How the cookie crumbles

The diamond twinkles, dancing to the flicker of naked flame of the oil lamps. It reflects light back also onto the face of the black granite idol. Idol of the god Murugan, the presiding deity of the Chellur Murugan temple. The diamond, the size of a raisin, is embedded in the head of the gold-plated wooden mace in the hand of Lord Murugan. I stand there transfixed, stupefied by the diamond’s beauty. It is speaking to me. Winking, naughtily mockingly. Like it was snapping its fingers, crooking its index finger challenging me to come and take it. I decide to accept the challenge. After seventeen times in prison, I am sick and tired of petty jobs. “It is mine, damn it, it is mine,” I tell myself. Its creation is better justified by its being in my pocket rather than in a wooden mace held by a statue. I believe in Murugan. I am a devotee, a friend. I know He wouldn’t mind. He doesn’t need the diamond. I do.  

I begin to make plans. No question of a break-in. Too risky. The police know me; they will be on my tail in no time. It has to be an inside job. I have to get inside.  

The next morning, I shave my head, leaving only a small tuft of hair at the back. The kudumi is the hallmark of religious orthodoxy in South India. I put on the poonul, the three-stranded sacred thread, over my left shoulder and let it hang around the right side of my torso. The mirror assures me that I look every bit like a Brahmin priest. I go to the Murugan temple every day. Recite lalitha sahasranamam just loud enough for people to know that I am reciting lalitha sahasranamam. For the first time in my life, I thank my departed parents for forcing me to learn the hymns.  

A month passes. “Younger brother, who are you?” asks Mani Iyer, the head priest. For some days, he has been eyeing me with a sort of fraternal affection. “Namaskaram, sir,” I greet him with respect. “My name is Rishi.”  

That is indeed my name. I spin him a story. I was raised in faraway Manipur. My grandparents had migrated to Manipur during the War, after having been displaced from Rangoon, Burma. All through my childhood I was brought up on a diet of South Indian culture, fed with stories of its solemn temples, the glory of the priests, the rock-solid spirituality, and so on, so much that when I parents died, I lost no time in catching a train to Chennai. I now work for a travel agency, but I hate my job. I want to dedicate my life to the service of the Lord, serving in a temple. Mani Iyer smiles. “Rishi, my dear younger brother...”  

I begin washing utensils, doing errands like fetching stuff from shops, drawing water from the well for the lead priests (water drawn by the motor is not considered ‘pure’ enough.) Every single day I pray to Murugan—to let me have my diamond. The damn diamond! Every day, when the priest swirls the plate with a camphor fire around the head of the deity, the diamond twinkles, gives me a taunting grin.  

Soon I ‘quit’ my travel agency job. Iyer puts me under Sankar. Sankar is about my age— early thirties—but highly learned. He is well-versed in Vedas, Upanishads and other scriptures. He is abstemious to the core. Just one meal a day, austere lifestyle. He teaches me Vedas every morning, for which I must come up ‘pure’ -- madi, they call it – which is what one ‘becomes’ after pouring buckets of cold well water over his head and applying holy ash and vermillion on his forehead. As for Sankar, he is always madi.  

Sankar and I, master and student, get along very well. I admire him for his devotion and piety. I feel a pang when I think of how he would react when he would learn that I stole the Murugan diamond. I ignore the pang. It is my occupational hazard.  

Soon, with the backing of Mani Iyer and Sankar, I become a priest. I am truly inside. September comes. Annual stock-taking time. Auditors and temple Trustees check everything to make sure all is well. They ask me to take a file to the auditors, who are working from the temple office. I secure for myself a moment of privacy. I flip through the file. There it is, the drawing of my diamond, with all its make and dimensions. I copy all the details onto the palm of my left hand. Now the diamond’s drawing is in my hand. It is only a matter of time before the diamond itself is.  

I give the diamond data to a jeweler I know in another city. (One has to be very careful.) In a week, he makes me a replica with a cheap, lab-grown diamond. Navaratri festivals arrive. It is the time of all-night rituals. Rituals begin at 3 am and end at 1 am. They make the god do His godly work for 22 hours a day. The priests must take turns to do the night rituals through the 9-day festivals. Iyer draws up a schedule. First three nights, Mani Iyer. Second three, Sankar. Last three, Rishi. Luck is with me. No rookie priest is given charge of the night rituals so early in his career, Iyer tells me. Usually, Iyer would do the first five night and Sankar the next four, but this time around Sankar, poor chap, must leave for Singapore, against his wishes, because his sister there has delivered a baby. Hence, it is three nights each. I am delighted. Mani Iyer completes his three nights. Sankar completes his, and leaves for Singapore. And then, it is my turn. My time. My opportunity. My diamond.  

I can tell it is worth not less than five crore rupees. On the third night, just after the last ritual, when the sanctum sanctorum is deserted, when there is no one besides me and Murugan, I make the switch. I kiss my diamond and pocket it. The replica looks every bit like the original. Not unless examined by an expert—which will happen only in next year’s stock-taking—can anyone tell the difference.  

The next morning, I rush to Palani, my fence. Palani is an honest man. He has always given us thieves a fair deal. He holds my diamond against the light, screws one eye and examines the diamond with the other. He turns it around and examines it from another angle. I lay down the basis for the bargain. “Palani, I want at least four crores for it.” I must get at least three. With three crores of rupees, I can retire to the hills. I look forward to all the peaceful evenings in the company of Scotch. “Chellur Murugan temple?” asks Palani. I am taken aback, because I have not told the fence where I stole the diamond. How could he have guessed? “Yes,” I say, nervously. Then, with the suddenness of an exploding paper bag, Palani breaks into wild, hysterical laughter. “Watch me,” he says, when he subsides. He draws my diamond over the glass-top of his desk. Not a scratch. I look at him with horror. “My dear Rishi,” Palani says, patronizingly. “You have brought me a dud.” He couldn’t have had better effect if he had hit me on the forehead with a 10-pound hammer. I realise the truth of what my father always used to tell me: Fate if resourceful. 

Palani opens the drawer and plunges his hand into it. He comes up with a small, velvet bag. He opens the bag and produces a sparkling diamond. “This,” he says, “is the original diamond. I received it three days back.”  

“How...how...how....how...” I struggle with words. “Hu...hu....who....brought it to you?” 

Palani’s response almost had me swooning. 

 “An old client of mine,” he said. “A chap called Sankar.”  

--ends--