Transmission 7 – Convoys, Carved Temples and Pujas

The season is Pongal, in the month of Thai, and while the local Indians are getting high on sugarcane and the sweet porridge that borrows its name from the harvest festival, I finish my karmic service at the food forest, and prepare myself for the next leg of this great two wheeler journey through India.

Once I had enough of cleaning cow dung, and pulling grass out of the earth, I felt the wanderlust build in me again. I needed desperately some way to rebuild the momentum gather over the trip, which felt jaded and a bit lackluster now. I made the decision for a trip up the east coast highway to an ancient temple town called Mahabalipuram.

First though, the machine needed tuning, and what turned out to be a fair share of minor works. The bike sounded like a type writer in third gear, and while shifting down the carburetors popped like hot corn kernels, the gearing was clunky, the chain was stiff, and the chassis, tyres and engine had acquired a thick layer of red mud, hardened and burned on in the sun like a kiln dried pot. The young boys and men at the Royal Enfield service center were generous with their time and energy, and worked on the bike one hour past closing. They lubricated all moving parts, covered the battery points with a thick electric conducive gel, changed the oil, the filters, and replace the wheel bearings. The bike rolled out of the shop after dark, power washed, and cleaner than it was when I left Mumbai on the first day. She was primed for the long haul.

Filled the tank, lit up the gauges, and… nothing, the bike stood like a stubborn mule. I threw the kill switch and lit it up again, rocking the bike a little, still nothing, no pulse from the electric start. I tried several combinations of having the clutch engaged, in neutral, in first gear, rolling in neutral, holding the throttle, even cleaning the battery terminal. After repeated tries I could finally send a shock to the engine, and it would roar to life, but this finickiness continues for three days, once in the middle of a busy intersection, which led to some roadside tinkering and fussing about while the exhausted breath of a hundred tour buses, rickshaws and motor scooters thickened the air the filtered through my lungs. When I returned to the Enfield servicing garage, a young fellow looked over the bike, pushed a small plug cable into the clutch handle that must have come loose, and voila, no starting issues, In’shallah.

My foray to the archaeological sites came spontaneously and with a budding excitement that was the first of its kind this year. Just north of the french colony of Pondicherry, a long convoy of about 35 bikes pulled in front of me, all riders in full armor, high boots, jacketed, patched and even helmeted, an uncommon sight outside of the main cities of India. The lot of them rode Enfields; Bullets, Himalayas, Interceptors, and Cafe racers. So I rode with the pack for nearly 30km, as a sense of pride surged up in me, the attentions grew for this loud metal entourage, passing catamarans and the eyes of men walking the highways wearing nothing but lungis, women and their goatherds, and children. The ride

suddenly took on a certain significance, and I thought how the guys back home in the Old Bastards would grin at the sight. One starts to feel the power of the brotherhood when riding together. One of the riders halted the caravan next to a beach of white clay where the riders came to idle. I could have motored on

past them on my own coordinated destination but instead I followed suit and fell in the line behind the last rider. They rode single file down a grassy embankment onto the strand, as the Captain, who was also the president of the company hailed me over and I line the bike up next to theirs in a gloriously long line of motorcycles on the white clay shores. I was treated like a celebrity for awhile, while the guys asked a multitude of questions and snapped selfies and pictures with me.

Now thinking back I must have appeared intriguing to the club, while I wore most of the branded Enfield gear, with the Tibetan prayer flags strung between my mirrors, a Maharashtran license plate, and my travel saddles stitched with the country flags of past visits. We joked around, took obligatory photos in front of the lake, then jumping in the air, then panoramic pictures of the whole gang. Then we danced a side step with arms joined, a highlight of my trip so far. The captain asked me to join them for lunch, so I did exactly that. We rode on and stopped at a chai stall for tea. Then a short diversion 10km shy of Chennai to a river dam, where we took a plunge, and cooled down.

Some kids were sticking their hands between the crevices of boulders and pulling out some serpentlike creature they called snakefish, then tossing them abruptly onto a slippery slope of the cascading river water, or else racing them through the thin wash of water, where they ultimately plummeted back into the cracks between the rocks. They were indeed fish with small gills and a flat sideways head, but very snakelike in form and swimming technique. I had only heard about these living in the Amazonian rivers, and my knowledge of them was not pleasant. They were said to be quite small enough as to swim directly up the urethra of naked swimmers. That was an experience I never wanted to have, so I stayed out of the water after that.

An hour passed as I chatted with several of the riders and we exchanged sagas. They were known as the Chennai Royal Riders, and they were the biggest local club, with some of the best ethics of any I have known. Some of them had been to Ladakh, and they were planning a ride in July within the lap of the Himalayas. Other joined for shorter trips to India’s historical sights, or overnight weekend stays in Kerala. One of the members soon showed up in a car with a stack of pots four feet high. What I was presented with was totally beyond my expectation, as appointed servers were given to dealing out the food. Spicy yellow rice, a chicken Pakora?, several pickles, and a tender Goat mutton in abundance. We all ate out of plates made from leaves, and I went for seconds. This was my first time eating meat in India as I had chosen to eat only vegan besides fish, the intense flavors of the meat and fat heightened the whole experience, as usual only eating with my hands. One of the members had a birthday, and I was treated to observe the rather amusing tradition of cake smearing on the receivers face. While he was served to mouth a piece of the cake by the hand of a youth. Later we all had coconuts, chopped open with the Tamil sickle, and I drank nearly a pint of its sweet water and its fleshy manna, before taking my leave from the clan. I made way for Mahabalipuram as the lowly sun cut the landscape into light and shadow, and I rode into the picture postcard country, comfortable in the saddle.

On one side of me was a brackish sound, drowning with wetland vegetation and maybe the odd crocodile, on my other other side, the Bay of Bengal, and beyond, only the Adaman islands in the vast ocean before Thailand and the rest of east Asia. I liked to think about all the different stories that were happening over there, as I parked the bike on Maha beach and cast my eyes out to the waves and horizon like a fishing net being thrown from an anchored boat, hoping to catch something out of the unseen vastness. What I hoped for really was to find a guesthouse near the beach where I could crash. I was tired from the day and there was not enough light to see the sites. I inquired at the Blue Moon but the fare was far too high and the room too fancy for me, just a bed and a latrine would do. I settled at the Squirrels nest, and paid 700 rupees for the night. I could even hear the break of the waves, but far enough away from the tourist traffic, perfect.

By night I again strode the wet sand, though hesitant to walk barefoot without seeing my steps. The Indian beaches often hid sharp surprises beneath their tidal dunes; broken bottles, dead puffer fish, sharp corals, and animal dung were some of the more unpleasant jetsam that collected there. I climbed onto a massive rock and lay upon its blackened back, twenty feet about the surf in a trance-like meditation, almost napping off several times. Then less elegantly came down the seaside of the boulder only to discover that a platform had been recessed into the rock with two ledges and a hollow cut out bearing a bas relief carving of a man in a yogic or dancing posture. I sat in lotus in the cave while the wind off the open water brought the smell of salt to my nose. I climbed down, and soaked one foot in a big wave, then hopped onto the shore.

Above the beach was the shore temple, but I could find no direct route to its entrance and ended up cutting through a garden and exiting out the front gate of an estate, then entering the temple grounds lit up by synthetic yellow light, with one soaked shoe, and my strange industrious clothing. Two guards stooped with guns slung over their shoulders looking rather bored, ones face glowing in the light of his cellphone. The granite megalith was the color of tawny brown, and seemed to rise out of the earth as if like a sand castle carefully sculpted by the Gods themselves and hardened in the sun. Cows, birds, lingams, men in avowing poses, turets, and yantra shaped carvings assembled together quite the sight for the eye to see, and it felt like I was looking into the past. The temples of India had not had the affection on me as they do a devout Hindu, but these felt special in some way, even spiritual, and I was definitely okay with that. The builders energy could almost be sensed, and there was a life that lived in the stones that I could not feel in the concrete and wood forms of most other Hindian holy places, no matter how much I tried. I stood fixed on this three dimensional testament to an bygone age, 1300 years ago, with no motive to understand it, or know the reasons why it stood here, just simply satisfied that places like this existed in the world for me to see them.

After a solid sleep and arousing from sleep on this new coastline, I walked the coastline and up a side street in the Fishermans colony to a Franco-Indian restaurant. It was managed by a man name Mooji, and the fare was pretty good. I ordered french crepes, and watched three kids from the terrace above the street, as they danced about in their lungis, and pretended to drive their fathers scooter.

A surprise call from my Swedish friend came in, and I descriptly narrated my passage through the downtown as I walked the busy alleys, past chai stalls, hammock shops, and sculpture studios on my way to the first set of carvings, Having already been treated as a honored guest, the scene at Maha rose to another level altogether. I felt like I was a walking tourist attraction, as hundreds of school kids flanked around me, leaving me no exit. Indians from other states, stonecraft merchants, and guides joined the throng.

The whole affair was rather claustrophobic and invasive, but I tempered the feeling gracefully, and kept an openness that I learned over time while traveling among foreign cultures. A smile and a simple passing gesture could get me out of all this, but perhaps some significant part in me liked the attention. The youth were the most intense, and the questions flew from their lips and laughing voices like the chatter of birds at dawn. “Your name bro? What country from? Oh Canada! best country… traveling you only?… you have girlfriend?…” And they all wanted one selfies. India has left the strong impression on me of the vanity of its people, and yet millions of them live without consideration of their personal appearance at all. The paradoxical reality of the older generation with the younger western influenced youth is starkly amusing. This was a selfie nation, especially in the tourist hot spots. The boys on the beach swagger over the sand, running their fingers through their hair, while their friends film the scene from all angles. While teenage girls strike poses in front of lush flower gardens, with all their friends. In this instance, a small class of school girls rushed up to me excitedly, then stood awkwardly in front of me as if approaching an intimidating animal, with downward smirks on their face, and a coyness in their eyes. You wanted a picture, right? They all lit up, so we went about the ritual. They were very well kept in dress, and I chatted with their teacher for awhile while she expressed funny sentiments like “I heard Canadians are very nice”.

A price board for the temples hung above a booth promising entry to all sites in Maha. ‘Indians 40 rupees, Other 600 rupees’ I guess I was in the ‘other’ category, but there was no way I would pay the crazy prices. I decided to walk around the gate and look for an alternate opening, and eventually found what I sought. I tramped around the sprawling temple grounds to Pancha Rathas, the Shore Temple, Arjunas Penance and Krishna’s Butterball, and felt a taste of the early Aryan spirit dwelling here, their gods immortalized in the landscape where they too lived out their dramas.

I couldn’t really draw any comparisons between this complex and the three Tamil temples I had visited a week before. The latter felt more fantastic and overtly religious; one included a 30 foot Hanuman statue with five heads, another hosted a Kali sculpture tearing into a human woman who had poisoned the ghats, while yet another kept a large Shiva’s lingam in their inner sanctorum, while a large metalworking depicting a Yogi story from the Vedas was fixed to the surrounding walls, dating to before medieval times. The temples at Mahabalipuram felt more organic and lifelike, while the trunks of trees rooted from the stones, and the carvings themselves existed within nature.

I’ve found myself around a few big fires lately, as I discovered the drum circles at the African Pavilion, and some bonfire nights held in the aurovillian communities. As a Leo, fire draws me close to its heat like a creature looking for warmth, so I was happy to set my engagements in the new year with an old flame. With the filling of the moon came a full lunar eclipse, and the auspicious movement of the zodiac through into the Cancer planets. Along with it, all the wolfish passions that arouse me, and the dark melancholies that move into the guesthouse of my mind. Three women and myself  did a ritual at a nearby community, burning away small pieces of paper written with symbolic statements of things that did not serve us any longer, so I decided to relinquish control. Control of all the situations that I will yet encounter on this ride, living in community, and life in India. It was actually a meaningful and powerful evening, filled with beauty, fire, song, and the strong feminine energies. We danced around candles to mystical music as a woman from Switzerland made polaroids, and tossed them into the central altar, as the ritual evolved with its own breath. As we lay finally on a stone slab staring unblinkingly at the moon a calmness pervaded me, as the women moved off to bed, and the night crawled into morning.

Monish and I did a ritual during Pongal and roasted raw cashews over some coals, with a fire puja for Ganesh. We offered bananas, citrus, passionfruit, and burned incense and ghee meanwhile blessing his new forest hut and my motorbike with a special drishti, a rope made from cow hair which now hangs off my front tank guard. It is supposed to protect from thievery, and danger on the roads, and in the home. I received it at the Ganesh temple in Pondicherry where I hoped to meet the elephant Laxmi, but upon on arriving was saddened to see it not there. I asked the keeper, he replied she had a fever. Oh well, these things happen sometimes, it was out of my control, and I was okay with that.

footnotes: (post Pongal)

One final day in Auroville led me back to Kuyilapalayam to witness the events of Pongal. For the Tamil, this was the big kahuna of all festivals, like our christmas and thanksgiving altogether. A sister from Ontario and I met for dark coffee and coconut chai in a vegan restaurant, and traded stories over old country music. The feeling of global culture energy was easily embraced in Auroville. The morning yawned on, and we tramped down the main road towards a mob of people all shouting and parading in excitement. All available standing spots were occupied by other bodies, so we climbed into the arms of a tree for a monkeys eye view of the spectacle. Cattle smudged with multi-colored sand, with balloons and bunches of bananas tied to their horns, some had framed pictures affixed to them, and all were highly decorated. Amidst the yelling and cheering, the long march of the cows walked through the swarm of people as the police tried to keep people away from the beasts. A few of the bullocks sported horns easily two feet higher than their necks. Loud explosions were firing, and the intensity built, as the cows were then corralled into a mass of stress fleshed and muscle. The pathway between the crowd was kept open, and the cowpokes began hurling small bananas into the air, while others opened colorful smoke guns and tossed pigments at their friends. The gang of cows stood panting for what seemed like tense and anxious moments until a gun fired, and the men began running at full tilt with their cattle, horns flying and whipping. For almost two solid minutes the primal procession reached a ferocity and primordial energy, unlike anything I have seen in my travels, and a story that I will be able to share with future kin.

My Indian gps now points elsewhere and I’m packing up for the 400km to Kodaikanal tomorrow. I have met with deep satisfaction in Auroville and with its people, and sense a return in another year. For now, the rest of India ushers me into her arms, new visions, new interactions, and this continuing dharma.