The Temple in the Hills

I stand on the balcony of my usual Airbnb while on a caregiving mission to Penang. It’s early morning. Eighteen stories below, the streets are silent, save for the occasional motorcyclist; a security guard on his way home after a late shift, or perhaps a foreign worker on her way to a nyonya kuih shop to start on the day’s offerings. The birds have yet to stir. But wait. I squint at a glimmer of pin pricks, nestled deep in the inky-dark hills. I grab my glasses. Why haven’t I noticed this cluster of golden lights before? I pick up my phone, ignoring the time (but of course, it’s 3 a.m.). Google Maps tells me I’m looking at a Hindu temple. “Thaneermalai Shree Balathandayuthapani Devas …” I turn my phone this way and that, without luck. There isn’t enough space on the screen for the whole name. I skim the Google reviews, all of which glow as incandescently as the flickering in the distance. My curiosity is piqued. Nonetheless, it will be some years before I finally succeed in making a pilgrimage to this temple in the hills.

It turns out I don’t need a screenshot of the temple’s extremely long name to find it. Locals refer to the house of worship, dedicated to the Hindu god of war, Lord Murugan, as the Waterfall Road temple, an infinitely easier name to type into my navigation app of choice, Waze. “Why are we here?” one child groans. “When are we going to have dinner?” the other child gripes. “Have you been here before?” the spouse inquires politely. “Because it looked interesting from the balcony, later, and no,” I answer. My family is in tow. I’m not sufficiently intrepid to embark on this impromptu exploration on my own.

Soon, we’re standing at the base of a long flight of concrete steps that ascend on a gentle slope before disappearing into lush greenery. An Internet review estimates 513, but I’m not about to share this tidbit. “Just a few steps,” I lie. “Not a lot.” “Are you sure it’s open?” one child asks nervously as we make our way up. “Well, there’s no one around to ask,” I reply, wilfully ignoring how we were the only car in the deserted parking lot. “Except the monkeys,” the spouse interjects. My heart skips a beat as my children squeal with delight. Several latte-coloured macaques have dropped from the trees like ninjas on an assassination mission. We’re surrounded. “Don’t touch them! And don’t smile and show your teeth to them either!” I bark as I stiffen with wariness, employing the same rules as I would when encountering unfamiliar dogs.

Thankfully, these macaques differ from those we’ve encountered elsewhere in Asia that are bold and aggressive, tainted by irresponsible tourists who bait them with human food in exchange for photo close-ups. These creatures are at ease in their natural habitat, calm and chilled, their amber eyes filled with childlike curiosity. We soften, relax, and continue our ascent. The macaques keep a respectful distance as they shadow us, stopping every so often to groom each other or to pluck fruit from low hanging branches. We pass a mother with a tiny baby hanging from her teat, the newborn’s face wrinkled like a large dried jujube. We pass another, a male, his hands pressed together as if in prayer. We marvel anew at how human like these creatures are, our closest kin.

The macaques distract us from the arduousness of stair-climbing. In no time at all, we reach the main tower or gopuram, an intricately-carved seven-storey structure that takes what remains of my breath away. We crane our necks and stare. So this is the source of the hillside glittering that caught my attention on that sleepless night so many years ago! It feels like I’m meeting an old friend. A macaque languidly plods, on all fours, across the facade. He, or she, stops to sit placidly next to a carved figure with fierce eyes and four arms. By the time I’ve dug my phone from the depths of my bag and adjusted it to take a picture, the animal has, to my disappointment, mysteriously disappeared.

We take off our shoes and step onto the cool marbled floor of the temple’s spartan inner chamber. We’re no longer the only humans here, but we’re still the only non-Indians. There’s a temple guy, fleshy and bare-torsoed, arranging the flower offerings and filling up the oil lamps. There’s a courting couple, fingertips touching as they smile and whisper to each other. There’s an elderly man, bald head bowed in front of a shrine, his figure small and silent. I’m ashamed. I wish I’d done some research before coming here. The history of the structure, the deities’ backstories, the elaborate rituals, all the stories that I’ve not made any effort to uncover and to understand. Despite the unknowing (and I can only speak for myself), there is a presence, some larger force or entity within these walls, something or someone that exudes benevolence and kindness, forgiveness and compassion. Perhaps it’s all a fabrication of my own mind, but I cannot resist, or deny, the feeling. It’s as if I’m being held in an embrace. It’s as if I’m that wizened-faced baby macaque, clinging to the teat of life. I am safe. I am loved. My stomach clenches as I suddenly recall the news stories coming out of Malaysia about Hindu temples being demolished or forcibly relocated, sometimes without notice and without consultation. Why would one people deny this feeling of wholeness and belonging to another people? Human cruelty, in all its myriad forms, never fails to astound me.

The moon has risen as we make our way back down the steps to our car. The macaques have abandoned us, perhaps for the pleasure of more exciting company or more likely, the comfort of their forest beds. One of the gates we pass extols its wisdom: “The quieter you become, the more you are able to hear.” So we are silent, listening to our footfall, the rustling in the trees, the cacophony of birds returning to their evening roosts. By the time we reach the car park, our car is no longer alone, but surrounded by other vehicles. Lord Murugan devotees are readying themselves for the trek up the stairs. It feels festive; the lively chatter of grown ups, the happy laughter of children, the luminous sheen of sarees. Behind us, as the sky darkens, all the lights switch on, bathing the buildings in brilliant gold. Long may the temple in the hills continue to shine its divine invitation. Long may the gods continue to comfort the souls of those who seek succour.