Pilgrimage—the lone voyage to Atman, the Self, Journey, the holy one to a sanctuary, barefoot, on bullock cart, train, bus, bicycle or car, the grand adventure that takes you from level to higher levels, across rivers, forests to mountain peaks, to the point—the singular point—of no return. The movement towards the gods, towards one’s god, the transfiguration of the earth. And of man. This is history—men, women, roads, elephants, temple ponds and the lotus, the music of serpent-tambourines, Brahmins and gateway towers, saints, monkeys, god, dedicated cows.

‘What have you seen of India?’ asks Nehru of Malraux.

‘Ajanta, Madurai—and Nehru,’ answers Malraux, with a large, shy, smile.

That is the whole truth.

At the temple of Madurai, in the hall of a thousand pillars, each of which sounds a distinct musical note, the Brahmins of Madurai show us in the caverns of the discarded, because wounded, thus unholy, horses of wood and of clay, with broken legs and pierced flanks (one might believe that they beat their bellies as beggars do, to win our pity). The horses of men turn into horses of the gods, with wings and the like, and in their ruin they turn towards André Malraux, asking for an explanation. Then as though at their own wedding, with garlands round their necks, the sacred kumkum marks upon their foreheads, André and Madeleine Malraux look beyond the mighty doorways of black stone, across the wide spaces of the temple’s water tank, the coconut palms, the perched eagles and move towards the sanctuary.

‘Here is a bridal couple,’ said someone. In India, the newly-weds are always equals of the gods.

‘Here,’ said the guardian of the temple of Madurai, ‘is the minister of France.’

‘Fall at his feet,’ said the father of one of the married pair. The simple young man in all his garlands, with betel and sacred coconut, astonished, falls with his wife, at the feet of this minister of France.

‘That will bring you good fortune,’ says the father.

‘I, a European, say to you married ones of the temple of Madurai: Be Shiva and Parvathi,’ says Malraux.

And we then continue towards Shiva.

The temple of Madurai is like a great town, seven hundred and fifty feet long and eight hundred feet wide, with nine towers that float in the sunlight, towards the gods, and sometimes even remember the Muslim invaders from the north. In the long corridors are bazaars of aloe flowers, of chrysanthemums, jasmine, moon-jasmines, basil, oleanders—garlands for the gods or for the hair of women; and sandal paste, roots of pungent soap nut, turmeric, kumkum, coconut, all carefully arranged along the brilliant booths.