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The Temples

by Rebecca Bailey.

India is a land of beautiful things and its temples are no exception to the rule. Rebecca Bailey explored a few of the hundreds that lie in and around Sivakasi.

One of the first things that tells a foreigner that they are in India are the temples. They come in all shapes and sizes. Their silhouettes cut upwards into the skyscape; they tower over streets; their red-and-white candy cane striped walls enclose them from the chaos of everyday life. We do not really have anything quite like them in the West. The colour schemes remind me of cheerful canal longboats in England. The statues encrusting the towers remind me of children's adventure playhouses, with their brash primary tones and cartoon-like features. In the evening, when their bright hues blacken against the burnt umber of the bleeding sun, they remind me of the sand turrets I used to make as a child by dripping wet sand onto itself in ascending circles. These are all inappropriate similes for places of worship; yet there are no other points of reference I can make. The temples of India are a far cry from the muted shades and hushed echoes of your average Christian church. They are the material of our fantasy. They are the substance matter of Indiana Jones films, and childhood dreams of becoming an 'explorer'.

Yet here they are as much a part of everyday life as washing clothes and cooking dinner. The fascination I have with these incredible constructions must be almost comical to an Indian. We thus set off to discover the temples of Sivakasi, and the day-to-day workings of these beautiful, strange buildings.

THE 'QUICK-FIX'

The first temple we stopped at was a small one dedicated to Ganesh, the popular elephant-headed god and remover of all obstacles. A temple built for convenience rather than for beauty, it sits on the junction leading into Sivakasi from Satchiapuram. Inside there is a small, dusty room, empty except for a bell and Lord Ganesh's shrine on the right hand side. Two small pots of vermillion and ash protrude from the wall next to it. Ganesh's shrine is caged off; the black stone idol sits enthroned and swathed in white clothes, a halo-like circle behind his head. A conch and a stone rat (his steed) are at his feet, together with other offerings.

It seems temples like these are the religious equivalent of fast food drive-ins; whilst we were there, some men who had a new lorry came in. They placed the keys of their new vehicle inside the diamond-shaped slats of the cage, and lit a small tower of what looked like squares of chewing gum but must have actually been fire-lighters. They then lit an incense stick from the flame on a stone blackened from previous offerings. The young driver put his hands together in prayer, inclined his head and muttered some words. Waving the keys around in the smoke, he then anointed himself with kumkum and ash - and that was it. The whole process took about three minutes. They jumped into their newly blessed lorry and drove off again.

THE BUSTLING

The next temple we visited was slightly grander, in the middle of Sivakasi. It was the temple of Supramaniyam Swami, the younger son of Lord Shiva, worshipped also in South India under other names such as Murugan. Outside, beggars clustered, rickshaws careered dangerously towards the pavements (or rather, the edge of the road where pedestrians congregate), and wallahs wailed their wares out. Inside though, the noise was subdued; although you could still hear the noise of traffic and shouting, it seemed to be coming from a lot further away than just a few hundred metres.

The main deity was housed in the entrance hall. Upon entering the temple, one of the first things that caught my eye was a single gold-plated column that rises up towards the roof, placed squarely in the middle of the room. This symbolizes the spinal cord of the main temple god. Leading on after this there was a line marked by barriers leading up to the main shrine, a chamber within the main hall. People line up on either side of the barriers as though queuing to get into an amusement park. Through the cavity in the walls you can see directly onto the idol of Murugan. A tiny black face peered out of festoons of pink and white flower garlands, shining in the golden light of the candles that lined the walls. The nice thing about this temple was that the chanting and singing was all 'live' - the various priests wailed as they blessed trays with money, an oil lamp and flowers on them. They then anointed all the followers and placed jasmine and roses in their hands.

The temple was also a lot bigger than it looked from the outside. Although the entrance on the street was modest, with just a colourful turret and two wooden doors, inside the space seemed to expand and there were two chambers on either side of the main entrance hall. The rooms were made of cool black and white granite, and had an almost corporate look to them. Simple square columns rose towards the ceilings which were decorated with beautiful murals, the most striking being an enormous peacock which took up a whole section of its own. On one side of the room was a low table upon which tiny oil lamps had been placed; they glittered in the gloom and illuminated the 63 small statues lined up against that wall. Each symbolizes a different devotee of Shiva; the worshippers can thus choose the one most suited to their own situation in life through which to approach Shiva himself. People fluttered around the various shrines quietly, aided by the priests. They deposited offerings and received blessing and pujas in return. They left with their foreheads daubed and their faces serene. There was though something almost business-like about the process; it was as though, like piano players practicing, it was something they did out of necessity as well as out of love.

THE NAMESAKE

We emerged blinking into the sunlight, and were whisked off to the Shiva temple. This temple has a particular place in the hearts of the townsfolk, as it is due to it that Sivakasi exists at all. Legend has it that between 1428 and 1460 AD, King Harikesari Parakkirama Pandian, the then king of Madurai, wished to build a temple venerating Lord Shiva. He thus bought a lingam in the town of Kasi Varanasi. On his way home he took rest; when he was ready to set off again, he ran into a spot of bother, namely, that his cow refused to move. The King recognized this as the will of Lord Shiva and thus, the temple was constructed at that location instead of the originally planned Thenkasi. From this hub, the town of Sivakasi grew up.

The temple is approached down a Chinese-style hall, with enormous wooden beams carved into beasts at their ends protuding towards the middle of the roof. The red, green, yellow and blue seem more sombre than normal, due to the gloom. The corridor is lined with wallahs selling coconuts, jasmine garlands, grass and all other things needed to worship. As you walk down it, barefoot, you pass over white lines in patterns of flowers exploding outwards, leading you on into the temple itself. These were kolams, here drawn in paint rather than the customary rice powder, supposedly to attract prosperity towards the temple and its worshippers.

Inside, stone columns stretch everywhere; the effect is rather like a hall of mirrors. The columns were chunky and carved roughly. Some were painted in yellow, blue, red and green. The walls were splashed with patterns of flowers and other shapes in the same primary colours. It did not look as gaudy as you might expect though because the light was so dim. The texture of the stone shone up underneath the acrylic-looking paint, and gave the walls an almost greasy ambiance, as though we were stuck in a damp cave. The coolness of the stone floor and depth of the shadows leached from the primary colours, and so the whole setting took on the faded tones of a gentle watercolour painting. People sat tranquilly, cross-legged on the floor. Some did not look as if they were praying, merely thinking deeply.

We talked to a priest who had been working there for 25 years. He spoke to us about some of the differences between Christianity and Hinduism, with regards to the lives of the priests. He is allowed to be married - in fact it was only after his marriage that he became a priest. The personal rela tionship that often matures between a priest in a Christian church and his congregation is strikingly absent in his relationship with the Shiva devotees. He provides instruction only in the sense that he tells them which particular rite to do to solve a particular problem; it would never be considered his duty to try and provide moral guidance, for example, or encourage them to talk about their problems and faith. Although he does consider it 'a pleasure to serve the gods' and regards his job as more of a calling than a way to bring in the daily bread, his life is more concerned with the practicalities of ritual rather than introspection about religion and faith. There is no sense of urgency to spread the word, no excessive commitment to good works (although at 12.30pm every day there is a government sponsored feed for everyone and anyone), and no preoccupation with the moral state of the visitors to the temple. Also, though, there has been no drop in the number of these visitors. This priest, unlike many of his Western counterparts, does not spend his days worrying about the fall in religiousness amongst the people. He doesn't need to.

We then saw the lingam of Shiva. We had been told that it symbolised Shiva's penis. Having researched this though, it appears this is a common misconception, stemming from the fact that it does look remarkably phallic. It was probably something unmarried men giggled over in a chai shop that swiftly became an urban legend. In fact it is now thought to have evolved from a sort of post used in worship back in the days.

THE MASSIVE

The next stop was the temple of Pathira Kali Amman. This is a sight hard to miss in Sivakasi. The enormous tower dominates the landscape and is in fact the tallest one dedicated to the goddess in all of Tamil Nadu. It is rather a temple complex than a temple. Shoes off, we walked across the boiling sand towards the main building housing the main deity, who here is the goddess Pathira Kali. She is a calmer form of an incarnation of Parvati who came into being in order to destroy a threatening giant. She is worshipped as a protector goddess.

This building reminded me of how I had always imagined the ancient agoras of Ancient Greece. Coolness emanated from the black and white polished granite. A high ceiling was supported by simple columns, and natural light flooded the expanse. Women chatted casually to each other on the steps. Two priests lolling on the steps told me I should take a picture (even though that is technically forbidden.) Nonchalantly, another performed a puja. The goddess herself is represented by a statue within a shrine. Her main features - cruelly slanting, almond-shaped eyes, her nose, her earrings and her mouth - are outlined in gold against the black of the idol. They glare out at you, flashing the light from the candles back defiantly. Sh e wears a lime green swathe and is garlanded with flowers. A turret of gold stands testament to her power and to the temple's wealth.

In this temple complex there is also a statue of a five headed Ganesh, with an enormous bulging belly. He looks almost trapped, as though he'd like to get up but is prevented by his cor pulence, like a fat old lady who can't lift herself out of her chair. There is also a shrine dedicated to eight versions of Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, as well as one to Hanuman, the monkey god. There is also a reportedly beautiful garden there, full of peacocks, monkeys, greenery and lakes, but women are not allowed to enter it and so we couldn't verify this for ourselves. Yet again, the claim that a major factor most religions have in common is the exclusion of women seemed to be substantiated. In some temples, menstruating women are not even allowed to enter as they are considered 'impure'. In a temple dedicated to a powerful female deity, women are barred from its most holy place.

THE INTRICATE

We then went to the Perumal temple. Perumal is another name for Thirumal, and also for Vishnu (it is thought the identification of Perumal with Vishnu was a part of the Aryanisation process during the post-Sangam period in India.) A long flight of steps outside led to a small room, with an idol bigger than any I had seen up to that point. He held up a huge hand like a traffic policeman, and as it was silver, it caught the light and blazed wildly into our eyes. We walked through this room, through a dark room full of simple stone columns. Some were painted blue at the top, but the colour was seeped out of it; the gloom devoured everything. You could have sat quite happily in a spot of light, in peace, and read a book. We were lead upstairs by priests who, dressed in the standard garb, wore nothing but dhotis and facepaint in the image of what looked like a tongue on their foreheads. They explained the many stories of the temple as we flitted past.

If we'd thought the statue downstairs was impressive, then the one of Thirumal that greeted us here awed us. He was enormous, his face was bright green and he was drowned from head to toe in sparkling diamonds. (The priests claimed they were real, and that altogether the statue was worth thirty crore.) His eyes and lips were strongly painted and sensual. He had diamonds that looked like belt buckles around his neck, three rows of enormous medallions, huge wooden beads (larger versions of what the priests wore), and a huge collar studded with diamonds. He sparkled, he glittered, and you could hardly see his red and green silk clothes for all the paraphernalia he was bedecked in. As we watched, the priest managed to find space to hang a garland around his neck. Thirumal was surrounded by his four wives, who were respectively Earth, Ocean, Wealth, and a Giant's daughter. Around them were minor deities; the whole set up looked a bit like a Victorian dollhouse.

The temple was carved out of the hill itself; we went downstairs and saw the mark at which the carving began. Its full name translates as 'Standing on the Hill Perumal." It's thus easy to see from where the simplicity of the columns, rising up in carved jagged chunks, is drawn. Away from the overwhelming flood of jewels and silk, the temple is quiet, still and natural, as if waiting for something. We found this when we were taken up onto the roof, where the sun was just beginning to set. The Tamil characters carved into the wall tell the story of the temple; its founding by the King of Madurai, its laborious birth out of the rock of the hill, its many devotees who cluster to it. The colours, in the flattering light of the dying sun, become less bright and take on a glowing, richer colour, like coloured pebbles underneath backlit water.

THE MOST HIGH

We then passed through a little door into a room in which one wall was an enormous stone. This led into another temple and our last visit of the day. The smell of cumin and turmeric, a welcome deviation from the usual one of sewage, hit our nostrils as we began to ascend outdoor stairs, up to the sunset. The journalist James Cameron once said evening was his favourite time in India, and I must say I have to agree with him.

This temple was also dedicated to Murugan, but I did not look at the idol. I looked instead at the sun, which was hemorrhaging slowly over the strange toothed peaks of the temple tops in front of us. The bubblegum pink, baby blue, bright green and scarlet all darkened, like coloured paper shrivelling up in a fire. Only the edges were deep orange, outlined viciously against the sky. A little boy with huge eyes bowed to his 'Little Boy Murugan', another minor shrine on the rooftop. The priest chanted monotonously in the background. It did not matter whether you were atheist, agnostic, Hindu, Catholic, Muslim, anything. It was impossible not to feel the beauty of the evening almost as a presence; maybe someone religious w ould call that presence a god.