the entire group cheered. It turned out that we had come upon a compartment of Telugus in the middle of Tamil Nadu. We had also just pulled into Thanjavur. Miserable that the journey was over, I gathered my things, wrestled back my passport and clambered over everyone to the doorway. On the platform we turned back to wave. Three of them had come to the doorway and were taking photos on their phones while the rest poked heads through the barred windows and waved.
The sun was still asleep when we arrived at the entrance to the Brihadishwara temple, bats flitting overhead. In the damp morning air, the enormous Dravidian structure loomed majestically through the darkness. Known appropriately as ‘the Big Temple’ the Brihadishwara temple was commissioned in 1010 by Rajaraja Chola, who established the Chola Dynasty that reigned across South India, as a show of his devotion to Lord Brihadishwara, an incarnation of Lord Shiva. The UNESCO World Heritage Site is considered one of India’s architectural marvels and was celebrating its 1000 th birthday.
Unlike most other temples, the structure is built of granite, using stones that interlock without cementing. It had rained the previous night and the stone was cold under my fingers as I worked my way around a pavilion that housed a serene but hefty, 25-tonne carving of Nandi, Lord Shiva’s bull. Above his head was a series of midnight blue and yellow frescoes, scratched and fading, depicting details of the Chola lifestyle.
There was a notable elegance to the temple and its surroundings. It was quiet in colour and demeanour and reflected the majesty of its founders. But like many other Indian sites of wonder, was home to yet another myth. A favourite story told to visitors, was that the shadow of the Vimana, the 66m pyramid-shaped tower above the inner sanctum, never touched the ground, but this also proved to be untrue.
As Passepartout watched the reflections of the tower in the puddles filling the compound, a bell beckoned me into the sanctum that housed Lord Shiva. I reached the front in time for the puja and joined the queue to receive prasad. The priest handed over a ladoo and some dried fruit. I took it with both hands and he held out his hand.
‘Ten rupees.’
Bags were forbidden inside the temple and I had no money on my person. He took the prasad back from me and placed it in the hands of the woman next in line, waving me along. To my knowledge, the Vedic origins of prasad were explained as an act of generosity and this was the first time I had ever seen a fee demanded. The hole in my stomach had started to grow again and I jumped down the steps, dragged Passepartout from his puddles and left.
Train 14, the Trichy-Nagore passenger train arrived late into Nagapattinam, a small fishing town in Tamil Nadu that had been badly hit by the tsunami. There was no particular temple of interest, but I had heard they did the best prawns in South India. It was also home to an old house belonging to my dad’s family, which sadly, along with the prawns, I could not find. Across the road from the station was a string of stalls selling fried chicken wrapped in sodden newspaper. It was deep-fried earlier in the day, then refried in a smoking karahi, flavoured with car fumes and garnished with grime from the cook’s nails. Clutching a steaming bag and a bottle of Thums Up we found the hotel and flopped down in front of a Tamil film featuring a man with big hair and red eyes wielding a pole at a man with small hair and red eyes. Passepartout was sulking.
‘Is anything the matter?’ I asked, fishing out the burnt crumbs from the bottom of the oily bag and wondering if I should go out and buy another. ‘You’ve been rather quiet for the last couple of days.’
‘I’m just really surprised, that’s all.’
‘By what?’
‘You. I never thought someone with your intelligence would be as closed-minded as you are.’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘I’m
The sun was still asleep when we arrived at the entrance to the Brihadishwara temple, bats flitting overhead. In the damp morning air, the enormous Dravidian structure loomed majestically through the darkness. Known appropriately as ‘the Big Temple’ the Brihadishwara temple was commissioned in 1010 by Rajaraja Chola, who established the Chola Dynasty that reigned across South India, as a show of his devotion to Lord Brihadishwara, an incarnation of Lord Shiva. The UNESCO World Heritage Site is considered one of India’s architectural marvels and was celebrating its 1000 th birthday.
Unlike most other temples, the structure is built of granite, using stones that interlock without cementing. It had rained the previous night and the stone was cold under my fingers as I worked my way around a pavilion that housed a serene but hefty, 25-tonne carving of Nandi, Lord Shiva’s bull. Above his head was a series of midnight blue and yellow frescoes, scratched and fading, depicting details of the Chola lifestyle.
There was a notable elegance to the temple and its surroundings. It was quiet in colour and demeanour and reflected the majesty of its founders. But like many other Indian sites of wonder, was home to yet another myth. A favourite story told to visitors, was that the shadow of the Vimana, the 66m pyramid-shaped tower above the inner sanctum, never touched the ground, but this also proved to be untrue.
As Passepartout watched the reflections of the tower in the puddles filling the compound, a bell beckoned me into the sanctum that housed Lord Shiva. I reached the front in time for the puja and joined the queue to receive prasad. The priest handed over a ladoo and some dried fruit. I took it with both hands and he held out his hand.
‘Ten rupees.’
Bags were forbidden inside the temple and I had no money on my person. He took the prasad back from me and placed it in the hands of the woman next in line, waving me along. To my knowledge, the Vedic origins of prasad were explained as an act of generosity and this was the first time I had ever seen a fee demanded. The hole in my stomach had started to grow again and I jumped down the steps, dragged Passepartout from his puddles and left.
Train 14, the Trichy-Nagore passenger train arrived late into Nagapattinam, a small fishing town in Tamil Nadu that had been badly hit by the tsunami. There was no particular temple of interest, but I had heard they did the best prawns in South India. It was also home to an old house belonging to my dad’s family, which sadly, along with the prawns, I could not find. Across the road from the station was a string of stalls selling fried chicken wrapped in sodden newspaper. It was deep-fried earlier in the day, then refried in a smoking karahi, flavoured with car fumes and garnished with grime from the cook’s nails. Clutching a steaming bag and a bottle of Thums Up we found the hotel and flopped down in front of a Tamil film featuring a man with big hair and red eyes wielding a pole at a man with small hair and red eyes. Passepartout was sulking.
‘Is anything the matter?’ I asked, fishing out the burnt crumbs from the bottom of the oily bag and wondering if I should go out and buy another. ‘You’ve been rather quiet for the last couple of days.’
‘I’m just really surprised, that’s all.’
‘By what?’
‘You. I never thought someone with your intelligence would be as closed-minded as you are.’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘I’m
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