Kanchipuram redefined my idea of faith
Kanchipuram redefined my idea of faith

When temple-hopping in Kanchipuram redefined my idea of faith

The writer did what her younger self would have vehemently protested — set out to visit seven frequented temples of Kanchipuram

When my parents picked Tirupati as our annual getaway almost every year, they must have taken into account my frightful Math scores and hoped that Lord Venkateswara would rescue me with some magical numbers on my school tests. Of course, there’s no debating that these trips did have some favourable results on my summer report card. But what my parents didn’t consider was my hint of rebellion for standing amid relentless rivers of crowd for endless hours. It turned me into an enraged temple-goer. Did I have to expend my energy and hurt my calf muscles to seek something?

But who knew that some life-altering events, and a lot many grey hair, would make a tectonic shift in my idea of belief and faith. So on a recent December morning, after downing two cups of filter kaapi and a plate of steaming hot sambar-soaked idlis, I did what a younger me would have vehemently protested about — set out to tick off seven frequented temples of Kanchipuram, on my maiden trip here.

Sun, silence and surrender

For being a popular touristy temple town, what surprises me is that at 10 am the streets wear a sleepy look. Perhaps this is what slow means, I tell myself, hoping that my first stop at Sri Kamakshi Amman Temple is not brimming with devotees. With this flicker of optimism, as I alight from the autorickshaw, I grasp the initial sight of the white stone gopuram pencilling into Kanchi’s blue sky. It’s, as they say, picture-perfect. There’s also an instant relief that I can walk towards the inner sanctum in the absence of jostling and elbowing, and be immediately arrested by the stupendous sight of Sri Kamakshi Ambal seated in Padmasana, holding a bow of sugarcane and arrows of flowers; her diamond nose ring glowing brighter than all the lamps lit inside the sanctum sanctorum.

It’s the search to access this light within me that makes me want to give faith a fair chance, I remind myself. Having savoured this unexpected fifteen-minute appointment with Sri Kamakshi, I slowly circumambulate the Pancha Ganga Theertham, the spacious temple tank, in the backdrop of the imposing views of the golden vimanam. I pause, soak in the grandeur of the silence that reverberates the air here, and hope for this quietness to still my chattering mind.

Squinting under the noon sun, I swiftly pace to my next stop, only to be completely dwarfed by one of the tallest temple towers of south India. Soaring at a height of 192 feet, Sri Ekambareswarar temple is the largest temple dedicated to Lord Shiva in Kanchipuram. It is referred to as one of the Pancha Bootha Sthalams signifying the five elements of wind, water, fire, earth and space. Intrigued by its ancientness, I reach out to the shopkeeper selling idols and pictures of the temple. “Legend has it that once, while Lord Shiva was meditating, Goddess Parvati mischievously covered His eyes with Her fingers, which resulted in complete darkness on earth for many years. Shiva was enraged by this act and He cursed Parvati to go to earth for penance.

Parvati arrived here and created the earth linga and worshipped it under a mango tree giving birth to the temple,” he shares, showing me the way to the more-than-3,500-year-old mango tree, which has four branches each dedicated to the four Vedas. The path to the tree itself has a Shiva Linga made of around 1,008 small lingas. Standing in the presence of this pervasive energy, I hear a devotee sing in the praise of Shiva; streams of tears roll down my cheeks. Lyrics were beyond my ken, but the bhavam of the singer wasn’t. It was an intimate moment of surrender, which is so difficult to experience in the madness of mundane city life. And during this vulnerable beat here, I sense the illusion of control.

Soon, hunger lures me back to the reality of a mortal’s life. And who can refuse a bowl of fragrant, unfussy temple puliyogare and curd rice? After all, the promise of this uncomplicated pleasure was the only way to quell my resentment of queues on those summer trips.

Ensconced in time warp

Very little seems to stir the languid hours of the afternoon here, which appears as hushed as the early mornings in the bylanes of Kanchipuram. With the tropical sun bearing down on the city,  streets lined with multi-coloured homes deliver all kinds of photographic delights. Walking down the main Gandhi Road, I find decrepit, old-world stores jostling for space next to modern shops. And in this medley of past, present and future, I encounter a treasure from the pre-Independence era — Jackson market, established in 1929. The dilapidatedness of this piece of history interrupts with the joy of its presence. But once inside, the labyrinth of its lanes has a rustic air filled with the scent of jasmine, aroma of fresh produce, clamour of voices, clatter of wares; crawling lizards on mould-filled walls, and affable vendors indulging my touristy countenance with their welcoming smile.

A few photographs later, and with another hour to go for temples to reopen for the day, I follow my nose to India Coffee House. Founded as a worker cooperative at a time when India’s coffee house culture was a British monopoly, this historic chain brews nostalgia at a time when lattes and frappes are turning into dominant beverage culture. Not that I am not guilty of revelling in the latter, but keeping my bourgeoise preferences aside, this afternoon, all I seek is — to soak my skin in the sun filtering into this quaint space, inhale-exhale, mindfully sip my coffee, watch the ceiling fan lazily rotate and be caught in this time warp to slow down my hurried demeanour. Who’s to deny me of this piece of luxury!

Of design and deeds

Capital of the Pallavas during 6th to 8th Centuries AD, this City of Thousand Temples abounds with architectural beauty bearing eloquent testimony to its glorious Tamil heritage. I get my first impression of this when I reach Sri Kailasanathar Temple. Its serene landscape, sparsely populated premises, and sturdy edifice elaborately filled with all the 64 aspects of Lord Shiva, holding millennia of stories and secrets, is more a place of wonder than prayer. One need not be devout to be here, a sense of awe and the spirit to celebrate it is sufficient. Maybe that’s how we lost the meaning of spirituality — by blending it unhealthily into religion, God and superstitions. After an hour of such solitary rumination, I   head over to Ulahalanda Perumal Temple; my auto driver speedily snaking through the narrow lanes packed with schoolgoing children and buses. It’s easy to not notice the temple given its unassuming exterior structure and also its location in one of the busiest streets.

Curious by its simplistic appeal, I ask the driver to accompany me. And he willingly offers to narrate stories from the yore, “One day, king Mahabali was performing his Upanayana, when Lord Vishnu as Vamana approached Mahabali for a grant. Seeing his little figure, Mahabali laughed and promised to grant him any wish he wants. The Vamana asked for three-foot of land that he could transverse through; all of the king’s court burst out in laughter as this little Vamana asked for a three-foot of land. But to their surprise, the one-step of Vamana covered the whole of heaven, the second step all of the earth and there was no place for the third step. Realising that this Vamana is none other than Lord Vishnu himself, Mahabali gave his head to place the third foot of Vamana. Thus Vamana pushed Mahabali to the Pathal Loka (hell) and saved heaven and earth.” Listening to these tales and walking in the austere surroundings, this time for reflection on the road nudges me to think about my actions.

But the setting sun warns me that I am yet to tick off three more on the list. So, parking those thoughts, the driver and I scoot to Sri Chithragupta Swami Temple located near the Kanchipuram bus stand. I am particularly fascinated by the significance of this temple, as the resident priest details, “Chith means inner conscience and Aptham means hidden conscience. Whatever we hold back in our conscience is brought out by Sri Chithragupta. Lord Yama requested Lord Shiva to get Him an intelligent chief minister and a chief accountant for looking after the good and bad deeds committed by humans. Lord Shiva in turn told Lord Brahma. Chithragupta, created by Lord Brahma through the Sun God, is the younger brother of Yama.”

The story sends a shiver down my spine, knowing well that my account doesn’t seem promising for heaven. Probably my presence here might help with some cleansing of my deeds, I surmise, and pay respects to the deity, before rushing to Vaikuntha Perumal Temple. Like Kailasanathar, this one is a wordless celebration of architecture. The covered passages inside the outer walls represent the evolution of the grand thousand pillared mandapams built later within numerous south Indian temples. The dynamism of the details on the stone-carved walls persuades me to pause and wonder: where did our sense of aesthetics disappear?

Chewing on such a cluster of thoughts, I prepare for the last stop of the trip — Varadaraja Perumal Temple. It was in 2019 that after 40 years, Lord Varadaraja, who is supposedly lying below water, was brought out for the temple’s rare festival Aththi Varadhar Utsav. Reports and stories of devotees thronging the temple, and Kanchipuram’s tourism boost during that season, made me secretly harbour a desire to witness this grand celebration. And here I was, two years later, in a more peaceful set-up, standing in a serpentine queue for a glimpse. Only this time, I was more patient to pursue my prayer.

As it turns out, a trip to any temple is the meaning I give to it — pain or pleasure. Believer, non-believer, atheist, agnostic…awe doesn’t choose who you are, it just is — be it in the sanctity of a temple or in the sacred high-cliff mountains. And perhaps it is with this learning that I can now go back to Tirupati, non-enraged.

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