Not the Bull Temple

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A few weekends ago, we went to Bangalore. It was strange. Bangalore is so western; it felt like a different country. We explored, shopped, ate. It was relaxing and fun to be with the other volunteers, and as always enjoyable to see a new place. Saturday night, we decided to go to the Bull Temple, which someone had recommended to another volunteer. The nine of us got into three auto-rickshaws, asked the driver to take us to the Bull Temple, and were on our way. As we weaved through the Bangalore traffic passing shops, and tall buildings, and bars—there aren’t any in Tamil Nadu, only “wine houses” occasionally visited discreetly by men—it was easy to forget that we were on our way to a Hindu temple. When we arrived, the other two rickshaws where nowhere in sight. Before I could wonder how we lost them, we noticed a sign hanging over the entrance to the temple compound: Iskon Temple. Not the Bull Temple. When we told the driver that he had taken us to the wring temple, he was frustrated. We ask him how long it would take to get the Bull Temple, and he said about 30 minutes. The temples were going to close in an hour’s time, and we didn’t think that half an hour would be long enough to enjoy the temple, so we decided to stay and see the temple we had accidently visited.

What a strange experience. I have never experienced anything quite like the Iskon Temple. The foreignness was magnified by tiredness from a long day and by the fact that we hadn’t meant to go there in the first place. It was incredibly crowed. What must have been thousands of people were winding their way through security and a shoe drop-off (visitors are not allowed to take their shoes or their cameras into the temple). Then in a zigzag line that resembled a line at an airport, we made our way into the temple. A young Indian man introduced himself to me, asking if I would like a guild because it would give him a chance to practice his English. I agreed, so he introduced me to his family—parents, sisters, grandmother, and cousins. I followed the other volunteers, and this large Indian family followed me in a line to the first part of the holy space. As we entered, we were lectured by a priest to join in the chant. With every step, as we zigzagged along, we were supposed to chant what I think was Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna, Krishna, Hare. Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama, Rama, Hare. This was not easy, especially for my Russian roommate, to say. There I was, standing in line moving a foot at a time, chanting what might have been the correct words, my roommate giggling because of her accent, the Indian man behind me whispering instructions and questions about the States, in a line that reminded me more of an amusement park than a place of worship, in a temple we hadn’t intended to visit. I felt ridiculous. Then I felt guilty for feeling ridiculous. My light view of the scenario seemed somewhat disrespectful of the people in line praying.

Finally we finished the chanting and the line picked up pace. We filed past minor shrines, too quickly for prayer, but slowly enough to put coins in the collection box. When we entered to main temple, at first it reminded me of a mall or park. People milling about, families sitting together eating. But then I heard the bells ringing from the ceiling. It was a beautiful sound, but distant. We made our way to the shrines. Some people, like us, continued in the line past the shrines, pausing only long enough for a glance. Others left the line to be closer to the deities. Crowds gathered around the brightly lit statues, leaving their offerings and their prayers. Another shrine was not for a deity, but for a religious leader, presumably dead. People had left offerings there, too, and a man lay prostrate at the statues feet. I felt overwhelmed and uncomfortable. Prayer and spirituality are so deeply personally to me. I can’t imagine praying in such a crowed place. And I felt like a voyeur for being there when other people were.

We all decided to leave, thanked out impromptu guild, and made our way to the exit. In order to leave the temple, we had to walk through several gift shops, past countless collection counters, and through a food court. After one of the gift shops, we came to another shrine for the religious leader. I glanced down a hall to the left of the shrine that led to an open room. Sitting in the room was the man whose statue I was facing. The image of the man praying prostate in the noisy and crowed temple seemed even stranger to me knowing that he prayed to a living man, who sat cross-legged on a lush pillow typing on his computer just a few feet below. Finally, we returned to our shoes and cameras, and then to the street to find a rickshaw back to the hotel. I still have not fully processed my trip to this temple, but I know that it was surreal and that I do not have the focus to worship there. Or the tolerance for gift shops.



(The photos are not of the temple, as I wasn't meant to take pictures. There are pictures from the hotel, the botanical gardens, and elsewhere)



Thankful for…

Miscommunications with rickshaw drivers that lead to surreal adventures

Quiet places to think and pray


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