Cipher

I can’t quite recall the first time I bowed to anyone or anything.
I see it only in fragments, devoid of any chronology or reality.
Maybe it was the time
when my mother held me in her hands and put me under someone else’s
so that they could shower their blessings on my fragile infant body.
A body that would soon go on to hold an equally fragile and inquisitive mind.
Maybe the blessings were bestowed to keep that inquisitiveness away.

Maybe it was the time
when the only way to devour halwa and ladoos without reprimand
was to have them as prasad –
that could only be earned by kneeling on the ground,
pressing my forehead against the floor,
folding my hands
and thanking the omniscient for allowing me to exist.

Maybe it was the time
when I was one
and an elderly man visited our home for the first time
and I was told to touch his feet
so that he would be forced to bless me.

Maybe these things happened,
maybe they didn't.
I've come too far to be able to spot the difference.

What I do remember, however,
and remember vividly,
is the time when I bowed in front of a stone
that I'd walked 30 kilometres and 300 steps to see.
I was in college back then,
waiting for my academic result
that would seal the next decade of my life,
or so I thought. 
Two months before that,
I'd vowed to stand where I was standing that day,
only if I passed my exams.
Such were the stakes.

The stakes got substantially higher when I got married
and was struggling to keep a job,
be a good husband,
a good son,
a responsible citizen,
an independent man,
a family man.

So, I travelled 600 kilometres, climbed 3000 steps and hiked a mountain
to meet another stone
that could alleviate my suffering.

I was soaking wet,
covered in muck
and sleep deprived by the time I was 100 feet away from it.
I almost went inside to beg,
before a policeman on crowd control duty
almost pushed my father off a staircase and down the sacred mountain,
before I grabbed his collar and almost hit him,
before a senior officer intervened and apologised on his colleague’s behalf;

before I almost believed
that a place of worship was any different.

***

Chanakya Grover hails from Chandigarh and writes poetry in English and Hindi. He has written for The Tribune. He works in Arts Management.