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Yeddanapudi Radhika

Kolnapaku is a small village surrounded by green fields in the Telengana region of Andhra Pradesh. To reach Kolnapaku I began my journey by taking a bus from the capital Hyderabad to Aleru, a small wonderfully sleepy town 60 kms away.

What brought me to this small town in Telengana, the most politically volatile, almost feudal, historic and ethnically diverse part of the state? My father’s family would be a good reason. But following the family trail would bring me to a full stop at Warangal.

The impulse to visit Kolnapaku originated 12,000 miles away in Washington DC while surfing India-related web pages on the Internet and reading a terse one line description indicating the presence of a sapphire idol in a Jain temple.

"Have you ever seen this?" I asked my father.

"A sapphire idol in Kolnapaku?" murmured my incredulous father! Turning to my uncle Krishna, I repeated the question.

"Yes, indeed there was a Jain mandir at Kolnapaku," said my more well traveled uncle but he didn’t seem to remember any blue gods... My aunt in Hyderabad echoed my uncle and promised a bus ticket if I were to visit her family when in India!

So, I travelled by day and by night in the final days of the monsoon in August, passing through New Delhi, Agra, Calcutta, Puri, never losing sight of the Bay of Bengal until Vizag and dropping finally in at Hyderabad. Bitten by sapphire fever and having bargained with my conspiring aunt, this is how I found myself on a bus watching the sun rise, the ever narrowing streets, the small houses and smaller shops and dusty fields which creep in from the horizon into the foreground, as we drove deeper and deeper into the Telengana countryside.

Had my eyes played tricks on me, I remember thinking? Gold, copper and silver -- these I could imagine. But a translucent blue sapphire idol, delicately carved and waiting across the centuries for my eyes to feast upon it was both a romantic and intellectually inviting proposition.

How big was it? Where did the sapphire come from? Who brought it and what could it mean? And why is it such a little known fact? And why this location? Such were the questions, the faith in adventure and discovery that I carried with me on my quest.

Getting off the bus at Aleru, one immediately notices the wide streets lined on each side with vendors selling colorful dyes, toys, kitchen utensils, fresh flowers, and mouth watering boondi laddus and jangri! I walked past the tiny metre gauge station, across the railway tracks and into a small alley where the street was made of mud. The houses were made of mud too, thatched roofs proliferated, and shops seamlessly carved into the exteriors of homes sold Pepsi and Coke. The triumph of capitalism!

Under the shade of a huge banyan tree in an impromptu town square, I found autos, buses and taxis. And that 'oft celebrated vehicle of love and pastoral existence ' -- the jutka, tanga, ghoda-gadi, the humble horse cart by any name -- sporting a thatched cover, an emaciated horse and a lean, hungry-looking jutkawallah. This young sprightly man with a shock of hair, that he kept tossing off his forehead, stuffed me into the horsecart, threw hay at my feet and bade me to command him!

Sensing the happy vibes between this fellow and his horse, I requested that I be allowed to get a photograph, whereupon, the young man blushed, refused and leaping onto the cart, with a quick flick of his wrist, urged his beast into a fierce gallop! There was not a single other person in sight. And I was compelled to photograph my own feet (don't miss the snap) sitting on the bale of hay that would eventually feed the horse!

A green six miles followed. Here and there, my enterprising friend, offered rides to comely sabziwallis, who alternated between a lively discussion with our jutka Romeo and blitzing me with questions about where I came from. Just as we saw the gate to the temple, I was offered a guava by a sabziwalli who bemoaned the fates that had kept me single and who hoped that this visit to Kolnapaku would bring me the husband of my dreams!!!

Husband or no husband, I looked at the green fields and thought, hmm, could one build a house with a view like this? A place where kids would climb up trees to discover spots for tree houses (houses which they made with the makeshift parabolic roofs of horse carts)... where horses were used instead of bicycles... where jamun and guava are teatime snacks...

We came to rest in a cool grove of trees and mud houses. Leaving the entertaining tangawallah and his beast behind, I walked through an imposing gate, large and wide, painted in a restful peach colour and with little architectural flourishes on the widest part at the top. Where the gate ended on both sides, a courtyard wall began and enclosed the temple area from the outside world. Inside, a few banyan trees loomed over me (have you ever been under the shadow of a banyan tree?). In the garden were papaya trees, mango trees, a few other fruit trees and some date palms, whose shimmering leaves reflected dappled light onto the ground.

Here and there in the midst of the trees, I saw large irregular pieces of decorated and carved granite columns, some of which were lying on the ground and some of which had been mounted up on other blocks of stone.

Moving toward the temple which was under extensive construction, judging by the wooden supports on the exterior, I left my shoes at the threshold and stepped in.

The interior of the temple was reminiscent of a Buddhist monastery, no pillars, no aisles, just a large cool square facing the sanctum sanctorum. A small screen, about four inches by three inches in dimension, was situated five feet from the doorway. At this point, if I wished to get closer to the chief deity of the temple, Neminath, a Jain Tirthankara, I had to leave all baggage (literally and symbolically?) behind this screen. Since this would include my camera, I postponed making a decision for a while and gazed at the statues that glared back at me from their niches in the walls.

Black granite bodies, silver eyes with black granite eyeballs and silver bracelets. These wide-eyed figures, sitting in the classic lotus posture, had a lean severity alien to my eyes. Eyes that are used to the gentle forms of Hindu gods and goddesses -- even in their most terrible forms like that of Kali, the bodies are fleshy and voluptuous!

I moved towards the main deity, leaving my camera behind. A group of slender men and women were chanting mantras while the priest performed the aarti in front of them. Inward looking, contemplative, these Jain gurus appeared remote, yet less placid than their Hindu counterparts. I joined them and was rather tongue tied until I realised that some clever temple administrator had anticipated that an ignorant soul such as myself would occasionally join the congregation -- on the side of the door the prayers were inscribed for all to see!

All the while, I strained to see the idol and was disconcerted to find only the silver eyes of the idol staring back with the rest of the body hidden by the gloomy darkness of the chamber. Finally, I asked the priest if I could get closer to the idol, only to be told that if I wanted to see god, I should look at the idols on the pillars of the temple! The things one does, I remember thinking. Somehow, the argument that I had crossed a major body of water, one continent and a half, four states in India and risked everlasting notoriety in the family annals as an eccentric did not seem an adequate plea!

Frustrated by the priest's refusal and dazed by the bright sunlight outside, I circled the temple following the perimeter of its shadow. Here and there I saw an industrious workman or two clearing away debris, removing some pieces of stone at the cornices. A hundred or two hundred or even seven hundred years ago, workmen like these must have carved god-like forms into the columns, I thought.

Inward looking, contemplative, these Jain gurus appeared remote, yet less placid than their Hindu counterparts. I don’t know if there ever is a time when the light ever fell straight on these sculpted forms. Light appears only in speckles on their bodies. Some of the workmen volunteered that bits and pieces of sculpture and large broken pieces of columns I had glimpsed earlier, were some of the last original material of the temples.

And what of the sapphire god, I asked, at last unable to restrain myself? The statue made of 'neelam' was found mysteriously in the ground explained the workers. "That’s true," said the priest who stood behind them.

I, who came swearing allegiance to Pentax and Fuji was fast learning that a camera can only capture that which the eye can behold. Trade links with China? Sapphire in these parts? Or was it turquoise? My questions seemed stupid and pointless before the stone wall of their faith.

Back here in Washington, I look back on my journey with amazement. Travelling to new places, someone said, is really traveling to other parts of oneself. I believe now that I came as a tourist from my suburban self to Kolnapaku, all 70 mm color, vitality and magnified emotions.

So even as I write now, I remember that moviescape of romance, beauty and small town life. I can still hear the sabziwallis asking me, "Will you come back?"

So what if I didn’t find the mysterious blue god? Wouldn’t you go back to a place where people tell you god sees you, god is you, god is everywhere, in the green fields, in the horse, in the bus that takes you back to the city, in America...

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