Words by Likhitha P Nair    Photographs from Midhun Vijayan

Year after year, they told him ‘The gods are here’. Among toys and neatly lined notebooks, a little rage that never left his blood longed to be one. But when the clamour closed in, fear was his closest ally.

His face reflected wrinkles from knowledge that refused to promise freedom. A god he has known, dipped in red and covered in palm leaves shared a skin with him. Half man, half skilled masquerader, he played roles that never met in the middle.

Were gods ever charmed by innocence? Dressed in silk gowns and crowns, maybe they were flying around the corners, laughing at the boy who came to make friends. The boy who would grow up to be a man of ordeal.

The trick is to not let them know. They believe, they need to and the celebrations need a reason. A certain calling that he never heard, but it was all in him, the power, the faith and the god himself.

The mystery of omnipotence that no one ever saw or touched weakened their steps. Sweat tumbling down their foreheads smudging a certain pretence hidden away. Their eyes met – the idol the generation bowed before for blessings, for a good harvest, for the village’s lost sons to return.

The deity who cured sickness and bore the weight of their hopes. Overworked bones and a wayward childhood was no match for an almighty. Yet, all eyes were on them, all prayers hung by their shoulders. Does god ever remember the bittersweet life of a man who tamed mud and cattle? Or that of a child with torn clothes and no money for after-school snacks? Those who made a man the ruler and another his bearer never knew whom god favoured. Or visited without excuses.

Every now and then, the man looked back at his spirit. The idol in a tiny dark room who welcomed reverence and request with a straight face. Many years ago, he was a child awaiting a miracle every time the percussion peaked. But now, he only looks at the mighty one with a certain painful apathy. Who is the god anyway?

He waits, as the myriads gather around him and the dilapidated drums let out raging roars. He waits for the miracle he has secretly nurtured for years. Eyes fixed on nothing, the boy in him wondered if his mates would fear him now. The nasty children who never shared their toys. No fire could burn him now. It was his initiation to the unknown, and faith was bliss.

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