TRAVELLER'S TALES
The chinar trees of Kheer Bhawani
RUKMINI BANERJI
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Impressions of a journey to the Kheer Bhawani temple in Tullamulla, near Srinagar…
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Photo: Nissar Ahmad
Witness to history...
The road that leaves Srinagar goes past the white shining dome of Hazratbal and under the snow-capped ranges. Going towards Ganderbal, it winds its way through fields, orchards, shops, bus-stops, past hamlets, habitations and markets. In the morning,
school children are hurrying to school. Officer-goers are going the opposite way into town to work. Travellers in Sumos and buses are embarking on a longer journey to more distant locations. Those with work on the land are already deep into the green rice fields.
Well within an hour, we arrive at a Tullamulla, at a gateway surrounded by the usual tourist shops selling maps and postcards and shops selling things for offerings in the temple. The gateway to the temple complex is encircled by a security wall of gunny bags, capped with armed, watchful para-military personnel.
This early, there is no one else at the temple. We can hear many birds in the trees. The air is clean and bright. The sun is not yet streaming through. The broad path from the gate ends at a small walking bridge over a stream. Narrow steps have been built by the side of the stream for pilgrims to reach the water. A young Muslim boy comes forward to take our shoes. He then organises the big metal plates of colourful flowers and triangular cones of jaggery that we must take into the shrine. Barefoot, we walk into the main courtyard.
Thriving legends
Like with any old temple, there are many stories about the Kheer Bhawani temple. Some say that when Ravana died in Lanka, Bhawani asked Hanuman to bring her here. There is a holy underground spring from which water flows out. The legend is that the colour of the water mirrors the state of affairs in the State. Travellers have been coming here from long ago. In the 16th century, Abul Fazal in Ain-i-Akbari wrote about the temple and its surroundings. Swami Vivekananda stayed in the temple for several days in the late 19th century. It is said that it was only with Swami Vivekananda’s Christian disciples that the first Christian stepped into the temple. Travellers and visitors to the temple talk about the colour of the spring. Some years ago, the waters flowed black. Today, the water is green.
A vast paved courtyard surrounds the spring water. A lofty, high, green canopy of tall chinar trees covers the courtyard on all sides. The CRPF presence dominates the complex. Every tree has a signboard with instructions or warnings for pilgrims, signed off by the resident battalion commander. Jawans are visible in the balconies on the buildings around the periphery of the courtyard. There are guns and ammunitions and clothes, towels and sheets drying in the morning breeze.
The idol of the goddess is placed in a marble shrine surrounded by water on all sides. The paving stones of the courtyard are cold under our bare feet, the sun is yet to warm them up for the day. To face the goddess, we go around the courtyard and enter an open room. A priest desultorily chants shlokas. At intervals, he instructs us to offer the flowers to the goddess. Our attempts do not reach the goddess and instead the flowers fall into the waters of the spring below. In the middle of all of this, the priest’s mobile phone goes off.
It is said that the goddess loves kheer — rice and milk boiled together with sugar. During his week-long stay at the temple, Swami Vivekananda too daily offered kheer to the goddess. Today, outside the main area of worship is a shed. In the shed is a huge vessel of kheer. Gleaming steel bowls and spoons await devotees. A young swarthy man opens the lid to the vessel as we approach. He is the CRPF jawan in charge of distributing kheer. The jawan is eager to talk to us. “How many of you are Kashmiri?” he asks. In his hometown, in Nagpur, there are many Kashmiris.
The jawan comes around the counter and chats with us as we eat the delicious kheer. He is dressed in a camouflage combat outfit but on his feet are the traditional wooden sandals worn by priests. In a matter-of-fact voice, he tells us that when you are posted to do “duty” at the temple, you have to give up eating onions, garlic, meat and stop smoking cigarettes or drinking. He smiles as he recounts how his family is amused by the conditions of his current posting.
Insular life
As we walk around the courtyard, we talk about his life in Kashmir. His battalion is from Maharashtra. “There are 65 battalions of CRPF in the valley” he tells me. “Each battalion has 1200 men”. He chats often with pilgrims, who come from all over the country. On some days people wait for hours to get into the temple. But there is not much opportunity or encouragement to mix with local people. “But, what do they think of you?” I ask this friendly young man. “They think of us as the enemy — dushman”.
The sun is beginning to come through the trees. Before we leave, the jawan takes me to a spot in the middle of the giant courtyard. He points to the sky through a clearing in the trees. “What do you see?” he asks as I look up. Framed by green chinar leaves on all sides, the clouds and the sky are in the perfect shape of the map of India.
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