Category: Chapter 7

Rameswaram was to mark a significant point for my journey, as it was the last place I was visiting. 7 weeks and 3,500km later, I was about to finish the Trail of Rama.

My train from Madurai was only going to take me 4 hours, but the train itself had been travelling for two days before reaching me. Maybe it was this, or maybe it was for other reasons, but to my surprise upon boarding my carriage, I found myself sharing it not only with people, but also with cockroaches. I was sitting on the edge of my seat for the entire journey, only thankful that I would soon be leaving. But, it was the last train I would be taking, and at least I could say I have had an interesting range of experiences.

After getting used to my new companions for the trip, I remembered reading about the two kilometre Pamban bridge connecting Rameswaram to mainland India. Realising we were about to cross it, I ventured to the carriage door, opened it and leaned out as I had become so used to doing on Indian trains. It was dark at the time, but the expansive sea was still visible, and the noise of the gentle crash of the waves upon the railway track tickled my ears. The breeze brushed past me and I knew that I was going to miss this magical adventure. The railway bridge was only one track, and so looking down I could not actually see the bridge that the train was crossing, only the water beneath me, and it felt as though the train was floating above the sea.

Rama crossed the sea on a floating bridge to reach his final destination, and I could not help but imagine that I was doing the same. Smiling to myself, I returned to my seat, before getting off at Rameswaram, being careful to ‘mind the gap between the train and the platform’ for what would be the last time in India, as I had no tannoy announcements to remind me.

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.

Dhanushkodi Point, the closest point to Sri Lanka in India, was about twenty-five kilometres from where I was staying. I had been worrying about how to get there. I knew I had to take a few different buses and then a ‘truck’, but I was not sure if I was actually going to be able to reach the Point itself. But I had worked out by this stage that things seem to work themselves out, and I was not going to let my small worries get in the way of my day.

At this very moment, I decided to read some more of my Rāmayana. I turned to my page, and found it was the chapter discussing Rama’s worry about crossing the sea to reach Lanka. He was unsure whether it was a task that could be completed, but he was reassured by those around him that he need not worry, for things always work themselves out.

With this happy ‘coincidence’ I set off for the last part of my Trail.

I took a first bus which tumbled all the way to the Ramanathaswamy temple, before taking a second which brought me to within ten kilometres of Dhanushkodi Point. It was here that travel became more difficult. There was a straight, brand new road which ran all the way to the Point, but for some reason the jeeps, cars and rickshaws around me would not take me there, telling me the only way I could go on from here was to take a ride from one of the trucks. So, I got in line, but being by myself meant I was often kept to the back, to allow bigger groups to go ahead of me. After missing a few trucks and a forty minute wait I started to get angry. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the frustration at being so close but so far, or maybe it was that fact I wanted this last day to be ‘perfect’, and it seemed as though it was not going to be.

After standing my ground with the drivers,  I let myself on to the next truck that came, knowing if I did not I may never get on. There were no free seats, so I sat myself down just above the gearbox. It wasn’t really a seat, but it did the job and so I sat in the front watching the sea and the beach go past, each second getting closer to the end of my journey. I noticed that my fingers clawed on to the bottom of the box I was sitting on, realising they were the only things keeping me attached to my seat.

The truck bouldered its way along the serene beach, crossing pools of immense shimmering water, and mounds of mighty sand, sometimes going forwards sometimes sideways, but never in a straight line.

And just as it seemed as through the truck could keep moving forever it let out an unhappy groan before very slowly coming to a stop. The driver huffed, muttered a few words under his breath, reached for his tool box, and went out to inspect what had gone wrong. I had a front row seat for this spectacle, and smiled to myself as it had occurred, marvelling at the waves as they brushed the beaches around us. The truck was soon ‘fully functioning’, and we continued on our way.

It was not long before the truck stopped again. I looked around and noticed a few makeshift stalls selling chai and water. The tables used by the stalls  looked as though they might crumble at any second, and the blue tarpaulin that covered them as though they would blow away even sooner.

I jumped off the bus feeling disheartened. I had travelled for two months across India, and it felt as though I may not reach the last point on my Trail. I sat myself down by the sea, thinking that I could not go any further without some other form of transport. I had seen private cars going down the road to Dhanushkodi Point, and I knew I had another day in Rameswaram. I thought that even if it was expensive I could hire one to take me the day after, and that’s how I would get there. Disappointed that I was not going to see the Point today I stood up and began my walk back to the truck. However, I knew that nothing is ever certain, and I knew that there was a chance that I would not be able to come back the next day. So, I looked out to the ocean before me, and started reflecting on the journey I had had.

After a few moments, I stopped. I knew that I could not finish my trail here. I thought that maybe there was the slightest chance, if I talked to the truck driver, the same one I had an argument with, that something could happen.

‘Can you take me to Dhanushkodi point?,’ I asked.

Asking that small question, which a few months ago I would have been too scared to do for fear of breaking the ‘status quo’, transformed my day, and my trail with it.

‘No,’ he said.

‘No?’ I replied.

‘No.’

With my head down, I walked to the bus.

‘But you can walk there if you want.’

I felt a wave of excitement fill my body, my eyes widened, I lifted my head up, and found a smile returning to my face.

‘I can walk?’

‘You can walk.’

By this point it was midday and the sun was at its hottest. It was a five kilometre walk and the road would pose no issues; it was as straight as it was new. But I knew the heat could be a problem. However, I remembered reading something in the Ramayana. Rāma is about to start crossing the bridge, and Hanuman turns to him and says that as Rāma has set off when the sun is at its zenith, he will surely be successful in his endeavours. I looked up. The sun, as bright as I had ever seen it, was straight above me. The smile grew on my face.

‘I’ll walk.’

I went to the nearest stall, bought three litres of water, turned my trousers into shorts, retrieved my cap and sunglasses from my bag, and said bye to the driver.

The Trail was alive again.

I began my walk along the newly built road with the sun overhead, and oceans either side. The Bay of Bengal resides on one side of the road and the Arabian Sea on the other making for quite the site. It was quiet, with only the roar of the waves and the birds overhead keeping me and my ears company.

I started walking and suddenly felt overcome by a wave of emotion.  I started to reflect on the journey I had had, the places I had seen, the people I had met, the things I had learned about myself, and the magic the Ramayana had showed me along the way. It had been an adventure unlike any I had experienced, and my walk provided me with the time and space I needed to appreciate it. I continued walking and as I did my thoughts began to quiet, and the world around me seemed to stand still.

In those moments the past had no power over me and the future was of no concern to me. I was present. I saw the world around me as it was, and it was beautiful. It is a feeling I cannot really describe to you, but on that walk I felt free.

I was happy that I was not being taken in a car to the Point, or I would not have experienced all those things I did. I set off at the beginning of the day telling myself that things would sort themselves out, and they had.

I used to think that things were only perfect if they went in a straight line. If they went exactly how I pictured them, and exactly as I wanted them to be. If my trip has taught me anything, it is that this is far from the case. I have learned that, if I have remained open to following it, it is the path that I had least expected, the one that twists and turns and bumps and curves, that ends up bringing me real joy.

The forty minutes I spent walking to Dhanushkodi Point were some of the happiest of the Trail, and ones that I will never forget.

As I approached the end of the road, I started to see the beaches that would mark the end of my journey. Filled with another wave of excitement, ignoring the heat, I continued on my way.

I soon reached Dhanushkodi Point, marked by a small statue stood at the end of the road with the beach visible beyond it. I walked past the statue, and descended the three steps that brought me onto the beach. A tear fell from my eye and rolled down my cheek.

I bounced along the beach revelling in my elation until I stood at the last point I could. The two seas met at this point. The waves of the two bodies of water raced towards each other, before colliding into the other’s might.

I sat on the beach, reading my Rāmayana, reflecting on the adventure I had had. After a while I felt as though it was time to leave and so I walked off the beach. I turned around to appreciate fully my surroundings, and to take in all I could before leaving, but when my eyes were met with the sight of the beach I felt myself unable to turn away. Its magic engulfed and overwhelmed me. It was one of the most extraordinary feelings I have ever felt, and one that I am unable to describe to you.

After some more time of being unable to move my eyes from what lay before me, I was finally able to turn around, filled only with warmth. I knew then that I had finished the Trail of Rama and holding that feeling in my heart, I began my journey home.

जय श्री राम
Jai Srī Rāma