A South Indian Journey Read online

  As in the Gothic cathedral boom (or the skyscraper craze in the thirties in. the USA, for that matter) once the idea became the rage, it did not stop. These great constructions were thrown up in literally thousands of shrines all over the south between the eleventh and the seventeenth centuries. In some of the big temples, all the enclosures had their gate towers; at Sriringam, for example, on its forested island in the Cavery river, there are no fewer than twentyone, the last of which was completed only in 1987. Some of them soar to well over 200 feet, and are covered with sculpture so strange and exotic, so unlike any other architectural tradition of the world, that when glimpsed for the first time above the palm forests it is easy to imagine one has found oneself by accident on another planet.

  The gopuras mark out the rectangle of the sacred area. Walk under the gate at Vaithisvarancoil and you enter a long and gloomy pillared hall, painted a dark institutional green; here the temple carriages are stored, and there are stalls selling pilgrim literature and pictures. This hall lies along the axis of the temple, and once inside you can look all the way down the main nave and through the inner gate to the sanctum itself, where you can just make out a flickering circle of lamplight nearly a hundred yards away.

  It is basically a very simple architecture, but the effect is intensely dramatic. On a larger or smaller scale this is the essential idea of Tamil temple architecture, an idea which in places like Madurai is elaborated in a stupendous manner and scale to create some of the greatest sacred buildings on earth.

  The tall gate towers, like cathedral spires, are intended to be visible from far away across the landscape, but the principle is the opposite of Gothic architecture, for the Gothic cathedral encloses space. Once you are inside a Tamil shrine you find yourself in a vast rectangular area open to the sky, and then a dark labyrinth unlit by the sun, in which space becomes smaller and smaller as you go inwards. Finally you enter the sanctum, which in a Siva temple contains the linga, the simple black stone cylinder, phallic in origin, which represents the presence of the Great God. This place is called the gharb griya literally the ‘womb chamber’, the warm and dark space where you encounter the divine. The act of worship itself is called ‘puja’, the whole encounter which takes place between deity and devotee is darshan, literally ‘seeing’. (Television is doordarshan, ‘long-distance seeing’.) The pilgrim comes for darshan of the Lord; the Lord gives darshan.

  The encounter is lit only by lamplight; your senses are heightened by the sound of music, drums and cymbals, by the singing and chanting, by the sight and heat of the flame, and by the smell of incense, ghee and flowers – sometimes in fact it is the smell which is the strongest of the sensations during puja, for the air of the inner sanctum is often saturated with the sweetness of jasmine, by the pungency of aromatic incense and the cloying thickness of ghee.

  The intention of all this is to take the devotee inwards, away from the bright sun and harsh shadows of the day, into a dark and magical world for a purely personal transaction. No matter how large the shrine in Tamil temples, the centre remains simply this small place where the divinity can be encountered directly. Srirangam, for example, covers 155 acres – it would take up a sizable part of the City of London – with seven concentric enclosures and twenty gopuras; but at its heart is a tiny round chamber where a black stucco Vishnu offers darshan to the faithful in the warm flickering darkness, reclining on his seven-headed serpent Ananta, ‘Endless’.

  We headed off to the right towards the tank to buy our ticket. At the counter we poured our offerings of natural salt on to the big pile, and took from it some salt and peppercorns, which the devotee eats before going in. By the pile was a basket full of little silver-foil pictures of human limbs, hands, feet, legs, arms, heads, eyes, male and female genitalia and babies, for pilgrims to leave with their prayers. Then we went off to the sanctum for the puja. It was floored with grey-white veined marble. The priest took our names and the prasad – coconuts, bananas, flowers – lit the lamp, recited the ritual in Sanskrit and blessed our offerings, which we received back with the ash from the lamp which Mala daubed across her forehead. We then walked round the shrine.

  Temples like this are really huge campuses with dozens of separate shrines and myths: often the pilgrim can encounter stories from shrines all over India in one place, which thus becomes a mnemonic for all the pilgrimage places in India. The more of these gimmicks a shrine has, the more popular it will be and the more revenue it will earn. Conversely there are some magnificent shrines which do not have a special pulling point and which attract few pilgrims from outside their own locality. Vaithisvarancoil, however, is rich in this respect: the local legends connect the shrine with an incident in the Rama legend; there is an important image of Murugan here too. Like all Siva temples, they also keep the statues of the sixty-three Tamil saints, which are revered by all in Tamil lands, and whose poems are recited on the big festivals. The planets too are represented here, and the special shrine to the planet Mars which I was instructed to visit by Rajdurai Dikshithar. Mala took us to it. Very jolly, this Mars, not martial at all, his four arms bristling with weaponry, but his plump face without a trace of aggression: pudgy cheeks, jolly eyes, a red cloth veiling his pot belly, and a self-satisfied smile. Rather like the chap on the bus to Sirkali in fact. Mala waved me in front of the priest, who fired away.

  ‘Star?’

  ‘Arbitam.’

  Mala told him my story. He did puja for us, and loaded me with packets of ash and kun kum. Thin face, bent, skin like a shrivelled mummy. His eyes were startled, as if he had seen a ghost, but he greeted my inquiry politely and seriously.

  ‘Arbitam the star rules Mars.’

  ‘Why is Mars important for me?’

  ‘He remedies defects in horoscope.’

  ‘Ah, good,’ I said. (Starting with excessive wind, I thought to myself.) ‘This is because I don’t have enough earth?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mala seriously. ‘When we build a house we do puja to Mars for a good foundation; people are the same. You are always flying in the air, Michael, much imagining. Your children will give you a good foundation.’

  ‘I thought it was supposed to be the other way round?’ I said.

  She laughed.

  ‘Sometimes it is mother and father who need, and children provide.’

  We walked to the tank, beautiful in the evening light, with a domed hall on an island in the middle. Some people were bathing on the steps, some sitting reading; a few children were doing their homework in a corner. Mala bathed her feet and washed. Exquisite light now, the sun setting over the palm trees in the outer enclosure sending long rays through the cloisters; the lovely warm coppery colour of the weathered brick of the towers, crumbling, sprouting grass and flowers, swallows swooping; the sound of temple music, drums and reedy trumpets, from deep in the interior.

  Then we stumbled on a remarkable scene: a young woman with an absent face was being exorcized by an older woman. White-haired and vigorous, wearing a bright orange patterned sari, hair swept back in a bun: catechizing, cajoling, at times loudly, at times in a whisper. Quite a crowd gathered. At first the patient said nothing; she appeared depressed and was closely attended by anxious parents and friends. On the floor the older woman had a bowl of ash, a framed image of Mariamman with flowers and small pictures of several other goddesses. The girl looked as if she was fighting within herself, wringing her fingers. The woman was jocular, her eyes never ceased to smile. We watched as she blew sacred ash on the girl’s left cheek and then slapped her right cheek; slapped again, blew ash right into her face, and held her face in both hands.

  At first sight this could have been mistaken for the substance of her ‘cure’, but it soon became apparent that the business with the ash was merely a bit of religious showbiz, playing to the gallery to impress the crowd and the kin; the pictures and divining sticks, mystical squares and yantras, lent metaphysical respectability to the encounter. But the exorcist’s real art seemed to be to talk li
ke a good doctor, or more accurately, like a much-loved granny, who under a brusque, no-nonsense exterior had a heart of gold. She was in her sixties at a guess, strong, handsome, with a lovely clear skin; and she exuded good health – always an encouraging sign in a doctor.

  She talked in a way to gain the girl’s confidence, focusing on her absolutely, trying to bring her out of herself. At one point she told the father off for interfering, put her arms round the girl and engaged in a bit of good-natured banter with the crowd, clearly taking the girl’s part against her family who had brought her there. She never acknowledged my presence; but then suddenly in the middle of all this, not looking my way, she called out loudly in English: ‘Sir, where are you from?’

  We talked while she massaged the girl strongly and kindly, whispering to her all the while; and strangely enough the patient seemed to become more animated as we all took an interest in her. The exorcist had come from Mayavaram at the request of the family. She told us about Mariamman, the ‘cooling goddess’ who is much sought after in matters of health where women are concerned: ‘She’s like your Virgin Mary, mother of Christ,’ said the woman (a strange idea, this, but then the Tamil Mary whose shrine is on the coast at Velankanni is much more like a Hindu goddess in her cult and rituals, and popular among all communities). The exorcist ended her performance by blowing more holy ash into the girl’s face. In her last prayer for the girl, she used Mary’s name again.

  By now, the girl had been loosened up and relaxed by the engaging personality of the healer. Eventually she nodded, replied briefly to some questions and took a drink of water. Progress had been made. The parents stood up; the exorcist spoke to me.

  ‘I tell her to go and sleep. I’ll see her tomorrow again. Half of the problem is always family. Family and society – these are the people who make people mad. Especially for women here in India life can be very difficult. Now we are between two worlds: they see all Western things, consumer products, romance, different kind of freedom – yet they live in Tamil Nadu. Sex is now a very big problem, cause of much mental unrest here.’ She paused. ‘What these people need is not drugs but to be treated like people. The best skill needed to help these people is simply to conduct the conversation honestly with the patient. Try to get them to accept certain things as true the way they see it. There is a kind of game, a playfulness. They are bogged down in a rut and you have to help them out. Some you cannot help, but most you can.’

  ‘How did you come to do this job?’

  She laughed. ‘Well, my father was a healer. I learned from him sitting with people in our house. I don’t have a degree at Annamalai University, if that is what you mean. How would this have helped me? All this Western gadgetry is no more use than this sacred ash unless you can give patient love and understanding. Naturally there is our own Ayurvedic tradition, diet and exercise, workings of heart, disorder of the bodily functions. We must know about these things. But as the saints say, the most important is love.’ She packed up her bags with a cheery nod of the head. ‘God bless you. Bye-bye.’

  As the last light faded over the tank, we strolled round the outer courtyard and came to the sacred tree at the back of the temple. Many of the great Tamil shrines have such trees at the axial place – the mango at Kanchi, the jambu on Srirangam, the kadamba at Madurai. Here at Vaithisvarancoil is a huge and ancient neem tree which spreads over a courtyard with a lovely little roofed shrine built into its roots – a linga for the Lord of Healing flanked by Ganesh and Chandikesvara, the gatekeeper. Many were doing their own pujas here, and lighting lamps. Round the back of the tree a little crowd of people were camped, to sleep the night under its branches. In the shadows a young husband gently tried to coax his wife to be calm. She laughed and then cried out. Mala nodded sympathetically. ‘Family problems,’ she said, as she circled the tree; but the women was clearly distracted in her mind or spirit, one of many people who come here hoping that the god – or just the peaceful atmosphere – will alleviate such affliction.

  It was time to get the bus to Mayavaram. We slowly wandered back along the arcade of shops, which were now crowded with people looking at the fruit and flower stalls. Then out into the night with a last look back down the axis of the temple to the distant glimmering light in its heart. Ahead, the last pink hint of sunset behind silhouetted palms and the sound of birds chattering.

  Mayavaram is a thriving busy town on the old Cavery river, a rail and road junction with a big bazaar teeming with shops: goldsmiths and silversmiths, electrical goods. ‘This town is famous for lawyers and doctors,’ said Mala. ‘And Brahmin moneylenders,’ she added, with a disapproving curl of her lip. The place was simply throbbing with life, much more so than Chidambaram. At the bus station we found Punnidah. Her husband, Shanmugan, seemed a gentle man, and they were both obviously delighted with their baby, Kailash. They were now living in an industrial estate outside Coimbatore, the big textile town in the north of the state, which proudly advertises itself as ‘the Manchester of India’. We swapped family news; I showed them photographs of our daughters, which brought round an enthusiastic crowd of fellow travellers. Though the oldest of the four sisters, Punnidah was always the quietest and most introverted. She spoke little if any English and always seemed to be washing, cleaning or sewing in the background. She never wore the elegant saris the others did. But she seemed happy now, more assured, and her face would suddenly light up with joy, animated in a way one never saw before.

  Mala was very pleased. She thinks Shanmugan is a good man (he was patient, kind and thoughtful), and she took great delight in her first and only grandson. We took some photos and then they boarded the bus. When they were gone we talked for a while in a tiny café in the bus stand.

  ‘I hope my daughters will all find love and affection as well as security in their marriage. Love like you two love each other. You are lucky.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you let them have choice in whom they marry, let them marry the person they love?’

  ‘Love comes with knowing and undergoing together. We believe arranged marriage is still the best way of making secure partnership for life: same people, same community, right age, right horoscope. They do have choice; they meet the boy, they have to like him, to see the seed of love is possible.

  ‘Look at the divorce rate in your country,’ she continued. ‘Here marriage and family is still held in very great respect. In our community there is great respect between man and woman in marriage. God helps us find our mate.’

  ‘Did he for you?’

  ‘I respect my husband. He’s a good man. He has been a good father to our children. I have affection for our lives together. We made the best of our marriage and we brought up good children.’

  We made our way over the bus stand through the late-night crowds of travellers to find a bus back to Sirkali, and on to Chidambaram. Through the open windows the night air was cool; the bus lights occasionally illuminated the edges of palm forests and the roadside shrines as we careered down the pitch dark road back over the Kollidam bridge. Tomorrow was Thursday, so after one more day it would be the beginning of the pilgrimage: the night journey to Tiruchendur.

  THE FAMILY HOUSE

  The evening before the pilgrimage, Mala took me for a meal at her father’s house, the house where she was born and grew up. It lies in a street south-west of the temple, in an old Vellala neighbourhood called Ellaiman Koil. The house had been built by her father’s grandfather about 125 years earlier. At that time it had stood on the outskirts of town, and there were fields beyond the back garden; now it is hemmed in by ribbon development and concrete sprawl. It is a fine, three-bay house with a long pitched roof covered with curved terracotta tiles, in overlapping rows four deep which come right down to head height in the street.

  The house has been an anchor for Mala; her children stayed there for long periods when they were growing up, when it was hearth and shelter for all the extended family. Over the years since she married she lived in many rented places which were no
t her own, but this was the family root. The Tamils call it their ur, a word which means your native place. It is an umbilical idea; ask a Tamil in a supermarket in London where his ur is and he may say India. If you meet in Delhi then he will say Tamil Nadu; but if you ask the same question of a Tamil in the streets of Madras or Madurai, he may tell you his current residence and home, but he will invariably qualify that by referring to his real ur, the place whose soil nourished his ancestors, the place where he was born or where his father’s line comes from. Your ur carries a weight of associations. It tells you who you are. Its soil, so Tamils believe, is literally a part of you. This house is Mala’s ur.

  We went up the steps, through the vestibule and into the columned living-room: her father greeted us. He was a big man, an old man of eighty-eight; shaven head, stomach muscles sagging and an old man’s breasts, but still a commanding presence. He wore the traditional dress, a loincloth, with a bare chest and ash stripes on his forehead. Like his daughter he was a devout Saivite who had followed the ancient ritual process from birth to old age. Here Mala appeared in a different light, no longer struggling alone to make ends meet in a rented room, but rooted in a strong and long-lasting family and caste tradition; and tradition can be airy and spacious as well as stifling.

  Small landowners, all their lives they had made annual gifts to Nataraja and held special pujas for important anniversaries at other great regional shrines. They had founded a small choultry in East Car Street to lodge pilgrims and still gave a part of their surplus as free food. They had never amassed material things, always giving a tithe to religion or charity. In the past they had also donated part of their paddy to feeding poor Brahmin scholars, for although the Brahmins were privileged in the karmic order of things, in the everyday economic reality of the countryside, they were mostly impoverished and needed support from those who shared their ideals. Such families had been mainstays of the old order, which was now changing so fast.