taken to the Madurai Meenakshi. Both set of parents believed in Amman's powers. Unlike how it happens in movies, their paths didn't cross and they came out. The next day, in a dreadful turn of events, on the occasion of the overexcitement of Chandrasekhar, they returned to the head priest. A mundan could not be done on the child, but he was taken inside by one of the priests to be performed a special puja upon. He was never returned. The temple authorities denied the taking in of such a child, and the absence of CCTVs remarkably put religion on a higher pedestal over industry. Karthik was lost and Karthik was found and Karthik remembered none of it.

All he pays attention to since he was seven, assisting his guru in the dark deeps of the temple and running around to assist the thousands of rituals, was one certain boy, who came in every year, just once and continued to return to his guru and later to him for a special darshan. Abhimanyu Iyenger. There were so many other faces that stayed, daily devotees, monthly methodists, quaterly queues and other yearly ones. None of the faces though touched him as much as his. As if by the powers of Amman, each year, without pre-appointment, Abhimanyu's priest would be Karthik.

They looked culture apart -- Abhimanyu in his smart, corporate weekend wears, and a close cropped haircut, clean-shaven and colourful while Karthik turned holy in his looks. His hair was worn into a long ponytail, and his beard was well-kept. The only colour was the vertical orange on his temple, crossing the three horizontal whites. Thirteen years worth of mundane musings later too, he was never curious about anything other than Abhimanyu. He was raised in such a manner that family ownership never occured to him. He was well-fathered, sufficiently brothered and immensely well-groomed.For friends he had the diyas of the temple which he lit, one section each evening. I hope he returns this year was all he thought around August.

The next dusk Abhimanyu completed his bath, changed into fresh clothes and restrained from shaving. He was growing a stubble. Ragini loved to fiddle with it. It made him smile, as he took up the shaving cream and put it back on second thoughts. Most things about his life were what one could term, near-perfect. His parents died peacefully, his love life was defined and his career was only ever elevating. All through the year he would not jitter to call himself an athiest, but around August some kind of creepy urge overcame him. I need to stop visiting Madurai from the next year he thought as he stepped into the stone steps.

As they held hands to hold the flowers and petals to be offered to the Goddess, the woman behind Abhimanyu surmised to her friend how the person in front looked surprisingly similar to the priest if only they were clothed alike. Both Abhimanyu and Karthik overheard it. They clapsed their palms tighter. After about a minute when Karthik returned by the side to offer the garland to Abhimanyu, very unlikely of him he added, 'Come back next year.'

As if it were a reflex, Abhimanyu replied, 'Sure.'

That night, over his filter coffee, Abhimanyu, and over his payasam, Karthik, could not stop thinking of what they had both overheard.