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Among the Believers

We arrived at Tiruchirappalli junction at the crack of dawn; bleary-eyed, we stepped out of the freezing-cold air-conditioned sleeper coach. The railway station was not exactly bustling at the time. I watched a young beggar girl, ragged and with the matted brown hair of malnutrition, but with an air of self-confidence nonetheless, get herself a drink at the taps marked 'Drinking Water'.

We started for the temple town of Srirangam about 7 am. From afar, we saw the startling Rock Fort -- with the temple at its summit -- loom out of the mirror-flat countryside, astonishing in its sudden concreteness. I was reminded of Ayer's Rock, that giant boulder in the middle of Australia, that I would like to visit some day, at dusk, when it turns the colour of fire.

The drive from Tiruchi town to Srirangam goes through the usual Tamil Nadu countryside: dry, dusty, the vegetation mostly that thorny shrub that seems to thrive all over the state, except where there are clumps of banana shrubs or coconut trees. There are sentinel roadside shade trees, all painted with the three horizontal rings: white, black, white, to aid the motorist's vision at night. And they are all tamarind trees: tamarind, from tamar-i-hind, Arabic for Indian dates.

The temple tower appears, absolutely huge, dominating the countryside, visible I am sure from very far off. Our driver surprises me by telling me that this very Dravidian gopuram, painted in pastel colours and many stories high, is only 10 years old. Inaugurated by MGR and Rajiv Gandhi, he says. I ask him again -- you mean this was not built in the 16th century by the Tirumala Nayak kings? He is positive. I am bemused: this happened in DMK country?

The driver tells me that this is the largest gopuram in India. The guidebooks tell me that Srirangam is the largest temple in Tamil Nadu, holding within its protective walls villages, bazaars, etc. The history of the place is intriguing, too. Originally built during Chola times, it was renovated after a sacking by the Delhi Sultanate general Malik Kafur in 1313. Vijayanagar kings rebuilt it, and later the local Tirumala Nayak kings added to it.

The driver stops for me to take a photograph of the gopuram; but he tells me that I cannot take my camera inside the temple. Which I regret later, when it becomes clear that I could take it inside except to the innermost sancta, for the price of a ticket which I would have been more than happy to buy.

For it is an utterly magnificent place, and I would love to have some photos. Quite fortuitously, we have arrived early, before the crowds come for the morning puja. This, the Sri Ranganathaswamy temple, is one of the largest Vishnu temples in India, dominated by orthodox Iyengar brahmins, with their distinctive trident-like caste marks. All over, you see the three-pronged icon of the Vaishnavites, painted on walls.

As soon as we enter the outer sanctum, an extraordinary sound descends upon us. It is the chant, "Om namo Narayanayah" (I salute thee, O Lord Narayana/Vishnu), broadcast over strategically placed loudspeakers. It is in a deep and extremely appealing male voice (Yesudas, someone tells me later); it reverberates and resonates within one's body, and amongst the very many carved columns of the temple.

It is one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard. If God were sound (nada-brahmam), this must surely be one of His forms: like the deep booming chants of the Tibetans, or of Gregorian monks. As we walk around the temple complex, the chant follows us; it causes one to concentrate Zen-like on the sanctity of this ancient holy place. For this is one of those remarkable testaments to faith: like the awesome Borobudur temple in Indonesia, the soaring Notre Dame cathedral in Paris, or the pyramids at Machhu Pichhu in Peru.

Although we are disappointed at not being able to worship at the main sanctum, the circumambulation around the complex is very worthwhile. There are hundreds of beautifully carved stone pillars, traditionally a thousand in just one of the mandapams, halls. If I remember right, it is said that, when struck gently with a hammer, some of these columns produce the clear musical notes of the South Indian classical scale: sa-ri-ga-ma-pa-tha-ni-sa.

Some of the columns are carved with vyali, mythical dragons; others with rampaging war-horses and warriors; yet others with maidens. There are images of Lord Krishna sporting with his gopis, cowherd girls. There is writing in rather modern-looking Tamil script around the walkway.

The entire area is covered with understated sculpture. In addition to the giant gopuram, which perhaps recreates one torn down by marauding invaders, there are four large gopurams, one in each cardinal direction. These are carved with the luxuriant profusion of mythological figures that one typically sees in a Dravidian temple tower. But these are in weathered sand-coloured stone, not the pastel pinks and blues and yellows of the brand-new gopuram.

Even the granite flagstones in the walkway are sometimes decorated: I notice some with front and back views of a dancing girl. Did the devadasi system -- where entire families of young women were dedicated to the temple as temple dancers, who were sometimes exploited sexually -- exist here? Perhaps the revival of bharatanatyam, India's most popular classical dance form, also got its impetus here after being discouraged by the British, although I seem to recall the name of the Kalakshetra in Madras, and its founder, the eminent danseuse Rukmini Devi Arundale.

The Brits were champions at banning things, I suppose: they banned kalari payat in Malabar, and burned all the ayurveda texts they could get their hands on. They also prohibited the eminently sensible joint-family tharavad and the delectable system of morganatic marriage, the sambandham whereby Namboodiri genes enriched Nair households.

In Bengal, the Brits banned as barbaric the practice of smearing on people the pus from infected cows; until, of course, it was 'scientifically proven' as the prophylactic for smallpox. Fortunately, we don't have to deal with their Victorian prudishness and self-centred shrewdness any more -- except for the occasional self-important journalist. Instead we could, if only we would, concentrate more on our own cultural values; examples of which abound in the temple towns of Tamil Nadu.

Nearby Thanjavur/Tanjore is an ancient stronghold of Tamil culture, and the source of exquisite Chola bronzes -- especially Siva Nataraja, the Lord Siva dancing the cosmic dance inside the circle of fire. Also the ethereal figure of His consort Parvati, heavy-breasted, slender-hipped and long-legged, leaning slightly to one side, beautifully balancing Her weight on one hip. There are gorgeous, dark-skinned Dravidian village women with flowers in their hair who have come to worship. I wonder idly if one of their ancestors was the model for the delicate Parvati figures.

As we walk through the halls adorned with carved pillars, we come across many sights: a tufted, bare-chested and sacred-thread-wearing young brahmin leading an old man, also tufted and perhaps blind, by the hand along the circumambulation path. The sudden glint of the soaring gold-covered flagpole that projects out through the tall ceiling of the pathway.

Stepped entranceways of granite, covered with sculpted brass, worn down by thousands of pilgrims's feet. In the dark and womb-like interiors of the walkways, I see a bat fly up momentarily, disturbed in his sleep; and a kitten plays with a discarded banana leaf.

There are worshippers waiting, with flower offerings, including lotus and jasmine, for the sanctum to open. As we walk around it, suddenly there is another flash of gold: the roof of the inner sanctum is gold-plated, brilliant in the sunshine. Inside reclines Lord Vishnu, leaning on the thousand-headed serpent Adisesha. Adi-Sesha, the 'primordial residue' after the creation of the universe.

The smaller subsidiary temples scattered around the courtyard are open. We go there, and the priests charge us the princely sum of Rs 10 for a quick archana, offering, to Lakshmi, Lord Vishnu's consort, to the Narasimha (man-lion) incarnation of Vishnu, and the coronation of Lord Rama. The priests ask for my name, star, and gothram clan. Not having a clan, I am always tempted to startle them by either giving my family name, Tiruvikkal, or making one up entirely -- the Stanford gothram or the Silicon-valley gothram have a certain elan to them, don't they?

There is a beautiful green pool, where the image of Lord Vishnu is immersed during festivals. We finish our circumambulation and leave, reluctantly -- the chant still in our hearts. The waiting worshippers are still there -- the sanctum will open at 9 am. We leave for the lovely campus of the Bharatidasan University, half an hour away. The 1,300-acre campus, like the nearby airport, is carved out of agricultural land, peacefully away from the bustle of Tiruchi.

In the campus buildings too, I notice pediments and teakwood decorative elements of vyali. I'm glad Bharatidasan is keeping local traditions alive, much like the sculptors of Mamallapuram near Madras who still follow their age-old stapathi (builder-sculptor) traditions, preserving them for posterity.

Photographs: Courtesy Government of India tourism site

Rajeev Srinivasan