Waiting at Dwarka
Our usually reliable cab operator assures us that the Dwarkadhish temple is open in the afternoon. We choose local knowledge over what the Internet tells us and are promptly proved wrong. However, this allows us to linger over yet another Gujarati thaali, sitting behind another Tamil family — the second we have seen today. All this while, in our travels around Bhuj and Junagadh, we have seen only Gujarati tourists for some reason.
Lunch done, we still have a few hours to go. We wander through the narrow alleys beside the temple, where the stalls are ablaze with colour. While Somnath was austere and plain, like the ascetic deity who reigns there, the lanes around the Dwarkadhish temple are resplendent with the gaiety that all the songs and the stories about Krishna tell us of. But the languor of the afternoon seems to quell even fervent shoppers. People stroll aimlessly or linger on street corners. The bridge that promises spectacular views of the Arabian Sea is shut, because why should parks and public spaces be open for people to enjoy except during hours rigidly defined by the local administration?
It is a long wait. There are no benches or chairs anywhere and the sun burns hot; the beach will not provide any respite at this hour. Few places offer any shade. We sit on the steps to someone’s house, in the shadow of the narrow eaves, alert for the sound of the latch. Soon enough, the door opens and a man steps out, but he is unbothered. This is probably an every day affair for him, seeing strangers who have nothing to do perch on his doorstep. Having experienced Somnath, we know what isn’t allowed in the temple and have left our phones in the cab. To while away our waiting hours, we do what we did when travelling in trains or eating out in the years before our lives were upended by our devices. We watch people and eavesdrop, we record images in our head for future use. Waiting, after all, is a part of the temple (or religious site) experience: sometimes you wait for a few hours, often for several years.
In a little while the town begins to stir — while the temple opens at a particular time, those that serve it or depend on it in various capacities begin their preparations an hour or two before this. Vendors lay out their wares. Straight across from us, an elderly man sets up his stock on wooden benches. He has small, brightly painted wooden figurines of animals and birds, and when we pass him later, we see that the paint is already chipping off them. But this is his livelihood and he dusts each item meticulously as we move to our next halt — the queues in front of the lockers.
People mill about in groups here, waiting for the lockers to be opened. Cattle shelter with us — we have spent much of our trip fascinated by the large animals (Kankrej?) with their prominent curved horns and big humps. Here, a bull tries to break up a party of shoppers who are buying offerings from a vendor and seemingly occupying its spot: it rams into a woman, but she is unperturbed and simply moves a few feet to continue haggling with the seller.
***
The temple is now open, but the sanctum sanctorum will close soon for an early pooja. There are separate, long queues for men and women, and any remaining sense of boundaries is dissolved as everyone rushes to avoid another wait. The male queue moves quickly, leaving female partners and others to play catch-up, hoping that we’ll find our men when we are finally disgorged into the main complex. A woman tries to push past us, saying that she has been parted from her husband. The queue ripples with laughter and she is forced to wait with the rest of us.
G. waits for me at the entrance and we go in, only to be confronted by another set of queues leading to the sanctum sanctorum. This time I’m swept in with the ladies, some of whom break into a fight, believing that the decorum of queues has been broken. Peace is hard-earned here, but it does arrive in a bit, in the form of a fleeting glimpse of Krishna, richly attired in green silk and ornaments, well cared for by the millions of people who mass here to celebrate Him every day. His gaze is calm, in direct contrast to the bubbling fervour and yearning of the crowds. That momentary glance is all of it and the wait prepares you to make the most of this quiet communion.
***
G. and I stand at the top of some steps that lead to an outer shrine, surveying the vista as a large group enters for a ceremony. The courtyards of the temple are transformed into a riot of colour and the atmosphere is festive. This is a sight that is etched in my memory like a painting: every possible colour dotting the spaces within the temple, standing out against the brown walls, loud voices hailing Krishna and making any private conversation impossible. There couldn’t possibly be more colour and joy at Holi or in a wedding procession. There is a palpable sense of delight among the people who have travelled far and wide to meet Krishna — in their invocation of the deity is the joy of attainment, even through the briefest of glimpses. We take this home with us, to be recalled when we need it.
***
I started writing this piece a few months ago after our trip in January, drifted away, wrote a version in my notebook, and have now returned to it on Janmashtami eve for a combination of reasons — but this is how it was meant to be. And because I seize every opportunity I can to share music that influences me, here are some Krishna favourites:
- Jamuna Kinare (Raag Mishra Pilu)
- Karuna Nidhan (Raag Charukeshi)
- Kanha Re (Raag Kedar)
