23 Tirthas in Rameswaram

I decided to dedicate my first day in Rameswaram to visiting the main temple. It was at this location, the Ramanathaswamy temple, where Rama was thought to have completed a practice to the Gods before setting off to Lanka, ensuring his success. As you can probably guess, Rama ends up killing Ravana, but in doing do, he commits a grave sin, that of killing a Brahmin. To atone for this, upon returning from Lanka, Rama does penance to Shiva.

The story goes that Rama needed a lingam for the practice, and so sends Hanuman to the Himalayas. However, time quickly runs out and finding that Hanuman has not returned Rama is left wondering what to do. Sita, by this point reunited with Rama, carves a lingam out of the sand and this is used for the practice. When Hanuman does return, he is embarrassed at not having been able to complete the task given to him in time. Rama, upset to see his friend in such a state decided that from then on Hanuman’s Lingam should always be worshipped first. For this reason there are two lingams, and anyone who visits is asked to always see Hanuman’s lingam first.

This mandir also has a special link to another mandir in North India, one of the first I visited on my trip, Viswanath. Water is taken from the Ganga and brought here, just as water from the ocean is taken to Varanasi. It was almost as if I had come full circle, and I could not help but think that this was the perfect place for it to happen.

I set off to the temple armed with nothing but a bag of spare clothes, wrapped in a plastic bag, clenched tightly under my arm. There are 64 tirthas, wells, in Rameswaram, 24 of which are holy, and 22 of which happen to be in the main temple. For 25 rupees one can bathe, this word being used rather loosely, in each of these wells, and today I was going to do just that.

Starting by walking into the nearby ocean, seen as one of the other 24 wells, I walked with wet feet across to the temple to begin. Maybe a few months ago the idea of walking barefoot with soaking wet feet across Indian streets, wearing my Kurta Pyjama, without a phone may have scared me, but after a few months of travelling, it just felt right.

Upon walking in, I was immediately surrounded by others who were themselves soaked in water. Some were shivering, but all were smiling, and I was about to find out why. As with most things in India, I was not really sure what to expect when I joined the queue approaching the first well, but with my spare dry clothes still clutched tightly under my arm, I ventured to find out.

The wells were themselves about 15 metres deep. There was someone standing on the walls of the well, holding buckets in their hands. They systematically, with tremendous efficiency, lowered these buckets into the wells with rope they had, before bringing it back up. Some gently poured water over our heads, some thrashed it over our bodies, but each well was a wonderful experience. The wells were dotted all over the temple, and so after bathing in one, I walked to the next one, surrounded by those who were doing the same. I started to reflect on the trip I had, wondering if a year ago I could have pictured myself by the ocean in South India, volunteering and actually paying to have strangers throw cold water on me, surrounded by soaking wet people of all ages, in one of the most spiritually significant places in India. It all seemed quite surreal.

Clinging to my clothes, that I hoped were still dry, seemed to bring me back to reality and finishing the last well I felt a wave of fulfilment. I knew I had begun the end of my journey, and each moment was bringing with it a sense of closure.

The temple, however, is not only famed for its wells and its relationship to Rama. It is also, perhaps more superficially, home to one of the longest corridors in the world, and it is regretful that I was unable to take photos. The corridors were lined with pillars that seemed to play with my eyes as I looked towards them. The temple had that same timeless mystique as the ones I had visited in Madurai, broken by the sunlight that emerged through into its open atriums. It has to have been one of my favourite places on the trip.

After spending the morning in the temple, now with my dry clothes on, I decided it was time for some food, although arguably with the range of food available in South India it is always time for food. I found a restaurant, paid 70 rupees, just under a pound, and was handed a banana leaf. It was a restaurant that served only one type of meal, and so everywhere I turned people were all handed their banana leaves, which they quickly washed, before sitting eagerly in anticipation for the food that was to come. I was sitting facing the door, but I could tell food was being brought out, as the backs of those sitting facing the kitchen straightened, and their eyes brightened.

First, rice was brought out to everyone, followed by subzis, followed by chutneys. However, even with plates full of food people did not start eating. At first I wondered why, but soon I quickly realised. There was no samba, the one dish that you can find anywhere and everywhere in South India. As if on queue, the samba was quickly brought out and everyone began to eat. Servers would walk around, keen and eager to always pour you more, and convincing myself that it was rude to say no, I happily obliged.

Emerging from the restaurant, still with my bag of now wet clothes, I wondered to the nearest Chai Walla. A stocky man stood proudly behind his cooking pots, filled to the brim with hot chai, the aroma of which filled the open space around him. Looking as though he was king of his world he poured me a cup with a smile that was soon matched by my own. After exchanging familial head nods, and 10 rupees, I ambled over to the bus stop, enjoying all around me as I did.

I think it was the first time I had started to feel like I was not a backpacker or a traveller anymore, but that I was at home. It had taken nearly two months, but the rigid shell that has often stopped me from being me seemed to have been broken by the water from the wells. It was with this thought, that I started to turn my thoughts towards the final destination on my trip, Dhanushkodi, the tip of the bow, the place where Rama built the bridge and the end of my trail.