The Accidental Piligrim

Recently, on the way to a wedding in Nellore, my friends, deeply religious, dangerously persuasive, decided that we should visit four major temples across Andhra Pradesh. I agreed, proving once again that peer pressure works at any age.

Now, for context: I am not a temple-going person. My spiritual quota is annually met at our family deity temple, an unwritten rule for eldest sons somewhere between “don’t upset your mother” and “pretend to enjoy the prasad.” I dislike crowds, chaos, and situations where my role feels about as meaningful as background music.

But my friends sold it beautifully: “Come! Peaceful darshan! No crowd! Early morning is the best!”  This was the first of several divine deceptions.

4 A.M. – The Time When Even God Sleeps

The “divine day” began at 4 a.m., the hour when even the crows refuse to get up. I looked around for coffee, only to discover that temple-town hotels think a kettle in the room is a luxury on par with a private swimming pool. My body, which usually negotiates all pre-bath rituals only after the first dose of caffeine, protested violently. But no, apparently devotion requires a cold-water dip before sunrise.

Yet, devotion demanded drama.  So off we went to the temple pond, shivering like refugees from a refrigerator. After a freezing dip that tested both my bones and my beliefs, we marched towards the sanctum in dhotis, wet clothes stuffed into bags, dignity stuffed nowhere.

Peaceful Darshan, They Said.

Right at the entrance stood hundreds of devotees. All of them, apparently, had the exact same idea of an early-morning peaceful experience. So much for exclusivity.

The final door to the deity was covered by a cloth.  The moment it slid open, the crowd reacted like Sachin Tendulkar had just walked out to bat. People pushed, climbed, tiptoed, and elbowed their way to catch a glimpse of an idol placed somewhere in the distant darkness. 

At 5'4", I only managed darshan of several sweaty backs and an occasional armpit. If the deity saw me, it was purely his effort.

Then came the ‘special darshan’ queue, the one we had paid significantly for, which, in a display of divine equality, seamlessly merged with two other queues: one where people had paid nothing at all, and another where people had paid even more than us. The queue moved slower than Bangalore traffic at Silk Board with high-quality pushing, deluxe shoving, and breath samples from strangers. 

Only when we reached closer did we discover the reason for the delay: the pujari was running an on-the-spot additional billing service, chanting names, gothras, and possibly entire family trees for a little extra. Some devotees were giving him enough entries for a genealogical archive.

The Prasad Plot Twist

After 45 minutes of divine wrestling, we stumbled out into fresh air, which felt like the real prasadam.  A kind volunteer was distributing curd rice in leaf cups. And that, I must record for history, was the first day in my life when curd rice entered my system before my morning coffee.

Normally, I approach temple prasadam with the same caution as street-side pani puri, thanks to a previous encounter that left me seriously ill. But my friends, who otherwise treat my word like gospel, suddenly transform into orthodox tyrants during such moments and simply refuse to let me refuse. So I ate it.

Feeling victorious after successfully dodging the second helping, I walked to the long row of taps to wash my hands.  That’s when disaster struck.

The man behind me casually opened the tap using his used right hand, the same one still glistening with curd rice. I gently suggested he use his left hand instead. He politely nodded… then pointed out that every single person at the other taps was using their “prasad hand” too, as if to prove that I was the one polluting tradition with logic.

And looking at that entire row of right-handed dedication, I realised, with immense dread:

This was just temple number one.

How on earth was I going to survive three more days of this devotional obstacle course?

As we walked back to the hotel, my friends were glowing with satisfaction, declaring that the day had gone “beautifully.” Beautifully?  I had been frozen by holy water, squeezed like sugarcane in a juicer,  escaped financially ambushed by a Pujari,   and spiritually traumatised by a curd-rice-coated tap.

But they were radiant.  “One down, three to go!” someone said brightly.

And that’s when two truths struck me:

1. God indeed tests us in mysterious ways.

Mine just involved cold ponds, cloth partitions, and questionable plumbing etiquette.

2. If this was the warm-up, the next three temples would need divine intervention,  preferably in the form of atleast a strong morning coffee.

I must admit, though, I genuinely marvel at the architecture of these temples. Their sheer size, built centuries ago with remarkable craftsmanship and minimal technology, their intricate designs, their majestic presence in quiet, remote pockets surrounded by greenery.. it’s all truly breathtaking. What unnerves me, however, are the crowds, the regimented darshan schedules at unearthly hours, and the prasad hygiene that regularly tests both my faith and my digestive courage.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.