Gangaikondacholapuram

Even with all its splendour, Meherengarh Fort cannot engage your attention for more than half a day. So I found myself free on an afternoon in Jodhpur, and following some authoritative recommendations on the Internet, decided to take a bus to Osian to visit ancient Hindu and Jain temples. The 65 km long ride to Osian was uneventful but the curve of the road at which the bus deposited me triggered memories of an unforgettable journey from the past, a journey to the magnificent temple at Gangaikondacholapuram.

The bus trip to Gangaikondacholapuram happened many many years ago, when there was no mobile telephony or even Internet, but I remember every single detail as if it happened yesterday. It was on a large tourist map in the lobby of the TTDC hotel at Chidambaram, on a hot and humid afternoon, that I realised my proximity to Gangaikondacholapuram. The friendly clerk at the reception confirmed that plenty of buses go in that direction. Having done a lot of background reading on Chola history, Gangaikondacholapuram was not to be missed, and within minutes I found myself at the chaotic bus terminus. But getting a bus was not even half as easy as I had been lulled into belief by the hotel front desk. Gangaikondacholapuram drew blank looks from many people; some of them turned away even before I could get past Gangai. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. The owner of that hand was wearing a lungi folded at the knees, a coarse khaki shirt and a red scarf tied rakishly around the neck; not someone whom you want to trust in a strange place. “Gangaikondam?” he asked

“Gangaikondacholapuram”, I replied. He pointed to a bus barely 10 metres away. “Are you sure?” I asked, my voice laden with scepticism. “Naan than driver saar” he said, half in jest, half in disdain.

The bus soon filled to the capacity. Yet it would stop everywhere and take in more and more passengers, like a Pushpak Viman. Soon it was bursting at the seams. I was unsure of the stop to get down. Asking around for Gangaikondacholapuram invited more blank stares. After an hour and a half, we stopped and I heard the now familiar voice of the bus driver shouting – Gangaikondam, Gangaikondam. He waited patiently as I struggled to squeeze my way down the packed aisle of the bus. I was the only one to alight there and the look on the driver’s face was one of a job well done. I still regret not thanking him adequately. After dropping me, the bus disappeared into a cloud of dust.

The temple loomed large before me, but as I approached I saw a padlocked gate, and not a soul inside the compound. As I was weighing the risk of climbing over the gate, a white haired head popped out from nowhere and an old man ambled across to me in an arthritic gait. He gave me a toothless smile and opened the gate. He gestured and I followed him. We climbed the steps to the sanctum. He fished out another key from his inner shirt and opened the door of the sanctum. It was pitch dark inside. He fumbled again inside his shirt and brought out a match box. As he struck the match, a huge lingam believed to be the biggest in South India, revealed itself to my eyes,

I spent about an hour inside the temple precincts, deserted but for me and the old and infirm caretaker. Those days my camera was the 110 format Hot Shot and film rolls were expensive. I took few pictures of the imposing vimanam of the temple. Now those photos are gathering dust in my album. Standing in front of a 1000 year old grand temple, all alone in fast gathering dusk, was a totally surreal experience that I cannot get over even after so many years.

I left the temple in fading light. The caretaker’s face, as old as the temple, showed no trace of emotion when I tipped him. No tea vendor outside the temple, no nothing. The bus did not take long to come. I thought the drama of the day was over, but I was completely wrong. Within minutes, the bus was halted by a bunch of wailing villagers. With much beating of chest and more wailing, a woman breathlessly narrated that her man had consumed some poisonous brew. The driver and conductor were quick to act. The front of the bus was cleared of passengers, and the man frothing in his mouth was brought in. They further declared that the bus will not halt anywhere thereafter till we reached the town hospital. The driver drove the bus like a man possessed and parked right opposite the gate of hospital in Chidambaram. I hope the man survived, and the driver’s effort was not in vain.

Now coming back to Osian, which triggered off this memory. But do you want to read about it now? I will reserve it for another day.