God’s Children - by a 15 year old girl - Supraja Seshadri

[Guest guest]

sri:

 

I would highly recommend devotees to read this narrative story by this 15

year old girl: Supraja Seshadri.

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God’s Children

 

Sweat was crawling slowly from my forehead, along my cheeks to the edge of my

lips where it spread quickly along the parting. I could taste the salt of my

labor. The last seed was planted, the last sack carried and the last moments of

the day turned to night. The sun was starting to hide behind the mountains in

the distance as I flopped down onto the earth. My mother earth, my India, my

home. The fields were the only place where I felt more welcome, more real and

closer to my land. Letting all the peace of the evening air sink in me, I

pulled my small brown, tattered bag and with the last of my energy managed to

start walking home.

 

My house wasn’t very far. It was quite near the fields, away from the higher

caste people. I could hear the temple bell ringing as I walked down the narrow

dirt path lined with palm trees. The temple was quite famous for ‘Ranganatha’,

a popular form of Lord Vishnu, giving the district its name: Srirangam. People

from all over south India would come just to see his rich black figure decked

with gold, lying majestically on a coiled five headed snake called Adi Sesha.

But it was beauty that I could see only in my dreams. The look of pure,

absolute divinity in his lotus-petal shaped eyes. The solid black stone carved

with such precision, outlining his sharp features. His nose in a straight

angle, his thin lips together in a perfect mountain-like curve with just a

subtle, knowing smile. Just below, his small rounded dimple chin. His chest

broad and his stomach tight, both bare covered in only gold necklaces lined with

various gems. His arms with armlets and bangles, his fingers together showing a

perfect palm. His legs straight, draped in a white silk cloth, a border of just

simple gold once again. His feet and toes in perfect proportion, each smaller

than the first. There he would lie, just perfect.

 

My family and I as well as the others who lived in our area, couldn’t enter the

temple. We couldn’t even be around it to tell you the truth. The caste system

in the Hindu religion was made only as a division in work and labor. The

highest in the system are the Brahmins. Brahmins are the priestly ones, quiet

and studious they say. Next come the Kshatriyas who are princely and energetic.

After that are the Vaisyas who are apparently ‘impelled by desire’. Last is us,

the Sudras. People don’t even consider us to be in the caste system. When

passed by any other caste member, you can smell the air of pride around them,

and a negative vibe sent off, making you feel very undeveloped compared to them.

We may not be wealthy to attend school, but we know the way of life, and how to

produce food. The Brahmins are considered the spiritual power, the Kshatriyas

secular power, the Vaisyas economic power, and again us Sudras- the labor power.

I remember the days when I was a kid; I would stand in the street corner and

watch all the Brahmin children playing fun, various games until I was chased off

by some adult. The atmosphere around the streets surrounding the temples itself

is a change. A feeling of complete devotion takes over you, pulling you towards

it, but as soon as it calms the mind someone will chase you off.

 

So, the caste system was started just for the separation in the jobs, starting

from the priests to the laborers. This slowly transformed into a minute form of

racism. Because of peoples’ false pride and their discrimination, they said we

‘polluted’ their areas. I bow my head to them, but as they pass I hear them

muttering that we are God’s feet. Well, God’s feet are where everyone is

wishing to reach anyway when they attain salvation or ‘moksha’. If we are

already the feet… A sigh of deep sadness covered me like a blanket as I entered

my humble home.

My children ran to me as I sat on the mat on top of the earth floor inside the

house.

 

“It happened again today father!” the younger one, Andaalu, cried. I looked

into her dark brown eyes as they welled up with tears, her face covered in sand

and mud, her thick black hair spilling all over the place in curled locks.

“When I asked them if I could play, the pushed me away and threw sand in my

hair.” She started with her soft sobs. I knew exactly how she felt. It

happened to me when I was a child, when all the other children would simply

think they were better. It happened to my wife as well, and my parents, their

parents and so on. In her eyes I saw the reflection of my own anger. There was

nothing I could do though. If we adults didn’t have power, how would the

children?

“Don’t worry child,” I said, stroking her hair. “One day will come when we will

be allowed to play with them, when we will be allowed to go to school, and most

importantly when we will be allowed to enter the temple of Ranganatha.” My

older son, Maaran, stood in the corner, simply listening as I hugged my girl

tightly. We all knew our social status and what work had to be done. We stayed

away from other people and mingled with our own kind, even having fun sometimes,

sitting around a fire in the late evening and talking through the night with all

the families in our area. Occasionally though, it would hit us that we were not

given the same opportunity as others and some of us only grew more upset, while

others filled with rage. A day will come…

 

I told my children a day would come just for us, not in the true belief that it

would, only in the slight hope. I told them to soothe them for the moment, as

any father should do. Still, I did not expect this day to come so fast. I

remember it clearly though, around year 1063 (AD), in the month of June, it

happened. We all heard of Sri Ramanuja before, a famous saint who was teaching

the opposite of the philosophy of Sri Shankaracharya, or something like that.

It was too complex for us to learn what he was doing even if we had the chance,

but we thought he was like everyone else, sticking with only their castes.

 

We were wrong. I stepped out of my house, as usual, as the sun was rising and

folded my sleeping mat made of straw. Maaran did the same behind me, and then

tapped my shoulder. I turned to see his face, jaw open, eyes wide. I followed

his eyesight and there outside was a sage surrounded by all the Sudras in our

community. We ran quickly to the group and gathered with them, not knowing what

to expect. No sage or Brahmin had ever been this close to us. He was speaking

to all of them, in a calm voice.

 

“…Everyone is equal. You are all just the same as me and the rest.” He said.

His eyes met mine, I could see a sparkle in them and a wave of excitement ran

through my body. He continued, his back against the sun, creating a halo-like

glow around his head and bare torso.

“When we pass away, and reach moksha, we will serve the God-Head. We will

become his hands and feet. Everyone aims to reach his feet, and if all of you

are already feet then you’re in the right place.” There! Exactly what I was

thinking, I thought it was just me, but I was right. My mouth opened in

complete happiness. Everyone was starting to murmur amongst themselves.

 

“The caste distinctions in the Hindu religion were made only for the different

roles we play in contributing to our society. I am aware of the treatment you

are given by some higher caste members. Our bodies and appearances may be

different, but our souls are one and the same.” He continued. He held the

people in front of the crowd and pulled them forward.

 

“Tiruk Kulattar,” He said. “You are God’s children.” We all cheered, happy and

full of energy.

“I will take you, for now, at least once a year to the temple. You will be able

to see with your own eyes the beauty of Lord Vishnu as Ranganatha.” At this

there was a complete uproar. Clapping and running. People fell at the feet of

Sri Ramanuja. Maaran and I ran up to him and fell on our knees. We grasped his

hands in ours and cried with joy. My hands trembled as I could not believe that

the day had come where we could enter the temple. He pulled us up and simply

smiled. Andaalu came running and asked me if it was true, and with tears in my

eyes I nodded, holding her small face in my hands. We all jumped for quite a

while, and even then were not exhausted.

“Come.” Sri Ramanuja said quietly. And we all followed in silence.

 

After walking deeper into the area and past houses as well as the stares of

other castes, we entered the temple. When I stepped over the small step,

through the temple doors, butterflies formed in my stomach. We walked on the

cold stone floor with our bare feet and up a few more steps. We passed pillars

with sculptures on them of ladies and birds and smaller gods. Most of the

temple had been cleared for us, either way nobody would want to be there when we

visited. We walked into another door, this time with a ceiling, and then

another. Then we stopped, and in front of me was the big 21-foot long statue of

Lord Ranganatha. Everyone was speechless. Standing in complete awe. From the

snake heads, to the full form of the Lord up to his small toes, my eyes devoured

every inch of it hungrily. My heart pounded faster and my blood became hotter

as tears came to my eyes. The form was much more beautiful than in my dreams.

I put my hands together, praying, not asking for anything in the world except to

be able to see this more often. To one day be able to see this whenever I

wanted to. I looked around me. Everyone had tears of happiness on their faces.

Even my children did. I looked at them, and looked back at the lord. No words

are left in any language for me to describe the feeling within me at that

moment.

 

Sri Ramanuja let us admire the form of the God for quite a while until we were

ushered out. We were allowed to sit on the floor of the temple outside, against

the pillars and just take in the atmosphere. How lucky others were for being

able to do this everyday. Again, I sighed.

I went up to Sri Ramanuja and unable to control myself hugged him; he smiled and

hugged me back. Because of his heart, he looked so beautiful, and in that I

could not bring myself to see who’s smile was more divine, his or the Lord’s

himself. We all fell at his feet and thanked him as much as we could, some even

calling him their first God.

 

Every year we were allowed to visit the temple after that. Even though nothing

very big has changed in the society yet, at least this was a start. Now it’s

year 1103 (AD) and I’m about to pass away at the age of 71. My children and

grandchildren are all around me as I write these last few words. My last wish

is that at least my great-grandchildren will not be shoved away like we were.

The words of Sri Ramanuja echo in my ears. And with that I close my eyes, and

in that moment I see only the form of Vishnu, hopefully where I will reach

anyway.

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About the author:

 

Supraja is a 15 year old girl - Sri Madhavakannan Swamin's friend's daughter in

Jakarta. Thanks to Sri Madhavakannan Swamin's influence she expressed lot of

interest to learn our sampradayam.

 

She has great interest in Tamil verses and the richness of Tamizh language also-

though she

has been living in Jakarta for more than 12 years and is studying in American

School.

 

Contact the author at: supsesh

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Note from Sri Mukundan VP:

 

The first time I read this article, i was in tears, i hope many other devotees

enjoy this

anubhavam and get to feel our Emberumanar's compassion and love for all

humanity.

Since the first time i have read this over and over every now and then.

 

In our sampradayam there is no Caste, Race, Language, Knowledge, Sex barriers

all we need is Love for him in our hearts.

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