There is also a story of St Thomas and the Goddess Bhagavati having a spat, with St Thomas chasing the goddess to her temple at Kodungallur, and sticking his foot in the door to prevent her from locking him out. Even in Mannarkad, it is said that the crack in the church's bell is due to Bhagavati damaging it as its tolling was waking her up during her sleep. In retaliation, the Virgin Mary is believed to have cracked one of the sacred conches at her sister's temple.
Such myths may hint at periods of tensions between the different faiths, and certainly there are those today who frown on the extreme porousness of religious practice in the region. The Vishnu temple in Mannarkad is today the chosen place of worship for the village's RSS members who frequent the temple at least partly because the Brahmins there do not have anything to do with Mannarkad's Christians, of whose prosperity and prominence they disapprove.
Likewise the Christian clergy at the church of Mannarkad, while wishing to preserve good relations with their Hindu neighbours and welcoming Hindus into the church, at the same time do all they can to stop their own Christian flock from visiting the temple, and they strongly disapprove of their congregation indulging in syncretic ceremonies. When I asked the local priest, Fr Kuriakos, about the festival of the goddess Bhagavati and the forthcoming visit of the goddess to the church to see her sister, he made it clear that he would on no account be present to welcome the goddess. "The Virgin Mary comes from Jewish tradition," he said, clearly exasperated from repeating this regularly to his congregation. "She is the daughter of Joachim and Anna, and was from Palestine, not India. This devi temple is a thing from Indian tradition."
He paused, looking me in the eye before resuming, speaking very clearly to make sure I understood. "There is no relation between the Virgin Mary and Bhagavati," he said. "We cannot encourage this belief. It is a myth. Worse, it is nonsense."
W
ith the noise of firecrackers exploding, six cymbal clashers clashing, twelve temple drummers drumming and the women of the village loudly ululating, the procession set off up the dirt track behind the temple, and off into the jungle. It was 8.30 in the morning of January 6, 2008, and Goddess Bhagavati was setting off to visit her devotees and relations across the village of Mannarkad.
The goddess, who had earlier that morning entered one of the priests of the temple—the
velichchappadu, or oracle—and so proclaimed her excitement at the forthcoming trip, had shortly afterwards re-entered her silver image, and been hoisted onto the back of a wonderfully caparisoned temple elephant. The elephant had been washed and dressed up with belled anklets and an elaborate gilt headdress; the gilt of the headdress merged with the gilt of the brocade cloth surrounding the goddess on her howdah, and topped with a thick mantle of jasmine and marigold garlands. From the top of her mount, the goddess looked down in silver splendour at her devotees, with her rounded skull-like face, her round eyes bulging, and her teeth and fangs grinning with pleasure.
The way had been prepared carefully in advance; the track had been swept and the way lined with scarlet silk umbrellas. Between the umbrellas, bunting had been draped from a series of bamboo posts, and shredded palm fronds, streamers and red hibiscus flowers hung from the bunting.
As we walked along the village boundary, from clearing to clearing, through pepper and rubber plantations, groups of devotees were waiting for the annual visit of their deity. Outside each cluster of huts, irrespective of the faith of the people of that part of the village, trestle tables had been loaded with burning lamps and piles of offerings—coconuts and bananas, baskets of puffed rice and jaggery. Each time, the elephant would stop, offerings would be given and blessings received. Then more firecrackers would be let off—scaring the children and grazing goats—and the women would ululate, and on the procession would trundle, the drummer and cymbal clashers leading the way.
"She is the mother of the village," explained Saraswati Amma, an old lady who was waiting on the verandah of her house for the goddess, with all her grandchildren around her. "She comes to give blessings. Bad spirits flee when she approaches."
"In ancient times this was forest," explained her son Anish, who was holding his youngest boy in his arms. "We needed the goddess to guard against bad spirits. They are still here, hiding in the forest, and we need her to keep them at bay."
"She comes around only once a year to see our homes," added Saraswati, "so we must give her a good welcome. That is why we are gathered here—for the welfare of the entire village. That is why we are doing it."
"Everyone in the village gives her something," Saraswati continued. "Even the Christians sometimes do it in secret."
At several places along the route, more elaborate sacrifices were performed. The story the villagers told me was that long ago, when their ancestors first arrived in Mannarkad and cleared a place for themselves in the forest, they angered an evil yakshi, or tree spirit, who had lived there. Furious at being disturbed, the yakshi struck down the settlers with smallpox. Only when the villagers brought an idol of Goddess Bhagavati from her temple in Kodungallur, and the goddess fought seven pitched battles with the yakshi, was the epidemic brought to an end.
