I‘m the next virgin sacrifice.
I stand face-to-face with a gargantuan 6-foot disembodied Gargoyle’s face; the idol’s head a raging, all-consuming, red-hot furnace. His merciless hollowed-out eyes of fire glare back at his latest meal. And I quiver.
A demonic choir of 300 mud-brown robed monks are prostrating behind me, ear-splittingly chanting “Deevo Re Deevo” over and over till it reaches a feverish pitch. The worship is enraptured in divine delirium, thirsty for the purest of blood.
This chamber of horrors resembles a giant cave, a Pharaoh’s tomb, albeit one whose treasures are stripped bare by grave robbers. The stench of mildew marinates the atmosphere with twisted expectation, galvanizing 3,000 years’ worth of devotees to give offerings that cost them everything.
I was Indy Jones, and this was my Temple of Doom.
As I stood there contemplating fight or flight, I was gently nudged to reality by my Brahmin guide, Ashok-bhai.
This was the worship hall of an 11th century Palitana Jain temple in Gujarat, India. The first of an astounding 863 temples on Shatrunjay Hill, Jainism’s holiest site is suspended 603 feet in the air.
I realized, then, that I had nothing to fear. After all, Jainism is the most peaceful religion on Earth.
The Jains take Gandhi’s Ahimsa doctrine to a fanatical level. Besides obvious vegetarianism, the most faithful of proponents pluck out their hair strand-by-strand, simply because a razor is seen as a weapon.
Yet, there almost seems to be a bi-polar distinction between their philosophy and their practice. Nothing about this vicinity seemed untroubled.
Even at the foothills, the terrain that contains these temples is bare, sprouting a despondent smattering of sparse vegetation. The only respite from drudgery comes from rocks shaped by the winds of time, resembling reddish-grey tints of Pollock paint splotches in 3D form.
Throughout the excruciating climb up the 3,800 crumbling and misshapen steps, I could tell even from a distance that the temples that dotted the hills were once-upon-a-time splendid masterpieces. Adorned with gold and marble, nine generations of craftsmen have meticulously carved graven images of deities into the walls.
Unfortunately, all we can see now is muted sadness. The gold faded to clay. The sculptures grotesque with neglect.
Again, where has the serenity gone?
Ashok-bhai answered me – albeit indirectly.
He told me this temple was dedicated to Lord Adinath, the first Tirthankar. He is so named because he is the founder of a "Tirth" (literally, 'ford'), a Jain sanctum that acts as a "ford" across the "river of human misery".
A staggering realization hit me…
When you face a body of water, you get wet.
The temples stand as one big stronghold against the tide. Mankind’s last line of defense.
The more they resist, the more they take on the form of the invaders they are resisting. Damp with suffering. A tragic spiritual erosion.
Alas, the Palitana temples are THE sacrifice to save humanity.
I look to the Gargoyle again. I respectfully nodded at him for paying the terrible price.
