Paul Brunton - The Maharshi and His Message #10

[Guest guest]

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I have sent someone to the township with orders to fetch

a conveyance, for I wish to inspect the temple. I request him to

find a horsed carriage, if there is one in the place, for a bullock

cart is picturesque to look at, but hardly as rapid and comfortable

as one could wish.

 

I find a two-wheeled pony carriage waiting for me as I enter

the courtyard. It possesses no seat, but such an item no longer

troubles me. The driver is a fierce looking fellow with a soiled

red turban on his head. His only other garment is a long piece

of unbleached cloth made into a waist band with one end passing

between his thighs and then tucking into his waist.

 

A long, dusty ride, and then at last the entrance to the great

temple, with its rising storeys of carved reliefs, greets us. I leave

the carriage and begin a cursory exploration.

 

"I cannot say how old is the temple of Arunachala," remarks

my companion in response to a question, “but as you can see its

age must extend back hundreds of years.”

 

Around the gates and in the approaches to the temple are a

few little shops and gaudy booths, set up under overhanging

palms. Beside them sit humbly dressed vendors of holy pictures

and sellers of little brass images of Siva and other gods. I am

struck by the preponderance of representations of the former

deity, for in other places Krishna and Rama seem to hold first

place. My guide offers an explanation.

 

“According to our sacred legends, God Siva once appeared as

a flame of fire on the top of the sacred red mountain. Therefore,

the priests of the temple light the large beacon once a year in

memory of this event which must have happened thousands of

years ago. I suppose the temple was built to celebrate it, as Siva

still overshadows the mountain.”

 

 

A few pilgrims are idly examining the stalls where one can

buy not only these little brass deities, but also gaudy

chromolithographs picturing some event from the sacred stories,

books of a religious character, blot chily printed in Tamil and

Telugu languages, and coloured paints where with to mark on

one’s forehead the fitting caste or sect symbol.

 

A leprous beggar comes hesitatingly towards me. The flesh of

his limbs is crumbling away. He is apparently not certain whether

I shall have him driven off, poor fellow, or whether he will be

able to touch my pity. His face is rigid with his terrible disease.

I feel ashamed as I place some alms on the ground, but I fear to

touch him.

 

The gateway, which is shaped into a pyramid of carven figures,

next engages my attention. This great towered portico looks like

some pyramid out of Egypt with its pointed top chopped off.

Together with its three fellows, it dominates the countryside.

One sees them miles away long before one approaches them.

The face of the pagodas is lined with profuse carvings and

quaint little statues. The subjects have been drawn from sacred

myth and legend. They represent a queer jumble. One perceives

the solitary forms of Hindu divinities entranced into devout

meditation, or observes their intertwined shapes engaged in

amorous embraces, and one wonders. It reminds one that there

is something in Hinduism for all tastes, such is the all-inclusive

nature of this creed.

 

I enter the precincts of the temple, to find myself in part of

an enormous quadrangle. The vast structure encloses a labyrinth

of colonnades, cloisters, galleries, shrines, rooms, covered and

uncovered spaces. Here is no stone building whose columned

beauty stays one’s emotions in a few minutes of silent wonder,

as do those courts of the deities near Athens, but rather a gloomy

sanctuary of dark mysteries. The vast recesses awe me with their

chill air of aloofness. The place is a maze, but my companion

walks with confident feet. Outside, the pagodas have looked

attractive with their reddish stone colouring, but inside the

stonework is granite grey.

 

We pass through a long cloister with solid walls and flat,

quaintly carved pillars supporting the roofs. We move into dim

corridors and dark chambers and eventually arrive at a vast portico

which stands in the outer court of this ancient fane.

 

“The Hall of a Thousand Pillars!” announces my guide as I

gaze at the time-greyed structure. A serried row of flat, carved,

gigantic stone columns stretches before me. The place is lonely

and deserted; its monstrous pillars loom mysteriously out of the

semi-gloom. I approach them more closely to study the old

carvings which line many of their faces. Each pillar is composed

of a single block of stone, and even the roof which it supports is

composed of large pieces of flat stone. Once again I see gods

and goddesses disporting themselves with the help of the

sculptor’s art; once again the carved faces of animals familiar

and unfamiliar stare at me.

 

We wander on across the flagstones of these pillared galleries,

pass through dark passages lit here and there by small bowl lamps,

whose wicks are sunk in castor oil, and thus arrive near a central

enclosure. It is pleasant to emerge once again in the bright

sunshine as we cross over to the enclosure. One can now observe

the five shorter pagodas which dot the interior of the temple.

 

They are formed precisely like the pyramidal towers which mark

the entrance gateways in the high-walled quadrangle. I examine

the one which stands near us and arrive at the conclusion that it

is built of brick, and that its decorated surface is not really stone-

carved, but modelled out of baked clay or some durable plaster.

Some of the figures have evidently been picked out with paint,

but the colours have now faded.

 

 

Weenter the enclosure and after wandering through some more

long, dark passages in this stupendous temple, my guide warns

me that we are approaching the central shrine, where European

feet may not walk. But though the holy of holies is forbidden to

the infidel, yet the latter is allowed to catch a glimpse from a dark

corridor which leads to the threshold. As if to confirm his warning

I hear the beating of drums, the banging of gongs and the droning

incantations of priests mingling into a monotonous rhythm that

sounds rather eerie in the darkness of the old sanctuary.

 

I take my glimpse, expectantly. Out of the gloom there rises

a golden flame set before an idol, two or three dim altar lights,

and the sight of a few worshippers engaged in some ritual. I

cannot distinguish the forms of the priests and the musicians,

but now I hear the conch, horn and the cymbal add their harsh,

weird notes to the music.

 

My companion whispers that it would be better for me not to

stay any longer, as my presence will be decidedly unwelcome to

the priests. Thereupon we withdraw into the somnolent sanctity

of the outer parts of the temple. My exploration is at an end.

 

When we reach the gateway once more, I have to step aside

because an elderly brahmin sits on the ground in the middle of

the path with a little brass water-jug beside him. He paints a

gaudy caste mark on his forehead, holding a broken bit of mirror

in his left hand. The red and white trident which presently

appears upon his brow — sign of an orthodox Hindu of the

South — gives him, in Western eyes, the grotesque appearance

of a clown. A shrivelled old man, who sits in a booth by the

temple gates and sells little images of holy Siva, raises his eyes to

meet mine and I pause to buy something at his unuttered request.

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