The Soul Energy
Sacred Journeys. Soul Tales. Energy Healing
Yamunotri: Shrine Of The Dark River Goddess
Originating from Yamunotri Glacier at a height of 20,955 ft, the temple of river Yamuna is at the foot of the inaccessible Kalind Mountain in the Garhwal Himalayas. It is the belief in the river goddess and her powers that has drawn people here down the ages through treacherous mountain paths to her shrine at a height of 10,797 ft. The journey to Yamunotri temple, the first stop of the pilgrim trail Chota Char Dham Yatra in Uttarakhand, India, is tough but the natural beauty of the environs is so captivating that it makes every traveller forget the challenges.
According to popular lore, river Yamuna is the twin sister of Yama, the God of Death, and it is believed that bathing in her sacred waters will free one from the sufferings of death. Both are children of the Sun God, Surya. Significantly, the river goddess is also one of the consorts of Krishna, and the devotees of the Blue God know her by another name, Kalindi. A river that has inspired many immortal tales of love, it is believed that she carries the colour of Krishna in her dark waters.
My journey from Haridwar to Barkot, which is the stop for most pilgrims heading towards Yamunotri, almost took the whole day, via Mussoorie. It was almost evening when we reached the Nivarana Yamunotri Cottages at Barkot, which is one of the best accommodation options in the area, and offers both cottages and camps, which are basic but comfortable.
Located next to the river, I could hear the roaring sound of the mighty Yamuna, even though I could not see the waters in the dark. The next morning, at almost 5 am, we started off for Janki Chatti, the last point where cars are allowed. It is advisable to start the climb to Yamunotri early and come down by mid afternoon, as the weather in the mountains starts changing after 3 pm, and rains are common.
From Janki Chatti, pilgrims can either take a palki (carried by four bearers) or a pony. But for those who are confident of walking the steep climb, the best option is to trek. The distance from here to the temple is just a little over five kilometres, but it takes almost three hours. Enroute, the scenic vista of the river roaring down the mountain will keep you enthralled. As you soak in the beauty of the surroundings, you can see the countless streams and rivulets joining Yamuna.
For a river goddess who is regarded as the daughter of the Sun God, it is not surprising to see so many thermal springs in the temple precincts, where the pilgrims take bath. Then there are those who put rice in cloth bags and dip it in the sacred hot spring called Surya (Sun) Kund, the rice and potatoes get cooked in the water and is taken by them to share as sacred prasad, with their family and friends. A rock pillar called Divya Shila is another key attraction.
After performing pooja, we entered the small temple to see the beautiful dark visage of the river goddess. I had never seen an idol of Goddess Yamuna before and was mesmerized by its beauty. Known as the river which inspires love and beauty, the dark idol is a perfect manifestation of Goddess Yamuna. Photography is not allowed inside the temple.
Covered by snow during the winter months, the temple is almost inaccessible and closed for six months. This is when a small silver idol of the river goddess is taken down to Kharsil, her winter seat. The idol is kept in the famous Shani Dev Temple in Kharsil. According to Hindu mythology, Shani Dev (represented by planet Saturn in the solar system), regarded as the God of Justice and Karma, is a brother of Yamuna.
For me, another highlight of the journey was conversations with the locals, the hardy mountain people who find work only for six months in a year, helping pilgrims reach the Yamunotri temple. Their life is intertwined with the temple, and most of them do not seek any other way of sustenance.
Important info:
How to reach: Dehradun’s Jolly Grant is the nearest airport. You can stay for a night in Haridwar before heading to Barkot.
Accommodation: There are several accommodation options at Barkot. One of the best is Camp Nivarana Yamunotri Cottages.
When to go: The temple opens every year from the last week of April or the first week of May. It closes in mid-October.
Stepping Through The Sphere Of Light
The corridor is one of the longest in the palace, and it would always take me a little more time to reach the second last door. As I made my way to it, I passed a doctor and two nurses. The doctor looked sombre and one of the nurses was crying. I entered the room, and there she was, lying on the bed. This was the prettiest room in the palace, but now almost replicated that in a hospital, with all the medical equipment.
It pained me to see my youngest grandchild, who was just eight-year-old, suffer so much. Chidiya (little bird) as all close family members lovingly called her at home, was losing her battle with death. Born with a congenital heart disease, every birthday she celebrated was a miracle. Two major surgeries had just given her a few more years, but there was no more hope.
I could see my son standing by the window – the scion of an erstwhile royal family, he was now a well established politician and new age entrepreneur, but no amount of money and influence could save his daughter. His beautiful wife was sitting by the bedside holding Chidiya’s hand, looking intently at the little face, expecting the girl to open her eyes and speak to her. But that would never happen, I know it. Silently I step out of the room.
As I make my way towards the grand staircase, my eyes fall on the imposing painting of Rajmata (Queen Mother) Ahalya, that dominated all the other paintings of our illustrious royal ancestors. Sometimes I forget that the woman in the green and gold sari, whose indomitable spirit has been captured so well on the canvas, is me.
I go out and wait at the farthest end of the expansive garden, bordering the forest. I know that any moment now she would step in through the golden sphere that shimmered ahead. I didn’t have to wait for long, there she was, so joyful and happy, coming towards me … my favourite grandchild.
The life she lost will continue here, among those who love her – her ancestors of several generations, including me, her grandmother, who passed away 15 years before she was born but always guided, protected and watched out for her.
Chidiya will never feel the absence of her parents and two elder brothers, the great love of a much larger family will be her home.
In Celebration Of The Blue God’s Birthday
They see him playing his flute perched on a rainbow
Sometimes he hides behind a cloud to tease them
In a game of eternal hide and seek
The animals perceive him, and so do the birds, bees and elementals
The grass sways in ecstasy feeling the touch of his feet
You can never separate the creator from his creation
From each speck of dust to every star
Is a celebration of his existence
And for every heart that loves him –
The blooming of a flower is the birth of Krishna
Every raindrop is his tear of love
The flow of the wind his embrace
The earth constantly renews itself in his glory
Every day is Janmashtami festival
In celebration of the Blue God’s birth
The Chosen One
It seemed like an endless walk to her through the grey landscape. She was carrying a heavy burden, and not just the large rucksack she was dragging through the snow, too tired to carry on her back. But the load that weighed down her heart was much heavier.
She was on her way to Itama – the temple of the all powerful tribal Ice Goddess. It was a stark frozen sheet that jutted out from an ice shelf. In the barren cold desert of perpetual snow, the structure of the Ice Temple regenerated itself constantly. The temple had no entrance or exit, and according to legends, only the one chosen by the goddess could enter Itama – in mind and spirit.
They also believed that circumambulating the abode of the sacred goddess 33 times, absolved a person of all heinous sins. So Hena set about on this tough journey. She hoped that the physical pain and stress on her endurance level might well reduce the pain of her guilt. This was her penance for almost breaking the home of her own sister.
In her tribe, she was considered a Halion – the word describing an adulteress who preyed on other women’s husbands, but no one did that to their own sister, like her. Hena was not sure whether the goddess would forgive her or not, but she knew she would probably never be able to forgive herself.
It was a moonless night, yet somehow the spire of the Ice Temple seemed to shimmer in blue. It was so cold that the tears from her eyes were freezing on her cheeks. She could not even cry.
Hena had just about gone around the temple three times, when she started feeling that she could not breathe. Before she passed out, it seemed to her that flickering silvery lights were shining above her.
A few hours later when they found Hena, they saw a white bear hovering around her. They knew that it was something very unusual because it seemed it was guarding the woman. The white bear was a carrier of the goddess. They believed that the goddess came out of the Ice Temple astride on her ferocious white bear and flitted across her domain, giving justice to men and animals.
It was almost three days before Hena gained consciousness at the hospital. And when she did, she kept talking about the silvery lights and the Ice Temple. When her family came to meet her, they were shocked. Her jet black hair had turned white at places and it seemed that in just a few days she had aged by almost 15 years.
She said that she was led by the dots of silvery lights into a blue tunnel, which was lit by white light streaming from the other end. Was it a Near Death Experience?
The elders in her tribe were astounded, as they started believing that she had been led inside the Ice Temple by the goddess herself. In five generations this had never happened. It defied all their belief in the right and the wrong. In the eyes of the supreme Ice Goddess, it seemed the saint and the sinner, were the same.
Hena the cursed adulteress, was The Chosen One.
The Jasmine Trail
She stood on the little balcony, taking a deep breath. The moon was shining with a blue hue, in a clear summer night sky. There was something magical about tonight, but what was it? Ekanya wondered. Before moving to Mumbai, she had stood at this very spot every night, during her growing up years at her maternal home in Bhopal, but had never felt this way. Then she realised – it was the smell of jasmine. Somebody had planted a tree here while she was away, and the fragrance of the flowers was almost intoxicating.
She had come to her hometown to break the news to her parents that she was leaving her husband. It was not an easy decision at the age of 38, but she no longer wanted to be stuck in what she thought was a loveless marriage. Ekanya could herself never understand why she could never love Nikhil, a good husband, and a caring father to their 8-year-old son. She knew she was being selfish, but all her life she had searched for a love, a fulfilling relationship, she has never been able to find. It was as if a part of her was missing, which she needed to discover.
A new job offer from a Hong Kong based financial company, seemed like a perfect opportunity. Ekanya has been constantly trying to assure herself that she was doing the right thing. She was sending her son to a prestigious boarding school, and the distance will make things less complicated between her and Nikhil.
Later, as she lay down on the bed, tears trickled down her eyes. The moon, the balmy breeze, the fragrance of jasmine, all seemed to overwhelm her anxious mind ….
The smell of jasmine is stronger at this end of the blue verandah. As she approaches him, he looks up from the book he is reading while waiting for her. There is a bandage on the right side of his forehead. She knows he was injured in an attack by the police on a group of young freedom fighters in the bazaar. A common occurrence in early 20th century Bengal, in British ruled India. She also knows that the only love that surpasses what he feels for her, is his love for the motherland, and his mission to free his country.
She can almost read his thoughts – their love is doomed, but even death cannot keep them apart. The intensity of his feelings has always terrified and excited her, and she can feel her heart being drawn into a vortex.
Next, she is running around the blue verandah with the book she has snatched from his hand. He is trying to catch her. There are creepers on the walls, and as she places her hand on a branch to steady herself, she pricks her ring finger. He takes her hand and puts the finger in his mouth, sucking the drop of blood and easing the pain. As she looks into his dark eyes, she knows she can never love another man ….
Ekanya sits up on the bed. What a dream – it almost seemed real, the old heritage building, the blue verandah, the creepers on the walls, the intoxicating smell of jasmine.
She goes to the balcony. The air had become cooler, but she could not see the moon now. The smell of jasmine seemed stronger … the only thing which was common from the world of her extraordinary dream.
Or was it something more. As she sat on her bed, she realised her hand was paining. She switched on the bedside lamp, and saw that her ring finger had turned pink and was throbbing. Then she noticed her wedding ring.
She kept awake the whole night. Next morning she told her parents she had to return to Mumbai for some urgent work. She never mentioned about Nikhil. But she did know that she was not leaving him, and had to make some major amends.
Ekanya herself could not understand how the dream that drew her into a magical world of love, changed her. Who was the man? Was he her lover from another lifetime? Or her subconscious mind?
Somehow she felt the dream had made her break a pact with the past, and she was free now – to live and love.
The Sacred Dance
It was the blast at a football stadium in Istanbul that turned Shams’ life upside down. Severely wounded in the attack, the 32-year-old well known fashion designer from one of the city’s illustrious families, took to the wheelchair after 40 days in the hospital. It was then that her fiancé, the scion of a leading industrial group, decided to part ways. Shams, who had always taken great pride in being a bold and beautiful young icon of Istanbul’s high society, became a social recluse.
For almost two years, she would never go out of the family bungalow, her bitterness further vitiating the atmosphere of the large joint family, which already had complexities of its own. Then, one day, she realised she did not want to stay with them, and requested her father to send her to Amasya, a beautiful little town in Northern Turkey, where they had their ancestral home.
He sent her to Amasya, thinking that her traumatised heart would find some peace in the sprawling heritage mansion, with its vast orchards and salubrious environs. Shams was alone here, with only her caretaker and the cook.
Unable to sleep at night, she would aimlessly move from room to room. One night, she had almost dozed off in front of the fireplace in the main hall, when she noticed some movements in the large mirror above it. She could see some swirling strands of light going round and round in circles. Did her sleep induced mind imagine it? Shams wondered.
The next night also she waited. And yes, it was there again. This time she could make out faint forms, who seemed like the whirling dervishes. Shams knew that the black and white floored hall has been witness to many spectacular happenings in the past. One of her forefathers was a revered Sufi mystic. She wondered if the dervishes had danced here during those times.
From that day onwards, her mind was gripped with finding answers to her questions. The days she would spend trying to locate information about her mystic ancestor and the whirling dervishes in the mansion’s old library. And at night she would sit in front of the fireplace, looking at the mirror, hoping to see some remnant of the sacred dance.
It is said that the walls and the environment absorb the energy imprint of whatever happens in its confines. While it might seem like a supernatural happening, but it is actually a natural phenomenon.
Sometimes Shams would cry, her heart filled with a strange ecstasy, watching the sacred dance. Then one night, she could hold herself back no longer, she forced herself out of her wheelchair and wobbled around, joining the forms in the mirror. Her steps could not match that of the dancing dervishes, but her spirit whirled with them. She would often fall, somehow pick herself up, and start again.
This continued for several months. Shams herself did not realise when she had no need for a wheelchair any longer. She could limp around the house with a walker. Her heart now needed no crutch though – it constantly soared in the sky, like a bird of freedom.
Thoughts Of A Sentient Being
The Shiva temple where I live, has been in a state of disrepair since last few decades, but continues to draw devotees. It was built many centuries ago by a Muslim prince for his favourite nanny, who happened to be a Hindu and an ardent devotee of Shiva. He loved her more than his own mother, and in her honour, got constructed the beautiful structure, along with living quarters for priests, in the outskirts of Lucknow city, in North India.
I myself have no religion. Though my existence is connected to the temple, I know that the God who is in the sanctum sanctorum is also within me. I have stood silently, in a state of meditation, constantly regenerating myself.
With each dawn, I would begin my day with salutations to the Sun, and pay my obeisance as it disappeared from the horizon. In my own small way, I have tried to follow the generosity of the Sun – always giving, always nurturing.
With time, my penance became more severe. Then one dawn in summer time, just before the first rays of the Sun touched the sky, I saw the Golden Light. It shimmered within me and around me. I had myself become Gold – the Light of God.
The young son of the temple priest, who was sleeping outside, looked at me with astonishment. He gave a scream and ran inside his house, calling the family. By the time people had gathered around me, I was no longer bathed in gold, at least not from the outside. It had come to rest in my being.
From that day onwards, they understood that something about me had changed, and started worshipping me, offering flowers and doing rituals to seek my blessings.
If only they had an understanding of their own divinity. They would then discover the Golden Light, like me, whom they call the Old Peepal Tree in the Shiva Temple.
The Dragon’s Tail
Uttarakhand is a state in North India, known for its scenic beauty and the great Himalayas. A large segment of the state comprises of coniferous forests, meadows and valleys. A small section of the subtropical pine forests, have been known, since time immemorial, to be the home of a creature of lore. The golden coloured creature could be straight out of a fairy tale book, but the locals have believed in their existence. In particular, the women who would never forget to tell their children innumerable stories of the long-tailed dragons who inhabited their forests.
There were stories of golden streaks of light in the forests at night. So it was believed that the dragons slept during the day and moved about in the night. The most recent sighting was in 1968, when the driver of a heritage train claimed to have seen the long golden tail of a dragon. The creature was on the tracks, trying to escape the fast approaching train and finally disappeared into the night. While the official report submitted by the train driver was dismissed as fabrication by the railway authorities, but the locals who came to know of it had no doubt that the driver was telling the truth.
Now this area of the state had always been known for frequent forest fires. If any pine cone caught fire and the wind took it to another hill, the fire ravaged the adjacent hill also. Watch was kept at night by local villagers, to warn people of forest fires. Interestingly, it was found that whenever women of self- help groups (SHG) called ‘Sakhis’ guarded at night, there were few such incidents. Some believed that the fire was caused by the dragons, and maybe they feared the women folk and that is why they caused less mayhem when the Sakhis were on guard.
Soneha had grown up on the tales of the dragons, told to her by her mother. She had come to love the mythical creatures and always felt that they had her back. Till, she recently lost her home to a forest fire.
So when the 17-year-old kept vigil with two more girls at the eastern edge of the village that bordered the forest, that night the only thing that raged in her heart was anger for the dragons who had made her family homeless.
It was a windy, moonless night as the girls huddled together, but ever vigilant. Suddenly they saw embers from a burning pine cone fall on the trees near them. And before they could call out for help, a section of the trees had started burning. The village was a little distance away, so Soneha sent both the girls for help, while she stood guard.
Then she saw something which would remain the most incredible experience of her life – a golden orange shape emerged, just behind the burning trees. She stood transfixed, not able to even breathe, as the dragon opened its mouth and consumed the fire. A little distance away, she saw another dragon appear, and then another. Within a few minutes, the fire was out and the creatures had disappeared.
By the time the villagers appeared, they saw the girl standing and crying. They thought she was terrified by the fire that had burnt some trees and had strangely died down. Little did they know that her tears were of gratitude and remorse. She had understood that the dragons did not create the fire, but consumed it. And the reason why there was less forest fires when the Sakhis were on guard, was because it was mostly the village women who believed in these mystical creatures, not the men. It was the strong faith of the women, which probably brought them forth.
Since that night, Soneha again started believing what she did as a child – that a guardian dragon always watched her back.
Garden Of A Thousand Lotuses: A Fairy Tale
The Garden Of A Thousand Lotuses was once the playground of a prince and his consort. Today the place lies derelict and abandoned, but Chinima and her friends found it the perfect hideout to escape for a few hours in the afternoon, on their way home from school. They lived in the village nearby, where they called it the “enchanted garden”, because it is believed that fairies used to live here. Some people had also seen a few strange sightings.
The girls were too young to pay any attention to these rumours, and they had never noticed anything unusual. They just loved the beauty of the place, even with its scattered ruins, overgrown weeds, and the central pond where once a thousand lotuses had bloomed.
So one afternoon when Chinima, Gaiko and Yahuna sat at the edge of the large fountain, near the entrance to the garden, they thought they heard laughter. Puzzled, they looked around, but found no one.
As they started discussing about the source of the sound, they noticed a woman wearing a royal dress, a short distance away. Strangely her feet was above the ground, almost as if she was gliding in the air.
As she looked at them, the girls ran to her. They saw she was holding a big bunch of white flowers in her hands. She extended her arms, offering them the flowers. Chinima stepped forward to take them. Then she noticed that the woman’s hands were a blood red colour, in sharp contrast to her porcelain white skin.
“Who are you madam? And what has happened to your hands?” asked a shocked Chinima.
The woman answered softly, “I was a consort of the prince. I have been here for more than 260 years. My prince lies buried there.” She pointed out towards an outcrop, where the girls knew the noble prince’s grave was – buried in the garden he loved.
The girls stepped back. Chinima almost dropped the flowers from her hands. Gaiko blurted out fearfully, “So you are a ghost then?”
“No I am not, I never died you see,” came the answer from the woman, who looked very young despite the passing centuries. She continued to say, “I am an elemental, a nature being. I fell in love with a human being, the prince. I stayed in this beautiful Garden Of A Thousand Lotuses for his love and now I cannot go back to my world.”
When Chinima pointed out at her red hands, she explained, “The king was killed by his brother’s henchmen. In anger I killed both the men and threw their bodies in the pond where the thousand lotuses bloomed. Killing any living being is against the rules of the world from where I came, so I have been cursed with blood red hands.”
“So it was you who was laughing, we thought we heard many voices,” said Gaiko, now visibly relieved that the woman was not a ghost.
“Those were my sisters, sometimes they come to keep me company. They got scared when they noticed you so they went away.”
“We scared them !” exclaimed Gaiko, finding the idea almost preposterous.
“Yes you did, they are not comfortable around human beings,” came the reply.
Finding the whole story very tragic, Chinima asked her, “Will you always be like this? Can’t you go back to your home?”
With tears in her eyes, the nature being answered, “The day a thousand lotuses will bloom in this pond again, the energy of the place will be the same as it was before I made the colour of its water red with blood. I can then return home. However, I have lost all hope.”
Chinima stepped forward, held the red hands in her small hands, and said quietly, “I will see that you are free one day.”
It took Chinima another 23 years, but she kept her promise. It seemed fate paved the way for her. Always a good student, she got through civil services examination, and became a career bureaucrat. Rising through the ranks, when she was appointed as the tourism secretary of the state, one of her first orders was to restore the Garden Of A Thousand Lotuses, as a key project for attracting domestic and international tourists. After another 18 months, the project got successfully completed.
The evening before the grand inauguration, Chinima stood at the edge of the pond, where she knew more than a thousand lotuses now bloomed. She heard a laughter and felt the touch of a hand on her shoulder. Turning around, Chinima saw her – the ageless face now looked more beautiful, lit up by an enchanted smile. Her hands were white, almost translucent. Then she was gone.
The media and political bosses were effusive in their praises for Chinima, and the drive she showed in successfully completing in record time, a major tourism project. For Chinima, nothing more mattered of course but the fact that she could keep a childhood promise.
Quiet Flows the Invisible River …
They were three sisters – the Pure One, the Wise One and the Beauteous One. For thousands of years, they have lived in their essence of playfulness. Each representing a river, flowing never too far from each other. Their play determined the destinies of those whose lives were connected to the land from where they flowed. While playing together, if the Pure One swung too fast on a swing, her river overflowed its banks. When the Beauteous One preened herself, man was mesmerised by the breathtaking views of her watery form, inspiring immortal tales of love from the lands she touched.
The Wise One was the quietest of them all, her essence was to know. For unlike her sisters, she was much more than a river. Her spirit permeated everything that flowed – from a thoughtful insight to every song sung and each written word.
She would contemplate so much that in time her physical form ceased to be. In India, they say she is the invisible river, who flows beneath her sisters, Ganga (the Pure One) and Yamuna (the Beauteous One), and millions congregate at the sacred confluence of the three to wash away sins of many lifetimes. Then there are others who believe she is a river in the sky, called the Milky Way.
A river that cannot be seen, is manifested as the womb of creativity – a poet’s inspiration, an author’s words, an orator’s skill, a musician’s talent – few among the many forms of Sarasvati, the Goddess of Speech, Wisdom and Learning.