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Back in Time
Thoughts of the temple complex on the other side of the hills at Galta jog my imagination, and a few days later I return. The hike over the summit leads to grass in a rugged gorge and temples flowing down the rocky hillside. Water runs continuously from a stone cow's mouth, cascading through a series of pools, from a source more than 170 feet deep. It is said that at one time the water here dried up, but has miraculously flowed from the cow's mouth ever since. Ancient place so far from the world I know, time frozen in a perpetual link with the spiritual world. Somewhere a voice chants "Sita Ram" to the hypnotic, continuous beat of a dholak. Few foreign tourists; mostly Indian families, temple caretakers and sadhus. Monkeys are everywhere, chasing one another across temple terraces and up the steep valley walls. A barefoot sadhu, short and stocky, lumbers along with a heavy load -- a pail, blankets and a bulky burlap sack. Rain-laden clouds ruminate overhead.
At the end of the valley, beyond a gated entrance, a chaotic zoo of cows and monkeys, sacred incarnations, eagerly accept the edible offerings of spiritual pilgrims. The dholak and the chanting, which has no beginning and no end, draw me up a stairway and into a temple. Stories tell of sadhus chanting like this for years, at which time another sadhu continues the everlasting chant.
In the West, time is measured. Here, time gives way to the eternal. The temple is a shadowed, pillared room overlooking the central way through Galta. A sadhu chants as he drums, and beckons for me to have a seat. The short, stocky sadhu enters and lays down his load. The two chat, the drumming continues. They chant together. Time passes, a microcosm of their devotion. Outside, storm clouds bring premature darkness, but the warmth here glows. |
