My Sabarimala Visit

With Maggie at Badrinath

Hindu temples used to fascinate me. There is a unique aura of mystery exuded by their very architecture. When I was a little boy I wished to enter the temple premises in my village. But the bold writing on the wall of that temple, “Non-Hindus are not allowed to enter,” kept me out. That writing vanished some time after I actually entered that temple. The curiosity of a little boy was what drew me in one day while I passed by that temple, as I always did, while going for my evening bath in the nearby river. I stood in that dark chamber for hardly a minute when someone whispered in my ear to get out before I would stir up a communal riot in the village.

I visited scores of Hindu temples later in various parts of the country including Badrinath in the Garhwal Himalayas, Kamakhya in Guwahati and Gaumukh in Mount Abu. All those temples fascinated me for reasons which I never tried to analyse. It was a kind of instinctual fascination, I think. It was a similar instinct that made me visit Sabarimala long ago in 1990 or so.

I was sharing a drink with my friend Prasad Nair. “Have you gone to Sabarimala?” I asked him. “Of course,” he said. He had gone as a pilgrim. I told him that I wished to visit Sabarimala as a tourist. “Why not? I’ll take you.” Prasad said.

As simple as that. Neither Prasad nor I was a pilgrim. We got into a bus from Prasad’s hometown, a bus which carried only Sabarimala pilgrims who were invariably called swamis. I had followed Prasad’s advice to wear a dhoti that resembled the swami attire. But neither of us had the irumudikettu which is an inevitable accoutrement of the Sabarimala pilgrim. No one bothered about our lack of irumudikettu as Prasad and I began our ascent from Pamba bus stand to the holy temple.

By the time we reached the temple we looked totally brown with all the dust we gathered along the way like any other traveller. We waited in the kilometre-long queue for ascending the 18 sacred steps. A policeman noticed the absence of irumudikettu on our heads and approached us. “Are you pilgrims?” He asked. “No,” we said. “We are just visitors.”

The policeman told us that we could not ascend the 18 steps since we were only visitors. He showed us another way to reach the Sanctum Sanctorum of the temple and we followed the instructions. I stood before the idol of Ayappan with folded arms breathing in the fervour of the pilgrims through every pore in my skin. “Swamiye Saranam Ayappa!” I too murmured involuntarily.

Nobody was bothered by the fact that Prasad and I had no irumudikettu. That we were mere visitors. On the contrary, we were addressed as swamis. Everyone who visited the temple was a swami. The spirit of fraternity was all too palpable. I loved it. Sabarimala remained in my heart as a place that exuded an extraordinary sense of fraternity.

Sadly today it has become a place that radiates animosity. I feel sad. Why have we become like this? I wonder. Why is India such a hate-filled country now?

I won’t ever visit Sabarimala anymore. I know that. That awareness makes me sad.  

At Thirunelli Temple in Kerala [1990s]