Looking beyond the dreadlocks

Long heavy roots hang from the branches of the ancient banyan tree like a mass of dreadlocks, adorned with a haphazard ménage of colourful dolls.
Some of the dolls have round moonlike faces with black hair, scraped back to reveal Chinese features.
Many have yellow optic fibre hair and neon blue eyes.
Hanging in the afternoon sun like over dried washing, the dolls look uncomfortable despite their Mona Lisa smiles.
The dolls have been presented to the tree with sentiment and gratitude for babies born of barren bellies. The dolls themselves had dropped effortlessly from a distant conveyor belt that delivered on demand
The banyan tree has stood in the corner of The Jahanadra temple grounds for over 500 years, growing dreadlocks where random seeds land on its branches.
As the gaudy dolls hang lifeless on the banyan tree, a flurry of scrupulous activity is taking place on the beach below.
The cremated ashes of deceased relatives are being ceremoniously sprinkled into the Arabian Sea where the departing souls will be purified, severing any lingering attachment to their earthly bodies and past mortal life and ensuring a smooth transition towards rebirth. The ashes will disperse leaving nothing tangible for unwelcome spirits to enter or posses.
Each gaudily dressed doll clinging to the tree is planting seeds of hope in vacant wombs.
The cliff top Hindu temple has existed in Varkala for over 2000 years. A steep path from Papanasam (destroyer of sins) Beach leads to the temple. Varkala known as the Varanasi of south India is a major pilgrimage site for Hindus, where the Arabian Sea is believed to have properties that will cleanse souls and destroy sins as easily as it washes away dust and sweat.
The temple bell rings, startling me. My thoughts move to an ancient Dutch ship wreck and the miraculous survival of all on board when the ship capsized and descended into the Arabian Sea, off the coast of Varkala. The brass bell was removed from the shipwreck and presented by the ship’s captain as a gift to the temple. The handsome bell blends easily with the temple.
The ringing subsides, my focus returns with ghoulish curiosity to the eerie plastic orphans hanging from the tree.
I am inexplicably moved almost to tears by the crude dolls. I am mesmerised yet repulsed by the grotesque symbols of hope clinging to the banyan’s dreadlocks.
I look away, but it’s too late! My mind has already captured the image in minute detail and saved it as ‘The Doll Tree’.