Sunset at Uluwatu

The rhythmic chant of “Chaka Chaka” rang out in the background and a high-pitched voice wailed in anguish. While the high-pitched squeaks and the rhapsodic chants railed the air, all I could see were the snaking fingers. Twirling and etching in the air, the fingers drew a thousand ephemeral mandalas and the arms angled in graceful, almost lazy languor. Sita’s crown, glistening through the sweeping arcs of her hands, dazzled in the sun.

Anjali and I had spent the afternoon in Tanjong Benoa. A small touristy cove off the Southern End of Bali, it had been a typical beach bumming day banana boating, snorkeling and jet ski-ing as we marveling over the extended bang that the strengthening India rupee was giving us in this beautiful island in the Indonesian archipelago.

We had spent the last five days in and out of the water, determined to get the fun back into our lives. We had a wonderful massage of perfumed and warm oils rubbed over us by firm Balinese hands and had our own private happy endings back in the hotel rooms without a worry in the world. I had a put a local SIM which only the taxi driver and hotel staff knew and had left my laptop and SecurId card back home. Anjali had done the same too and for once technology was working for us instead of getting us all worked up.

We were to return to Bangalore the next afternoon through Singapore and this was our last evening in the Island of the Gods. It had seen enough of the island and it was time to take in the God part too. We had proceeded to the Uluwatu Temple, not too far from Ngurah Rai airport where we had landed just a week back. The temple is on a little hillock that one can walk up too without too much effort. The pathway leads to a T-junction which splits into the temple on the right, a little further up and an open air auditorium on the left. The long arm of the T ends in a sheer cliff with a sheer drop of walling up the foaming, frothing Indian Ocean that hisses into the gusty squalls that scattered a flock of sea gulls around. The road to the temple and the auditorium skirts this vertical cliff and up ahead was the azure tropical sky lit with streaks of orange as the fiery late afternoon sun prepared to tuck in for the day.

We were busy, skeptical, agnostic and wounded in that order. We quickly took the path away from the temple, the one that led to the auditorium. The Kecak fire dance from the Ramayana was to be staged and we both came fully looking to renew our rusty familiarity with the epic, gleaned long back from campy Amar Chitra Katha titles and equally kitschy and far more melodramatic Ramanand Sagar serials.

The Kecak dance, a 70 year old adaptation of a far older Balinese art form called sanghyang is used to present the Ramayana, starting from the point where Rama, Sita and Lakshmana are exiled to the forest. There are no musical instruments and no dialogue though there is a Balinese voice-over at various point and a multi-lingual comic interlude near the end. A fully male chorus, clad in checked sarongs and waistbands provided the accompaniments reminiscent of the Capella groups and there are no musical instruments.

The golden deer hopped in, in shiny yellow and pranced around enticing the couple. Sita’s eyes quivered in longing, in her desire to posses the impossibly golden hopping creature. In a moment, she had decided. It was not the security of her Lord, not the anchorage of her faith that would give her pleasure. It was the tangible thrill of possession that in an instant had taken precedence over the resilient faith that had seen her stand firm even when divested of her clothes, ornaments and status exiled to the forest. Ram, with elaborate movements of his hands and eyes and to the accompaniment of the shrieking chorus, explained why he should not go away to acquire what was clearly impossibility. But Sita was not swayed and Ram did go away. It appears that if you want a delusion badly enough, God will go out of his or her way to get it.

I was reminded for some reason of the array of LCD TV panels at my neighbourhood mall. The discussions for hours over superiority of LCD over plasma or what on earth does 1:6000 contrast mean.

Rama, and soon after Lakshmana too was banished by the covetous Sita and before long, Sita found herself alone in the Ashoka forest in Lanka. As shimmering sun set over her golden crown, the anguish in her eyes and the arcs of her long, bejeweled fingers showed her repentance. In an androgynous moment, I became the wailing, sorrowful Sita as I saw my relentless and futile pursuits of golden deer. Variously labeled as technological gadgets, sexual conquests or share trading accounts, I fled down one path and the other, denying the existence of all things spiritual as distractions, delusions even. I remembered the simple faith of the Bal Vihar days when a story about Prahlad or Sudama would leave clutching firm and tight to the concept of God. And god had reciprocated too. Whether it was about Papa signing a particularly dismal report card or losing an expensive water bottle and getting it back before Amma knew about it, God had helped me whenever I had beseeched in surrender.

And then I lost my faith and found my reason. It was reason that had impelled into these perilous and devastating pursuits while my faith, patient and gentle, suffered in silence in the form of ignored stacks of prayer books and dusty idols of my gods.

My mind went back to the tumultuous drama played out under the dipping sun. Sita, now in full knowledge of her folly, surrendered completely and was ready to stab herself through the heart. Despite the plaintive cries of the one maid in the garden on her side, Sita stood resolute and determined, the knife’s edge barely visible in the evening shadows. And then a slate-grey hanuman leapt into sight and the despondent, desperate Sita was revived by the signet ring of her Lord.
I realized that what it takes to find your faith in the complete surrender, the readiness to die in repentance. It was when Draupadi had flung her arms up in the air, ready to let the garment she had clutched so tightly fall to the ground, that her Lord had appeared. So it would be for me. I would have to truly let go and surrender, before my Lord would appear.

The play ended in a wonderful display of fireworks and Ram and Sita were united to much cheering from the audience. I wiped the tears off my cheeks and held Anjali’s hand as we headed to exit, trying to beat the audience to the gates. I was silent on the drive back to the hotel. So was Anjali. It had been a long time since we both could sit in silence without being uncomfortable or finding the need to fill the void in mindless chatter. Our wounds had begun to heal.