A company of Malayaputra soldiers stood behind Sita and Vishwamitra. Out of earshot. But close enough to move in quickly if needed.
‘The river continues to flow east,’ said Vishwamitra. ‘It drains into the Gulf of Mannar which separates India from Lanka.’
‘But how does it emerge from the hole it has dug itself into?’
‘It bursts out of this underground cavern some ten kilometres downstream.’
Sita’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Is this cave that long?’
Vishwamitra smiled. ‘Come. I’ll show you.’
Vishwamitra led Sita to the edge of the mouth of the cave. She hesitated. It was only around twenty-five metres across at the entry point. This forced constriction dramatically increased the speed of the river. It tore into the underground causeway with unreal ferocity.
Vishwamitra pointed to a flight of stairs to the left side of the cave mouth. It was obviously man-made. Steps had been carved into the sloping side wall. A railing thoughtfully provided on the right side, preventing a steep fall into the rapids.
Torrents of foam and spray from the rapidly descending river diminished vision. It also made the stairs dangerously slippery.
Vishwamitra pulled his angvastram over his head to shield himself from water droplets that fell from the ceiling. Sita followed suit.
‘Be careful,’ said Vishwamitra, as he approached the staircase. ‘The steps are slippery.’
Sita nodded and followed her guru. The Malayaputra soldiers stayed close behind.
They wended their way in silence. Descending carefully. Deeper and deeper, into the cave. Sita huddled into her angvastram. Daylight filtered through. But she expected pitch darkness as they descended farther. The insistent spray of water made it impossible to light a torch.
Sita had always been afraid of the dark. Added to which was this confined, slippery space. The looming rock structure and the loud roar of the descending river combined altogether into a terrifying experience.
Her mother’s voice called out to her. A memory buried deep in her psyche.
Don’t be afraid of the dark, my child. Light has a source. It can be snuffed out. But darkness has no source. It just exists. This darkness is a path to That, which has no source: God.
Wise words. But words that didn’t really provide much comfort to Sita at this point. Cold fear slowly tightened its grip on her heart. A childhood memory forced itself into her consciousness. Of being confined in a dark basement, the sounds of rats scurrying about, the frantic beat of her heart. Barely able to breathe. She pulled her awareness into the present. An occasional glimpse of Vishwamitra’s white robe disturbed the void they had settled into. Suddenly, she saw him turn left. She followed. Her hand not letting go of the railing.
Disoriented by sudden blinding light, her eyes gradually registered the looming figure of Vishwamitra standing before her. He held aloft a torch. He handed it to her. She saw a Malayaputra soldier hand another torch to Vishwamitra.
Vishwamitra started walking ahead again, continuing to descend. The steps were much broader now. Though the sound of the river reverberated against the wall and echoed all around.
Too loud for such a small cave.
But Sita could not see much since there were only two torches. Soon, all the Malayaputras held a torch each and light flooded into the space.
Sita held her breath.
By the great Lord Rudra!
The small cave had opened into a cavern. And it was huge. Bigger than any cave Sita had ever seen. Perhaps six hundred metres in width. The steps descended farther and farther while the ceiling remained at roughly the same height. When they reached the bottom of the cavern, the ceiling was a good two hundred metres above. A large palace, fit for a king, could have been built in this subterranean space. And still have room left over. The Thamiravaruni flowed on the right-hand side of this cavern, descending rapidly with great force.
‘As you can see, the river has eroded this cave over the ages,’ explained Vishwamitra. ‘It is huge, isn’t it?’
‘The biggest I have ever seen!’ said Sita in wonder.
There was a massive white hill on the left. The secret behind the well-lit interior. It reflected light from the numerous torches and spread it to all the corners of the cave.
‘I wonder what material that hill is made up of, Guruji,’ said Sita.
Vishwamitra smiled. ‘A lot of bats live here.’
Sita looked up instinctively.
‘They are all asleep now,’ said Vishwamitra. ‘It’s daytime. They will awaken at night. And that hill is made from the droppings of billions of bats over many millennia.’
Sita grimaced. ‘Yuck!’
Vishwamitra’s laughter echoed in the vastness.
It was then that Sita’s eyes fell on something behind Vishwamitra. Many rope ladders hanging from the walls; so many that she gave up the attempt to count them. Hammered into place on top, they fell from the roof, all the way to the floor.
Sita pointed. ‘What’s that, Guruji?’
Vishwamitra turned around. ‘There are some white semicircular bird nests in the nooks and crannies of these walls. Those nests are precious. The material they are made from is precious. These ladders allow us to access them.’
Sita was surprised. ‘What could be so valuable about the material that a nest is made from? These ladders go really high. Falling from that height must mean instant death.’
‘Indeed, some have died. But it is a worthy sacrifice.’
Sita frowned.
‘We need some hold over Raavan. The material in those nests gives us that control.’
Sita froze. The thought that had been troubling her for some time made its reappearance: What is the relationship between the Malayaputras and the Lankans?
‘I will explain it to you, someday,’ said Vishwamitra, reading her thoughts as usual. ‘For now, have faith in me.’
Sita remained silent. But her face showed that she was troubled.
‘This land of ours,’ continued Vishwamitra, ‘is sacred. Bound by the Himalayas in the north, washed by the Indian Ocean at its feet and the Western and Eastern Seas at its arms, the soil in this great nation is hallowed. All those born in this land carry the sacred earth of Mother India in their body. This nation cannot be allowed to remain in this wretched state. It is an insult to our noble ancestors. We must make India great again. I will do anything, anything, to make this land worthy of our great ancestors. And, so shall the Vishnu.’
Sita, Jatayu, and a company of Malayaputra soldiers were sailing back up the western coast towards the Sapt Sindhu. Sita was returning to Mithila. She had spent more than five months in Agastyakootam, educating herself on the principles of governance, philosophies, warfare and personal history of the earlier Vishnus. She had also acquired advanced training in other subjects. This was in preparation for her Vishnuhood. Vishwamitra had been personally involved in her training.
Jatayu and she sat on the main deck, sipping a hot cup of ginger kadha.