Author Prajwal Parajuly goes in search of God and gets distracted by a rooster

The Kapaleeshwarar temple, which I refer to as Kapali because locals call it that, isn’t the most beautiful temple in the world. But I feel more at peace here than I do at any other place of worship.

Kapali is one of my stops on every trip to Chennai. I only have to step into traffic-clogged Mylapore, with its bylanes of chaos and colour, to be swept up in holy frenzy. I spot from the alleys, amidst a tangle of wires, the temple’s multi-hued entrance-tower reach for the sky. Before I make my way in, I leave behind competing fragrances from oleander, chrysanthemum and jasmine garlands, and release my flip-flops into a sea of footwear. I know I don’t frequent Kapali just for the carvings, intricate and bursting with stories, or for the offerings, to eat fistfuls of which I sometimes queue twice. There’s something more.

I was brought up in a Hindu family, next to a Protestant church and went to a Bahai school, followed by a school whose leanings were Buddhist. There was, therefore, some serious confusion growing up. At Sunday school, which we went to because the pastor was our closest neighbour in the Himalayan town of Gangtok, we were taught there was only one God. But then I’d go home to my cobweb-addled family altar with its many-limbed gods and goddesses and wonder if the Sunday school teacher was lying. How disapproving the family priest was when he discovered that my parents allowed — even encouraged — us to go to church. Added to this mix was a lot of Buddhist talk, simplistically distilled into something about life being suffering.

When a plethora of religions is foisted on you as a kid, you become a lifelong spirituality enthusiast. So, yes, I walk the Camino de Santiago, the 900-kilometre Catholic pilgrimage across Spain, and hike up to the Paro Taksang in Bhutan. I regret not having done the Kumano Kodo while in Japan. I have contemplated fasting for Ramadan but am nervous it will be seen as gimmicky. I want to go on a Kailash-Mansarovar trip because it looks soul-cleansing. Do I attempt these pilgrimages for absolution? I still don’t know. I understand that a majority of these spiritual experiences entail copious hiking and have often wondered if I crave them because there’s walking involved.

Unfortunately, I seldom find this quest for spirituality fulfilled in famous places of worship. It evaded me all three times at the Jagannath temple in Puri and in the crowds of the Somnath in Gujarat. I frantically hunted for it at the Santiago de Compostela as I did at the Vatican. I am envious of you if you feel a certain energy at dargahs and mosques. I want to be you when you claim a calm descends on you at the Pashupatinath temple in Kathmandu. I tried feeling at one with God at the Kamakhya in Guwahati but failed. Neither the Meenakshi temple at Madurai nor the Padmanabhaswamy temple in Thiruvananthapuram did much. When I didn’t find spirituality, whatever that means, at the Golden Temple — what wretched human isn’t moved by the Golden Temple? — I abandoned rustling up a relationship with God via man-made structures.

That is why my being in thrall of Kapali from the get-go astounded me. I am certain I don’t frequent the temple for the aesthetics. Like many houses of worship, it has history, but it’s not history I am here for. Nor the quiet, which you will only find if your visit coincides with the sun being at its zenith on a working day. The temple is laidback. You can wear what you want. No priest solicits you for donations or looks at you with desperation. No one asks for your caste, your sub-caste, your sub-sub-sub-caste and your gotra. (Many proud South Indians are quick to point out the South-North dichotomy here and claim that this is normal at most South Indian temples, but I don’t feel as positive in all these other temples as I do at Kapali, so Kapali wins).

I like the hilarious rooster that catwalks down the stage at the most opportune moments. And the cat that tries to unsuccessfully bully the rooster. I like the white vibost a priest plasters on my forehead. I like the rose-and-vilva-leaf garland I am offered. I like the concerts even if I understand nothing. I like my circumambulations, if I can call shuffling from one bare foot to another on the temple’s scorching floors that. Every time I come here, my mind stills. Every time I am here, I feel grateful.

The older I get, the more jaded I become with organised religion — all organised religions. So much evil happens in the name of God, so much polarisation. I am happy (and stunned) that a temple — this bastion of organised religion — helps alleviate the cynicism somewhat. I have decided to embrace that for now and not allow any form of overthinking to get in the way of Kapali and me.

Prajwal parajuly is the author of The Gurkha’s Daughter and Land Where I Flee. He loves idli, loathes naan, and is indifferent to coffee. He teaches Creative Writing at Krea University and oscillates between New York City and Sri City.