Let me bring here today an old Malayalam story written
by M T Vasudevan Nair who turned 90 a couple of months back. Titled The Sacred
Sword and Anklet, the story is about an oracle [velichapadu] in
a Kerala temple. Though the oracle’s name is Ramakkurup, no one calls him by
that name. He has no identity other than that of the oracle. He has no name as far as the villagers are concerned. Nobody is concerned
either about his living conditions.
Ramakkurup became an oracle in his
youth when his father, the former oracle, died. His grandfather was an oracle
too. When Ramakkurup took up the profession, which by now had become a family
profession, the devotees were happy because the young oracle had a tremendous
lot of physical energy and churning passion. He would even bring the oracle’s
sword down on his own forehead cutting it. Only his wife was anguished by the
intensity of such passion. Even she didn’t, in all probability, understand that
it was not religious fervour that made the oracle perpetrate such a violent
deed upon himself. It was frustration. It was a kind of fulmination.
Ramakkurup’s father and grandfather
were able to look after their families well because they earned well enough doing
the job in the temple. But nowadays the devotees give all the money to the
priest and want the blessings and the messages of the goddess through the
oracle. The oracle is the giver and the priest is the receiver of benefits.
The priest had come from somewhere as
an impoverished and emaciated young man. Now, years later, he is a fat rich
man. He built a mansion for his family. He lives in luxury. And he gives alms
to the oracle who receives nothing from the devotees on his sword any more as
his father and grandfather used to.
On the contrary, if anything goes
wrong with him, the devotees will blame him. “He has done something to
displease the goddess,” they would conclude. When his wife and daughter
contracted smallpox and had to be quarantined, Ramakkurup pleaded with the
priest for some money to help him deal with the tragedy. “Where do I get so much
money?” The priest responded. “How can you carry such dishonesty in your heart
standing at the feet of the goddess?” Ramakkurup asks. The sacred thread that hangs
down the big belly of the priest dances a contented rhythm. The oracle’s sword
would have been of good use now, Ramakkurup thinks. On the head of this lying
priest.
Heartbroken, Ramakkurup goes home
where his wife and daughter are groaning in agony, takes all the accoutrements
of the oracle – the sword, bronze anklet and the bronze waistband with a string
of bells – and goes to the metalsmith. “Does bronze still fetch some money?”
Ramakkurup asks. The metalsmith is stunned. This is not done. Can’t be. But the
oracle knows what he is doing.
If only the devotees learn the
required lessons too!
Let me end this post with what Karl
Marx said about religion:
Religion is the opium of
the people. It is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless
world, and the soul of our soulless conditions.
PS. This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon
Previous Posts in this
series:
2. Pip Learns the Essential Lessons
3. Delusions and Ironies of Love
4. Good Old Days without meetings
If one doesn't get paid, why continue to do the work? Let someone else do it, then.
ReplyDeleteWhen it comes to religion, there's no logic, there are only conventions and beliefs.
DeleteSadly, that's how it is mostly.
ReplyDeleteNo doubt.
Delete