Outsourcing faith: Blindly signed, sealed and delivered

One by one, the faithful shuffled into the Swami's chamber, returning with an incredulous sheen to their faces! How did Swamiji know that, "I wanted to expand on my business, build a resort of the Spa variety, where even cocktails stirred with a double-shot, were taken for muscle-relaxants?!". When it was my turn to enter the Sanctum, I definitely wanted to make an about turn but it was too late and so, made my way with the enthusiasm of a cat headed for a bath. He slowly looked up, then down, indicating that I had not followed the protocol laid down by the Gods—not having prostrated to touch his feet!

- RENÉE RANCHAN

I had been cooped up for a good two days, perhaps not quite 48 hours, but what felt to me like a near week, when the chance to make a great, yet, short escape, came my way!

The significant-other, always one to have a fixation, or call it penchant, for Swamis, was telephonically informed by a friend of the same make, that a Swami had come to town and would only bathe blessings on those if their aura was aligned in a certain saintly symmetry, with the star constellation falling in tow, and so my housemate got to his feet with an alacrity I hadn't seen for a very long while, and more so, since he had been laid up with a backache brought on by a pinched nerve that decided not to budge an inch, announcing he was off to—fingers crossed—receive the "benedictions" of a Guruji.

Of course, he added with an obligatory ring that I was free to accompany him, if I so wished.

Me, not one, for Swamis, Gurus or Godmen, couldn't resist the offer thinking that once the boon bestowing ceremony was over, we'd halt for a cappuccino and a toastie followed by a sticky toffee pudding! Good enough reason to go, right? Thought I'd wait in the car but then not one for having the air-conditioning running on a static vehicle, I was compelled to enter the Sanctum set up in a posh South Delhi mansion.

And there I found myself navigating the fragrant chaos of jasmine garlands, incense smoke and an elite crowd, so reverent that you'd imagine they'd have kissed the very marble the Swami's slippered feet had trod.

He was not any Swami, mind you, but the Swami had been imported directly from the Himalayas, if the brochures were to be believed.

He sat on a sofa chair, that definitely looked like a throne, upholstered in psychedelic colours.