An everlasting chant wafts from the ancient walls of the temple of Kapaleeshwarar: ‘Om Namasivaya.’ The effect is hypnotic. I wander inside and the chant merges with Vedic folk music as a joyous crowd of worshippers sing in praise of Shiva.
An elderly couple are having a birthday blessing and the Dravidian precincts are a riot of colour, jasmine garlands and spice. In a quieter corner, a girl kneels beside a stone cow and whispers her prayers into its ear. I have been in Tamil Nadu in the southernmost peninsula of India for one day and already I’m mesmerised. This is a land of temples and pilgrims, where you would have to have a heart of stone not to feel at least a little in touch with the divine.
In the north of the region, the city of Chennai, or Madras, with its pristine seafront, is where the English first landed in 1636, so temples like the Kapaleeshwarar exist alongside colonial echoes.
After a day exploring, I take a short flight to Tiruchirapalli, where I visit the magnificent Srirangam temple, the largest in India. It is really a complex of temples, each giving way to another through gates, like the Forbidden City. But the best is yet to come: an unforgettable road-trip through the lush delta. On my driver Mayil’s advice, we take the minor roads southwards from Trichy and an exquisite landscape unfolds. The soft watery greens of paddy fields yield to golden stretches of harvested corn laid out on the road. Coconut and banana trees stretch up into the sky. Women sit washing by rivers, or walk with pots and baskets and sugar cane balanced on their heads. The smell of eucalyptus and roasting cashews fill the air. The colours are impossibly bright.
There are animals everywhere. Goats, bullocks, monkeys, even baby elephants amble through traffic.
‘Mam crocodiles mam!’ says Mayil urgently as we cross a bridge. The creatures bask open-jawed on islands, next to which are men fishing by balancing on floating mats.
My first stopover is the Ideal River View Resort in Thanjavur, a collection of white chalets overlooking a sleepy river. A genteel atmosphere prevails.
The next day, I visit the beautiful Brihadeeswarar temple, which is flooded by a sea of pilgrims in red. My guide, Mrs Ashai, points out a tamarind tree festooned with scraps. Local girls tie pieces of sari to the branches to help them get pregnant. Along the roadsides I notice trees also hanging with rags. These are full of cow placenta, to bring newborn animals health. Everyone believes in the power of the gods here; the air is thick with faith.
Mrs Ashai asks the driver to take a diversion and shows me a hidden temple in the woods made from statues of horses. Few people find it, she says. I feel blessed.
On the drive from Thanjavur to Chettinad the landscape becomes ever more ravishing. We stop to buy cashews from a family toasting them by the road and their little girl tugs my arm, pleading, ‘Pen sir!’ When I hand her my biro, she smiles like it’s treasure.
In Kanadukathan, I stay at an old Chettiar merchant house called Visalam, an elegant building with the ceiling of its central hallway open to the sky. Only a hotel in India could have as its slogan ‘God is in the details’. Sure enough, every morning a maid chalks an intricate pattern on the red tiles of the entrance to welcome whatever spirit may come. There is a serene pool area and a balcony where dinner is served lit only by a slither of crescent moon and a few twinkling candles.
I take a hotel bicycle and meander around the village. The tranquillity is blissful, although I do feel ripped off when I stop to buy cotton saris from a hut and am charged 3,000 rupees by a girl who produces a Visa machine.
All is forgiven when, during a wander that evening through nearby Karaikudi, a passing elephant blesses me with his trunk. I dine at the Bangala with its owner, the legendary Mrs Meyyappan. The hotel boasts delicious cuisine and brims with character.
After a long drive back up to Pondicherry, I try my best to engage in the hustle of this French colonial seaside town but it is not until I get to Auroville that I find something to rival the delta. This is an extraordinary yoga commune that a French lady called The Mother built in memory of her mentor Sri Aurobindo. At its centre is a golden dome of meditation chambers. ‘A place of unending education… Auroville will boldly spring towards future realisations,’ the guidebook says. I stock up on inspirational literature in the visitor centre. Some reading for the plane.
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