The sun was soft and almost canoodling when we emerged from the dining hall, wiping bread crumbs off the chin , and burping coffee , cutlets.
By noon, as we struggled up the mountain-side, climbing ancient stone steps , the sun had turned an arch enemy, a hard task-master. Blazing in all its fury, beating down mercilessly on city-backs , bent and panting forms .
This was a temple . A famous temple . Oft-visited, in fact a must -visit in the guide book. Sure enough, there was a mandatory crowd of pilgrims with us , Mountain people, nimbly striding up steep gradient , as we the lesser mortals from the plains , huffed and puffed.
Like all temples in Rajasthan, this too had disputed antiquity. Some authorities said 11th century, some 15th. Some said it was razed by muslim conquerors , some said it survived due to its inaccessibility. I will vouch for the latter.
Leaving red faced and thirsty spouse and kids on the doorstep, I trudged on ahead . More steps , more doorways . Narrower, darker. Overpowering smell of ghee-lamps, incense , crushed flowers and human crowd. The floor is wet , dark, slippery and dangerous.
The roof turned into an irregular rocky mass, religiously white washed, dangerously low, brushing against the head. So did the walls. At the entrance , which was a small gap in the rocky lip, sat two saffron clad pandas, collecting mobiles , and giving tokens . I had none . But crawl you must, through the 2feet by 2feet small opening, shining through centuries of rubbing against human forms , and diligent saffron enamel paint.
The aperture opens into a cave . You may stand and breathe now. The air is cool. But it is the statues that startle. A usual Durga astride the tiger seems a recent addition, almost as an after thought. The main statues are three naked female forms , swathed in a single sari.
There were offerings , incense , coin, coconuts , wrapped up mantras, in crinkly paper, here too. A metallic box for donations .
I make my obeisance , hastily .A strange dread , ancient and gut -wrenching, fills my heart.
I come back and read the board at the entrance carefully. The usual contradicting stories. A temple dedicated to parvati. sati. Nay, she goes by this name , no that.
The dread stays, unallayed. Rajasthanis pride themselves on their valour and the sacrifice of their women. Sati,written' suttee' by british was a common practice . It had horrified them , to see nubile girls being drugged and burnt alive on the pyre of their elderly husbands . Wars and conquests brought forth mass sati, called "Jauhar", still glorified , in movies , songs and edicts.
What I had visited was probably another sati-site. Three concubines of a king , burnt together,in a horrifying reminder of a barbaric practise.
By noon, as we struggled up the mountain-side, climbing ancient stone steps , the sun had turned an arch enemy, a hard task-master. Blazing in all its fury, beating down mercilessly on city-backs , bent and panting forms .
This was a temple . A famous temple . Oft-visited, in fact a must -visit in the guide book. Sure enough, there was a mandatory crowd of pilgrims with us , Mountain people, nimbly striding up steep gradient , as we the lesser mortals from the plains , huffed and puffed.
Like all temples in Rajasthan, this too had disputed antiquity. Some authorities said 11th century, some 15th. Some said it was razed by muslim conquerors , some said it survived due to its inaccessibility. I will vouch for the latter.
Leaving red faced and thirsty spouse and kids on the doorstep, I trudged on ahead . More steps , more doorways . Narrower, darker. Overpowering smell of ghee-lamps, incense , crushed flowers and human crowd. The floor is wet , dark, slippery and dangerous.
The roof turned into an irregular rocky mass, religiously white washed, dangerously low, brushing against the head. So did the walls. At the entrance , which was a small gap in the rocky lip, sat two saffron clad pandas, collecting mobiles , and giving tokens . I had none . But crawl you must, through the 2feet by 2feet small opening, shining through centuries of rubbing against human forms , and diligent saffron enamel paint.
The aperture opens into a cave . You may stand and breathe now. The air is cool. But it is the statues that startle. A usual Durga astride the tiger seems a recent addition, almost as an after thought. The main statues are three naked female forms , swathed in a single sari.
There were offerings , incense , coin, coconuts , wrapped up mantras, in crinkly paper, here too. A metallic box for donations .
I make my obeisance , hastily .A strange dread , ancient and gut -wrenching, fills my heart.
I come back and read the board at the entrance carefully. The usual contradicting stories. A temple dedicated to parvati. sati. Nay, she goes by this name , no that.
The dread stays, unallayed. Rajasthanis pride themselves on their valour and the sacrifice of their women. Sati,written' suttee' by british was a common practice . It had horrified them , to see nubile girls being drugged and burnt alive on the pyre of their elderly husbands . Wars and conquests brought forth mass sati, called "Jauhar", still glorified , in movies , songs and edicts.
What I had visited was probably another sati-site. Three concubines of a king , burnt together,in a horrifying reminder of a barbaric practise.
Fertile imagination.....
ReplyDeleteFertile imagination.....
ReplyDelete