I fell in love with this temple the first time I set eyes on it. Back in 2017 , I had been excited to see yet another Yogini temple, when I visited Puri. The resort I was staying at (and writing for), had arranged for a car and driver to take me around. The driver was happy to take me to most of the places I wanted to go, but when it came to Hirapur, he was appalled. He knew of the temple, but had never been there. It was a tantric temple, one not visited by women, and certainly not women travelling alone. He tried to convince me not to go, but my stubbornness and persistence paid off, and he reluctantly agreed when I told him that if he didn’t take me, I would find another driver who would. All along the way, he kept going on about the sinister things that happened at the temple, the tantric rituals that were performed at night…. An Odisha brahmin who took his religious duties very seriously, to the extent of stopping the car to perform the sandhyavandam when he deemed it time, he...
Memory is unpredictable . One never really knows what we will remember and what we will forget. Which is why nostalgia arrives in unpredictable waves, highlighting something and skimming over others. Recently, I have found myself thinking of how memory works, as I was assailed by nostalgia over a trip to Varanasi, a city I prefer to think of, as Kashi. The nostalgia hit right as we landed at Varanasi airport. The last time I was here, it was 1988, I was 13 years old, the airport was brand new… regular flights hadn’t started yet (I think) … flights landed about once a week, and for the rest of the time, everything was open to those of us who lived in the airport quarters nearby. There were fields everywhere, vast expanses of green… I have vague memories of corn and sugarcane… and being overwhelmed by the vastness of the fields (this was the first time I was in such close proximity to them), and the warm hospitality of complete strangers who lived and worked amidst these fields. I h...