The Long Childhood Liturgy

The strictest darśan of the day. The doors open on the unbathed Lord. The previous day's garlands are still on him. He has not yet been bathed, dressed, or fed. He is still asleep. Old devotees say this is the most precious darśan of all twenty-four hours. He is most himself when no one has yet adorned him.

Sesame oil, then medicinal paste, then conch-water. They are washing the child. They are cleaning behind his ears.

Puffed rice is offered, which is what poor people in old Kerala had to give. He eats poor food first. Then he is dressed and ornamented.

Breakfast. He is being woken into the day with sweetened milk and small offerings.

Milk-bath, the nine-pot bath, the mid-morning rite. He is being attended to as a king and as a baby at once.

The noon pūjā, the climactic offering of the day, with the great vegetable feast of unniyappam, palpāyasam, vella naivedyam. After this pūjā the doors close: the Lord, the priests say, is now napping.

Doors reopen. The thidambu, his processional image, is taken on the back of an elephant three times around the inner temple. To watch the elephant carrying the Lord around the temple in the late light is the moment most people who ever loved this temple will tell you they fell in love with it.

The lamps. All the lamps. The chuttambalam, the deepastambham, the Vilakku Maadam, the dwajastambham. Fire on every surface. The chant of namo nārāyaṇāya begins and does not stop.

Dinner. The night offering of food, lamps, song.

The night procession. The elephant carries him out one last time, in the temple now lit only by oil lamps.

The temple closes. The astrologer reads the day's signs. The Lord is left alone. He returns to whatever he is when the world has stopped looking at him.