Kill The Silver Lining
"Om namah shivaya"
As I walked closer to the shrine, the chanting grew louder and louder, and so did the burning sensation I felt at the base of my neck. The scar, currently hidden by my jet black hair, must be glowing as if on fire by now. This painful burning was a sign of something holy being too close to me, something I longed for and something I have been deprived of.
As always , I stopped at the gate of the shrine. A continuous crowd swam in and out of the temple gates but I didn't dare move an inch forward for the memories of the last time I entered a holy place was still fresh in my mind, but that's a tale for another time. From what I knew , it was the time for Arati to begin. Arati, derived from a sanskrit word aratrika , was a part of the prayer service performed in Hindu religion, which included honoribeig the deities with lighted lamps and wick and chanting hymns of praises before them. Reciting the information I gathered about my own religion through various resources, all of them non living, felt odd. Even though I have never been in contact with holy people or places, I am no stranger to spirituality for I have been raised by my grandmother, who was a strong believer. She recited the miraculous tales of almighty, of his generosity and creations, and of course, the good winning over the evil, about God being supreme . However, she had very strictly forbidden me to ever follow her holy practices, which appeared more and more suspicious to me as I grew up. Due to obvious curiosity of my young mind, I had questioned her behavior more than once, but never received an answered different than one, very irritating dialogue , "I will tell you everything when the time is right my darling granddaughter. There is a lot I need to tell you, but only when I know you can handle it. Keep trusting me won't you?". And even though it was almost infuriating to hear her repeat this answer again and again, I still did as what she told me to, I kept trusting her. Waiting for the right time to come. Then almost two month ago, it happened. The time had come and I got my answers. One would expect that I must have been delighted to have my answers, or at least, it must have calmed my curiosity. However, what I did experience was something entirely different.
Firstly, when grandma said there was a lot she wanted to tell me, she was NOT using a figure of speech. The truth that she revealed to me had sent my life spiraling out of control, and that's me putting it mildly.
Second, and the most disturbing aspect of this scenario was the way my grandma revealed it all to me. Extracting the diary full of the answers I wanted out of the tightly closed fist of my grandma's corpse was most certainly not what I had been anticipating for so long.
My grandma's death was devastating. But what was more devastating was that her death was not natural. She was murdered, in our own house. The very house that used to be my safe heaven. Now, it was anything but. For reasons that had been unknown to me until I read my grandma's diary, we left India when I was 3 years old. My grandma raised me in a small town of Thailand, Pai. Why Thailand? I have no idea. Most probably because my grandma only had her savings and small earnings from her dairy that she presumably started from a part of her savings after coming here for my upbringing and her survival, hence settling in an expensive country would have been a foolish decision. Or at least that's what I used to think until I realized that my grandma had bigger concerns than my upbringing . Like going into hiding. But whatever her reasons may have been, Pai was a good choice .Like most of the places in Thailand, Pai has transformed into major tourist attraction over the past years, mostly crowded by hippies, yet safe for the residents. The area I lived in was away from all the party spots, free of the wild crowed, surrounded by small patches of dense greenery and natural hot spring that were yet to be converted into spas. The only danger in our town were a few violent drug dealers and rogue police officers. This was why the murder of an eighty year old Indian lady, running a dairy farms with counted number of cows and just one villager helping her, made absolutely no sense to the public or the police. It was a mystery to all but me. I, Raatri Rana, was hiding all my doubts, insecurities and abnormalities for so long so good, all set to get a good college this year and become an aid to my grandma afterwards, was now officially an orphan. Any normal nineteen year old would probably seek help from known adults and the officials of the town and I would have done the exact same thing. Except, I wasn't normal. Far from it.
When I reminisce it now, I realize that my entire life is a collection of memoranda that I am different, and not in a good way. I believe in God, a lot, but I have never visited a holy place except once when I was six. Let us just say that it was the day I realized that being inside a holy place is close to fatal for me. From what grandma told me, I screamed in pain moment after entering a monastery, and then lost all consciousness falling on the ground like a dead bird. But from what I remember, I was conscious. I felt the searing hot pain at the back of my neck even then, and even though I was physically immobile in that moment, I felt as if some part of me was still actively trying to run away. As a kid, I couldn't put that feeling into words, but now, i think I can. It felt like my soul was all set to rip out of my body . As if it was so tainted that being there, trapped with me, so close to the almighty hurt it. Since that day onwards, every time came too close to a holy monastery, or was blessed by a monk, or even chanted a prayer all alone, I felt it. The burning, the ache. And so I stopped. I stayed extra conscious of all things holy but never stopped my silent prayers. For even thinking of turning completely away from God in any case seemed wrong, it seemed evil. Even as a kid.