Barring the exasperating traffic jam at Second Hugli Bridge, our thirteen hour long car journey
(including a break at a dhaba for lunch) was a pleasant one. My husband Subha drove us through Chennai highway that seamed the lush green farmlands lying on either side. The clouds hung tantalizingly low. Dense bunches of kaashphul forested the non agricultural fields. Ponds flaunted their glitter amidst the dominance of green. Canals trickled past crops and weeds, and silt laden rivers carried on with their slow gait under the bridges we crossed.
After a simple dinner at the hotel where we were staying, we trudged to the beach, our feet sinking in the sand, wet grains clinging to our toes. We brushed off the sand from our legs, settled on the chairs rented to tourists like us and turned our gaze to the sea. The waves rose, partitioning the darkness, as if they were climbing onto some seats of distinction, and bowed to accept laurels of foam before dismantling their thrones to fleece the shore with froth.
The next day, we needed to reach the Jagannath Temple by 10am. Since we had enough time in our hands, we decided to rendezvous with the sea again. I positioned myself where the sea could cast only a thin layer of foam on the sand. The water tickled my ankles as expected, but soon a new wave came shoving and encircled me till my knees. Though scared I ploughed through the water, beckoned by Subha, who was ahead of me, and had almost joined him when another giant wave came, knocking me down. I lost my footing and found myself lying spread-eagled in the water. While I was struggling to rise to my feet, the subsequent wave had arrived. It tossed me to such a degree that I fell face down, somersaulting in the sea. Only later did I learn that it had been the time of high tide. I finally got up and walked back to my daughter Nirjhorini, who was standing with my mother, away from the water. She was terrified that I would drown and it took some time to explain that there was nothing to fear as long as one didn't move any further into the sea.
A bumpy auto-rickshaw
ride through a dingy lane took us to the Ghora Darwaja of Jagannath Temple. We
kept our shoes at a designated shade and entered the gates. We rinsed our hands
and feet from a couple of taps that were made to run without a stop, traversed a
courtyard fringed with puja paraphernalia and found ourselves in a compound,
surrounded by several shrines. Skirting the temples dedicated to different
deities, we tried to figure out the depictions etched on their walls. Occasionally
we paused to enter or take a peek and seek blessings from these deities. We passed
by the pit where the idol of Sri Jagannath is buried every twelve years and
ambled for a while near a fenced lotus pool dotted with blooms that floated the
loveliness of autumn on their delicate pink petal tips. Inside the Jagannath Temple, devotees
raised their hands and chanted the Lord’s name. Some of them pushed and shoved
to make their way to the idol. With more and more devotees rushing in like
seawater in a cracked ship, I wondered at one point whether at all I would be
able to catch a glimpse of the Lord. We gripped each other, fearing we might
get separated in the crowd. Tunnelling through the wall of humans, led by our paanda,
we finally reached near enough to behold the Lord’s and his
.siblings' faces and lower our hands over the arati fire to imbibe the holy warmth
In another hour, we got ready to travel to Konark. One could spend hours staring at the carvings on the walls of the sun temple, but Nirjhorini had other ideas. She went on pestering us to buy her a toy. It was fruitless to bring to her notice that the toy stalls were outside the temple complex and that we could take her to one only after she had allowed us to enjoy the beauty of the temple and it's premises as we could not re-enter without a ticket. My mother and I directed her attention to a sculpture with long, sharp teeth and claws, glaring at the back of the temple with large, round eyes. The creature seemed to amuse her for some time, but again she began harping on why I was not buying her a toy. My gaze was grabbed by a half human and half snake figurine. This was a recurrent motif among the temple carvings. I remembered making numerous drawings based on it after my previous visit to Konark at the age of nine. Carpeting the forgotten footfalls of the gifted, unsung masons who had build this temple about nine hundred years ago, spread a soothing green lawn. The sun dropped down rapidly as if it were gauging the height of the temple dedicated to it. As we hastened out of the gates, the Konark temple, the resolute castaway from the tides of history darkened against a glowing orange sky, its embossed sculptures still refusing to blend into the uniformity of night, the many Gods, Goddesses, humans and animals warring against the merciless sweep of time, jostling to retain its indented outline.
The road outside the gates was lined with vendors and their carts. The phrase 'mushroom pakoras' caught our ears. Subha and I watched with anticipation the batter dipped slices of mushroom acquiring golden coats in the sizzling oil. We couldn't wait to savour their crunchiness and the tanginess of the accompanying chutney. With a paper cone full of these delightful pakoras we set out for our journey back to Puri. We didn't wish to be late for dinner as there were more fascinating places to explore the next day and we needed to start early.
I will be reminiscing about my trips to the serene Chilka Lake and the fairy-tale like Mangaljodi wetlands in my next blog post.
