The Cradle of Burden

I woke up with the beating of drums and chanting of the Hindu hyms still ringing in my head. It felt good to sleep in after waking up at 6 am yesterday morning. Well, I was not entirely the only one, and definitely not the earliest compared to my dear pupils who reported at Little India station, even before the arranged time at 630 am.

If Lavin had not told me that Tank Road is in Yishun, I would have believed him when he told me that we should be meeting at Farrer Park Mrt station rather than Little India. All was not lost though, as we still managed to wriggle our way into the temple to catch the sight of the devotees who braved the pain of the sharp spooks to cleanse their wrongdoings and to have their prayers answered.

It did not take us very long to walk that 3 km. It was nearer than I expected. But it must have felt like eons when one is carrying that Kevadi or walking with shoes of torns. As though the pain is not enough to tear your hair out, there is the waiting. Waiting for each devotee to pray and do their rituals before your turn. Every second probably feels like a year. It was a touching sight indeed to see the family and friends, young and old, gathering around them and cheering them on.

It had been many years since I witnessed the Thaipusam. That must be when I was ten years old. I enjoyed the dancing, the kevadi and the drums. But yesterday was my first time watching the piercing, the prayers and other rituals. What does it take for a person make that decision to endure all that pain and suffering and to carry that cradle of burden?