by Amish
Sita smiled with wonder and shook her head. ‘What mysteries abound in the land of Lord Parshu Ram!’
She faced the front again, her eyes aglow.
And then, she froze in horror.
Rivers of blood!
Bang in front of her, in the distance, where the lagoon ended and the hills began, three streams of blood flowed in from different directions and merged into the cove.
It was believed that a long time ago, Lord Parshu Ram had massacred all the evil kings in India who were oppressing their people. Legend had it that when he finally stopped, his blood-drenched axe had spewed the tainted blood of those wicked kings in an act of self-purification. It had turned the river Malaprabha red.
But it’s just a legend!
Yet here she was, on a ship, seeing not one, but three rapid streams of blood disgorging into the lagoon.
Sita clutched her Rudraaksh pendant in fear as her heart rate raced. Lord Rudra, have mercy.
‘Sita is on her way, Guruji,’ said Arishtanemi, as he entered the Hall of Hundred Pillars. ‘She should be in Agastyakootam in two or three weeks at most.’
Vishwamitra sat in the main ParshuRamEshwar temple in Agastyakootam. The temple was dedicated to the one that Lord Parshu Ram worshipped: Lord Rudra. He looked up from the manuscript he was reading.
‘That’s good news. Are all the preparations done?
‘Yes, Guruji,’ said Arishtanemi. He extended his hand and held out a scroll. The seal had been broken. But it could still be recognised. It was the royal seal of the descendants of Anu. ‘And King Ashwapati has sent a message.’
Vishwamitra smiled with satisfaction. Ashwapati, the king of Kekaya, was the father of Kaikeyi and Emperor Dashrath’s father-in-law. That also made him the grandfather of Dashrath’s second son, Bharat. ‘So, he has seen the light and seeks to build new relationships.’
‘Ambition has its uses, Guruji,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘Whether the ambition is for oneself or one’s progeny. I believe, an Ayodhya nobleman called General Mrigasya has shown …’
‘Guruji!’ A novice ran into the hall, panting with exertion.
Vishwamitra looked up, irritated.
‘Guruji, she is practising.’
Vishwamitra immediately rose to his feet. He quickly folded his hands together and paid his respects to the idols of Lord Rudra and Lord Parshu Ram. Then, he rushed out of the temple, followed closely by Arishtanemi and the novice.
They quickly mounted their horses and broke into a gallop. There was precious little time to lose.
Within a short while, they were exactly where they wanted to be. A small crowd had already gathered. On hallowed ground. Under a tower almost thirty metres in height, built of stone. Some heads were tilted upwards, towards a tiny wooden house built on top of the tower. Others sat on the ground, their eyes closed in bliss. Some were gently crying, rocking with emotions coursing through their being.
A glorious musical rendition wafted through the air. Divine fingers plucked the strings of an instrument seemingly fashioned by God himself. A woman, who had not stepped out of that house for years, was playing the Rudra Veena. An instrument named after the previous Mahadev. What was being performed was a raga that most Indian music aficionados would recognise. Some called it Raga Hindolam, others called it Raga Malkauns. A composition dedicated to the great Mahadev himself, Lord Rudra.
Vishwamitra rushed in as the others made way. He stopped at the base of the staircase at the entrance to the tower. The sound was soft, filtered by the wooden walls of the house. It was heavenly. Vishwamitra felt his heart instantly settle into the harmonic rhythm. Tears welled up in his eyes.
‘Wah, Annapoorna devi, wah,’ mouthed Vishwamitra, as though not wanting to break the spell with any superfluous sound, even that of his own voice.
According to Vishwamitra, Annapoorna was undoubtedly the greatest stringed-instrument player alive. But if she heard any such words of praise, she might stop her practice.
Hundreds had gathered, as if risen from the ground. Arishtanemi looked at them uncomfortably. He had never been happy about this.
Offering refuge to the estranged wife of the chief court musician of Lanka? A former favourite of Raavan himself?
Arishtanemi possessed a military mind. Given to strategic thought. Not for him the emotional swings of those passionately in love with music.
But he knew that his Guru did not agree with him. So he waited, patiently.
The raga continued to weave its ethereal magic.
‘It’s not blood, my sister,’ said Jatayu, looking at Sita.
Though Sita had not asked any question regarding the ‘rivers of blood’, the terror on her face made Jatayu want to ease her mind. She did not let go of her Rudraaksh pendant, but her face relaxed.
The Malayaputras, meanwhile, were anchoring the vessel to the floating jetty.
‘It’s not?’ asked Sita.
‘No. It’s the effect of a unique riverweed which grows here. It lines the bottom of the stream and is reddish-violet in colour. These streams are shallow, so they appear red from a distance. As if it’s a stream full of blood. But the ‘blood’ doesn’t discolour the lagoon, don’t you see? Because the riverweeds are too deep in the lagoon to be seen.’
Sita grinned in embarrassment.
‘It can be alarming, the first time one sees it. For us, it marks Lord Parshu Ram’s territory. The legendary river of blood.’
Sita nodded.
‘But blood can flow by other means, in this region. There are dangerous wild animals in the dense jungles between here and Agastyakootam. And we have a two-week march ahead of us. We must stick together and move cautiously.’
‘All right.’
Their conversation was cut short by the loud bang of the gangway plank crashing on the floating jetty.
A little less than two weeks later, the company of five platoons neared their destination. They had cut through unmarked, dense forests along the way, where no clear pathway had been made. Sita realised that unless one was led by the Malayaputras, one would be hopelessly lost in these jungles.
Excitement coursed through her veins as they crested the final hill and beheld the valley that cradled Lord Parshu Ram’s city.
‘Wow …’ whispered Sita.
Standing on the shoulders of the valley, she admired the grandiose beauty spread out below her. It was beyond imagination.
The Thamiravaruni river began to the west and crashed into this huge, egg-shaped valley in a series of massive waterfalls. The valley itself was carpeted with dense vegetation and an impenetrable tree cover. The river snaked its way through the vale and exited at the eastern, narrower end; flowing towards the land where the Tamil lived.
The valley was deep, descending almost eight hundred metres from the peaks in the west, from where the Thamiravaruni crashed into it. The sides of the valley fell sharply from its shoulders to its floor, giving it steep edges. The shoulders of the valley were coloured red; perhaps the effect of some metallic ore. The river picked up some of this ore as it began its descent down the waterfall. It lent a faint, red hue to the waters. The waterfalls looked eerily bloody. The river snaked through the valley like a lightly coloured red snake, slithering across an open, lush green egg.
Most of the valley had been eroded over the ages by the river waters, heavy rainfall, and fierce winds. All except for one giant monolith, a humongous tower-like mountain of a single rock. It stood at a proud height of eight hundred and fifty metres from the valley floor, towering well above the valley’s shoulders. Massive in breadth as well, it covered almost six square kilometres. The monolith was coloured grey, signifying that it was made of granite, one of the hardest stones there is. Which explained why it stood tall, like a sentinel against the ravages of time, refusing to break even as Mother Nature constantly reshaped everything around it.
Early evening clouds obstructed her view, yet Sita was overwhelmed by its grandeur.
The sides of the monolith were almo
st a ninety-degree drop from the top to the valley floor. Though practically vertical, the sides were jagged and craggy. The crags sprouted shrubs and ferns. Some creepers clung on bravely to the sides of the monolith. Trees grew on the top, which was a massive space of six square kilometres in area. Besides the small amount of vegetation clinging desperately to the monolith’s sides, it was a largely naked rock, standing in austere glory against the profusion of green vegetation that populated every other nook and cranny of the valley below.
The ParshuRamEshwar temple was at the top of the monolith. But Sita could not get a very clear view because it was hidden behind cloud cover.
The monolith was Agastyakootam; literally, the hill of Agastya.
The Malayaputras had eased the otherwise impossible access to Agastyakootam with a rope-and-metal bridge from the valley shoulders to the monolith.
‘Shall we cross over to the other side?’ asked Jatayu.
‘Yes,’ answered Sita, tearing her gaze away from the giant rock.
‘Jai Parshu Ram.’
‘Jai Parshu Ram.’
Jatayu led his horse carefully over the long rope-and-metal bridge. Sita followed with her horse in tow. The rest of the company fell in line, one behind the other.
Sita was amazed by the stability of the rope bridge. Jatayu explained that this was due to the innovatively designed hollow metal planks that buttressed the bottom of the bridge. The foundations of these interconnected planks lay buried deep on both sides; one at the valley-shoulder end, the other at the granite monolith.
Intriguing as the bridge design was, it did not hold Sita’s attention for long. She peered over the rope-railing at the Thamiravaruni, flowing some eight hundred metres below her. She steadied herself; it was a long and steep drop. The Thamiravaruni crashed head-on into the monolith that Sita was walking towards. The river then broke into two streams, which, like loving arms, embraced the sheer rock. They re-joined on the other side of the monolith; and then, the Thamiravaruni continued flowing east, out of the valley. The monolith of granite rock was thus, technically, a riverine island.
‘What does the name Thamiravaruni mean, Jatayuji?’ asked Sita.
Jatayu answered without turning around. ‘Varuni is that which comes from Lord Varun, the God of Water and the Seas. In these parts, it is simply another word for river. And Thamira, in the local dialect, has two meanings. One is red.’
Sita smiled. ‘Well, that’s a no-brainer! The red river!’
Jatayu laughed. ‘But Thamira has another meaning, too.’
‘What?’
‘Copper.’
As Sita neared the other side, the clouds parted. She came to a sudden halt, making her horse falter. Her jaw dropped. In sheer amazement and awe.
‘How in Lord Rudra’s name did they build this?’
Jatayu smiled as he looked back at Sita and gestured that she keep moving. He turned quickly and resumed his walk. He had been trained to be careful on the bridge.
A massive curvilinear cave had been carved into the monolith. Almost fifteen metres in height and probably around fifty metres deep, the cave ran all along the outer edge of the monolith, in a continuous line, its floor and ceiling rising gently as it spiralled its way to the top of the stone structure. It therefore served as a road, built into the monolith itself. The ‘road’ spiralled its way down to a lower height as well, till it reached the point of the monolith where it was two hundred metres above the valley floor. But this long continuous cave, which ran within the surface of the structure, with the internal monolith rock serving as its road and roof, did not just serve as a passage. On the inner side of this cave were constructions, again carved out of the monolith rock itself. These constructions served as houses, offices, shops and other buildings required for civilised living. This innovative construction, built deeper into the inner parts of the monolith itself, housed a large proportion of the ten thousand Malayaputras who lived in Agastyakootam. The rest lived on top of the monolith. There were another ninety thousand Malayaputras, stationed in camps across the great land of India.
‘How can anyone carve something this gigantic into stone as hard as granite?’ asked Sita. ‘That too in a rock face that is almost completely vertical? This is the work of the Gods!’
‘The Malayaputras represent the God, Lord Parshu Ram, himself,’ said Jatayu. ‘Nothing is beyond us.’
As he stepped off the bridge onto the landing area carved into the monolith, Jatayu mounted his horse again. The ceiling of the cave was high enough to comfortably allow a mounted soldier to ride along. He turned to see Sita climbing onto her horse as well. But she did not move. She was admiring the intricately engraved railings carved out at the edge of the cave, along the right side of the ‘road’. The artistry imposed on it distracted one from the sheer fall into the valley that the railing prevented. The railing itself was around two metres high. Pillars had been carved into it, which also allowed open spaces in between for light. The ‘fish’ symbol was delicately carved into each pillar’s centre.
‘My sister,’ whispered Jatayu.
Sita had steered her horse towards the four-floor houses on the left inner side of the cave road. She turned her attention back to Jatayu.
‘Promise me, my sister,’ said Jatayu, ‘you will not shrink or turn back, no matter what lies ahead.’
‘What?’ frowned Sita.
‘I think I understand you now. What you’re about to walk into may overwhelm you. But you cannot imagine how important this day is for us Malayaputras. Don’t pull back from anyone. Please.’
Before Sita could ask any further questions, Jatayu had moved ahead. Jatayu steered his horse to the right, where the road rose gently, spiralling its way to the top.
Sita too kicked her horse into action.
And then, the drumbeats began.
As the road opened ahead, she saw large numbers of people lined on both sides. None of them wore any angvastrams. The people of Kerala dressed this way, when they entered temples to worship their Gods and Goddesses. The absence of the angvastram symbolised that they were the servants of their Gods and Goddesses. And, they were dressed this way today, as their living Goddess had come home.
At regular intervals stood drummers with large drums hanging from cloth ropes around their shoulders. As Sita emerged, they began a rhythmic, evocative beat. Next to each drummer was a veena player, stringing melody to the rhythm of the drummers. The rest of the crowd was on their knees, heads bowed. And, they were chanting.
The words floated in the air. Clear and precise.
Om Namo Bhagavate Vishnudevaya
Tasmai Saakshine namo namah
Salutations to the great God Vishnu
Salutations, Salutations to the Witness
Sita looked on, unblinking. Unsure of what to do. Her horse, too, had stopped.
Jatayu pulled up his horse and fell behind Sita. He made a clicking sound and Sita’s horse began to move. Forward, on a gentle gradient to the top.
And thus, led by Sita, the procession moved ahead.
Om Namo Bhagavate Vishnudevaya
Tasmai Matsyaaya namo namah
Salutations to the great God Vishnu
Salutations, Salutations to Lord Matsya
Sita’s horse moved slowly, but unhesitatingly. Most of the faces in the crowd were filled with devotion. And many had tears flowing down their eyes.
Some people came forward, bearing rose petals in baskets. They flung them in the air. Showering roses on their Goddess, Sita.
Om Namo Bhagavate Vishnudevaya
Tasmai Kurmaaya namo namah
Salutations to the great God Vishnu
Salutations, Salutations to Lord Kurma
One woman rushed in, holding her infant son in her arms. She brought the baby close to the horse’s stirrups and touched the child’s forehead to Sita’s foot.
A confused and troubled Sita tried her best to not shrink back.
The company, led by Sita, kept riding up the road, towar
ds the summit of the monolith.
The drumbeats, the veenas, the chanting continued … ceaselessly.
Om Namo Bhagavate Vishnudevaya
Tasyai Vaaraahyai namo namah
Salutations to the great God Vishnu
Salutations, Salutations to Lady Varahi
Ahead of them, some people were down on their knees with their heads placed on the ground, their hands spread forward. Their bodies shook with the force of their emotions.
Om Namo Bhagavate Vishnudevaya
Tasmai Narasimhaaya namo namah
Salutations to the great God Vishnu
Salutations, Salutations to Lord Narsimha
The gently upward-sloping cave opened onto the top of the monolith. The railing continued to skirt the massive summit. People from the spiral cave road followed Sita in a procession.
The large area at the top of the monolith was well organised with grid-like roads and many low-rise buildings. The streets were bordered with dugouts on both sides that served as flower beds, the soil for which had been painstakingly transported from the fertile valley below. At regular intervals, the dugouts were deep, for they held the roots of larger trees. It was a carefully cultivated naturalness in this austere, rocky environment.
At the centre of the summit lay two massive temples, facing each other. Together, they formed the ParshuRamEshwar temple complex. One temple, red in colour, was dedicated to the great Mahadev, Lord Rudra. The other, in pristine white, was the temple of the sixth Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram.
The other buildings in the area were uniformly low-rise, none built taller than the temples of ParshuRamEshwar. Some served as offices and others as houses. Maharishi Vishwamitra’s house was at the edge of the summit, overlooking the verdant valley below.
Om Namo Bhagavate Vishnudevaya
Tasmai Vaamanaaya namo namah
Salutations to the great God Vishnu
Salutations, Salutations to Lord Vaaman
The chanting continued.
Jatayu held his breath as his eyes fell on a gaunt old lady. Her flowing white hair let loose in the wind, she sat on a platform in the distance. Her proud, ghostly eyes were fixed on Sita. With her felicitous fingers, she plucked at the strings of the Rudra Veena. Annapoorna devi. The last time she had been seen was the day that she had arrived at Agastyakootam, many years ago. She had stepped out of her home, today. She was playing the Veena in public, consciously breaking her oath. A terrible oath, compelled by a husband she had loved. But there was good reason to break the oath today. It was not every day that the great Vishnu came home.