Kumbakonnam.

In the Bhagwat Gita lord Krishna says ,4 types of people seek me out. Those in search of wealth, those in grief, seekers of knowledge and finally those who only want to merge with me ! I belong to the 2 nd category.

I was not much of a temple goer.My prayers were said at home , when it was quiet after every one left to office and college respectively.When my complacency was shattered my serenity evaporated . And I found a greater source of comfort worshipping at a temple than in the house.

The reason , places of worship are frequented by people with sole purpose of paying their obeisances and therefore the percinints is sanctified by prayers emanating from 100 's of hearts ,several of those bleeding in pain and anguish.

Gallons of tears were shed by me , my family , Vidat's friends ,common friends and relatives.Yet in the collective memory of scores relatives and friends ,there was no precedent or parallel in the predicament I found myself in . None had gone through the gamut of emotions I was going through.I was very lonely in my grief and I felt that Vidat must be even more lonely up there.

God wasnt kind to me , yet strangely I derived succor in temples! Then I visited ancient temples , that I am sure were frequented by my ancestors. The very fact that they stood where I stood decades later and worshipped the diety ,dispelled my loneliness . The very fact that Acharyas like Ramanuja and Desikan 100's of years earlier had visited these shrines , worshiped the presiding deity , circumbulated and meditated in its percinints and spun beautiful slokas and analysed and presented philosophical thoughts , gave me a sense of continuity and assured me that Vidat is not alone ,but in company of my ancestors and holy men .And this was a balm .

Then I decided to visit 108 Vaishnavite temples whose importance to Sri vaishnavaites lies in them being visited by Azhwars[5 th to 9th centuryAD] and sanctified by their immense faith, pre dating Acharyas . In pursuit of which , I hurtled towards Kumbakkonam last week, a small town that has 40 temples in and around it.

The 7 hour journey whisked away , like all those trees, sky and landscape speeding by outside the window in the pleasant company of my brother , in what seemed like a few moments. Blood is thicker than water. My brother's company was the much needed balm to my withering soul .We broached my tragedy without hedging around and sailed to topics ,from our happy childhood .

Kumbakonnam , our destination , the base to visit Divyadesams , was bustling with activity--the political kind.Sticks were bored into streets and entire stretches were being covered by pandals. An union minister and deputy CM was to visit the next day to unveil a political leader's statue.We were unwittingly caught in the melee and decamped out of the town early next day ,before it would be swamped by police, party bigwigs,and workers and paid audiences and went careenering down narrow tar roads ,hoping to cover 10 Vishnu temples , each day in 4 following days.The temples are scattered in 60 km radius.

The lush villages start barely 5 kms away from Kumbakkonam town .Cool green paddy fields, langorously swaying sugar cane boughs and tall bamboo groves greets the eye ,everywhere!

Small cemented platforms with only a concrete slab for a roof ,on open grounds and at times amidst lush paddy fields , for cremating bodies is the first indication that a village lies just beyond.

It is a grim reminder of what Ramayana has to say.----

'Death travels with one . Death rests with one. However far one goes ,one cannot leave death behind'.

Tolstoy the great Russian thinker and seer has observed , whilst the poor accept untimely death as God's will ----''He giveth -He taketh'' and treat it as part and parcel of life and get going , the educated middle class will not digest it so easily. They 'll analyse the cause and torture themselves with thoughts ,of not doing enough to prevent it and if death is due to illness ,will blame themselves for not exerting enough to find a good doctor .

That wise man's observation a century and half back ,still holds good.The question 'What if ?' continues to taunt me on and off.


The land is fertile and water is available in plenty.Water flows generously from taps on road sides and in hamlets, non stop 24 hours ![unbelievable to Chenaaites , used to cranking laboriously for water from hand pumps and hoping and praying that the sumps fills up at the allotted times]There is thus no dearth of luxuriant greenery.Yet paradoxically most of the houses in the villages are made of mud and have thatched roofs .Concrete and tiled houses are very few and far between .

The people are thin and dark Old men go around bare chested . The mopeds that have vanished from Chennai have found a roaring market amongst the rustics. These, cart huge bundles of grass , hay , firewood, merchandise and whole families or 4 to 5 men at a time!They have taken the mantle of bullock carts of yore .I saw line of girls pedaling slowly towards their schools in light weight cycles in the morning .At nights I saw groups of men,young and middle aged , in their puny frames milling around eagerly and expectantly around 'wine shops'.

The presence of mud houses or houses plastered with mud in every village ,pricked me.The lush paddy fields beyond ,must be yielding good dividends, so I thought and wondered aloud that maybe the villagers preferred the cooling comfort of earthen ware dwellings out of long custom and habit at which our driver of the local tourist cab laughed and said '' No amma , they do not have the money to build concrete houses.''

The temples rise majestically,mainly due to the munificence of rulers of byegone era's[1000 to 2000 years ago] and are well tended by dedicated foot soldiers of Hinduism , the Brahmin priests.I am, but touched by their faith in the deity , their determination to overcome the attractions of a cosy life in cities and dedicate themselves in conducting regular puja's , decorating the idols, keeping the premises clean and organising year long festivals.

Nearly each and every temple at the remotest village is kept open by its priest . It is truly amazing.These Brahmin priests are all poor .Their salary from the govt is a pittance ,a measly sum varying from 200 to 1000 Rs !It is with the help of periodic handouts from charitable trusts like the U.S based Vedic trusts and others and from philanthropists that they manage to scrape through .

The priest of our ancestral village ,which we visited,is a lone representative of our community, others including my forefathers having repaired to flourishing centres in British India in search of livelihood , is lame.He was disabled during his tenure at a larger and popular temple.He hopped on cheerfully in his crutches , into the nearby temple . The sight of the old priest dragging himself on the floor lighting lamps and singing Ramayana with total involvement was simply moving.

But the old priest bore his disability philosophically. His wife greeted us smilingly in their nearby tumble down ramshackle house .The mud plaster was peeling off from all corners . It is a wonder that it has withstood the onslaught of the elements all these years!The tiny dwelling is surrounded by overgrown bushes. She insisted that we should take coffee and she prepared it in a jiffy over a coal stove in a kitchen, the size of a match box !There wasn't a drop of gold in her person . Only a yellow string hung around her neck.
She told me wistfully ,that her only son ,who was a wee bit better off than them was living in the nearby town ,but her husband wanted to stay near his temple and felt insecure away from the company of 'Navaneetha Krishnan,'the presiding deity he tended so solicitously.

Poverty was writ large every where , yet the crumbling cottage resonated with their laughter as the old couple sparred with each other.A peacock called from nearby shrubs piercing the desolation.Creepers , grass and trees have grown densely over the remnants of buildings ,once housing a large vibrant community.
The 35 year old burly driver of our cab brushed aside the tears smarting in his eyes ,moved by the old priests efforts to overcome his disability and touched by his hospitality. The priest insisted that the driver take his seat next to him on the small slab whilst his wife pressed a tumbler of piping hot aromatic filter coffee in his hands !

As we took leave, I involuntarily bowed to them .