We arrived at the Temple in our large car, were given access to a close parking spot reserved mostly for large, that is to say important, people, and out tumbled our large bodies round with American spare tires.

A man met us there, and said he had already arranged everything for us. We left our sandals in the car and walked on the hot, wet, stone dirtied by the march of people. After washing our feet, for symbolic reasons clearly, we walked into the Temple interior and met with a small heard of cows whose foreheads had been properly anointed with bottus and other colored powders. The holy cows were sanctified again at the temple. My uncle took the rope to one, and I was given the rope to another. I looked at her,  privately apologized for the weirdness of human behavior and asked for her patience during this ritual that I had never heard of or performed. (It is for good health). She tried to walk elsewhere and I pulled on the rope, shortening it to keep her close so that the little children wouldn’t be scared. She followed obediently.

We were to make a full circle of the Temple interior and my private, indeed telepathic, conversation with her continued. “You’re beautiful and certainly know this route better than I do, so lead the way.” She stayed slightly behind, as if to reinforce a hierarchy of species. I slowed down so that I was by her head. We turned a corner and I had to step carefully around the remnants of recently washed away dung that her partners blessed the Temple with. A slow pace. A serene expression in her eyes and, what I imagine must have been, a confused and slightly distant look in mine. I tug again to keep her moving and away from a snack of flowers she has discovered. Damn humans.

Returning to our starting point, I am told to place the rope’s hoop around an anchoring stone, which is also anointed with sacred powders and must be bowed to. I say goodbye and think, could swear that, she glances for one hopeful moment at me then turns and returns to snack finding.  I wonder what she hoped for?

My family and I are guided through a series of narrow corridors formed by temporary mental fencing. A guard opens a gate and we slip form the crowd and are taken to God’s abode from the side. We are to gaze at infinity askew. This is the V.I.P entrance given to those who can donate generously. One Darshan (the blessings gotten from glancing at a saint or his image) follows another and we barely interact with the other visitors. Small gates open to grant us front row visions. I’m baffled by the brazenness of this setup, and begin praying for greater equality among people. I’m not sure God heard me.

One can never just leave a Temple without sitting for a moment in the sacred space. We are guided to a thick carpet to enjoy our holy pause. No less than five priests are chanting divine words, led by a finely aged renunciant at whose feet we bow before leaving. Generous donations are given.

I’m wearing black shorts and white polo shirt, Ying-Yang colors. People stare at me and I feel like an ungodly space alien.

As we exit, I notice again a begging child, a beautiful little girl who is no more than five years old. She tugs at the saris and pant legs of strangers, none of whom miss a stride across the holy ground. I have no change, only 500 Rs ($12) notes that I am too tempted to hand over. I fail to do so. Beggar women outside gesture their need for food, all five fingers touching and reaching for the mouth with nothing but air.

We take some family pictures. I wonder if I should smile. And we drive away.