Arain-washed milestone shows the way. 71 km to Sabarimala, it says, as you enter Kozhencherry, a small town in Pathanamthitta district in Kerala. It’s my home town but, more significantly, it’s the traditional route that devotees of Lord Ayyappa used to laboriously trek through to reach the hill shrine every Sabarimala season many decades ago.

Though present-day pilgrims zip by on four wheels, their incantations fading with the exhaust fumes, the pilgrims of old, as the town’s oldest denizens recall, poured in day after day.

Children sitting out on the porch of the homesteads lining the road would hail the pilgrims — strangers in the night — as they trooped in with tired feet and waning chant, inviting them to rest for the night. Even the Christian households would open their doors to the devotees. But they always opted to camp out in the open, perhaps under a sprawling jackfruit tree or among a neat row of rubber trees. The hosts would provide rice, plantain, yam, tapioca and coconut, which grew in abundance in the backyard, and the pilgrims would cook their meal over a wood fire. The men of the house would join them around the campfire and chant with them the familiar refrain of ‘Swamiyeee Ayyappa, Ayyappa Swamiyeee...’ and partake of the pot. Come morning, the pilgrims would set off on their journey once again. And the next lot of pilgrims would arrive for the night — until the shrine closed for the season.

There’s a story to tell at every prominent pit stop along the way — some myth, others real, most sadly forgotten. “Look, this stretch of the Pamba river is where the devotees would bathe before continuing their journey towards Aranmula...” “This is where Ayyappan rested with the tigress while he was tasked by the queen to fetch its milk to cure her of an ‘ailment’.” Yes, we were continually regaled with exciting anecdotes of Ayyappa’s life, ‘as told to’ from generation to generation.

But Ayyappa’s spell over the town didn’t lift even after the season. It stayed to mingle in with every bend and turn of our lives. This resilient Ayyappa flavour was hard to dispel.

For instance, after a returning devotee presented the aravana (jaggery payasam), which came in a little blue tin, to my father, he developed such a craving for it that my mother spent years trying to perfect the recipe. Sometimes it was too gooey, sometimes hard as rock, but finally gloriously viscous. That sweetness still clings to my tongue.

Growing up in the mid-’70s, we also shared a troubled relationship with Ayyappa. With measured sufferance we learnt to co-exist and embrace his culture. Living close to an Ayyappa temple meant I was up and running at 5.30 am as the plaintive chants from the temple commenced. So strident were the bhajans that the Lord’s prayer I attempted to mutter underwent a radical shift... “Our Father, Swamisharanam , Who art in heaven, Ayyappa Saranam , Hallowed be thy name, Swamiye Ayyappo … thy kingdom come Ayyappo … For thine is the kingdom, Swamiye , the power and the glory forever and ever Saranam Amen.”

My canny mother came up with a solution. When the temple donation committee came around for funds for the annual celebrations, she handed over a fat envelope, with a plea that the speakers be positioned away from our house. It worked, that year.

I will forever remember the ceremonial Thiruvabharanam procession — the carrying of sacred gold ornaments to adorn the idol of Lord Ayyappa during the annual Makaravilakku festival held on Makar Sankranti. The three-day event starts from Pandalam, and the procession stops at most of the Ayyappa temples along the route. One such temple was opposite the maternity hospital where I was admitted to give birth to my daughter. Memorably, she came into the world to the accompaniment of the loud crescendo of temple percussion, as hundreds of devotees offered worship when the boxes of sacred ornaments were opened for darshan.

Today, the rush to Sabarimala continues, but we don’t hear the tread of tired feet. Kozhencherry itself has undergone a sea change. Where once we awoke to the sound of bullock carts, laden with market produce, rolling over the dusty lanes at the break of dawn (the crack of the whip on the bull’s hide is imprinted in memory), now we have slick, rubberised unblemished roads to ensure an ultra-smooth passage for the black-clad devotees, complete with their ‘ irumudi kettu ’ (a ritualistic travel pouch carried by the devotees), on their speeding SUVs.

The homes of the locals have transformed from slate roof to concrete tops. Tall metal gates keep out unsolicited visitors. The fertile lands where yam and tapioca once grew have sprouted supermarkets and no-parking zones. One-way roads, ice-cream parlours, takeaways — the material comforts are in evidence more than the camaraderie with the pilgrims. Some 17 km away from the town is the spic-and-span multi-facility Chenganoor railway station, which pours out pilgrims in their hundreds each day. It offers every form of last-mile connectivity to the pilgrim. Of course, snagging a ticket home on IRCTC is harder.

As Kerala is roiled by the recent Supreme Court ruling allowing young women to enter the hill shrine, Kozhencherry can’t help but feel a twinge of regret that the Ayyappa they have co-existed with all their lives has to bear witness to the upheaval.

Related Topics