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Published: December 5th 2016
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No matter how many times I visit Meenakshi Temple in Madurai, I’m still awed by the place. So much bustle, and jasmine in women’s hair, swishing saris, praying pilgrims, families and whole tribes of people gathered together, crimson tilaks on foreheads, echoing walls, deities peering from their rock skins, bedecked with flowers and sandalwood paste, and messages on tiny pieces of paper rolled up and dangling from their limbs.
Goddess Kali beckons many, her power draws like a magnet, and I’m entranced by her motion and the intensity of her devotees.
There’s nothing like Meenakshi Temple and its vibrancy, magnitude, devotion of its temple goers. I wandered into an area restricted to foreigners. I didn’t see the sign, but I knew. I slipped inside the massive open doors and sat down on a ledge above women sitting below cross legged. They’d brought bags of tiny clay pots, jars of ghee, flowers, colored powder, and they were creating designs on the temple floor. They rolled tiny paper cylinders and put them in the tiny pots of ghee, and lit them—patterns of light and curves and color. Some women read devotional booklets, looking dreamy but focused, others meditated on their creations,
using purposeful movements to create their offerings. A deity sat far across the hallway. I couldn’t see it from my vantage point behind the stone pillars. But all these women were in a roped off area, making their gifts to this deity.
I sat and watched awhile, slipping into their meditations, catching whiffs of sweet jasmine and the smoky burning ghee.
Exiting the chamber, I noticed the “no foreigners” sign, and was glad I did not see it before I entered.
Outside, in the long wide hallway bordered by pillars, people were sitting cross legged in a line on one side. I heard oboe-like squealing of a musical instrument and percussion clanging, and a group of musicians passed, making a joyous racket. An older man, baby on his hip, approached, asking me my country. We chatted for awhile, he used his broken English. Then he invited me to sit with his family—his wife and two older daughters, Lalitha and Kavitha, ages 13 and 14. Their mother Aishwarya, 35, shyly smiled, while the two daughters eagerly chatted in Tamil. Their father Rajasekar invited me to eat with them, for it was a special day where the temple would
Offerings
Colored powder, clay pot ghee candles, flowers feed a certain number of people there for free. A man handed each sitting person a ticket, after which everyone made a mad dash to the eating hall. I ran after the two girls and we got in the women’s line and waited, while women in line exchanged their life histories with me. All smiles, everyone, they were amazed that the foreigner would eat with them. The two girls kept laughing; I called them my teachers because they wrote down Tamil words for me and seemed to intuit what I needed to learn to say in Tamil. We took a lot of selfies with my camera.
Once inside, we made another mad dash to the long metal tables. My red plastic chair was split in the seat—its legs splayed out and I almost collapsed to the floor. I exchanged it with Kavitha’s chair, since she was lighter. We sprinkled water on our banana leaf plates, and waited for the food guys, who showed up with shiny metal buckets, and started scooping and slopping rice and dhal and vegetables, appalum and unidentifiable mixtures. We dug in. Those girls were still laughing and saying how happy they were that I was
there. I had told them I would eat just a little, but the rice kept coming and I kept eating and it was good.
Afterwards we parted, the family in a line, gazing at me and waving goodbye. The family of three daughters and a father 23 years older than their mother headed to the bus to ride back to their village Kumbu, 60 km and two hours away. My heart cracked, just a little, and I turned and walked away, ready to continue my journey in India.
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Dianne Siegfried
non-member comment
Colorful and sweet
Hi Terry, What a wonderful way to start your trip. The family looks so sweet. So nice of them to be so open and kind to invite you to share food with them. I am glad you didn't see the sign. What an experience. Sacred.