Sights and Seasons of Paradise: Deities, Temples and the truth about religion

As a Hindu I follow a faith that offers a veritable smorgasbord of options to the worshipper of divinities to adore and to pray to, of rituals to observe (or not), of customs and practices to honour (or not), of fasts to keep (or not). As a Hindu I subscribe to a creed that is free of the restrictive dogmas of holy writ, one that refuses to be shackled to the limitations of a single volume of holy revelation.

-Shashi Tharoor

It is said that whatever you can rightly say about India, the opposite is also true. The same can also be said about Hinduism. Shashi Tharoor in the initial chapters of his book ‘Why I am a Hindu’ lists out how Hinduism is different from other religions  and what aspects of it appeal to him personally. Many of these like absence of dogma, no declaration of being the ONLY-truth, a fair amount of flexibility in practices and the deep philosophical traditions – are my reasons too for appreciating the religion I was born into. I consider myself a believer. Though I do not follow any specific ritual or sect, I acknowledge the presence of a superior power and I do bow to Her pretty often. I express gratitude when good things happen to me, I pray when things go tough. That said, my religion is a very personal and private matter. As taught by my parents, both of whom were against any pomp or show of religion, I don’t believe in showing my faith in the way I dress, decorate my house etc. Much like most other Hindus of liberal upbringing , I have no problem in accepting other beliefs, visiting churches, dargah, mosques or other religious shrines. Neither I face any problem in visiting various kinds of temples that exist in India. I was born in a family that professed Arya Samaj hence there was no specific significance for any idols for me. Yet I face no dilemma in appreciating a work of art in a Ganesha statue and I have a whirling dervish next to a Buddha figurine in my drawing room. I do not relate that to religion as such.

But occasionally I wonder if the kind of liberal intellectual “fit” of religion which I inherited in my family, is now a thing of past. We are passing through a time when in India a temple has become a socio-cultural, political and even legal issue. It is a time when the lines between my truth and your truth have been blurred and there is a frenzied search or rather declaration of ‘the’ truth. I find myself unable to agree with the violence, self-glorification of football-hooliganism and a very male -chauvinistic interpretation of rules of Hinduism.

That brings me to my problem with temples in south India and why I am always torn in visiting them. South Indian temples are far more exquisite than the northern temples and are architectural marvels. Many of them have huge historical significance as well and are associated with many stories of past. But these temples today are a strange amalgamation of faith, culture, business, and society around them. In many ways, they are materialistic enough to have a separate VIP darshan line (where you pay more to cut the crowd) and in some cases they are extremely misogynistic taking shelter of tradition or modesty.

Kerala temples have been in news for many wrong reasons. When I started this series of posts, I mentioned that I am in the city of Padmanabh Swamy. The city not only derives its name from the reigning deity of the temple- but it is also in many ways, still a temple town. A town which despite being a seat of political power, very stubbornly shies away from the look of a big city. It is as if, the city is very content, even takes pride in its image of a temple town. I am very curious about the temple in more than one ways, but I am still postponing my visit.

The thing is the temples in south India do not allow you to have a worship of the deity on your own terms. Entire event is closely regulated and controlled by temple administrators (all men).

As per my Hinduism, there should not be any restriction for non-Hindus in entering Hindu shrines. History provides ample evidence when Hindu temples welcomed believers of other faiths and even felicitated them. But  today, in some of these temples there are ban on entry of non-Hindus. The ban is quite ironical as many temple group take great pride that they also have an affiliated temple in US or Australia. The hypocrisy of such restrictions has come to light in many cases. There is a famous case of legendary singer K.J.Yesudas, a Catholic by birth. His devotional songs are played in many of these temples where he was refused entry many times. Finally in 2017, at the insistence of a Ex-Royal trustee, the temple board of Padmanabh Swamy temple did an exception for him.

 Furthermore, there are dress-codes and even within dress-codes there are restrictions for women. At times some parts or even some temples are kept out of bound from women. These aspects make me uncomfortable. Though I am a saree clad person on all workdays, I find it difficult to accept a dress-code for visiting the deity. While men cannot wear shirts and have to be in traditional mundu / dhoti , women cannot visit unless they are in saree or covered till toe. In 2016, after a court case, temple authorities allowed salwar suit or churidar for women – though I am told that in practice, it is still not adhered to.

Modesty or decency in clothes is an ever-changing societal yardstick. There is nothing traditional or religious about it.  For women specially, it emanates from a regressive patriarchal thinking that some men sitting in temple authorities need to dictate what women should wear. In the same temple, few decades back women were not allowed to come wearing blouses. The ongoing “tradition” being – 3 unstitched clothes for men and 4 unstitched clothes for women. That was changed with time – then it was decided that saree with blouse is decent but not other Indian or western dresses. Now Salwar and churidar are accepted but not pants and shirts or other dresses. End of the day, the rules that dictate what women can wear or not, the changes in those rules and the decisions on those changes, is an exclusive male domain. It is some men sitting in positions of power who decide and dictate terms on modesty and decency. I find this unpalatable. Specially so in a state where till few decades back women did not have a right to cover their upper body. The right was granted and now temples take a 180 degree turn to impose covered dresses in the name of religion and tradition. Same holds true for mensurating women. The dress-code, the restriction on the entry of women and an option of VIP darshan- takes away all spirituality out of a temple visit for me.

Let us not forget, this is the land that gave eighth century Vedic philosopher and the high-priest of Hindu Sanatan dharma Adi Shaankaracharya. Shankaracharya’s philosophy, his travels across the country and his deep philosophical treatise is a treasure trove of knowledge of this most fascinating ancient faith. But for me one event of Shankara’s life stands out as a defining moment of Hinduism. It is his meeting with the Chandala or an ‘outcaste’- the man who works at crematorium, lowliest of lowly caste of people.  The event it is believed happened in the narrow alleyways of the embankment of Ganga in Varanasi.  Shankara was going for holy dip in the river when he came upon the chandala. True to the prevalent belief of  those days that Brahmins would to be 'defiled' by the very shadow of those of this caste,  the disciples of Shankara asked the 'outcaste' to move out of the way. However, the chandala retorted by asking the question:  

अन्नमायादन्नमयमथवा चैतन्यमेव चैतन्यात्

यतिवर दूरीकर्तुं वाञ्छसि किं ब्रूहि गच्छगच्छेति

 To move matter from matter, or to separate spirit from Spirit? O best among the twice-born, which of these two do you wish to achieve by saying, “Move away, move away”?

(That is how will you become impure by touching me? How do you differentiate between a Brahmin & a Chandala,  because both our bodies are made of the same elements: earth, water, fire, air and space, even though we look different. Our aatman (Brahman) is the same and is absolute. This one aatman is expressed in all living beings. So tell me, when we are made of same elements and same aatman, how can you ask me to move away and not touch you?)

That is when Shri Adi Shankaracharya realised the Chandala was teaching him his own philosophy of Advaita Vedanta, and prostrated before Chandala and composed Manisha Panchaka.

I consider this anecdote,  a defining moment for Hinduism as it demonstrates how the religious truth often clashes with the societal norms and how a true sage of faith needs the rationality to go beyond the ever-changing rules of society to accept the manifestation of divinity in all forms and ways and in all creatures of God – even if they do not profess your own faith.

 When I read in history books about Vaikom Satyagraha in 1920s when people had to agitate to get their right to access to public spaces in this land of Shankara, I found it strange. Stranger perhaps is the insistence a century later in 2020s to keep the temples closed and rigid , in the name of tradition to fit the understanding of few men. But then, strange things happen in the name of religion all the time. People fighting, killing and spreading hate in the name of religion often forget what Hindi writer Sardar Pooran Singh wrote in his famous essay ‘Aachraan ki Sabhyata’ ( The Civility of conduct ) “सच्चा साधु धर्म को गौरव देता है, धर्म किसी को गौरवान्वित नहीं करता।"A true saint gives glory to religion, religion does not glorify anyone .

I feel distraught at the pomp, show and politicization of my faith because in this process we are not only discarding the deep spiritual legacy of Hinduism but we are, in many ways acting just like the people of other religions professing their truth as the only truth.   With  eclecticism  as its core competency , my faith does not believe in  rejection of other forms of worship and other ways of seeking the truth. Stopping other forms of worship, objecting to a dress or a food – for me is not the way of my religion.

Choice of Adjectives- Remembering Empress Sisi

"I am a seagull, of no land, I call no shore my home, I am bound to no place, I fly from wave to wave.

Empress Elisabeth of Austria

If you have been to Vienna, it is difficult to miss Empress Elisabeth or Sisi, as she is often called. From chocolate boxes to posters and from museum tickets to souvenir shops – she is everywhere. A true popstar of her time, the biggest icon of Austrian Royal family, compared with Lady Di by biographers, subject of novels and movies- she is presented as a glamourous but depressed queen.  The Hofberg palace has a full museum dedicated to her – displaying her personal articles, her chamber, her letters, and her famous dresses. It was first in this museum that I read her poetry. It is sad that with so much emphasis on her doll like persona of a fairytale princess, her other remarkable characteristics of being a poet, an avid traveller, reader and an intellectual – a woman very aware of her socio-political situation, are never highlighted. Her concern for women suffering in lunatic asylums of Europe of her time, is often ridiculed and so is her free spirit and constant demand for privacy even as an Empress of Europe’s biggest empire of that time. Her media avatars are either of innocent young girl trapped in court politics or of a cold-hearted vain woman obsessed with physical beauty. In fact, her insistence for physical exercise by installing a gym in every palace she lived in, is also depicted as her unreal desire to be ageless. In today’s vocabulary, she would be a health enthusiast, a fitness icon even.

 I was suddenly reminded of this as I was watching a DW documentary - Sisi’s Legacy 

 this morning and I noticed something. In this documentary as well as in numerous articles written about Sisi or the TV series or movies based on her, the choice of adjectives is very problematic. The documentary calls her eccentric, narcissistic, obsessed with ageless beauty, a mother who neglected her children, a woman who refused to stay on with her husband and finally someone who was reckless enough to get assassinated. She is also guardedly blamed for taking her first daughter on travel with her causing her death. The commentary is quite easy to the fact that she was fifteen when she was made empress, sixteen when she was a mother and that she was unaccustomed to the ways of the most proper and stifling court of whole of Europe.

Oh swallow, give me your quick wings

And take me with you to distant countries.

I'll be happy to break the chains that hold me

And to break the bars of my prison ...

If I could fly with you

Through the blue eternity of heaven

How I would make thank you with all my being

The Goddess that men call freedom!

-                                                                                                                                                --  Empress Elisabeth (1856)

 

Last year another movie titled ‘Corsage’ came in European theatres. Once again , Sisi is the unhappy Royal who is hysterical and irresponsible. Forcing modern feminist sensibilities on her is hardly doing any justice. Most of her biographers are sympathetic towards the shy, young girl, miserable at court, but then they start to chide Sisi for her selfishness in disregarding her husband's concerns, neglecting her duties, feigning illness etc. While there may be some truth in all these – the contemporary portrayals for her husband and son are not this harsh despite their very questionable personal and public conduct.Neither there is any probe in why an Empress had to feign illness or avoid public scrutiny ? Even in this documentary, there is no judgement of Franz Joseph for subjecting his son for very cruel “physical and psychological hardening” (which eventually was put to stop by ‘irresponsible’ mother Sisi) but Sisi is repeatedly judged for leaving her children behind for her travels (‘on State Expense’) or for not staying in the court. Her son Rudolf, similarly,  is painted as a man ahead of his time in his views- while underplaying the fact that he neglected his wife and daughter, had series of affairs , got a STD due to his visits to brothels  and killed his mistress before committing suicide. Sisi, however is judged even for smoking, wearing black after the death of her son or refusing to get photographed.  

My friend Zehra recently wrote on Facebook how women are accused of not knowing their mind, though the reality is that most of the times, they do know exactly what they want. The problem comes in acceptance from community and family on ‘what’ women want. Our family and society are yet to mainstream the true wishes of women and are very quick in judging them for their conduct and desires with wrong set of adjectives. Even in popular media, for every portrayal of a woman who speaks her mind there are ten where the stereotypical loving wife, mother and the sacrificing woman image is reinforced. It is often the fear of being judged, labelled as ‘difficult’ that makes women hesitant and unclear in expressing their mind.  When I see women politicians and actresses being shut down from serious discussions and being judged so unfairly and blatantly on their appearances, accessories, and private lives, I wonder how we blame women in families to be shy in expressing their true wishes and opinions? It is a bane of our times that at times in ordinary houses people are willing to take steps in the right directions yet our system, our organisations and even our courts paint it the other way. It is still rare in communities and public forums to allow women space to express themselves freely. to shake off the stereotype and not being  subjected to scrutiny and judgment. From Empress Sisi to Mahua Moitra and  from mythical Draupadi to Sunny Leone – it is a continued stream of judgement  and use of negative adjectives that colour the narrative of what women want.

Captivating Calicut -Where the Spices Once Sailed

History and life don’t always agree on what’s important. Both, in their own ways, suffer from a lack of lasting perspective. Events once hailed as momentous often fade into obscurity, while seemingly minor incidents sometimes go on to define entire epochs. It’s a humbling realization—that the so-called “game-changing” moments of the past may now live only in the margins, forgotten by the very places and people they once touched.

I was fortunate—or perhaps sobered—to encounter such a moment of collective amnesia during a recent visit to Kozhikode (Calicut). Here, in this coastal city cradled by the Arabian Sea, history quite literally landed one day centuries ago. And yet, as I wandered its streets, that legacy felt strangely muted.

I love my work most when it leads me to new places—when it opens doors not just to conference rooms and files, but to hidden stories, unfamiliar streets, and forgotten corners of history. My recent trip to Kozhikode (Calicut) began as a routine work visit. But as with many places in Kerala, it didn’t take long for the landscape to cast its quiet spell.

Kozhikode, the historical capital of the Malabar region, was once the mighty seat of the Zamorins—rulers whose maritime prowess turned this coastline into a vibrant hub of spice trade. But beyond its local legacy, Kozhikode holds another monumental place in global history: this is where the Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama first set foot in India in 1498, opening the sea route that would change the course of empires.

You would expect such a momentous event to be marked with grandeur. And yet, near the golden sands of Kappad beach, all that stands is a modest, barely noticed plaque declaring that “Vasco da Gama landed here in 1498 AD.” That’s it—no museum, no interactive display, no storytelling installation. Just a small stone, weathered by salt and sun, bearing silent witness to an event that reshaped continents.

The irony was striking. This beach was once the threshold between two worlds—Europe and India—yet today, it’s a quiet stretch of sand where children play, vendors sell ice cream, and the waves continue their rhythm, indifferent to the tides of history.

Kappad Beach was nothing short of magnificent—surprisingly secluded, astonishingly pristine. Except for a small stretch where tourists mingled with local children, the shore belonged mostly to birds and crabs. The golden sand shimmered beneath the caress of gentle waves, while egrets and storks danced along the tide in quiet joy.

Even in the human-inhabited corner, life flowed gently. Children played with unbridled glee, their laughter rising above the sound of the surf. Nearby, fishermen stood by their boats, haggling over the day’s fresh catch—straight from the sea, still gleaming, still alive with salt and story.

There was a tranquil rhythm to it all, like a poem written in sand and sea breeze. I found myself wondering how such a gem of a place had escaped the intrusive glare of mass tourism. And then, I silently thanked the universe for that stroke of fortune—for letting Kappad remain untouched, unhurried, and deeply, undeniably poetic.

The city beach of Kozhikode stood in stark contrast to the serene solitude of Kappad. Here, noise replaced silence, and human presence overwhelmed the natural rhythm of the sea. It was alive—but in a way that felt more chaotic than charming.

The Kerala Book Fest was underway, and the entire beachfront had transformed into a maze of makeshift stalls, vendor carts, and throngs of students and visitors. Every inch of sand seemed claimed—by book displays, food counters, or selfie-taking groups. The vibrant energy might have felt festive to some, but on that hot and humid afternoon, it felt almost suffocating.

Plastic wrappers fluttered in the breeze. Loudspeakers competed with the chatter of crowds. Even the sea seemed muted beneath the cacophony of human activity. After the poetic quietude of Kappad, this urban beach reminded me how quickly natural beauty can be drowned in noise, unless fiercely preserved.

The magic of Malabar wasn’t done with me just yet. At sunrise, I found myself in Kadalundi—around 20 kilometers from the heart of Calicut—just as the first light kissed the water. Kadalundi–Vallikkunnu Community Reserve, nestled at the estuary where the Kadalundi River meets the Arabian Sea, holds the distinction of being India’s first riverfront community reserve on the Malabar Coast.

It is a place where land and water meet not just geographically, but also in spirit. The reserve includes a bird sanctuary and thriving mangrove swamps—forming a delicate ecosystem that shelters a fascinating array of native and migratory birds, insects, and aquatic life.

Gliding into the mangroves in a small wooden boat, I was struck by how intimate the experience felt. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic splash of the oar and the occasional calls of birds overhead. A large colony of seagulls had claimed an island in the estuary, their chatter filling the air as they nested in peace. The damp, dark soil shimmered with seashells and coral fragments—remnants of an ancient conversation between sea and land.

It wasn’t just a journey through a protected natural space; it felt like entering a world where humans were not intruders, but participants. This was my most memorable encounter with social forestry—an example of what community-led conservation can achieve when nature is treated as a neighbor, not a resource.

Later that day, we journeyed from the dense, breathing green of Kadalundi’s mangroves to the windswept shores of Beypore. At first glance, Beypore may seem like just another port town—modest, functional, perhaps even unremarkable. But its shores hold a secret whispered only to those who pause and listen. Here, under the open sky and beside the ancient Chaliyar River, lives a craft that connects Kerala to the distant lands of Arabia—a tradition of shipbuilding that dates back over a thousand years.

This is the home of the Uru—the legendary wooden dhow, once the lifeblood of maritime trade between India and the Middle East. These majestic vessels, called "Fat Boats" for their wide girth, were designed to carry heavy loads across vast oceans, and today they are the largest handcrafted boats in the world. To witness the making of a Uru is to witness living history—no blueprints, no computers, no formal manuals. Just the inherited wisdom of generations of craftsmen, passed down through memory and muscle, heart and hand.

Beypore’s shipyards don’t shout their legacy; they hum it quietly. From the outside, they look like any other industrial space—timber stacked high, tools scattered, workmen deep in concentration. But if you look closer, it unfolds as a story of extraordinary craftsmanship, deep-rooted cultural exchange, and India's ancient seafaring connections with Mesopotamia and the Arab world.

Once used to ferry spices, textiles, and treasures across oceans, these Urus now often find new lives as luxury yachts in the Gulf. Yet they remain faithful to their origins—still crafted from the famed teakwood of Nilambur forests, still built by hand on the very islands that dot the Chaliyar River, and still echoing the rhythm of a thousand years of tradition.

Standing there, among the scent of timber and the sounds of wood being chiseled and caressed into form, I couldn’t help but feel I was in the presence of something sacred. Not just boats—but heritage, memory, and the silent pride of a community that has shaped the oceans with their hands.

These boats are not just vessels—they are living sculptures, embodying a unique architectural genius honed by a specially skilled group of artisans from Malabar. What’s most astounding is that there are no blueprints, no sketches, no digital plans guiding the construction of a Uru. Everything, from conception to completion, lives in the mind of the maistry—the master builder—whose intuition and inherited wisdom guide the process with uncanny precision. It’s as if the boat flows from memory, spirit, and skill—like magic, every single time.

In traditional methods, not a single iron nail was used. This wasn’t just for aesthetics—it was practical. Iron rusts, and rust leads to leaks in the salty sea. So instead, the wooden planks were sewn together—yes, literally stitched—with coir rope, and then sealed with resin. The craftsmanship is as poetic as it is functional, a rare symphony of ingenuity and sustainability.

Woven into this story is the seafaring heritage of the Mappila Khalasis—a legendary community whose strength, teamwork, and rhythm have powered the launch of these giant boats for centuries. There’s a saying in Malayalam that goes “Othupidichal Malayum Porum”, which means, “If we act together, even mountains can be moved.” It’s not just a proverb—it’s a living truth in the hands of the Khalasis.

Watching them work is nothing short of mesmerizing. There are no cranes or hydraulic machines in sight. Only wooden rollers, sturdy ropes, pulleys, and the sheer willpower of dozens of synchronized human beings. They chant in unison as they push, pull, and guide vessels that weigh hundreds of tons—from land to sea and back again. It’s an ancient performance—raw, rhythmic, and deeply spiritual.

The energy of their collective effort is infectious. You don’t just see it—you feel it in your bones. And to truly grasp the magnitude of their creation, you must stand beside one of these majestic Urus, or better yet—climb onto one, as I did. Only then can you comprehend their true scale, their grace, and the soul embedded in every grain of wood.

To witness this tradition in a quiet construction yard near Beypore was one of the most humbling experiences of my journey. It made me realize how much of our world still runs on the brilliance of human hands, on ancestral knowledge, and on the silent strength of communities who carry their history forward with pride.

No account of Kozhikode would be complete without a tribute to its famed spices and cuisine. After all, this city—once a thriving hub of the global spice trade—is often called the mecca of Malabar pepper. The best-quality black pepper and a host of other aromatic spices have been cultivated in the verdant hills around here for centuries, bringing not only prosperity but also a rich, multicultural legacy to the region.

And the cuisine that blossomed from this legacy is just as enchanting. From the bustling street corners to elegant dining halls, the Malabari table is a celebration of warmth, hospitality, and depth of flavour. I had the privilege of dining at the legendary Paragon restaurant—where even for a staunch vegetarian like me, the experience was unforgettable. The flaky Malabar parotta and its delicate, noodle-like cousin nool parotta were sheer indulgence—soft, layered, golden perfection paired with spicy, fragrant gravies. Even the humble banana chips and pickles packed more flavour than one could expect from their simple appearance.

As I boarded the train for my return journey, the landscape began to recede—golden sands, quiet rivers, and the mangrove swamps of Kadalundi. But this time, they didn’t feel like just places I had visited. The mangroves, glowing in the twilight, stirred something unexpected in me—a wave of nostalgia for a place that had only recently entered my life. I suddenly realized that I was far away from the places I’ve always called home. And yet, a part of me felt rooted here too, as if something ancient and enduring had quietly woven itself into my memory.