The Eternal South

[The writer and a party of young people, both Indian and European, traveled by a private bus belonging to The Besant Memorial School and The International Academy of the Arts. Adyar, through the South. They lectured and held exhibitions of child art, dramatic design and costume, photography, weaving and a collection of books on Education. Arts. Theosophy and Philosophy, and Indian books about the Motherland. The article is impressionistic, and if it conveys to the readers the sense of privilege and blessing that South India gave to the travelers, the writer is indeed satisfied and happy.–A. E.]

South India is a land of unhoped-for richness, unexpected charm and unexplored depths. Where do you find such riches in culture and history? Where do you find such charm of folk and plant and animal? Where do you find such depths of philosophy, religion and ethics?

Standing before the shrine of the great Chidambaram temple, listening to the all-pervading bells and the stern but flying rhythm of the drums and the sharp ring of the little cymbals, watching the Lord Nataraja dance as He always has danced and always will do at this, His South Indian home, there is a complete sense of the meaning and purpose of creative energy–of that which lies behind our every act of being, behind our culture and behind our homes. It is no effort at Chidambaram to build a great image from the living matter of one’s own imagination and actually witness the divine dance of Lord Siva and pay reverence and homage to Him whose spirit is found all over the ancient Tamil land so strongly and so perfectly. And it is with a peculiar fitness that here, in this greatest of shrines, the priests are of such a marked type. They are outstanding for their refined and splendid bodies and their carved features and for the beautiful way in which the hair is swept to a side to be heavily knotted there. They seem as though they had received an impress from the Deity Himself after so many generations had passed in serving Him.

The countryside is fascinating if not over-rich in appearance. The trees along the roadside, banyan and tamarind, seem to have stood sentinel and given of their shade to man and beast for centuries. The worried faces of monkeys peeped out from behind the heavy foliage and many were the grimaced greetings given as the travelers passed. Villages, each with its small temples, some of them crude, some of them little gems of devotional culture, with their local deities sitting in sometimes terrifying majesty beneath an ancient, sacred tree; villages where goats and the most beautiful cows on earth mingle with the population, where women go about their age-old daily tasks with a grace of movement and the genius of an artist, as they walk with baskets, earthen pots and large brass vessels through the crowded village street; little naked children smiling at one overwhelmingly, shrieking with joy, and jumping about with their sturdy brown limbs–all these greet the passing traveler in the bus. Along the sides of the streets oft-said arguments are in progress about all the matters of importance in the village, while the daily pittance is spent in the small crowded shops on the roadside for the necessities of life. A party of young girls, with pots like their mothers carry, call shrilly and laughingly as they go to the well. A beggar on a pilgrimage goes with infinite but wily patience from shop to shop, from house to house. Here, through a heavy, low carved door decorated in red and white, with plantains supporting the happy doorway, with festoons of green slung across the pandal, we see a young bride in her array of flowers and her new saree. Outside the temple, the soft pipe and the stirring drum call out the tidings to all and sundry. We see the older women being very busy, intent and expert in this wedding business–for it is their day surely. Little baby donkeys, obstinate, all legs, and with heavy fringes, and a completely lovable expression, graze by the side of wiser-looking, more disreputable mothers who have had years of hard work in the laundry trade. A leper will pass, and all are a little silent for a while, wondering what awaits him and his. One cannot refuse a leper, so let it be it little larger gift than usual, and may his life be brighter than one dare hope it ever can be. A lotus filled pond with bronze-coloured boys wading chest-high in the pink and white and glazed green; and on the corner by the tank some bright wild gypsies, with ear-rings pulling the ear to the shoulder, make sweet music with their heavy anklets. Old women selling butter-milk from blackened pots, and perhaps a vendor of the more modern ‘cold drinks’ in his little wooden stall, bright with local aerated waters and betel leaves arranged in an orderly and tempting circle. A man with hundreds of glass bangles glittering in the sun; weavers along the street moving with lithe and sure fingers along the many yards of web which tomorrow or the next day will be a high-coloured saree. Sweating coolies, in the honoured red loin cloth of the labourer, pass the gold-coloured Brahmin as he sits reading from the Sastras before his cool house. And all the time swing the great bullock carts, with the majestic, resigned beasts toiling patiently and with an imperturbable philosophy, under huge loads piled high on the decorated carts on which sprawls a sleepy driver. A cloud of dust will announce a bouncing rattling bus, full always to the roof with solemn-faced villagers who have been transacting or are about to transact some of the ever-present and serious family business in the nearest town. All this and more goes to make a picture of the South India of simple, lasting magic.

I have already referred to Chidambaram, What of other great centres of worship and art? . . . Madura. It is too huge and too magnificent for immediate and effortless appreciation. One richness after another unfolds itself, and here the gods are living their daily lives in one perpetual round of blessings. If only the temple could be freed from the town, how beautiful it would be! If only modern man did not have to place his lazy desecrating hand upon the ancient loveliness and sacredness of such a house of divinity–with his modern electric wires, his corrugated iron sheets draped in all horror round the beauties of the tank known as the ‘Golden Lotus Tank,’ spoilt, anyhow, by an electric pump housed in a corrugated iron shed on ugly steel piles driven deep into the heart of the Golden Lotus Tank. This is much worse than the colourful little shops and the everyday happenings of life in the forecourts of the temple. These are to be removed by order, but it is to be supposed that no official legislation will ever remove the corrugated iron, the electric posts and wire, and the incongruous erections of brick and plaster which spoil the beauty of the roofs and the distant-rearing gopurams. But Madura is a kingly temple, and the temple jewels are without compeer–too precious and too sacred to touch, in spite of the fact of touching.

Then comes Srirangam with its thousand-pillared mandapam and its four surrounding streets, its hundreds of ghee-fed lamps and its wise-looking elephants. And then Jembukeswaram, with all the richness and intimacy of a long established temple with a much-loved tradition and history. Was anything so perfect as the old tank with the great gopuram rising from behind the inner wall? Alagar Koil with its graceful hill and pure, cool water and its terrifying, justice-forcing gateway, made powerful by the history of an everlasting struggle between the forces of Light and Darkness. Its unexplored ruins where kings have lived and ruled. Trichinopoly, looking out from its stronghold across the sacred Cauvery and the life-giving Coleroon. Tanjore, the city of learning, of culture and of great kings. The superb temple with the equally superb nandi resting before it, a work of art not only for its size but for its absolute simplicity of expression and technique, conveying as it does the true spirit of reposeful creative energy, awaiting and yet guarding the Master within the shrine. That jewel of a Lord Subrahmanya Temple in the corner of the great court is one of the loveliest surprises to the uninitiated visitor. Tanjore, strong in the traditions of its former Chola kings, is a place to visit over and over again to breathe in the true spirit of ancient South India.

Tinnevelly, with its temples and cultured inhabitants, with its air of freshness and clear learning. Kanyakumari (never ‘Comorin’ again!) is all that it is claimed to be, and more. The sea, calm between the Cape and the two rocks, is fresh and holy; and the temple, guarding the South and yet greeting the newcomer to the land, looks with an established dignity across the waters from where its virgin deity came.

Travancore is suddenly different, with the golden-skinned, white-clad people, oiled and lithe, amidst the heavy, bright green of the many trees of teak and palm. The road is covered with a verdant vault, and the great red teaks spring to the white and blue sky. Tilt-ended gables almost spell China to us as we pass them–some of plain wood or leaves, and some most intricately carved. Trivandrum seems a city of cleanliness and a city of public institutions. The eye meets State buildings everywhere, from Universities to Hospitals, from Museums to Temples, from Palaces to Parks. The public services are unique and the presence of His Highness as he moves along the roads is a constant reminder of his interest in his people.

And then the healing magic of the waters of Courtallam, as they cascade over the hillside to the bottomless pool, and then again to the plain below where multitudes stand to receive the blessing of health and energy that it brings as it dashes sharply and forcefully over their bodies. The temple, always within the music of the falling water, joins with the inspiring, shrill music of the nagaswaram and the eternity of the drums, as the soft evening sun lights up the silver of the cascade, making it bronze and gold.

Then the dull tap-water of Madura again, as we pause on our further way to the hills and Kodaikanal. The hills are glorious in their trees and ferns and wild flowers arrayed in an unstinted generosity of colour and perfume. The cold mists of the clouds envelope the tops, and the plains shine as amber in the hot sunlight. Then down again to the oven heat–or so it seems, after the rainy cold of the heights–and round the blue misty mountains to the holy hill of Palni. The climb to the temple is made lovely by the blue, darkening night and the twinkling lights of the little township beneath. Once round the ancient walls of the temple, and through the many carved pillars, and we are face to face with the Lord as the Ascetic. Ancient songs are sung, proclaiming the wonders of Lord Subrahmanya in all His Glory as He came to Palni in the golden days of India ages ago. Once more the descent, and one is almost dizzy with the wonder of the Deity and of His house. This is indeed a very holy place, and b1essed indeed are the pilgrims who visit there in their thousands. At night we see the hill outlined against the greater hills behind and lit by the stars and the moon, and one sleeps well in the nearness of such a shrine. In the early morning light, one goes round the hill and sees the holy men in their devotions and at their meditations as they sit in austere stillness on the bare but sacred rocks.

Perur, with its exquisite carved pillars, with godhead visible in every perfect movement. Artists of ancient Ind, where are you now? Lord Siva as the naked mendicant, beautiful as gold, ascetic, and pure as spring water. Lord Siva in contest with his Consort, with perfect balance, one leg poised above His fiery head, the face a poem in lordliness and grace,–joyful, compassionate, strong. The very elephant seems more beautiful, and is a lovable character as she shares our meals and takes her own meal to her living quarters. There are wisdom and affection in her eye, and gentleness and strength in her walk and mien.

Up to the Blue Hills, amidst the blue gums, and with the Toda folk, simple, primitive, but noble of countenance and manner. Here there is cold and rain, and the warm plains lure the cold body to their kinder warmth. Yet all is lush, and nature is of her fullest in the Hills. As the road drops down through the sandal, bamboo and rills of the Mysore forests, there is a stillness not to be found anywhere except where Nature is free, and untrammelled. Little black-faced monkeys chatter and stare, and a plumed creature, all gold and bronze, flutters its frightened way across the path. Elephants are imagined, though not seen, and many a smooth grey rock in the stream will cause a sharp thrilled breath to be taken. Elephant? No–how silly, only a rock. But perhaps–look, look–again disappointment: only a Mysore rock! The plains again, and the city of Mysore, like a city in a fairy-tale, rises protected from beneath its sacred hill. Villages fly past, all neat and clean–a little characterless, perhaps! The peasants look sombre in their black, though the landscape smiles; and the eternal bullock is as beautiful and patient here as everywhere. Small temples are to be found all the way; and the roadside tanks, with water for man, beast and bird, are works of art with their hewn stone steps and their steep, sloping sides glistening with the forgotten drops of some village girl’s earthen pot, or from the imprint of a clean-washed cloth picked quickly from its place to allow the little curious boy to gaze at the bus as the inmates take their food under tall wild dates and spiky cactus.

Seringapatam is forgotten on the way, as time, the ever present menace of today, forces the chariot of the moderns along. Across the molasses-roads, redolent and sticky, under name-arches of the villages, and through the circular rest-seats that each village of any size has built. Through the border, and once more in the familiar Presidency area.

Home, home to the river Adyar, through Krishnagiri where Lord Krishna Himself is taking the round of the temple-streets, with many coloured villagers adoring and singing and waving hands bright with rings and bangles, happy in seeing their Lord pass smiling by as of old to captivate the hearts of all His loved subjects. Arcot, once the proud centre of a Kingdom; Ranipet, the gift of a King to a conquered Queen; past the slender, sacred towers of Conjeevaram where the sun is setting across the golden plains. St. Thomas Mount with its martyred saint still commemorated at the top of the little hill, while his body rests in San Thome. Guindy, where the British Raj sports itself with the racing of the horse. Down the road, past His Excellency’s country house. The Adyar river. Sharp to the right and–home!

Two thousand sacred miles on soil that has seen strife, peace, great kings, blessed saints, famed poets, both men and women, Gods and their Consorts, invaders, conquerors, white men, yellow men: all the world has known of the riches of South India. The great rivers still flow. Still they give their living waters to the land whose people they have served and must still love to serve for untold ages. The time is near once more when this land will be great and free, taking part in a world where India, linked to the West by bonds of real friendship and faith and by one common ideal, will again be rich, and again powerful in spirit, eternally established in all its intrinsic glory.