Upon a rooftop in Pondicherry
A crow perched on a pole, my neighbour, my familiar
Every time he croaks, often and raucous, the baton of his black tail feathers beats downwards
a sporadic, staccato, out of kilter rhythm
crow, onomatoepeic, his name lodged in the call of his telling
On the horizon, a lighthouse, sentinel of the shore… at night it’s light, beam sweeps outwards, regular, insistent… bathing in light the bedraggled, tattered spittle of the waves
the ullulation of the midday call to prayer from the mosque
these disparate pulses, that underscore, syconpant our ever sensual world
……..
Intimation of the sacred in India, a cliché, but abundant with its own becoming
The Samadhi at the Sri Aurobindo ashram in the heart of town… enter the small peaceful courtyard, a simple white tomb, festooned with a mandala of bright coloured flowers… above it an ancient spreading mimosa tree… devotees approach, bow their foreheads, third eye touching the cool marble, else raise their hands, open in prayer… after a few moments, they move onwards, to sit nearby in meditation… then, after a time, to leave… no words are uttered… contemplation, a fullness, a blossoming of stillness
Jump cut to the night before
Sri Meenakash temple, the ancient sacred heart of Madurai
A throng, a hullabaloo of devotees… pipes, drums, shrieking… a cacophony to greet and awaken the gods and goddesses
a long snaking line of pilgrims waiting to enter the innermost shrine… the women in pink, green, saffron saris… sweet scented, white jasmin flowers woven into their long black hair… a beautiful lurid vibrancy… the children gawp up at me, as tho I am beamed from a further star… some smile and wave… others embody sullen perplexion… yet others play hopscotch games across the painted floor… everything goes… worship is at times a stillness, then turns and turns about to a joyful whooping… part solemn ceremony… part charabanc, summer day trip to the seaside
A group of young men, bare chested, clad only in jet black lunghis, like a secret conclave of ninja assassins, wander past… they have the usual motley array of male Indian hair dos, exquisitely pomaded lustrous satin black locks, intermittently hersute… solemn promenading, intent upon their serious, mysterious purpose… till characteristically, one breaks rank, comes over to chat, ‘where are you from?’, a traditional riposte, ‘enGERland’, as one, they smile and holler ‘Ben Stokes’… cricket frenzy is seldom far!
I walk onwards, coming to a staue of Ganesha (vinayaga?), the stone of the god, dressed in silver armour, a white cloth and ochre daubed across his brow… taking a hairy puja coconut, we take turns to fling them against the base of dark stone, they shatter, with a crack and a satisying splatter of juice… this release… a letting go of a mind generated obstacle… enough of the thought torment, when I think of you, the allowing, this almost impossible leaving alone… enough, yes enough
Sri Meenakash, a holy site stretching back to prehistory… the current temple mostly built by the nayaks 500 years ago
A square kilometre, city within a city… a gallimaufray, a riot of brightly coloured carvings upon the gopurams, the four cardinally aligned gateways, set within the outer walls… enter with pomp, with panache, with swagger… once inside, a precinct of shops, then another set of walls and gateways… gradually you are channelled, drawn inwards, pared down, honed then humbled towards the majesty of the inner sanctum. God is immanent
Aah the glory of India without cars! Families sit on the floor scattered about the mandapam, leaning against ornately carved pillars, some chanting, others gossiping, else nibbling on prasad… whilst above them glower oblivious, preposterously muscled, moustachioed demi gods, else sinous large breasted temple dancing girls… the extraordinary gob smacking flow of stone
At sunset i sit on the steps of the large bathing tank… swallows sweep and glide overhead…orchaestrating the slow, sumptuous softening, as colour flows from the world, summoning itself to the blue hued resonant glow… twixt light
A young brahmin, shaved head, lunghi, a single sacred thread tied around his torso… we watch as a crescent moon, shining, conjures itself from deep within the darkness
He tells me that at times of no moon, the crescent is lodged within Shivas ganges river flow of dreadlocks… the gravity of the sun and the moon pull together, direction vertical, kundalini rising, an inward dimension… whilst at full moon, the sun and the moon pull apart, we are expansive, torn, time of summer festivals and frenzied celebration
I watch the moon and think of you… watching this same moon… tho I know not where? Melancholy, sense of loss
I remember, also, first coming to this temple when I was 23, a full 37 years ago, sitting on these same steps, chatting to a young Keralan man, his name was Lenin! The Communist party has long been a dominant political force in the south
In my dreams I have always prowled, here, beneath the eerie moonlight, through these many pillared halls… the high ceilings, exquisitely carved columns, each unique, the cool scented air, the broad warm flagstones, the somnolent echo of each and every footfall
epiphany… after hours of musing, slow meandering, I come to the cluster of statues, deities depicting the astrological beings of Indian cosmology… 9 statues, Venus, Mars, the Sun, all the classical, visible celestial bodies, and a few as yet unnamed in the west
On the pillars nearby, several carvings have been picked out for individual reverence, there is hanuman drenched in a glut of orange paste…
then there she is… I pause, goosebumps
a small, simple carving, halfway up a pillar, a bare breasted goddess, one foot raised, dancing upon the back of a lion. Durga? Some aspect of Kali? She wields a shiva trident, arm above her head, trident balanced on her right hand… wedged into the crevices above her head, beneath her feet, a few, yellow and white, small devotional chrysanthenums
her neck tilted back… on her head, a long, tapering helmet… all, a ruse in stone, a simple, but definitive framing, the eye drawn down to gaze upon her face
the stone is black, grey, gently speckled and mottled… the features have been daubed in oil, a sheen, stone that shines
upon this base, an overlay of white ash, then layers of yellow, orange and vermillion ochre
the scarlet dominates, predominantly on the chakra points, the third eye and crown… yet also adding a subtle blush to the cheek, this haphazard concoction, master stone mason carved, yet pilgrim embelished… bought to life, summoned, by centuries of devotional worship
the gently modulated contours of her face
otherworldly serene, that speaks of forgiveness, of rapture
Transfixed, I gaze long into her eyes… a pink red glow, warm, this blessing, of forever living stone
shanti shanti shanti
To be continued, embellished with pictures and a final section on Amma’s ashram… enough for today!
