Thaipusam

Nicole Jardine | originally written 3/2006

Note: If you are slightly squeamish about body hurty stuff, this story probably isn't for you.

While living in Singapore I experienced a number of life-altering experiences. I was taking a course at the National University of Singapore about Religion in Society and Culture. We had a group project to report on an aspect of one of the four major religions in the region. Our group chose to study Thaipusam (pronounced tie-pooh-SAHM), an all-night Hindu festival occurring in February.

One of our group's members had a very religious Hindu family friend whose family was extraordinarily kind and welcoming; so much so, in fact, that they invited us to participate with them on the evening of the event. Cameras, they said, are perfectly allowed. I brought mine and vowed to be as discreet as possible.

  Thaipusam is celebrated worldwide and is devoted to Lord Muruga. Devotees walk from one shrine of Lord Muruga to another shrine of his ranging from a few to a few hundred kilometres away. On this path they carry pots of milk or honey, or bear a kavadi, a home-made shrine to the deity. Men, women, and children often undergo the journey, all carrying a gift to the god. Most often this gift was a pot of milk to be poured over his statue at the second temple.

  The festival is known worldwide, however, for those who show a more extreme level of devotion. To show their faith and to request a blessing to be free of one of life’s ailments, some willingly pierce their skin for the duration of their walk. It is said that many devotees are in so deep a trance at the time of piercing that they barely feel the pain, and often don’t even bleed. Some pierce metal shapes through their foreheads; for others, thin metal spears through the cheek, tongue, and nose will suffice; still others hook limes onto their body; and the most extreme will hoist their kavadi onto their shoulders, keep it upright by a brace around the waist, and secure it to their body with dozens of long, sharp spears of metal.

  They then walk to the next temple – in Singapore, three kilometers away – and offer a sacrifice to Lord Muruga before they remove the piercings.

  Having never been exceptionally religious myself, I was fascinated by the idea of body mortification for purposes of worship. And now I could observe it up close.

  Four other classmates and I are incredibly lucky this night. A Hindu family – three men, two women, a daughter, and two sons – celebrating Thaipusam has invited us to essentially spend the entire evening with them, while they explain the rituals to us.

  We meet them at an apartment complex at about 11:30 PM, late Friday night. After exchanging greetings and asking permission to take photographs, we climb into a truck bed with them and ride to the temple. It’s a short ride, a little bit crowded due to the large, unassembled kavadi riding in the center.

We arrive at Sri Srinivasa Perumal, the first temple. There are already crowds of people around it, mostly non-tourists because the festival lasts from tonight until tomorrow night. Many (but not all) are wearing some shade of yellow, Lord Muruga’s favorite color. When we pass through the gated areas and into the temple, we remove our shoes and go barefoot for the rest of the journey. The atmosphere is not quite what I expected. Thaipusam is not so much a somber event, more of a celebration, but is still a far cry from lighthearted. There are a few other photographers and tourists here, but we are welcome; and I after twenty minutes I realize that the only reason I feel so utterly like an intruder is because I think I should feel that way. No one is yelled at, and often I am even smiled at by women walking by our family’s location on their way to the second temple.

  Hundreds of families and solo devotees have set up their kavadis (personal shrines) on the ground. They are all made with various materials; it has taken our family a week to make theirs. It’s carry-able and quite elaborate, featuring an arch-like structure, peacock feathers, and effigies of a few Hindu dieties. While the kavadi is being assembled, other family members open a few stuffed grocery bags and bring out an assortment of items – some jugs, cartons of milk, bananas, limes, a curious yellow powder, water, flowers, and coconuts, among other sacred items. A fire is lit and placed by the kavadi.

The initial setup of the kavadi and the food takes a while, and when one of the family members is not describing different aspects of the ritual, they encourage me to explore other areas under the tent. The thick, scented air vibrates with music – only certain instruments and a particular style of music is allowed to be played tonight, and as I listen to a small crowd sing with the staccato beat, I hear a sharp crack and a loud scream.

  I turn. A shirtless man is mercilessly whipping another. To my great surprise, it is actually the man wielding the long cloth who had shouted. His companion is receiving the lashing while steadfastly holding himself motionless and without complaint against the pain.

It was quite unexpected. Perhaps I've lived too sheltered a life.

  Heart in my throat, I turn back to the music, resolving to find the source of the bagpipe-like instrumentals and ritualistic singing. It’s quite crowded, but I manage to see – barely – what is going on.

  A man has a large kavadi over his head. It is supported there by an attachment around his abdomen, and he is in the process of supporting the shrine. Volunteers are helping to align the ‘thin’ metal bars, then puncture his left side just under the rib. I cannot tell if his face is that of forced calm or devoted trance, but I am certain that it is not enjoyable. The chanting and songs, I then realize, are for support through this ordeal. The metal exits his skin approximately ten centimeters from where it went in, and seems about two centimeters deep between the entry and exit points. Each slightly flexible spear looks to me like agony, but he is steadfast. He has approximately two dozen going through his torso.

  I decide to return to my hosts for a little while. They are mixing a yellow powder with water to form a sort of thick paste. The woman holding the container proceeds to form a shape. She is not sculpting; it is a less precise formation of what finally looks like a bumpy pyramid. The yellow figure, no matter what earthly form it appears to be, signifies Lord Muruga. It is placed by the fire.

  After praying, the adult family members hold the fire plate and swirl it with the right hand around the food offerings. Then, one of the men prepares to be pierced by one of the volunteers. The volunteer’s hands are dusted with powder, perhaps to minimize slipping of the three ‘small’ emblems he affixes through our still companion’s forehead. There is no bleeding – it is said that if you bleed, then your penances of the days prior were incorrect (perhaps you did not fast properly). He is calm throughout, and I sense that, for him, having three pieces of metal stuck through one’s forehead is really no big deal at all.

It is time to wander, and a short distance away my curiosity is rewarded once again. A man is dancing, writhing and snake-like, held up by friends or family as he sways. Standing still in front of him is another volunteer piercer. Song fills my ears yet again as the dancer prepares. Suddenly he emits a piercing, challenging shreik to the still man in front of him… then falls silent, head down, passive. Soon he lifts his head.

  The volunteer raises his hand, holding a metal spear. He firmly presses it to the man’s cheek, through the cavern of his mouth, and out the other side. Again – miraculously – no blood. Even when the next spear is pierced through the tip of his tongue, the man flinches minimally, make no sound, and keeps his eyes lightly closed. Finally, the piercings are finished; he opens his eyes, takes up a jar of milk, and proceeds to embark on his trek to the other temple.

  Of what I’ve seen so far, I think what astounds me most is the minimal blood shed. Is it a result of mental calm and preparation, or the possession of the holy spirit? Does it have to do with a strict diet for days before the festival and resulting blood coagulation effects? I decide to ponder later – our family has cleaned up the food and now, at 2:30AM, is ready to carry milk and the kavadi to Sri Thendayuthapani Temple.

  We are tourists, essentially – but tonight we are fortunate enough to actually walk with them. We join the throngs of other devotees, who carry jugs and/or a kavdadi, and are sometimes pierced, and begin to walk. Sections of the streets are actually blocked off for this event.

The walk is not too long and although not entirely somber, there isn’t much mindless chatter either. I take notes and talk minimally and softly with our hosts. Now and then one of the men, carrying a plate of halved limes, tosses a slice to the road outside the barriers as a gesture of respect for a few tented roadside shrines we pass. At two of the half-dozen or so shrines are some slightly more expressive devotees than those who pray softly. One man, his face and back pierced, dances to music played by his companion’s handheld radio. Another man later on is absolutely still, but his loud animal-like cries cut through the dark late night sky. Just feeling the holy spirit, apparently.

  At times we hear a group of men singing behind us. That signals it’s time to move to the side, for their spike-bearing companion may be nearing the limits of his stamina, and they need to get him to the temple. It is not at all shameful to receive support on this trek.

  After a while, the crowd slows and eventually ceases to move. The temple is absolutely packed tonight – we know it’s ahead of us because we hear loud music, but we can’t yet see it. A voice, speaking English and then (I believe) Tamil, encourages us between songs to be as quick as possible once inside the temple, for many devotees are in line.

  We near the entrance. After about an hour of inching forward only to wait more, one of the men – the most pierced I’ve seen so far – seems to be wearing out. He shifts from foot to foot, taking care not to upset the spikes running through his torso. Sometimes his friends assist by taking a little of the kavadi’s weight, but at this point the man seems strengthened and able to stand more. He never vocally protests, but it’s evident that he should get inside the temple soon to make his offerings. You’ve gone this far – you’re almost there, I cheer mentally.

  We reach the entrance to Sri Thendayuthapani Temple and notice that there is a gaggle of tourists outside – in fact, we don’t see any going inside the temple. We turn to one of the family members. “Er… all of the tourists are outside… where should we exit?” He merely shrugs with a half-smile. “You can come inside… that is, if they let you.”

  I would rather step aside than be essentially ‘thrown out,’ but we are swept along the crowd without opportunity for exit. Amazingly, we get inside the temple.

  Our time inside the temple is quite short and a little hectic. We hang back to let people finalize their offerings – and to let the man I had seen in line pass – and thus cannot see the pouring of the milk very well. Our family finishes soon; almost as quickly as we are swept in, we are ushered out with them.

  We come outside the temple, where everyone puts on their shoes again. It feels strange after our shoe-less three-kilometer trek along the road. There is a large tent set up, designated as the spike removal area. Many people, spiked or not, are sitting after their journey. Young children doze or sip some of the thick chalky-looking drinks offered. A boy of about fourteen has a spear removed from his cheeks; he grimaces, but remains courageously silent. Our family finds a spot, places the kavadi – which was borne on the shoulders of the man who had pierced his forehead – down, and rests. A spike-remover comes and anticlimatically removes the metal from others' bodies. It looks approximately as fun as putting it in, which is to say not very. After this short reprieve, the family will walk back, take showers, and prepare to come again in the morning for a different ritual.

  The man with whom I have been conversing the majority of the night makes a final comment. Because we have seen the preparation, endured the walk, and borne witness to all the happenings of the event, we are blessed this night. Again, I am not a religious person, but I would be lying if I told you I didn't feel pensive and grateful.

  It is now 5:00 AM, and time to say our goodbyes. Everyone smiles tiredly. The children rouse themselves from their mother’s lap to say goodbye (and the littlest son, smiling shyly, offers us some Wintergreen gum). We depart and find comfortable, air-conditioned, speedy taxis that take us back to the comfort of our westernized, modern world, far removed from an old and deeply spiritual culture.

  It was quite an experience. And to think I only watched it.

  The complete photo gallery is up here.