The crowd moved inch by inch as we stood in a lane surrounded by shops on either side. I turned around and saw hoards of people standing behind me.
Juice, Juice
Made from Fruits,
Infused with roots,
Loved by youths,
Energy boosts
Juice, Juice.
Fresh Cane Juice!
The shop attendant on the right was busy churning cane juice as he placed a fresh sugarcane stalk between the rollers.
“Whirrr, crunch-crunch, clickaty-clack!”
After a few seconds, he took the dry, crushed sugarcane residue from the other end of the equipment and placed it back in the machine. In parallel, a strainer placed under the funnel acted as a filter to receive the end product.
“Necklaces, buy these beautiful necklaces.”
My concentration was broken by a man dressed in dusty white clothing, holding a variety of beaded necklaces in his left hand. Pratyusha’s eyes lit up as she started inquiring about the price of an eye-catching blue necklace.
“Only, Hundred rupees ma’am,” the man wearing a bandana stated.
“Hmm,” Pratyusha inspected the necklace once again. I could hear her faintly whispering, “Cost of blue beads, mostly bought in bulk, so ten rupees for that. Other material and labor shouldn’t cost more.”
“I’ll buy it on my way back,” replied Pratyusha, avoiding an argument with the vendor.
The salesman made a glum face, nodded his head, and walked past us in pursuit of finding another client. As we moved ahead, we saw a crowd walking in opposite directions.
Mr. Bangalore jumped into action as he held out his right hand and stopped a man with a U-shaped sandalwood tilak on his forehead. “Excuse me, Sir, can you share how long it will take to reach the temple.”
The man smiled and replied, “From here, forty-five minutes, but the temple is closed for twenty to thirty minutes as priests will perform the daily rituals.”
“Oh! Thank you very much,” he politely replied as we stood under a green net makeshift shade stretching across the road from left to right.
Nearby, we saw brokers taking more people ahead towards the non-existent VIP line. It took us nearly thirty minutes to reach a turn from where we could see the temple entrance.
Captain Chaos was leading the show, and we saw him holding his baseball cap with his left hand. He animatedly pointed towards the back of the line, directing people accompanied by brokers and shouting, “Go back to the end of the line!”
“Whoa!” I murmured as I observed people crowding the entrance by surrounding the queue. “Only one person can go through the entrance?” I whispered as people backed by brokers intentionally cut the line and jumped in front of the devotees standing in queue.
“Behind, go behind. The line doesn’t start here,” shouted Raghu.
Standing ahead, Mr. Bangalore waved at Raghu; he then made a conch with his right hand and asked, “Buddy, you need help?”
Raghu turned to his right for a fraction of a second and replied, “Yes, we need to stop these folks!”
Mr Bangalore took a few steps towards the line of no control, removed his goggles from his front shirt pocket, and wore them like a south superstar. His hands were up in the air as he joined the group of warriors and shouted in chorus, “To the back of the line.”
Kids were still playing and running, unbothered about the chaos brewing near them. A little boy was jumping above stones spaced in a straight line, considering them makeshift hurdles. As the boy moved farther from the queue, his mother quickly held his hand and politely warned, “Miku, stand here; don’t go away.”
On our right was an unoccupied shop made of roofing sheets, selling Prasadam. Right outside the shop were hoards of footwear of various shapes and sizes. “That’s where we keep our shoes?” I asked bewilderedly, observing the current lot of shoes getting stomped, rolled, and kicked in different directions.
“There is a shoe rack on the right, opposite the temple entrance, where we can keep our footwear. But I don’t think we will be able to reach there,” mentioned Pratyusha as I raised my eyebrows.
It had been twenty minutes, and our feet were firmly stuck to the ground. Mr. Bangalore had supported Raghu and Caption Chaos in a noble endeavor, as they, along with others, had sent people back to the start of the queue.
But the brokers were devious, as they constantly bought new people. “Sir, please go back,” mentioned Captain Chaos as he raised his right hand, pointing it toward the end of the unending line.
“I have just come here to see how things are,” replied the man dressed in a colorful traditional Indian attire.
“Mr. Observer, there is nothing to see here, Sir. Please go to the end of the line,” Captain Chaos stated with folded hands.
“But, why can’t I stand here? I am not doing anything,” replied Mr. Observer assertively.
“Sir, please go back!” insisted Captain Choas firmly.
Mr. Observer didn’t seem like he would give up as the pitch of his voice increased with each reply. “No, I will stand here,” insisted Mr. Observer.
“Sir, you are being impossible. I repeat, the line doesn’t start here.”
“You cannot stop me.”
“GO BACK!” shouted Mr. Chaos as he gently pushed Mr. Observer.
“Huh! YOU DARE TOUCH ME!” bellowed Mr. Observer as his voice
“The Line doesn’t start here. Please GO BACK!”
The arguments were getting heated as more people stood behind Captain Choas. Mr. Observer’s face had turned red as he clenched his fists.
“Phwwwwwhht, Phwwwwwhht,” a man with a whistle, holding a stick in his hand, intervened and calmly reiterated what Captain Chaos had mentioned: “Go Back; the line doesn’t start here.”
Mr. Observer stood unmoved for a few seconds as his eyes turned red, with visible fumes coming from his nostrils.
“Tap, tap, tap!”
The man with the whistle, dressed in khaki clothing, tapped his stick on the ground and then raised it, pointing it toward the rear end of the queue. “Come, on, come, on. Don’t stand here.”
Mr. Observer was left with no choice but to take a step back. He turned around, walked a few steps, and quietly stood far from the commotion.
On the other side, Miku’s mother was standing outside the queue admiring bangles at a nearby shop, but as soon as she returned, her eyes widened, and all hell broke loose.
“Miku?”
“Where is my Miku?”
“MIKUUUU!!” she shouted.
Miku was not visible anywhere; his mother’s eyes were peering through the crowd, trying to find him. Wrinkles had formed on her forehead, her feet visibly shaking as she tightly gripped her husband’s arm and continued shouting her son’s name.
The place was stomping with people, but a sharp, piercing sound broke through the cacophony of noises.
“Wah-wah, wah-wah!”
“Wah-wah, wah-wah!”
“Mikuuuu, I can hear my Miku,” shouted Miku’s mother with a twinkle in her eyes as she ran towards the wailing sound.
Miku had magically reached the temple entrance, unnoticed by the guardians of Captain Chaos, and he was crying profusely. In a fraction of a second, Miku’s mother picked him up and returned to the queue. “We are going home,” shouted Miku’s father, visibly angry at what had transpired.
Miku’s father, holding his wife’s hand closely, left the queue and started walking towards the exit. “Why are you going? In a few minutes, we will be going inside the temple,” stated Mr. Bangalore, trying to persuade the family to stay.
But Miku and his family didn’t seem interested as they briskly walked towards the exit. Mr. Bangalore turned around but stopped mid-way, peering in my direction. “Who is that?” inquired Mr. Bangalore, looking towards my left.
I turned left and saw a middle-aged woman dressed in a purple Indian attire, accompanied by her daughter. “Where did she come from?” I murmured as I hadn’t seen her before.
“W-we h-have been here only from the beginning,” replied the woman tensely.
“Ma’am, please don’t cut the line; go back,” requested Mr. Bangalore, reading through the lie.
“I-I w-was h-here only,” she reiterated without much confidence.
“It’s you; it’s because of you,” mentioned a tall, bulky, grumpy-looking elderly man standing behind us, pointing at Pratyusha.
“Me?” replied Pratyusha bewilderedly.
“Yes, you. I have seen you constantly moving away from the queue, because of which people are cutting in,” explained Mr. Grumpy unflinchingly.
“What are you doing, dear?” mentioned Mrs. Grumpy, who, in comparison, seemed much calmer.
“Sheesh, a woman is cutting in line behind us, but I am the one who is to be blamed,” angrily whispered Pratyusha.
Mr. Bangalore reasserted his ask as the woman and his daughter stood outside the queue.
“Things seem to be getting out of hand,” I said, observing a barrage of people hovering outside the queue.
“Everyone, listen up,” Mr. Chaos shouted at the top of his voice. “Us guardians are going to form a human chain, so hold each other’s hand,” he advised as he held out his right hand.
One by one, the people joined hands and formed a human chain, blocking the entrance of the so-called jumpers.
“Har-Har-Mahadev!!” shouted the guardians as everyone joined in the chorus.
“Har-Har-Mahadev!!”
But, as the guardians protected the starboard side of the queue, a sly broker successfully made his way to the port side with a new gullible client. Both stood quietly under the shade of a dual-colored umbrella, where a woman was selling flowers.
“Har-Har-Mahadev!!” shouted the crowd as we patiently waited for the temple gates to open.
***
Part 3: In Progress