SRI ANGALA PARAMESHWARI TEMPLE
Inadequacy wormed its way into my consciousness after a disappointing Indian Literature seminar. What was meant to be an evaluation of my performance segued into a discussion of my passion for Chennai. Dr. Padma V. McKertich made her case for Royapuram the way my classmates made theirs for Kailaash’s momos. Let’s just say I’ll be going back to Royapuram for seconds.
I was tingling with excitement in 27D and 1B because I was en route to a forbidden rendezvous, not with a scorned lover, but a temple.
My ultra-Catholic kinsfolk roll their eyes, turn up their noses, and grimace so much at temples, it’s a wonder these haven’t become their default expressions.
Catholic Christian is my religious identity, too, but my mind is less stuffy because I air it out on every street, allowing it to absorb all the pigments and fragrances of the city.
Sri Angala Parameshwari Amman Temple was the first temple I visited alone, and of my own accord. Crossing the arch was like entering a parallel reality. Vendors fanned religious paraphernalia—lamps, flowers, fruits, japa mala, incense—on tarpaulin-covered crates. Women in heavy silk saris were preoccupied with their tots, purses, and prasad. I slipped out of my footwear and when my feet contacted the cool stone floor, I was overwhelmed with the sensation of novelty.
Stepping inside was only the first part—and the easiest one. Where are Sowmya, Gayathri, and the Telugu Keerthanas when I need them most? I mused. There was no route map, no signposts, but I walked, passing various deities on the walls and feeling vaguely comforted by the familiar ones. They were all at home, unlike me, the square peg in a round hole. Spigot and basin, lingam, mysterious narrow pathway punctuated by tiny niches, and look—there’s that guardrail again, the one that leads to the sanctum. Pride settled over me when I realized I had inadvertently completed parikrama.
The susurrus crescendoed into regular speech. Snatches of conversation became discernible. The crowd was swelling on either side of the guardrail. The colors multiplied, the smells perked. It was time to glimpse her royal highness, Sri Angala Parameshwari.
The priest, with streaked forehead and starched garb, stepped forward. Together with his assistants, he dispatched the feast of coconuts, bananas, and jasmine to her majesty’s chambers. Maybe my eyes were open a mile too wide, or I had too many giveaway tics, because I felt the heat of the priest’s glowering. I spy with my priestly eye… a newbie. Or perhaps it was the effect of being in a huddle of silk-cocooned bodies.
Souvenirs were unthinkable, but I left with a smirk. How was this for defiance, family?
ST. PETER’S CHURCH
Upon visiting a new area, I locate the nearest church and pay it a visit. This is my travel ritual, the only one I’ve steadfastly kept, regardless of the weather of my soul.
Squat St. Peter’s Church sits like a ship in the middle of a desert. The overlap in ecclesiastical and naval architecture in coastal cities is owing to the patronage of sailors from foreign seas, local boatmen, and fisherfolk. Marian miracles at sea are usually the impetus to build churches. St. Peter’s pays homage to the Mother in color, but not in name. The etymology is lost on me, but Royapuram’s namesake is believed to be St. Peter.
Parikrama turned into pilgrimage because I chose to walk from the temple to the church. The campus was reminiscent of a seashore. A cricket team was in the middle of an intense game when I entered. Out of courtesy for the nervous newcomer who had blended into the boundary wall, they halted their game. I scuttled to the entrance and was greeted by familiar smells and faces.
A regal ciborium sheltered the crucifix and pointed to the dome of heaven where the Father, the Spirit, and the angelic host perched on delicate clouds.
The finest detail on the altar was the background to the crucifix, depicting a faithful Mary Magdalene. She’s always relegated to the background, because Peter lived to shove her out of the limelight. Still, it’s a giant leap in the direction of progress to include her on the altar. Knowing Peter, he’s probably gonna deny that too.
ROYAPURAM JAMA MASJID
Calligraphic outlines, windows that strain light into mesmerizing henna on the skin of the floor, speakers like confounded weather vanes.
It saddens me to think I might never know a mosque from the inside. I can only imagine skullcaps being centered, headscarves being wrapped, prayer mats being unfurled. At least the adhan reaches me every day.
PARSI ANJUMAN BAUG DHARAMSHALA
“Zoro-what?” is people’s most common response upon hearing “Zoroastrian” for the first time. Quite a mouthful, I agree, but the subdued Persian contours of the word refresh the mouth, like a sip of faloodeh.
My fascination with Zoroastrianism was born when I was seven, and my mother gifted me a Dorling Kindersley encyclopedia. Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, and Judaism had dedicated articles spanning a minimum of two pages. A petite paragraph on Zoroastrianism, with a picture of a navjot, was tucked into a corner of one of the pages on Religion.
Tucked away is still how I would describe Chennai’s Zoroastrian community, and its places of interest.
The Parsi Anjuman Baug Dharamshala is a complex that serves as an inn to travelers, and a cemetery to those who have completed their journeys.
As the non-Zoroastrian groundskeepers could not get me an audience with the deputy, I couldn’t stir the deceased or the living. I threw a courteous-curious glance over the low cemetery wall, read the inscription on the pillar, and spied into half-open windows and doors to discern aged Zoroastrians in sudreh and kusti with their heads tipped back in chairs.
MATER DOLOROSA CHURCH
This church sure looks happy for one named after Our Lady of Sorrows. The discovery of this church was a happy accident while en route to my final destination.
Originally a convent for Presentation nuns, and eventually a school, the plot found its ultimate purpose as a church.
Royapuram has a sizable Anglo-Indian demographic that suggested and sponsored Mater Dolorosa Church.
If only the Jews didn’t cluster in Mint, and the Sikhs and Baha’is in T Nagar, Royapuram would have been a one-stop shop for religious tourism.
DAR-E-MEH’R AGIARY
Praying before the chalice of flames in the Dar-e-Meh’r Agiary was an unvoiced desire of mine. The exclusive admittance policy “Parsis and Zoroastrian Iranis only” stands in my way.
Outside the wrought-iron gates I stood like an expectant prisoner, my mind fumbling for the words to the Ashem Vohu. Accepting that Avestan was out of reach, I whispered an English Our Father.
Carefully, I maneuvered my hands and my phone through the gaps between the bars, and took some pictures. Would it be trespassing if I let myself in? I wondered.
To stay on the safe side of the law, I sought the advice—and the influence—of Dr. Nazneen Marshall, who has the unrivaled honor of being the first Zoroastrian to grace my life’s path. “Say you’re a student of Nazneen Marshall, wife of Bomi Gazder,” she told me.
When a lady with a pleasant face and a cautious demeanor appeared from the outhouse, I impulsively switched to Hindi, a language I’d abandoned for seven years, and asked to be let in. Maybe that was the icebreaker.
Mrs. and Mr. Zarir Daruwalla engaged me in a half-hour conversation about the general and local history of Zoroastrianism. We spoke of feminism, food, festivals, and fire, and when I had exhausted them and my vocabulary, they asked me not to quote them in newspapers and magazines.
They asked me the final question: “What are you? You don’t look like you’re from these parts.”
“Anglo-Indian,” I said, as neutrally as possible.
Smiles blossomed on their faces.
“There are lots here. Many of them are our friends!” Mrs. Daruwalla said.
The next day in Children’s Literature, everyone was assigned a reading task while I regaled Dr. Nazneen Marshall with my narrative and my Hindi.
Drifting Dandelion 