The Shiva Temple In Sahakar Nagar

It was a bumpy road to the Shiva Temple in Sahakarnagar, but Thatha Ramu, my maternal grandfather, and I would still make it a point to go every day when I lived in Bangalore. I didn’t think about religion much at six years old, but there was something about that place that just made my problems seem to go away. As I entered, the beautiful smell of the jasmine flowers, the agarbatti, the rose water; the sight of the ever-so-calm priests, and the serene statue of Shiva made me forget about the friend who moved away or the boy in my class who punched my arm really hard. Once we finished our prayers, Thatha and I would take a moment to sit on the stairs leading up to the temple, and we would close our eyes.

And all of a sudden, our heartbeats seemed a little less loud, our problems a little more mundane, and the road not so bumpy anymore.

I moved back to the States at the end of fourth grade, and when I got the news that we were coming back, I honestly wasn’t all that sad. I had a major fall-out with my friends in Bangalore (for a seriously problematic reason, but that’s a story for another day) and I was excited for a new chapter in my life. I romanticized America, the unfamiliar, dream-like country, the Land of the Free.

I yearned to enjoy apple pie, to drive past the organized grocery store layouts, to be able to say “y’all.” I wanted to be a living part of this country and its beautiful culture.

And to say the least, when I finally arrived at my birthplace, I was disappointed.

The thing is, along with my high hopes, I had also arrived with a thick accent, my oily hair put tightly into a braid, and an appetite for a type of food that didn’t exactly appeal to the general population in this country. My Indianness was palpable through my every word and action: the way I held my hands, the way I sat, everything. I felt like an alien, unable to connect with anything or anyone in the most basic things. I felt alone, and I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care, but I did. I became scarily quiet, terrified of saying something unusual or saying it unusually. I was intimidated by a place this large and this sophisticated, and even though I attempted to hide it, I tried so desperately to assimilate.

My family and I decided to visit India that year in December. My mom and I boarded a flight, leaving all of our worries of make-up schoolwork or missed exams back in New Jersey. And although I stepped out of Bangalore International Airport with a tangible indifference, it took all of five seconds for me to burst out into full-out sobs. It wasn’t even the jasmine or the rose water or something obvious that had me bawling. It was the relentless honking of the cars, the crowd around the small vendor who sold his signature filter coffee, it was even the suffocating air, poisoned from all of the pollution. This city rotated on a different axis, and it was the only axis I had ever felt fully syncopated with. And I didn’t care, I didn’t care about how romantic America was supposed to be. I didn’t care how unappealing Bangalore might have looked to someone who’s never been.

This was my home, Bangalore was my home, the Shiva Temple was my home, the honking cars, the coffee vendor, the chauffeur we’ve had around for three generations, my grandparents.

Bangalore was everything to me, and only those who once lived there would fully understand my plight.

Our chauffeur drove my mom and me to my grandparents’ house, and upon seeing my Ammamma and Thatha, I started to sob again (okay, YES, I was an emotional kid, get over it). It had only been one hour into my month-long visit, and I was already terrified that I would have to leave. My cousin, whom I had spent every summer with since I was five years old, also came to the house, and I finally felt like I belonged, after a very long time. We would hurriedly cross streets with speeding cars, eat corn from the vendors on the sides of the road, and of course, food poisoning had diligently decided to make its annual appearance from all of the street food. And before I knew it, it was time to go again.

I had a parting demand.

I told my grandfather that I wanted to go to the Shiva Temple in Sahakarnagar, and he reluctantly promised that he would take me. We entered the car, and he drove me there personally. We did our daily routine, which was still somehow all-too-familiar despite the months that we had been apart. As always, we sat on the steps.

And once again, I felt the magic of the place, every single inch laced with familiarity and nostalgia. I took in the sight, the scents, the culture, the feeling of belonging. I was afraid to close my eyes since I knew that I wouldn’t be back there in a while. As we were walking back to the car, the tears started to inevitably make their very public appearance. I sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

I turned to my grandfather, and I told him that I would come back, that after I graduated college, I would come back to Bangalore, and that I would never leave. I told him about how this was the only place for me, how these people were my people, these streets my streets, I told him that I felt lonely.

Thatha listened to what I had to say.

And then he took my small hand and placed it in his. I looked at him. I saw his sad eyes, I saw the wrinkles on his forehead, his eyebrows tilted downwards from his concern. And when I looked closely, I saw his knowing, ever-so-gentle smile.

And then I thought about the years of wisdom he had left with me, one piece for every trip down the Shiva Temple. I thought about the memories we had made: his very audible snores in the middle of the climax in a movie theater, how he bought me my first pair of tennis shoes, and how he hoped so badly that I would be halfway decent at the sport (spoiler alert: I wasn’t).

My grandfather probably felt my lack just as much as I felt his. And no amount of time or money would make up for the moments that we could have had.

I think, of everything, leaving Thatha was the hardest. When I came back, just thinking of him would make me cry endlessly. 

And I did cry. I cried, I went through periods of emotional detachment, and then I cried some more. Until I didn’t anymore. 

In time, I would eventually assimilate. In time, I would come to love America the same way I loved Bangalore. In time, I would start to appreciate my culture after a period of being ashamed of it. And in time, I did find happiness.

Not in spite of grandfather’s absence, but in the knowledge that the essence of him would always remain with me, wherever I went.

I learned from my grandfather’s smile in the car that day that at some point, we all have to leave. Even if you stay in the same town your whole life, we all have to leave the remnants of who we used to be, we all have to step out of our own custom-built Shiva Temples. Sometimes, we have to dive headfirst into the unknown, we have to explore versions of the world, or ourselves we never knew existed. Yes, it will be scary, yes, it might really suck, and yes, it is probably the most important thing we could possibly do for ourselves.

And when we’ve faced reinvention, when we’ve come into ourselves, when we’ve had all of the apple pies and said “y’all” enough times, the Shiva Temple will be right there, waiting patiently for our triumphant return.

This post was written by Shreya Arukil