December 10

Mr. Walton, our venerable guesthouse owner,was deep in conversation with a young journalist from Bombay as we arrived. “Tonight is the Negro spirit candle lighting.  It is something you should see. He then gave her a printout of a newspaper article describing the ritual.  My curiosity was piqued.

Portuguese colonialists maintained a brutal stronghold on the native population in Kochin starting in the mid 1500’s, and in 1663 were attacked by the Dutch.  The wealthy, in an effort to preserve their treasure, came up with a sadistic scheme; build niches in a cement wall, put African slaves with the gold in them, and then mortar it closed .

Centuries later, a mythical figure, Kapiri Mattupan, became the incarnation of these martyred slaves.  People of all religions pay homage and ask favors of the spirit by lighting candles and leaving offerings at small shrines in the city on Tuesdays and Fridays.

We look for a rickshaw driver willing to take us to the place described. At first he looks at us with a puzzled expression when he sees our directions, but when we say “Kapiri Muttapan”, he gives a knowing smile.

It is now 6:30pm and the sun has set.  In the darkness we see a very small shrine built into the wall. No one is there, but seven or eight candles are burning inside, and fresh flowers.  I get out of the rickshaw, light the candle I have brought with me, and say a silent prayer as I place it beside the others.  Meanwhile, a group of women pass by and acknowledge the shrine with bowed heads, and touch their lips and heart.

With a little prodding from me, our driver asks the ladies where they are going,all dressed up.  We learn there is a Shiva festival starting at a nearby Hindu temple  Off we go.

The temple is ablaze with neon lights and a big crowd has gathered in the courtyard.  One of the Brahmin attendants motions for us to take off our shoes and enter. A huge brass candelabra tower is being lit with ghee lamps.  I walk inside toward the shrine, but when G follows, they point at him and say “no”.  After many gesticulations on their part, and questioning looks on ours, we realize the problem.  Men have to remove their shirts!

Huge drums are beating wildly and a long horn-like instrument is being played.  An attendant rings a bell as we all wait for the shrine door to open.  I am pushed forward in order to have a better view. When the frenzy of music comes to a climax, the door opens.  Again the ladies push me near the priest so I can get blessed with the holy water. In the courtyard a stage has been set up and two tabla players and singers have started a performance of religious songs. A woman who speaks some English tells me that in a few hours the men will pierce their checks and tongues with nails.

It’s been quite an evening already, and the thought of such  a sight doesn’t thrill me, as much as I like unusual rituals.  Also, the singing is screechy and monotonous. I want to go back to the tranquility of our little cottage

Just another day in India.