My cousin and I set off from Ramnad for the island town of Rameswaram at 8:15 am. It promised to be a cloudy, wet day.

The drive was about an hour. Along the route were pools of water, shrubs and thorny bushes. It gave off a bleak vibe. There was a lot of stagnant water possibly because of clay or sandy soil. Or it could just be that the soil had no space any more to hold the season’s abundant rain within its layers, and consequently, let the excess remain for the sun to do its work.

We saw groups of black dhoti-clad Ayyappan devotees, bearded, bare torso and all, doing their share of sightseeing while returning from the gruelling pilgrimage to Sabarimala. 

While entering Rameswaram, we saw a few nice hotels. As we moved closer to the temple, the path took us through narrow lanes, packed on both sides with small, multi-level, wall-to-wall houses. Cars, buses and auto-rickshaws negotiated the roads, deftly avoiding the parked bikes, people on foot and stray cows while making their way to the temple.

We got off by the seashore, about 300 metres before the temple’s entrance. What has been an ‘on-again, off-again’ drizzle turned into a sharp shower. We scrambled for cover. We had left our footwear in the car. It has been years since I’ve walked barefoot on the roads. For a diabetic, it is never a good idea to do so. Rainwater flowed steadily down the locality’s gradient, emptying into the sea. As we walked towards the temple, getting drenched, our feet were washed by a mix of water, dung and dirt that flowed with the rains. The path was wet. Coarse sand and gravel revived the dull nerve endings on the soles. The hope was for a soul-drenching experience at the temple.

The Darshan

The seashore was teeming with people taking a holy dip in the sea. Other tourists on the beach appeared busy with their rituals, unmindful of the dark clouds, the rain and the background hum of the bustling pilgrimage site.

It was apparent that for many, it was part of their sacred duty to their ancestors. Their faith and devotion were palpable. Their chatter and the chants inside the closed chambers of the temple was inescapable. Cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ filled the air. This was not a setting for silent contemplation, sensing the divine around us and within. As an aside, I noted there there were no calls of ‘Jai Shri Ram’.

The queues were orderly. The ambience was thick with human presence, like in a bustling railway station. ‘No photography’ signs were everywhere and yet everyone was busy clicking away. The lighting inside the temple was barely adequate. The sanctum sanctorum housing the idol was mostly dark. No modern-day electrical lighting devices were in use. Periodically, the priest would light an oil lamp or camphor and offer aarti. Standing in queue about 10–15 metres away, one could at best see the outline of the idol. I, for one, wasn’t sure if it was just my imagination. The darshan was less than a minute. There were incessant nudges from those behind us in the queue and the temple staff, and in no time, we were out of the main hall. After the mandatory circumambulations around the temple, it was time to exit.

We trudged back to the car. The rain had stopped. The pathway still felt wet, muddy and sticky. On both sides were small shops selling religious merchandise—lamps, brass containers, etchings of gods and goddesses on plates of various sizes, incense, and water in plastic bottles and cans of various sizes. Some shops sold decorative items made of seashells and conch shells of various sizes. We dipped our feet in the sea, felt the waves wash them and were set to leave. 

What Took Me There?

For devout Hindus across India, Rameswaram is a mission. They endure long journeys and hardships, unsanitary conditions, crowds, an alien cuisine, rigorous religious observances, and much more. Having made it, they feel humble, blessed and fulfilled.

I certainly wasn’t moved by duty or devotion. I am not religious. And yet, I had made the 10-hour journey from Chennai to visit the temple and pray for the well-being of my near and dear family and friends. We think we choose places we are drawn to. Maybe it is equally true the other way around.

Rameswaram had been on my radar for quite a while. My sister visited on a pilgrimage earlier this year and came back with stories. I had read about the train and the Pamban railway bridge across the sea, linking the mainland and Rameswaram island, being swept away by a devastating cyclone accompanied by tidal waves in December 1964. More recently, a new rail bridge had been commissioned and was projected in the media as an engineering marvel and a sightseeing delight. As a kid, I had heard stories from the Ramayana featuring Rameswaram—Rama worshipping Shiva and commencing bridge-building there to reach Lanka, among other references. I had also heard from friends about how impressive the temple is in its engineering, craftsmanship, beauty and grandeur.

The mind was made up some time back and the moment arrived. My cousin, proud owner of a new Mahindra SUV700, mooted a road trip and the plan fell into place.

Would I come back another time? For now, it is only a maybe.

The Short Drive to Dhanushkodi

From Rameswaram, we drove 25 kilometres to Dhanushkodi. The route had a strange, eerie feel. The land appeared low-lying and waterlogged in many places. The grey clouds and the hint of rains felt ominous. Palm trees figured randomly across the landscape. It seemed sparsely populated. Homes were few and far between. Shops and roadside tea stalls too were sparse. The Coast Guard and the Navy were notable presences. At Dhanushkodi, we were greeted by the broken walls of the railway station that survived the cyclone and tidal waves of 1964—a chilling reminder of the death and devastation that had once visited the island.

The tip of thin strip of road jutting into the sea was the land’s end. We were closest to Sri Lanka here. The sea was lapping up the edges of road on all three sides. People gathered in large numbers. Hawkers were happy. There were no trees in sight on the strip. The cabs, buses, people and hawkers made for a noisy, chaotic mix. The roar of the sea filled the intervals when the noise dropped. There wasn’t really much to do or see. Rain clouds were looming. We hurried to the car and drove off to the next touristy halt on the island. We were now checking boxes. Hanuman temple. Check. Abul Kalam Museum. Check. A couple or more stops. We then crossed the Pamban road bridge over the sea, stopping a couple of times to photograph the sea, the fishing village and the boats out at sea.

It was time for lunch when we reached Ramnad (on the mainland). After a quick lunch, we hit the road again. Onward, to Thanjavur.

The internet is replete with information about the temple town of Rameswaram and the temple itself. I have skipped those details here.