What was the best moment of your life? Author: Arundi Venkayya

I hopscotched over the delicate pattern Chandhini worked on in front of the house. Her careful application of the powder yielded flowers and intricate shapes that looked like the mehndhi or henna patterns my aunts and cousins decorated their arms with before weddings.

I wanted to stay with Chandhini. I always did. A kind and thoughtful woman, she never yelled at me as she swept and cleaned after Peddamma, Peddanna, Akka and Annayya, my aunt, uncle and older cousins, who we were visiting in India during Christmas break.

I knew there was no way I’d be allowed to stay home that day. We started toward the temple, intent on paying our respects to Lord Venkateswara and the other Gods and Goddesses.

We passed the hedgerow of hibiscus bordering Peddamma’s driveway. The blooms exploded red with bright yellow stamens popping out and walked toward the busier street to flag down a rickshaw.

The short ride to the temple took us past the street vendor who sold me Gems on days we were allowed to buy the chocolate treats. They reminded me of M&Ms and a wave of homesickness washed over me as I thought back to my friends celebrating Christmas in Ohio, a full 24-hours away from where I sat on my way to pray.

The temple, Hyderabad’s Birla Mandir, was imposing as always. A relatively young Hindu temple, it opened in 1976 and stood 280 feet up on a hillside, Naubath Pahad. Its 2000 tons of white marble glistened at the top of the hill. After a few steps, my small legs already were tired and I asked my cousins for a break. They did not oblige and pushed me to keep going.

Beggars waited outside the temple—praying and asking for spare change. Their pleas of “Amma, Amma,” caught my attention. I always wanted to play with the children—I didn’t understand our differences—the culture and privilege my family enjoyed. I just saw little boys and girls who I thought would like running around with me. My brother, who was six years older, thought I was a baby and didn’t like playing with me. My cousins also were busy and didn’t have much time to play.

My aunt quickly ushered our small group past them while she simultaneously hissed at them in Telugu to leave us alone. Apparently, I thought, this is a skill you master if you live in India.

We removed our shoes and continued our climb to the top.

We reached our destination after a few minutes. At the summit of Birla Mandir, priests performed offerings for the Lord and offered blessings for visitors. The primary shrine, dedicated to Lord Venkateswara, was the main attraction but other, smaller shrines, surrounded it. Lord Venkateswara’s consorts, Padmavati and Andal have separate spaces as do Lords Shiva, Ganesha, Brahma and Goddesses Saraswati and Lakshmi, among others.

I waited impatiently as we completed the prayer rituals. We drank holy water and touched the feet of each statue. My Mom gave me stern looks as I fidgeted and pulled on her sari to hurry up. I wasn’t there for any of that.

Finally. Finally. Finally.

We were on the terrace. My favorite spot in the whole of India. The space opened up to me and the white marble terrace seemed to extend for miles.

The noises of the city were muted. Faded. A gentle hum against the backdrop of the temple.

People milled around the periphery of the terrace. They gazed at the panorama of the city and chatted with each other. My family walked to the side of the terrace with the other visitors. Monkeys chattered in the surrounding trees.

None of that mattered to me. The monkeys couldn’t even distract me. All I saw was the wide expanse of cool white marble, streaked with gray in front of me.

Then I was running. My bare feet flew as I raced from one side of the terrace to the other. I spun my gold thread embroidered lengha out around my legs and sat down quickly. I squealed as the big skirt poofed around me and then I did it again. Over and over, I ran and sat and squealed watching the lengha poof.

I was as close to heaven as I’ve ever been.

There was no homesickness, no sadness, no anxiety. No worry about my parents or brother or friends at home. No concerns about anything. Just sheer joy. Sheer freedom. On that day—in that moment—every opportunity, every possibility was mine.

My Mother and Aunt finally made me stop twirling. I was ready to throw up from the dizziness but I couldn’t stop grinning.

I have returned to Birla Mandir as an adult. It has taken me decades to appreciate the holiness and solemnity of the temple. I find much more glory and gratification in paying my respects to our Hindu Gods and Goddesses. I’m infinitely more patient as I wonder at the priest’s rituals, drink the holy water and bring the smoke of the fire to my eyes. I breathe the incense and wonder at the craftsmanship of the temple carvings.

I am also astounded by the smallness of the terrace that used to take my breath away.

Like everyone, life has brought a fair share of sorrow into my life throughout the years. As an adult, the simplicity of life is replaced by parenting responsibilities, texting, social media, email, laundry, making dinner, the fear of missing out, grief and a thousand other small and large weights.

But in my darkest moments, I remember the small girl on the terrace and imagine I am twirling again. I relive the joy and catch my breath over and over as I spin across that pristine marble terrace, poofing my lengha as I go.

In those memories of twirling across the glorious white marble, time stands still and I am enveloped by immeasurable joy and light. And, there is nothing better than that glimpse of freedom to carry me through my bill paying and grocery shopping.