Diwali blows up

India  does not lack for loud noise: honks, Bollywood blaring out of stereos like the screechy Fred and Ginger number from hell, TVs turned all the way up in hotel rooms, conversations yelled with no concern for who might be listening.

Diwali makes the rest of the Indian calendar sound like a hushed exercise in monastic silence. Like any festival, Diwali pokes holes in the social conventions that form society’s skeleton. And in India those conventions are many and strong. So when folks let their hair down, they do so Captain Caveman style. These are some notes I took from Diwali eve in Madurai. The first of these, it goes without saying, was written while in a foul mood:

"Indian men laugh like schoolgirls and barking dogs and empty bottles of Kingfisher (beer) with abandon. Their eyes glow for something past themselves tonight, but they all move in packs."

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"Fireworks glitter where the stars should be. Butter lamps flicker on an apsara's breast."

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"A French couple sits on the roof of the Hotel Supreme with me as fireworks go off with rockets' red glare over the Temple of the Fish-eyed Goddess. The girl has flowers braided in her hair."

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In three weeks of traveling in India I haven't seen a fight. Two almost broke out on Diwali eve. In the icy coolness of the Hotel Chetnoor bar, which has to be the dimmest lit lounge in India, men watched with a sort of grim expectancy as a customer pushed with almost monotonous force, as if his anger bored him, against the arms of a manager. The guy he was trying to fight sat back, also seemingly bored by the confrontation. Outside, clouds of drunk men (and anyone drinking that night was male, which might have accounted for an odd sense of both increased tension and, frankly, homoeroticism in the air; guys were definitely making eyes at each other, looking for either a fight or a fuck) walked with the universal shoulder thrown out, ready to throw down at anyone who bumped them.

This was not the India I knew, a country that is chaotic, yes, but rarely threateningly so. Overhead, a loudspeaker attached to a clothes emporium blared, in a maddening repeat cycle: "HAPPY DIWALI. HAVE...A HAPPY DIWALI!"

I had entered one of these tailor shops earlier to buy a dhoti after being turned away from the afore-mentioned temple of Meenakshi for wearing shorts. Clad in my sarong, my face roasted from weeks of the Indian sun, I fit right in with the thousands of pilgrims perambulating throughout the temple.

In fact, I realized, I more than fit in. No one was giving me any strange looks as I approached the large sections of the temple reserved for "Hindus Only."

Sense and sensibility fought a brief, losing war with curiosity, and I entered the inner sanctum of Shiva.

Some background is required here. Madurai's central temple is dedicated to Meenakshi, the afore-mentioned "fish-eyed goddess" (the description essentially means 'perfect eyes' in classical Tamil poetry), who was born with three breasts. According to prophecy, the third breast would melt away when Meenakshi met her future husband, an incident that did not occur until the woman/goddess met Shiva while trekking through the Himalayas. The Meenakshi Temple is dedicated to these two deities, and every night their icons are placed in the same room as priests sing lullabies and burn incense. Then curtains are drawn, lights dimmed, and according to legend, the gods make love that regenerates the universe; Meenakshi's nose stud is even removed before bedtime so it will not irritate her husband.

I had entered Shiva's half of the temple, and was feeling a bit nervous, but Shiva is the breaker of all rules. I figured he wouldn't mind me breaking some of the ones here, especially since the non-Hindu guideline is a particularly southern Indian tradition rather than a general Shaivite guideline. The actual shrines to Shiva were large and impressive, although not significantly different or more awe-inspiring than those shrines in the temple's outer sanctum.  I considered, for a bit, trying to see Meenakshi herself, but decided against it.  This was her temple after all, and while Shiva delights in ignoring rules, Meenakshi is a local goddess of a local people; I decided to respect her strictures.

Instead I wandered through the massed Diwali firecrackers of Madurai at night, the city sounding like Beirut on a bad day. That night I took an second class (read: village class) train to Kanyakumari, the southernmost city in India, the very tip of the country's upside down triangle. The interior of the 2nd-class compartment was the crowded cliche of every third world train you've ever seen; I slept by shifting some bags out of a luggage shelf and stretching my legs onto a door sill.

Kanyakumari was lovely; it remains one of my favorite places in India.  It's a quiet, friendly place, with a small, beautiful temple dedicated to the Virgin Sea Goddess, who men must approach shirtless under the sweat lick of tropical moonlight. I basked in the salt air and candlelight, let it lather my skin, and wandered to the spot where the three oceans of India, the Indian, Arabian Sea and Bay of Bengal, mingle in a foamspout of surf.

In an internet cafe, I watched an older American in a Vietnam service baseball cap and John McCain button argue with an Indian about the Republican party.  He wore a bald-eagle emblazoned t-shirt: "Pray for Peace; Prepare for War." Later on, he devoured some curry in a local vegetarian restaurant and seemed to enjoy himself immensely as the Diwali firecrackers went off like cluster bombs.  I imagine he, like the kids outside, gets a kick out of blowing shit up.

Comments

[Christine in Auroville]

I ended up staying in Sadhana Forest, living in a tree house, while Jonathan is being a superstar in Mysore with a private bathroom and (gasp) a hot water shower. My Diwali was spent listening to Minnie Mouse chanting happily over a loud speaker 24 hours a day for four days...and counting. Jon should be back soon and we'll see if our tree house is good enough for him now. If you end up going to Mamallapuram for one last hurrah we'll definitely meet you there.

[Stéphanie in (cold) Normandy]

I'm so jealous of you all! (what is terribly bad, i know...)
That the hut collapse, that the monsoon lasts, or that a plane ticket falls of the sky...
Kisses to you three.

[Matt]

(Shouting) Captain, CAAAAVE-MAAAAAAAN!!

[Best Hotel in Madurai]

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[Madurai hotels]

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