The Sweet Pilgrimage

A close-knit group of us, friends of over four decades, have all, after careers scattered across the country and even abroad, eventually gravitated back to Bangalore. It has since become a cherished ritual for about seven or eight of us, along with our families, to gather at one another’s homes and spend an entire day in shared activity, every month.

Naturally, age has brought along its familiar companions. Among us, diabetes is almost a common thread now, most managing it with medication, along with the usual assortment of health concerns that come with the years.

About seven-eight months ago, during one such gathering, one among us, renowned for his impeccable organisational skills, floated an idea. Why not visit a temple somewhere beyond Kumbakonam in Tamil Nadu, believed to be associated with controlling, if not curing, diabetes?

Rationality wasn’t entirely abandoned, but neither was the appeal resisted. An outstation trip with spouses, a break from routine, and a noble cause wrapped into one, it was too good a combination to ignore. Even those like me, with borderline sugar levels and not yet on medication, were persuaded with surprising ease, faith, it appeared, required very little convincing when travel was involved.

And so, nine of us set off on a meticulously planned two-day trip in a AC tempo traveller. The planning was so precise that apart from breakfast and a couple of coffee breaks, we drove straight into Kumbakonam just in time for lunch, hungry enough to justify any decision that followed.

Some of the more tech-savvy among us had shortlisted a well-rated restaurant. Once there, we were nudged toward a “special weekend lunch” on the third floor, a rare offering, we were told, available only on weekends. In a group setting, rarity is often mistaken for necessity, and within minutes we found ourselves taking the lift  to the third floor with quiet excitement and very little resistance.

The meal turned out to be truly “special”, lavish, indulgent, and generously sweet-laden. Multiple desserts made repeated appearances, as if personally committed to our wellbeing. Compliments flowed freely, directed particularly at the one who had taken the decisive call, though, in truth, most of us would have applauded anything edible at that point.

Post-lunch, as we gathered in the elegant, air-conditioned waiting area before heading to our resort, an unexpected delay crept in. What initially felt like a brief pause slowly evolved into a test of patience. Fortunately, the setting helped, cool interiors, tasteful décor inspired by temple architecture, and ample opportunity for couples to rediscover their photography skills.

Meanwhile, I was beginning to wonder if our vehicle had quietly reconsidered its association with us.

Two among the group, the ever-efficient organiser and his wife, were in deep, hushed conversation. Just then, another friend’s wife joined them, making the small cluster look increasingly official, like a committee that had formed without notifying the rest of us.

Sensing that something was afoot, I casually asked the husband of the lady who had just joined what was happening. He claimed ignorance with admirable detachment.

When i pursued a little further, he added, rather promptly and with unexpected firmness, “Why are you so curious? It could be some ladies’ problem.”  That ended the enquiry more effectively than any detailed explanation could have.

I retreated instantly.

These were people I had known for decades, conversations had never required clearance or classification. The sudden introduction of restricted information, that too under the broad and unchallengeable category of “ladies’ problem,” left me both puzzled and politely silenced.

After about twenty more minutes, during which I briefly considered several possibilities and wisely discarded all of them, something discreetly arrived from the hotel staff, and we finally set off to our resort.

The evening unfolded as planned. We visited the much-talked-about “diabetes temple,” serene and unassuming. The traditional practice of offering sugar had long been discontinued, the priest explained, due to ant infestations, a practical detail that gently dismantled centuries of enthusiasm.

Instead, he offered a more contemporary interpretation: belief, it appeared to me, worked in proportion to one’s HbA1c levels, that was both spiritually uplifting and medically unsettling.

The day ended with more temple visits, a restful return to the resort, dinner, and the inevitable late-night camaraderie. Conversations gathered momentum, laughter found its rhythm, and time, true to habit, went unnoticed.

As midnight approached, one of the friends subtly steered the proceedings toward a pause. The women disappeared briefly and returned with a box. The men, except me, appeared unusually well-informed.

The box was opened.

A cake.

It was my birthday.

At the stroke of twelve, I found myself at the centre of a celebration I had neither anticipated nor remotely suspected. Familiar faces, warm wishes, and an unmistakable sense of collective effort, it was overwhelming in the best possible way.

When I asked how they had managed this in such a place and at such an hour, the answer came, accompanied by knowing smiles:

“That was the ‘ladies’ problem’ you were so worried about in the afternoon.”

In that moment, the entire afternoon replayed itself, with improved clarity and significantly better humour.

That thoughtful deception, that coordination, that affection, it lingered long after we called it a night. Sleep, however, took its time, possibly out of respect for the day’s events.

The next day continued in similar spirit, more temple visits, a relaxed breakfast, and then, by unanimous (and entirely predictable) consent, a return to the same hotel for their “special weekend lunch.  Consistency, after all, is a virtue.

This time, I was introduced to the staff, the quiet collaborators in the previous night’s operation. They greeted me warmly, completing the circle of conspiracy.

Lunch was once again indulgent, replete with sweets, though I personally abstained, citing dental sensitivity and a growing awareness of the irony surrounding the trip.

Before heading back, our guide led us to a local shop for “discounted memorabilia,” and, true to the invisible rules that govern group behaviour, we all participated with commendable enthusiasm. This was followed by a stop at a popular sweet shop, where generous quantities were purchased, for relatives back home, a justification that has stood the test of time.

The return journey was as lively as ever, culminating in an impromptu dance on the highway, enthusiastically led by one of the ladies and bravely executed by the rest of us, with varying degrees of rhythm and commitment.

And somewhere amidst all this, between seeking divine intervention for diabetes and consuming sweets with remarkable devotion, I realised:

Our faith was strong…

but our resistance to desserts was considerably weaker.

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.