Footpath: the space between

Footpath to Tirumala

Before the car road was constructed and hundreds of buses and taxis began to transport pilgrims, they walked uphill. And today hundreds of pilgrims continue to do so, believing that to walk up the mountain brings more merit than riding a motorized conveyance[17]. The footpath begins at the base of the Seven Hills at a place called Alipiri[18]. The path is 9-11 kilometers long; I’ve walked the path several times, but had no way to mark the distance and have found conflicting information on exactly how long it is. These days a series of cement steps numbering 3350 are built into the path, having been constructed by the Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanam (TTD); much of the path is covered by galvanized-tin roofing to provide shade and cover from rains. Depending on their health and the rituals they perform on the way, most pilgrims reach the top of the hill in three to four hours.

Pilgrims with Sandals

The start of the path is indicated by a white-washed gopuram—the first in a series that mark for the foot-travelers the beginning of each of the seven mountain ranges, all the way up to the highest Venkatagiri. Immediately in front of the first gopuram, towards the plains side, is the previously mentioned temple dedicated to Venkatesvara’s feet, the Pādāla temple. Here the story of Venkatesvara wearing out his sandals going uphill and down is visually performed when pilgrims circumambulate the feet of god three times while carrying a set of brass sandals on their heads (these sandals are available for use with a Rs. 5 donation to the temple). Wealthy devotees may bring with them an offering to the god of new brass or silver sandals. When, in 2005, a devotee presented a pair of gold sandals weighing 32 grams, it was an event marked by a ritual abhiṣekam (anointing of the feet) with 100 litres of milk and widely reported in local newspapers[19].

Pasupu-kumkuma vow ritual
on footpath going uphill

Each of the 3350 cement steps on the footpath is covered with ritual applications of turmeric and vermillion (pasupu-kumkuma), the result of individual back-breaking vows by female pilgrims[20]. The visual contrast of looking at the steps going up or going down is dramatic—the vertical portion of each step brightly colored on the way up and the horizontal portion of the steps visible on the way down a somber gray.

Cradles tied for fertility

I spoke with several women about the kinds of vows they were taking or fulfilling—and they were happy to take a break from their rigorous task to talk with me. One young woman was accompanied by her brother, who rather sheepishly looked on as his sister explained that she’d taken a vow that if he were accepted into engineering school, she would fulfill the vow of marking every step on the footpath with pasupu-kumkuma. Another woman was performing the ritual-marking vow prior to its fulfillment, asking the god for fertility. The pasupu-kumkuma-marking ritual is the most visible, common ritual along the path, but a spectrum of other vow-making rituals adhere to the path, as well—including stacking small rocks and tying ‘cradles’ (for fertility) on low-hanging tree branches. The footpath rituals provide opportunity for fulfillment of individual vows and other rituals without dependence on any intermediaries, characteristic of rituals performed in the temple precincts uphill.

Seven Sister shrine on
Tirumala footpath

The TTD has recently built along the path 10-foot images of each of the ten avatāras of Visnu; and pilgrims also pass numerous more traditional shrines, including one to the Seven Sisters in a cave on the side of the mountain where the footpath and car road intersect. There is a wildlife park fenced off along one part of the path. And of course, the periodic, welcomed tea stall, where merchants have also set up small stalls of both religious and non-religious trinkets. But finally, very few on the footpath choose to walk for the entertainment of it all or as a trek (as has become a tradition at several Himalayan pilgrimage sites); walking up the footpath is itself powerful ritual, giving devotees bodily knowledge of and intimate access to the mountain on which the god dwells.

Vignettes of intersecting worlds

Two vignettes illustrate other kinds of fluid ritual associations between the God of the Seven Hills and the plains goddess Gangamma. My fieldwork associate and I had stopped at Hathi Ramji Matham (site of the north Indian religious order of Hathi Ramji, which had earlier administered the Venkatesvara temple uphill) to ask why the maṭham was one of the three sites where, during her jātara perambulations, the tongue of Gangamma (in her form of a veṣam taken on by a Kaikala-caste male) was pierced with a tiny silver trident. Having been directed by a sadhu sitting on the maṭham verandah into a large office, we were warmly greeted by a Brahmin man whom we came to know as Srinivasan, a ‘superintendent’ at the maṭham who works with legal affairs and land registration. He answered our questions about the tongue-piercing rather cryptically, and then surprised us by saying (speaking in English): “Madam, you would be interested to know that I’ve taken stri veṣam [female guise] every year for 35 years.” He was referring to the jātara ritual of male participants taking on stri veṣam (saris, braids, breasts) in fulfillment of vows they (or their mothers on their behalf) have made to the goddess.

For several years prior, I had been saying, in talks I had given on Gangamma jātara, that Brahmins do not participate in the jātara except indirectly (perhaps sending pŏṅgal or bali to the goddess through the hands of a non-Brahmin servant). But now, here was a Brahmin who had participated in the jātara for 35 years by taking stri veṣam; and he spoke of this ritual as something quite ordinary, not exceptional for him as a Brahmin. Srinivasan explained that he had been sickly as a child and that his mother had made a vow (mŏkku) to Gangamma that if he regained full strength and health, he would take stri veṣam. At the urging of his grandmother, however, he said he had kept up the tradition for many years following fulfillment of the initial mŏkku. His grandmother had told him (again, reported in English), “Taking veṣam, just once a year, you can get a corner on women’s śakti.” He lives both in the worlds of the God uphill and the closely associated maṭham and the grāmadevata sister downhill with seemingly no sense of disjuncture.

The second vignette draws upon my encounter with an elderly Mudaliar-caste widow who had entered a ritual relationship with Gangamma by exchanging wedding pendants (tālis) with the goddess. She wore a large, dark-red pasupu bŏṭṭu and had matted hair that, she explained, was a sign of the presence of the goddess. Gangamma and devotee had, she reported, argued back and forth when the woman tried to shave off the matted hair and it continued to grow back. Once, she reported, the matted hair took the form of a snake’s hood, and she asked the goddess why this shape. Gangamma replied, “This is Venkatesvara’s jaḍa [braid; matted hair].” The presence of the grāmadevata goddess was revealed through a form of the god uphill. The kinship and ritual associations between the god on the mountain and Gangamma downhill remind us of the integrated worldview in which Tirupati residents live, incorporating both puranic and village deities, narratives, and rituals.