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 call to prayer from the mosque
these disparate pulses, that underscore, synconpate 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… remove your shoes, turn off all mobile phones, walk forwards past pots of fragrant orange and yellow flowers… enter the small peaceful courtyard… a simple white marble tomb, holding the bodies of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother, festooned with a mandala of bright coloured flowers… above it an ancient spreading mimosa, the service tree… devotees approach, bow their foreheads, third eye touching the cool marble, else raise their hands, open in prayer… absorbtion… after a few moments, we move onwards, to sit nearby in meditation… then, after a time, to leave… no words are uttered… contemplation, a fullness, this nexus, a vast 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 in the darshan line 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 pongol pattern painted floor… everything goes… worship is at times a stillness, then turns and turns about to a joyful whooping… part solemn ceremony… part chara-banc, summer day trip to the seaside …’didn’t we have a lovely time the day we went to bangor’
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 hirsute… 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 huge statue of Ganesha (Vinayaga), the stone of the god dressed in silver armour, a white cloth tied around his body, and ochre daubed across his brow… I clasp a hairy puja coconut, we take turns to fling them against the base of dark stone… they shatter, with a crack and a satisfying splatter of juice… this release… a letting go of a mind generated problem… Ganesha remover of obstacles… enough of the thought torment, when I think of you, the allowing, yet this almost impossible leaving alone… enough, yes enough
Sri Meenakash, a holy site stretching back to prehistory… the current temple mostly built by the Madurai 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 channeled, drawn inwards, pared down, honed then humbled towards the majesty of the inner sanctum. God patiently waits… immanent
Aah the glory of India without cars! beyond the honking, away from the vrooming, hyper aware, tensed for the hurtle of vehicles from each and every direction… here families sit peacefully on the floor, scattered about the mandapam… leaning against ornately carved pillars, some chanting, others gossiping, else nibbling on prasad (temple blessed food)… whilst above them glower oblivious, preposterously muscled, mustachioed demi gods, else sinuous large breasted temple dancing girls… the extraordinary, overwhelming, gob smacking flow of stone
At sunset I sit on the steps of the large bathing tank… swallows sweep and glide overhead…orchestrating the slow, sumptuous softening, as colour flows from the world, summoning itself to a blue hued resonant glow… twilight, time 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? 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
we are stretched, deepened by the lapse of time, meenakash waits eternal
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 (Rahu, Ketu)
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, primarily 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… temples are like coral reefs, the underlying ridgid stone structure, the bright coloured reef fish entwining
the gently modulated contours of her face
otherworldly serene, that speaks of forgiveness, of rapture
Transfixed, I gaze long into her eyes… the air suffused in a pink red glow, warm, this blessing, of forever living stone
shanti shanti shanti
………….
Ammas Ashram (to be continued!)
