Temples

Everyone goes to temple. They are everywhere: small, roadside temples, little more than free-standing huts in the dirt encasing head-sized deities on top of platforms; house-sized temples every couple of blocks in cities, towns, and villages, their extravagant faces decorated with rainbow painted deities winding along the top, shrouding the gods within; and extravagant temples with multiple, intricately-carved, painted towers, hundreds of years old, with associated legends of mystical events, taking up acres of city blocks, their interiors dark and cool with columns where naked deities cavort, nipples shining, foreheads brushed with red and yellow saffron, curved lips seeming pleased with the bustle around them.

I see people everywhere in the streets, foreheads marked by saffron, red like fire, a hot, sunny yellow, and pure white, in some combination. From this sign, I know that they've been to temple, entered the inner sanctum, been marked by the priest's forefinger.

Pilgrims travel across India to reach the most sacred of temples. We see them inside the major temples, wandering, mostly old men, wrapped in loincloths, their chests sunken, a brush of white hair recalling their youthful virility, legs now gnarled with age. They carry nothing, clasping their hands towards their hearts, feet shuffling instinctively, bare and dusky, over the stone pathways. Their eyes are down, or, more rarely up above tilted chins, glazed; they are not seeing, or, at least not what I see. Hindus talk about bhakti, a kind of communion with the deity, a kind of love, given and returned from god. Traditionally, and in legends, an old person may give up everything and wander from temple to temple, seeking bhakti, this love, until they die.

Other people, families, come to temple to hang out, eat watermelon on the steps in front of the lotus pool, allow their toddlers the run of the long hallways. School girls surround the pool, holding their textbooks to their chests, chatting and giggling. College boys jostle nearby (purposefully, I think), draping arms around each other. Maybe, the young people, as they eye each other, talk about upcoming marriages, the amount of gifts received, or imagine marrying each other. Old men in togas sit and (I believe) debate in loud voices with lots of gesticulation, their lives given over at this point to the contemplation of the finer points of spirtual practice. The marks on their foreheads are wider than anyone else, maybe because their heads have sunk with age, or maybe because the priests are especially generous with the powder to them. Beggars, the elderly and young women holding children on their hips, pad through the halls, their palms constantly turning upwards; it's a profitable place for begging. People are happy. Me too.

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