WHERE ANGELS WALK
The temple evokes a nostalgic swirl of unkind memories. The reason, perhaps, I chose to enter less frequently those gigantic iron-framed wooden doors behind which, in the century-old historical sanctum, the most revered Hindu Deity sits grandly adored.
A decade ago, I was a regular devotee to the shrine with my wife, who departed to be with God seven years back because of an ill-fated health condition.
I remember her tendency to request without giving much space to think, “We’ll go for a long drive now.” A tacit hint, going to her favourite temple – a forty-five-minute drive along the busy highway.
Later, a few years back, when I started writing my photo blogs, I clicked the cobbled–stone corridor encircling the temple and many idols that sat in the shade of huge old banyan tree carrying all the mandatory religious proofs as if claiming they were also as much adored as the supreme God himself. Afterward, I lost interest and never encouraged myself to take a drive or the camera to the temple.
A brief impulse struck me a few days before: “Why don’t I visit the temple once? It’s been a long time. I’m more on a photographic high, and the old sentiments and nostalgic injuries seem less bothering me otherwise.
Thoughts about the Temple have set in a mood of unease. Deep inside, I hear an accusing rumble, “How so quickly could you erase the past and its bearings, you stupid, selfish thing?” I silently curse myself in shame. I know all this is happening in the dark corners of my imagination. But I assert back in a loud whisper, “It’s not true; I truly honour the past events and the memories related to my wife.”
I pack my camera kit and drive to the temple in Mangalagiri Village, a prosperous suburb of Vijayawada, my native city, for over six decades.
I’m going there but don’t have any visual agenda, which I often plan before I set off to any outdoor place. As my eyes maneuvered through the evening traffic, a stab of guilt started forming, and surely I have to admit, for the carelessness I had held for the most favoured place of worship my wife preferred. Let me, I decided for myself, mingle in the divine ambiance and watch the devotees immersed in the holy servitude. As I walked close to the gates, looking at the worshippers entering, an imagination of my wife standing prayerfully in their midst flashed and came to life.
Walking barefoot in the corridor, I wondered, “Am I tracing my wife’s footsteps that felt the coldness of the slabs beneath a decade ago?”
I further reflected, “Do the temple steps, painted with colourful designs, still remember her settling delicately upon them, sharing a piece of coconut kernel, a banana, or holy water offered by the priest?”
I went straight into the inner sanctum and, overcame by a spell of ingratitude, I considered asking the Deity perched on the altar, “Have you ever listened to the silent prayers my wife chimed before you, please wishing good for her children, a petition about her ill health”?
Slightly dazed, overwhelmed by the confused pull of the thoughts the temple surroundings have caused, I felt there was no way I could bring up to focus any worthwhile snapshots. However, I had managed a few images that helped me to drive away the heap of that brief contemplative dullness.
