Read The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) Online
Authors: Erin Reese
11
th
of February, Chennai
Jan and I had another opportunity to devour delicious
masala
popcorn the very next evening, at the psychedelic version of The Greatest Show on Earth: The Great Royal Circus of Chennai, featuring (wink, wink)
authentic
Russian performance artists!
Now, this was bizarro big top at its finest. For $0.86 each, we witnessed the Russian version of the Addams Family take the stage with a terrific troupe of Tamil tightrope walkers, trapeze artists, and tantalizing tricksters. Allow me to present my Favorite Freaks of the Circus:
Favorite Freak #1
The real talent pool of the bunch was found in one particular magic man—a real pro who, I’m convinced, must have been trained in ayurvedic
panchakarma
. Here was a specialist in the ancient art of purgation—the vomiting therapy known as
vamana
.
The bulky feathered-fez-sporting madcap strode confidently into the ring, gulping down gallons of green-tinted water from a bottomless bucket, then rotated 360-degrees to face each member of the crowd, spewing out the very same green liquid like a human fire hydrant.
Favorite Freak #2
A streaked blonde Russian—think Morticia Addams meets a six-foot tall, well-built Jerry Hall. This circus siren has clearly embraced her life purpose with great gusto. Striding confidently around the ring in her stiletto cowboy boots—cracking her whip to great effect—the oddly hot, eerily strange razzle-dazzle Russian wiggled and jiggled, shimmied and shook her Moscow moneymaker with all she had, as every semi-erotic pose earned a few clucks and
tsk-tsks
from the conservative Indian crowd.
A few random whistles of praise spewed out of the 20-rupee “cheap seats” behind us, where the bidi smoke wafted to the rafters and the poorer families sat on bleachers with their extended families. Glancing behind us, Jan and I both agreed that next time—if there ever will be a next time to go to a circus in India—we’d opt for the cheap seats and join in the fun part of the house.
13
th
of February, Chennai
Jan and I experienced many things as a duo that I may never have dared as a solo act. But, like an over-saturated sponge, I’d had enough intensity and sensory input for a fortnight of journaling fodder. I became so full I was overflowing. As a writer absorbing experience, I get pregnant with possibilities, and I need masses of space—and time—in solitude and silence, to collect my thoughts and insights. If I don’t give attention where attention is due, the creative baby can’t be born. And, as any artist, writer, performer can tell you, if one waits too long to make art, it’s easy to get stagnant and stale. At best, we get wistful or moody.
At worst, we become the Queen of Cranky, which, unfortunately, is what I began morphing into, at the expense of our collective serenity. As bickering and bitching became the norm rather than the exception, my internal alarm signals began to sound—softly at first, then like an air-raid siren. In order to channel life’s occasional overwhelm into healthier expressions, I’m reminded to keep the drama on the page—or stage, as the case may be. I’ve got to use the surges of transformational energy to create new stuff, rather than destroy the good stuff.
Fortunately, after many years of writing, I recognize the call to compose, the need for repose. When my external situation—and that includes relationships with others—becomes unbearably aggravating, it’s a clue that I desperately need space and time to think, write, reflect.
In short, I need “the pause that refreshes.”
After days of deliberation, it was clear I needed some major breathing room, and no matter how big that boat, if I joined Jan’s journey to the Andaman Islands, I knew I’d turn into a stark raving lunatic. I already was close to banshee-bitch level. Thus, I made the difficult decision to delay my own departure for the Islands for a week or two. We said our goodbyes, with loose plans to meet anew across the ocean blue, and Jan bicycled off to the Port of Chennai for his own mega-marine voyage.
“It’s high time to write, pray, and reconnect to spirit,” I determined, quickly recalibrating my reality barometer back to its usual, sustainable levels—back to dreaming, guitar, writing, and the otherly realms of creative consciousness. It didn’t take long to get reconnected. Within three hours of Jan’s departure, I had a clear vision of my next destination—to celebrate the great night of Lord Shiva, at the holy hill of Arunachala.
16
th
of February, Tiruvannamalai
Hello from Tiruvannamalai, in Tamil Nadu, southeast India. I’ve come here specifically for
Maha Shivaratri
, the great night of Shiva, universally revered as the most important religious festival for Hindus. Tonight, on the eve of the New Moon, it is said that Lord Shiva walks the Earth and offers liberation to all those who would worship Him.
Ah, sweet freedom! Thousands of pilgrims have come to pay homage to Shiva as an aspect of
agni
, or fire, in which he is known as Arunachaleswar. Tonight, at the peak of Mahashivaratri, I will join the masses as we circumnavigate the 14-kilometer base of the red-colored, holy hill Mount Arunachala, all the while softly chanting the mantra, “Om Namah Shivaya.”
The mountain peak itself represents the male part of Shiva consciousness, the
lingam
, whereas the circular base represents the female aspect of Shakti—also called Kali or Parvati—as the divine round
yoni
.
It is said that Shiva appeared on this sacred mountain as a towering inferno—a beacon of light—in order to assist all of humanity, as well as his holy brothers in the triple godhead, Brahma and Vishnu, in releasing the ego from the chains that bind one in misery.
Certainly, gaining liberation from misery and suffering is enticing any day of the week, let alone lifetime. And, I’ve come here for more personal reasons. I have work to do.
It’s time to make peace with Shiva.
During my first trip to India, I was deeply humbled through my experiences in Varanasi, another home to Shiva in the form of the destroyer: Varanasi is the place to honor the dead. Up until that point, I had an irreverent, cocky attitude toward the gods and goddesses of the Hindu pantheon. As a result, I learned the hard way—my time in Varanasi felt like a trial by fire.
Through the difficulties experienced at that Holi festival four years ago, I came to realize that these deities are alive, awake, and totally accessible for devout Hindus; their existence isn’t even a question. And,
especially
while I am a guest in this land, to ignore or, worse, to mock their importance is a monumental no-no, to say the least.
Fast-forward to here and now: I’ve arrived here in Tiruvannamalai, in the middle of dry, dusty nowhere, to clear my mind, fuel my spirit, and open my heart—and most importantly, in some small way, to make up with Shiva. To ask for his pardon for the smug way I behaved in his stomping grounds up north.
It’s working—this new, humble approach. Straight off the four-hour, oddly smooth bus ride from Chennai, I found a fantastic little hotel room just off the main temple bazaar. Clean, quaint, attached bath (we won’t talk about the cardboard bed) for US $1.50/night. Yes, every now and again the guidebook comes through, and you find a guest house that actually matches the price and description as described!
Following a most excellent night’s rest, I enjoyed a tasty breakfast of
idly—
lentil flour dumplings—dipped in coconut chutney and spicy
sambar
sauce. I then gathered my belongings into a day bag, covered up my bare shoulders, put on a long skirt, and headed into the baking hot sun toward the massive ten-hectare Arunachaleswar Temple complex.
After circumnavigating the main shrine, a massive Shiva lingam, I spotted a small enclosure just off the main throughway. Tucked away in this somewhat-hidden altar cove was a delightful statue of Shiva in his form as Lord of the Dance, Nataraja. The deity Himself was draped in garlands upon garlands of orange, yellow, red, and white flowers. A lone, white-haired old man in a clean, white
lungi
sat in full-lotus position, meditating unobtrusively, off to one side of the side of the altar and facing the deity. Silently, I perched behind him, humbly sharing a meditation moment.
It is said that Shiva is not just an aspect of divine consciousness, but rather, Shiva IS divine consciousness. I wonder if this is why, for the first time in weeks, when I closed my eyes before this dancing deity, I felt peace and serenity wash over me like a cool breeze. Feeling refreshed after a few minutes, I opened my eyes to take in my surroundings. At that moment, an elderly female sadhu quickly strode out of an adjoining enclave. I noticed dozens of colorful flowers strung through gray dreadlocks piled atop her head.
“OM Namah Shivaya! OM Namah Shivaya!” she declared, as she raised both hands high to the sky, then fully prostrated herself in surrender and piety—arms stretched forward, legs straight out behind her, facedown—before the deity. I was touched, and inspired by the sight of this majestic woman of God, shamelessly offering herself before her Lord.
A few minutes later, the old man in the white lungi roused himself from meditation. Matching the abilities of the best yoga teachers in San Francisco, he lowered himself in a perfect
chaturanga dandasana
yogic plank position to the floor, offering his own prostrations before the deity.
Wow
, I thought.
I would do well to do the same, right here, right now, and follow his lead. After all, what am I here for, but to make peace and pay respect to Shiva?
But I felt stuck, self-conscious. I was afraid to make a fool of myself by lying down on the floor in full view of the pilgrims.
Immediately, I saw the irony in my thinking:
Here I am, on Mahashivaratri, a day devoted to the God of egolessness, and I’m concerned about what others will think of me if I pray in public? Get over yourself, girlfriend.
Gingerly, I approached the deity, lowered myself to my knees, and bowed. “Om Namah Shivaya,” I whispered, touching my forehead to the cool ground in my own modest version of prostration. When I opened my eyes, arose, and looked around, not a soul was staring at me, of course. It felt right that I had made such a gesture and stepped out of my comfort zone—and my heart was indeed smiling as I took my leave from the main shrine area.
My afternoon wanderings through the temple complex continued to bring magic into my heart and mind. At the promptings of a polite tout, I offered a few rupee coins to a magnificent mama elephant, by way of her snout. I marveled at the horizontal third-eye Shiva markings painted on her forehead, and delighted in gazing into the pachyderm’s tiny eyes as she winked at me. As a “reward” for the five-rupee
baksheesh
, she raised her trunk high above my head, curled it into a large “S” shape, and blessed me with a gentle head scruff. Filled with sheer happiness, I sighed audibly with sheer joy, as if I were five years old.
Thinking I’d take my leave from the temple to find a nice
thali
lunch nearby, I made my way toward the exit where I had left my shoes with a watchwoman at the gate. But I was stopped by a sadhu with a small, protruding Buddha belly, watching over a small Shiva lingam temple. He motioned me to come over to join him and his counterpart, a skinny, shaven sadhu in an orange loincloth. Both of them had twinkling eyes, long white hair and beards, and merry smiles. I felt like I’d been summoned by Santa Claus sadhus, albeit with brown skin.
The roly-poly Santa baba blessed me with sandalwood
vibhuti
paste, which is made from the ashes of holy fire. First, he added water to the paste, then smeared it into three straight lines horizontally on my forehead. The design was made complete by a red circular point in the center—just like my elephant friend and thousands of other pilgrims wear to symbolize the third eye of Shiva. Finally, baba topped the paint job off by adding a small red mark to my throat, which I thought appropriate and auspicious, as my throat chakra needed a little boost. The throat, or fifth, chakra rules communication, creativity, and self-expression. I’d been writer’s blocked for days, and needed all the opening I could get.
Following this
teeka
marking and blessing, the baba handed me eight yellow marigolds, and instructed me to string them through my hair, like a real Indian woman. (None of this conversation took place in English—it was animation and Tamil language all the way.) Grinning at baba with gratitude, I began haphazardly sticking the flowers into my
wash-’n-go ’do-of-the-month: my tresses were pulled up tightly into two small Princess Leah-type buns, and the stems of the blossoms stuck nicely here and there, this way and that way.
Baba was so pleased; he handed me the lid of his stainless steel
tiffin
lunch container to use as a mirror. I peered into the makeshift looking glass. I looked like a cross between Drew Barrymore trying to look cute at the Oscars, and a disheveled hippie. Apparently, the sadhus thought so too. Giggling, the Santas summoned a local woman passerby, asking her to do the job properly. She scurried over and, by pantomime, asked whether I had a comb, which I miraculously had on me, and she set to work.
Out came the flowers. Out came my hair clips and rubber bands. Out came my entire attempt at a floral headpiece. She was determined to make me into a proper Indian woman. She expertly brushed my hair back as she had done for so many sisters and daughters, tied up my half of my hair to let the back fall down my neck, and asked baba for a string, which he instantly produced. With expert skill, she strung up the marigolds into a mini-garland, and wrapped the colorful crown ’round my topknot.
Et voila!
Now, replete with floral wreath, Shiva’s third eye, and Ganesha’s blessings
a la
the elephant showering my spirit—
now
I was ready for Shivaratri!
I expressed my gratitude to the holy men by buying lunch for everyone. For a mere $0.58, four of us (the local man who fetched the lunch joined in, too) ate off large banana leaf fronds, right on the temple steps, perched before the lingam. It was a fine feast, too:
dal
, sweet potatoes, okra “lady fingers,”
papadam
lentil chips, rice, buttermilk, pickle relish, and, of course, lots of prayers. The best way to say thank you, hello, goodbye, yes, and any other sentiment to a Shaivite—a follower of Shiva—is quite simple: