JOIN US With its many temples and a sense of spirituality that permeates every home, Sringeri in Chikmagalur district is a pit stop in the race of life, writes Varshini Murali. And indeed to lakhs of others who throng this serene temple town.
It’s a wonder what a photograph can do. A sepia-toned picture can take you back longingly to your past; a black-and-white photograph shows you a time before your own (well not if present-day technology has anything to do with it, I guess) and the more recent colours that infuse life into a frame can even make you see the same old things in a completely different light.
And that’s exactly what happens when I chance upon an abandoned coffee-table book, opened to a page depicting a majestic stone edifice, blackened with time but resplendent in prayer: the Vidyashankara Temple in Sringeri.
Sringeri: With its myriad temples and a sense of spirituality that permeates through every home and street, this hill town in the Chikmagalur district has been, to my family, a pit stop in the race of life. It is here, every once in a while, that we’ve returned for peace of mind and a semblance of serenity before rushing back into the ‘hurry-burry’ of urban life.
I jump past a few pages of written script and land upon a long shot of the temple, taken as it were from the bridge across the Tunga river.
As I skim through the remaining photos, I find myself tumbling back in time, revisiting small chunks of many, many Sringeri visits during the initial days of my parents’ spiritual pursuit, till I’m there myself — on the bridge, leaning over the bluish-grey railing, peering down at the clear waters below — just like it was yesterday.
Steeped in history
There, on the steps that lead down to the river, is a small part of history, forever etched in stone. A cobra, with its hood raised is seen giving shade to a pregnant frog. It is here, where two born enemies are found shedding their most natural instinct that Adi Shankaracharya decided to establish the Sringeri Math.
All around the riverside, children tear apart plastic packets of puffed rice and empty its contents into the water. Silver-grey fish, gleaming in the sunlight, splash about and fight each other over white flecks that float past them, surely tasteless by now. I’m there as well, trying to evenly distribute my 10-rupee packet of rice amongst the fish and quickly shove a fistful into my mouth when I think no one is looking. But alas! Someone is always looking.
I cast one last glance at the temperamental river — tranquil one season, angry and boisterous the next — before I scurry back up the stone steps and come face to face with an architectural marvel that overlooks the river and the forest beyond.
Six steep sets of steps allow for six different entrances into the Vidyashankara Temple. Stunningly carved out of granite, this site of heritage is situated at the heart of the temple complex. Built over the samadhi of Vidyashankara in the 14th century and combining features of both Hoysala and Dravida architecture, this temple houses a shiva linga as the main deity.
There’s hardly anyone inside: a handful of priests and a few tourists peering into the sanctum sanctorum to get a glimpse of the idol.
Save for the beams of sunlight that come streaming through each of the entrances, with dust motes dancing in suspension, the temple is a welcome source of shade — light on the eyes and soothing for calluses burnt in the heat of the afternoon. In the eastern corner, 12 pillars stand tall in a mantapa, each of which corresponding to a sign of the zodiac.
Outside, a lone tourist guide circles the parapet, waiting patiently for an opportunity to point out to the sculptures that line the façade and extol upon their history and significance to curious, unassuming tourists.
Tourists: those teeming mass of floating heads that form most of the population in this temple town at any point in time. They’re everywhere, buying garlands on streets, prostrating over Thorana Ganapati near the temple grounds, helping themselves to a pinch of crimson kumkum that lie in heaps inside the Sharadamba Temple, or simply taking in the view from the bridge over the river, the bridge that takes one to Narasimhavana, where the current Shankaracharya resides.
The Sharadamba Temple is, in fact, much older than the neighbouring Vidyashankara’s final abode. Initially a wooden temple, the presiding deity here was made of sandalwood. The sandalwood murti was first installed over a Sri Chakra, which Adi Shankaracharya had carved onto a rock. Subsequent Shankaracharyas had built a wooden temple around it, and substituted the sandalwood idol for a gold one.
Today, the goddess is held within granite walls supported by stone pillars carved with images of Durga, Raja Rajeshwari, Dwarapalakas and Devis, in accordance with the shilpa shastras. As for the original sandalwood idol, it can be found inside the Vidyashankara Temple itself.
As I wade through the crowd that has assembled here, which seems to have increased over the years, I remember my grandmother’s remark about how there would hardly be a tourist-soul in town when she used to visit as a child.
What changed, I begin to wonder, to which, V R Gowrishankar, CEO and Administrator of the Sringeri Math replies, “Accessibility.” Until 1987, he reveals, only two red buses would ply from Bangalore.
Not much was known about the town and the treasures it held, and there was hardly any economic activity to encourage or increase the awareness of such a place. Gowrishankar even refers to a past instance, where he had once approached the KSRTC chairman with a request to introduce a few special buses along the Bangalore-Sringeri route; his request was simply laughed away: Sringeri didn’t figure in the big business picture, or for that matter, even the map.
Today, however, those facts have changed. One could take a seven-hour drive from Bangalore, and brave the sharp twists and turns up the Sahyadri range to reach the town.
Or sleep through it all (best of luck with that) in an overnight bus journey. One could even take a train to Shimoga or Kadur, and hail a taxi for the rest of the journey. Short of time? Then, fly in to Mangalore and cut your travel time by half.
There’s an added bonus as well. A visit to this side of town allows for easy access to other well-known pilgrim haunts — Kollur, Udupi, Dharmasthala, Subramanya to name a few — making Sringeri a “great base” or a fulcrum of sorts, if I can call it that.
Change has come to Sringeri
What was once considered an underdeveloped area, washed over by drowning rains or swept up by unpleasantly cold weather, the Malnad region in Karnataka has seen much upliftment over the years, partly due to V R Gowrishankar himself, a Padmashree awardee for his efforts in the field of social work, which have helped improve the Malnad region as a whole and Sringeri in particular.
The town has changed in many ways: for instance, apart from transport, accommodation is not quite the same problem it was once was. Businesses, I suppose, thrive because of the tourist —florists dot the stretch of Bharathi Street that leads down to the entrance of the temple complex; a girl uses a perforated template to line a corner of the street in a variety of mini rangolis, calling out to me to buy a design or two, and when it’s Navratri, there is no end to the line of glistening bangle shops tempting me to slide a few down my wrist.
Emerging from the vortex of my own memories as I reflect upon an earlier Sringeri and what it has now become, I’m reminded of an age-old adage — the more things change, the more they stay (culturally) the same.