He was in his forties, wearing jeans and a windbreaker. His Bead was flashing like a strobe – his torch function was stuck, he apologised. Once she was in the back of his Lexus, he gave a rehearsed speech into the rearview mirror:
‘Temple is ultimately top of seventh hill of Tirumala, which we are calling Venkata. Tirupati is not this temple where you can do quickly darshan and go, no. Because in actual matter of fact every day there are thousands-thousands pilgrims who want to do same as you are asking and are looking for the ways and opportunities. There are very-many queues, Madam, but there are ways-and-means. If you have…’ he rubbed his thumb against his fingers, sending his Bead light scurrying over the car, ‘then black market is also happening.’
‘No, I’ll just do darshan tomorrow. But can I get tonsure today?’
‘Kalyana katta?’
Their eyes met in the rearview, then his skittered over her silver haircut.
‘Yes, I read online that it doesn’t take long. And it’s free, right?’
He nodded. ‘This time of day, very-many queues at main complex. But I take you for doing mokku at cottage. A friend of mine is there and I’m getting very-good discount for you.’
He started the car and drove them through Tirupati’s chaotic traffic, which sorted itself only slightly when they reached the queues of the Alipiri tollbooth. He dropped her off to get her passport checked and picked her up on the other side. Soon, the Lexus was spiralling up the mountain just as the plane had spiralled down to Chennai. Is the sky best traversed in circles? Naila felt drowsy. The slow spin, the lowhanging clouds, the green hills, the radio’s soupy murmur—
‘Temple of Tirumala,’ said the driver.
She checked her Bead. The drive had only taken half an hour. The word pilgrimage had always conjured for Naila a desert – feet pocking into dunes as the sun laid itself to rest on a wide horizon – or maybe a forest – dense foliage from which a ruined stone temple would surface like a barnacled whale. But Tirumala was a complex of hefty buildings and broad avenues, great paved plazas, metal accordion fences everywhere for the queues. There were statues and fountains, gardens and BeadTime kiosks. It was as grand and officious as a capital city.
‘Very rich temple,’ the driver smiled at her surprise. ‘Pilgrims donating weight in gold.’
‘Ya, I read that it has more money than the Vatican,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t think…’
He circled a roundabout and drove into the hostel area – tree-lined roads, two-storey buildings, clothes hanging to dry on the balconies. Families strolled around, looking clean and alien with their freshly shaved heads. He parked on an incline in front of a small building and gestured for her to go inside. Naila got out and walked up to it. A sign outside pictured a dozen items circled and crossed out in red, including shoes, a beaded palm, a camera and a suitcase. Naila pulled off her Adidas and set them beside the cairn of black sandals outside the door.
Fluorescent lights, white walls, and windows with metal grills all gave the scene a medical cast. The floor was concrete grey and sluiced with hair like marbling over its skin. The feeling in the room was animal and wet. Everyone seemed pleasant and calm. Along one wall, male barbers in all white sat cross-legged, directly across from the female barbers who wore saris in a jungle’s worth of pattern and colour. Pilgrims of matching gender knelt facing them, heads bowed to be shaved.
Naila joined a queue on the women’s side and the pilgrim in front of her turned and smiled, head gently rocking. The barber they were lined up for wore a satin fuchsia sari with white geraniums, its beauty contravened by the banal plaid towel on her lap. Her own hair was pulled back into a long braid. She worked quickly, silently, one hand gripping the bowed head before her and tilting it incrementally, the other holding her blade, which swooped in swift arcs towards her, from neck to crown to forehead.
When it was Naila’s turn, the barber frowned and interrogated her with bits of pungent Telugu, spitting words like clove seeds. The newly shaved pilgrim from the queue translated: ‘Barber is asking you why, Madam. Are you a widow?’ Naila bit her lip and nodded. The barber made an acquiescent gesture. Naila knelt and bent her head. The blade was cool and made a slivery sound. She watched