Back in my room I discovered that it doesn't really matter whether one pays £2 or £12 for a room in India, one must still be open to the possibility of some insect room-buddies. But for £12 a night you don't get short-changed with small brown cockroaches. Oh no. You get big fat juicy black ones with very very long whiskers. Two in the bathroom, one in the bedroom. Yummy. Dream on that. I confess, when they are that big and real and CRUNCHY, the non-violence principle becomes harder for me to embrace. Everybody knows cockroaches signify somewhere UNCLEAN, and anyway, the sight of them does just send shivers down my spine. I have to admit I swayed a little from the yogi path that evening (but don't call the dharma police just yet, that story isn't over yet). Which is probably why I got my karmic cummupence right back at me; that night, as I got busy with the mattress-testing, my face and ankles were savagely munched by what can only have been mozzies the size of moths, judging by my balloon-like appearance the following day.
Thanjavur Temple is completely unique, and thankfully very mellow. Still feeling knackered I dragged myself up there, with each step preparing myself to deal with people wanting to show me around and hassling me in one form or another. Despite wanting to have the best intentions, I just didn't feel I had the energy or patience left to deal with it that day. But Grace smiled on me again, as it turned out I didn’t need either that morning. Thanjavur Temple is a World Heritage Site and is preserved more like a monument than a working temple (even though of course it is one).
Once you enter through the main archway you are free to roam around the site at your own pace, free from hassle and free from crowds. Can this be true in India? I’m sure I didn’t dream it. So I passed a lovely couple of hours taking in the mass of sandstone carvings and edifices (the temple hasn't been painted all manner of crazy Indian party colours like so many of the others), meeting the giant Nandi (bull) sculpture who protects the entrance to the main shrine (so the story goes, it just kept getting bigger and bigger, creating fears that it would become too big for the temple itself, so someone spiked it in the bottom, successfully halting its growth at its current gigantic proportions) and being blessed by the unusually friendly, welcoming Brahmins at the various shrines. I really felt they made a special effort to make me feel welcome and bless me, even in the main shrine where non-Hindus are banned in most other temples.
They must be doing something right here in Thanjavur as even the temple elephants seemed much happier than elsewhere, but perhaps that’s down to the amazingly well-kept gardens that they look out over. I got thrown out at lunch closing time and so headed off for a wander around the very mellow centre of town before fuelling up and getting on yet another bus to yet another temple town.
The ride to Chidambaram was longer than expected, and another memorable Tamil bus journey, complete with lots of cosy seat-sharing with entire families and their many protruding limbs. But, amazingly, on this particular journey the bus driver and his conductor companion were outstandingly friendly, apparently deciding to take me under their wing, and checking in with me every now and then to make sure my journey was going ok. But I’m not sure they quite needed to go to the extreme of making a poor innocent man get up and move from his seat so that I could sit down and wouldn’t have to share with him (presumably because he was a man?). I tried to protest, saying I was happy to sit next to him, not that it did the slightest bit of good. Apparently I was either to sit alone or to sit with other women or children. But under no circumstances, even on this overcrowded bus, was I to share a double seat with a strange man. Although I wasn't really comfortable with this ‘special treatment,’ preferring to muck in in the same way as everybody else, I nonetheless appreciated my self-appointed guardians looking out for me on this occasion, because truthfully I wasn’t really feeling top dog and was desperate to get settled, get fed, and get sleeping. Despite having tried superficial self-care by pampering myself with free soaps and smellies in nice bathrooms, I was still exhausted and could feel my glands swelling in my throat. God knows why at this point I didn’t quite put together the oncoming signs of cold and flu with the fact that only a few days previously I had spent an entire day in cold, wet clothes. But I didn’t; instead I was focused on conquering yet another temple the following day.
I was excited to arrive into Chidambaram, reputed to be a very unique and traditional bustling temple town. Which indeed it is. But I have to say that the first thing that really struck me was about the place was the bloody awful stench that pervades every street. Yummy. I swiftly found the budget option recommended in my book, which was a far cry from what I used to associate with the name ‘The Ritz’ but, on first inspection, for 400 rupees a night, it just about seemed to fit the bill. After the joys of the cockroach-infested room of the night before, my main priority was that I find somewhere CLEAN and, when I went to have a look at the room, the first thing that struck me was the smell of cleaning products. Although I normally shy away from anywhere that smells of chemical cleaning products, India has taught me to be less idealistic and more thankful for any attempts to maintain some level of hygiene. However, it was only after I had checked in and got settled in that I began to realise how intensely the entire room honked of bleach. With which I opened the windows to let the place air, put the fan on full throttle and went out on an unsuccessful mission to find something decent to eat. Returning armed with bananas, dates and cashew nuts (what a nutritious dinner) an hour later, the situation hadn’t much improved. What I should have done was move rooms then and there, but something told me that no other room in this hotel was going to be any different. So, rather stupidly perhaps, I tried to bed down for the night with all the windows open, the fan spinning full speed and little me wrapped up as best I could manage in my sleeping bag liner, having sealed off any potential holes in a vain attempt to minimise mosquito damage. Regardless, by the morning I was even more red and lumpy, my chest wheezing like that of a chronic asthmatic, my eyes and nose streaming, I couldn’t stop sneezing and I was more than a little bit grumpy from having had barely a wink’s sleep all night. All of which felt really good on top of the oncoming cold that I was brewing. Nonetheless, I came to this bloody town to visit the temple, so that was what I was bloody well going to do. Suffice to say that that morning I got out of that room faster than a firework, not even stopping to check in with my yoga mat (like I would have been able to breathe anyway).
What an amazing temple. It has an energy all of its own. Being somewhat on another planet, I ambled in without much of a clue. I was immediately struck by these strange fellows wandering around with white stripes on their bodies and foreheads, a single piece of string slung across their bodies, white dhotis and bizarre hairdos with a semi-shaved head complemented by a long-haired bun. At first sight, in my semi-conscious state, they looked to me like members of some kind of strange cult. But then I realised these are the Brahmins who live here in Chidambaram temple, this is their home. Nonetheless, I remember feeling vaguely intimidated, especially as they so clearly rule the roost here. And as I entered the courtyard to the main Siva mandarim, there they all were sat, just getting going with the morning’s fire ritual. After surprising everybody present (including myself) with my rather ungainly entry, I tried to re-blend into the stonework, finding myself a discreet spot against a pillar, sitting down, closing my eyes, and beginning to absorb the amazing sounds of their chanting. I never found out exactly what text it was they were chanting, but I didn’t care particularly. I was just totally absorbed in the mesmerising rhythm of it, as they all chanted in absolute synchronicity, at the end of each half line going up a semitone, at the end of each full line going up a semitone then falling a tone, always holding these end notes for a little longer than all the others, but always managing to stay perfectly in rhythm which each other. Amazing. I can still hear it now. And even more amazing for the fact that many of them didn’t even appear to be that interested in what they were doing, but were half-staring into space, or half-talking to their mates, or getting up to go and do something. But always staying bang in rhythm, as if they could do this in their sleep. I did find the lack of interest, not just from the little ones at the back but even from the priest performing the actual fire ritual, rather odd and quite telling about the actual spiritual wisdom and commitment of these Brahmins…even if born into the theorectially ‘advanced’ Brahmin caste, it seemed to me that many of these guys were not what I would call dedicated Men of God, utterly committed to cultivating Divinity in their lives and the lives of those around them, at the expense of all else. Rather, many of them seemed like they were going through the motions of the ritual because that was what they had been brought up with and that was what they knew. But their minds were elsewhere. I couldn’t help but think that, if repetition of scriptures and mantras is supposed to lift one to a higher place through the cultivation of one-pointedness of mind, there was something slightly amiss here. But who am I to judge?
I was also particularly struck by the variations on their signature hairdo. These Brahmins traditionally shave one side of their head to symbolize Siva, and have a ponytail/bun on the other side as a symbol of his female consort, Parvati. However, much like creative variations on school uniforms become one’s way of asserting one’s individuality within the boundaries of a restrictive dress code, the Brahmin hairdos here displayed all manner of creatively diverse variations on the theme. Evidently the white dhoti and single string-over-the-shoulder don’t leave a lot of room for manoeuvre, so the hairdo appears to have become a vehicle for self-expression, particularly amongst the youngest and hippest of the Brahmin crowd. For some, the shaved section itself has become a work of art, with different grades coming into play, whilst for others it’s the ponytail that has taken a creative turn, not just appearing on the one side of the head to contrast the shaved other side (the traditional look), but rather more central, like an island (or fountain) in the middle of the scalp, or sometimes sprouting from on top. And those that were really making a statement had the ponytail interpreted like a neck fringe at the very bottom of the head. Charles Worthington watch out.
I sat listening to their spellbinding chanting for a good hour or so, but as the ritual showed no signs of coming to an end in the near future, I woke my sleeping legs and persuaded them to walk me around the temple. As well as the Brahmin community, this temple is famous as the home of the gold statue of Dancing Siva Nataraja (most temples have the Siva Lingham, the fallic symbol). I tried to get a good look at it, but the light in there was so limited, I confess I couldn’t really see it. But, nonetheless, I appreciated being there in the same space with this beautiful sculpture, probably my favourite of all the symbolic Yogic images. Wandering around rather aimlessly I was soon beckoned over by a Brahmin priest who wanted to chat with me. After having been warned that the Brahmins in Srirangam are like ‘the mafia’, not least because they are always looking to rip you off, I was rather cautious. But this lovely man with kind, honest eyes, swiftly put my mind at rest, explaining that he genuinely had no interest in my money, he really just wanted to be my friend and tell me about his temple. So I sat with him for a short while and learnt about the history of Chidambaram, and how the reason why this place has such palpable energy is because it is literally vibrating as a direct result of hundreds of years of relentless chanting, mantras, pujas, rituals. So much dedication and effort has been put into preserving the strong ritualistic history of Chidambaram, and you can truly feel it in the very walls of the place. As a goodbye present before I went on my way, he told me that, according to numerology on my date of birth, I can look forward to life aged 34 and 35, apparently these years are glowing for me. After wandering around the whole of the rest of the enormous temple complex, I tried again in vain to find somewhere to sit down and have some food in town. Failing miserably yet again, I settled for samosas before collecting my bag and once again heading for the bus station. Although I had been really looking forward to visiting Mahabalipuram before getting to Pondicherry, this had to go. I was on my last legs and just needed to get to somewhere relatively comfortable before I crashed good and proper. So I hot-footed it to Pondicherry and to the lovely Ram Guest House, a beautiful, family-run, friendly place set around a central courtyard full of plants, and no bleach or cockroaches in sight.
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