Issue October 1 -14

Seeing divinity from a different perspective.
All day he has watched them filing past in front of him — hands folded in supplication or open in entreaty, eyes beseeching or adoring. The whisper of demands, the murmur of prayer have dulled his ears to the soft patter of leaves that they rain around him, and the scent of humankind and its needs have overwhelmed the scent of the flowers banked on his person.
He had woken to song, but it was from a sleep too brief, even for a God, and even before the curtains parted to let them take away his resplendent bedding comforts, the murmur of individual requests had reached his ears.
Not a moment was he left to himself after that. They thronged around him, staring as he was put through his ablutions... the ritual cleansing, the many-layered dressing, the worshipful scattering of leaves and petals even as they called out his 1,008 names and sang of his might and power.
Somewhere deep in his mind, he knew it was all for a purpose — this daily routine of rituals that kept him tied to a human plane. It was the only way they could reach him, tell him their stories, ensure that he heard and heeded. It was an excuse for contact, a way to keep him in touch with the daily world.
And so it was, in the course of the day, as he lived through human routines, that he heard of the child who was ill and could be saved only by a miracle, a job that had to be got to save a starving family, an exam that just had to be passed, a girl who needed to be won, a wayward sister, a sick wife, a drunkard husband... He heard of films that had to be turned into hits, and business deals that necessarily had to be pushed through.
The stories he heard, the revelations he was privy to, made him sometimes wonder what the world was coming to. But he kept his peace... and listened. Often, he was moved enough to want to help. And make it so! On easy days, he knew he was at the receiving end of at least a hundred thousand stories, and that was not counting the messages that came indirectly or from long distances away.
The stones in front of his abode had worn smooth with the constant shuffle of feet. His patience held rock-like, nonetheless. Morn to noon, noon to night, he went through the motions, indulging them in the small things that made them happy.
Then at last, it was night. Early morning in fact, but darkness was still upon the world. And they dimmed the lights. And made up his bed. Even now, he could see a hundred pairs of eyes watching them put off the tapers one by one, straining to catch a glimpse of him through the rising smoke.
The ‘naadaswaram’ played a gentle lullaby, the crowds were dispersed, and the last footfall faded as the guards stood outside to prevent prostration and the last hurried prayer. It was only then that he felt a lifting. A sense of relief. He would rest at last.
Already, the crowds were collecting in orderly lines outside the gates, which would open an hour-and-a-half later.
It was not an easy job being the Lord of Tirupati.
The Editor