Pilgrimage to the Matrika Varahi

We drive for hours through the blistering heat. Bouncing along the heavily pot-holed roads, trying to find the turn-off based on natural markings in the landscape- three stones stacked upon the other and the roots of one of hundreds of banyan trees painted in a special configuration of yellow and red. How will we know which tree it is? How will we know that these are the right triad of stones? These are not easy markers as there are many such shrines along these Indian country roads. We surrender to Devi, to Goddess to lead us there. And She does. After hours of driving in the sweltering Orissan heat, we pull up to the Candasi temple. It is a sacred Tantric temple to one of my favorite aspects of Goddess Durga, Varahi- the boar-headed Matrika or Mother Goddess.

Entering a Tantric temple is to enter the womb of Goddess—literally, for the Sanskrit name of the inner sanctum is Garbha Griha or womb and temples are considered microcosmic embodiments of the Goddess’ macrocosmic Reality. Upon entering, I find the narrow vulvic passage, which leads to a small opening through which one must bow their head in reverence and essentially crawl into the pitch back inner sanctum. To me it feels like I am re-entering the womb of our Mother and yet what I discover within her stone temple body is always a mystery. This particular space exudes a mysterious somewhat frightening aura. Frightening only because this sacred womb space is pregnant with the unknown and much that is unfamiliar to this contemporary initiate. What awaits me here? I wonder.

Cautiously, I slide deeper into Varahi’s dark chambers. My eyes, accustomed to the blazing sunlight, have difficulty adjusting. Having left the security that comes with the light of day, I now feel like I have been cloaked in the darkest of night— that time just before dawn. I feel nervous and a little afraid. Varahi has a formidable presence, and I have the sense that she is watching me through the thick black silky air. All I can see is the strong, powerful outline of her huge commanding body and the piercing glare of her metallic eyes as a sliver of sunlight slices through the blackened chambers and shoots off two newly placed metal eyes.

Varahi is not delicate. She is not graceful. She is not even sensual or seductive in the way the other goddesses I have seen have been. Instead She is fierce, immense, tough—and alluring. Intimidating, yes. And even totally captivating. I become rooted to the earth before her. I want to give her the offerings I have brought, the sweets, the kum kum powder, the jasmine incense, but for several minutes I cannot even lift my arms. She has possessed me. And I must wait and listen. No one fucks with Varahi at this temple. She can rip them to shreds with those tusks, and She will.

“Merge with me.” She whispers in a gravelly voice. I cautiously place my hand on her nostrils and can almost feel her snorting warm breath. She is covered in a sari, and my hands move down her neck and onto her chest. I rest my hands on her pendulous breasts, the thick cotton fabric beneath my finger tips. Tears fill my eyes as deep longing envelops me. If only I could rest in her lap and have her cradle me in her arms…I bow my head and lean against her. I can now hear her grunting with content, love and affection for her devotee. It seems as if her warm moist breath swirls from the back of my neck and up through the air. My consciousness follows and is taken to memories of the distant past.

I begin to have visions of chakras of practitioners, chanting, praying, singing to Her. My head begins to ache as I try to take it all in and question what I am intuiting, what I could be remembering from other lives, and how or if my studies and sadhana could be influencing these visions. What is Real? Ultimately all that is Real is the magnificence and Shakti of this incredible Goddess before me. My hands instinctively move to her full round belly. This belly is pregnant with creativity, abundance, knowledge and wisdom. The folds of her fat, although made of stone, seem to meld into my hands. My hands continue their journey to her valiant thighs and knees. I stand before her, my eyes now having adjusted to the darkness, gazing into her eyes, smelling the musty moist scent of the chamber. This is the sweetened wet fragrance of Her womb. Remembering. I cry and pray. I miss Her. I miss this place. I know this place deep in my bones. I know the worship that goes on here. It is my spiritual heritage. It transcends lifetimes.The longer I remain within Her chamber, the more intense the pounding in my head becomes. It feels as if I cannot contain all the Shakti that is coursing through me, the vast energies that are being provoked, stimulated, called back to memory. My fingers fall to Her feet and feel the sweet outline of several toe rings on the very same toes as my own toe rings. Sisters in adornment, I think. Perhaps my love for jewelry in this lifetime comes in part from these rituals where Devi must be adorned. It is a deep comfort to know of any symbolic as well as esoteric connection between my contemporary western life and Varahi’s age-old divine presence.

I want to be fierce like Her. I want to be fearless and free. I long for Her confidence and conviction. I need Her strength, Her unconditional love, Her unwavering stamina and discriminating wisdom. I offer my body, my heart, my mind and my soul. Let me be in service to you, Varahi Maa. Please help me to always remember who I am. I bid my farewell and enter out into the blinding sunlight. Using the outer temple walls as a crutch, I stumble to the back of the temple to rest my head and hands against the wall right behind where She so authoritatively resides. I slide to the earth and rest my body against Hers. My head and heart pounding. My soul feeling free.

(Excerpt from my forthcoming book on Durga based on my pilgrimage experience in India, February 2002.)