The Prince and the Nightingale by Abhishek Bhatt

Author:Abhishek Bhatt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: null
Publisher: HarperCollins India
Published: 2021-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

Abhimanyu wasn’t the only reason Meera had let go of the once-in-a-lifetime chance to work with one of the most celebrated composers in India. She had choked again on an age-old fear. Her decision had as much to do with a man who had once lived deep in the Mhadei forest of southern India as it did with the man now recuperating in New York. Though she would never tell anyone, Meera was protecting a secret that had its roots in a ‘holy man’s’ ashram from the mid-nineteenth century.

Somewhere between Karnataka and Goa, there is a wild ravine that once brimmed with water that flowed into it from a height of 800 feet. It originated in the Sahyadri ranges of Mahabaleshwar, traversed through the Deccan Plains and ended up gushing over a monolithic black stone, located a thousand kilometres away in the backyard of Swami Vellasami’s temple. The colourless water turned white as it plunged down the cliff, and as luck would have it, over the centuries, the deluge had carved the stone into a perfectly smooth shiv-ling. So, Vellasami’s ancestors decided to call it their Shiv Temple. Word spread about this stunning wonder of nature – a preternatural shiv-ling carved by the holy waters; waters that were white as milk.

Devotees from neighbouring cities and states, and later, countries, thronged to the site with their prayers and offerings. Vellasami’s humble temple soon became a money-spinning religious institution. Kings would send their sons for months on end to become learned men under his tutelage. The self-proclaimed renaissance man, Swami Vellasami, would spend months interpreting the Upanishads, talking about politics and encouraging his students to take up the arts in order to broaden their horizons. Among the young royalty were also dozens of devadasis – young girls offered to the temple in service of god by their poor parents; they had a better chance of survival at the temple than at their homes. The devadasis kept themselves busy with the upkeep of the temple during the day, and learned singing and classical dance when their chores were done. Unlike the fate of the impoverished in the surrounding hills, where girls as young as seven were forced into prostitution, the fate of the devadasis at Vellasami’s temple was relatively better.

Mariamma, a sixteen-year-old devadasi, however, commanded the adulation and respect that rivalled the priests. Mariamma, Meera’s great-great-grandmother, would sing bhajans every evening. Her honeyed voice would rise above the thrum of the waterfall, captivating hundreds of devotees in a trance. Grown men would weep openly and open their hearts and purse strings. Goodwill and gold coins poured into the temple and it grew in stature by leaps and bounds, until the day the ground shook.

The earthquake of 1843 has barely been recorded in the history of the Deccan. Calling it a quake would be a stretch, since half the population argued that they didn’t even feel the tremors. Nonetheless, the ground shook enough to change the course of a certain tributary ever so slightly.

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