THE TEMPLE TANK

(A sketch)

D. V. KRISHNA SASTRI

Translated by D. ANJANEYULU from the original in Telugu

Nestling amidst green fields, mango groves and cashew plantations is a quiet, little village by name Sarpavaram. Creeping between one garden and another and between one field and another are the sandy pathways which wind themselves like wheat-coloured cobras before they disappear from the sight of the lofty temple tower.

There is a large-sized tank at Sarpavaram. Starting on the outskirts of the village, it stops at the steps in front of the main entrance to the temple–as if thereby its duty is done. In the centre of the street is a small mantapam (a pillared pavilion in stone), I remember. To the north of the temple is a gopuram (tower). On the other side of the tower is the temple tank. Beyond the tank are the fields and the groves. The tank is full of lotuses and lilies and moss. Under the umbrella-like lotus leaves, the ducks are sometimes lost in contemplation. The white crane, meditating on the moss amidst the lotus stalks, creates in the casual onlooker the illusion of a lily bud or a lotus blossom. The lotus and the lily themselves are ever rapt in meditation too. The herds of cows ambling along the beaten tracks lift their heads up for a while to the peal of the temple bells and slowly proceed on their onward journey. The peasants and workers in the fields and on the hedges slant their heads to catch the sound of these bells and resume the work on hand, thereby deriving some hope and strength. The gurgling little waves on the waters of the temple tank seem to stop and strain their ears for the same sound. All these sounds–the call of the temple bells, the bellowing of the cows, the human voices near at hand, the cries of birds and the flutter of their wings, all these seem to merge in a strange harmony to fill the village air and deepen the silence that is wafted from door to door.

The temple tower looks noble and lofty, like the headman of the village, a benevolent patriarch standing guard over the residents day and night. It has a proud bearing–a source of pride to the villagers.

If the temple tower is the father, the temple tank is the mother. It cleanses the dirt of the bathers in its cool waves. It slakes their thirst with its sweet waters. It has a heart pure and deep, a lap soft and cosy like the infants cradle. The tower tends to lean a little towards the tank which seems to catch its shadow (on its placid waters) sometimes.

There is not a village in the land of the Telugus without its temple. The temple rises not merely to protect the village. Without the temple there is no integrity to life. There is no lustre to the beauty of the village. The Telugu village is usually situate in a dale or by a hill, in the lap of the corn-fields or behind the screen of the groves, on the bank of a river or on the bund of a canal. It adds a sweetness and coolness to its peculiar charm, all its own.

`At the centre of the village or on its outskirts is the temple–with its lofty tower or lovely dome. Close by is the temple garden full of flowers of varied hue and fragrance–oleander, broad-leaved rosebay, pagada, parijata, jasmine and mandara. The weather-beaten farmer, with one hand on his plough in the furrow, with the other taking the pearls of sweat off his brow, looks up to catch a glimpse of the pretty village surrounding the temple and his own sweet home which beckons him. Grazing his cattle on the meadow skirted by mango, fig and neem trees, the cowherd rests a while under the shade of a tree to squint his tiled eyes at the temple and the village huts which seem to tell him to hurry back home. There is no village in the Telugu land without its temple. But not every temple has a tank attached to it. A temple situated on a riverside or canal bank may not need a tank to itself. There may be a well near some of the smaller temples. But every temple on a holy place has a tank of its own. A temple tank is not the same as a common tank. One kind of temple tank is known as pushkarini–which contains lotuses; another is called Kairavini–which has white lilies; a third is Gundam (literally a pit or pool). The one at Srirangam is Chandra pushkarini. At Pithapuram–of Lord Madhavaswami and His consort Kunti–is Madhava pushkarini That of Lord Parthasarathi is Kairavini. At Kotipalli it is known Somagundam, at Kumara Aramam it is Bhimagundam; Saptagodavaram at Daksharamam; and Bhavanasini at Korukondalu. Beside the hill-top shrine of Lord Venkateswara (Lord of the Seven Hills) at Tirupati is a tank. At Kotappakonda the temple is on the hill, while the tank is at village Yellamanda down below. The worshippers of Lord Narasimha do not need a tank at all, as there are some streams flowing down the Simhachalam hill. Lord Markandeya of Kamaladri has his abode on the river Goutami.

A valley amidst the hills,

A tank in that valley,

Beside the tank, inside the temple

Is manifest the goddess of gold, Durgamma.

Village Pithikapura is known as the Kasi of the South. It is one of the holy places (Pada Gaya Kshetram) in this sacred land of Bharat. Lord Madhava and his consort Kunti are gracing this place of pilgrimage. It is one of the 18 sacred shrines including Ujjain and Banaras.

Skirting this pretty village like a pearl necklace is the rivulet Eleru. If crops of all varieties are sustained by the waters of the Godavari, those of the Eleru vouchsafe verily a harvest of gold. All around this village are green fields of paddy and sugarcane and orchards of mango, cocoanut and jack fruit. Visible at a fair distance from here is the tower of Lord Kukkuteswara’s temple situated outside the village. In the precincts of the shrine is the holy tank known as Pada Gaya, to the east of which is the temple and west the garden which gives the flowers, leaves, and tender shoots for the worship of the Lord. Pada Gaya is square-shaped with flights of stairs in stone on all sides. This tank knows how many pairs of human feet had walked these well-worn steps–from Sage Vyasa of old down to myself. There is perhaps not a thing unbeknown to this tank, which seems to have surpassed the common limitations of time. All kinds of people have been visiting this shrine down the ages, on festival and other days–the rich and the poor, the diseased in mind and body, the saint and the sinner, pilgrims true and false. But the tank has to permit before one could enter the temple. It is a kind of passport control. The secret of every step, on which the pilgrim sets foot, is known to this tank. But she forgives and forgets. She cleanses every seeker with a motherly touch, permits him with a gentle pat on the back, and ushers him into the temple, her rippling little waves whispering the “open sesame” into his ear.

What a bewildering variety of men on the steps of the tank! Men and women, young and old–some standing waist-deep in the water and taking a dip, others cautious and hesitant in descending the bottom steps, yet others rubbing the wetness off their bodies after the bath. Some taking the ceremonial bath to the incantation of sacred hymns, the waters gurgling to the dipping bodies, the sound of brass vessels being immersed, the noise of little breakers against the stairs–all this goes on from dawn to dusk.

Clean and fresh after the bath, their foreheads adorned by the marks of sacred ash, well-washed copper vessels in the right hand, the temple priests climb up the steps of the tank to go into the temple.

There is now the floating festival in the holy tank of Madhava pushkarini. Rows and rows of w1ick lamps on the steps all around the tank, an illumined pavilion in its centre, the presiding deity beneath the pavilion. Lord Madhavaswami and Goddess Raja-rajeswari, and Iswara himself, are come down for us and seated in the celestial boat bedecked with flowers and leaves. The devout hearts of the pilgrims are aflutter like the wick lamps in the air. From out of the darkness emerges the Lord and the Mother in all their wonted effulgence. Tumult alternates with silence in the expectant crowd. Beneath the tumult and above the silence and along the gentle ripples on the tank appears the living image of the Lord on the steps taking it easy, with the goddess beside him, dangling his feet in the waters. This may be the picture that fills the memory of the pilgrims back in their village homes, taking a nap in their cosy beds. Who knows the truth of this image except the temple tank!

The temple of Lord Bhimeswara of Kumara Arama is on the other side of the railway station at Chamarlakota. On this side of it is the new town with its motor buses and shopping places. In the station are the roaring trains and shouting men. Surrounded by sugarcane fields is this temple built by the Chalukya kings. It is difficult to find a shrine in a more serene and beautiful setting. Close by is the Bhimagundam, about the most placid of temple tanks. One cannot help wishing that a pretty little village would rise here and the noisy town on this side of the railway station would move farther away.

And then, lighted torches go better with the temple than electric lamps. There is obviously a limit to the light cast by the electric lamp. The shadow beneath the lighted torch is almost as deep as the human heart. The sleepy, winking torch lends a strange glow to the outline of the temple. The glittering ripples on the waters of the temple tank dance to the tune of the fluttering torches.

With the charm of the village are inextricably mixed, in my mind, the temple, the temple tank, the lighted torch, the sound of the bell and the trumpet call of the conch, the fluted music of Sehnai in the evening, the fragrance of the waters of the holy basil and the flowers offered to the Lord with lighted camphor, the temple tank in particular.

Leaning over the surface of the temple tank, quite often did I capture not only my shadow, but a reflection of my heart and soul. Whenever I do so, the tank sighs and whispers with the sure knowledge of all my secrets. That is the moment of my ascent from the womb of the tank to the crest of the temple tower. Without the tank beside the temple, there can be no staircase from the bottom of the nether world to the top of Paradise.

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