Holy Men, Holy Women 8

APRIL 13 — Thaipusam is an overwhelming riot of voices, colours, scents of coconut oil and jasmine. It is also, on the train I’m on with a friend heading towards Batu Caves, a clash of the English and Tamil languages, rap music and sharp barks from tired and angry older men who have had enough of the young would-be "homies" and rappers, who are as Indian and Malaysian as they come.

I arrived back in Kuala Lumpur two days before Thaipusam. I called up an old friend to ask what he was doing on the eve of Thaipusam.

“Going to Batu Caves lah for prayers.”

“May I follow?”

And that’s how I found myself squashed in a sea of believers on their way to pay their respects to the gods in Batu Caves. There is a deaf (and perhaps mute) young couple next to us, communicating in sign language. He cradles her head from time to time.

My friend is greatly irritated by a young girl who keeps pestering him about when the train will stop at Batu Kentonmen. After telling her to read the train station's signage above the doors, he snaps, “Sentul!” when she asks again.

“But we just passed...” I say.

“Lantak pi dia, bodoh betul. Buta huruf ke tak boleh baca sign kat pintu tu?”

The smell of coconut oil and jasmine waft in and out of the train at each stop.

The young homies have quietened down. Everyone is preparing for the walk up Batu Caves. I have just found out that I will be climbing 272 steps up, and down Batu Caves. My kitten heels are no longer respectable and fashionable; they’re potential torture devices.

Meeting God is going to be painful.

We arrive, and swarms of people dash to prepare themselves for the hike to the caves. I see a former television star, whose name eludes me. One of his hands is gloved. If I remember correctly, his hand had been slashed by robbers in the 1970s. I’m excited because I’m seeing this man, whom I watched on television when I was young.

“Hurry, hurry, before the real crowd comes,” my friend grabs hold of my hand.

Batu Caves is like an exploding carnival of fireworks and music. Stalls of food, prayer paraphernalia and tourist trappings line the path to the shrines. A funfair entertains devotees and their families. Cotton candy, peacock feathers, soft drinks are shoved in our faces by overzealous traders.

“Do you see that? That man with hooks on his body?” my friend points out to me. “That’s what you call kavadi... but in Hinduism, you don’t have to flagellate yourself. It’s a serious misinterpretation of the religion! Kononnya kalau you pierce yourself you redeem your sins.”

“So why do they do it?” I wince when I see a hook piercing through a man’s back. He looks straight ahead, oblivious to it all.

“You tau-lah manusia ni. They will read and misunderstand the scriptures. Sama jugak la dengan the Muslims. Tuhan tak suruh cucuk, dia pi cucuk diri,” he shakes his head.

We arrive at the bottom of the caves. Batu Caves holds fond memories for me as I used to go caving with friends, when we were in our 20s. Once you reach step 204, you turn left to enter the Dark Caves. The main cave, which is called the Temple Cave, sits high up the stairs while at the bottom, the Art Gallery and Museum Caves house paintings.

Temples and shrines have been erected out of the caves too. Batu Caves is indeed a holy site, but a very busy one.

“Okay, I’m off to go pray inside. You can come too,” my friend takes off his shoes.

“Okay.”

“Hang on. Are you menstruating?”

“Yes...”

"You! You cannot go into the temple if you are menstruating!"

“I thought only in mosques cannot masuk! And that periods apply to Muslims only!"

"Aiyoh! Any holy place cannot go if got period!"

My friend ushers me in the direction of the Batu Caves information counter. What else is there to do except to observe people at prayer?

Devotees, curious Malaysians and tourists clamber up and down the stairs. It makes for a strange circumvention, but not unlike the tawaf we perform around the Kaabah. We may have different beliefs and come from various ethnicities, but we pray. And why do we pray? Why do we perform pilgrimages if not to remember God? Perhaps, I think as I see another man with a pierced tongue walking past by us, we pray to pay penance for our sins.

I suppose too that Batu Caves is the Malaysian Indian’s Mecca. The Catholics have The Vatican, Muslims — Mecca. We all require a point of religious reference.

My friend is done with his first set of prayers. “All right, we’re going up.” I want to swoon when I see the stairs. There’s just too many to climb, I complain.

“Amboi. Panjat bukit, masuk marathon, tak apa. Nak panjat tangga jumpa Tuhan, tak boleh?”

It is an exercise of patience and fitness climbing up the stairs. Just when I think I can stop for a breather, there’ll be a couple of people behind me, bearing kavadis and shouting, “Vel! Vel!” One has no choice but to scoot up as fast, especially when the Pierced One behind is in a trance.

Entering the Temple Cave is a revelation. Unfortunately it is not a spiritual one. Commercialism has hit Batu Caves and what do I see? Air Asia stalls hawking various promotion packages, Hotlink offering the cheapest calls.

Stalls selling bottled water and snacks line the walls. I think of a narrative told to me by a Christian friend, "The Cleansing of the Temple," which appears in all four Canonical gospels of the New Testament.

The Prophet Jesus (Isa to Muslims) and his disciples had travelled to Jerusalem for Pesah, a Jewish holiday (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pesah)  where he found at Herod's Temple, tradesmen and tables of money changers. The Prophet flew into a rage, and expelled them all, accusing them of turning the Temple to a den of thieves through their commercial activities.

My friend and I separate. Tourists take photos of men and women in trances. I move to the side, as more and more men carrying chariots and kavadis parade into the caves.

A group of young men stand by the men, catching their breath. Their chariot is purple in colour. They greet another who approaches them, covered in dust and sweat. Their friend has just performed a promise to the Gods, and had hooks on his back. He’s an affable fellow, and offers me milk to wash my face.

“It’s been blessed,” he says, as he pours the milk onto my hands.

He had to fast for 48 days, and that meant feasting on milk and fruit only. He prayed constantly to prepare himself for this. He had a mission and now it is accomplished, hence his hooks and offerings to the gods.

“When the god comes into you,” he explains, “you become that god. You are not yourself for awhile.”

“So why do you pray? Why do you do this?”

“I had a vow and I promised to God I’d do this.”

“I see. And?”

He looks at me quizzically. This has always been the way he prayed, and if he had a big wish that needed to be granted, this was how he did it. This was how Hindus prayed.

“What do you mean the history of Hinduism in Malaysia? I don’t understand you,” he says. “This is how my grandma prays and my parents. My brothers and I pray the same way too.”

I nod. How many of us know the history of our faiths in this country?

Across us is a group, clustered around a man on his haunches, growling and spitting. A deity has entered him, and according to my new friend, the deity in the man represented “… severance to the world, the material…” It is an unsettling sight, and the man’s growls are short, almost violent barks and growls.

Gold chariots traipse in and out. There are so many to observe. Somewhere amidst the crowd, another man in a trance enacts a deity which seems to act as a counsellor to the revellers. One by one, an old man, an older woman, a young girl, comes up to the man and tells him their troubles.

My friend comes back, and starts pointing out the many gods and goddesses populating the caves.

“Do you know, that these gods actually represent the characteristics of God? Something like your 99 names of Allah. But you know la, how humans are, they need to imagine, so these deities appear. But we have a lot! About 40,000? 50,000?”

We reach the bottom of the caves, and walk to more shrines. I buy peacock feathers while I wait for my friend who is at another shrine. The crowd seems to be a working class crowd. I have been told that the rich Indians have their own shrines or temples.

After all is done, we take the train back to KL Sentral and have a late dinner. I go home, with these questions:

Why do you pray?

Why do we pray?

And why do we pray the way we do?

Thaipusam ends the next day. Batu Caves will be busy that night and the next morning. My short, brief glimpse of the famed Batu Caves impresses me that the celebration may be for the pious but has become commercialised and a shutterbug’s delight. It is unsettling to see a holy site reduced to an event outsiders can observe, and a short write-up in tourist brochures.

But for the believers, this is where they come to pray, and make amends to God.

* The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the columnist.