How My Grandmother Outsmarted Traffic, God, and One Very Confused Crow

Growing up in Bangalore in the 1970s meant traffic that was sparse, faith that was abundant, and elders who firmly believed divine protection came bundled with daily routine. This is the story of my temple walks with my grandmother, a woman who trusted God more than traffic signals, did 108 pradhakshanams without batting an eyelid, and nearly collapsed when I kicked a lemon–chilli “bad omen” across the road like a football.

The Road-Crossing Goddess and the Lemon–Chilli Curse:

In the early ’70s, when I was under ten and more elastic than responsible, my mornings were devoted to accompanying my grandmother to a small Ganesha temple about half a kilometre from home. The walk itself was peaceful, trees shading the footpath, the smell of someone’s morning filter coffee drifting in the air, but the true adventure began at the road crossing.

The moment we reached the edge of the street, my grandmother would tighten her grip on my hand, mutter a god’s name, usually "Eshwaro" followed by a firm “Rakshito!”, and take off without the slightest glance left or right. She marched across purely on faith, dragging me along like an unwilling co-passenger on a divine chariot. Meanwhile, cyclists skidded, scooter brakes screeched, and a couple of startled uncles discovered new reasons to pray.

Until then, I believed she was taking me to the temple.  That morning, I realised a higher power was taking both of us across the road.  Naturally, I decided to take charge during the return journey.

My 208-Circle Marble Championships:

The temple was her sacred workspace. She performed 108 pradhakshanams daily, her prayers for the youngest of my five aunts to find a good alliance. All the older aunts had married early, but this one had completed her degree and a B.Ed. In the 70s, this made matchmaking a complicated affair; grooms had to match both education and kundali, and with no matrimonial pages or “boy-seeks-girl” ads, alliances arrived strictly through hearsay and enthusiastic aunties.

Thankfully, she never insisted I accompany her through all 108 circles. This gave me a golden 30–40 minutes to play with my kit of tops and marbles. By the time she finished, she’d have done 108 pradhakshanams, and I would have completed at least 208 imaginary world championships.

My First Heroic Road-Crossing Attempt:

On one return trip, I informed her that I would hold her hand while crossing. She agreed, though I noticed her eyes narrowing with the tension of someone who doubted my survival instincts. In those days, elders sincerely believed:

“If we don’t know something, how on earth will a youngster know more?”

But that day traffic was mild, and I executed the crossing respectably. She proudly declared to her friends that her grandson had “grown up” and now helped her cross the road. My childhood reputation peaked that week.

From then on, she walked steadily along one side of the road, while I played marbles across both sides, zigzagging like a one-boy traffic nuisance. She often paused to wait for me as I completed some self-declared “final shot.”

The Lemon–Chilli Football Incident:

One morning, I spotted a lemon–chilli combo lying on the road. I had no idea about its omen status. To me, it was simply a conveniently sized yellow-green football.

My grandmother saw it too and shouted for me to stop.  But a running boy is like a government file, once in motion, nothing can halt it.

I kicked the lemon–chilli combo with perfect technique.  It shot across the road and narrowly missed a house window.

I was thrilled with my accuracy.  My grandmother was horrified enough to age several years on the spot.

As the senior guardian of our daily temple expedition, she felt responsible. She made me promise never to repeat the act. I agreed instantly, not understanding the cosmic calamity I had unleashed.

She explained the “bad omen” part later. I still don’t fully understand it, but to this day, I carefully sidestep lemon–chilli bundles, not out of superstition, but out of loyalty to her.

She lost sleep for two nights.  I slept like a well-fed puppy.

The Crow That Confirmed Her Fears:

A week later, while returning from the temple, I felt a sudden thwack on my head. I spun around to identify the culprit. A crow flapped away, looking mildly annoyed that my head wasn’t a suitable landing pad.

My grandmother came running, panic in every step.

In her mind, the equation was simple and undeniable:

Kick lemon–chilli → Anger unseen forces → Crow lands on grandson’s head.

She immediately consulted someone “specialised in these matters” and likely increased her daily pradhakshanams by an extra dozen to protect me from further cosmic retaliation.

Throughout this, I remained blissfully untroubled.  She, however, carried double the worry, hers and mine.

Looking Back…

Today, when I remember those temple walks, her firm hand, her fearless faith, my chaotic marbles bouncing across sunlit lanes, I feel a warm pinch in the heart. She always said I was her favourite grandson. And perhaps she meant it, because she prayed enough for both of us while I spent my mornings kicking forbidden objects and attracting crows.

She believed she was taking me to the temple.

I now realise - she was the temple taking me everywhere.

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.