WISDOM: "Life is not defined by days but by moments."
Rev. William Sloane Coffin
SOUL TRAVEL: SERENDIPITY ON A BEACH IN TAMIL NADU
The discordant chanting pierced my ears at 3:00 a.m. Nothing I did muted the strident chorus. By 5:00 a.m., my mental and physical faculties had aligned enough to entertain the notion, "if you can't beat them, join them," and maybe a photo op was waiting. Only a glimmer of the sunrise was on the horizon as I started down the beach toward the racket. (I mean no disrespect. But Hindu chanting wears thin very quickly on my Western brain cells, particularly early in the morning.)
Soon I noticed outlines of dwellings. With the joy that comes from surprise and discovery, I realized I had come upon a small fishing village. But there was no apparent activity. "Strange," I thought. "From the sound of it, there should be a temple nearby filled with eight thousand pilgrims." Then, as it was getting lighter, I noticed the loudspeakers atop a very small temple shrine and laughed out loud. Hesitantly, I entered the temple, remembering first to remove my sandals. A woman was present, tending the flame in front of a Hindu statue. She smiled. I pointed at the speakers and shrugged my shoulders as though to ask "why." "Pongal," she said. And so it was. The first day of the 3-day Pongal festival to celebrate the harvest.
As the village wakened and I walked further, I soon attracted a small entourage of children and two young men, one of whom spoke English well. Several villagers were now outside and engaged in creating intricate and colorful designs with rice paste on the ground in front of their homes. These are called "kollams." They welcome the gods and protect the home. Over the next several days, I saw many of these lovely designs in celebration of Pongal throughout the region. I marveled at the ease with which the women produced these small works of art by dipping their hands into the rice paste and letting it run through their fingers onto the ground in perfect mastery of the design.
Dawn was breaking. The light was gorgeous and we turned back to the beach to catch the celestial color. A woman carrying two baskets walked to the water's edge. Two very primitive wooden fishing boats framed her outline against the early morning sky. I was in seventh heaven. And there was more to come.
Tamil Nadu, a state in India, is called The Land of 1000 Temples. My friends walked me a short distance down the beach. Turning inland, we arrived at two small monolithic temples, each painstakingly carved out its own large rock outcropping. The entrance to one temple, which was well preserved, was surrounded with carved tiger heads. Although these were small examples of similar but much grander temples and carvings I had seen the day before (two World Heritage Sites), the modesty of this location spoke volumes of the religious dedication of the men, probably fisherman, who had so patiently carved these temples so long ago as an expression of their love for their gods. It was a place of peace.
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Turning back toward the village, the beach was now full of activity as the fisherman returned with their catch. My camera did not leave my face as I watched this ritual, played out every day of each fisherman's life--ordinary for them, a cultural phenomenon for me. Fishing! As I traveled along the coasts of the Bay of Bengal and the Arabian Sea I would see, and be equally fascinated by, all kinds and modes of fishing. What was it about the fishing and the fisherman I found so alluring? Was it the simplicity of their lives? Or the ruggedness of the people with their lined faces, wiry bodies, whose heads were often swathed in a colorful cloth to keep the sweat out of their eyes? Or their gutsy challenge to the sea every day in hand-made, primitive boats and their dependence upon the sea's bounty, often frugal, as it was today? It was all of these things plus the uniqueness and the contrast with the life I know.
Women from the village came down to the beach to pick the fish out of the nets, pile them into baskets and carry them on their heads back to the village and, if there were enough, take them to market. The excitement on the beach dwindled and my friends and I returned to the village. The "kollams" had by now been completed. A family with whom I had interacted earlier invited me into their home. I took photographs of them, especially the children, and promised to mail them, which I did. They had no photos of their family and were thrilled. I took photographs of my friend's family. I ran out of film.
It was time to get back to meet my guide. Reluctantly, I said goodbye. I had felt so welcomed. Everyone had a smile. Although poor by our standards, these people were very rich indeed.
This was a morning I shall never forget. These opportunities seldom present themselves when you travel with tours and are the reason I usually travel alone.
Enjoy the photographs!
THOUGHT FOR THE MONTH: "Don't die with your muse still in you." Wayne Dyer
More about India next month. Have a good one!
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I WANT TO THANK THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE TAKEN THE TIME TO LET ME KNOW HOW MUCH YOU ARE ENJOYING MY MUSELETTER AND ARE PASSING IT ON TO OTHERS YOU THINK MIGHT ENJOY IT. IT GIVES ME GREAT PLEASURE TO HEAR FROM YOU. YOUR COMMENTS ARE WELCOMED!
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WINGS Vol. III, No 3, April, 2004
