The Journey

 It’s hard to find moon in the daytime.

Well, well – quite obvious and intuitive, I must agree. Sun outshines moon any given day. The way of sun is to flood whatever he is falling upon, ruthlessly peeling off the very shroud of darkness his victim has been desperately draped with, thus bringing it to a naked, atrocious reality. How then can his much inferior celestial sibling be an exception! Sun outrages not simply the silent yet beguiling dignity of moon, but even its very existence – quite true.

But moon can be visible on some days: up there, not much distant from a blazing sun. No – I am not getting metaphoric here, it was put rather literally. On some days, on clean sky, you would be able to see moon sticking around in a hearty blue background – a welcome change from its usual, dark nocturnal being - believe me! Now, please don’t dampen me with when’s, why’s or how’s - for a change, I am in no mood to speak science.

It was on such a ‘moony day’ when I set out for my village. Right above, further on my car’s windscreen this exceptional sight rejoiced me. Now, I was even more beaming at the realization that my years spent amidst the senseless plurality of domino-shaped concrete cages couldn’t yet desiccate my romantic self to make me so arid as to not enjoy such teeny-weeny pleasures the senses kindly offer at times.

Well – I don’t dare let all my feelings during the time spill out; I am sure you would get quite bored. What to do - it’s all the same in any nostalgic trip to a country side of Kerala, isn’t it? : Those same ‘lush’ paddy fields and the same old gentle breeze that sways them in random to form an exquisite palette of varied hues of moist green. The same sprawling canals denting their way up through an otherwise plane landfills. And if you are lucky to be from some of the best of places as I am, you would even have those awe-inspiring backwaters to treat the remainder of that old starry-eyed you. And then you have those places that are so very special to you: the school, the ancestral home, the meadow, hillside or riverbed you would always found yourself on ‘those’ years, the temple….

The temple! On such a trip down the memory line, Where else should I be visiting first ! My drive has got an objective cut out – thankfully.

Granted, I have grown to be this type of an individual who is not very amused at the prospect of visiting places of worship thronged by legions of confused souls forcing and fighting each other before the sanctum apparently to get their piece of peace of mind. But the village temple! It was a class apart.

The Memories

It was where I, like most of you, spent some of the purest moments in my life. Moments marked by ingenuousness and nonchalance alike. The moments that could magically manifold even the slightest vibe that would have ensued of a positively disarming glance from some pair of young eyes: those amazing little reservoirs of boundless innocence and purity. The moments when you believed with cute naiveness that you were protected of all evil by that little carved batholithic mass in the tiny, dark and dusty recess that smelled oil, sandal or vermillion. Mornings were cleansed and revitalized with a brace of temple’s enormous trees – awakening to their photosynthetic best even as you would still be snoozing over that familiar euphony of holy chants– quite sweet and gentle. Evenings were even more surreal – either mystic or romantic or both, based on how the temple and its surroundings wanted to find you each day. The temple was a master mind-manipulator. Or better still, a great, friendly illusionist.

She

I always workout this entire wistful itch from the past before my dearest.

How strongly she always feels on hearing my nostalgic laments on the temple! Well- I would always become quite vocal and passionate when I talk of it. She knows it quite well, and she expresses great interest whenever I get nostalgic. I would have taken her interest to be out of her love and compassion, had it not been for those subtle yet perceptible shifts in her ex-pression during my blab. Her cute, rabbit-eyes get still wider with that babyish curiosity quite typical of her, her perpetual air – one of innocent earnestness – gets wonderfully sharper.

She would ask:

“Tell me, how big is the temple?”

“Small. It’s scantily visible from as far away as half a kilometer”

“So , did you really spend so many hours there each day – incredible ! I know how much you scorn temples these days” - A tinge of melancholy nestles in her voice.

“I don’t scorn temples; who told you so ? I just don’t visit them.”

“Then, what is it that you like about this particular temple?”

“For me, it’s not a place for worship; it’s a temple-shaped memory”

“hmmm…” – she gives up, but not before making another pensive comment. “I wish I were with you in those times – as part of your nostalgia”

“You are always with me”

“Don’t talk to me. I am angry with you”

“What ! Why ?!!”

“Do you know how mean of you it really is! I was not with you back then. I don’t want you to be nostalgic about a time and place I was not with you.”

Sweet stupid! I would start snorting my heart out, but noticing her ex-pression having been remained grave, I would force purse my lips. 

The Stop

Evening was still young when I took that familiar turn to the lean route that leads to temple. It lay before me as barren, blemished and bleak as it has always been: like a mangled blanket over a faceless destitute. But it is just a road, you know. Road to any lofty destination has to be unpleasant enough – or so I would like to take it.

My vehicle creaked halted seemingly by itself a couple of yards from the temple surrounds. You don’t have to struggle to find a parking lot in a place like this; I preferred to leave it where it stopped.

I came out to all-embracing purity - pure air, pure light and pure rustic aroma. My heart didn’t throb or ached, my head didn’t start wheeling in anticipation, my nostalgic itch didn’t scale up to any eczemic proportion foretelling a prospective healing touch – nothing.

But..

But somewhere deep within me something has transformed, and I could suddenly see me becoming me back yet again.

A bliss. Inexplicable.

The Feel

I looked around. The premises was practically deserted. I preferred to watch everything I wished to watch from a reasonable distance as I didn’t exactly want to get inside. You don’t actually need to go see the deity there to savor the nostalgic pleasure in being at the temple on such a trip; you don’t need to see the sarcophagus inside to appreciate the beauty of Taj Mahal.

My eyes scouted about all over the place with a certain raunchy masculine eagerness like one of a young man getting exposed for the first time to an unclothed female chassis. On my face, I could feel the gust and scent of days bygone. From the trees to the grains of sand, from the pond to the pillars – all looked to be in some silent brawl to being the first to seize my notice. I couldn’t afford to miss anything – anything. I let loose my senses, inciting them to stockpile as much as they could to stuff the nostalgic zone of my photographic memory to capacity. Mind is the best camera.

The Rendezvous

Out there, the light of nature kept receding. Shadows fell and fused against each other in lucid regularity bringing into being some very archaic darkness, waiting to engulf the structure like a huge impregnated cloud aching to sprout itself against an alluring land below. But then there came a more gratifying form of light to force it back, when the temple gradually transformed into a playhouse of numerous bantam light-bits relentlessly emerging, dancing, quivering and vanishing all over .My mind and eyes started hopping over the lamps in an uncanny rhythm. Is this might be what they call the spiritual experience? I was not very sure, as my realistic self was not yet ready to get carried away beyond its own sweet point; it kept telling me this torrent of emotions could well be something very subjective – something could only be apparent to an odd and occasional visitor like me. I couldn’t believe that any single soul passing by while I was standing there in mute amazement carried anything with them more than just a pinch of practical piety.

..just then..

A female silhouette so familiar stepped gently out of the temple with even more familiar movements. Familiar to each breath and every neuron of mine. Familiar to a fault.

It could only be she – my love! How can she be here in this temple, of all the places!

The silhouette had by then advanced in dimensions, and so was my gape. She was nearing. I was sure she had seen me, but I couldn’t see a trace of astonishment in her manner and movements even as she walked decidedly in my direction.

What had she been up to? Why didn’t she give me an inkling of her visit? She knew I would come here this temple this day, anyway. My mind got swarmed with question marks.

She came close, stopped right in front facing an utterly clueless me.

I was speechless but for one curious ex-pression: “You… here…? “

 “You didn’t expect me right here, right now- did you?”

“No!”

“You don’t expect the presence of the present when you indulge in your past, do you?”

I didn’t give an answer. I didn’t have one.

“But see – I don’t want you to carry such a beautiful memory devoid of me. I won’t let you get nostalgic about anything that doesn’t have room for me. But from now on, I know you won’t be able to think of this temple without me. “

A pleasant puff of air blew over her hair.

She giggled. The temple at a distance sparkled bright in her eyes.

I was realizing how right she was! No sight in my life so far had ever bore me off like that: This temple and she. The temple – my past; she – my present.  

I felt transcendent - caught in an osmotic interlude of segmented eternity.

Nothing had ever been more enchanting than seeing her with this temple in the background: present, with past in the background. No, it was the foreground that manifested majestically with her glinting presence, denigrating the temple even in its illuminative best to a mere pool of burning carcasses of dark antiquity hovering in worship of the newfound goddess. Her velvety elegance looked infinitely more striking than all those oil lamps around resembling the hostile host of crepuscular sunbeams fighting a losing battle against the gentle yet persistent lunar emergence.

I looked skywards: Night. The moon’s triumph was absolute.