God Bless the Mess (and Me)
It all started with a suggestion from my elder brother, Ravi. “Kamakshi, why don’t you visit Swarnagiri temple? It’ll bring you peace and prosperity.” Ravi’s advice always came coated with good intentions but often resulted in chaos for me. But this time, I thought, why not? A divine intervention might do me some good. Little did I know I was signing up for a full-day survival adventure.
Booking the train ticket was the first ordeal. I heard stories of people easily getting tickets online, but for me, it felt like an exam with no syllabus. “Be quick, Kamakshi,” Ravi said, peering over my shoulder as I attempted to book a seat. As soon as I hit the payment button, the site froze, as if mocking my enthusiasm. By the time it revived, all tickets were gone. After much pleading and some buttering up, our family travel agent secured a tatkal ticket for me—middle berth. The universe had already decided I wouldn’t have it easy.
The day of the journey arrived, and so did the chaos. The railway station looked like the entire city had gathered for a free concert. I clutched my modest bag tightly and weaved my way through the crowd. Hawkers shouted, families with oversized luggage blocked every path, and children darted between legs like it was a playground. My train arrived fashionably late, and the boarding process turned into a stampede.
“Amma, move!” a grand mother shouted, wielding her walking stick as a clearing tool. After a series of shoves and near-stumbles, I finally reached my berth, only to realize the fan wasn’t working. A kind passenger offered me a newspaper, which I used to fan myself as the train rocked and rattled its way to Swarnagiri.
After surviving the train journey, I reached the temple town, where the real adventure awaited. The streets were alive with devotees, vendors, and hawkers shouting over one another. I naively thought I could grab a quick breakfast before heading to the temple, but the queue for idli was longer than the one for darshan. When I finally got my plate, a cow ambled by and attempted to claim my chutney as prasad.
With my hunger satisfied and my patience tested, I headed to the temple. The temple entrance was a swirling vortex of humanity. Security guards, volunteers, and a stern-looking priest tried to maintain order, but the crowd had a mind of its own. I was swept into the darshan line like a leaf caught in a river.
In the queue, I met fascinating characters: a lady who recited slokas non-stop, a man with an umbrella who thought it doubled as a poking device, and a child who cried so much I started to wonder if he’d been promised chocolate at the sanctum.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I reached the sanctum sanctorum. The priest’s rapid chant sounded like a train announcement, and before I could fully absorb the divine energy, I was unceremoniously nudged aside by the next devotee. “Move on, amma,” said the priest. I moved.
Feeling both accomplished and drained, I decided to explore the market outside the temple. Bad decision. The narrow lanes were crammed with vendors shouting over each other, selling everything from plastic toys to bangles. A particularly aggressive vendor shoved a pile of sarees in my direction, nearly knocking me over. As I tried to maneuver through the crowd, I felt a tug on my bag. My heart raced. Spinning around, I caught a young boy trying to unzip my bag. He grinned sheepishly before disappearing into the crowd. “Devudu rakshinchaledu, but my instincts did,” I muttered, tightening my grip on my bag.
Finally, it was time to return home. The bus station was no better than the train station. People swarmed around, each fighting for a seat like it was the last bus to heaven. I managed to get a corner seat, sharing it with a woman carrying a basket of bananas. She offered me one with a kind smile, and I accepted, realizing it was the first peaceful moment of the day.
As the bus rumbled along the highway, I reflected on the day. The mad rush at the temple, the chaos of the market, the jostling at the train and bus stations—it all felt like a test of patience and survival skills. And yet, amid all the chaos, there was a lesson. God might save us, but it’s up to us to stay calm, alert, and prepared.
Back home, Ravi greeted me with his usual smirk. “How was the trip?” he asked. I looked at him, my face a mix of exhaustion and triumph. “I’ve had enough divine blessings to last a lifetime,” I said, dropping onto the sofa.
That night, as I lay in bed, I promised myself to avoid crowded places unless absolutely necessary. And if I ever did venture into such chaos again, I would go armed—not with weapons, but with patience, a sturdy bag, and perhaps an umbrella to fend off poking uncles.
