Tourist guides tell you about the great stone temples of India, magnificent structures whose pillars, walls, and ceilings narrate stories of Gods, kings, and empires. Their names appear in history books and political speeches. Marble plaques commemorate wealthy patrons, committees, and dignitaries who inaugurated them.
And then there are the little Temples. Most of them, no larger than a tea stall, stand beneath peepal or neem trees, at the edge of village roads, beside rivers, outside markets, or tucked into the corner of a busy city street. A saffron flag flutters from a bamboo pole. A tiny Hanuman idol sits inside a simple cement alcove, his face freshly painted in an orange brighter than any sunset. A lone Shivling rests beneath the open sky. A brass bell hangs from a rusting hook, polished smooth by thousands of anonymous hands.
I have often wondered who built them. Perhaps they began with a single stone placed beneath a tree. Someone lit an oil lamp. The next evening, another passer-by did the same. A few leftover bricks became a small shrine. Someone whitewashed the walls with spare paint after renovating a house. Before one monsoon, a tin roof appeared. Later, someone donated a bell, another a water pot, and someone else a small idol. They were never really constructed; they simply grew, almost like the trees that shelter them. Faith, like a banyan, often begins with something very small.
Unlike grand Temples, these shrines belong to everyone. They are woven into the rhythm of ordinary life. Bus drivers bow their heads without switching off the engine. Cyclists ring the Temple bell as naturally as they ring their bicycle bells. Shopkeepers light incense before opening their shutters. Schoolchildren whisper hurried prayers before examinations. They are as democratic as can be. There are no VIP queues. No elaborate rituals. One flower is enough. Folded hands are enough. Even a passing nod of the head is enough. I remember one beside a dusty village road, where a clay pot of drinking water stood. Birds perched on its rim. A stray dog slept in its shade through the afternoon heat.
Many of these shrines have survived highways widening around them and towns growing into cities. They may not preserve the history of kings or wealthy merchants, but they remember the young man who prayed before leaving to join the army, the anxious parents waiting for examination results, the mother who returned with sweets after her child recovered from illness, and the farmer who folded his hands before the first rains. India’s great temples tell the story of its civilisation. It’s little Temples tell the story of its people.
These little Temples have never drawn boundaries. Birds, animals, travellers, believers, sceptics, all find a place beside them. A brass bell. A clay lamp. The rustle of peepal leaves. Sparrows nest in cracks behind the idols. Mynas quarrel on the roof. Squirrels race across the walls. Parakeets chew at the neem branches overhead. Occasionally, a langur sits on the boundary wall with the confidence of an old landlord. Even the stray dogs seem to sleep peacefully in their shade.
Photos and text by Prerna Jain.
