By four in the evening, the sky had turned soft with golden light, the kind that makes everything feel like a memory even before it happens. Amma had neatly packed the puliyodarai and panchamirtham into two stainless steel containers, wrapped in fresh plantain leaves. The flower garlands were kept in a separate cloth bag. Appa came home on time, having stopped at the pooja store to buy camphor, agarbatti, sandal paste, kumkum, and a small packet of betel leaves and nuts.
"Shall we go?" he asked, wiping his face with a towel after washing up.
Santhosh was already waiting at the door with the prasadam containers. He had worn a new cotton shirt with tiny mango prints, excited and proud to be part of something important. I wore one of the tailor-stitched kurtas—a soft pastel green one with tiny white embroidery. Amma draped her saree in her usual simple style, a white cotton one with a blue border, always modest and elegant.
The drive to the temple didn't take long. Nestled atop a small hill, the Chennimalai Murugan Temple stood like a timeless guardian watching over the town below. As the car wound through the narrow roads flanked by shrubby greenery and occasional thickets of neem and tamarind trees, I felt my heartbeat slow down, lulled by the stillness of the early evening.
We parked at the base and began our climb, a gentle ascent along stone steps carved into the hill. The air smelled faintly of incense and burning camphor, familiar and comforting. On either side of the path were vendors selling lotus flowers, sandalwood bracelets, glass bangles, and small photos of Lord Murugan—each calling out with practiced friendliness.
The temple wasn't too crowded that day. The quiet was a gift.
As we reached the top, I looked around at the open space flanked by tall stone walls and tiled mandapams. The temple architecture was simple yet graceful, its gopuram modest compared to other shrines but no less majestic in presence. The soft evening breeze carried the faint notes of temple bells and Tamil devotional songs playing from a speaker tucked in a corner.
We walked further in, heading towards the Valli Deivanai sannidhi, a side shrine where Murugan stood with his consorts. The stone steps leading to it were still warm under our feet, and I couldn't help but notice the serene expressions on the faces of the idols—each carved in such intricate detail, as if frozen mid-blessing.
It felt grounding. Sacred. A still point in the whirl of transition I was standing in.
As we stepped into the inner sanctum of the Valli Deivanai sannidhi, the scent of sandal paste and jasmine became stronger, settling around us like an invisible garland. The stone floor was cool against my feet, worn smooth by thousands of footsteps before mine. The priest had just begun the evening abhishekam, gently pouring coconut water over the vel—Lord Murugan's sacred spear—before continuing with milk, honey, and rose water.
I stood with folded hands, my eyes fixed on the ritual, but my thoughts began to wander.
To be honest, I never really used to believe in God. At least not in the strict sense of it. The long hours of chanting and rituals often felt like a test of patience, especially when I was younger. I used to fidget restlessly, eyes darting toward the exit, wondering how long it would take for the pooja to end. It was all too slow, too ceremonial, too noisy and fragrant and confusing.
But despite my disbelief, there was something that always drew me back to temples.
It was the grandeur. The way the idols were adorned—clothed in fine silks, glimmering with gold-plated jewelry, garlanded with layers and layers of fresh flowers - it fascinated me. There was something powerful in how the divine was made visible, tangible. The rich colors, the symmetry of the kolams on the floors, the chimes of the bells that rang in synchrony with the priests' chants—it was like walking through a living painting.
And then there was the architecture. The stone corridors stretching endlessly in every direction, pillars carved with stories, ceilings high enough to echo your breath. These weren't just places of worship—they were testaments of a civilization that built beauty out of belief. I used to trail my fingers along the walls, imagining what kind of people once stood in these exact spots. How they travelled here—miles and miles, often on foot, just to have a glimpse of their deity.
Even fifty years ago, before buses and autos made temple visits so convenient, people made their way to these temples with no complaint. My great-grandmother used to walk barefoot with her sisters for hours, sometimes even a day or two, just to be a part of a temple festival. And here I was, complaining about aching legs after climbing barely a hundred steps.
But even back then, even when I wasn't sure if I believed in God, I believed in faith. The quiet power of it. The strength it gave to people.
I used to read Ramayana and Mahabharata not as religious texts, but as stories—rich, layered, full of flawed characters and hard-won wisdom. I didn't care if Hanuman actually flew across the ocean or if Krishna really lifted a mountain. What mattered was the emotion behind those actions, the lessons they carried. And then, slowly, I started hearing stories that blurred the line between myth and reality. Ancient cities unearthed, temple alignments matching astronomical patterns, the way some rituals still mirrored events that happened centuries ago. It was like history, science, and faith were all talking to each other.
But after my rebirth, something changed.
Maybe it was the strangeness of remembering a life no one else remembered. Maybe it was the sheer wonder of getting another chance. A second shot at doing things right. Somewhere deep inside, I knew it wasn't just luck. There had to be something larger, something sacred, that orchestrated this. Something that kept track of karma and gave me the opportunity to fix what I couldn't in my past life.
Now, I don't just believe in God—I believe that God is watching, not like a punishing judge, but like a quiet witness. I believe we're given the freedom to live, to make choices, to love and to fall, but all within a great, invisible web of karma. That's why this visit meant more to me than just a temple outing. It was a thank you. A vow. A prayer wrapped in silence.
I watched the priest now as he gently smeared sandal paste across the deity's chest, followed by the turmeric and the red kumkum. The flicker of the deepam danced against the stone walls, casting soft shadows across the shrine. Amma was standing next to me, her eyes closed in a peaceful prayer. Santhosh was staring wide-eyed, captivated by the glowing lamps and the rhythmic clang of the bell.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt truly centered. As if this temple, this moment, was exactly where I was meant to be.
I didn't need to understand everything. I just had to live truthfully, with kindness. To give back more than I took. To help others, especially those I love. And that, too, was a kind of devotion.