Chapter 6 :The Great Tirupati Detour Disaster
There are family trips, spiritual journeys, and peaceful pilgrimages.
And then there is my family, which can turn a pilgrimage into a full-length survival documentary with complimentary laddus.
Our Tirupati adventure had already given us endless steps, unexpected rain, questionable footwear decisions, and a chariot that apparently operated on a schedule known only to the gods themselves.
But the real disaster? We weren’t even finished yet.
The Laddu Mission and the Great Mud Experiment
After conquering what I had privately named the Infinity Steps, we were starving. Our original plan was to find our usual hotel, eat, and finally let our exhausted legs retire.
Naturally, the hotel was closed.
Because it was Brahmotsavam.
Of course it was.
At this point, I was convinced that every time we made a plan, somewhere in Tirupati, an invisible committee gathered to cancel it.
We wandered around looking for somewhere to eat until we finally found a grand, clean hotel. Amma and I sat near the pavement while Appa called us over. The moment we entered, the rain began pouring outside.
Excellent timing, weather department. Truly professional.
I ordered veg biryani, Amma and Appa ordered meals, and Raasi ordered paneer fried rice. We ate, chatted, and temporarily forgot that our feet had participated in an unofficial trekking competition.
The waiter suggested buying another umbrella. We had only one, so Appa took it and went to buy another.
Our family had officially reached the stage where even the umbrellas required reinforcements.
Outside, rainwater flowed along the roadside in a little stream. Amma and I stood in the cold water for a moment, letting our aching feet enjoy what was essentially a free spa treatment sponsored by the monsoon.
Amma then tried to guide me away.
I kept returning.
She moved me away.
I went back.
This continued until I suspect she began questioning whether she had raised a daughter or adopted a particularly stubborn water buffalo.
Eventually, we reached the bus stand. A policeman informed us that the bus wouldn’t stop there and that we had to walk farther.
We boarded the bus, which initially had plenty of space. Then, as if the entire population had received a secret message, people began filling every available inch.
We were getting down soon, but apparently the other passengers had decided that our destination was a national treasure worth fighting for.
And the automatic door? It kept pressing against people as everyone struggled to get in and out.
For a few minutes, the bus was less a vehicle and more a mobile puzzle whose pieces were all shouting.
We finally escaped.
Yes, escaped.
That is the correct word.
Operation: See the Deity
Our next mission was to reach Mada Street and see the deity coming out in procession. We hadn’t booked darshan, so this was our chance.
Unfortunately, the street was already packed.
The police refused to let anyone else enter. People argued, including Telugu-speaking devotees, but the crowd remained blocked.
We stood there wondering whether we had travelled all this way just to admire the backs of strangers.
Then another policeman suggested the N1 entrance.
And off we went again.
At this point, Appa had one clear objective: laddus.
Not the procession. Not the scenery. Not the spiritual atmosphere.
Laddus.
The route to the laddu counter looked as though the earth had decided to become a giant bowl of sludge. There was sand, grass, puddles, mud, and enough wet ground to make a footwear manufacturer cry.
We somehow made our way through and bought two laddus each.
Appa’s mission was accomplished.
Mine, however, had accidentally become scientific.
I discovered something astonishing about muddy feet. Normally, I would jump over puddles to keep my feet clean. Unfortunately, tiny bits of mud would still stick to them, leaving me with dirty feet anyway.
But when I stepped into a puddle, the water washed away the existing sludge. After that, my feet dried more easily.
I had discovered the Puddle-Based Foot Cleaning Principle.
Some scientists receive laboratories. I received a muddy pilgrimage route.
By the time we came out, Mada Street was full, and we were directed straight out from the laddu counter.
Think about that.
We had fought our way through crowds, searched for entrances, and navigated the mud.
Our grand pilgrimage strategy had concluded with a packet of laddus and an involuntary field study in puddle management.
Appa was happy, though.
That was probably the only performance indicator that mattered.
The Chariot That Refused to Cooperate
We walked towards the area to have tea. The rain had softened into a drizzle, and the air was cold and misty. We found a Tamil tea seller, chatted with him in Tamil, and enjoyed the warmth of the tea.
After that, we boarded a clean, comfortable AC bus with long windows.
I ate Poppins again. Apparently, my digestive system had decided that the pilgrimage’s official food groups were biryani, laddus, and Poppins.
I was also hoping to spot a cheetah during the journey.
No cheetah appeared.
Not even a distant paw print.
My wildlife documentary had been cancelled without notice.
By night, we got down and went to Parambu Srinivasa for dinner. I had idiyappam with coconut milk. Appa ordered set dosa, while the rest of the family chose their own meals. We ate fruit and salad too, because apparently a balanced diet must make at least one appearance during every family trip.
Then we returned to our room.
We had checked in at 4 a.m., and we had to leave by 4 a.m. the following day. Even being a minute late would mean paying for another entire day.
One minute.
An entire day’s room charge.
The hotel had introduced a new unit of measurement: the expensive minute.
We made sure to leave on time.
But the next morning, Amma revealed something that changed the entire plan.
The previous day had been Garuda Seva.
And she had been thinking about going uphill again the next morning to see the theru, the temple chariot.
Appa, who had already used up every last drop of physical energy, stared at the proposal.
“Are you guys serious? Who am I? I’m a human being! I’m exhausted. I can’t do this again!”
His speech was powerful.
His argument was reasonable.
His audience was unmoved.
We got into an auto to reach the bus stand for the uphill bus. Naturally, the auto developed a puncture and stopped right across from the bus stand.
Even the auto had decided it had climbed enough in life.
We got out. Appa initially told us to board a bus, then changed his mind and came with us.
And so, against all reasonable expectations, we went uphill again.
The morning was beautiful. Mist floated around the hills, the sunrise illuminated the landscape, and waterfalls shimmered along the way. Mada Street was almost empty.
For a moment, everything felt peaceful.
We waited for the theru.
We waited some more.
Then we discovered the schedule.
The chariot was at 4 p.m.
Not 4 a.m.
Four.
In.
The.
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Afternoon.
We had climbed all the way up in the morning to see something scheduled twelve hours later.
I looked at the empty street.
I looked at my family.
I looked at the sky.
Somewhere, the invisible committee was laughing.
Still, we had seen the beautiful gopuram and received its blessings. The trip wasn’t wasted, even if our timing deserved a separate investigation.
Appa had climbed a mountain of steps twice for a chariot that was practically still asleep.
The man deserved a medal.
Or at least a chair.
One Last Round Before Chennai
After coming down, we visited the temple of the goddess. Appa was too exhausted to join us, so he waited outside while Amma, Raasi, and I went in.
The temple was surprisingly peaceful. It was usually crowded, but this time we could enter comfortably, worship, and receive prasadam without the usual rush.
Then came the kumkum distribution.
The staff said children weren’t allowed to receive it.
Raasi, our twenty-three-year-old software engineer, somehow ended up being treated like a child.
I was standing there thinking that if adulthood had a customer-support desk, she needed to file a complaint.
Her résumé said software engineer.
The temple’s unofficial database said: child.
Afterwards, we went shopping. Raasi bought bangles, a wooden box, kairu, laddus, a wooden Perumal doll, and necklaces. I bought bangles too, and we picked up calendars.
We drank tender coconut water and boarded our next bus to Chennai.
This one was a large, clean electric bus with long windows and comfortable seats. At the refreshments stop, I went to the restroom while Appa bought me popcorn.
A thoughtful father.
A generous father.
A father who understood the sacred bond between a daughter and popcorn.
Then Amma saw the packet.
“Exchange it for garlic murukku.”
I looked at Appa.
Appa looked at the popcorn.
The popcorn looked at its future disappearing.
The exchange happened.
I was prepared to be disappointed. Garlic murukku was not what I had ordered from the universe.
Unfortunately, it was delicious.
I ate the entire packet.
Amma had won without even entering the competition.
We ate oranges and apples, slept, woke up, slept again, and repeated this cycle until the journey became a travelling sleep laboratory.
Eventually, we reached the metro. It was crowded, and there were no seats at first. At the next stop, people moved, and we finally got some space.
When we reached Alandur, I could practically smell our Chennai roots.
We had bhel puri, tea, and cutlet at Nithyamurtham before getting a cab home.
By then, it was night.
We unloaded the shopping, admired the things we had bought, secured the laddus, and prepared to sleep like people who had personally carried Tirupati down the hill.
The Thunderstorm Incident
There was just one thing we didn’t know.
Chennai was under a red alert for heavy rain.
We had no idea.
That night, the rain arrived with enthusiasm. Thunder boomed so loudly that I woke up, went and sat beside Amma, and eventually fell asleep again.
The next morning, I had absolutely no memory of doing any of this.
Raasi told me what had happened. Amma confirmed it.
Apparently, my sleeping self had made a decision to seek maternal protection while my waking self had been completely unaware.
My subconscious had better emergency-response protocols than I did.
And that, I thought, was the end of our Tirupati adventures.
I was wrong.
Because the next day was my parents’ anniversary.
The Anniversary, the Blouse, and the Books
The sari shopping had happened a month earlier. Appa had bought the saris, but the blouses still needed stitching.
And yesterday, the stitching finally happened.
The anniversary was here, the blouse was ready, and one pending task had finally been crossed off the family’s invisible list.
But naturally, the day didn’t end there.
We drove to Mangalore.
Meanwhile, I had my own collection of pending responsibilities. Social work, activities, other tasks, and all the little things that somehow multiply whenever you turn your back on them.
I rushed through everything, trying to finish as much as possible.
My school uniform wasn’t arranged.
My books weren’t arranged.
My schoolbag wasn’t packed.
The entire school-preparation department was being managed by one exhausted employee: me.
I decided that I would wake up early the next morning and get everything organised.
I told Amma, “Wake me up when you wake up.”
A perfectly sensible plan.
A responsible plan.
A plan that assumed tomorrow would behave normally.
I went to sleep, confident that the next morning would finally bring order to my life.
At last, I would arrange my books, organise my uniform, pack my bag, and prepare for school.
The alarm clock was ready.
The books were waiting.
The uniform was waiting.
I was ready to enter my organised-student era.
Then Amma woke me up.
“There’s a holiday today. It’s an orange alert.”
I stared at her.
A holiday?
Today?
After all that rushing?
After all that planning?
After mentally preparing to face the books I had abandoned?
The government had cancelled school.
I had spent the previous night preparing for a battle that had been cancelled before I even reached the battlefield.
And now?
I was sitting there, texting my week’s story for Medium, bored out of my mind, considering cleaning my room and finishing a few extra activities.
My schoolbag remained unprepared.
My uniform remained unarranged.
My books remained in their natural habitat.
To be continued…
