Our personal pilgrimages.

She sat on the stone bench with her hands resting on her crutches. “Aunty, why aren't you visiting the Sai Baba Mandir today?” ,I asked looking at my watch which showed that it was only 7 a.m. I was rushing out with my umbrella to buy the newspaper and some milk. “It has been raining since early morning”, she replied. ”It takes me about an hour to reach there. Then I like to sit there and meditate. Sometimes a few friends come and we exchange pleasantries. Getting back takes me another hour. So there is no way I can be back on time for the bhajans at 8 a.m. Attendance is compulsory”, she added quietly.

The temple was just a ten minute walk across the road. But with her legs bent to a bow shape by two failed knee operations, she could only shuffle slowly with baby steps. With a waist band tied around her stocky middle for extra support and a cloth bag with prayer books hanging from her wrist she usually started her daily pilgrimage at 6 a.m. Rising at 4 a.m, taking a cold shower because the hot water didn't come on till 6.30 a.m., missing her morning cup of tea, she set off before the school hour traffic started, buoyed by the hope that her legs would grow stronger. Walking later in the day was impossible with the traffic she said. My walk to the store was probably four times longer and it was a chore; her walk was a pleasure she looked forward to.

I was renting a room for a few months above the old age home while my daughter gave her exams. I glimpsed the lives of about twenty five women who took refuge in this shelter run by a philanthropist, a very old lady. Early risers, always neatly attired, working in the kitchen or around the home, the inmates threaded their empty lives within a strict schedule. Generous gifts of vegetables, groceries and small celebrations kept their body and soul together. Their prayers filled the courtyard thrice a day; mealtimes and bedtimes were signaled by a bell. In the afternoons their board games with stones and shells created a soothing clatter on the chalked stone floors.  

With the drizzle beginning early in the morning, it rained every single day that June. Ready for her walk, she sat on the bench patiently every day. ”Hope it stops raining. You haven’t been able to visit the temple for so many days”, I sympathized when I met her again. Without a trace of bitterness came her reply,” Oh, It will stop in a while. We need rain for the crops too. Don’t we? Rainy season can’t last for ever. After that I can go every day to the temple”.

I read in the newspaper of the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra spanning twenty two days. How wonderful it would be to walk amid forests, mountains and rivers. Aren't all our pilgrimages finally just that- be it a visit to a local temple across the street for some, or an arduous journey through countries for others- A true test of faith and stamina?