L is for Lessons learnt in Brihadiswara Temple #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the third week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I'm exploring the 'Enemies of Ichigo Ichie' this week. Yesterday, it was 'distraction'. Today's focus is on 'projections'. 

Let's step into a day in August 2017 for today's post.

Thank you.

Arti

*****

"...when our mind travels into the past, where pain and resentment reside, or the future, a place of fear and worries, we are pulled away from the present moment."

Quote borrowed from The Book of Ichigo Ichie

Vast was the temple where I stood.

Its name suggested big

and big it was--it was huge,

colossal and ancient and intact to explore.

One morning in Doha in 2017,

Ambika mentioned she'd be travelling

for work to Chennai.

Can I tag along?

I asked.

She agreed.

Temples, food and sarees 

were all entered in the itinerary.

Tanjavore after Chennai and then Madurai.

The day of Brihadiswara dawned warm and bright.

We entered the temple together. 

A couple of hours later, Ambika left to deliver 

her lectures.

I stayed on to explore 

the vast temple 

to capture it with my camera and my phone.

A group of ladies

rural folk from Andhra

spotted me and demanded I make their photo.

I was ecstatic 

an opportunity such as this!

That's when it froze.

My phone.

I switched it off and carried on clicking

with my camera instead.

Smile, but look natural--I implored the colourful lot.

Ignore me. Think I'm not here.

None of the tricks to get a candid worked.

They were all eager to pose and beam and be rather alert

to my click, click, shoot effort.

The phone didn't come back on.

I left it alone --tucked it in my camera bag and wandered

the entire afternoon,

stepping back in time 

when Gods were carved in stone.

Some had been chiselled by workmen from the far East

to sing the Chola King's glory.

I could be in Japan or China, I thought

as I admired the statue's carved out story.

Moon appeared

Shadows grew deeper.

Soon, the sun began to set.

I had no clue how to get

back to the homestay 

for all the phone numbers, addresses and details were imprisoned inside 

the silent phone that day.

Ambika was supposed to pick me up after work.

How will she find me and where?

The temple was vast 

and there were people everywhere.

Can you look at this? Can you help me? I asked around.

No one could un-freeze the phone's stubborn screen.

"Do you need help?" a voice called out to me.

I turned around to see 

kind eyes 

peeping through glasses sitting on dark, round cheeks.

"Hum achcha aadmi hun." I'm a good man, he said in Tamil sounding Hindi.

He offered me a chair inside the tourist booth where he worked,

at the temple entrance.

"Don't worry, we'll find a way." he assured.

My evolutionary instincts had already kicked in:

Fright, flight kept swapping places

inside my fearful heart.

Murder, rape, lost forever, 

doubts and doubters

rose up flaunting their 'we told you so' banners  in my panic stricken state.

Someone brought me a bottle of water. 

I took a few sips.

Paddy Homestay? I asked hopefully.

No one had heard of it.

Plus, it was too far away 

way beyond city limits--

in the middle of lush paddy fields.

'Maybe, you can find me a reliable driver?' I asked the gentle-eyed, soft spoken, guide/saviour.

'Someone you trust.'

He went out to find someone he knew. 

"I wish I'd jotted down the homestay's number. 

The owner's called Thiru." 

I mumbled more to myself than to another.

'Thiru?' I heard another guide turn towards me in the booth.

"Yes." I replied.

"I have a friend who's called that 

 he used to drive a taxi but I've heard he's changed tact. 

But, let me call him anyway."

He called his friend. And guess what? He was the Thiru.

What are the chances?

Phones buzzed across the city and I was told Ambika would pick me up presently.

At last, I spotted her car in the dark. 

She'd been driving around (in panic) looking for me, 

she told me as I got in.

All is well that ends well, she said as I poured out the panic I had felt.

We were headed for the  homestay,

but we stopped at a phone repair shop on the way.

" This can't ne fixed." they pronounced the phone dead at the shop.

We reached the paddy fields 

and told them all that had happened in Brihadiswara, 

unnecessarily.

For they knew it all from before --

Word travels fast in open fields.

Next time, keep a diary 

and jot down all the numbers before--

a valuable lesson learnt for sure.

Hot rice, sambhar and pickle later, I muttered:

Technology is helpful as long as it works.

'Let me have a look' said Ambika.

Lo and behold! 

the phone switched off and came back to life.

Just like that!

*****

Although I had the most wonderful time in the temple that day, the minute I stared panicking, only negative thoughts came to me. My mind was conjuring up all the images I had seen on TV, read in the papers, of what could go wrong and then jumping straight into the fearful future. 

I didn't have the presence of mind to even find the name of the gentleman guide who helped me. 

Of course, I had options like staying in a hotel for the night in the city but panic clouds clarity.

Although those panic stricken moments weren't pleasant, they taught me a few valuable lessons.

Those kind men. God Bless them.

If you'd like to stay on for a bit and explore the wonderful homestay, you can click on:

Paddy Homestay

P.S.  I was reminded of this day after reading this post written by Srivalli earlier on in the challenge: Amore Natura

*****

Have you found yourself let down by your phone recently? 

Have strangers helped you out of a tricky situation?

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

Paddy Homestay is my kind of paradise.

"People think of heaven as a paradise garden, a place where they can float on clouds and laze in rivers and mountains. But scenery without solace is meaningless."

says Mitch Albom in his book:

the five people you meet in Heaven

Swinging in a hammock which is tied to two tall and curvy coconut trees, under the canopy of dappled sunshine and lush green palm leaves, I re-read the last line. Something about solace strikes a chord. I underline it and read it again. Dipping in and out of slumber and wakefulness to the rhythm of the hammock and the balmy breeze, I ponder on the line with my eyes closed. The book rests on my belly; its covers closing slowly, almost in slow motion over the pink pencil I had used to underline solace, like heavy eyelids, simultaneously open and shut, awake and asleep, rising and falling, keeping pace with my breathing.

I am in paradise. Paddy paradise. Imagine a  place where:

A lush green field of paddy stretches as far as the eye can see. Fresh coffee is made with milk that is milked on site, by hand, in a bucket, by the farm hand while the happy cow munches on fodder in an open spot outside the kitchen. Warm fluffy rice is served with hot sambhar and vegetables. Yes, the rice is from the paddy field I'm currently in and the raw banana subzi I've asked a second helping of has come from the banana tree I was taking pictures of just this morning.

The banana that became subzi.

This is Heaven. But is it because I've found my solace or has the scenery around me put me in this state?

I guess it's like night and day, like light and shadow, this business of solace and scenery. One is needed to notice the other. A beautiful scene has no meaning if one's drowning in one's inner turmoil. A hungry belly needs food, not scenery. I get it.

But, is solace possible without scenery?

Can a peaceful mind find its paradise in a noisy, busy, dirty place? I'm sure some people who've found their zen can. But I'm not there yet. I need peace and quiet before I can sit and meditate or do yoga or read a book or cook or even do the dishes. I often listen to music while doing the chores. Even the walls of the house seem to relax when the notes start to float. Am I escaping the reality of dirty dishes in Sufi-land or am I orchestrating the notes of my scenery to arrange my solace?

Is this a form of escapism? Or is it a simple act of marrying the mundane with music so that if in the middle of the washing, one spots a rainbow, one dips into it first and then carries on with what needs to be done. To me, it's being in the moment, every moment: noticing it, accepting it, living it. If a few notes sung by Ustad Shujaat Husain Khan make the soap suds in my kitchen sink sparkle with colour, then why not?

Moments are the atoms memories are made up of.

And memories are the cells that make up life. Some parts of us remember love, our mother's cooking, the feel of that first kiss. Other parts remember the road back home, the bills that need to be paid. And then there's the part (the heart or the soul or whatever you want to call it) that remembers that this is a journey, that we are all finding our way--inching towards the destination that is our origin.

A simple act of making the bed in the morning or stepping out into the garden, or even looking out of the kitchen window and watching a bird flit from one branch to another, can make a big difference.

"Beauty surrounds us; but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it."

~Rumi~

Maybe, one day, while tending my plants I will dig into Rumi's words and loose all that I think I am. Maybe then I won't need to walk on green grass. But until then, I will continue to listen to music, stare at flowers for too long, hug my friends and kiss my family and cuddle in bed with a delicious book and create my own pool of paradise. And every now and then, I shall travel and seek out scenery that soothes for the world is beautiful and bountiful and I have finite number of days on this planet.

I open my eyes, hold the edge of the hammock to hoist myself up, swing my legs down to get up. The pink pencil escapes the book and drops softly on the red earth below. I pick it up and make my way to our room at Paddy Homestay--a slice of paradise in fields of paddy, cocooned in a grove of coconut palm trees.

Paddy Homestay came up on my screen when I was googling for a 'place to stay in Tanjavore'.  I clicked the link to its website. One look and a few review readings later,  I knew I'd found something special. 

What Ambika and I experienced while we stayed there was beyond any holiday experience. It was like visiting family (a loving and caring family). Thiru, Arul and their beautiful family made our three days in Tanjavore a precious memory to hold and to cherish. Their hospitality is that rare mix of efficiency, homeliness and love for their land that when you return home, you want to make plans to visit them again--soon.

One of the highlights of the stay was a bullock cart ride from the homestay to a village of potters and a popular temple nearby. 

Are you ready for some scenery? For a bumpy ride down a beautiful road in Tamil Nadu?

The sun is on its way to set.

Come on then. Climb up, hold on to the side rails--careful there!

All set? Let's go.

Children coming back from school and some going for evening classes.

The pots get a knocking with a wooden spoon to beat them into shape.

Patterns and prints are added with carved wooden bits.

The potter's children had come from school and were about to settle down to do their homework.

The two pots the smiley potter is holding came all the way with me to Doha:)

"You ride." says the bullock cart rider to me.
I obey.
I'm absolutely thrilled that he's offering me to take over and absolutely petrified when I do take over and feel the power of the animals travel from them to me via the reins I'm holding gingerly.
The bulls don't look too impressed, right?
Photo courtesy: Ambika

We park at the temple.
My legs are shaking a tiny bit but I'm grinning like a teenager who's just had his first taste of driving a car!

Setting sun. Stretching shadows.

Thank you Thiru and Arul for everything:)

*********

Looking at all the pictures above, you may think that such a place exists only in the lens of a camera held by a photographer who chooses to see what pleases the eye and ignores the 'reality' of life. Yes, I'd agree with you. 

There are serious problems that the farmers and potters of this region face. Almost all of their problems (economic and ecological) are the direct result of indiscriminate exploitation of land for farming, deforestation and ignorance of the people who make policies or even the ones who don't but who despite getting an education, prefer to ignore how big an impact big and small decisions made by individuals and governments have on the day to day lives of rural Indians.

"Oh! how sad that they've started using plastic here." I comment perched on my green urban high horse.

"Chinese stuff!" adds Ambika.

"Why?" she asks the potters.

"The wells nearby have dried up. We have to travel six to ten kilometers to fetch water. Plastic is lighter. It's easier." comes the matter-of-fact reply.

Our city- dwelling -preaching -green- to- the -farmers selves nod our understanding.

Plastic vessels have replaced traditional brass and terracotta ones because the villagers have to travel longer distances to fetch water. Pipes are being drilled deeper and deeper every year to try and reach the depleting water levels.

Men continue to beat their wives and scavenge off them to feed their alcoholism. And women continue to work as labourers on fields and construction sites to feed and educate their children. Ambika and I came across such stories in the three days we were there. 

Yes, I choose to capture the light, for the dark was, is and will continue to exist along side the light.

Solace is personal. Scenery is public. Scenery is our responsibility, a debt we owe our planet, a promise we must keep for our children and their children.

Can there be solace without scenery?

Commenting on the idea of heaven, Sadhguru, in one of his videos, asked, "How do you know you're not in Heaven already and you're spoiling it?"

This trip to rural Tamil Nadu couldn't have come at a better time. #RallyforRivers is the wake up call we all need to remind ourselves that if we want our children and their children to listen to birdsong, swing in hammocks in coconut groves or drink coffee made with fresh milk or simply eat fresh food and drink clean water, then we must do what needs to be done--NOW!

Back in Doha, I unpack the tangible memories I've brought home with me. The terracotta pot I'd so lovingly carried as cabin baggage has succumbed to the stresses of air travel. A hole gapes back at me from the bottom when I unwrap it.

"Where there's a will, there's a way." my mother used to say:)

It's been given a new role. We may not store water in it (as was planned when I bought it) but its earthy fragrance (saundhi khushboo) will remind me of the beautiful people of Tanjavore and their warmth whenever I water the plant that sits in it.

Have a lovely weekend.

And please support the farmers who feed us.