Emotive Articulations, Part 3

I continue to follow Anwar's advice. I hit the Tamil Nadu temple trail, catching the bus to Mahabaripuram. I had timed my arrival there to coincide with the Mahabaripuram Dance Festival. When I arrive in town, I head for the tourist office to pick up a schedule of events, only to find that 18 performances, over the course of six days, have been cancelled. Why? Because of the death of a former president of India, Dr. Shankar Dayal Sharma. The tourism officer is grumbling about the cancellation. He mutters that nobody cares about the dead president. It's only political; it'll only hurt business. To me, it doesn't seem like it's making a dent. The millennium is coming, and Mahabaripuram is hopping. The tourists streaming in and out of the office have had no way of finding out about the cancellation because it's not being publicized in Chennai.

I seek other diversions. I make the acquaintance of Murali, who works in a sweets stall opposite the bus stand. He looks like he's about 19 years old. I revisit Murali's stall a couple of times in my tireless pursuit of Indian sweets. He had given me a free sample of Mysore pak, endearing himself to me. We hit on the topic of Tamil film. In shy, stumbling English, he attempts to explain the recent history of Tamil cinema. He tells me about the major stars, directors and playback singers. His eyes open wide when I tell him I saw SPB, the playback singer, live.

Murali opens the Tamil-language newspaper to the movie ads, pointing out which films are worth seeing. He begins describing their convoluted plot lines. I don't fully understand them-there's too many love triangles, too many deceptions, but I write down the names of the best films. He tells me not to bother seeing any in Mahabaripuram. The one, small movie theater in town has been trashed by drunken fisherman. Ladies never go there, plus there are swarms of mosquitoes and no working fans. I should wait until I get to a big city to see my next Tamil film.

Hey, Murali, do you know the lyrics to "Shakka Lakka Baby?" Of course, he does. As do the other members of the crowd gathering around us at the sweets stall, who begin to sing: "Shakka lakka baby, shakka lakka baby, look-ooh vida toh-oh nallay-ah. Shakka lakka baby, shakka lakka baby, lao pana toh-oh naya."

What does that mean, Murali, what does that mean? "Shakka lakka baby, shakka lakka baby, you don't want to look at me. Shakka lakka baby, shakka lakka baby, why don't you love me?" The lyrics sound sexier in Tamil. Murali, what does "shakka lakka" mean? Everyone looks at each other and shrugs. "Shakka lakka"? It means only shakka lakka, and they laugh.

On my last day in Mahabaripuram, I had been so engrossed in my conversation with Murali, that I had forgotten to visit the interior of the Shore Temple. I only remember about the temple the next day, on the bus ride to Pondicherry. Oh well. The further I get from Chennai, the better.

Pondicherry is dominated by the Sri Aurobindo Ashram and its host of cottage industries. I spend a few afternoons at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram Library. It has a small section of Tamil literature in English translation. I'm boning up on my translations of Tamil epics. One of the stories, "Chilappathikaram," dates from about 100 A.D. The heroine, Kannaki, is the embodiment of wifely virtue and devotion. Kannaki's husband, Kovilan, deserts her for an actress. Still she parts with all her jewels to support the three of them until she's left with only a pair of anklets. Once the family has become destitute, her husband gives up his mistress and repents. The couple goes to Madurai to start a new life.

There, Kovilan sells one of the remaining anklets to a trader. The trader, who has stolen the Queen's anklet, which is similar, turns Kovilan over to the King. The King beheads Kovilan, mistaking him for the thief. Kannaki, the faithful wife, proves his innocence by producing the anklet's mate. *Her* anklet was made of rubies, while the Queen's was made of pearls. The King dies from guilt from having beheaded the wrong man. Kannaki is not appeased. Her wrath burns the city of Madurai. Still indignant, she wanders from the banks of the Vaigai River into the red hills of Chera. In the countryside the heroine is transformed into a goddess. My synopsis may sound a little sketchy, but it seems to me that the female ideal, as portrayed by this story, continues to influence the lives of Tamil women. Unfortunately, most women aren't rewarded for their sacrifices by being turned into goddesses.

I get back on the temple trail. I travel to the cities of Kumbakonum, Thanjavur, Tiruchirappalli (a.k.a. Trichy) in search of temples. The most impressive temple is the Brihadishwara in Thanjavur. Like the Shore Temple, it's also been listed as a World Heritage Site. The temple is said to be the best surviving example of Chola temple architecture. It was built by Emperor Raja Raja in 1010.

The sculpted gods and other figures way high on the temple's tower were never painted-they are left in brown stone. They look more dignified than those on other temples that are done up in gaudy colors. I circle around the temple looking for the images of the 108 karanas (poses) of the bharata natyam that are supposed to be carved into the walls. I can't find them anywhere. Someone tells me that they're inside the inner sanctum, but they've been covered up. Inside a museum that is part of the temple complex, there are supposed to be transparencies of the karanas. I go over there and locate the wooden boxes that should contain the transparencies. Their surfaces look blackened and cracked. There's no light inside the box to illuminate the pictures. I can't see a thing.

I go to see a large collection of Chola bronzes in the Thanjavur Palace Art Gallery. This collection contains sculptures of a whole host of deities I can't even begin to sort out--Muruga, Nataraja, Brahma, Sita, Rama and many others. A sign at the entrance to the gallery reads *exactly* this:

"Welcome to the Art Gallery. These icons have behind them historical values, spiritual lore and cultural mores of this part of Indian heritage, are meaningfully mute with wordless expressiveness. They influence, however, the viewing personages like you to come out with instinctive processions of emotive articulations in their own way style. You are welcome to record your feelings."

I'm not able to make out all the historical values embedded in the bronzes. But I can appreciate their nobility and physicality. The sculptures embody the beauty missing from the temples themselves. They depict Indians I don't know-creatures with ideal bodies, strength and composure, grace and power. And a certain calm I have yet to discover here.

The Brihadishwara temple in Thanjavur is pretty marvelous as temples go. But apart from this one, the experience of the Hindu temples has been more unnerving than uplifting. In Judeo-Christian religions, houses of worship are sanctuaries from the mania outside. In Hindu temples, the circus of the outside world-all its filth and chaos-has been reproduced inside. Despite the mandate for silence, it's not observed. The Hindu worshippers are quite boisterous. The Brahmans are selling stuff--just outside the temple walls, sometimes inside them.

It's not just the commotion and commerce that's unsettling. I loathe walking anywhere in India without my shoes on. Footwear is not permitted in the temples. Everyone must remove their shoes and leave them at the entrance--and pray they're still there upon returning. I can't get used to walking barefoot on the uneven stone floors, covered with dirt, elephant excrement, bird droppings and oil slicks left from countless ceremonies.

Perhaps it's that I'm usually visiting the temples just as the sun is setting, which makes them feel ominous. The temples are closed between noon and 5:30 pm. If I don't arrive in the morning--and I never do--I wind up seeing them in the dark. The temples are barely lit. A dangling bulb or fluorescent tube, here and there, dispels the darkness. I gingerly pick my way through dim passageways. Bats fly overhead.

The sculpture is nearly invisible in the dark--that is, the sculpture that's left to see. I pass columns and columns of carvings effaced by time. Very few pieces have any detail remaining. The layout of the temples baffles me. Rows of stone pillars lead every which way. The passageways don't run according to logic or symmetry (even though the guidebook says they do). It's unclear which passageway to follow to get to what's important. The way that seems right often ends in a blind alley. Other times, I find myself facing some dark recess with a spooky black idol locked behind a gate, smothered in oil and festooned with dead marigolds. "This can't be it," I murmur. "What am I supposed to be looking at?" I turn around and bump into a beggar with an outstretched hand, "Ma, Ma." Am I trapped in a horror film?

The temples were not created for sightseers. My sense is that the temples weren't originally designed for human scale or enjoyment at all-just as the bharata natyams weren't. The carvings on the towers are too high up to be appreciated. Only the gods can see that high. The central activity is the puja ceremony. For puja, Hindus line up to make some offering, whether it's money, flowers, or one of the "pure" foods, like coconut, rice, milk or fruit. Then the priest gives them something in return--a swathe of red, yellow and/or white on the forehead and some sort of leaf, I think. I'm not sure. I never get close enough to the inner sanctum to see. Sometimes the priests try to wave me in, but I'm not partaking.

I'm not sure what's going on with the other tourists on the temple trail. Maybe they're basking in the overall exoticism of south India. Maybe some of them fall in love with the "grandeur" of the temple architecture, the mystery of the ritual, the reverberations of the ragas. So far, *my* experience of the temples and the Karnatic arts hasn't been all that sublime--either spiritually or aesthetically. I've traveled Tamil Nadu for almost three months. I've followed instructions, and still my heart is as unyielding as those stone pillars.

I blame myself. In all my preparations for the India leg of my trip, I didn't think to research Hindu deities. I went down the wrong paths. I read contemporary fiction by Indian women authors. I saw films by Satyajit Ray--a Bengali director. As it turns out, I'm not going anywhere *near* the state of West Bengal.

But how could I have known that I would need to read much more about the Hindu deities than could be gleaned from the silly guidebook? Then again, I haven't made the time to learn more while I've been here--partly from my lack of enthusiasm for those very deities.

With the Karnatic arts, maybe in order to have a transcendent experience--a feeling of awe, the ecstasy brought on by the most intense aesthetic and spiritual experiences--you gotta believe. Meaning, you should be a Hindu. At any rate, it would really, really help. A non-Hindu may relish the art's formal beauty-its sound, movement, color--the sensuous aspects. A non-Hindu observer can take in the sculpture or the dance as an consumer, but not as a full participant. A non-believer won't receive the double whammy of a unified aesthetic and spiritual knockout.

To Western-test my theory, I consider whether you have to be a Roman Catholic to have a transcendent experience of the art in the Vatican. Probably. If you haven't been immersed in all that Christian iconography and scripture from a tender age, seeing images of Jesus remains a secular activity. Inherently, this experience must be less rapturous than one encompassing both the beautiful and the divine. It's like watching a color movie on a black-and-white TV set.

If you've been raised in a majority-Christian society, and you're *not* Christian, your reaction to all those Jesuses might even be averse. Still, Christian culture is not as alien to a Westerner--even a non-Christian Westerner--as Hindu culture. That New Testament stuff seeps into your consciousness willy-nilly. Unless you're a recent immigrant to the West, you're bound to know some of the lore, which always helps in appreciating art. Regardless, most people--Christian or not--don't linger in the Medieval rooms of U.S. art museums before shuffling off to see the Impressionists.

For Westerners, sculptures of Hindu deities aren't as immediately lovable as Impressionist paintings. Well, Ganesh might be the exception. He's the deity with a man's body and and an elephant's head. People find him warm and cuddly. If they buy one miniature to take home, it's usually Ganesh. But, there must be *some* non-Hindus who respond intensely to Hindu art. I think it requires a special breed, certainly people more receptive and less road-weary than me. People whose lives have led them to this glorious moment-when due to some harmonic convergence, some alignment of the stars-they're standing before an image of Shiva, and their souls flood with delight.

In an e-mail, my friend Ian from California, suggests that maybe even Hindus have a tough time with Karnatic art. Because the Indian artistic model is so rigidly hierarchical-reflecting the caste system in society at large-plenty of Hindus must find it difficult to tap into the spiritual benefits of these traditions. If you're not a serious devotee-whether as an artist or audience member--then you're a lesser being. In the face of this grand heritage, people are made to feel like spiritual amateurs--tiny, inconsequential specks before the splendor of divinity. While this vibe can be fuel for a spiritual quest, it can also be discouraging.

These days, as the "new" economy improves the quality of life for some Indians, they may not make the time to observe the traditions and may feel alienated from them. Many Indians are too preoccupied with work to offer puja, meditate and do yoga every day. I've read in the Indian media that religious practice is waning in lives of many middle- and upper middle-class Indians. There's still adherence to ritual but not much left that's profoundly spiritual. Instead, people are rushing headlong to embrace U.S.-style capitalism. I can't say I blame them.

Pockets of practitioners remain. But nowadays you have to search out spirituality in south India's big cities. It's no longer in the water, in the air. Some Western tourists claim it is. They say they see an integration of spirituality into everyday Indian life. I'd say those customs continue, but they're not as ingrained as they used to be.

Small evidences are everywhere. I see the kollams--the designs made with colored powders decorating the entrances of homes. Of course, nowadays some of them are semi-permanently painted on the pavement because women don't have the time to do a fresh one everyday.

I see that Hindu businesses, big and small, have erected shrines with framed images of deities, decorated with flowers and other offerings. Even autorickshaw drivers have pictures of Ganesh on their dashboards. (Good thing--considering Ganesh is the Remover of Obstacles.) I also see the sacred thread peeking out from under the shirts of Brahman men. They replicate the ones that wrap around the torsos of the Chola bronzes.

Who am I to judge people's spirituality? The temple turnout is high. People prostrating themselves in front of idols look sincere in their worship. My friend Susan from Austin, Texas came to south India last year looking for something spiritual. She found things to photograph, some relief from the mundane; but contradictions in India don't readily resolve themselves. She wrote, "Just remember, that the elegant turbaned man who is seemingly headed for nirvana will eventually take a shit on the beach."

Finally, I make it to Kaniyakumari-the town at the very tip of the Indian subcontinent. Three oceans meet there--the Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea. Kaniyakumari is an important pilgrimage site because of its temple dedicated to Devi Kanya, the "Youthful Virgin," who is an incarnation of Devi, Shiva's wife.

The story of the Youthful Virgin goes something like this: She didn't actually marry Shiva even though she was his intended. Instead, the gods wanted her to fight the demons that were wreaking havoc in the universe. Only virginal women had a full share of divine power. Lord Vishnu told her she could only save the world providing she stayed a virgin. (Notice how sex always *diminishes* a woman?) So she agreed. She fought the demons and secured the world's freedom. Afterwards, she continued doing penance and never married. Pilgrims go to the temple in Kaniyakumari to offer thanks to the virgin--another self-sacrificing Indian heroine.

People also visit Kaniyakumari to watch the sun set and the moon rise over the oceans, which at certain times of year, can be seen simultaneously. For sunrise and sunset, domestic and foreign tourists congregate on the roofs of the hotels to watch the spectacle. On the roof, I meet a pierced-tongued skinhead from Manchester, England. He tells me about his encounter with the Ganga Sagar, the Men in Black.

I've seen gangs of Ganga Sagar many times. These guys are traveling India's temple circuit by the busload. They are on some kind of pilgrimage--visiting temples en route to the Ganges River, up north, where they bathe and purify themselves. They dress only in black. Usually they're shirtless. They descend on the temples in droves, rudely pushing other worshippers and tourists out of the way. They are loud. They bring food into the temples and throw rubbish on the floor. In the bazaars, they go into buying frenzies, despite whatever austerity program they're supposed to be on.

The guy from Manchester first encountered the Men in Black in Tiruchirappalli. They took him under their wing and showed him around a temple there. He had a male bonding experience with them in which he, too, went topless and made puja to the Hindu gods, under the group's guidance. Then they played drums together. "How wonderful for you," I thought. Again, it's better to be male in India. Later, I spy the Men in Black muscling their way around the market. I ask a local shopkeeper, how he feels about the Ganga Sagar. He says they're animals. He can't wait for them to leave.

The tourist office in Kaniyakumari is well stocked with literature. I stand in front of the tourist officer's desk and request a brochure. He smiles and fires off The Five Questions: "You are coming from?" "Your good name?" "You are staying where?" "You are alone?" "Where is your husband?" There's a leer on his face. I can't believe I'm getting grief from a tourist officer. He must see tons of Western women every day. Just hand over the goods, buddy. He gives me a small pile of pamphlets for places in Tamil Nadu I've already been. I'm leafing through them, and I have to laugh. I had never noticed before that the Tamil Nadu Tourism Corporation's slogan is: "Tamil Nadu: A Land of Enduring Heritage." I've been enduring it, all right, but I've reached my limit.

"Sir, do I need an advance booking for a train to Kerala?"
"No, just go."
"Thanks, I'll do that."

Copyright Wonderlandİ 1999