On a Shoestring to Coorg

by Dervla Murphy

  Rachel returned at four o’clock, a vision of glory in a Madrassi little girl’s costume of ankle-length full skirt and low-cut bodice with short puff sleeves; most attractive, if not very practical for our sort of travelling. She herself had chosen the flowered cotton materials in Ittamozhi bazaar, and then the village tailor’s 11-year-old apprentice had most expertly made it up. The total cost of the outfit was Rs.4.

  To test my foot, I accompanied Ernest and Rachel to Tisaiyanvilai’s bazaar, to buy new sandals, and nowhere else has our advent caused such a sensation. Within moments of our stopping at a shoe-stall I was astonished to see the whole main street become a seething mass of shouting men and boys, pushing and shoving to get closer to us. So fascinated was the populace that the Tirunelveli bus simply had to stop, its strident blaring having been ignored. This over-excited throng was of course entirely good-humoured, but the atmosphere it generated had a perceptibly primitive quality and I found myself wondering how it would behave should something occur to change its mood. I suppose our entertainment-value may be seen partly as a measure of the total monotony of village life and partly as an indication of how few foreigners visit South India. One thinks of India as being an important World Tours attraction but its tourist centres are mere dots on the vastness of the subcontinent and anyway are mainly in the north.

  Having failed to find any sandals to fit we went to have tea with Christian friends of Ernest who own the local rice-mill. There are several children in this family so Rachel at once disappeared and as we adults nibbled delicious home-made tidbits, while talking about inflation in relation to wedding ceremonies, it again struck me that the mleccha feels not one degree closer to the Indian Christian than to the Hindu. Almost, indeed, one feels further away, since certain aspects of Hindu-impregnated Christianity seem even less comprehensible than Hinduism itself to outsiders with a Christian background.

  Within the past twenty-four hours I have developed a real affection and respect for our host family, despite the formidable and, I fear, insurmountable barriers that divide us. I now feel at home in this household to an extent I would not have believed possible last evening and I long to be able to define the dividing barriers, though I cannot hope to overcome them. They have nothing to do with provincialism, as we understand the term, since the absence of such narrowness is one of the chief distinguishing marks of educated Hindus, however physically circumscribed their lives may be. Perhaps I am especially sensitive to barriers in this family because it is – if one can to any extent compare the two civilisations – almost exactly on my own social, intellectual and material level. Therefore where we do diverge, on what can only be called the spiritual level, our divergence is very evident. It leaves us mutually invisible on opposite sides of that wide chasm which for many foreigners, including myself, is amongst India’s main attractions. One suspects that if one could only see to the other side – it would be nonsense to think in terms of getting there – one might be a lot better off for the experience.

  No one could describe the witty and forceful women of this family as docile or down-trodden, yet they adhere strictly to the immemorial Hindu formalities governing the social behaviour of their sex. While Rachel and I eat with the two men, in the dim, cool dining-room beside the kitchen, the two wives stand by the connecting door, poised to replenish our stainless steel platters whenever necessary, joining animatedly in our conversation and affectionately exchanging jokes with their husbands. By now I should be quite accustomed to this business of being treated as an ‘honorary male’ – it happens in many non-European countries – yet I still find it slightly disconcerting in households where one is surrounded by mod. cons. and educated conversation. In a muddled sort of way I feel guilty and ill-mannered about being waited on by the old lady – who is very much a grande dame – and the repression of my urge to leap ups to relieve her of some heavy dish becomes quite a strain. Neither she nor her daughter-in-law ever at any time sits in the presence of their menfolk – this evening they stood conversing happily for an hour and a half – and they eat (in the kitchen) only when the men have finished. The young doctor works very long hours among the poor, for minimal or no fees, and, being deeply religious, will not dine until he has locked up the dispensary, bathed to purify himself after the inevitable polluting contacts of his professional life and gone to the near-by temple to pray. Therefore his wife and mother must often wait until nine or ten o’clock for their evening meal; but presumably such restrictions do not matter to most Indian women, who surely could not appear so serene and relaxed if full of hidden resentment. Incidentally, none of the several servants employed about the place ever appears in the kitchen or dining-room, so I conclude they are of too low a caste to be allowed near the family’s food.

  In the morning we are going to the little coastal town of Tiruchendur, some thirty-five miles away, to see a famous sea-shore temple dedicated to Subrahmanya, the god of war. We plan to stay overnight in the pilgrims’ hostel run by the temple trustees and to return here next day. A leaflet issued by the Board of Trustees reports that the temple also runs ‘a free Siddha dispensary for the benefit of the worshipping public’ and ‘an Orphanage with 67 Orphans’. It owns 444 acres of wet land, 855 acres of dry land and approximately Rs.25,000,000 worth of gold, silver and jewels.

  10

  On the Coast of Coromandel

  20 December. Tiruchendur.

  Not being blessed with either a good ear or a good memory, I am sorely tried by many South Indian names. But one must look on the bright side. Things could be worse. For instance, until the sixteenth-century Tiruchendur was known as Tirubhuvanamadhevi Chandurvedhimangalam.

  The landscape en route from Tisaiyanvilai was flat and harsh; gaunt palmyras stood erect in their thousands everywhere and the dusty grey plain was varied only by acres of thorny scrub, hedges of prickly cactus and occasional fields of plantains at all stages of development. (I am told the banana plant is not a tree but a vegetable which in six months grows from scratch to its full height of eighteen or twenty feet.)

  We first saw Tiruchendur’s nine-storey temple from many miles away, over the plain, and by ten-thirty we had booked into the hostel (Rs.2 for a single room) and been told that non-Hindus are permitted to enter the temple only between 3.0 and 8.0 p.m. ‘Fair enough’, I thought; I have always deprecated hoards of camera-clicking tourists swarming through churches during services. Then, after paying our respects to the two sacred temple elephants – an adult and an adolescent – who are elaborately stabled in the precincts, we went to swim off the long, smooth, curving beach.

  At one-thirty we made our way to the centre of the town through a mile-long arcaded bazaar that begins in the temple courtyard and is lined with ancient statues of the gods, their stone features blunted by the affectionate caresses of generations of devotees. Tea-shops are interspersed with stalls displaying a scatter of cheap trinkets or a few bunches of plantains and a small tray of fly-blown tidbits, and religious oleographs, framed and unframed, lie on the ground beside shop-soiled bales of cotton ‘going cheap’. According to the temple trustees Tiruchendur means ‘a sacred and prosperous town of Victory’ but nowadays one gets no impression of material prosperity. However, the atmosphere is friendly and the citizens seem in no way predatory, possibly because 99 per cent of Tiruchendur’s visitors are very poor.

  It was difficult to get tea as milk is scarce and Indians refuse to credit the possibility of milkless tea. Eventually we found a cavernous eating-house beneath the arcade where a milk delivery was expected within moments, so we sat down to wait. (This lust for tea was caused by my having forgotten to bring our water-pills from Tisaiyanvilai.) The eating-house seemed without any stock of food and, as he waited for something to occupy him, the slim, barefooted serving-boy went to stand before a wall-niche containing a statue of Ganesh and prayed fervently.

  ‘Indians pray a lot,’ observed Rachel. ‘Why do they pray more than we do?’ To which I replied, rather ambiguously, ‘They are
at a different stage of development.’

  Happily a water-carrier rescued me by stopping his cart beside us at this moment, to deliver the day’s supply from the well, and Rachel immediately wanted to know why there was gold paint on the horns of the enormous pure white humped bullock. I explained (if it can be called an explanation) that pure white bullocks are very sacred and therefore merit gold paint, rather than the red or blue or yellow seen on the horns of lesser cattle. Then the milkman arrived, carrying on his head a little brass churn containing a gallon of no doubt heavily watered milk. As this was being boiled in a large copper cauldron over a wood fire we watched the bullock being unharnessed, tied to a pillar of the arcade, stroked reverently on the neck and given a bundle of paddy-straw. Next the water-carrier – a seemingly frail old man – emptied the gigantic wooden barrel on his cart by repeatedly filling a brass jar and carrying it on his head to a row of rusty tar barrels in a corner of the eating-house. And so life goes on, much as it did 2,000 or 3,000 years ago.

  At present a most regrettable concrete extension is being added to Tiruchendur’s temple but, though materials have changed for the worse since the temple was first built, methods of construction have remained virtually unchanged. On our way back to the beach we saw nine small sweating men, 150 feet above our heads, hauling up a huge concrete roof slab which had been roped by four men on the ground. Three giant bamboo poles leaning against the wall provided support for the slab on its way up and, as a product of the Crane Culture, Rachel was fascinated by this display of muscular Hinduism. Indian physiques are often misleading, especially in the South, where apparent fragility can conceal the strength of an ox. Yet the effects of a vegetarian diet show in the lack of stamina, which is said to be one reason why so few South Indian hockey players are picked for the national team, despite their renowned speed and skill. (Another reason, according to our hockey-playing friend in Tirunelveli, is the deep-rooted anti-South prejudice of North Indians.)

  The temple trustees’ leaflet, mentioned above, is a good example of the Hindus’ attitude – or perhaps one should say ‘non-attitude’ – to history. It is intended to be factual and informative and in Europe a comparable bit of bumph would concentrate on giving precise dates. But in India we are cheerfully told, ‘The date of the temple is hidden in the Puranic past. The nucleus of the structure however has been here for more than 2,000 years as the Tamil classics refer to.’ And again, ‘The Gopura is said to have been constructed about 100 years ago by Desikamurthi Swami, an Odukkath-Thambiran of the then Maha-Sannithanam of Tiruvavadutharai mutt.’ And also, ‘Kavirayar belonged to the Mukkhani comunity [sic] and lived perhaps in the eighteenth century.’

  A people’s concept of time lies at the root of their whole philosophy and much incomprehension of India is probably related to the antithetical notions of time held by Hindus and Westerners. We see time as a conveyor-belt, eternally carrying the present moment out of sight for ever. But the Indian sees it as a wheel, eternally revolving, and can believe he will at some stage, in some reincarnation, return to the present moment. For him time is divided into ages (yugas) which perpetually recur in cycles. So nothing is new and nothing is old and even Hindus of high intelligence, with trained minds, find it possible to believe that 2,000 years ago their ancestors invented aeroplanes which in due course – as that yuga declined – ceased to be used.

  Since Herodotus, creative minds in the west have been taking an interest in history. But naturally no such interest arose in India, where the most respected human being is the jivanmukta – the man who, having freed himself from Time, can perceive the nature of ultimate Reality. Hinduism positively encourages a man to forget his historical situation rather than to look to it, as we do, for guidance in the present, a deeper understanding of human society and some increase in self-knowledge. And of course this attitude is closely linked with what outsiders see as Indian passivity and fatalism. If ages recur, instead of passing, one obviously only has to wait long enough and the Golden Age will come again; an improvement in social conditions has nothing to do with the efforts of individuals or generations to better the age in which they happen to find themselves.

  On the beach this morning I talked to a very articulate young man – a Tamil farmer’s son now studying medicine at Madras University – who told me his father has for some years been using the new rice seed, of Green Revolution fame, but has just decided to give it up because it needs too much expensive fertiliser. This snag had been interpreted by both father and son as a sign that, despite the starving millions, India’s rice crop should not be increased at present. To try to swim against the cosmic current of this yuga – to try to outwit Destiny – was avidya (ignorance), which might be described as the only form of sin recognised by Hindu ethics. This conversation did nothing to change my long-held opinion that F.A.O. are well and truly up against it in India – especially South India.

  On our way up to the temple at three-thirty we were joined by a brisk, elderly little man, covered in puja after-effects of ash and coloured powder, who insisted on talking to us volubly in Tamil – which did no one any good that I could see. Tamil is the oldest surviving Dravidian language and has, I am told, a wonderful literature. It is, however, prodigiously difficult. Usually even I can master ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’, or words to that effect, but by Tamil I am totally defeated.

  At the temple entrance a notice said ‘Admission Rs.1 only’ and here our companion held out his hand and indicated that he would get our ticket. At the time I believed he was being disinterestedly helpful and we followed him to the gateway to the Inner Sanctum, where two rough-spoken temple guards in khaki uniforms abusively objected to my entering. They thought I was a man (I was wearing grey slacks and a shapeless grey bush-shirt), and men are allowed in only if stripped to the waist. Our guide quickly signed that they must be given a rupee each, at which point I would have begun to argue had not Rachel’s tight grip on my hand told me she was terrified of the guards’ aggressiveness. So to spare her I paid up.

  Then began a whirlwind tour around many brilliantly lamp-lit shrines through scores of worshippers. It is no exaggeration to say that I have never in my life felt so embarrassed; and I have rarely felt so angry. I had wanted simply to pay my rupee and quietly go wherever mlecchas are allowed, leisurely observing all I could. Instead, I was rushed around the entire temple, to the understandable fury of orthodox worshippers, and given no time to observe anything. And when we emerged – both striped on our faces and arms with all sorts of ash and powder – I was less Rs.12 and in that sort of choking bad temper caused by the realisation that one has been taken for a ride.

  This was the best-organised exercise in co-operative conmanship I have ever encountered. As our guide took us to various forbidden places the guards or priests (or both) simulated anger and outrage, and the guide then quickly indicated that only by donating another rupee could I appease their alarming (to Rachel) wrath and make amends for having intruded. My puzzled readers may wonder why I did not simply turn around and walk out, but this temple is so vast and complex that we were soon lost and I had no wish to start a riot by inadvertently stumbling into some Holy of Holies. (Remember how the Mutiny was sparked off!) What most upset me was that so many genuinely devout people were distressed by our involuntary gate-crashing and must have been scandalised to see mlecchas going through the sacred rituals as – apparently – a tourist stunt. And the intrinsic beauty of those rituals heightened my frustration. If only we had been able to move around slowly, and as unobtrusively as possible, this could have been a wonderful experience.

  Outside the temple our guide confidently demanded another Rs.10, as his personal fee. When given a few unprintable home truths instead he became speechless with rage and stood wordlessly opening and shutting his mouth, making funny wheezy noises like a toy steam engine. Then he followed us, at a little distance, up the beach; so I asked Rachel to sit guard over my clothes and money while I swam far beyond the surf to work off my ill-te
mper.

  As I swam I thought how right St Francis Xavier had been when he wrote to his colleagues in Rome, after an encounter with the Brahman priests of this very same Tiruchendur temple. ‘There is a class of men out here called Bragmanes. They are the mainstay of heathenism, and have charge of the temples devoted to the idols … They do not know what it is to tell the truth but for ever plot how to lie subtly and deceive their poor ignorant followers … They have little learning, but abundance of iniquity and malice.’

  Not that St Francis could afford to be too critical; he himself was hopelessly ignorant on the subject of Hinduism and chose always to remain so. He seems never even to have heard of such basic concepts as karma, yoga, bhakti and maya and his years on the subcontinent were devoted to loving the poor and lambasting idolatry. Yet even in his own century several distinguished Roman Catholic theologians had agreed with John Capreolus that idolatry need not be as silly as it looks because ‘God of His absolute power could assume the nature of a stone or other inanimate object, nor would it be more incongruous to say that God is a stone than to say that He is a man, because He is infinitely above both natures.’ (The Rev. Capreolus might have added, ‘It would be no more incongruous to say that God is a stone than to say that He is a piece of bread.’)

  St Francis seems to have been in some ways singularly gullible for an ex-Professor of the Sorbonne. This is his own description of an encounter he had in 1544 with ‘more than two hundred bragmanes’ in the pillared courtyard (unchanged to this day) of Tiruchendur’s temple. ‘I delivered an exhortation on the subject of Heaven and Hell, and told them who go to the one place and who to the other. After the sermon, the bragmanes all rose and embraced me warmly, saying that the God of the Christians was indeed the true God … God gave me arguments suitable to their capacity to prove clearly the immortality of the soul … One must avoid scholastic subtleties in reasoning with such simple folk … Still another of their questions to me was whether God was black or white … As all the people of this land are black and like the colour, they maintain that God too is black. Most of the idols are black. They anoint them constantly with oil and they stink abominably. They are also appallingly ugly. The bragmanes seemed satisfied with my answers to all their questions …’ Poor St Francis! Clearly these ‘simple folk’ had a marvellous time pulling his leg, and no doubt they went to their homes chuckling over the primitive reasoning of this simple wandering preacher … Not one of them, I need hardly say, became a Christian.