The temple trail continues...Madurai to Trichy

On my final morning in Madurai I had planned to check out the well-reputed Gandhi Museum before heading on with the Tamil Temple Trail, so after a breakfast of dosa and sambar (which tasted better than life itself after the events of the previous day), I accosted a rickshaw driver and went on my way. Not just any old rickshaw driver at that – but my very first cycle rickshaw. In the more wealthy state of Kerala I hadn't laid eyes on a single one, and they simply don't have rickshaws full-stop up in the hill-stations cos it's just too....well...hilly. Trust me to pick the oldest, most spindly guy I could find, with the most clapped out old rickshaw, to take me on what turned out to be a rather longer-than-expected cycle tour of Madurai. As we set off towards the Gandhi Museum on the other side of town, I slowly realised that this was going to be a rather leisurely journey, largely due to the rickshaw's urgent need for (if not a complete overhaul) oil and tyres that could actually boast some kind of cushioning for the metal wheel rims themselves. And as the journey bumped on and on and on, up another hill and over another bridge, I started to feel enormously guilty that here was this old guy, at least in his late sixties but maybe even early seventies, cycling me, a fit young person of 30, around in the heat of the morning. I sat behind watching as he worked with all the might of his super-strong, wirey legs, his microscopic bottom high in the air as he pressed his entire body weight down through his cracked bare feet and into each pedal at a time, simply to just keep the stubborn machine moving. It just felt so wrong to me that here was this beautiful old man who has clearly worked like a dog his whole life, and who has now reached the age where he should be able to contemplate and rest in the life-wisdom he has accumulated. But instead he is here pulling me around for a fee of about 80p an hour. This just doesn't seem right. But at the same time as feeling guilty for sitting there in the back-carriage while he sweated it out for my benefit up in front, I knew I had given him some custom – it may only be a 40 rupee fare but that's still some earnings for him to take home at the end of the day, which surely he must want and need else I wouldn't have happened upon him and his rickshaw in the first place. But, as he cycled on, every few hundred metres wiping his brow with the old rag he kept slung over his shoulder, and I sat behind working myself up into an emotional sweat, things suddenly took a lighter turn. As I watched him reach for his back pocket, pull out a bede, light up and puff away whilst negotiating Madurai's traffic mayhem, I realised I hadn't given this old guy the credit he was due. His work might be tough and hot, but he's strong and used to it and evidently takes it all in his stride (though I'm not sure if the same can be said for his lungs, which protested vehemently at their daily diet of deathly bede smoke and Madurai traffic fumes).

I was relieved to pull up outside the very smart, white gates of the beautiful Gandhi Musem and its grounds. Only to discover that it is closed on Mondays. Of course, this is India. God knows why I didn't listen to that voice in my head and bother to check with someone first. This didn't come as news to my rickshaw cycler, who evidently was well aware but wasn't going to question a 40 rupee fare, even if it was to a museum that was well and truly closed. So I had little choice but to climb aboard once more and head, so I thought, back to where I started. Which is where I ended up eventually, after another hour's tour through the Madurai traffic, via countless places that he thought might be of interest, which they may well have been had I understood a single word of what he said (which I didn't as my Tamil leaves quite a bit to be desired). Suffice to say he got a much larger fee than either of us were initially expecting when I first hopped aboard, and I sincerely hope he went for a deep and long Savasana afterwards.

Heading to the bus station I opted for the less eco-friendly style of rickshaw, which came accompanied by lots of hassle as the driver tried to pass me over to his bus station buddies who nearly succeeded in conning me into paying double for my fare to Tiruchirapalli (Trichy). Trusting, innocent little me, at first I let them lead me, naively thinking they were nice people who wanted to help me find my bus (a welcome gesture in this MANIC and very large bus station). But when I realised their game I objected so loudly and bluntly they didn't hesitate to hand me straight back my money and let me go on my way without even trying to fight their corner. I wasn't expecting to win my money back quite so easily – I think it was my raised voice (as I have said before, not such a common thing in India) that did the trick (oh dear, the Western woman is about to throw a scene, let's just be done with her). And on top of that, somehow I then managed to persuade one of their guys to help me find my bus after all.

As I sat waiting for the bus to leave, a young girl started begging up to me through the window. Having been in India a few weeks, I was surprised that, up until this point, I hadn't really been the object of any outright, focused begging. I guess this has something to do with the relative wealth of Kerala compared to most other states, although perhaps it was just circumstance. But as a result I hadn't yet found my feet with it, worked out how to handle it. People had said to me to be wary of obviously giving generously, as this just attracts more and more beggars and you get thronged in the street. But at the same time you want to give because so many people here have absolutely nothing. But a big part of me inside thinks that, as I can't give to everybody, perhaps the best way is to give to charities so that the money is used to launch and sustain projects to help improve lives as well as just giving aid. This is the way I tend to manage my giving back at home. And so, at this point in my travels, I stuck with this approach, deciding that I would make some substantial donations to charities and also do some voluntary work here in India. So I sat there, nonetheless feeling enormously guilty for not giving to this girl who had nothing. As she begged and begged and begged at me, pawing up at the windows, opening them as I closed them, never taking 'no' for an answer. She never bothered any of the other Indian passengers on board, I was the only target, the rich white girl on holiday in her country. Even then, as I tried to ignore her, I knew I wanted to give her something. But I couldn't sort out this complex mass of feelings – pity, sorrow, guilt, compassion, annoyance, frustration – so I just stuck with my default setting. But it just doesn't work in this context, where abject poverty is so completely everywhere and so in your face. You cannot simply ignore basic human needs and common understanding and deal with moral obligation as you would a boil in the bag chicken (never needing to get your hands dirty thanks to tidy monthly direct debit payments). The poverty in India is real and dire and I pretty soon realised that, personally, I can't walk away from giving to other human beings who will sincerely appreciate even just a token that I will hardly miss. I don't even care what they do with it, but I want them to have it because, materially, they have nothing and I have more than I need. Suffice to say that my reaction to the lady on the bus that day made me readdress my way of dealing with India's poverty and begging, sparking a string of changes that I only gained clarity on much later in my trip.

Arriving in Trichy I found myself a place to stay near the bus station, complete with a bathroom with the luxuries of a western toilet, hot water and free toiletries. How exciting! Feeling rather knackered, I took my time enjoying the mod cons, pampering and rejuvanating myself before heading out to the China Bazar on the other side of town. Rooting around in amongst the shops and stalls I was drawn into a bookshop and before I knew it was persuading myself that I really needed to carry two more books around in my steadily swelling backpack. Trying to find anything other than a street dinner proved quite a mission, but one that I stuck with as finding a sit-down place to eat serves the double purpose of providing some (relative) headspace from the chaos. Just as my blood-sugar approached zero I happened upon a busy little place and got installed. I never quite fathomed why the waiter took one look at me and automatically provided me with a coffee at 8pm at night, not bothering to ask first and assuming I wasn't interested in eating (?). Anyway, I managed to get the message across that yes I would please like some dinner, and was hoping that by ordering a vegetable kuruma (korma) and chapatti I might get more than a ramekin full of vegetable sauce, somewhat craving vitamins after the rather limited packaged food diet of the previous day in Ramesvaram. I hoped in vain (oh well, another perfect excuse to fill up on super rich and sugary Indian sweets. Oops. Well at least I bounced all the way back to my bed).

The following morning I was set to conquer the Srirangam Temple, the main reason for coming here to Trichy. Murti, my rickshaw driver from the previous night, was waiting for me as I bounced out of the hotel at 9am, and we sped over to Srirangam first thing. Much like the Meenakshi Temple in Madurai, Srirangam is another series of hugely ornate and colouful domes, but this one has two main gold ones which signify the main mandirims (no go zones for us non-Hindus). After leaving my shoes and learning that I really had to have a (very expensive) government guide if I was to survive not being conned at every shrine by one of the 750 Brahmins who live inside the temple, I met my guide Raj, a lovely and seriously well-informed young man who spent the next two hours showing me around. Although I do often like to do things at my own pace, soaking up the energy of a place rather than being bombarded with information, I did actually fully appreciate being shown around by such a friendly and knowledgeable person who I felt I could relate to, and I definitely learnt a lot (though how much of it stuck is another matter). Actually I felt so baffled by the intricacy and depth of all of the symbolism and meaning connected with all of the various gods that I actually asked him if most Hindus are aware of all of this meaning behind every image, carving, shrine, ritual etc.... and it made me feel a lot better when he said 'no'! Good, I am not the only complete ignoramus then. He showed me the 'Door of Paradise' which, when open, is supposed to literally bring the blessings of Paradise to those who gaze on the shrine behind it. But if you can't quite make it to one of those special festival days, the other option is the rather tongue-in-cheek game nestled around the corner....much like twister, you are supposed to put your hands and feet in various impossible yoga-like positions and hold them there whilst leaning and twisting sideways to gaze at the Door of Paradise. Well, if you have completely wierd proportions or are a contortionist (obviously my yoga isn't working). Another highlight, in addition to the 1000 pillared hall (even more lacking here as it only has 940 pillars) and the carvings of the incarnations of Vishnu (because Srirangam is a Vishnu Temple), were the Karma Sutra carvings, which Raj swiftly and subtley pointed out to me and then walked in the other direction whilst I figured out for myself the medley of animals and humans in all sorts of bizarre positions (apparently it's not the done thing to show such things to me because I am a 'lady'......!). Utterly creative indeed.

With a head much bigger and heavier than when I entered, I left the temple, and was ushered over the road to Raj's mate's drinks stall and told that I absolutely MUST try his mate's coffee as he is famed for it. So I sat around on boxes with the old guys at the back, drinking what was indeed very nice coffee (true Indian style, loaded with milk and sugar) and trying to politely say that I didn't really want to come and look in their shops as I wasn't really interested in shopping. Nonetheless they were lovely company and made me feel at home, even moreso for refusing to let me pay for my coffee when I finally made my move.

After Srinrangam I thought I was heading to the Red Fort, but before I knew it Murti dumped me outside yet another enormous temple which I never quite figured the name of. Similar to Srirangam in size and design, but a world's apart in terms of maintenance, this other temple was deserted in comparison and wonderfully shabby in every way. Taking a big deep breath, I entered through the first archway, vowing that I would just enjoy this one without a guide as I just about felt ready to pop after all the information of the morning. Of course, that particular vow didn't last long. I was soon approached by an old guy with half a set of teeth who came up to befriend me and clearly had no plan to let me walk around alone. When I politely said I didn't want a guide thank you very much, he indeed agreed and said he was not a guide but my 'friend'. Even though I felt the last thing I wanted was more chat, no matter how friendly, I soon realised that I had no choice in the matter unless I wanted to be outright rude to this lovely soul, and anyway, why close down to a potentially enlightening experience? So, sticking with my resolve to be open to whatever appears in my path, I dug deep, found my patience within and embraced my new friend (whose name I have forgotten), and off we ambled around the ancient ramshackle temple. I'm sure he had a lot off interesting stuff to tell me but, due to a combination of his lack of teeth and his more-than-interesting English, I understood very little of what he said. Not that he knew that, as he was so eager for me to understand him and to enjoy his temple that I did my utmost to nod and smile enthusiastically. I did manage to gather that he had worked here as a guide for his entire life, but now, as he was older, was no longer employed here. But this temple was – and is – his life. So he is still here, just enjoying showing people around anyway, as this is what he loves and what he knows about. And if I wanted to give him something in return, especially an English coin that he can turn into a ring to add to his collection, then of course that would be very much appreciated. It couldn't have been a nicer contrast to the Srirangam experience, as I wandered around this beautifully scruffilly grand temple trying to piece together what this lovely old man was telling me in long strings of present continous verbs that didn't quite fit together no matter how much he tried to make them do so. I listened as he told me the long, detailed and unintelligable stories behind every single carving and inscription, and obeyed politely as he insisted I take pictures of every single one. He seemed overjoyed and proud that I had chosen to come when I did, deeming me a particularly lucky person as, of all the times I could have walked through the door, I chose to come just in time for the pujas to Siva and Parvati (this is a temple to Siva – and his consort Parvati – rather than Vishnu and Lakshmi at Srirangam). The temple elephant was in full swing, dolled up to the nines and parading around the temple grounds accompanied by a small group of musicians and Brahmins before going into the Parvati and Siva shrines respectively (on opposite sides of the main courtyard) for the pujas themselves. I stood amidst the columns of this ancient temple as the sound of reedy oboes and drums wafted towards me, accompanied by the small of incense and the sight of this magnificent beast swinging its trunk and somehow appearing to walk elegantly despite its enormous, heavy, truncheon feet. Magical.

Of the endless anecdotes and information that passed me by, I did manage to catch a couple of gems. One was the story of this beautiful flower.....cradling it in between the palms of his hands, he slowly opened them up and, as if revealing the secret of the world to me, said in a hushed voice: “inside this flower, here deep inside...this is Siva”.

Such sincerity, such conviction...such a beautiful moment. Omm.

Then he took me around the corner to a tree at the edge of a courtyard. I didn't quite catch what kind of tree it was, but apparently it's an incarnation of the Hindu Trinity – Brahma (Creator), Vishnu (Preserver) and Siva (Destroyer). As instructed, I walk around the tree and make a wish; then he breaks off a leaf and tells me to take it back home, dip it in water, and pray again; and then my wish will come true. Suffice to say that it never quite made it home to England, but let's hope I get karmic points for sincerity of intention.

We sat for a while soaking up the lovely energy of this ancient and much-loved temple before I made my way back out to Murti who was patiently waiting for me. And, despite a much longer morning than I had anticipated, we weren't quite done yet. On the way back to my hotel we made a quick stop at the Red Fort so that I could climb the wonderfully wiggly steps literally carved into the rock to the wonderful views over Trichy and Srirangam from the mandirim at the top. And after another lunch of not enough vegetables (what is it with this place?) I found my way back onto a bus, this time heading for Thanjavur (though I quickly, after making a total arse of myself at the bus station yet again, discovered that it is actually said Tan-ja-or) just up the road.