Barefoot & Breathless

There are few places on Earth where you feel the gods watching you — Tiruvannamalai, the ancient temple town crowned by the fiery presence of Arunachaleswarar, is undeniably one of them. Nestled at the foot of a hill that’s more than just a geological formation — it’s Shiva’s own abode — the town thrums with a spiritual voltage that’s palpable. Pilgrims pour in not for weekend picnics or cultural selfies, but for something rarer and harder to sell — salvation. It’s a heady mix of architectural brilliance, wild trekking trails, sacred forests, rare flora and fauna, and spiritual hotspots — and yet, few people have even heard of this place.

Let’s start from the top — quite literally. The five-kilometre hike to the summit behind Ramana Maharshi Ashram is both breathtaking and breath-snatching. The path winds through whispering forests, where butterflies flit and peacocks show off. Boulders — smoothed by a thousand years of barefoot seekers — polish not just stone but spirit, with each step grinding away the vanities and banalities of one’s life. By the time you reach the summit, breathless but strangely light, the view knocks the last bit of air out of your lungs: eight towering gopurams, sacred tanks shimmering in the distance, and a chaotic yet unseemly urban sprawl below, embraced by the holy mountain.

Then there’s the Arunachaleswarar Temple — a South Indian sacred monolith, and a marvel of Chola, Hoysala, and Vijayanagara architecture situated at a distance of 210 km approximately from Bangalore and equally from Chennai. It houses one of Lord Shiva’s manifestations — the Agni Linga — and is considered among the most sacred sites in South India. Grand halls with thousand-pillared corridors, a sanctum that hums with energy, and towers that scrape the sky. But walk a little closer, and you’ll see ash-streaked stones, plastic tarps flapping in temple winds, tangled wiring, dug-up roads, and construction that looks eternal in the worst possible way. It’s part holy site, part construction zone, part tragicomedy — a living monument to our bureaucratic and temple management genius.

The official website? Sparse, like it was designed by someone on penance. The signage? Proudly indecipherable to anyone not fluent in Tamil — a masterclass in language chauvinism. A bold statement in exclusion. What should open doors instead locks them tight. Language is meant to connect hearts, not build walls. When pride becomes prejudice, cultural roots decay.

And yet, the faithful come from all over the country and the world. Shoeless, sleepless, and hopeful. Especially during Pournami, the full moon night, when tens of thousands join the Girivalam — a 14-kilometre barefoot circumambulation of the holy hill. The walk begins at 3 a.m., lit by moonlight and phone torches, and ends around dawn when the first temple bells ring. By kilometre seven, your sins are gone, your soles are cracked, and your patience is under divine stress-testing. You dodge autos, sidestep cows, soak in tree-lined paths, and occasionally forget the pain — because the mountain never leaves your sight.

Still, they walk. With folded hands, blistered feet, and eyes filled with something divine. A river of faith that never dries up. I did it. And I’ll remember it for life — not because of how hard it was, but because of how deeply it moved something inside me.

At the mountain’s base, Ramana Maharshi Ashram sits like a bubble of peace — clean, serene, and proof that sacred spaces can be managed with grace. Just a short distance away, however, the temple’s periphery dissolves into municipal mayhem. Shabby hotels and shops mushroom around heritage walls like a construction arms race. To top it off, butcher shops welcome you near the entrance of this ancient town. Aliens locking eyes with gods.

And no, this isn’t accidental. It’s not an oversight. It’s a cultural vandalism project by neglect — the slow erosion of sacredness under the weight of temple management, administrative fog, and political chutzpah. A temple that should be a national treasure is held hostage by botched repairs and a total absence of vision. Civic planning? Missing. Pilgrim management? Nonexistent. Amenities for tourists braving rain and sun? Don’t ask.

Yet the pilgrims come. Because India’s spiritual backbone is titanium-reinforced. We forgive the sins of the system every day, just long enough to remember the face of the divine. Tiruvannamalai is a living paradox — fire and soot, chaos and calm, wrapped in devotion. A place where the sacred towers above while the administrative and municipal systems dig trenches below — metaphorically and literally.

And still, it moves. It breathes. It pulses with something far greater than the sum of its potholes. Go — not for curated comfort or Insta-friendly filters, but to see India in its rawest, realest spiritual form: cracked, crowded, chaotic — and utterly unbreakable.

Because if there’s one force that consistently triumphs over bureaucratic mismanagement, it’s the Indian pilgrim’s stubborn, unshakable drive to walk through the mess — and still find the light. This one tourist hotspot reveals more about who we are — and what we could be.