It is one of the oldest cities in southern India - probably the oldest. It encapsulates so much - the very essence of Tamilness, home of the Sangams that birthed some of the world’s most extraordinary poetry, the holy site of so many wonderful and crazy tales and myths, the command centre of fierce and fearless kings, a place whose history stretches back to antiquity when Megasthenes and Kautilya made their impact on this earth and further back still, slipping seamlessly through to a time of kings and heroes who may or may not have actually lived, and then even further back past the invisible barrier between the divine and mortal worlds to a time when god and man rubbed shoulders and sowed the seeds that gave birth to this timeless city.
This is Madurai, a city in southern Tamil Nadu, the heartland of the once-great Pandya dynasty, a sprawling jumble along the banks of the Vaigai River. A city with layers of stories and histories where time takes on its own dimension and the past lives in the present. It starts from the time an evil demon, who was actually a Brahmin, created so much havoc that the god Indra was despatched to kill him, which he did. Unfortunately, however, the act of killing a Brahmin - his being an evil monster notwithstanding - meant that Indra had committed the most heinous of sins, and only purification in the human realm would pardon him and wipe the slate clean. So Indra descended to earth and wandered about in search of purification and absolution. One day, he passed a forest of kadamba trees with an aura of sanctity and purity so strong that he knew right away that he had found his place. Nestled in that forest, he found a pond of golden lilies, and in the pond, a Siva linga of breathtaking beauty. He bathed in the pond and offered the golden lilies to the linga and magically, his sin vanished, like mist in sunlight. Indra vowed to return every year to the same spot in the month of Chitra, on the night when the moon shone in its full glory.
Years - or centuries, or aeons later, a Pandya king, Kulasekhara, met a merchant one day, who told him about the kadamba forest with its beautiful golden lily pond and Siva linga. And that night, Siva himself appeared in his dreams, and commanded him to clear the forest and build a city there, from where he would rule from then on. Kulasekhara Pandya did as he was told, and Siva blessed the city, letting flow a cascade of sweet nectar from his locks, which is how Madurai got its name: madura, in Sanskrit, means sweetness. This is a city soaked in lore. This stone here, that hill, the river, anything around you has a tale, so that everything about the city is part of a saga that defies time and reason but that really does not matter because the only thing that does is faith.
I made a quick day trip to Madurai late last year. I took the first flight out of Madras to make the most of my day there. I had but the haziest notion of what I wanted to see. Top on my list was Madurai’s most iconic place, the home of its very own goddess, the Meenakshi Amman Temple, that stands, people say, on that very spot where Indra achieved his purification, where the forest of kadamba trees with its pond of golden lilies and beautiful Siva linga once stood. Within the temple complex is the Golden Lotus Pond, in which devotees bathe, and further in, devotees say, the very same Siva linga that Indra worshipped. There is also a remnant of the very kadamba tree under which the linga stood.
I made my way from the airport straight to the temple. It was still early, and the city was just stirring to life. I wanted it this way, to enjoy the temple before the devotee rush hour. It is located in the heart of the city, bang in what appears to be the nagakadai bazaar, the jewellery district of Madurai.
I walked around a bit before making my way to the temple. My pole star was the gopuram; I caught a glimpse through the trees and in a few minutes there I was, right in front of the magnificent, towering gopuram at the south entrance. What a gopuram it is! Soaring over 50 metres in height (it is the tallest of the temple’s 14 gopurams), it is a universe unto itself, Dante’s Inferno, Purgatory, and Paradise all jostling together here in their mad glory, a creation of someone with a truly febrile imagination. I could have stood there and stared for hours and still not figured out the stories and lives contained in that gopuram. But I had to move on. It was getting warmer, and the crowds were already starting to appear.
I found out that I was not allowed to take anything into the temple. Not my bag, and certainly not my phone, and of course, not my footwear. I had to deposit everything in a place near the entrance that did not inspire much confidence. A small grubby token was what I received for my precious bag and phone. To enter the temple, it’s just you, your aching feet, and whatever force brought you there.
Once inside, I had no particular goal, no planned out path to follow. I would just meander through and soak it all in. It was another world unto itself inside, a busy ecosystem that operated to an ancient rhythm that pulsated with the forces of faith and ritual. I saw a large tank of water as soon as I entered. Some people sat on the steps leading into the water, others submerged themselves in it and emerged dripping and radiant. This, the faithful will tell you, was the very pond that Indra himself had worshipped at long before Madurai became Madurai. There were no golden lilies or lotuses but that was beside the point.
A little further on was the shrine to the goddess this temple was named for, the beautiful Meenakshi Amman. And of course, she has a story all her own where, as in all these stories, history and fantasy are not separate entities but parts of an all-encompassing whole. Everywhere here I am reminded that my rational way of thinking, my love of facts and proof, are laughable, really, that there is a much larger, richer world out there that I must embrace if I am to truly understand this place.
And what is Meenakshi’s story?
Once upon a very long time ago there reigned a Pandya king, Malayadhwaja Pandya. He was a good king, and he and his wife, devoutly religious, but to their great sorrow, they had no child, no heir. They performed every puja, every sacrifice they could think of, but yet they remained childless. And then at last, countless sacrifices later, their efforts bore fruit. The queen gave birth to a child - a girl! And not just a girl - eminently unsuitable in the thinking of the times as an heir - but a freak with three breasts. The joy the king and queen felt came crashing down in the face of this cruel twist of fate. The king lamented,
I was without a son and I performed great sacrifices for long periods of time.
I performed the sacrifice that was supposed to produce a son,
And from that sacrifice, I got a daughter.
But God! Even though this girl has come with a face that shines like the moon,
She has three breasts! Such an appearance makes even enemies laugh.
So he thought, plunged in depression and unhappiness.
From the Thiruvilayadarpuranam, Chapter 1, Verse 4.24, a Sthalapuranam or mythical history, of Madurai. Translated from Tamil.
From up in the heavens, lord Siva reassured the distraught king,
O King! Treat your daughter as though she were a son:
Perform for her all the rites as specified in the Vedas.
Give her the name Tataatakai. Crown her the Queen.
And when this woman, whose form is golden, meets her Lord,
One of her breasts will disappear.
Therefore, put your mind at ease.
In this way, Siva graciously appeared in the form of words spoken from the sky.
(Thiruvilayadarpuranam, Chapter 1, Verse 4.25).
Tataatakai- who at some point became known as Meenakshi - ruled Madurai as a just and brave queen. She sent her armies in all directions, conquering places near and far and adding them and their riches to her kingdom. She herself headed north on horseback, to the Himalayas, her fierce army with horse-drawn chariots, rutting elephants and vicious warriors in tow. They decimated all resistance along the way, until they reached Mount Kailasa, abode of lord Siva, where they had to contend with his forces. Bloody carnage ensued, and eventually, Siva himself appeared to survey the scene. And magic ensued.
The moment she saw him her third breast disappeared.
She became bashful, passive and fearful.
She leaned unsteadily, like the flowering branch of a tree under the weight of its blossoms.
Her heavy dark hair fell on her neck.
She looked downward, toward her feet with kajal-lined eyes that were like kentai fish.
And there she stood, shining like lightning, scratching the earth with her toes.
(Thiruvilayadarpuranam)
I remember watching the dancer Anita Ratnam enact this very scene decades back and being entranced by her beautifully evocative abhinaya, my guru Adyar K. Lakshman’s singing and nattuvangam, everything coming together to envelop me in a cocoon of enchantment. I can still feel that magical aura when I think about it.
Back to our story. Meenakshi and Siva returned to Madurai laden with the spoils of battle and their wedding was celebrated with the grandeur one would expect of a union of divinity and royalty. And then Siva, ruler of the universe, took his place on the Pandya throne of Madurai. He appears with many names and forms all over India. In Madurai, he is known as Sundareswarar, the Handsome Lord. He is also called Kalyanasundarar, the Beautiful Lord of Marriage. You now know why.
Every year, in the month of Chitra (in April - May) the wedding of Siva with Meenakshi is celebrated at this temple. It is one of the grand highlights and over a million people attend.
The temple was becoming busy now as people started trickling in. Enough of staring at the pond and being lost in my memories. The temple is like a mini city with people moving in all directions, brisk sales of tickets for various darshans and palaharams, devotees sitting on any free patch of ground to eat and gossip, babies wailing, the soothing sounds of a thousand prayers. Off to one side I saw a ragged tree stump that looks rather the worse for the wear, fenced off and with a sign proclaiming it to be the remnant of the original kadamba tree under which the linga stood. A few steps away, an elephant was dispensing blessings in return for cash. The elephant, aided by his keeper, had a smooth rhythm going which he kept up in an unbroken flow. Trunk down - accept money - swish trunk back to keeper - bless. It was quite hypnotic to watch this and I spent (wasted?!) a good number of minutes watching the action. A few terrified children were urged to offer money to the elephant which they did from as far a distance as they could manage, shrieking with joy and relief when they were done. The poor elephant had heavy chains around his feet; he appeared restless, moving constantly from one foot to another. His face was expressionless. I wonder what he made of all this.
A few steps away was the Meenakshi Amman shrine. The goddess for whom this temple was named, who, along with her handsome husband Siva - Sundareswarar, bestowed their divine grace upon the city.
You could buy a ticket that supposedly put you on a fast-track darshan, or you could stand on the free line. I opted for the former and was amused to see that mine was the longer line! An impatient vaadhyar hustled us all into the same line at some point and then we were all corralled into a narrow path that led to the goddess. There she was, a bejewelled dark beauty framed by the light of flickering lamps. I drank in the sight of her; all the while I quietly hummed Muthuswami Dikshithar’s sublime song Meenakshi Me Mudam Dehi to myself, and it felt so good. Right outside her sanctuary, a priest was handing out laddoo prasadam. It was delicious and the perfect little bite to stave off hunger - I hadn’t eaten anything as yet.
Next, it was on to Siva’s shrine. It was much larger and the crowds were bigger too. I was in no rush. I admired the sculptures on the old stone pillars and eventually had my darshan. This shrine lacked the serenity of Meenakshi’s. Perhaps this is what Man Power is about?
I saw a trompe l’oeil Siva linga painted on the ceiling of one of the corridors. No matter what angle you look at it from, the base always points towards you.
I wandered about and admired the various gopurams. I passed by a variety of brightly painted vahanas that were parked off to one side; these would carry the images of the gods when they were taken out on procession.
My final stop was the 1000 pillar mandapam, a large hall at the north-eastern end of the complex. This, as is much of the existing temple, was built by the Nayaks who ruled Madurai from the 16th - the 18th century. Each of the pillars - there are only 985, apparently, not a 1000) is densely carved and standing at the southern end and gazing past the array of pillars at the stunning Nataraja at the end is an amazing experience.
Much of this mandapam is a museum, sadly of the variety that seems prevalent in India with priceless treasures in dusty, scratched glass boxes with the barest indication of what they were about. People had scattered passport-sized photos, business cards and cash all over the base, hoping to propitiate the bronze deities inside and seek their blessings. The bronzes were stunning, many from Chola times. A few children played hide-and-seek among the pillars, but otherwise, nobody bothered to look around. Why would they, when everything was displayed with such shameful indifference? There were priceless coins, too, from Rajaraja Chola and several Pandyan rulers that were at least a thousand years old. On one side, there were painted panels that told an elaborate story, but I could not figure out what it was.
I retraced my steps to leave the temple. The elephant and his keeper had disappeared. The place was teeming with people going this way and that. There were blessings galore to be had here, delicious palaharams to enjoy, beautiful sculptures to admire and the satisfaction of being in one of Hinduism’s holiest places. One outside, I gazed up once again at the gopuram and marvelled at how it swarmed with life and perfectly mirrored the chaos all around.
I picked up my bag, phone and shoes; the safe-keeping system looked creaky and antiquated but it was, in reality, a well-oiled machine that worked seamlessly. It was time for my next stop.
(The verses from the Thiruvilayadarpuranam are from William Harman's book Sacred Marriage of a Hindu Goddess).