The Temple

I drove a long while yesterday, pleasantly surprising myself each time I threw the car around a bend with casual ease; for I have reason to believe that Driving, like Language, can be forgotten. Today I was bursting through the streets once again, though not equipped with the Swift this time around, as I found myself seated precariously on Mom's 50cc Kinetic - empathizing with the way Lord Ganesha feels when he sits on his mouse. Helmeted - not by choice, I stared through the vizor at the way Chennai's greatest road contrasted the erstwhile empire and ancient megalith with modern day towers.

I was on a mission today: an impromptu decision and a whimsical moment, which lead to the beginning of an insatiable urge. Being filled with the improbable melange of piety and desire, while all the time acknowledging the fact that neither could live while the other survived, I decided that it was only prudent that I nip it at the bud. And I embarked upon the pilgrimage.

I haven't been to the shrine for a while now and I felt that the Powers might chastise me for my ignorance, condemn me and relegate me to the desecrated world. But then I have always believed that the Lord is forgiving. And I continued on my trip, with expectations reaching their acme as the temple came into view. Like all temples, there was nothing blindingly brilliant about the exterior, for temples need not boast their existence. They merely need to exist, and people will come.

I stood in awe as I stared at the resplendent medieval facade, tattooed with the number '1844', which seemed to stare back down upon me, as if demanding, "Where have you been all these days?" I bowed my head and putting my right foot forward, I stepped across the threshold. A chill ran down my spine as I reminded myself that I was finally reunited with the lord in his abode, after all the missing years. Every aspect of the place left me amazed: the careless nonchalance in the way the angels presented themselves to those who cared to come, the meticulous and overworked attendants and the overwhelming mix of people who prayed by my beside.

No number of hours could suffice in such a place, as I tried placating a hurt ego - convincing myself that there was still time for redemption. I left the shrine a few hours later, as a greatly enriched man. And I swore to return as soon as fate and time permitted me to. And thus I exited Higginbotham's - the oldest bookstore in the country. And the finest, needless to say.

God bless Abel Joshua Higginbotham.