Every holy town has its sacred hill. India is no exception. Tiruvannamalai has Arunachala – a deity in rock form, pretending to be a mountain. A geological formation, yes, but according to local belief, it is Shiva. No statue needed. Just a mountain. Sounds poetic—until you start climbing. And trust me, the sacred route around Tiruvannamalai, called Girivalam, will test your resolve.
Tiruvannamalai Girivalam
A pilgrimage through dust and plastic. 14-kilometer loop winds around Arunachala – the holy Girivalam path, which makes more sense once you’re overtaken by a barefoot seventy-year-old grandma holding a coconut. Most locals walk it barefoot. I tried sandals, and after two kilometers, I hated them.
Along the road, incense burns. Somewhere, temple music plays. Elsewhere, plastic Shiva figurines are for sale. Every few meters, a “saint” asks for alms. I paused for a moment. Next to me stood a young man, back smeared with ash, having a full-on conversation with a cow. The cow didn’t look spiritually enlightened but nodded politely.
Cows are sacred in India. On our way to Tiruvannamalai, we spent an hour in highway traffic. Everything had stopped. A single cow stood in the middle of the road, and nobody had the nerve to make it move.
The climb to the caves: where silence isn’t silent
The real spiritual experience begins when you leave the road and start climbing the hill. Skandashram and Virupaksha Cave – two silent places on the slopes of Arunachala where Ramana Maharshi once lived and meditated. If I had to pick a place to sit and wait for an answer from the universe, this would be it. Though retiring in Europe sounds just as good.
You want enlightenment. But when you sit down, no answer comes. What comes is sweat. And bugs. A guard dog might sniff you. Mosquitoes join in. Or a tourist with a GoPro shows up, sticks it in your face and says, “You look very spiritual.”
Silence is a liar
We sat inside Virupaksha Cave for about twenty minutes. The silence there isn’t the European kind – the kind that smells like mountains and pine trees. This silence presses. It creaks. It nags. Maybe that’s why people meditate there – not for peace, but for that inner pressure. Like someone standing silently in your room all day, just watching.
Skandashram
Some people say they felt “oneness” here. I’m a skeptic. I felt sweaty, thirsty, and mildly deceived. But when we reached Skandashram, the view made up for everything. Tiruvannamalai stretched beneath us like spilled incense, temple smoke curling in the air, horn blasts echoing from below, life bubbling even in the farthest alleyways.
Cave meditation: East vs. West
While the locals sat down and closed their eyes, I was mostly wondering why my joints were so stiff. Next to me, a German woman was recording a podcast. In the back, a guy with dreadlocks whispered mantras into his hands and checked his watch every ten seconds. Spirituality on a schedule. The new normal.
I felt amused and slightly embarrassed. Like I had trespassed into a place I didn’t belong. And yet – I admit this through gritted teeth – there was a strange peace to it. Maybe not because I was enlightened, but because there was nothing else to do. No Wi-Fi up there and no espresso. No discount cable car – in fact, no cable car at all. Just presence. Beautiful views. A few monks in orange robes. Clouds of pilgrims. And everywhere: stillness. I’m just an insensitive European.
Tiruvannamalai: Girivalam. I walked back down and booked a tuk-tuk for the evening (a very economical three-wheeled rickshaw). Back into the whirl and alleys of India’s holy city. My Indian tuk tuk driver Rajesh – same guy every time – knows me now. I’m glad he doesn’t rip me off. He’s glad I’m a regular. He already knows where I want to go and shows me the hidden corners of Tiruvannamalai. Spirituality for 40 rupees.
