Since I am so close to Chidambaram, I take the opportunity to travel to the temple there. Dating from around 950 AD, Chidambaram is one of the ancient Brahman villages: No kings, no lay people, just priests doing their priestly duties for the welfare of the ruler and the populace. These temple villages often have many small temples, but here in Chidambaram there is only one awesome abode for the Deities. To be technically correct, there is another small temple on the edge of town that houses the Goddess.

A European author called the temple dilapidated in 1963, and things have not improved. He also said the temple walls encompassed 40 acres, which may be an exaggeration. Anyway, the compound is huge. The roads, except for the circuit around the temple, are frightfully narrow. As there are no sidewalks, I feel as if I am risking my life every time step into the street. It is the usual Indian crowd—bicycles, cows, people, goats, and a few stray chuckholes—all harmless enough, if it weren’t for the numerous lorries and buses, which always appear to be in a rush to make up for lost time.

Although the town is shabby and the temple rather unkempt, many details of the temple are phenomenal. I enter through the east gate, enhanced by a gopura [entrance tower] over one hundred feet tall. Stone carvings of the 108 possible poses of the traditional Bharat Natyam dance of south India cover a wide expanse of the hallway of the tower itself. After crossing a large patio, I enter a large hallway with carved stone pillars; actually, there are several such halls, each with its own unique decorative carving. In the center of the complex stands the main sanctum sanctorum. This is the only place in India where it is possible to behold all three deities of the Hindu trinity at one time: Shiva, as the cosmic dancer NataRaja; Brahma, the creator; Vishnu, in charge of preservation of the creation. The Vishnu temple is quite large and part of a large temple platform. In his traditional repose, Vishnu faces east as he slumbers, lost in his cosmic dream—guess what he is dreaming. You are right: the creation. We—with all our traumas and dramas—are Vishnu’s dream. Poor Vishnu.

The Nataraja temple is large and ornate. Shiva’s temple is always entered from the South; that is, Shiva faces south, even in his dancing mode. Both chapels are covered with solid gold tiles—they are necessary to create a conducive energy field, I am told. There are actually two sanctum sanctorums under Shiva’s golden pavilion; one housing Nataraja while the other is the seat of the akaasha lingam, or the element of ether. So the usual place for a deity is indeed empty. The Hindus not only worship idols, they worship empty space! In the truest sense, they worship everything.

Beside Shiva’s temple sits the tiny shrine of Brahma. Only a couple of temples for the Creator Deity exist in India. Here, no one is particularly interested in the Creator, for the creation has already happened; the challenge is what to do now. It’s a matter of how to get on with life and take advantage of the creation, which is Vishnu’s domain; or how to get out of the whole mess, Shiva’s function. In a separate temple, Shiva’s consort, Parvati, has her own quarters, particularly distinctive for the lovely scenic paintings on the ceiling, all in natural colors.

I am fortunate that I am here on a Thursday, the morning of the special ritual for the ruby NataRaja lingam. Shiva as Lord of the Dance has its origins from a story in which Shiva sought to cure the arrogance of some sages living in the Taraka forest. The seers were feeling proud of their spiritual attainments, while their wives were equally arrogant because of their chaste deportment. Through their austerities, the sages had garnered enough power to defy the gods.

One sure thing about gods—they do not like to be defied— it is a common thread through all religions. So Vishnu and Shiva set out to resolve the threat. Appearing as a charming young lass, Vishnu ran through the forest in a captivating manner. He was followed by Shiva, who appeared to be a young man. In an elaborately sensual scenario, the young man caught the damsel and started putting the moves on her—something that Shiva had lots of practice with since his wives tended to be demanding. The celibate sages lost it totally and were caught up in the passion of the moment, totally forgetting their spiritual austerities. Likewise, their wives forgot their virtues when they beheld the alluring young man.

When the sages realized how they had been duped, they performed a grand ritual to conjure a serpent, a tiger, a fire, and a demon to punish Shiva. Undaunted, Shiva took on the challenge of the adversaries and conquered them all. Thereafter, he wrapped the serpent around his neck as an ornament, the tiger’s skin became his underwear; he brandished the fire as a weapon, then danced in ecstasy over the demon. The place of his dance is Chidambaram, the center of the universe that exists everyone’s heart.

Of course, I plan to attend the special ritual for the dancing NataRaja. However, I am informed by my guide that I have to pay 100 rupees for a ticket to witness the ritual of the ruby lingam. I had already paid him 50 rupees for a tour of the temple. Expensive, when you consider it was more than the price of my room. However, I was not disappointed; the guide told me a lot of interesting information that made the trip worthwhile. So I tell him that I will think about buying the ticket, then I stroll off to question the priests if a ticket is necessary. “No, of course, not. Not here.”

The lingam, object of worship, is brought out enshrouded in a dark cloth. When it is uncovered, offerings such as sandalwood paste and milk are poured over it. Try as I may, I just cannot seem to lose my Western mind. I can hardly keep my attention on the ceremony for watching the Indians rush up to get a drink of the milk that runs off the lingam, then flows through a stone conduit down to where we are standing. Surely, the grace of the Lord will cancel any affect of the black and green moss I spot lining the gray stone spout. My mind cannot accept the reality and keeps repeating, what India needs is some good bacteriologists. The ceremony ends with a flourish as the priest lights a large lamp and passes it around the lingam so that the translucent ruby of the NataRaja image glows in all its glory.

By the way, the demon on which NataRaja dances is the dwarf of ignorance, our forgetting of our divine nature. Shiva is trying to keep it under control, so we can get a glimpse of our divinity; however, some Western intellects say that he is grinding down his wife. Hardly, he is the only deity who spends months at a time off-duty, while he caters to his wife's needs, mostly intimate duties.

Another advantage of having a guide is that he introduced me to one of the Dikshithar Brahmans who speaks English and is actually doing some writing about the Hindu traditions. As always with Indian families, I am welcomed into his home by his lovely wife with their darling baby. Stange the images one keeps of a journey, but that baby in his cradle with his dark hair, dark eyes and gold ear studs is one I'll never forget. Raja Dikshitar helps we with a few facts for an article I'm writing for Tattwa Loka, and I promise to help him get one of his published also. He must be rather intellectually stymied in this small town, but he does take opportunities to speak with foreigners who pass through here regularly.

The following night is the grand spectacle of the showing of lights. As I understand it, this ceremony is intended for the akaasha (ether) altar. With chanting and twirling the priests show the oil lamps. Then they bring out special lamps with many flames glowing at once, ending with one shaped like a Christmas tree of at least 100 tiny glowing flames. We view the beautiful sight, enhanced by the billowing, dense incense, hot burning ghee (clarified butter), and hard cold stone on our feet. In the flickering light, everyone’s face glows with the delight. We seem to be lifted out of our little selves, if only for a moment. Interesting observation, since I do not consider rituals part of the true spiritual journey. Nonetheless, they can serve to brighten, uplift, and quiet the mind.

One of the few Hindu temples that has escaped, so far, the iron hand of the Indian government, this temple complex supports a host of priests who are living below the poverty level. Although they belong to the highest caste, the majority of priests have lived the most austere lives throughout all times. When the British arrived with their need for clerks to interpret between themselves and the populace, the Brahmans, being the most educated because they read the numerous scriptures, were to become the chosen few. However, the majority of priests remained apart from any British influence, just like these in Chidambaram.

Then the Indian government imposed their idea of separation of church and state, which is definitely different from the American model. With the claim that the Hindu temple operations are corrupt, government officials have moved in to see what they can do about pocketing the large amounts of money collected in the temples. Unfortunately, they leave insufficient funds for the upkeep of the temples, and the priests, for that matter. They only dare do this in the Hindu temples, never the Moslem or Christian. Interesting phenomena to note how the Hindu religion continues to be undermined by the government, foreign governments in the past, but now the native one is not only following suit, but expanding their methods.

This temple is run by a certain caste of Brahmans, the Dikshithars. To this day, not one of them has married outside their group. Of a unique, handsome appearance, the men wear their hair in a distinctive manner, twisted into a bun to the side of their head.

Surrounding the temple walls on two sides are the homes of the priests. Since there are more priests than necessary, they have a rotation system for the daily duties. They also draw lots for certain special duties on holidays. Still there is not enough from the donation pot to go around, so many priests do rituals via mail. Usually they receive a small fee to do a monthly ritual for the welfare of a family. Then they mail the ash from the ceremony to the family to smear on their foreheads to partake of the sacred vibration imparted by the ritual.

This practice of letting the priests take care of the spiritual life is not uncommon, particularly in the Vaishya caste, which consists of merchants, traders, and landholders. Their duties are such that they simply do not have time to perform religious rites. Throughout the centuries this caste, being the wealthiest, has been the principal financiers of all religious endeavors.

I find the Rajarajan Hotel on West Car Street, the “cheapest and bestest”—only 40 rupees a night for a decent room. The proprietors are kind and attentive. I am to discover that this is unusual for Indian hotel staff, who cater to their fellow Indians with the greatest of indifference. Right down the street, I find a place to get an omelet sandwich. In times past, since Chidambaram was inhabited only by vegetarian Brahmans, one could not have found an egg in the whole town, but democracy with all its freedoms has brought many changes to Bharata.

When I board the bus to return to Pondy, I find out that the buses are not always in a rush to make up for lost time; sometimes there are other motives. I take off on the 12:30 p.m. bus—on time. But the bus stops two minutes later; while we are still in Chidambaram. I watch the driver and conductor get off the bus. Puzzled, I go up and inquire what is going on. I am told, “It’s lunch time. We have to eat to be able to work.” Who can argue with that logic? So we passengers sit for thirty minutes while the staff have their lunch in the local restaurant.


I arrive back in Pondy just in time for The Mother’s birthday, so Pondy is in a festive mode. People have come from all over India, also from Europe, for the occasion. One couple, visiting from U. S., were among the original founders of Auroville. This community was The Mother’s real dream. She envisioned it as “an experiment in international living where men and women can live in peace and progressive harmony with each other—above all creeds, politics and nationalities.” Times were not easy for residents, especially after The Mother died six years later in 1973. So the couple had moved back to U.S. and returned to a normal life.

Maggie greeted these old friends with her usual enthusiasm, then sent them over to eat at Usha’s. We have six extra people for lunch who fall into this category. Since Maggie is busy in her role as an ashram dignitary, Usha has the day off from writing to spend in the kitchen cooking for guests.
Early that morning Maggie sends word to Usha that she has arranged a ride for me to Bangalore with a friend who will be returning the next day. I just finished typing her manuscript yesterday, so I have waited until the last minute to get everything packed. About 5:00 p.m. another note comes from Maggie. The ride has fallen through, but she has found a taxi for me to hire in the morning for the trip.

“Well, I do feel that I am being pushed out of here. I’m sure it’s time for me to go, and I’m ready to go. However, had I been choosing, I would have chosen to join in the celebration at the ashram instead of packing today. Then I could have gotten packed up tomorrow and left the following day.”

“Nancy, you’re not being pushed out. Maggie wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“The day after I complete the manuscript, she arranges a ride for me. When it fell through, why did she arrange for the taxi? I could have done that at my own convenience. I see the way she manipulates you. I cannot imagine why I would be immune.

“And what about that Spanish girl who helped her out with the children during the holidays. As soon as Maggie didn’t need her, she would not help her with a visa extension. So Rosa ended up spending her entire vacation in India baby-sitting. I think she deserved a little consideration to prolong her stay.”

As it turns out, there is one advantage. Maggie is so busy with visitors that she decides she is not going to work the following day, so Usha is able to take the trip with me. She is eager to spend a few hours with her children, who are now in back in school in Bangalore. We plan to leave at dawn’s early light, so that we will arrive by lunch time.

Actually, I had never intended to spend much time in Pondicherry. My plans were to just visit with Usha for a few weeks, then head for a rural ashram outside Bangalore. Immediately upon my arrival, I wrote Swami Sahajananda, the teacher at the place where I planned to stay. However, his reply informed me that he would be away for the winter on a pada yatra, pilgrimage on foot. In addition, his three women disciples were all in Bangalore taking a course in English at the university. Sahaja will not return until the first week in April, so it does not make sense for me to go there until then.

Occasionally, I see a newspaper; one carried a story from that area. A herd of elephants had left a national preserve to overrun the nearby sugarcane fields. They had quite a feast, leaving acres of cane destroyed. I do look forward to being in such a rural setting. This is my ideal in coming here, and it seems that Sahaja’s place will be perfect. Then I have big plans for an escape to the mountains before summertime. Summer begins here in April; actually, May is the hottest month in most of India. Usha has some friends in Kottagiri in the Nilgiris, Blue Mountains, of south India. They have a small guest house in the back that they are willing to rent to me for the summer. I have already purchased a great Birds of India identification guidebook, so I am prepared to head for the cooler altitudes.

So just when I am accustomed to life in Pondy, I pack up to leave. This world that once was so strange is now familiar. I know where to buy the best papaya, the freshest vegetables, ripe bananas, and all the spots to find ilanir. I can now distinguish the bell of the temple elephant from the bell of the rickshaw. I can recognize the horn of the milkman from that of the toy hawker, the cake seller, and the ice cream man. The baah of a goat, the moo of a cow, the chirp of a chipmunk are no longer strange sounds. The vendors at the temple stalls all recognize me and give me local prices: four lotuses, one rupee; five water lilies, one rupee; three nimbus for my limeade, only one rupee. Yet I know there are many adventures ahead of me.

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