"Christmas light" Nataraja and Sivakamasundari just outside the temple at Cidambaram.
About six weeks ago, I was still in India. If you read the post before this,
you’ll know that it was quasi-miraculous that I was even there in the first
place. It was an adventure and a
lesson in stamina of all sorts.
Over something like seventeen temple experiences in the two weeks, it
became more natural to me to be wrapped in the six yards of fabric that a sari
requires. I got used to my bare
feet on the temple floors, picking up whatever was on the ground there. And it felt right for my forehead to
always be smeared with a dot of kumkum, a red powder, and a line (or three) of
vibhuti, the white sacred ash.
We were asked to do all of these outward shows, because
Douglas likes to remind us that, “Nobody cares what you believe. They care what you do.” So, we came correct. In addition to the saris, braided hair
was required for the temple (and should always be ‘neat’ in any case), we wore
fancy bindis, lined our eyes, and made sure we always had on our earrings,
necklaces, and bangles. Let’s just
say it was a time commitment made of love. And we were rewarded for our efforts: people took our
pictures, they thanked us, and they even gave us little sparkly OK signs with
their hands and said “Super!”
That’s not to say it didn’t get old. Sometimes I wanted to just leave my
hair down and put on no jewelry and throw on a nightie. Ever-vigilant for our modesty, though,
the Muslim men who sold me these long, printed cotton gowns were sure to shout
“NIGHTIE!” every time I looked at one, just to make sure I knew that it was not
daywear.
Photo of village girl in a nightie by Laura Patterson.
By the end of each long, sweaty day I would inevitably
forget about my extra make-up and wipe my brow, smearing together a kind of
paste made of my sweat and skin, of kumkum and vibhuti. Then I would get out one of my hundreds
of baby wipes and clean it all off of my face.
The vibhuti that we got most likely was not made from the
ritual fires in the temples where we were. Apparently, Tiruchendur is one of the major suppliers of
vibhuti for Tamil Nadu, the region where we were pilgrims. It is probably cow dung, with maybe
some other ingredients thrown in.
In any case, the ritual fires are offered valuable fuel. I kept thinking of how much our
offerings would cost if I had to buy them from the Whole Foods at Columbus
Circle but I knew that what we were doing in ‘wasting’ all those groceries
would turn into meals for poorer pilgrims and generally mean a lot to the
temple itself.
Vibhuti is what remains when everything else is burned
up. It is white, the color of the sexual
fluid, and so represents both where we all end up and where we all came
from. Siva’s left hand holds the
fire of dissolution, one of the five acts attributed to him. We take the ash from that fire and wear
it, applying it to ourselves.
Follow the ring of fire over to his right hand, and you’ll see the
two-headed drum of creation that beats and pulses life into existence.
On our penultimate night in India, I watched as Siva’s wife,
Sivakamasundari (‘the beautiful desire of Siva’), was ritually bathed. Mythically, her first child Ganesha was
‘conceived’ in her bath. I don’t
know how many times I had heard the story of her longing for a child while
sloughing off her skin, mixing it with water (symbolizing tears), milk (the
universe), sandalwood (beauty), etc.
As I waited that night for the curtain to re-open after she had been
dressed in her new sari, I understood better. All that stuff that I was smearing on my forehead was not
just for an outward show, it was meant to mix with me. The temple mixes with me as I do some
sloughing. The temple lives on
through my stories and experience.
And, falling in love with my life, I become her, empowered to turn what
I want into what I have.
Photo of me leaving the temple on December 30, 2012, by the light of the almost-full moon.
