When the heat is unbearable, a peacock spreads its tail while all the neighbors look at the sky waiting for the arrival of the monsoon. Their songs as a soundtrack of rice fields and palm trees. Playing at being a weather vane on the roofs of a palace in Jaipur or surrounded by ancient wise men in the heart of the jungle. India's national bird has always caused me great fascination, so when I discovered that near my last stop there was a temple dedicated to the mayura - as it is known in Sanskrit -, I couldn't resist. It only took three tuk-tuks and a hyperventilated bus to get there. Pam! The hand of the man sitting next to me crushes a mosquito on his arm.
An hour later, I finally reached Basadi Betta, a pilgrimage center next to Mandaragiri Hill, 60 kilometers from the city of Bengaluru. A place so rural and remote that not even taxi drivers want to go near it. At the entrance arch I leave my shoes outside and advance until the laughter of a family indicates their presence. Then you can no longer take your eyes off that curious 81-meter-high temple in the middle of nowhere. A construction as kitsch as it is colorful and exuberant that is not exactly a peacock, but a picchī.
And you will ask yourself, what is a picchī? The mayura picchī is an ancient feather duster made from the feathers that fall from the peacock during the rainy season. A symbol of wisdom and good luck for various religions and believers in the subcontinent: from the taxi driver who keeps his bunch in the glove compartment to the borders of feathers and mango leaves that hang on some doors to ward off bad energies.
The picchī has been used by Jain monks since time immemorial to remove insects when entering temples and thus not step on them, in an act of non-violence that implies respect for all living beings. In fact, monks can only be surrounded by three objects: a book, a jar of hot water and a picchī, an element that is also described in ancient texts as clean - since it is not stained with dust or sweat; soft, non-harmful, tender and light. All this is explained in the austere interior of the mandir through a few paintings and vignettes.
When I leave, I still have time to climb the 435 steps to the top of Marandagiri Hill, where I find a set of representations of naked monks with feather dusters over their pubes and sculptures of people in the lotus position in front of a tree of life. Around, the superlative green surrounds everything, the moon is already saying goodbye to the sun and a child without diapers smiles at me. He floats a peace that even tickles the cows' udders and hanging clothes.
Returning on the bus to Bangalore, a mosquito lands on the arm of another passenger, who also tries to swat it while I check the news on my phone. Today is not a good day for humanity either. Perhaps, in a world of ultraviolence like the current one, the idea of replacing all the weapons on the planet with light and friendly picchīs is too utopian.
