‘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 almost 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?’