Amma and Appa were only too thrilled to support this and we set off on a Friday morning as unseasonal clouds darkened the skies and sent heavy raindrops our way. Our primary destination was the Parthasarathy temple in the Triplicane neighbourhood of old Chennai. Weaving our way through rush hour traffic on Chennai's busy streets, the morning's adventure took us through familiar routes I took when I used to zip around town on my Kinetic Honda scooter. By the time we got on Santhome High Road, we were literally crawling amidst the din of a million cars and bikes honking their daily indignation. Looking out of the window, I felt sorry for the dozens of school kids trudging their way on the sidewalk with backpacks like boulders. I lowered my window and whipped out my camera causing some of them to stare doe-eyed and others to straighten up and brush off their wrinkled uniforms.
On my right loomed a tall Gothic-looking tower in the center of a large courtyard. The white spires stood out in the darkness of the morning sky, almost ominously reminding the city about its presence. Santhome church is is said to be one of only 3 churches in the world (the other two located i
n Spain and Italy) to be built over the tomb of an apostle. St. Thomas travelled to India in 52AD and is said to have been martyred at Mount St.Thomas near what is now Chennai's airport. Popular belief exists that sand taken from the apostle's tomb has miraculous healing powers. A fleeting glimpse of the church was enough to make me want to visit some time soon and I felt ashamed to admit that I had never bothered to do so during the 20 years that I had lived in this city.
Traffic improved once we got onto Beach Road. Several state offices occupied vast estates on this road facing the world-famous Marina Beach and the Bay of Bengal. Four years ago, the tsunami from Indonesia had rocked this area bad enough to cause the waters to sweep cars away from the beach's parking lots. Today, life was back to normal with morning joggers and daydreamers on their way as Gandhi strode in the opposite direction.
We veered left from Beach Road to enter Old Chennai and chaos erupted inside the car, adding to the confusion of a hundred little alleys outside.
"It is right here!We make a right turn where the old lady is selling jasmine flowers under the banyan tree!", yelled my mom.
"You talk like she's set up a landmark store here!Use your head!What if she moved the rickety wooden stand of a shop to another street?All I see under the banyan tree is a pile of rubble and a little girl selling roses.",retorted my dad.
"That's probably her granddaughter!I know it is!"
We spent a few more minutes debating about the ancestry of an unknown flower woman before Appa lost his patience and swerved right causing a cyclist to nearly lose his balance and jump into an open gutter.
"Relax!We have an agreement on these roads. They know how to handle themselves...", he silenced me with a wave of his hand after he heard me shriek.
I was marvelling at this virtual exchange of information which pedestrians, commuters and hawkers facilitated and wondered when I had managed to lose that valuable skill of interception. My thoughts were distracted by the sight of century-old walls painted in red and white stripes and the sound of giant brass bells ringing in the distance. We had finally arrived at the grand old Parthasarathy temple.
Amma got busy shopping for prayer offerings and I looked around to take in the sight of the temple's imposing gopuram(pyramidal tower) and dhwajastambh(brass pillar). Twelve hundred years ago, Pallava dynasty kings built this awe-inspiring temple which was later reinforced by Chola and Vijaynagar kings. To
this day, the temple opens its doors at the break of 
dawn to welcome the devoted, the hapless and the lost who are looking for a brief respite from the city's maddening crowds just outside. The temple is dedicated to Lord Krishna, Vishnu's 8th incarnation, to recognize his role as a charioteer (Partha=Arjuna, sarathy=charioteer) steering Arjuna amidst the chaos of the Mahabharata war. In keeping with tradition, Lord Krishna, the charioteer, did not carry his weapons to the battlefield and grew a moustache that is strikingly visible when you see his massive idol reclining in the sanctum sanctorum.We stepped into the temple's premises after leaving our footwear outside. Amma and Appa strode quickly to the main sannidhi(sanctum sanctorum) and I lagged behind, taking time to take in every sight and sound. The sannidhi is housed in a massive mandapam(pavilion) filled with spiral pathways in the shape of a square. There is a definitive science which lays down guidelines for the construction of a temple in accordance with the spiritual intention of its devotees to overcome obstacles they face as they cross several barriers (represented by the concentric squares) to get closer to the divine. Ofcourse, none of that mattered to the dozens of 80-year old Hindu brahmin grannies dressed in 9-yard sarees as they took baby steps along the narrow pathways. Petite and utterly delightful with their white hair pulled into buns and their wrinkled faces adorned by dazzling diamonds, the ladies looked up to peer at me through thick,dirty glasses. Wisps of fragrance from scented incense hung in the dimly lit pathways. I let these women lead me as my feet stepped on the wet,stony floor. In several corners, groups of young boys huddled together to study scriptures and chant the same Sanskrit verses which had resonated in these halls for centuries. The power walkers among the devotees sped along to every altar, sometimes nearly breaking into a run and leaving me behind with the granny bunch shaking their heads in slight disapproval. The experience was turning out to be a feast for the senses and exactly what I was hoping it would be.
We finally entered the sanctum sanctorum of the main deity. The final moment when the deity is in sight is meant to be a personal one. Your experience is yours alone and in that state of absolute devotion and surrender, nothing exists but darkness. No desires,joys,sorrows or fears interrupt your thoughts which focus on the deity. Your prayers are rewarded by a darshan(the sighting of the deity), the only light which exists in this darkness. A priest lights a piece of camphor and helps you take in the sight of an idol of the divine. Fire has always been recognized as the messenger of the Gods and smoke from the camphor's flames rises to the heavens taking your prayers with it. As luck would have it, the main idol was curtained off for general darshan that morning due to oil treatments for the longevity of the stone that the idol was made out of. Regardless, it was an awe-inspiring sight to even watch the smaller brass idols of the Lord and his consorts as they shone in the radiance of a single camphor. These smaller brass idols are smaller replicas of the original stone idols and they are taken out in procession on important festival days. Hindus consider any and every thing within the premises of a temple to be sacred thus delivering equal sanctity to brass replicas regardless of their size.
Men and women filed on opposite sides of the narrow passageway so that the main priest could walk back and forth,carrying offerings and donations. Tulsi (basil) leaves were distributed to everyone and some women received packets of vermilion as well. The men quickly ate the basil leaves. The women immediately shared their vermilion with each other until all of them had marks on their foreheads the size of small coins. I wondered if either sex would have felt comfortable sharing what they had received with each other.
Stepping out of the sanctum sanctorum, there were dozens of smaller shrines which awaited our visit. The Parthasarathy temple has the distinction of housing shrines for 4 of Vishnu's 10 incarnations. Spread a few dozen shrines over an area the size of a few football fields and you had square miles of history, culture and legacy waiting to feed the intellectually starved. Every pillar was carved with inscriptions dating back hundreds of years and it was all I could do to spend the entire day there.
After prayers had been offered to every God and Goddess in the Hindu pantheon, we settled down to enjoy some food offerings which were for sale within the premises. You can tell a lot about a temple's finances by the quality of food they serve. This one was in no dire straits and the vada that I tasted simply had to be the best temple-style vada I had ever tasted. Either that or my tastebuds had forgotten their Indian roots after all these years! Before we exited the temple, I had to dispose the eco-friendly plates made by stitching banyan leaves. I noticed 3 scraggy kittens playing in a corner while a scrawny dog, mongrel perhaps, stretched himself to settle down for a mid-morning nap. The temple truly considers all life forms to be sacred.
Hindu temples generally do not allow photography within their walls but I was lucky that day to get permission to use my camera in the outermost courtyard area. As I was busy clicking at inscriptions and carvings, a small group of brahmin students (evident from the marks on their foreheads and the dhotis they were wearing.Plus, who doesn't go to school on a Fri morning if you can afford it?) came rushing towards me. I geared up for a wonderful "welcome-to-our temple" moment.
"You cannot really take any pictures inside the temple!"
"But I have already asked for permission", I countered.
"From who?"
"That guy over there sitting in the temple's office", I replied and immediately regretted it. I hoped the young boys wouldn't walk over and correct the temple assistant. It seemed wrong to deny visitors the joy of capturing memories on film when it was clearly not against temple or traditonal to do so.
We finished ta
king pictures and stepped out to retrieve our shoes. Amma started to pick up some more supplies for the prayer room at home while the shop-owner politely offered other items for consideration. My gaze rested on a small 2-piece case woven out of strips of palm leaves. The owner's father picked it up and held it in his wobbly hands for me to see. I paused to realise that this family had probably been engaged in this business of selling condiments outside the Parthasarathy temple for generations. Among the many things they carried in the tiny bunker shop was this case woven out of palm leaves-a timeless tradition in itself and a small source of livelihood for a family struggling to eke out a living in the world of leather cases and satin pouches. I wondered if it wasn't unreasonable to worry that Chennai's city scenes might lose these classic elements in a few years given the giant leaps it was taking to don a new look.Our next stop was going to be the famed Kapalishwar/Karpagambal temple in Mylapore. Getting back on Beach Road, we passed an interesting building with arched windows. King Frederic Tudor built this in 1842 to store ice imported from Europe and the building changed hands between landlords until one time, Swami Vivekananda stayed here for a few days on his visit to the south in 1897. He agreed to his disciples' request to make this a permanent ashram and thus, 'Ice House' officially became 'Vivekananda House'.
The sun was beginning to come out by the time we pulled into one of the narrow streets surrounding Karpagambal temple. If you've never been there, you should know that you are better off getting a ride or walking to the temple since parking can be a major hassle. With luck, we managed to find a narrow spot between 2 buxom Ambassador cars, India's champion cruiser of pot-hole spotted roads. As Appa tried to manouevre our Camry in reverse gear, an emaciated buffalo sitting in our spot near the wall could not be less concerned but it was everything a pot-bellied parking attendant could do to hurry over and issue a ticket. "Can't you do something about this mess here? Look at those cab drivers thinking they own the road!Can't you ask them to move or something?",yelled my father. Between huffs and puffs, the parking attendant shot a quizzical look as if nothing was out of the ordinary and he saw no reason for complaint.
Legend has it that the Kapalishwar/Karpagambal temple dedicated to Shiva and Parvati (in those incarnations) is atleast 1400 years old. Showing disrespect to Shiva caused Brahma(the Creator) to lose one of his heads and in regret, he built an image of Shiva in this area with a garland of skulls to worship him as Kapalishwar (kapala=skull, ishwar=lord). Parvati united with the Lord in the form of a peahen(mayil), thus giving the area its name,Mylapore(land of peacocks).
The o
riginal gopuram construct
ed by Pallava kings sometime in the 7th century was destroyed by the Portuguese and the Vijayanagar kings rebuilt it much later. Dozens of Gods, Goddesses, celestial spirits and other beings adorn the gopuram and tell stories from the Puranas(ancient scriptures) for miles around.The temple occupies sprawling grounds in the heart of the city and boasts of a huge tank among its many pavilions. For many Chennaiites, the temple has become an integral part of their lives. When she was a little girl, my mother used to travel from north India to visit her cousins in Mylapore every summer and the holidays always involved nightly walks to this temple. Years later, when she was pregnant with my brother, she would make offerings to the residing Goddess Karpagambal (Light of the womb). After I was born, she would bring us frequently and we enjoyed running around the temple's premises before settling for delicious rose-water flavoured sodas. Within these 4 massive walls, children played, lovers united and split in clandestine meetings, parents lamented their woes and groups of women huddled to gossip about their friends who weren't present.
After we had finished receiving darshans of the presiding deities, I decided to visit the temple's tank. Occupying an area almost as big as the temple itself, the tank had perennially been dry since as far as I could remember. Last month's lashing by the monsoons had however filled it to capacity and the sight was a rare, serene one. A few rupees unlocked the heavy padlock that hung on the tank's iron gates and we climbed down gingerly on the wet steps. A priest started to throw puffed rice and hoards of catfish materialised out of nowhere to gobble up what fell on the water's surface. I was frankly astounded by the number of fish which thrived here and the sight reminded me of piranhas congregating in a carnivorous frenzy.
The afternoon sun was beginning to blaze down and hunger started to strike our own bellies ferociously. No visit to a hindu temple is complete without paying obeisance to the 9 planets that rule the cosmos and your destiny. Completing 9 rounds around the raised pedestal which housed idols of these gods, I stepped out to start taking more pictures of the main gopuram on our way out. The Kapalishwar temple had a better policy about using cameras and visitors could purchase tickets for a small fee to use their recording devices.
Groups of european tourists clustered around a temple attendant as he talked about the temple's history and legends. No sooner had I finished taking some pictures of motifs on the walls when a priest shuffled over to politely remind me that I needed to purchase a ticket to take pictures. Briefly annoyed, I assured him that I was aware of the rules and flashed my ticket stub. After he walked away satisfied, I wondered if he had bothered to check if the european tourists also had tickets for their cameras.
It is traditional to break a coconut or atleast offer it to the gods when you visit a temple. The coconut's matted exterior shell represents the many strands of the human ego. Devout hindus believe in shattering this to expose the pure soul that solely concentrates on uniting with the divine. This is represented by the tender, white inside of a coconut. Stepping out of the temple, Appa took care of the coconut we had in hand. A bunch of street urchins hung around closely and then pounced on the pieces of coconut which went flying in every direction. The sorry sight reminded me of the catfish in the tank inside.
Deciding that we couldn't go a minute longer without having a meal, it was a unanimous decision to head to Saravana Bhavan, the ubiquitous south-Indian restaurant chain that was known for its delicious traditional fare. 120 rupees or the equivalent of three dollars got us an astoundingly sumptuous lunch with atleast 25 items starting with Gujarati dhokla+cumin water and ending with 3 different kinds of desserts. If the morning's activities had been a feast for the soul, the afternoon's lunch was a matching feast for the body. Overall, the day had turned out to be a feast for the senses.
Stepping out after lunch, our eyes were blinded by hundreds of glass bangles glittering in the mid-day sun. Small bunk shops adorned the walls of the temple and their wares ranged from plastic toys and cheap fabric to kitchen utensils and souvenirs. Appa and Amma knew better than to let the shopaholic in me wander astray and we piled back into our Camry to weave our way back home.
The morning had been more satisfying in every way than I could have ever expected it to be. A part of me wanted to cling on to every minute and make it last longer so that I could enjoy it just a little bit more. Maybe I had lost myself so much in the chaos within me that I had forgotten to pause and take a step back to see the bigger picture. Maybe I had lost myself in the chaos outside that I had become one with the milling crowd. These were the moments when you wondered what it was all worth-the perfect job, the greatest family, the best friends ever, the most memorable experiences. How often do we pause to put ourselves under the microscope and figure out what really 'gets' us? Do we devote enough time for personal reflection as we rightfully should?
The thoughts were circling in my mind as Ramakrishna Mission passed us by. Swami Vivekananda had established this in honour of his guru, Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, and Subash had told me that he often visited the Mission to spend hours in peaceful meditation.
Leaving Mandaveli to cross the Adyar River back to home base, I spotted a huge billboard that echoed my thoughts. Jesus was calling as well.
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