Kalighat

Class resumed today after the strike, but before that Jenna and I visited Kalighat--the Kali Temple, the holiest spot in Kolkata. It is here where thousands of devout Hindus visit everyday to pray and worship and get marked with Kali's mark, a dollop of bright orange paint on the forehead between the eyes. We came to the temple through a twisting maze of alleyways. The entrance appeared quite suddenly in a covey of street vendors and beggars. Unfortunately, the temple security guards told us to keep our camera firmly locked away in its case.

As soon as we passed through the metal detectors, we found ourselves in the midst of chaos. (Though chaos has become a relative term in Kolkata.) This was chaos permeated by a religious fervor we had yet to witness in India. Pilgrims and worshipers crammed all around us on the outer walls of the temple, some gently knocking their heads against its brick walls. Others had their hands raised and their eyes turned in the direction of the temple's shining silver-domed top. All around us was a din of chanting and low-toned praying.

Before we could object, a young man dressed in a white kurta (a long-sleeved tunic) and lungi (loincloth tucked in betwen the legs) had sidled up to us and had begun giving us a guided tour. "This is Kolkata's most sacred temple. It is a public temple, though, so no matter your caste or level in society, you can worship here." He was motioning with his hands to follow. In the fervid mass of worshippers, Jenna and I felt we needed a little assistance, so we went along.

The young man led us towards the back where a strong scent of incense permeated. The bleating of goats wailed above the noise of the crowd. "This is our sacrificial spot," the young man said, pointing towards two goats tethered to a low brick wall. A few men stood around the goats expectantly. "These goats will be sacrificed and the blood will be offered to Kali." Jenna and I looked at the goats, whose hooves skittered wildly on the tile floor of the temple. "How do you sacrifice them?" I asked. "We cut off their heads," the man said.

He led us to another spot towards the side of the temple, opposite from how we had come in. "Please, take off your shoes." We dutifully slipped off our flip-flops and piled them on top of several dozen other pairs. The man handed us two metal rings painted red, a slender box of incense wicks, and a string of crimson hibiscus flowers. "Follow. Come. Please," and the man was off again. He led us into the heart of the maelstrom, up the temple steps and into the jaw of the temple's front room. Through a narrow doorway worshipers elbowed and jostled their way towards the image of Kali, tucked away in a nave-like room guarded by priests who were hanging from the rafters dotting people's foreheads with orange paint. In this space--no bigger than a one-car garage--at least 60 people muscled their way towards Kali's statue. Jenna and I, bound along on the tide of worshippers, found ourselves just outside Kali's sitting room and before we knew it, we had orange dots on our heads. "Touch your head with the flowers and throw them at Kali," the young man commanded. We followed his orders and then pushed our way out of the room.

Catching our breath, we followed the young man back around the temple. We passed the sacrificial chamber again, yet this time there were no goats. Instead, blood splattered the tile floor. A few stray dogs lapped up the mess. We picked up our flip-flops and followed the young man to another spot at the corner of the complex. We came up to a gnarly tree, enclosed in a red-iron box. "This is Success tree," the man said. "You pray here for success in life. Women come here to pray to get pregnant. Parents come here to pray for their newborn babies. Businessmen come to pray for success in job. You can pray to any god you want here. It is your private prayer."

He passed off to older man who greeted us with a passive smile. We still had the rings, incense and flowers in our hands. The older man told us to lay these things at the foot of the tree. "What are your parents' names?" he asked. We told him. He took off a petal from the string of flowers. "Pray for your parents," he said and he motioned to our heads. We pressed the flowers to our foreheads and the man took them and put them in a small container by the tree. "What are your jobs?" We told him we were teachers, and he repeated the process with the flowers. "Are you married?" he asked. We nodded yes. "Pray for your marriage," he said and we took more flowers. "Now, pray for happiness." He took the last of the flowers, we pressed them to our heads, and he took them. "Now, take rings and place on tree anywhere. Now take incense. We light it and put by tree." We followed these instructions.

The man got out a small notebook. "Write your names in here," he said. We did so. The man flipped to other pages in the book where others had written their names. There were numbers by the names. "People give donation for charity. Goes to poor," he pointed at the numbers. "Two-thousand rupees. Fifteen hundred. You give." It was not a question. I pulled out two one-hundred rupee notes. "For both of you?" the man looked skeptical. "That's all we have," I said truthfully. "We take American dollars, too. Give American money," the man said. "I don't have any. This is it," I replied sheepishly.

Though we had just prayed for happiness, the man looked rather sullen. He accepted my donation with a roll of his eyes. Kali, I take it, requires more than just goat's blood.