The temple bells rang and the drummer set the mood for the "Sandhya Aarti". The rhythmic beat of the drum, devotees almost in a transcendental space, the aroma of garlands, sandal and "dhoop", transported me to a new kind of awareness. As I stood there almost transfixed to the blue idol of "Maa Kali" silently sharing my wishes, a little nudge broke the spell. Two tiny, pudgy hands were holding onto the door latch, visibly restless since her parents were too busy modulating their material needs into a prayer most adults are guilty of. The 'holy' smoke did not interest her; the fluid hand gestures of the temple 'Purohit' did. She tapped her feet and swayed her waist, the cold marble floor warmed up to her innocence.
Unable to contain a grin that was not well received by the stern looking lady draped in a white shawl by my side, I was now peeking at this little devil, my eyes semi-open.
The "aarti" reached it's crescendo, heads were swaying heavily, almost intoxicated. The crowd was hurrying up to complete its quota of grievance call to the Divine.
No one had bothered to care where the pint-sized brown girl had sauntered. I could see her open the lid of the brass vessel that held the holy water of Hindus, popularly called "Charanaamrit". One fist held the spoon and the other was open in anticipation of the sweet water. Spoon after spoon, she poured the magic potion on to her palm and slurped it.
The drums, conch and bells reached the climax and at that same moment, in a swift move she lodged a spoonful of the fluid straight into her tiny mouth and with a quick look around to detect any prying adult eyes, she gleefully licked the spoon and dropped it back in the "kalash".
As she regained her angel like composure, our eyes met and she knew that I had seen her. We grinned at each other and slowly walked away sharing a piece each of this divine secret and knowing so well that god's Charanaamrit was now her "mukhaamrit".
The temple had a new god for the first day of the new year.
Winter is a funny story teller.
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