The Price of Patience: A Father’s Test at Tirumala

My three-year-old daughter, Dhani, knew something special was happening. She watched with wide, curious eyes as my wife, Namrata, packed the bags. Her big brother, Rishi (11), had already packed his own kit with the independence of a young man. We were a massive, joyous troop—four families, eight adults, and six children—headed for the holy hills of Tirupati.

We chose a weekday, naively hoping the crowds would be thin. We were prepared for the Sarva Darshan—the commoner’s queue. We knew it would be longer than the paid "Special Darshan," but we were ready to endure 8 to 10 hours. After all, isn't patience the only currency needed to see God?

We reached Tirumala at 3:00 AM. The hill town, home to Lord Venkateswara, was wrapped in the cold, foggy embrace of December. The children—Dhani, Rishi, Om, Sai, Puchu, and Himani—shivered not just from the cold, but from excitement. Seeing their innocent joy, we adults felt a surge of spirituality. We roared in unison, “Govinda – Gooovinda!”

After the men tonsured their heads and we all bathed in the chilling water, we donned our traditional attire and marched toward the queue. In our hearts, we held a simple truth: Who is not a commoner in the eyes of Lord Venkateswara? To Him, everyone is special.

Yet, the irony of the Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanams (TTD) is cruel. They have created a hierarchy of access—VIP, VVIP, Ministerial categories. If you pay, you see the Lord faster. But we, like millions of others, joined the river of humanity with only our devotion and patience to offer.

We entered Waiting Hall No. 9 at 7:30 AM.

The reality hit us instantly. The hall was not a waiting room; it was a containment unit. Authorities locked the heavy doors from the outside. Thousands were packed into a space where you could barely sit. We fourteen managed to carve out a tiny territory on the hard floor. At first, Dhani was happy, making friends in the crowd. But as the hours dragged on, the hall turned into a concentration camp.

There was no access to clean toilets. The hygiene was appalling—so bad that desperate parents were forced to let their children relieve themselves in washbasins. Food was thrown at us like we were prisoners of war, sparking scrambles where the strong ate and the meek went hungry. "Survival of the fittest" played out in the house of God.

By 5:30 PM, we had been locked in for ten hours.

The hall grew freezing as cold winds swept through. That is when the nightmare began. Dhani started coughing—a dry, allergic hack that wouldn't stop. Then, she began to vomit. My son, Rishi, looked exhausted and pale. Panic set in. I needed to get my little girl out. I dialed the emergency number painted on the wall. No answer.

Desperate, I rushed to the locked iron doors. I screamed, "Help! Help!" until my throat burned. Finally, a policeman appeared on the other side.

"Open the door!" I yelled, my voice trembling with rage and fear. "You are treating devotees like animals! I want to file an FIR!"

He smiled—an inhumane, indifferent smile—and spoke in Telugu. But he unlocked the door just for our group. We stumbled out into the fresh air near a tea shop. As the clean oxygen filled her lungs, Dhani’s coughing stopped. She began to play again. Our friends, Antaryami and Sunil, managed to find warm clothes and food for the kids.

We were ready to sleep on the road if we had to, but we could not go back inside that locked cage. We waited outside until the hall opened at 9:00 PM—14 hours after we entered. We moved to the gallery halls, finally getting a biometric ticket and the promise of a 4:30 AM Darshan the next day.

At 3:00 AM, a guard’s whistle pierced the air. The hall erupted. “Govinda – Goovinda!”

The fatigue vanished. Tears welled in my eyes. Finally.

I picked up my darling Dhani in my arms. Rishi stood right behind me, protecting my back, with Namrata holding onto him. The line was a physical ordeal of pushing and shoving, but compared to the mental torture of Hall No. 9, it felt like nothing.

And then, Bramha Muhurta.

We stood before Him. Lord Venkateswara.

Namrata and I broke down. We wept openly, unable to hold back the flood of emotion. The pain, the filth, the vomiting, the panic—it all washed away in that split second of divine sight. We were blessed. 

But as I walked out of the temple premises, my heart was heavy with a prayer that was not for myself.

Oh Lord, please make the Sarva Darshan humane.

The people in those cages—they are your real Bhaktas. They are not the ones buying your grace with money. They are the ones paying with their pain, their dignity, and their endurance just to witness your form.

The filthy money collected for "Special Darshan" feeds the greed of the administration, while the true devotees are treated like prisoners. You are with the ones who suffer to reach you. You are with the commoner.

Govinda... Goovinda.