Balaji’s Welcome Hug By: Hugh Gantzer

While awaiting his turn for a darshan of Balaji at the Tirupati temple, HUGH GANTZER is overwhelmed by the aura emanating from the idol
There is no logical explanation for what happened. My wife, Colleen and I had gone to Tirupati as tourists. We did not go there as pilgrims or devotees and, at the temple office, we had asked for the form that all non-devotees must sign. We had said that though we were not devotees of Lord Balaji, we respected his worship. We respect the religious beliefs of all people. We had seen pictures of the towering idol: an impressive black image with a golden hand.
We are Roman Catholics and have been RCs at least from the time that the first Gantzers landed in Serampore, now Srirampur, in the early 19th century.
Our Catholic churches have statues and images of Christ, and of the saints: people who have led such exemplary lives that, after their death, the church has canonised them, acknowledging that they have earned eternal bliss. But while such statues are respected, because they remind us of revered souls, they are not idols. They are not manifestations of the people they represent, only images of them.
Consequently, we went to Tirupati, as we go to all tourist destinations, out of curiosity. Very soon, however, that turned to admiration. In spite of the thousands of pilgrims who flock to this iconic temple, the grounds were immaculately clean. Everything here seemed to be valued; even the flower-beds and the garbage cans were treated with respect and not with the callous indifference that we have seen elsewhere. It was quite remarkable.

Our queue led through the counting house where treasury officials weighed coins on balances. Currency notes were counted. Gold and jewellery got special attention. All these donations had been made by unknown devotees who deposited them in the hundi boxes. Tirupati is, reputedly, the richest temple in the world, drawing worshippers because they believe that their Lord answers all their prayers. No one, however, sceptical he may be, can fail to notice the intensity of devotion being directed at the idol.
After the counting house, we were divided into two darshan queues: men on one side, women on the other. At the far end of the queue was the sanctum with priests standing in front of the idol, ministering swiftly to the devotees. This is when I began to get a very strange feeling. The hair on my arms began to rise and I started to sweat. It was not love that was drawing me closer to the idol. And it certainly was not fear. It was an aura emanating from the idol.
The form of the idol was alien to my religious iconography: none of the statues in any of our churches looked anything like Lord Balaji. And yet, inexplicably, I felt a tremendous power radiating out of the idol. It was as if I was approaching a furnace of empathy. Whatever was there understood me better than Colleen, my mother, father, or son did. My glasses began to get fogged. I wanted to cry because whatever was there was reaching out to me, embracing me, accepting me for what I was, unquestioningly, unequivocally. I had almost reached the idol and I felt I would break down. I wanted to turn back and run away before I made a fool of myself but it was too late, I looked up, my vision blurred, gave my offering, accepted the acknowledgement, turned and hurried to the exit. When Colleen joined me, she looked up, worried. “Why are you crying? Are you in pain?” she asked.
I shook my head, “No. I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’ve never had such a disturbingly sanctifying experience.”
That was the only time it happened. Years later, we returned to Tirupati, had another darshan but there was nothing unusual about it. Perhaps great expectations impede such close encounters.