I made a recent trip to my Kuladeivam in a small town near Trichy. For years, the extended family had been nudging, sometimes gently and at times insistently, for me to make the pilgrimage. I had resisted thus far. I hadn’t been there as a child, and even my parents rarely spoke of it.
But times change. Social media has a way of stitching extended families back together. Family WhatsApp groups buzz with photos, festival updates, and donation appeals. Cousins make annual trips, sponsor rituals, and post smiling selfies with the deity in the background. And somewhere between nostalgia and peer pressure, I felt the need to be counted. To show up. To be one of them.
So, we set off.
The drive from Bangalore to Trichy on the eve of the Christmas holidays was nothing short of brutal. It felt as if the entire city had decided to flee at once. The serpentine queues at the first toll gate were a warning of things to come. The stretch from Electronic City to Salem, barely 180 km took close to four hours. Endless traffic, diversions from highway construction, and those maddening barricades before every town that look like they’ve been welded into the earth.
And of course the familiar chaos—two lanes converting into five with drivers lunging from all directions and everyone in a tearing hurry. Post Salem, the road opens up. The route via Namakkal is scenic. Canals crisscross the fields, water shimmering in the sun flanked by endless plantain groves. Small coffee stops serve Mysuru coffee( welcome change from Kumbakonam kaapi), and there is that one lonely café at the toll before Trichy that stubbornly sells only sandwiches (I still wonder why).
By the time we reached Trichy, exhaustion had settled in. We checked into Hotel Ramyas, and that’s where something wonderful happened. What struck me wasn’t the room or the food. It was the people. The parking attendant. The bellboy. The waiter. Many of them were grey-haired, clearly having spent decades in service. There was pride in their work, an old-world courtesy, a quiet dignity. No fuss, no attitude….just genuine care. It felt like culture had seeped through every layer of the organization.
After a quick lunch, we drove to Manakkal, the town of our family temple. It is small—so small that you could miss it if you weren’t paying attention. The temple opens only at specific hours. A single priest is juggling between making a living and being the caretaker of the shrine. It was late evening when we entered. A narrow walkway circled the sanctum. Nearby, four or five youngsters were huddled over their phones one blasting a loud Vijay song. It struck me …this deep, almost insular obsession with local cinema icons. In Tamil Nadu, the grip of cinema is all pervasive, Sun TV’s endless reruns and larger-than-life heroes. Many of these youngsters rarely watch films in other languages. Almost like cultural conditioning. Powerful, Pervasive and Unquestioned.
The temple was being prepared for an upcoming Kumbhabhishekam. Fresh paint, scaffolding, and some decoration. But honestly, it needs more than ritual refurbishment. It needs care, cleanliness, and structural attention. I know the locals do what they can, but their means are limited. In a town of this size, there are four or five other temples. The ratio feels skewed.
I am part of a Whatsapp group where donations are constantly requested for festivals, for construction, and for rituals. Yet as I drove through the town, the contrast was stark. Dusty, weather-beaten roads. A school building that clearly needs expansion. The nearest Primary Health Centre is not even in the immediate vicinity. No visible library. No community space.
And I couldn’t help asking myself: where should the money go … To restoring temples to their old glory….Or to building schools, healthcare centers, and libraries? To faith or to foundations? Or is it the government’s responsibility? And if it is, why does it still feel so absent here?
As I headed back to Bangalore, the questions stayed. They sat heavily. Unresolved. Will I contribute? Will I get involved beyond the token donation, beyond the annual visit? Will I try in my own small way to balance heritage with human development, or will this become just another blog? Another passing emotion. I don’t know. All I know is this: something shifted on this trip. A quiet discomfort. A sense of unfinished responsibility.
Only time will tell which version of me wins.
Ravi Naghabhushnam
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