Modern miracles

(Context post to follow)

Thanks to some strings pulled, I recently had a close encounter with the famous eponymous deity in the grand old temple at Chidambaram. In the dark, dinghy and damp inner sanctum, I was about as close as an outsider would be allowed to the centerpiece.

The god looked mighty calm - and calming. One could barely make out a serene, almost Gandhara-Buddha style face with just a hint of eyes closed in divine happiness, an exquisite nose and a faint mouth. An upturned, bejeweled, disproportionately palm hand was all else visible, the rest of he deity adorned in jewels and silk. An emerald medal at his waist.

A gaggle of white-clad priests entered, left, sprinkled water on themselves out of a pot, knocked themselves in the head, made the "keep on rocking" sign etc. Finally, they assembled, to chant and reveal the famous secret of Chidbaram.

I was to visit the home of one later, but as they stood there, I presciently wondered about the poverty of these proud, broken and now ridiculed worthies. Most of their kin has decamped for an H1 or a green card, jettisoning the tuft of hair, the holy thread, the prayers. (But not the fucking mustache). Gone over to the jet age, robbing whitebread Americans of their dreary jobs. And here were left the bandy-legged, malnourished bearers of a (dying?) flag.

But at the end, I saw a chubby little mini-priest of maybe 10. Under his translucent white veshti, I could distinctly spy the famed triple-stripes of Adidas, running down the side of his shorts.

Now, I wonder - will he bridge the generational chasm, or one day cast off his whities to go over to the other side? Will he have to choose between the three stripes on his forehad, and the three strips on his shorts? Time will tell.

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