When the Temple Was a Walk Away

A five-minute walk required so little thought. I could simply step out.

In Malleswaram, a friend turning up at our house in the evening usually meant we were going for a walk. A couple of friends from school or college would come over, and we would head to the nearby Hanuman temple. Afterward, we would stop at the railway station to watch the trains go by, talking, pulling each other’s legs, and figuring out where to get our next plate of bhel or masala puri. Uncomplicated.

Even on days when nobody came, I would take the walk to the temple. There would inevitably be a few familiar faces to greet. Then I would lay out a plan with Hanuman so that he could help me figure out whatever was worrying me. A lab exam, a semester exam, a job interview. There was usually something coming up that required his attention.

It was comforting to put everything before him. I could tell him what was on my mind without having to decide whether it was important enough to bring up.

After the temple visit, I would often take a solitary stroll at the railway station, waiting for the evening trains to pass. Office-goers and other pedestrians crossed the overbridge connecting Malleswaram to Srirampuram. I watched the trains and the people, with no particular reason to hurry home.

I like to think when I walk. Even now, when I am unsure what to do, I pace back and forth, trying to collect my thoughts. But those evening walks needed no problem to solve. I went because it was evening, and that was what I did.

I walked with my head held high, something I do less often these days. Now, my head tends to bend toward the phone in my hand to find out what has happened since I last checked. Back then, news reached us more slowly. Whatever had happened elsewhere could usually wait until someone brought it up in conversation.

That doesn’t mean my mind was free of worries. I had enough of them. But there was room to turn them over as I walked, and a familiar place to take them.

If I wasn’t walking toward the Hanuman temple, I might head toward 8th Cross, pausing at the Kanchi Kamakoti Mutt. Some evenings were devoted entirely to trying a new chaat place. We did our best to leave no eatery unexplored.

We would eat whatever we wanted and then return home as though we hadn’t eaten anything. Dinner would be quietly finished without mentioning the bhel or masala puri that had preceded it. It was a practical arrangement that avoided unnecessary conflict at home.

When I think about those evenings now, the temple is what I miss most.

The nearest temple today is a twenty-minute drive away. Twenty minutes isn’t much, and I can certainly make the trip. But I have to decide to go, get into the car, and drive there and back. It is hard to make that part of an ordinary evening.

A five-minute walk required so little thought. I could simply step out.

Of course, evenings are different now. Akhil and Sahana have classes to get to, homework to finish, and music to practice. Somewhere in between, they find time to create a ruckus. Hema and I are usually in the middle of getting one thing done while reminding somebody about the next. If I quietly disappeared for a leisurely walk, I would be leaving her to manage all of it. I suspect my return would be less peaceful than my departure.

I know I am remembering a different stage of life, when my evenings were more readily my own. Still, among all the things that have changed, this is a small absence I feel often.

I miss being able to step out of the house and, five minutes later, stand before Hanuman with whatever was on my mind.

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