By Savitri Narayanan
The temple premises were quite crowded.
‘Must be some special pooja day,’ thought Chellamma as she sat down, opened the cloth bag and spread out her things.
“Amma, be kind to the poor,” she raised her dented begging bowl and implored, “God’s blessings will come to you and your children!”
Devotees, some with children and some with elders tagging along, went in and out of the temple. Being a Sunday only increased the number of devotees.
‘Good day for me,’ Chellamma smiled within as she pleaded again.
Over the decades, naturally, Chellamma had sharpened her skills. She had learnt how one looks into the eyes of a beggar often loosened the devotees’ purse strings!
“May God bless you, amma,” Chellamma managed to get eye-contact with the woman coming down the temple steps with her husband and children in tow, “Be kind to the poor!”
The young mother gazed closely at Chellamma’s faded and tattered but clean dress, dropped a coin in the begging bowl. She also dropped part of the prasad, a banana and some payasam into the bowl. Chellamma raised her hand in blessing, transferred the food and coins into her bag and called out to the old couple who were coming down the steps.
“May God’s blessings come to you…”
‘It’s been more than half a decade,’ thought Chellamma. ‘Thousands of devotees came and went, so did the priests and their helpers but I’m here every morning! In this spot I grew up and am growing old…”
As usual that night, too, she spread the mat, blew off the lamp but sleep evaded her.
‘Is this what’s called life,’ she pondered while the faraway stars in the sky kept her company.
Chellamma was hardly six or seven when she ran away from her home. Looking back, she couldn’t remember where she came from! It was some village far away. There was a home, and her mother took care of her. When the mother didn’t come back one night, she became scared and went to some house nearby. She hung around, they gave her food but generally ignored her. Chellamma had vague memories of walking to a fair somewhere from where she followed a family. When found abandoned at the bus-stand, the police put her in a shelter.
In the shelter Chellamma grew up into an adolescent. Every morning after their fill of rice gruel and lentils, the inmates would be taken to work in the fields. In the evenings again they would be escorted back to the shelter. After their fill of rice and gruels, they spread their mats and slept off. The world was very small- just the shelter and the fields! One morning Chellamma had taken courage to slip out of the fields. She wandered along the village lanes and reached a road where she boarded a bus.
‘Where to?’ the conductor had asked.
‘Wherever the bus goes,’ was her answer.
‘How much money do you have?’
‘What’s money?’
There was pity in the conductor’s eyes as Chellamma got out at the last stop and walked away. The bus took a U-turn.
The world was kind to her in its own way.
At the bus stand under the shade of a tree was an old woman with her begging bowl. Chellamma sat down nearby.
‘Come ponney, eat something!’
The old woman shared part of her rice and sambar meal into the lid of the container.
With a grateful look, Chellamma had moved closer and grabbed the food.
When she realised how hungry and scared she was, Chellamma burst into tears and sobbed. Chellamma was drained out after the day’s journey from the fields.
‘Ponney, not a time for tears, eat your fill.’ There was wisdom in the old beggar woman’s words, ‘food is God!’
There was also a sense of security, soon Chellamma had fallen asleep.
‘Ponney, get up! Time to go,’ Chellamma sat bolt upright at the old woman’s words.
The sun was setting and the streetlights were coming on. The old woman got up, rolled up her mat, put the begging bowl into her shoulder bag and looked at Chellamma, ‘Let’s go home.’
That was how the beggar woman became Chellamma’s foster-mother.
They walked along the lanes and across a barren stretch of land to reach their ‘home’. It was a single room in the rows of houses. The main inhabitants were migrant labour and beggars. There was no electricity, no running water, no comforts but they managed their lives.
‘Since childhood I’ve been begging at the bus stand,’ Chellamma was told, ‘I used to sit beside ammijan, when she passed away it became my begging spot!’
Chellamma too called the old woman ‘ammijan’ and followed her daily.
‘Maybe you could go to the temple,’ she had said wryly one morning, ‘Who knows how long I’ll live!’
That was how Chellamma found her spot outside Shankara temple and days turned into years. One morning, ammijan did not wake up from her sleep. With the help of neighbours, she was cremated. Chellamma continued to live in the room and beg at the Shankara temple.
‘What do I do with all this money,’ was the thought that crossed Chellamma’s mind often. Over the years, lots of cash and food had come to her begging bowls. She had hardly any expenses. Also none to pass on the money to!
‘What to do?’ the thought lingered. ‘Like ammijan, I too might not wake up one morning then what’ll happen to this!”
Chellamma had a bag full of money under her mat for which she had no use!
***
As usual the eastern sky brightened and the sun streamed in through the window. There was a purpose in her steps as Chellamma picked up her things including the bag from under the mat, closed the door and headed for the temple.
Once there, she put her things in place but instead of sitting down at her spot Challamma went up the temple steps holding the large brown bag close to her.
Being an auspicious day, that too a Monday, there were more people around. Devotees went in and out, often pushing through to make way.
“Look at the beggar,” a devotee shouted, “Stop her, someone! The temple will be polluted!”
All eyes turned to Chellamma.
“Oh no! Today is my grandson’s birthday and we’ve special offerings, don’t let the temple get polluted!”
“We too have special offerings; a baby is born in our family!”
“Beggars have their place, and they should stick there, why enter the temple?”
“Isn’t the temple for the priests and the devotees!”
It had never happened before! How to handle the situation, the security guard was at a loss.
The scene turned noisy. Soon the priest completed the morning pooja and came out from the inner temple.
There she was a woman in tattered clothes holding on to a bag. Many eyes were on her – accusing, questioning, surprised, curious! Time seemed to stand still.
The priest took one look, assessed the situation and said with a smile, “Calm down, children, relax! Come out of your outdated thinking! The rich or poor, man or woman, guilty or innocent, strong or weak – God belongs to all, to each one of us! This temple is His temple! On behalf of God, I request you to leave this woman alone and go ahead with your prayers!”
Chellamma gratefully bowed to the priest and placed the bag in front of him with the words, “This is God’s money, please accept it, sir!”
Her voice broke as she said, “Years ago when I came here as an orphan, I had nothing, not even a spare dress! All this money belongs to God, please accept Sir!”
“May God continue to bless you, be happy!”, said the priest as he went into the inner temple carrying the bag.
The devotees bowed their heads and moved on in humble silence.
(Savitri Narayanan is retired educationist at present in Goa. A mother and grandmother loves reading, writing, and travelling.)
