My first visit to Northern Karnataka proved immensly satisfying despite me having no working knowledge of Kannada or Hindi. And as to the Tulu or Konkani spoken in the region, I wouldn’t be able to make it out from Portugese or Spanish being particularly thick in the skull when it comes to languages.
The lack of literacy proved particularly daunting when I visited the Siddharudha Swami Madha and Nuggikeri temple. Because India has changed a lot in the last four years. As a child I remember regularly visiting the Mylapore Kapaleeshwarar Temple with friends, stuffing our faces with prasadam given by indulgent priests and letting our feet splash in the Mylapore temple tank as carp fish nibbled our feet, when we didn’t have money to buy them rice puffs. And sometimes the priests would ask about school, homework; and not once did my identity ever matter then. So it came as a somewhat slap in the face, when I took my friends to the temple recently and came across a board “Only Hindus permitted inside the sanctum sanctorum.” I, of course, had to respect religious sentiments and I stayed away.
But I couldn’t ignore the feeling of hurt – for years I had come to the temple, for years I’d watched the sun set against its silhouette as I took the bus back home, for years I’d munched on rice puffs outside the temple premises…. For my journalism college project, I took photographs of my favorite heritage buildings in the city like the St George’s Cathedral, Egmore Museum, St Mark’s, PWD headquarters, Madras University, Parthasarathy Temple and of course my beloved Kapaleeshwarer Temple. And while taking the pictures, I attracted interest and I found myself showing two priests all the photos on camera. They were interested and asked for copies. This was before the era of digital photography. So when I got the film developed at Moorthy’s at the exorbitant cost of Rs 6 a photo, I also set aside six for my new friends. And this was only 15 years ago. But today, the temple committee of the Kapaleeshwarar temple have obviously decided differently about things.
So, as I stood outside the Siddharudha Swami Madha I was wary. All the boards were in Kannada and I couldn’t ask anyone what was the done thing. Then I took a whimsical Dutch courage and in a spirit of fun, quoted RSS leader Mohan Bhagat to myself, “All people living in India are Hindus; even Muslims and Christians.” But to be on the safe side, I decided to stay away from the deity’s sanctum and started touring the outer precincts.
Now, there are multiple temples in the complex and since I saw a long queue at one end, I thought maybe that would lead to me to the most powerful deity and dutifully joined the line. The line was long, but patient and I was finally rewarded entry – only to find no God and instead a long row of people eating. It was the “Anadanam Hall.” I got out profusely apologising to the confused people in line and temple authorities who were welcoming and tried to get me to eat. I explained in broken Kannada that I wanted to know about the temple, and asked for directions to the main deity. They gave me and I set off, only to find myself at the temple book store.
I then decided I’d need google as my assistant before I do anything else absurd. And read up before entering the main hall. And that’s when I realised all my apprehensions were baseless. The Sadguru Siddharudha Swami-gal while he lived embraced people from all walks of life. He condemned caste practices and believed enlightenment/moksha was for all castes. Curious about the “rudha” in his name, I learnt that he believed himself to be a reincarnation of Shiva (Rudhrar). I sat for awhile in the hall, where the faithful recited prayers – the place seemed an oasis of peace and goodwill. While I am faithless, I can appreciate the faith of those who are deeply spiritual; who believe that all things happen for good for them that trust the Lord or who believe even evil happens as per a divine karmic plan.
My driver — the brave Hindi-speaking soul who tried to explain places of interest despite my blank uncomprehending stare — next took me to Indira Gandhi glasshouse. While the park was lovely enough, it seemed another extension of the Guindy Children’s Park, which has unofficially been dubbed “lovers’ park.” The thing about India is privacy is a luxury few can afford, so the braver of our romantic souls prefer to do their cuddling in public parks, while the rest of the populace tries to find non-lover-haunted places in the same parks.
Our next stop was Nuggikeri temple in Hubli. This temple is along the banks of Unkal lake and was lovely and serene in its lush, emerald green settings. However, boating on the lake had been stopped because of an overgrowth of invasive hyacinths. And the minute I saw the weed, I was like the British must have got here too. And my hunch was true. Apparently in 1880, the British set up a railway workshop and line from here to Bangalore. Where again, the notorious hyacinths — thanks to the British’s brilliant idea of introducing them in the Ulsoor lake — by 1930s had completely taken over the lake; choked and killed all native plants like lilies, lotuses, water chestnuts. At regular intervals, the Army does try to clean up the Ulsoor lake, but to no avail. The green devils come back!
But as we toured the city, I was feeling unsettled by the number of Chatrapati Shivaji statues I was seeing. They dot the city’s landscape and can be seen at every nook and corner. As a child I had loved hearing my mother read to me the tales of Shivaji. But with lately him becoming a symbol of Maratha aggression and anti-Tipu Sultan history revisionist sentiments – I could no longer feel the same way about him. And it left me wondering — how many more things will change – now that India gets more divisive? Ganesh Chathurthi has already become a festival of unease and closed doors for me in Bangalore. As a child in Madras, Christmas was a time to exchange pallaharams like rose cookies, Christmas cake, adhirasam, rava ladu, boondi laddu, besan laddu, kala kala, diamond cuts, burfi, thenga mittai, sweet puffs, with our neighbours. And for Diwali, Ramzan, Id we’d get delicacies in return — murukku, pal payasam, biriyani, chicken kebab. Every household used to celebrate Diwali back then and my parents would also buy fire crackers, sangu sakaram, mathapu, rockets for us, so we could take our pile and burst along with the other kids on our block. We’d compete as to who could best terrorise passing motorists. And Ganesh Chathurthi was another such a lovely festival we would eagerly take part in. Till I was in Bombay in 1992, and Ganesh Chathurthi was the mask behind which thugs defaced mosques and broke Church glass windows to tear apart Bibles. And the fear persisted, amplified by what I saw in Bangalore in 2013, when so called “revellers” on Ganesh Chathurthi wrote hate graffiti on the walls of the mosque adjoining my apartment.
To end on a lighter note….I also got to spot the famed Dharwad buffaloes and Murrah buffaloes — who are so different from their cousins in Tamil Nadu. While the Murrah buffaloes are massive in build, height and horn girth; the Dharwad buffaloes are a daintier lot — with horns that curve in, out, upward, in any direction. It was pouring so I was disappointed I couldn’t get nice photos of them; as some of my friends are cattle affindoes and breed Puliyakulam, Kangeyam, Umbalacheri, Tiruchengodu, Bargur, etc (some of them are the famed jallikattu breeds). I had to contend myself with buying boxes of super-yum Dharwad peda made from said buffalo milk and a bagful of sunset-orange Hubli pineapples!
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