A Temple in Jaipur

The late September heat strains through the diesel infused clouds and land upon the Northern end of Chaura Rasta Road that runs through the pink city district of Jaipur.  Walking along the cart crowded sidewalk, vendors pop out of their narrow shops like puppets, trying to act out an encore for the last half hour of the workday.  Kurtas 150!  Beautiful sari’s here, in here!  Do you want nose ring? You have beautiful eyes.  I hurry past the persistent puppeteers, wanting simply to catch a rickshaw home, when suddenly I hear something above all the hassling and commotion.  The gongs.

            It sounds like brass church bells.  The sound that I will later learn to be two silver gongs, reminds me of ringing the lonely morning bell at my childhood church in upstate New York.  Every Sunday before the 11 am service, I would climb the steeple stairs and tug on a corded rope, producing a sound that would pierce my ears and shudder through my body.   Dong dong dong dong.  Following the sound of the heavy gongs, I arrive at an upward leading set of marble stairs.  Leaving my sandals behind, I climb them.  The chaos of the street below is drained by the thunderous clashing of the gongs. The honking of white cars and the prodding of cow hooves on the Indian street are quickly forgotten, replaced by heavy harmonies and Eastern notes. 

            It has been my understanding, until this particular moment, that temples are supposed to be quiet.  Silent.  Respectful.  Hushed.  Upon entering this cobwebby, hole in the wall shrine, scrunched between two apartment buildings with overgrown vines and a broken gate, the first thing I notice is the fullness of sound.  A skinny man with thin ankles bangs a wooden hammer between two twin sized gongs.  The noise is deafening.  A hollowed out echo that stings the air with electricity.  The noise does not stop, the man’s hammering hand never slows down.  I make my way to the front of the temple, a green iron gate circling around the smudged mirrored walls that hold in the idol of Lord Radha-Damodar, the young child image of Lord Krishna.  Men in neatly ironed plaid shirts circle around in front of me, hands wavering in the air, bodies dropping to their knees, heads to the marble tiles, lips moving fast to the rhythm of the gongs. Chanting prayers. Soft prayers that I am not meant to hear.

            Every day, after the late afternoon shuffle and before the closing time of most shops within Bapu Bazaar, the gongs will play at Mandir Shri Radha Damodarji; an unnoticeable temple by appearance, but hard to miss when the gongs begin to play.  The temple worships the young image of Lord Krishna, the damodar image that all great Hindu gods, saints, and seers love without exception.  Six smaller shrines are carved out of the outer walls and hold gods like Brahma, Mahesh, and Indra who protectively keep watch over the little one, the young Lord Krishna.  The central purple sheeted shrine of Krishna, the incarnation of Vishnu, shows him holding a flute to his lips.  The God-child’s eyes glow a neon orange. 

            The gongs continue to play as I circle around the temple, inspecting the sparkly and chipped deities.  I stand again before baby Krishna, remembering my once small hands tugging on the thick cord of the church bell.  Dong dong dong dong.  I remember Christianity, communion at the altar, the moth ball smell of ancient hymnals held by my grandmother.  I look up at Lord Krishna and my heart mixes with the noise of two religions.  The two gongs, the church bells, crashing against each other.  Will the sound ever stop? 

I turn to exit the temple and finally there is silence. The skinny man holds back on his hammer and walks away.  The echo continues to ring, but the gongs are quiet now, slowly swaying side by side with the other.  I know I should continue my search for a rickshaw, but instead I stand in the sound until it fully fades away.