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An Oracle Gives up his Goddess



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:

1. Heights of Evil

2. Pip Learns the Essential Lessons

3. Delusions and Ironies of Love

4. Good Old Days without meetings

5. Finding Enlightenment

 

Comments

  1. If one doesn't get paid, why continue to do the work? Let someone else do it, then.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. When it comes to religion, there's no logic, there are only conventions and beliefs.

      Delete

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