A Primer on South Indian Temples

Finally continuing with my "Coming Attractions," i.e. blog posts about my time in India, I present to you pictures and information about what is probably my favorite part of going to India: visiting temples.

Let's start with the Brihadeeswarar Temple in Thanjavur, often known as the Big Temple. This is my temple in more way than one. Located in the town where I was born, this is the temple where I feel most at home in India. Its main tower, or gopuram, is impressively tall (216 feet, according to Wikipedia [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brihadeeswarar_Temple]), and it is the world's first complete granite temple, also according to Wikipedia. Both facts make it literally an architectural marvel. Commissioned by King Rajaraja Chola in 1002 AD, the temple is celebrating its millenial year in 2010.

Brihadeeswarar is the name of the form of Lord Shiva worshiped at the Big Temple, making the temple a Shiva temple (as opposed to a Vishnu temple, as you'll see later). Small Nandi statues line the outer perimeter of the temple grounds, as seen below:

Legend has it that the shadow of the gopuram never falls on the ground, falling only upon the tower itself--that's how tall it is. There is a tree behind the gopuram upon which a number of highly camouflaged lizards live. Legend also has it that if you can find a lizard on that tree with your naked eye, whatever you prayed for at the temple will be granted. This is the temple where I had my first and only ride on an elephant (it was a baby, and had prickly hairs on its back; did you know that elephants had hairs on their backs? I certainly didn't until I rode that one). This is the temple where my alternate name, Brihadaambal, comes from. [As per the tradition of my mother's family, girls are given unofficial names borrowed from a goddess worshiped in their hometowns to commemorate their birthplace. Brihadaambal is the name of Brihadeeswarar's consort, and her sanctum stands to the right of the main tower in the Big Temple.]

I love the history of this temple, the very smell and sound of it. For its size alone, it is not to be missed on a tour of temples in the South of India.

Here's one last picture, just to show the two massive gates that stand before the actual temple grounds:

With my great-aunt and great-uncle, I visited a number of temples in the villages surrounding Thanjavur while I was staying with my mother's family. Here are some shots I took in Mellatore, the ancestral village of one of my great-grandfathers, though for the life of me I couldn't tell you which one:

Above is a Vishnu temple (indicated by the chakram, naamam, and sangu sculptures on top of the stone awning) located at the end of the street where my great-grandfather lived with his family. Notice how this temple is brightly painted, whereas the Big Temple is the natural color of stone. I used to think that painting temples in bright colors was a recent phenomenon, but I think that most temples, ancient or otherwise, start out brightly painted, but the paint wears off with time, hence the color of most ancient temples--unless they've been recently renovated, as some have. Notice also the vertical white and red stripes that line the bottom of the temple structure. You'll see these on many temples and temple walls in South India. I have no idea why they're painted in this fashion, but they are.

This is a beautiful kolam I saw on the floor inside the Vishnu temple pictured above. A kolam is an intricate dot-and-line design drawn with rice flour on the ground for ritualistic and religious purposes. There are a number of standard kolam designs. They are made out of rice flour so that ants can eat them, or so my mother has once told me. I've been trying to learn how to drawkolams this summer, and it is not easy to draw out lines of rice flour with your bare fingers, let me tell you. The person who drew the one above is very skilled indeed.

I saw the above instrumentalists (the first playing the naadaswaram, a sort of Indian oboe, and the second playing a type of drum, the name of which I don't know) in front of a Ganesh temple in this same village. They were playing because an upanayanam, or sacred thread ceremony (a coming-of-age ceremony for males) was occurring inside the temple. You'll see instrumentalists like this, or at least hear recordings of their music, at south Indian weddings and other religious events.

Next on my temple tour was the Panchanadeeswarar Temple in Thiruvaiyaaru (literally, five holy rivers; my great-uncle told me this name came about because you cross five tributaries of the holy River Kaveri on the road to this town from Thanjavur):

The name of the deity worshiped here, a form of Lord Shiva, means Lord (Eeswar) of five (Pancha) rivers (Nadi). To the left of the frame is the main tower, or gopuram. Within the bounds of the yellow stone wall on the right of the frame is the large temple moat or well. Many temples have their own sources of water built onto the grounds. I'm not sure if the temples use the water in those moats anymore, but the moats still exist. The stone ground at this temple was searing hot even in February. I remember its being unbearable during previous trips here in the summertime. The idols of the God and Goddess at this temple are big and quite beautiful.

One of the things I liked most about this temple were the paintings (would it be correct to call them frescoes?) painted on the inside of the perimeter walls. I saw them while doing the ritual circumambulation (pradakshanam) of the temple. Aren't they beautiful?

On the same day, we also visited the resting place (samaathi) of the composer-saint Sri Thyagaraja, who composed many (many) famous and lovely Carnatic songs in his day. His resting place is located right on the banks of the aforementioned holy River Kaveri. Like in other ancient societies, bodies of water are highly revered in the Indian culture. Rivers are most often personified as female deities, and washing one's feet or body in the waters of any holy river, the Kaveri included, is said to cleanse one of one's sins. I'm not sure if I had ever done this before, though I'm thinking I probably had, but since we were so close to the river, my great-aunt and I walked the few steps down to the water and bathed our feet. It was pretty cool.

You can see the river just past the tree and the kids playing on the sandy ground. Those kids would later ask for water from my bottle and then proceed to pass the bottle around, nearly depleting me of my precious mineral water. They were pretty cute though, so I guess it was okay. You can also see the silhouette of my great-uncle in the right foreground of the photo. He has hairy ears, which I find highly amusing.

My mother was born in Thiruvaiyaaru and my uncle works in a school there now, making it yet another town to which my family is connected.

Leaving the greatest connection for the last, we come to Thirupponthuruthi (it's a mouthful, I know), where my mother grew up, and where I believe her fondest memories were made. This place is very much still a village, with picturesque palm trees everywhere and humble homes lining the narrow streets. There are a few things I don't like about the village, the lack of soap in public restrooms for instance, but it's quite a pleasant place, and has a number of temples as well. The only one I visited was the local Shiva temple. I'm not sure what the name of this particular deity is, unfortunately, but here are a few shots of the temple.
This is a mirrored, gold-plated, and jeweled palanquin used to convey miniature idols of the deities for temple ceremonies that involve parades. I thought it was beautiful.

My favorite part of this temple is the story associated with it. You'll notice a small yellow shelter in front of the main tower in the picture above. This shelter contains an idol of the bull Nandi, who is Shiva's vehicle--this is the same Nandi that lines Shiva temple walls. Normally, the Nandi shelter is located directly in front of the door to the temple, so that the Lord is always in Nandi's line of sight. However, you'll notice that the shelter is shifted slightly to the left in this photo.

Here's the cool story: legend has it that a great Shiva devotee came to the outer gate of this temple and began singing the Lord's praise. I'm not sure why, but he never entered the temple itself, so he was singing the entire time without a glimpse of the idol--and in Hindu culture, being able to see the idol is an important part of devotion. Seeing the deep faith of the devotee, Nandi Himself animated the statue of Nandi and shifted it to the left of the door, providing the Shiva devotee with a clear sight of the Lord. This is supposedly the only temple you'll ever see where Nandi is not located directly in front of Lord Shiva. Cool stuff.

I apologize for the length of this post, but as you can see, I really love the subject matter. I've visited many other temples during my multiple trips to India, but this was the first trip during which I made a conscious effort to remember all the things I saw and learned. I hope this post was educational and interesting and not boring!

Diglossia

Disclaimer: I totally am not a linguist and don't really know anything about diglossia (or the Tamil language) on a scholarly level. I'm just venting a little here.

I wish I could write an exciting entry about all of the cool things I've been doing here in Chennai, but I've honestly not done that much cool stuff. More than anything, I'm sort of wrapping myself into the fabric of my extended family's shared life here. I eat lunch with my grandma, tiffin with Akhil, and dinner with the rest of the family. I'm reading quite ravenously (books by Chetan Bhagat, author of Five Point Someone, upon which 3 Idiots was based, for now; I'll write an entry about his novels once I finish the last one I have by him), surfing the internet, and learning a sloka (prayer) in Tamil from my grandma. Which brings me, actually to the title of this entry: diglossia.

Diglossia is defined as "a situation where a given language community uses two languages or dialects," "the use of two varieties of a language by members of a society for distinct functions or by distinct groups or classes of people," and "the existence of two official languages in a society." And it's one of the characteristics of Tamil, my mother tongue (a phrase I believe only South Asian people seem to use...). What diglossia does to my world is mess it up. While Indian Americans whose mother tongue is Hindi can [with some effort] understand Hindi song lyrics, and Hindi poetry, can read a Hindi newspaper or watch a Hindi newscast and understand what he or she is reading or hearing, I can't do the same with Tamil.

Of course, I'm simplifying this a little: you'd have to be pretty proficient at Hindi to really understand a newscast or newspaper or poetry in the language, and I can definitely pick up words here and there in Tamil film songs if I try hard enough. But really: because I've never studied Tamil, only learned it through speaking to my family, I'm largely unaware of the true forms of most of the words I speak in this language. For example: if I were to say "it's raining" in Tamil, I would say "mazhai peyyarthu." But if I were to write it (or if the same phrase were to appear in a song, say), it would actually be "mazhai peygirathu." [And don't even get me started on transliterating Tamil; something as lovely as "moonlight caught in a bowl" looks a little ridiculous when you have to spell it out as "vennillaa velicham kinnaththil vizhinthu"] In short, the spoken form of my native language is kind of like AIM talk: abbreviations and shortenings galore. This would all be fine and dandy, if only I had been aware of this some time before I was around twenty years old. But I wasn't. So I went through a fair chunk of my life bemoaning the fact that I just didn't get Tamil. I could understand Hindi film song lyrics, for crying out loud, but lyrics in my own language, the first one I ever spoke, went over my head. What's wrong with that picture, right?

Thankfully, finding out about diglossia served to relieve me of my slight inferiority complex/identity crisis. It also, though, makes me feel a little cheated. Wouldn't life be so much easier if I were a native Hindi speaker and didn't have to work so darn hard to decipher my own language? I feel a bit like I'm being cheated of some sort of linguistic birthright. I mean, Tamil has a proud literary tradition: It not only predates Sanskrit, but has outlived it as a spoken language. But I find myself on the outside of much of its beauty, simply because I never formally learned it. I was hoping to learn Tamil in earnest (from my grandmother, a retired schoolteacher; she taught music in school, but she definitely knows Tamil well enough to teach it) during my time here, but I kind of lost interest somehow or other. Maybe I should do what I can in my last seven days. When all you're doing is reading novels and playing on your iPod Touch and bumming around, I'm sure you could squeeze lots of learning into the time that would have been whiled away otherwise.

To that end, I'm going to go chill with my grandma now.