Mahadeva and a Sacred Grove
The Mahadeva temple at Tambdi Surla, set in the forests on the border between Goa and Karnataka, attracts a steady stream of visitors. Our guide is R., a local who is well informed about the history of the temple and associated legends. He is very quick to point out that though all records say that the structure is made of basalt, which is an igneous rock, the temple is actually constructed from a metamorphic rock. He also tells us that the local version of the origin story of the temple is that it was built by the Pandavas.
On the way to the temple, as we drive through thick forests, I feel the wind in my hair, I hear my soul wanting to tear out of my body and take flight. There is blue sky and sunshine, and the memories of the previous evening’s ‘night safari’ are fresh in my mind. The forest is here, night and day, unscathed by human presence, mightier than all of us. It is comforting in its reminder of how insignificant we are.
However, we manage to make our presence felt in obtrusive ways. On the ancient path once used by the Kadambas, the section that leads to the landscaped quadrangle of the 13th century temple is now bordered by false ashoka trees, ridiculously manicured in the wild setting. The temple is said to have been built by the Kadamba rulers, who held sway over Goa from the 10th c. to the 14th c. Simple and elegant, it is not carved as extravagantly as several other southern temples, but holds its own in its beautiful nook overlooking the Anmod Ghats, resplendent in their autumnal foliage. We are in Dharbandora taluk, and across from us, starting at the second range of hills, is Karnataka; the first villages on the other side are Anmod and Khanapur. R. tells us that several residents of Dharbandora simply walk across a path through the hills to get to those villages, where they tend to have a lot of family. A casual day out in these parts is clearly quite different from what I am used to on the potholed roads of Chennai.
At the temple, Mahadeva resides in the form of a linga, with a broken vigraha of Nandi paying obeisance. The tiered gopuram is carved with figures of Brahma, Vishnu, and Bhairava, among others. There are smaller shrines dedicated to Ganesha and Nagadevatas. The destruction wrought on the temple is evident, and despite the ASI’s efforts, there is some restoration work yet to be done. Chants, conversations, and admonitions are accompanied by the steady gurgle of the stream by the temple. Outside, monkeys screech and make a beeline for the two shops that sell refreshments.
But this is not all — R. offers to show us a sacred grove that is, going by appearances, not frequented by worshippers. Not far from the Mahadeva temple, sheltered by corrugated roofs in a copse, are stone tablets inscribed with figurines. Durga (as Mahishasura Mardini) and Gajalakshmi (flanked by elephants, with a border of dancers and musicians) hold court; on a tablet half-buried in the soil is a spectacular depiction of the Samudra Manthana (churning of the ocean), only partially visible now. There are also depictions of what R. refers to as ‘Veer’ (but not really called that, he says), horse-mounted warriors who are the guardian deities of the region, perhaps similar to Ayyanaar and such deities in Tamil Nadu. Interestingly, most of the deities featured here, apart from Ayyanaar, seem to be female. There are no signs of active worship — no flowers or water, just overgrown plants and dried leaves.
R. tells us that there were once schools dedicated to the study of five elements: fire, water, earth, sky, and forests. To me, the forest is everything here, from the heron at the base of the fig tree to the river that curves past it and the fresh, leafy air that we breathe.
Though quiet but for the occasional birdsong, the forest lives and breathes around us. The deities send us silent blessings. We accept them and return to our vehicle, released from the slight unease of new surroundings, but rejuvenated by having felt and seen what called to us, what we didn’t know we needed.
