MIRACLE OF LOVE

Read the most amazing story this morning about this Muslim maid who got sacked for tending to a neglected Ganesha idol in her Hindu employer's home, but continued to believe in the little fat God, and got her job back.
To me, this story is less about the string of "miracles" that followed for her, and more an incredible tale of unshakeable faith and the changes in your life it can bring about; there are those who will dismiss her little "miracles" as coincidences or fate, but to me, it's an instance of the beauty that love and attachment can bring with it.
Quite simply, if deep love for another human being can change a person and his/her life, by extension, strong belief in and love for a higher power can move the mountains most of us consider unsurmountable -- pain, heartache, suffering, depression, penury, disease... And what does that higher power demand anyway? Purity of feeling, steadfastness and some time, perhaps? Quite like what a loved one would ask for?
My own experience with the little fat God's been incredible. This year, like I've done for the past four years, I undertook the journey to see one of Mumbai's biggest Ganesha idols, the Lalbaugcha Raja, during Ganesh Chaturthi.
I'd never done this in over two decades in Mumbai, not because I lacked the faith, but simply because the "pilgrimage" involved trudging through very crowded, narrow streets and queues that stretch to nowhere. The noise and the crowd (most of whom smoke bidis, cuss and swear and give you unwanted physical attention -- incredible how these guys come to worship or are ostensibly returning home after worship) can leave you feeling nauseous.
The first year, I went out of curiosity and a sheer sense of adventure (Never really expected any devotion to flow at a site like this!). Entered through a route few used, in the dead of the night, got five minutes with the idol, bowed in respect, and left with the 'Wow, I did it' feeling. That's about it.
The second year was just as unspectacular, with the same fugitive entry. But by the third year, I was hooked. Nevertheless, I tried the shortcuts again -- used some influence, cut through the serpentine queue and got all of five privileged minutes with the idol. Prayed (synonym for begged, sought assorted favours). Sure enough, the pleas were answered too.
This year was different. Knew I had to go, if only to keep up the tradition, but kept putting it off. Maybe the heart wasn't all there (it has its own reasons), and that's usually when I procrastinate. Finally dragged myself there after a killing schedule at work. There was enough discouragement -- colleagues said, "Just look at the queue. Your turn will come tomorrow morning..." and "My brother works for a newspaper, but had to stand in the queue for four hours and return dejected..."
The testosterone display didn't make it easier. Heard my fair share of foul language along the way, and got touched in the wrong places. There was music blaring from loudspeakers, kids bawling, vendors screaming, incessant honking by vehicles stuck in a jam (and this was 1.30 am); worse, no cops or officials to rescue me and lead me in.
This year was indeed very, very different. I had had a little mental conversation with the idol before even getting there; and by the time I reached, just wanted to get it over and done with. Enough was enough, and heck, why didn't I use influence this time round? I was sick, tired, and wanted to get home and rest. Even contemplated getting back after standing in front of a huge TV screen that was broadcasting the chaos from the sanctum sanctorum.
But I remember, even as waves of fatigue were washing over me, asking Him just one question, "Don't you want to see me today?"
I won't call what followed a miracle, but it was strange enough. One of the organisers lifted a rope at that very moment, and I coolly made my way in. I was allowed free entry, although a family behind me was stopped. I kept walking, noticing that it was in the opposite direction -- worshippers were returning, in the same mode as I had seen them enter: crowding, pushing aimlessly, yelling. Again, there I was: In the midst of the chaos I so despised.
Lord, why was I doing this. And for Pete's sake, they were selling Spiderman masks, umbrellas, flashy, faux jewellery all along the route. He was all over garish posters, there were "holy men" selling all kinds of coloured threads, and a TV set was showing vulgar dances set to loud "devotional" songs in Marathi.
I was too dazed and kept walking, if only because turning back would mean walking into another hell hole. Ten minutes felt like an hour.
I walked right into the smell of incence and broken coconuts, and someone yelling: "Move on, move on, quick." And there He was. Sure as ever, towering over everything else with that little glint in His eye saying, "Just where did you think you'd run off to...?" ;)
That was it. Nothing mattered to me, and all surrounding sounds just faded out -- I couldn't hear the woman who was screaming at her kid right in front of me; or see the volunteer pushing people out, yelling all the time. I just felt lost in the surge of love -- He just made sure I got there, no hindrances whatsoever. I don't need huge miracles to change things around in my life; I'd just been blessed with personal, loving attention when everything around me semed hopeless, repulsive.
My two minutes with Him done, I walked back, still high. There was no chaos anymore -- only a lot of colour and vibrancy. And for a long, long time till I reached home, I had tears in my eyes.