An enlightening visit to the Sun Temple

"Unfiltered, unforgiving, and unrelenting"—those were the three unapologetic adjectives my teenage daughter used to describe the sunlight, in response to my uncharitable remark about its character.  Drenched in sweat, with saline beads dripping from her forehead, we stood within earshot of the Tropic of Cancer.

​

The Sun Temple at Konark, in the month of June, is not the right place for such impudent questions. Her reply, however, was anything but unsolicited.

​

A humongous temple carved in the shape of a chariot, built in reverence of the Sun God, every inch of it steeped in history and mythology—each stone seemed to whisper stories of its time.

​

Our guide, eyes brimming with pride and a hint of emotion in his throat, spoke with reverence. His expressions seemed to transport him back to the era when it was being sculpted and raised. 

Proficient in language and rich in historical anecdotes, his speech was peppered with wit and wonder, often segueing into a passionate spiel.

​

Exasperated by the sultry weather, my daughter interrupted when he was comparing sun temples from around the world.  "Sir! It makes sense for civilizations to fall in love with the Sun in places where solar light is a limited luxury. But how did this subcontinent, where rays and blaze abound, fall in awe of this radiating ball?"

​

“Well! I must admit I’m intrigued by your question, but I’m afraid I’m not qualified to answer,” he smiled. “Though I can add to your puzzle by saying—we are the last surviving Pagans on this planet.”  He said it with a glint in his eyes.

​

There is always a sense of melancholy on the way back from a holiday. But this time, the wistfulness was not only thought-provoking—it was haunting.

​

The phrase “surviving Pagans” became an echo in my mind—an evocative reflection on civilizations, faiths, the vagaries of time, and humanity's response and resilience. 

Elsewhere, nature-worship has become a relic. Here in India, it remains the essence of our existence.

​

“Papa, I’ll carry the suitcase. You pick up the bag,” my daughter ordered as we reached home. 
“Why? Are the bags heavier?” I asked, sensing mischief in her tone.

“Papa, you’re always loaded with mixed bags on the return journey,” chuckled the young lady. 
I smiled, acknowledging her early penchant for paraprosdokians that runs in our family.

“A week is a long time”—an axiom relevant to politics is applicable to vacations as well. 

The doors and windows, closed airtight, with walls gathering dust all over and floors littered with leaves, newspapers, and flyers, made the house wear the grumpy look of a child abandoned by irresponsible parents at an evening soiree.  To restore a house to order is no less than a mission.

​

My wife instructed me to look for a porch and parking, while my daughter would run errands for me.

​

As I was clearing the driveway to restore space for flowerpots, my daughter shouted and asked me to observe the weird twists and turns that had developed in the plants during our absence. 

“My dear, this is because we inadvertently misdirected the pot away from the Sun last week,” I tried to explain. This phenomenon of “heliotropism,” where plants innocently tweak themselves to follow their beloved heavenly object to get recharged, might otherwise appear as a mark of respect and gratitude.

​

Enlightened, she blurted out, “The Last of the Pagans.”