The lions of legend look down on us from on high, and the mythical horses, bridled and with the bits between their teeth, leap at us, their nostrils twitching, their legs punching the still air. Men lie on the ground for coolness. Monkeys squat among the gods of the tower to analyse us.

It is music that first greets André Malraux as he comes into the inner courtyard; then the elephants trumpet shrilly, bending their heads in deep obeisance. As we move forward, policemen awaken the corridors from their strict silence, and the assembled gods gaze upon us: Sri Rama, Vishnu, Hanuman . . . Suddenly the sun breaks through the central square of the temple, and moves down the dark, wet, steps of the water tank. The pilgrims bathe here, the children swim, and high above the roof, the coconut palms point to the towers beyond. One of these is grouped with the gods: Krishna with his cows, Rama with his monkey, the Pandavas with their elephants, all the epic of the Mahabharata and of the Ramayana is revealed and accented, by the brightness of the sun. What is concrete seems to transcend itself, to prove that what seems concrete is in fact the reality of Shiva. The unreal reveals the real; the straight lines cross and recross to form the serpents of the tower.

‘Is it the sun,’ asks André Malraux, ‘that gives lightness to this massive tower, or is it the architecture that alters our dimensions?’ I answer, ‘A man gazes in order to have the object dissolve. The tower is here to point to space. The sun is here to make the marble floor cool. The absurd is there to reveal the unanswerable.’

Once again the policemen break the silence, and the gods return our gaze. We come upon Ganesha with his rumbustious belly, his elephant head, and the rat, his mount, so tiny under him. The moon, they say, laughed when Ganesha went about on his rat. But one does not laugh any more; he is so substantial, so conscious that he is the Lord of obstacles, and the bestower of wisdom. And then there are all these Shivas, lingam upon lingam, infinitely.

The temple of Madurai is dedicated to Meenakshi, the fish-eyed goddess. Her spouse is Sundareshwara, the beautiful one. When the God of gods, Indra, killed a Brahmin, he shook the earth with his anguish: Where were the waters that would wash and absolve such a crime? Suddenly Madurai appeared in a vision. This spiritual centre of the Dravidians, with its Shiva, eventually purified Indra. And so the temple was built, many, many thousands of years ago, the legend tells. And since then kings have conquered kingdoms, barren women have borne children, and the sick have been made whole.