The atheist in Mahar must have winked in disbelief, thinking, Ha, ha, how can Murugan call? Statues don’t speak. Ever since he turned two, Mahar had offered consistent protest to my daily pooja. My husband Ehud and I had spoken to him softly as well as sternly about his opposition, but nothing had come of these conversations. Mahar’s resistance saddened me but Ehud, ever the optimist, always said, “Don’t worry, India will work on him.”
Normally, Mahar would have cross-examined Ramakrishna on his theory about “when Lord Murugan calls.” Instead, he watched the endless stream of pilgrims and asked him curiously, “Do they eat, get water to drink, use rest stops? Do ghosts and goblins bother them at night?”
The temple was flooded with pilgrims. We entered the temple office to see if someone could help us. Mr. E. Meikandar was in the office and asked, “ How may I help you?” We spoke with him about our desire to offer Mahar’s hair to Lord Murugan. Mr. Meikandar gave us a grand tour of the temple, explaining its beauty, myth, truth and legend. Mahar stayed very close to Mr. Meikandar listening carefully. Soon we found ourselves seated on the floor, a few feet away from Lord Murugan. The priests offered Archana for the three of us and for Ramakrishna, smeared Vibhuti on our foreheads, adorned Ehud with a rose garland from the feet of Lord Murugan, and said, “ Be well.” Overwhelmed with emotion, I found myself crying. Mahar sat saucer-eyed, stunned and quiet. Ehud was ecstatic, Ramakrishna overjoyed. “Murugan, the child’s hair, our prayers and ourselves are at your sannidhi. Bless us with your grace...”
Behind us, thousands of pilgrims murmured, chanted, sang, and prayed. Smoke billowed from burning camphor, incense and lamps hung low. Amidst the ringing of bells, priests continued doing Archana and Abhishek, smearing Vibhuti on every forehead.
Coming out into the sunlit courtyard, we felt as though we had been ejected from the hot and dark womb of Mother Earth. Mahar did not wipe off the Vibhuti, as he would certainly have done at home.
We began looking at the statue of Bhogar and Mr. Meikandar told us about this sage, who is believed to be a contemporary of Agastya, a sage mentioned in the epic Ramayana.
“Many thousands of years ago, Sage Bhogar lived on this hill,” began Mr. Meikandar. “He was very sick and had traveled all over the world looking for a cure. Disheartened and unsuccessful, he returned to this hill. One night Lord Shiva appeared to him in dream and said, ‘Ask Murugan to heal you.’
“Sage Bhogar took the dream to heart. He created an amalgam of nine minerals. Mixed with herbs, the mixture became harder than rock. From this he sculpted a small statue of Lord Murugan. Every day, Sage Bhogar went down the hill, to a pond on the plains. He collected water from this pond, climbed up the hill and washed the statue of Lord Murugan with this water. He stopped eating and stayed alive by just drinking the wash water, known as Abhisheka Tirtham and eventually, he was healed from his miserable disease.
“This statue of Lord Murugan has been given a wash every day for thousands of years. Devotees have sipped this water with faith while praying to be healed,” Mr. E. Meikandar said, waving his hands over the milling crowd of pilgrims.
We were approaching the huge metal Hundi where Mr. E. Meikandar advised us that we could drop in our offering of birth hair. “Mom, this man keeps saying that the pilgrims are praying to be healed. I don’t see any sick or injured people here. Everyone looks healthy and they are so loud... chanting all these prayers. What sickness do they have Mom?” Finally, Mahar had caught up and was asking a real question, “What is wrong with me, Mom, that I must pray to be healed? What is wrong with you? Is Papa sick too?” He questioned me, needing a truthful answer.
“A sense of ownership, an idea that our body is ‘I’ is the sickness we all have, Mahar. By offering our hair, we let go of that sense and idea. The offering is our way of saying to Lord Murugan, ‘at your feet we have let go of our sense of self, we do not claim ownership to our physical being, appearance and circumstances. Heal us from this sickness of identifying ourselves with our body.’” I spoke to Mahar in whispers.
He had quietly climbed onto my lap. As I held my child in a loving embrace, a message flashed in my mind’s screen: We offer a little child’s birth hair at the temple but the child is not yet rooted deeply in his sense of self. He is still living in the realm of innocence, instincts, feelings, and physiological reflexes that are innate to his biological being. But this rite of passage, Samskara, does send a clear message to the mother; it gives her a chance to begin learning to let go.