In Pursuide of Awareness - ebook

Introduction

This story describes ten selected days in the life of a man practicing Buddhism within a monastic system. Nine of these days take place consecutively in a single location, while the final day jumps forward in time, placing the protagonist in entirely different circumstances that necessitate a change in his approach to practice. Over the course of these ten days, the protagonist guides the reader through key aspects of Buddhism, monastic life, and duty within a Buddhist temple. The narrative introduces this belief system to readers unfamiliar with Eastern traditions, often correcting misconceptions about monks and their daily practices. The principles are explained step by step, demonstrating their application and the mental states they can produce.

The protagonist of this work is a complex and contrasting figure. On one hand, he leads a seemingly monotonous and uneventful life — waking, meditating, eating, and meditating again. Occasionally, something stirs in his surroundings, but he himself takes no deliberate action to bring about change. On the other hand, his inner world is vibrant and fascinating. In his mind, he travels through time and space, recounting his own history, the stories of people he has met, their customs, and their beliefs. This internally perceived reality starkly contrasts with the physically experienced world, acting as its counterpoint. However, unlike the fantasies that introverts often use to compensate for an unsatisfying external reality, the protagonist’s inner world is even more real than the external illusion. The polarity between these two worlds is completely reversed.

Readers come to understand the protagonist’s experience of reality not through observation of his outward behavior but by delving into his inner world, which is swept up in a storm of emotions and reflections. Drawn into this extraordinary journey, readers not only learn about Buddhist practices and the path to enlightenment but also receive a wealth of insights into the realms of technology, science, and religion.

The plot of the book may seem deceptively simple, yet its retrospective and intertwined narrative captivates completely. The protagonist takes no active part in the events; his role is limited to passive, yet intensely mindful, observation. As an involuntary participant, he is solely a witness to the events, not a conscious instigator. He floats with the current of the action, lying still on its surface. The current carries him from port to port, revealing an astonishingly diverse and colorful world. He drifts across unknown seas, neither resisting nor judging the places and situations he encounters. His experience reshapes his perception of reality — illusion becomes reality, and reality turns into illusion, ultimately breaking apart, blending together, and losing any foundation in mental constructs.

If the book turns out otherwise and readers see it differently… well, that was at least the author’s intention. The journey he intended for the reader is a voyage into the mind. The action follows the trail of consciousness, attempting to leap beyond thoughts and beliefs, striving to reach the source of existence — not merely the origins of perception and experience but the very womb where they are born. Whether the trail leads there or strays onto tangents is for the reader to decide upon finishing the book.Day Two

My daily ritual is the sunrise meditation. I don’t approach it with a strict ritual or impose a rigid discipline to ensure I don’t skip it. The sunrise, however, is a magical moment that triggers a burst of endorphins, enough to satisfy my entire day’s needs.

At the Thamkrabok Buddhist monastery, this practice took place on the roof of the building where I lived. The morning ritual involved waking up at 3:30 AM, having coffee, and checking my emails on the laptop. At 4:15 AM, I would descend to the pavilion where the morning sutra recitation took place. The recitation lasted the length of one incense stick, about 30—40 minutes.

In Theravada, especially in the forest tradition, incense sticks — thin rods covered with resin, finely ground wood, or grass — are mainly used as time markers for the duration of a practice. The burning time depends on the type of material used, its thickness, length, and even air movement. On windy days or in places with a working fan, incense can burn twice as fast. In enclosed spaces, where there’s almost no air circulation, like deep caves with little to no airflow, incense can burn for what seems like forever.

After the sutra recitation, which ended around 5:00 AM, I had half an hour for myself, usually to wash up and tidy up my room. By 5:30, I would make my way to the roof, where I would sit until 6:45 AM, usually burning three incense sticks. On the roof, the wind would make the incense burn faster. This morning meditation was my favorite practice. I developed my own routine, which, after being compared to the definition of _samadhi_, turned out to be a meditation of calm mind.

My personal meditation method involved observing everything around me, without attempting to interpret the phenomena. I initially set in my mind that the roof was not part of the external world. It was an enclave of heaven, a paradise and nirvana, where neither physical nor karmic laws applied. The location supported this sense of detachment. The building had two floors with two apartments where two monks resided. The ceilings of their apartments were connected by a roof that shielded the staircase from the rain. My roof was above them, and the only way to reach it was by a shaky metal ladder, with only one hook still fastening it to the wall. Because it was so inaccessible, no one climbed up, given that a huge, comfortable terrace was just one floor below.

Another principle I imposed on myself was to leave all problems, thoughts, and concerns behind before climbing the ladder. The place had to be free of any connection with the world I was experiencing. During meditation, everything stayed below. Nothing would happen if it waited for me down there. So no problems or worries were allowed on the roof. I also required this promise from any guests who wanted to join me for the sunrise meditation. „You must understand that these 30 minutes won’t change anything, so take a break from your concerns. I would tell them, „It’s just one incense stick’s worth of time, but for many, even that turned out to be too long.”

The symbolic gesture of leaving the external world behind was through shoes. To meditate on the roof, one had to remove their shoes. Shoes symbolized thoughts and problems of the world, which were not allowed in this rooftop paradise. I would often say, „Take a break from thinking about your problems, leave them here with your shoes. When you’re done, they’ll still be waiting for you at the entrance. You’ll step into them again and start worrying all over again. Die to the world, cease to exist for it for the duration of one incense stick’s burn, and after the meditation, you’ll return, put on your shoes, and resume your previous life as if nothing ever changed.”

Removing shoes in Buddhist countries is not about keeping the floors clean, as in Poland. Bare feet show respect for the host. However, the religious symbolism runs much deeper. In Islam, before entering a mosque, one washes their feet to symbolically cleanse themselves. In Buddhism, removing shoes is not only a sign of respect but also a symbolic act of not bringing any „impure” artifacts into the temple. In Asian culture, feet are considered unclean, yet it’s difficult to move without them, hence the act of leaving shoes at the entrance.

The practice itself is simple to describe: sit and observe. Don’t think and don’t do anything. Just enjoy the view, or focus on your breath.

Although the sunrise may seem the same every day, it always looks different. Sometimes, clouds obscure the view, and the sun only appears high above the horizon. Other times, it majestically emerges from behind the mountains across the way. Over the year, it moves from left to right and back again, sometimes rising from behind the mountains, sometimes emerging directly from the sky. The most fascinating view for me is the 3-minute spectacle when the still-invisible sun illuminates the clouds from below, turning them into a beautiful crimson hue. The only constant element in this morning performance on the Thamkrabok roof was a passenger plane that always crossed the sky above me exactly at 6:25, flying from the south toward the northern regions of Thailand. When I saw it, I knew there was no time left for another incense stick.

During the sunrise, I watched the birds waking from their sleep, starting their vocal performances. Bats, returning from their nightly hunts, would fly right past my face in a swarm, their motionless bodies mistaking me for an architectural element. The still-sleepy pigeons would land next to me or, in a sudden burst of wakefulness, flap their wings frantically, just barely changing their course before they could land on my shoulder. Chickens clucked, dogs barked, and a goat bleated. From above, I watched the monks sweeping the courtyard, performing their morning cleaning ritual with the diligence of pharmacists. The men helping in the kitchen loaded large kettles onto carts, laboriously pushing them toward the nearby dining hall. Minute by minute, the monastery came to life, while I had temporarily withdrawn from that life.

For today’s morning meditation, I set off two and a half hours before sunrise. Mahabalipuram is located on the Bay of Bengal, which brushes the eastern coast of the Indian subcontinent. The sun will rise directly from the ocean, from its central part.

Outside the building, it is still Egypt-dark. I look at the sky, thick with clouds. It seems that today’s sunrise won’t be an epic one, I think. The narrow streets aren’t illuminated. Only the occasional shop window casts a faint glow on the darkened streets. I shine my flashlight on the ground, careful not to step on one of the sleeping dogs, which are everywhere in India.

Passing by the water dispenser, I see a few women waiting in line. Each has brought large plastic jugs, a common sight in South India. Some hold bottles used in dispensers. These bottles are slightly larger than the plastic jugs and hold over 30 liters of liquid.

The water purification system is the size of a container. It’s housed in a container that stands by the roadside. Tap water in India is often unsuitable for consumption, even after boiling. However, municipal water systems exist only in larger urban areas. The small town of Mahabalipuram has several groundwater sources without a centralized distribution system. Some homes have their own wells. Public water stations are only open in the early morning hours, allowing people to fill their filtered water containers for the day. This system is far superior to that in Thailand. In Thailand, bottled water is generously provided to monks, but laypeople must pay to get water from dispensers. In India, many places have large water containers on the street with taps, where anyone thirsty can drink or refill their bottles.

The most common filtration method in this region is reverse osmosis, which involves forcing water under high pressure through a membrane filter. This method is both highly efficient and effective. Reverse osmosis can be used to desalinate seawater. Its drawbacks are the expensive, consumable membranes and the excessive purity of the water, which contains no minerals. The taste of directly purified water is reminiscent of distilled water, with a slightly metallic aftertaste. Commercially, it is usually mineralized. Here, the water flows directly into the bottles after filtration, so one needs to mineralize it at home, for example, by using it to brew coffee.

Women typically come for water with two jugs. They place one filled jug on their heads and carry the other under their arm. I will come back here later, after the sunrise, when it gets light and the atmosphere relaxes.

Walking along the beach, I shine my flashlight at my feet. It is still very dark. The wind almost always blows from the sea, from the northeast direction. Today it is particularly strong, likely due to the thick cloud cover.

The term „trade wind” is mainly known from the product of the German company Volkswagen. However, this name was borrowed from the wind blowing in the intertropical zone. In the northern hemisphere, it blows from the northeast, while in the southern hemisphere, it comes from the southeast. The importance of the trade winds in navigation decreased with the transition to mechanical propulsion in maritime transport.

The strength of the trade wind makes it difficult to light the incense. I burn my fingers before finally managing to light them with a regular flame lighter. I once had a glow lighter, a storm-resistant one, but unfortunately, it was taken away from me at one of the airports. It turned out that no lighters could be taken onto the plane. The glowing tip of the incense quickly dims and is about to go out. While lighting the second one, I notice that a few people have come down to the beach. Sitting on the sand, they too are waiting for the sunrise. A light of dawn has formed in the northeast. However, I thought to myself, that’s not where the sun should appear. The thick clouds begin to slowly thin out. Watching the individual clouds, I observe how they gradually disappear, disintegrating in the atmosphere. The saturated water vapor, upon reaching a warmer front zone, vanishes into the air, which is capable of absorbing more moisture. From the land, I can see a clear patch of sky that is expanding with every minute. It is already bright when I light the third incense. The sun is not yet visible, but its rays can already be spotted. Like the radiance of a mighty god hidden behind it, the sun casts majestic light beams upon the earth, unworthy of such rays, heralding a wondrous revelation. I look around and see that despite the cloudy sky, everyone is still waiting for the sun to emerge from behind the clouds.

It appears after a while. I have my eyes closed at that moment. I focus my attention on my face. The first sunbeams landing on my skin evoke some of the most pleasant sensations I know. Their warmth creates a feeling of bliss, akin to the serenity that spreads from the forehead during a state of samadhi. In this pleasant ecstasy, I remain until the incense burns out, but I don’t light another. I should already be lining up for the water.

I return to my room, take three two-liter water bottles, and head toward the nearby dispenser. Women are still crowded around it, filling their jugs and bottles. I stand at the very end, patiently waiting my turn. The presence of a foreigner waiting for free water embarrasses the locals. One of the women insists I take water out of turn, wanting to grab her barely started bottle from under the tap. I politely decline, showing that I have plenty of time and am in no rush. The next woman in line starts to insist even more strongly that I take water before she begins filling her bottle. Suddenly, everyone encourages me to skip the line as if my presence was somehow bothersome to them. I had no choice but to fill the bottles and return to my room, thanking everyone for their exceptional kindness.

Getting water, although it poses no physical difficulties, could break one of the rules followed by Buddhist monks of the Theravada tradition. Depending on the school, the second precept is interpreted somewhat differently. Adinnadana veramani sikkhapadam samadiyami is spoken almost at every Buddhist ceremony. In Pali, it means an oath to refrain from taking anything that is not directly offered. For laypeople, this means refraining from stealing. For monks, however, all things must be intentionally and consciously given to them. According to the tradition of forest monks, even approaching the water dispenser and taking water, or drinking from it, despite the fact that water is dispensed for free, does not meet the precept’s requirements. The liquid must be offered by another person or animal. Some monks in Thailand train a monkey for this purpose. The monkey climbs a tree and brings bananas to the monk. When the bananas are placed before him, he touches the offering, signifying his formal acceptance and compliance with the rules. It is also prohibited to pick up a coin or banknote from the street or any other item whose owner is unknown. The women who let me ahead of them turn out to be a blessing for my practice. By offering me water, they allow me to maintain the purity of the precept of not taking anything that was not offered.

On my way back, I admire the kolams, which are especially carefully made in Mahabalipuram. As I walk among them, I try not to destroy any.

Kolam is an artistic design made by arranging patterns with colored powder. The material used is rice flour, though it is increasingly being replaced by chalk dust. It usually represents a circular mosaic composed of intricately drawn curves and loops of white lines, with segments filled with colorful powder made from ground minerals or dried vegetables. The entire design is typically symmetrical along many axes, creating a unique rosette. Sometimes, this rosette is additionally inscribed within a square or takes the form of a square. All lines of a kolam should be closed to prevent demons from entering the center, which symbolizes the home.

Kolams are created every morning before the entrances of Tamil homes or shops, forming a unique street art. They are usually made by women. In this way, housewives invite good deities into their homes. According to Hindu tradition, a kolam made from rice flour is a way of sharing food with smaller organisms, such as ants, wild birds, or small rodents.

Before a kolam is made, the area is thoroughly cleaned with a wicker broom. The designated area is then watered, and only on the wet surface is the white design laid. Sometimes, cow dung is smeared on the ground before the kolam is laid, as it is believed to have antiseptic properties and to repel insects. At the same time, the layer of dark dung enhances the visual effect by contrasting with the white powder. Drawing involves taking a handful of white flour and sifting it between the fingers, precisely outlining the rosette. Often, small dots are marked beforehand to outline the characteristic network of points for the shape. The interior segments of the kolam are then colored using the same technique, sifting powder between the fingers.

Kolams made on sidewalks and streets do not last long. Their quality, complexity, and colorfulness are extremely important for the household. The more elaborate and original the kolam, the greater the pride it brings to the family. Every morning, the Tamil streets begin a festival of making kolams, a ritual that is strictly obligatory for the vast majority of Hindus.

Kolams are characteristic of southern India, particularly popular in the Tamil Nadu province and Sri Lanka. Their origin can be traced back to the Vedic mandala, a term derived from Sanskrit, meaning a circle. Sanskrit is an ancient language in which the sacred texts of Hinduism were written, and which over time became the liturgical language in India. The practice of making sand mandalas was one of the meditative practices of Brahmanism. According to legends, the precursors of Tibetan and Chinese Buddhism were teachers from the Tamil Nadu region, who introduced the art of making mandalas to new territories along with the Dhamma.

I decided to begin today by exploring the Sthala Sayana Perumal Temple at the foot of the park, where I ended my sightseeing yesterday. The temple is in continuous use. It is inhabited by Hindu monks. Followers of Shiva can be identified by the tripundra, three horizontal lines made with white powder on the forehead, sometimes with a dark dot between the eyebrows. In contrast, followers of Vishnu mark their foreheads with vertical lines.

The monastery gives the impression of being neglected. The outer gopura, an ornamental gate, is unfinished. Work had started to expand the monastery but was soon halted. It was built only to a height of about three meters, similar to the Royagopuram, the gate from yesterday’s hill. Its facade is also only partially completed.

In Tamil architecture, temples were traditionally built in the form of rectangular courtyards, surrounded by high walls with a temple or several temples in the center. Smaller monasteries had one entrance gate, while larger ones had four, with one gopura (decorative gateway) on each side. When a building became too small, it was expanded by adding parallel walls, symmetrically increasing the temple area. The old temple would become the central part of the new structure. There was also a rule that external gates had to be larger and more impressive than the inner ones, which, once obscured by new gopuras and walls, became less visible.

I enter through the main gate, which is the only gate of the temple. Before me is a deep courtyard. The central part of the courtyard is covered, and in the center stands the main temple. I notice several pairs of doors in the surrounding walls. To the left, I assume there is the residential section, and to the right, the administrative section. I peek into the administrative area. In one room, I find a well. The well is narrow, about one meter in diameter, with the water surface more than 10 meters below the ground level. In the room on the left, there is a granary with sacks of flour. On the right, there seems to be a makeshift kitchen. It seems that way because someone noticed me and came running with complaints about my wandering through areas not meant for visitors. I politely exit to the courtyard.

The courtyard is surrounded by a roof made of stone slabs supported by granite pillars. This granite veranda is missing on the wall with the gopura. However, the front part on the left side, where I ventured into the administrative rooms, is incomplete and heavily weathered by time.

The ornamentation on the granite columns is similar to what I saw yesterday in the park. There are also bas-reliefs depicting figures meditating in the lotus position. Most of the decorations, however, clearly reference Hinduism. Interestingly, the pillars are not identical, and I can distinguish three types, varying in craftsmanship, height, and ornamentation. This clearly indicates different periods in which the temple was expanded. The columns on the right side are the shortest, so the roof is about several centimeters lower. They are also not uniform, consisting of two parts: a longer lower section and a shorter upper one. They are well-maintained, and their decorations are clearly visible, making them appear the newest. The central and rear parts of the temple are similar. The columns are slightly taller, but also composed of two elements. The decorations are more eroded, and in the rear section of the temple, they are almost invisible, covered by a thick layer of paint that obscures the details. The paint is so thick that the bas-reliefs look like rough bumps on the surface of the pillars, with no shape other than uniform oval protrusions.

The most interesting part is the colonnade in the left front section of the courtyard. The columns are the tallest and monolithic. They lack bas-reliefs or feature abstract, kolam-like patterns. The guidebook mentions that the temple is between 1000 and 2000 years old. Historians either find it difficult to determine the construction date or suggest that the construction was stretched over a millennium. The pillars supporting the stone roof seem to confirm the latter option.

I walk around the inner walls. The back part of the wall has a few small openings in its upper section, roughly the size of arrow slits in European towers. Looking through them, I find bricks inside. The nearly one-meter-thick wall structure is thus composite, with red bricks inside and granite cladding. This construction is unexpected and suggests that the outer wall was built in the medieval period, perhaps toward its end.

The outer walls are about 5 meters high. Inside, at a height of over 3 meters, there is a roof that could serve as a platform for guards. The temple is a military fortress designed according to the knowledge of warfare. Some parts of the structure are much older than the rest. Either it was built over many centuries, or materials from a much older building were used in its construction.

In front of the unfinished gopura stand two stone mandapas. A mandapa is a stone structure with intricate decorations, supported by four granite pillars. At least that’s the name, Solotsava Mandapa, listed on the informational plaque next to one of them. The heavy granite structure stands on four slender stone pillars embedded in the sand. The mandapas are aligned with both gopuras: the unfinished one and the temple gate.

An interesting architectural detail is that the unfinished gopura is exactly 50 meters from the temple, measured from wall to wall. Next is the first mandapa, located 25 meters from the lower, unfinished gopura, or 15 meters from wall to wall, as the gopura’s thickness is nearly 10 meters. The second, smaller mandapa is 7.5 meters from the closest edge of the structure. Moreover, this line, when extended on a map, leads directly to the Shore Temple. On the other side, this same line passes precisely through the gate of the unfinished gopura on the hill, which I visited yesterday. Standing on this hill in the Royagopuram gate, one can see almost exactly both mandapas, the unfinished gopura, and both temples aligned in a straight line. The distance between the ends of the unfinished gopuras is 144 meters. Halfway along this distance is the entrance to the central temple. The distance between this entrance and the central part of the Shore Temple is 700 meters.

Before the construction of the Sthala Sayana Perumal temple began, the Shore Temple already existed, as indicated by the orientation of the former towards the latter. However, the axis of the Shore Temple is no longer directed precisely towards the Sthala Sayana Perumal temple, but is slightly shifted to the north. It is difficult to determine exactly where it points, as on one side there is the sea, while on the other side, it intersects a hill dotted with temples carved into granite monoliths, which my map does not indicate. This axis roughly passes through another famous tourist attraction, the enormous bas-relief called Arjuna’s Penance. The axis of the Sthala Sayana Perumal temple is easier to determine due to the unfinished gopurams. They stand 144 meters apart, and their passage is 3 meters wide. This allows for a fairly precise line to be drawn between them, and standing in the gate of the gopura on the hill, with the temple dome at its base, the lower gopura, and two mandapas in view, one can look directly at the Shore Temple as if through a sniper’s sight, achieving an accuracy of no more than a few meters of deviation per kilometer of distance. The axis of symmetry of the Shore Temple is defined by the small building itself, so its accuracy is less precise. Walking along this reference line, I pass over the monument called Arjuna’s Penance. On the other side, in the monolith, the Varaha Temple has been carved, which is the most completed of all the monolithic temples on this hill.

Arjuna’s Penance is one of the largest bas-reliefs in the world. It was created on two enormous rocks of a single monolith, which are separated by a crack. A section of a vertical wall, reaching up to 15 meters in height and 30 meters in length, was used to create the monument. The rock features an impressive 146 bas-reliefs depicting humans, animals, human-animal hybrids, and gods, the artistry and precision of which have contributed to Arjuna’s Penance gaining international fame. The sculpture is named after its connection to the Hindu epic Mahabharata, where Arjuna is the central character. In the epic, Arjuna fought a war with Krishna, who is identified as a figure standing nearby inside the temple carved near Arjuna.

However, Arjuna’s Penance does not necessarily depict Arjuna. According to some interpreters, the bas-relief portrays King Bhagiratha, who brought the holy river Ganges down to earth from the heavens. The Ganges is depicted in the central part of the image, in the crack separating the rocks, which has been sealed and filled with representations of half-human, half-serpent beings. It is suggested that in ancient times, water was poured through this crack, which flowed from a reservoir built at the top. This added to the spectacle during religious ceremonies held in the area. In this interpretation, the figures depicted on Arjuna’s Penance also acquire new names and are associated with different events. And this is not the last possible explanation for the bas-relief.

Arjuna’s Penance follows the tradition of artists not completing their works. Most of the figures on the right side of the crack are finished, though a few spots remain where small figures could be added. The background here has not yet been leveled. Meanwhile, the left side is decorated almost exclusively in its upper segment. Some of the figures are carved as raised bas-reliefs, while others protrude almost completely from the wall, being statues separated from the façade and placed on a rocky shelf. Notably, there is a family of elephants carved nearly to their original size. The male is placed at the center, larger than the female standing behind him. Asian elephants are also characterized by the fact that females have only short, symbolic tusks, while males possess large, impressive tusks, each weighing up to 45 kg. At the feet of the elephant pair, eight calves can be spotted. Four are beneath the male, at his feet, two beneath the female, and two others stand behind her. In total, there are eight calves. These are not representations of adult elephants seen from a distance, as all still have small milk tusks. The depiction of the elephant family is particularly interesting because the gestation period for elephants is extremely long. It lasts nearly two years, or about 680 days after fertilization, before the offspring is born. Twin pregnancies occur less frequently than in one in twenty births. Therefore, the presence of eight calves is not physically possible from just one adult pair.

Almost all the figures are directed towards the central crack, interpreted as the river Ganges. Some stand, some kneel, some sit or lie down, while others appear to float in the air, possessing supernatural abilities. In addition to musicians and jugglers, the bas-relief also features fakirs, yogis, ascetics, wise men teaching disciples, and meditating monks, possibly Buddhist. The mix of figures from different cultures and religions, human hybrids, and unknown symbolism creates an interpretative chaos, especially since the artist, as evidenced by the elephants, does not strictly adhere to the factual aspects of the scene, allowing artistry to take precedence. None of the depictions refer to any known historical figures or events, which would have helped researchers determine the precise time of the monument’s creation. The epic Mahabharata, associated with Arjuna’s Penance, only reached its final form in the medieval period. Therefore, even if the events depicted in the bas-relief relate to those described in the Mahabharata, interpreting them correctly today may be impossible. Myths could have evolved so much over hundreds of years that accurately recognizing them on the carved scene may no longer be feasible.

I check another object on the map. The Pancha Rathas, also known as the Five Rathas, is a group of buildings carved into a granite monolith arranged in a straight line. The complex is located exactly 1000 meters from the Sthala Sayana Perumal temple, and 1330 meters from the Shore Temple. However, both complexes do not lie on the same axis, which runs through uninhabited land covered with vegetation and sand, and then enters the sea at the height of the fishing village’s waterfront.

Ratha is an exceptionally intriguing architectural structure where geometric proportions play a crucial role. One could say that its design gave way to mathematical indulgence. Every detail and angle is meticulously calculated according to the principles of geometric symmetry. The name is derived from Sanskrit, where it means „chariot.” One of the most famous rathas is the Sun Temple at Konark, which depicted a chariot drawn by a horse team. Originally, the structure was 70 meters tall, but today, part of it lies in ruins.

Returning from the Sthala Sayana Perumal Temple, I head towards the Coastal Temple, walking around it from the seaside. A barrier of granite boulders has been created here to protect the shore from erosion. The stones are of poorer quality, with visible quartz veins. Some contain metamorphic rock layers, while others crumble due to high mica content. I stand at the center of the rubble, right on its edge. In the sea before me, I see a lighter shade of water turning slightly yellow, as if indicating a sandy shoal. It is about 100 meters away. I look more closely, and I have the impression that it forms a strip parallel to the shore, stretching tens of meters in both directions. The width of this strip is less than 50 meters but seems wider than 30. I rub my eyes in disbelief, yet I still see it. Either the shoal is really there, or autosuggestion is stimulating my imagination, producing visual hallucinations…

After returning to my room, I check online for archaeological data about the local excavations. Using satellite maps, I measure the distances between the temples. I watch YouTube videos showing the 2004 tsunami and the shoreline exposed by the receding water moments before. I review the findings of historians and delve into the analysis methods used by experts studying Mahabalipuram.

The waters of Mahabalipuram turn out to be exceptionally unknown. Only one video documents a descent to the seabed, showing ancient ruins. The footage is breathtaking. Busts, statues, buildings — all remarkably well-preserved. Within two years, the diving video was viewed by just 20,000 people. It is the only underwater descent video from around Mahabalipuram.

I conduct a reconnaissance and find a website for a diving club that is supposedly in Mahabalipuram. Unfortunately, no such club exists at the given location. There is no mention of diving on the building or in the vicinity, and the space appears to have been sublet, as the ground-floor room is now occupied by a restaurant, serving as a kitchen. The nearest diving center is in the state capital, Chennai. A bit further in Puducherry, there is supposedly another one. Both are small clubs. The one in Chennai is run by two instructors. I decide to contact them and inquire about the seabed of Mahabalipuram. They don’t respond immediately. My message is forwarded to another address. When I finally manage to speak with the divers, they deny organizing any underwater descents in Mahabalipuram at the moment. I ask about submerged objects and request a report or copies of the films. I am asked in detail why I need this information, after which the contact is abruptly cut off.

While studying satellite maps and sketching geometric shapes on them, I spot the shoal I had seen earlier from the shore. I measure the distance of the shoal from the shore. The ruler shows 100 meters, so I estimate the distance correctly. The deeper part is located 150—200 meters away. The promontory where the Coastal Temple stands juts about 300 meters into the sea. The shoal stretches about 500 meters into the sea. The lighter strip extends northward, abruptly ending after about a kilometer, forming something resembling an underwater wave-break. The entrance to this area is from the north, and the forming bay has a width of about 100 meters and a length of 500 meters. This port is roughly where the current fishing village is located.

I notice that in the shallower areas with more distinct shoals, a clear zone of wave formation is visible. A similar area with white-capped waves is also located deeper, 500—800 meters southeast of the Coastal Temple. However, Google images stop showing this area in high resolution at 1.5 km from the shore.

Recent events involving devastating tsunamis in the Indian and Pacific Oceans have influenced the focus of historians and archaeologists. Those unraveling the mysteries of the past have decided to blame any destruction or ground shifting on the giant waves. However, it should be noted that even if they are experts in excavation and historical analysis, they know relatively little about the physical processes occurring on our planet. Often, less than the average person.

An example of the Egyptian port of Heracleion is one of many. Water levels periodically rise and fall, entire continents shift, with tectonic plates either collapsing or rising, earthquakes shake, volcanoes erupt, the sun shines, and the birds chirp.

The tectonic plate shift and the resulting local water rise are likely not the cause of the extinction of dinosaurs, nor of the lowering of coastal lands. In the forming gap, there isn’t enough water to lower their global level by even a millimeter. Nor to raise it. A tsunami is dangerous for people and their economies because it is incredibly hard to predict. However, we experience small, predictable tsunamis every day. Twice a day.

The Moon, orbiting the Earth, exerts a gravitational pull on it. Both celestial bodies revolve around each other, like in a courtship dance. The Moon is six times smaller than the Earth, so it orbits the hefty Earth. The Earth’s trajectory is shifted, but in this joyful whirl, loose things also dance with the Moon. The loose matter is surface waters, particularly the vast water bodies. They continuously follow the Moon, irresistibly drawn to its enchanting face.

Meanwhile, the Bald One (the Moon) dances the tango possessed. It’s impossible to keep up with it. As soon as the water begins to chase, it swoops in from the other side. The waters return, and the Moon slides over the crest to tickle its ambitions.

Tides, because that’s what we’re talking about here, are a phenomenon of the oceans. They can raise water levels in certain places by as much as 18 meters. Twice a day, the water rises and falls. However, they cause no major devastation, as people accustomed to this process know how to protect themselves. The rocks and sands of the shorelines are not significantly affected by this drama.

The Mediterranean Sea is relatively calm. Tides are minimal, and the tectonic activity is fairly stable. Despite this, Heracleion sank underwater. Not just it, though.

Another example is the previously mentioned Malta. While its northern shores are rich in sandy and flat beaches, its southern shores are lined with high cliffs. Malta is a small rock emerging in the middle of the sea, far south of the Italian boot. Although the history of this place has turned out to be exceptionally colorful and so rich that it could be divided into many other islands without much loss, Malta still shrouds much of its ancient past in mystery.

One of the unsolved mysteries, which keeps researchers at a distance, are the mysterious traces on its surface that appear to be prehistoric tracks. The problem is that during the period these traces originated, humanity supposedly did not yet know iron or even the wheel…

The grooves in question are the imprints of two parallel indentations, spaced 1.4 meters apart, sometimes less. They resemble tracks left by a vehicle in mud. Known as „cart ruts” in English, these grooves can be found in various locations around the Mediterranean Basin. However, nowhere else are they as concentrated as they are in Malta.

Although these ancient ruts can be found throughout the island, the densest concentration is near the present-day airport terminal, in an area locally called Misraħ Għar il-Kbir. One observer, upon seeing the network of intersecting and radiating ruts, likened the site to Clapham Junction, an incredibly busy railway station in London. The comparison to a maze of railway tracks leading everywhere and nowhere became so amusing that the name stuck unofficially.

In general, archaeologists and historians date these tracks to around 4,000 years ago. However, there is significant divergence in opinion, as there is no definitive evidence pointing to the precise time of their creation. One expert attributes the ruts to the Phoenicians, who inhabited the island from the 7th century BCE, while another connects them to the builders of the megalithic temples, supporting the first theory. These ruts are grooves etched into the stone bedrock, fully exposed to the elements, so no biological material can be examined.

Malta is a small island, merely a larger rock rising from the sea. Its northeastward extension gives it a length of 26 km and a width of 12 km. This rock is a monolithic granite slab, topped with a thick layer of metamorphic rocks, followed by sandstone, and capped with limestone. These layers are sometimes held together by beautiful crystals of translucent calcite, which also deposits in the cracks of the granite and sandstone, healing the stone wounds. The granite is deep and hardly exposed above the surface of the sea. Together, these layers form a single monolithic rock with a layered structure, especially striking when viewed in the vertical cliffs that reveal the island’s geological cross-section.

The mysterious ruts are imprinted in the outermost limestone layer. What’s most important, however, is that many of these ruts end abruptly at the cliff edge, as if the vehicle was driven into the sea. During a conversation with a guard at the Hypogeum, he revealed that he was a researcher of these ruts. After stopping at the cliff, they continue their path along the sea bed, stretching as far as 3.5 km into Neptune’s realm.

The origin of the ruts poses a significant challenge for historians and archaeologists. It requires accepting the hypothesis that the wheel was known long before its conventional definition in modern science. As a result, the ruts remain a difficult subject for research. Particularly since the trace ends at the edge of the cliff and continues its journey beneath the sea, this raises questions. Leaving aside the idea of ancient underwater amphibious vehicles, how can we explain this descent from a 100-meter-high cliff, especially when neither the wheel nor iron were known at that time?

This is where knowledge of geology and physics can help. The plate on which Malta sits cracked along its southwestern edge, rising while the northeastern side sank. It also moved over the southern part, lowering its level. The island is now smaller, with part of it submerged. To the north, it has beautiful, almost flat beaches, while to the south, it suddenly drops off into a vertical cliff.

This explanation makes sense in explaining the presence of ruts on the sea bed, but it remains unacceptable for archaeologists and historians. It would mean that Malta’s civilization, which is believed to be no older than 6,000 years, dates back to the last Ice Age, which caused tensions that led to the island’s split. The Ice Age ended over 12,000 years ago! Instead of sitting in trees with other primates, the Maltese settlers already had the wheel, advanced mathematics, and modern stone-working tools. After all, they were able to build structures with massive blocks of stone weighing hundreds of tons, something that still presents enormous challenges even in the 21st century.

I mention Malta not by chance, as the Indian subcontinent bears a striking resemblance to it. The Deccan Plateau, also called the Indian Subcontinent, is currently moving southeastward. To the north, it collides with the Eurasian tectonic plate, pushing it even further. The Deccan Plateau is part of the original supercontinent Gondwana, which split apart due to the force of gravity balancing the Earth’s center of mass, resulting in the present continents (except Eurasia) and their „drifting” on the liquid mantle beneath. The Earth’s crust, made up of tectonic plates, is a relatively thin layer, much like an eggshell floating on the planet’s molten interior.

By understanding the direction of the Indian subcontinent’s movement and examining the present terrain, one might consider the possibility of the slow sinking of Mahabalipuram and the submerging of parts of the ancient settlement. One challenge in this scenario might be underestimating the age of the temples.

In contrast to the Indian subcontinent, Malta is a small fragment of rock. It lies almost exactly between two tectonic plates — the African and Eurasian plates — making it particularly sensitive to their movement. By contrast, Mahabalipuram is almost at the center of the Indian subcontinental plate, and its rapid tilting is physically impossible. The submergence of the eastern coastline, if it happens, would be an incredibly slow process.

For historians, this also presents a tough puzzle. If the temples of Mahabalipuram now lie several meters below the water’s surface, and their submergence is a slow but steady process, an uncomfortable question arises: when, on Earth, were they built? One of the submerged temples, if we believe the divers, is carved directly into the rock. The stretched hypothesis of a tsunami eroding the sand proves to be completely inadequate. Will researchers attempt to open Pandora’s box with excavations, or, like in Malta, will this uncomfortable subject remain in academic quarantine until a working hypothesis can be proposed?