Jagannath O Lord of The Universe

Chai? Beat the queue. A note slips my hand. A wink here. A gratuitous nod there. Rikshas tugged past. People walking in a knotted network of paths. The cacophony of the bustling bazaars of Jagarnath Puri. 30 Rupees Domestic citizens only MaDDam, he says. His “d” thuds in our ears hinting the versatile,vivacious native Oriya speak. I speak Hindi. He seemed mildly convinced. Foreigners are not allowed in Jagannath Temple. A tradition strictly observed. He nods towards the East Gate. Two monstrous stone lions on either side. Red rimmed eyes wide. Right claw raised. Mouth ajar.

500 Rupees, extra per person, he said, For closer encounters. Crinkled in humidity. Folded notes handed in sweaty palms. In we went. I could taste the inhaled incense. Sandalwood. A meadow of joss sticks. Several figures on raised spaces.Orange dhotis covering there legs. Bare chested save thread fastened across the torso. Brahmin caste. Jiggled bells in left hand. Ringing Reverberations rise above the clamour of the crowd. Right hands shook spoons simultaneously. A monsoon of water. For purification. A red thread secured. With three knots. May Jagannath protect you. Om namo…Gopala Ballav Puja ceased. A thumb pressed against my forehead. A welcoming cool red tikka stained my forehead. For a blessing. Hands folded. Three minutes to pray. Open your eyes. Quick glimpse. Three statues. Yellow. White. Black. All wood. Not Stone. Unique to here, he said. Protracted pyramid arms perpendicularly raised. As if coming for a stiff embrace. Or a beckoning welcome. The triad deity of Jagannatha, Balabhadra and Subhadra sit on raised platforms. Eyes wide. Gentle smiles. Marigold garlands everywhere. The haze of sweet sandalwood smoke. A buffer. As if staring from another dimension.

$100 Rupees earns me another few minutes. Behind me at a lower level lies speckled dark skin in a plethora of colours. An entire massive population of pilgrims behind barred gates. Hands raised. Some with new-borns in swaddled bundles. Chants whispered loudly. Or in silent dedication. Inaudible. Mouths moving. Turning around I found the masses. There was a pure faith there. A pure belief.

Their gazes pierce past me. A desperate dedicated determined attempt to catch a glimpse of the subject of their prayers. With little avail. 100 rupees, he said. For the offering to the deity. Hands on shoulders. Shuffle out, the pundit says to the guide nonchalantly. To make way for the next tourist group. 50 for another tikka.