Three weeks in Hindustan- Part 2
Trials of a Pilgrimage

Pavan Vangipuram

My next destination was Tirumala, a vast shrine to Lord Venketashwara (one of the principal deities of the Hindu pantheon), perched atop the last of a series of seven hills. In the valley, surrounded by these hills, lay the town of Tirupathi, a medium-sized city of 250,000 people whose principal point of fame was its proximity to the sacred Tirumala.

Every day, hundreds of thousands of pilgrims arrive at Tirupathi to begin the arduous climb of the seven hills (or the less arduous drive up the newly constructed road) so that they may pay homage to Lord Venketashwara. I have recently learned that Tirupathi is second only to the Vatican in numbers of daily religious pilgrims. On August 15th, I was to become one of those pilgrims, and I began the 14-kilometer uphill walk with a slight feeling of trepidation.

The path up and down the seven hills was paved, covered, lighted, and dotted with food and drink vendors. My mother told me that when she made this journey 20 years ago, there was the barest dirt path in place of the winding stone staircase, and the only food or drink available was what could be carried with you.

Despite these newfound luxuries, the walk was far from easy; the incline was steep, and the stairs unrelenting. I had to stop to rest often, and ultimately what kept me going was the shameful knowledge that old women and small children had traversed this path far before this convenient staircase had been erected.

After what seemed like hours, I reached the summit of the first hill. I was drenched in sweat, and panting like an overexcited dog. The prospect of six more hills seemed daunting beyond words.

But as it turned out, the remaining six hills were a pleasant stroll compared to the first. The first hill had an incline perhaps of 50 degrees; the remaining six could only have been inclined at 10 or 15 degrees at the most. Surrounding the walkway was a nature preserve, where herds of spotted deer made their home. Periodically through the walk, we would see a herd staring at us longingly through the chain-link fence; as we approached the fence, they became excited, expecting to be fed. We fed them bits of dried mango, which they gratefully accepted.

It took approximately four hours to navigate the 14-kilometer path, by which time I had reached the limits of my endurance. We had booked a cottage at the summit of the seventh hill, and I immediately fell into a deep slumber.

We awoke at 4:30 the following morning in order to wait in line to enter the temple. The line was already miles long. We dutifully took our place at the rear of the line and began our wait. This was the line for paying customers, and those without the requisite 200 rupees had to wait in a separate line which I believe was days long.

Soon enough, the sun had risen, and I stood sweltering in the midst of a miles-long mass of people. Bodies were constantly pressed against me as we slowly shuffled our way through the labyrinthine halls of the temple.

It is astonishing to note the shameful behavior of those who were supposedly there in the name of God. There was no semblance of order, no respect for personal space or sense of patience. These people thought nothing of shoving a fellow devotee aside in order that they may jump two places in line and save themselves a fraction of a second.

I personally witnessed a healthy young man elbow a 7-year-old girl in the chest to push past her, and what is more, this did not seem out of place in the chaos.
Periodically, throughout the wait, someone in the line would shout “Govinda!”, to which the entire crowd would respond, “GOOOOOOOVINDA!”. Ostensibly, this ritual is meant to bring one’s thoughts to God (Govinda is one of the Hindu God’s innumerable names), but I think the ritual was originally developed to foster a sense of group solidarity through the long, claustrophobic wait. Indeed, as I stood in that sweltering line, sweaty, shoving bodies pressed against me, I hated my fellow man.

After hours of this, we approached the temple proper. It was shaped as all Hindu temples are shaped, a sort of three-dimensional truncated trapezoid carved on all sides with deities of the Hindu pantheon. This particular temple was plated with gold, and the morning sunlight caused it to shine brilliantly. As we approached, the devotees were whipped into frenzy at being so close to their God.

What little semblance of a line that remained vanished, and the crowd became a surging mass of people. They began shoving their way as a whole to the entrance of the temple. The door was not wide enough to accommodate such a mass, but the crowd surged through anyway. I am quite surprised nobody was injured, though my aunt later told me of an incident where a stampede at the doors of the temple killed one.

How did this not happen more often? We flowed into the temple, and flowed out just as quickly. I was able to catch only the most fleeting glimpse of the idol before being swept through the exit.

The idol was of Lord Venkatashewra, a black four-armed statue covered with layer upon layer of flowers. The idol’s face was partially obscured by a white faceplate, and it is said that the idol’s eyes are too brilliant to be seen by mortals (I personally doubt the veracity of this claim). It sat at the end of a long, golden corridor, and a big booming voice echoed, “OOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM”, which served to give it a somewhat ethereal quality.

But the idol itself was unremarkable; I had seen countless similar idols of the same deity throughout India. The chief sensation I remember feeling at the temple was a sense of being underwhelmed, and then I was swept out the door. But it was not over! A reverse wave of devotees, selfishly pining for a second look at their God, pushed their way back through the exit. Being pushed by people both behind and in front, I began to feel a bit as though I was trapped in a garbage compressor of human flesh.