The Oracle at the Temple (1059 words)

The temple was not crowded early in the morning. I stood alone in the inner sanctum, looking at the deity, resplendent and bathed in sandalwood paste. Suddenly, a shrill  voice from inside asked, “Have you ever greased someone’s palm for my darshan?”

I shuddered in disbelief and mumbled, “Not today, but I fear I have done once, on a festival day.”

“When you meet me next Sunday, you will neither have to bribe anyone nor wait for darshan. It will be instantaneous,” said the voice.

“What does He mean by ‘instantaneous meeting ’? Could it mean the end of my life?” I wondered.

Drenched in sweat and consumed by fear, I began thinking of all the unfinished business in my life: an unwritten will, enormous loans given to trusted friends but remaining unrecovered, many unregularised benami land and property transactions, and, above all, the prospect of my grieving wife and growing children.

I could hardly walk back home. The moment my wife opened the door, she shrieked, “Are you all right? Why are you drenched in sweat and looking so frightened? Are you feeling unwell? Tell me the truth!”

“Leave it. If I tell you, you will be even more frightened. You may not believe me either,” I replied.

She was adamant, so I finally told her about the divine voice in the sanctum and my fear that some tragedy awaited me on Sunday. She burst out laughing.

“It is my fault. I should have told you earlier. You mentioned that you were expecting your promotion orders. I also prayed that our children should, as usual, do well in the final examinations beginning next week. So I requested the temple priest to perform a puja and offer Pongal and Kesari. He agreed to do it this Sunday at seven in the morning, when the temple would be nearly empty. Perhaps the priest spoke to you from the dimly lit sanctum. I certainly don’t believe that God spoke to you!”

“No, the priest was not there. I was alone there. My God, what have you done? God was already displeased that I had greased the watchman’s palm to jump the queue, and now you have dared to bribe God Himself for petty favours. I am afraid you have put me in great trouble,” I said, overwhelmed by my fears.

“Be sensible. Anyway, we are going to the temple to fulfil my vow,” she assured me.

When we reached the temple on Sunday morning, the priest was not seen in the sanctum. Apart from two people sitting at a distance in a mandapam, there was no one around.

“Let me check his house. It is right behind the sanctum,” I said.

It was a small tenement covered by asbestos sheets, consisting of a hall, a bedroom and a tiny kitchen. A boy of about twelve was standing on a stool beside the wall adjoining the sanctum. I saw a large hole behind  him in the wall.

“Where is the priest?” I asked.

“Appa! Someone has come to see you,” he called out in his squeaky voice.

The priest emerged from the kitchen.

“Everything is ready. The Pongal and Kesari are done. Please go to the sanctum. I will follow you with the prasadam,” he said. Then he instructed his son, “Mukunda, take them carefully to the shrine.”

I was pleased to see that the boy handled the large plate carefully, which I had brought. It contained plenty of fruits, betel leaves, turmeric, camphor and incense sticks.

As Mukundan rang the bell with gusto, the priest performed the puja properly and without hurry. After the arati, I placed a ₹500 note on the plate. The priest’s face broke into a grateful smile.

As we were about to leave with the prasadam, I said, “Can we speak privately for a few minutes?”

He looked at me apprehensively, and the colour drained from his face.

“What is this nonsense about a divine voice in the sanctum frightening devotees?” I asked sternly. “I am a devout man, though I am also a police officer. But I do not believe in an oracle speaking in a child's squeaky voice. I saw the stool in your hall, right beside the wall adjoining the sanctum, and I also saw the hole. I want that hole to be  sealed properly with bricks and cement. Do you understand?”

The next moment, the priest fell at my feet.

“Forgive me, sir. I am in the throes of extreme poverty. My salary is very low, and the trustee firmly refused any increase but expects that the offerings by devotees on the arati plate are adequate to supplement my income. There is hardly any crowd or special pujas except on festival days. I cannot even afford my children's school fees. We sometimes go without food, except on days of special puja like today. I promise I will never do such a thing again.”

“I forgive you this time because I trust your sincere regret and promise. But remember, I may be a strict policeman if you repeat it. 

I will talk to the trustee and suggest appealing to the public for donations to increase the corpus and also increase your salary.

On my part, I will bear the expenses of your children’s education, including the books and uniform, if any. But you must teach them good values,” I told him before pressing a thousand rupees into his hand.

My wife looked at me with pride and satisfaction.

As I turned to leave, Mukundan suddenly fell at my feet. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Uncle, my father always warned me not to indulge in such pranks, but I did not listen. I only wanted to reduce his financial burden by encouraging devotees to perform more pujas with unfailing dakshina and liberal prasadam. It was my mistake that he was not aware of  it many times. I swear I will lead an honest life from now on. Please do not punish my father,” he pleaded.

I gently patted his head.

“Good boy. Study well,” I said.

As we walked away from the temple, I could not help smiling.

The ‘divine’ voice had indeed kept its promise.

My darshan that Sunday had been instantaneous, but the oracle had not been God. It had been a hungry child, speaking through a hole in the temple wall.