Envisage a constellation of flares lighting up the inky blue skies over the Sea of Japan to the sonorous chants of prayers, welcoming eight million Shinto deities from across the Japanese archipelago to their annual gathering. This scene plays out every 10th day of the 10th month of the lunar calendar (usually late October or November), along the Inasa-no-hama beach, a kilometre from Izumo Taisha, arguably Japan’s most important Shinto shrine.
The shrine is located in an under-populated town on the extreme western edge of the Shimane peninsula, around 350km west of Kyoto. It may be off the human beaten track, but it is where the gods reign supreme.
Izumo Taisha’s foundational myth is recorded in the oldest existing chronicle in Japan, the early eighth century Kojiki, or Records Of Ancient Matters. According to it, the deity Okuninushi wrought the nation of Japan, and, following a series of incidents, presented it to Amaterasu, the goddess of the sun. In return, Okuninushi asked for a shrine to be dedicated to him, one so tall that it would reach all the way to the heavens. The sun goddess granted this request and Izumo Taisha was born.
Okuninushi is worshipped at the shrine as the deity of nation-building, but, more popularly, also as the deity of en, or the ties that bind us to each other. The mass gathering of Shinto gods at the shrine is therefore a week-long opportunity for them to deliberate on the kind of en that people will have over the coming year. They decide what chance meetings will lead to lifelong friendships, which soulmates will be found, and which loved ones lost.
The shrine is approached through a series of torii gates, two soaring cylindrical vertical posts topped by a crosswise rectangular beam. These gates perform the role of symbolically segregating the secular from the sacred world. Perhaps it is only my overactive imagination, but I did feel a subtle metaphysical shift as I walked through them and, then, down a long corridor of ancient pine trees. In the background, mist-shrouded hills loomed straight out of an ink painting. A devotee reminded me to walk along the sides of the pathway. The centre is reserved for the gods.
I found myself glancing about as though expecting to bump into a deity at any moment, for even when the millions have returned to their own shrines following their annual jamboree, a motley crew of some two dozen remains at Izumo Taisha, their permanent residence. This crew includes the deity of clams, the deity of planting seeds and the deity of Sumo wrestling. We passed a small wrestling ring where ceremonial matches are occasionally held.
On the other side of the grounds, a temporary stage had been erected with tents and seating in the process of being laid out. A repetitive mike check marred the otherwise solemn atmosphere. I enquired, to make the somewhat unnerving discovery that the preparations were for a concert by Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, a pop star with a penchant for pink wigs and kitsch.
But for the moment we were blessedly Pamyu Pamyu- free and approached the honden, or main hall of worship, with its distinctive forked roof finials. Before entering, we were required to ritually cleanse ourselves at a water trough, using a copper ladle to wash our hands and mouths.
Standing in front of the honden, I bowed and then clapped my hands four times, instead of the two that is standard ritual at Japanese shrines. Clapping twice is believed to get the attention of the gods, but since Okinunishi is the deity of relationships, at Izumo Taisha you need to add a couple of claps for your significant other.
As the sun goddess had promised Okinunishi, the 24m high honden reared into the sky, dwarfing the bowing and clapping worshippers who stood before it. Built in 1744, it is the tallest in Japan. The roof is punctuated with wooden ornaments called chigi, pairs of slender timber logs set at either end that fork up and out, and katsuogi, short, rounded logs placed at right angles to its ridge.
Worshippers are not permitted inside the honden except on special occasions. But I caught the boom and keen of traditional instruments like taiko drums and the shamisen wafting out on the light breeze. The music summoned the gods to eat, I was told. And, since this was a Shinto shrine, the “meal" was always accompanied by copious quantities of sake, the rice wine that the gods are known to be partial to.
We walked around the sprawling complex. Long rectangular buildings with shuttered entrances lined either side of the honden. This was the accommodation for the visiting gods during their yearly mass gathering. Placards detailed the mythology behind many of these deities, as complex and confounding as anything to be found in Indian texts, involving many elements in common, from ascetic sages to magical animals.
An hour later, we exited the torii gates and re-entered the profane world of mortals, to be greeted by a large Starbucks. I realized that while the deities had been feasting and drinking, I was in need of a café latte. Five minutes on, hot coffee in hand, I turned towards the shrine for a last time. The mist had thickened on the mountains and dark clouds threatened the sky. It was time to leave the gods in peace, even though it would only be for a lull before the storm that was Kyary Pamyu Pamyu.
Pallavi Aiyar is an Indian journalist and author, currently living in Japan.
