Making God laugh

Mom decided we ought to pay a visit to the temple town Nathdwara during our Christmas holidays. Dad made a fuss about the expense but Mom was firm: we hadn’t gone to pay our respects to the family deity, Shreenathji, for quite a while and we couldn’t put this off forever. Finally dad gave in and sent somebody from the factory to queue up at the railway station to buy the tickets for the family – which meant my parents and we three boys, the youngest of them being me and I was nine at that time.



Cut to Nathdwara.



The Nathdwara temple has eight darshans – which means, the temple gates are opened eight times a day to allow devotees to have a glimpse of the deity. The deity is adorned differently for each darshan hence each darshan is unique. 



Now, if you are devout, and in love with the deity, even with its form, you would like to have as many darshans as you can. So I announced to my mother, “Tomorrow I will have all eight darshans of Shreenathji.”



“Hush!” said my mother. “You can’t say that. Say that and you’ll never be able to have all the eight. Only His wish prevails.”



“Just you watch. I will squat on the temple steps, right outsides the gates, all through the day and let’s see who stops me from having all the darshans!”



My mother shrugged. “Let’s see.”



The next day, I accompanied my family to the temple very early morning for the first darshan. After that, the family checked out the notice board for the timing of the next darshan and we left for breakfast. 



I was edgy and kept checking the time on my dad’s wristwatch. But we were back in time for the next darshan. Then we hung around in the market street outside the temple for the one after that. It was close to noon when we emerged from that darshan, and the family decided to go back to our room for lunch and rest. 

The family decided to skip the afternoon darshan and instead take a short nap. But I was adamant. I had vowed to myself that I would have all eight darshans and I would be damned if I didn’t. I quarrelled with my mother, who wanted me to sleep a while, and returned to my post on the temple steps. 



I squatted there on the steps with the dogged alertness that comes from the reluctance to lose a bet. As soon as the temple gates would open I would scurry in, dash into the gaps amidst the adults and work my way into the front row for the darshan. This way I got two more darshans under the belt. Now there were just three more to go. It was a cinch. My location was perfect, my determination rock solid.



Now picture this. It is late afternoon. The town’s sleepiness has affected pilgrims too. There are fewer of them to been seen in the streets. There is a somnolent breeze wafting across the narrow lane leading to the temple. On both sides of the lane are pavement stalls selling flowers, sweets, picture frames and trinkets. There are a handful of beggars near the temple steps, getting ready for the anticipated conversion of piety into alms. I am sitting there on the temple steps, watching all this. The temple gates are closed and the notice board clearly shows that there is still half an hour to the next darshan. I turn to watch the street scene. A few minutes later I turn back towards the notice board to give a confirmatory glance and I see a temple functionary, standing with his back to me, changing the timing on the board. I bounce up to look at the change he has made. Aw shucks! The darshan has been postponed by another fifteen minutes! I sigh and resume my vigil on the somnolent steps.



I suddenly notice a small crowd gathering in the narrow street. They are watching a madari’s monkey tricks. I stand up to see the show from the vantage height of the steps. Soon the growing audience blocks my view so I gingerly go down the steps. I can hear the sound of the ‘dumroo’ but I can’t see the monkey perform so I work my way through the crowd to get to the inner line of the circle. 



Wow! What a performance! The monkey has such intelligent eyes he almost seems human. And he is so smart he seems to understand everything the madari tells him! I laugh at his antics, I guffaw when he mimics a spectator scratching his head, I shudder when he lunges at us, I clap enthusiastically along with the audience when he takes a bow.



All of a sudden I give a start. Darshan! I elbow my way desperately out of the crowd and dash up the steps. 



The temple doors are slowly closing. I have just missed a darshan.