Avatars on
Tirumala Hill
by
Ramesh Avadhani
The
man at the desk looks no different from the thousands of
pilgrims swarming this temple town atop Tirumala Hill in
southern India. His head is shaved except for a small tuft
at the back, and his brow is adorned with a thick
nama,
a trident-shaped mark in chalk. It’s the symbol of the
reigning deity, Venkateshwara, avatar of Lord Vishnu,
protector of all life.
“I made a reservation over phone,” I say. “Ravi Kumar
Iyengar, Cottage 121.”
“Alone?” the man asks, as his pen scans a register that’s
spread over half the desk.
I gesture at the far end of the lobby. “The maroon dress,
she’s with me.”
He looks there. About twenty men and women are in anxious
huddles on the sofas but Meenu is like a formidable goddess
on a separate chair. Her bust is an excessive blessing and
her long legs are splayed as if any obeisance is welcome.
“Your wife?” he asks.
“Just married,” I lie.
“She would have to wear a sari to enter the temple,” he
murmurs, still staring at her.
“I know. Look, just give me the cottage. We want to freshen
up.”
“Of course, of course.” With visible effort he tears his
gaze away and turns the giant register around. I scribble
my name and address. He hands me the key.
Meenu sees me approach but makes no attempt to get up.
Either she’s tired, because it’s taken us six hours by bus
to come here, or she’s playing one of her favorite
games: Show Me
That Only I Matter. Or
Who Do You
Think You Are?
I nod at her and walk past. If You Want
Me, Follow Me.
*
She is 23, same as me, and both of us live in Bangalore. I
met her on a dating website some months ago. I have
proposed marriage but she wants more time. I am impatient
though, that’s why I have brought her here; maybe this
sacred environment will help her decide. After all, I told
her, even Lord Venkateshwara got to marry his sweetheart,
Padmavathi, on this very hill, though not before he
underwent a lot of difficulties and penance. The story is
that Venkateshwara, as an avatar of Vishnu, struggled to
win back Padmavathi, who was herself an avatar of Lakshmi,
Vishnu’s wife. Lakshmi had deserted Vishnu from their
heavenly abode because he forgave a sage who kicked him in
the chest. Vishnu’s chest was where Lakshmi resided.
Meenu had laughed at that, saying how could I believe such
a complex cock and bull story? What were these avatars
anyway? Avatars, I said, were incarnations or
manifestations of the supreme being. Vishnu himself is an
avatar! He assumed several more forms for several tasks—to
act as the noble son and husband even at great personal
cost (Lord Rama), to bring justice in an unjust world (Lord
Krishna), or to preach the right path (Lord Buddha). In
this case, the avatar of Venkateshwara was showing us how
important love is and once lost how difficult it is to
regain it. Meenu laughed some more at that, but in the end,
agreed to come to Tirumala, saying at least she would get
to see the famous temple; she hadn’t been there before.
*
I stand outside and look around. It’s almost a year since I
was here last. Some things have changed. To the right,
construction work is on for two new choultries—massive
buildings that provide free accommodation for pilgrims. The
main bazaar to the left has enlarged; more shops, more
pavement vendors. But beyond them, the richest Hindu temple
remains unchanged—a high wall of granite, a white tower at
the entrance crowned with seven golden spires, and like a
backdrop borrowed from a painting, an undulating stretch of
misty green hills. The air resonates with Vedic verses from
loudspeakers fixed to electric poles and rooftops. The
Sanskrit beats into my ears with a stridency that seems to
ask: So,
hoping for
better luck this time?
I sense someone approaching from behind. It’s Meenu and
she’s sliding her cell phone back into her purse. The
goddamn cell phone. Who has she been talking to now? She
has so many friends and I know nothing about them. She
works in a big call center. As for my phone, it hardly
rings; I am an insurance salesman; I am the one who makes
all the calls.
“How far is the cottage?” she asks.
“Ten minute walk,” I reply.
“Let’s get a taxi.”
“No taxis here. We are supposed to walk. Or use the free
buses.”
“That’s silly!”
I refrain from saying anything. By evening she should be in
a better mood. This place is like that; everyone changes
here.
*
We go up the main road. The weather is surprisingly hot;
summer is still a month away and this is supposed to be a
fairly tall hill. Midway to the right, several cottages
come up—compact structures in arched rows, painted a super
white, each fronted by an elegant porch, a tidy garden.
It’s as if Venkateshwara himself has designed the entire
place to promote love and peace.
Cottage 121 is the twenty-first in the first row. By the
time we get there my shirt is pasted to my body. Meenu is
worse; her creamy face has reddened and the fabric under
her armpits is wet with sweat.
The cottage has two rooms. I choose the one I occupied a
year ago. Even before I close the door, Meenu starts
undressing. I gape; I didn’t expect her to do this. Her
black bra and panties are so full and tight that my throat
goes dry.
“I hope the water is cool,” she says with a dramatic sigh.
She rummages for a towel in my suitcase and walks off as if
I don’t exist. I can only stare at all the jiggling and
swaying. Moments later I hear the shower turned on. I
imagine water negotiating firm hills and mysterious
valleys. Just then the sound of a muffled ring-tone. It’s
from Meenu’s purse. I quickly take out her cell phone and
press the answer button.
It’s a male voice, eager and strong. “Hi sweetie! When are
you coming back?”
I don’t answer.
“Meenu?”
I peer at the display. AJN. Obviously an acronym.
“Who is this?” I ask.
The line disconnects. It’s happened several times before.
Different voices, different acronyms. There’s no point in
asking her about them. The first time I asked, she flared
up, saying I was invading her privacy. Meaning:
I can do
what I please.
*
I sit at the small table near the window. This is where I
worked in my first job as Public Relations Officer of a
spiritual organization. We had organized a camp to teach
yoga and meditation. Forty-five men and women enrolled for
the course. And Kiran was one of them, a stunning dusky
beauty from Delhi. I wonder what she’s doing now.
“You are Kumar, right?” she’d asked, a little breathlessly
when she stepped into this very cottage. She was in a
shimmering cream and gold sari, her complexion like coffee
seeds roasted to a perfect brown.
I almost fell off my chair in my haste to get up. “Ravi.
Ravi Kumar Iyengar.”
“Great! Where do I stay?”
I picked up a file.
“Kiran Rao,” she said from behind. I could feel warm puffs
of her breath on my shirtsleeve.
“Cottage no 337.”
“Will you take me there?” Her eyes were lined with kohl and
the big dot of a crimson bottu
in
the middle of her forehead was like a third eye.
“It’s my duty,” I said.
“You are so cute!”
I must have flushed because she giggled.
Cottage 337 was farther up the hill, and as we trudged
towards it, her sari flirted with the irregular breeze,
exposing a large navel and a vignetted cleavage. She
appeared so vibrant, so adventurous. What made her join
this course? Was she looking for some fun? Or was she under
some emotional stress?
“Give me that,” I said, reaching for her suitcase.
“I was waiting for you to ask,” she laughed. We walked on
for some time. “Somu would have loved this,” she said.
“Somu?”
“Somashekhar. My husband. He is a lawyer. Criminal.” A
pause. “I meant criminal lawyer.” Another laugh.
“You seem too young to be married.” I thought she would
confide her age.
She didn’t. “Yeah? Well…thank you. I told Somu I wanted to
do this course. He said, ‘Go ahead, perhaps when you come
back you can teach my clients yoga and meditation. I can
charge them more.’” She mimicked a flat voice and glanced
at me. I felt confident that she expected me to laugh, so I
laughed, but she looked away as if I had done something
terribly unacceptable.
We reached cottage No. 337. I opened the lock and placed
her suitcase on the floor. She stooped to pick up the
suitcase and her sari fell away from her shoulders. The
half-moons in her blouse swayed a little. She caught me
looking and straightened up. “Why don’t you come in?” she
said, not making any effort to cover her blouse. She went
on, “But if you’re busy, we can meet some other time.” Then
she went in and all I could do was mumble a “yes” that she
didn’t hear, and stagger away.
*
Meenu emerges from her bath. The white towel is woefully
inadequate for her bursting curves. The aroma of sandalwood
soap is sharp and teasing. I remember another aroma that
had clouded my mind a year ago.
“What? Dreaming again?” she taunts.
She accuses me of that often, that my mind wanders, that I
sometimes forget she’s with me.
“I…I was waiting for you to finish,” I say and go past her.
It’s only when I finish my bath that I realize I have
forgotten to bring a fresh pair of briefs. I have only a
towel and it’s thin. I can imagine Meena glancing at the
towel, her nose wrinkling. “Something on your mind?” she
might say in her usual taunting manner.
I slide down along the wall and sit, my naked bottom
soaking in the cold of the tiles. I remember the last time
I sat like this. One afternoon, after lunch at the
choultry,
I was returning to my cottage when I saw Kiran pacing the
portico of my cottage.
“Ravi!” she called out even before I reached her. “Thank
god you came. There’s an an…animal in my cottage.”
“Animal?”
“It made an awful lot of noise. Like…like…I don’t know.”
We rushed to her cottage. “In the bathroom,” she whispered.
I went there. “Here take this,” she said, pressing a
plastic ruler into my hand.
I put my ear to the door. Nothing. I slid open the latch
and pushed the door a couple of inches. No sound, only
Kiran breathing behind me. I pushed the door some more. A
wall of green tiles spattered with water and a blue bucket
beneath a tap. I pushed the door all the way back. A mop,
another bucket under another tap, a small window to the
left, a bottle of shampoo on the sill. Then it started; a
shrill hut-hut-hut-hut.
Kiran held me, her softness pressing my back at several
points.
Hut-hut-hut-hut.
In the dim light I could make out a cone-like yellowish
object behind the smaller bucket. A snake? It moved out an
inch. Two large eyes and a bluish bead at the throat. What
animal was this? I took one more step.
That’s when it emitted a piercing cry. From behind, Kiran
clutched me so tight my knees wobbled. No woman had held me
like this. I tapped the ruler hard on the tiles. The yellow
object leapt and went smack into the wall. The animal fell
back on the floor and was still. Just the beady growth at
its throat inflated and deflated. It was the Indian
bullfrog, an ugly bloated creature. The large eyes closed
and opened, like blinks in slow motion. Kiran was still
holding on to me.
I laughed and gasped. “Why…why don’t you sit while I chase
this fellow out?”
It took me ten minutes to urge the amphibian out of the
cottage.
Kiran clapped her hands. “Thank you, Ravi!” Then she
gestured at the bed. “Sit for sometime,” she urged. Her
gaze traveled down my shirt, my pants. God, was the
stiffness in my pants showing? Apart from the bed there was
just one chair. I went there and my legs crossed
automatically. From outside the loudspeakers started their
metallic twang. It was an ode to Venkateshwara, hailing his
compassion towards sinners who surrendered to him.
“It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?” Kiran murmured. “This
yoga course. This cottage. This…this entire atmosphere.
Back home it’s hell. Each day is a torture.”
I waited for her to go on but she reached up to hold her
hair. Up and down her arms moved like engineering tools.
She coiled her hair into a knot and when she jerked tight,
her twin mounds shook like jelly being tossed in a bowl.
“Your husband,” I said. “Does he, I mean, doesn’t he mind
you being away?”
“Let’s not talk about him, okay?”
I gazed at my fingers. They were intertwining by
themselves.
“Sorry for speaking like that,” she said. Then she went to
close the door.
“Ravi, look at me.”
I obeyed.
“You haven’t had a girl, yes?”
I knew then what is meant by a husky voice.
“Poor boy!” she murmured and came to stand near me. Her
lavender perfume enveloped me in heady swirls. The folds of
her sari, the rise and fall of her blouse, the large and
deep navel, I felt faint. Her hands came on my temples. She
pressed lightly, as if I were a fragile sculpture, and
raised my face. The next moment her lips were on mine. I
stood up, and this time she crushed herself against me. Her
hands roved all over my back. Then one hand came to the
front and traveled in an unthinkable direction. God, it was
there, stroking the hardness. I let my own hand stray all
over her blouse and squeezed lightly. I wondered if I was
causing her some pain too. As if on cue, she moaned. Her
fingers searched frantically. Then her hand was in, her
sharp nails grazing. I felt my head dissolve and then,
suddenly, something scorched through all that storm. I drew
away.
Her eyes went wide. “What?”
“I don’t think...I…” I was unable to continue because the
room started to tilt and something flapped in my chest. Her
gaze flicked down to my nakedness. I turned and zipped up,
nearly getting caught in the zip.
“Ravi!”
I opened the door and stumbled out. If only she hadn’t been
married. Back in my cottage I stood under a cold shower for
a long time.
*
When I emerge from the bathroom, Meenu isn’t bothered about
the thin towel wrapped around my hips. She is examining
herself; she has changed into a sari. A splendid blue silk
with a silvery border. She adjusts the pleats at her waist.
“Nice?” she asks.
“Very nice,” I say.
“Let’s go to the temple.” There’s enthusiasm in her voice.
I am pleased. She looks so much like Kiran now, except for
her hair which is short and silky. Kiran’s was long and
dense.
We walk down the main road, amidst a babble of Malayalam
and Telugu, Kannada and Tamil, the principal languages of
southern India. We go past the terminus where mud-caked
buses stand exhausted, past a shed-like structure where
barbers squat in military rows and shave penitent heads,
past vendors surrounded by diligent heaps of flowers and
fruits, vermilion and turmeric powders: all the requisites
for a proper salutation to Venkateshwara. Then we are in a
huge quadrangle the size of several football grounds.
Groups of pilgrims stream up and down like confounded
armies. Farther, near the stone walls, hundreds more are
lined up in a queue behind steel railings, eager to receive
what Venkateshwara guarantees: absolution and success. All
he requires is a donation; he’s still paying back only the
interest on a big loan taken from Kubera, the wealthiest
god. Venkateshwara was quite the pauper when he wanted to
marry Padmavathi.
“It’s so damn hot here,” Meenu says. Her face streams with
sweat and some of her silky hair is plastered to her cheeks
like wayward tendrils. “Do we have to stand in that queue?”
“I know a priest,” I tell her. “Wait here.”
I sprint to the main gate. Inside a group of half-naked
priests are in discussion. I think I see the one I know but
I am not sure; he looks plumper now. Just then a policeman
approaches from the left. “What?” he demands, waving a
wicked baton.
“I want to meet Acharya Kesavan. He knows me.”
“So?”
“Acharya permitted me to use the special gate. Just call
him. I think he’s standing there.”
Another wave of the baton. “No, no, we have stopped all
that. Everyone has to be screened thoroughly. Security
concerns. No cameras. No cell phones. Go stand in the
common queue.”
It would take at least four hours to reach the sanctum
sanctorum by the common queue. I go back to where I left
Meenu but she isn’t there. I look around. There she is,
near a vendor of tender coconuts, talking into her blasted
cell phone. Who is it this time? She sees me and shoves the
phone into her purse. I go up and tell her about the
security concerns.
“Four hours in the queue? Not worth it, Ravi. Let’s go back
to the cottage.” She holds my hand and pulls.
I resist. “It’s an extraordinary experience, Meenu. You
shouldn’t miss it.”
I tell her about the dimly lit sanctum sanctorum, the heady
smells of joss sticks and oil lamps, the priests drawing
great circles of honor with a flaming spoon of camphor, and
Venkateshwara, black and serene, swathed in gold and
diamonds, silks and flowers, and apparently blind; an
enormous nama
covers much of
his forehead and all of his eyes. I tell her about the
legends associated with those covered eyes. One is that
they are so intense they can scorch the entire universe.
Another is that since this is kaliyuga,
the era of strife, he won’t open his eyes unless humanity
as a whole improves. And a third is that he wants to show
us that only he matters, everything else is
maya,
an illusion.
Meenu giggles so much that my face goes hot. She comes
close and whispers in my ear, “Well, I can show you
something that’s absolutely real.” For a moment I am
puzzled and then a heavy softness presses against my left
arm.
*
After that passionate afternoon, Kiran and I avoided each
other. The few times we couldn’t, we exchanged little nods
and little smiles like two strangers compelled to be well
mannered. Then one evening everything changed. I was
walking towards the temple. The sun was setting rapidly,
evoking long shadows and imparting a yellowish tinge to
everything around. The bazaar came up and an urchin
approached, holding out muddy fingers. I gave him a coin.
He scampered away and almost collided with a woman in a
bottle-green sari. She was facing the other way. The drape
of her sari, so low at the hips, and the deep cut of her
blouse at the back, showing off shoulder blades like satiny
wings, looked familiar.
“Looking for me?” said a husky voice at my elbow. I whirled
around. Kiran! And how different she looked. In one hand
she held a plastic basket: a half coconut, a couple of
bananas, some asters, and little round packets of turmeric
and vermillion powders. Her forehead was devoid of that
third eye, but in the parting of her hair a streak of
crimson powder cried like an exclamation mark. Her sari was
the traditional favorite—yellow silk with a gold border the
size of one hand span. The fabric was wrapped around her
body in such a way that not an inch of flesh showed.
Padmavathi must have looked like this on the day of her
wedding to Venkateshwara.
“Just passing time,” I mumbled.
“Let’s have some coffee. At Woodlands.”
“I don’t think—”
“Oh, come on, Ravi. Don’t act so uppity. What have I asked?
Just a coffee, not your life.”
We went past the temple to reach Woodlands, a large
restaurant surrounded by numerous Flame of the Forest
trees.
“What did you want to talk about?” I asked after I ordered
coffees.
She shrugged. “Nothing. I went to the temple. Offered
prayers. Then I watched a procession where they took the
gods in a palanquin. All that chanting and marching and
dozens of lamps, it was all like a movie set. I believe
they shoot a lot of movies here. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Did you know that last year the temple got something like
ten billion rupees in donations of all kinds—money, gold,
diamond studded crowns, even property deeds made out for
the temple?”
I shook my head. Why was she saying all this?
“Do you know that I love you?” she said.
I stared. Those big, black eyes didn’t blink.
“Kiran, you know nothing about me.”
She smiled. “Are you a criminal?”
“What!”
She sighed a sigh that said she hadn’t met a stupider
person than I. The waiter came with our coffees and I was
relieved to look at something else. The froth was a good
one-inch thick. I watched the bubbles die at unpredictable
points.
“Ravi, mine was an arranged marriage. Somu is twelve years
older. I married him because my parents owed his family a
lot of money. His parents said they’d forget the loans if I
married him. What could I do?”
“I…I’m sorry to hear that.”
She laughed. “You speak like a politician! Anyway, I
thought you should know something about me. Before you make
a decision.”
Decision? What was she talking about? She puffed her cheeks
and blew in her cup. The froth lifted in a wave to reveal
the coffee—brown and rich. Just like her skin.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Your future.”
“I just want to establish myself in a good career.”
“In this
place?”
“Of course not. I want to work in a good company. In
marketing. I think I’ll do well in that field.”
“Come to Delhi. All the top companies are there.”
I didn’t know what to say. Kiran laughed and the sari over
her bust heaved. “You don’t trust me or don’t like me?” she
asked.
“Kiran, it’s not—”
“You men are such duffers. Can’t you recognize genuine love
when you see it?”
I just looked at my coffee. I wondered about her husband.
Was he also a duffer? How could he permit such an
attractive wife to be away from him? Was he in love with
someone else?
“What sort of a girl do you want?” she murmured.
I shook my head. “I am not thinking of—”
“Ravi, look at me.”
I looked.
“Come with me to Delhi. I’ll put you up in an apartment.
Let’s see how it works out between us. For three months,
six months. Then you can decide.” There was again that
frank intensity about her face that took my breath away.
“Kiran, I like you. I like you a lot. But—” I groped for
the right words, and before my eyes her face shrank and her
throat bobbed as if she’d swallowed something hard and
large. She waved at the waiter, asking for the bill.
We came out of the restaurant. “I…I have to go to the
temple,” I said, although my feet seemed chained to the
ground.
Her hand came on to my wrist and there was just the
gentlest of pressures, a fraction of what she’d exerted on
the day of the bullfrog. She stepped up close. Those black
eyes were filling. I bent my head and stared at the ground
between us.
“Thank you for liking me,” she murmured and then her hand
dropped away. She turned and walked off. I watched her till
she disappeared in the throng of pilgrims. She left
Tirumala the following day.
*
Back in the cottage, Meenu does it again: unraveling her
sari even before I close the door. It disturbs me but
before I give more thought to it, she says, “Switch on the
light. It’s so dark.”
I do that.
She unbuttons her blouse and steps out of the pool of silk
on the floor. Then her hands go to the back to unclasp her
bra. Twin mounds tumble out in relief, and the tips are
like exotic betel nuts.
“Nice?” she asks. The half smile on her lips is so
mysterious, so taunting.
I nod and remove my shirt. She waits, eyeing my pants. I
can’t do this with the light on, so I go to the switch.
“No!” she commands.
I hesitate. She comes up and hooks a finger into my waist
and tugs.
I push away her hand. “You first.”
Without much ado she slips her panties down her thighs.
It’s a geometry I have never seen before, flawless curves
ensconcing a tidy triangle.
“Your turn,” she says. I quickly unzip my trousers and she
eyes the bulge in my briefs.
“Go on,” she urges. But I can’t do it; there’s a sudden
heaviness in the air; it’s as if Venkateshwara has
penetrated the walls right into this cottage. I switch off
the light.
She mutters something under her breath and goes to the bed
and lies there, her legs drawn up, her eyes riveted to the
ceiling. There’s a change in her, I can sense it; I am not
sure if I should approach the bed. Just then her damn cell
phone rings. Her shadowy figure sits up in a trice. She
leaves the bed, finds her phone and goes to the bathroom.
I sit on the bed. Minutes pass; she’s still talking.
There’s no point, I tell myself. This is stupid. This is
really my desperation to seek out an avatar of someone I
lost, and for her I am just a convenient form in flesh
rather than a digital acronym on her cell phone. I put my
clothes back on and go out. I can still hear her talking.
*
Outside the air echoes with the dulcet tones of the south
Indian classical singer, M. S. Subbulakshmi:
O
Venkateshwara, bestower of all benefits, closest kin of the
universe, bottomless ocean of compassion, tireless worker
for the world’s equilibrium…
There are fewer
pilgrims on the main road. The bazaar, however, is noisy
and crowded. A dosa
stall comes up.
The man is brushing clean a hot griddle on which he has
splattered water. He pours a cup of the rice batter and
spreads it out expertly, swiftly. The perfect round begins
to show innumerable tiny holes. He picks up a spatula and
clangs the sides of the griddle.
“Hot dosas, hot dosas!” he shouts at the pilgrims streaming
past. But it’s clear that only Venkateshwara matters. The
man turns to me as I approach, his eyes gushing hope.
“Dosa, Sir?”
I shake my head and walk on. Ah… the post office. It’s
closed but there’s a bench outside. I go and sit there and
close my eyes. I don’t know how long I keep them closed. I
sense the crowds lessening. Then the holy verses stop
abruptly, as if they have accomplished something. I open my
eyes. Everything is still and remote, the buildings, the
bazaar, the streets. Only a few pilgrims move about but
even they seem to be floating in another world. I rise from
the bench and head back to the cottage.
Copyright
2009 by Ramesh Avadhani