Chapter 1 — From the depths of the Netherworld

Year 62, Kali yuga
Present day

Malasāra stood at the edge of the crevice, his burning torch held high. The eerie darkness of Pātalalokā’s desolate plains clawed at the light, trying to smother the unwelcome intrusion. He leaned over the edge, looking for the bottom, but the small flame failed to penetrate the murky void. This looks to be the same cliff. He dropped the torch, and it fell for endless moments before it hit the crevice floor far below. A small plume of sandy dust obscured the flame for an instant, but settled quickly.

Malasāra stepped off the edge, and his heavy cloak billowed as he plummeted through the ravine. Near the bottom, he slowed, and landed lightly next to the torch. Here, the darkness seemed deeper, almost palpable. He picked up the burning wood, and raised it above his head. The fissure continued in either direction, meandering into the gloom. The seven underworld realms were all mired in perpetual shadow, and Pātalalokā was no exception.

Malasāra scratched his grisly moustache, thought for a moment and then turned right, and began to walk along the narrow canyon. Shadows ran across the walls, only to be consumed again by the darkness moments later. A large boulder lay across his path at an angle, leaning against the crevice wall like a fallen pillar. It was too big to climb over, its sides steep and smooth. A twisted leg of a dusty skeleton jutted out from under the rock. A broken arm protruded on the side. Two grey skulls lay half buried in the loose sand, their fanged mandibles askew, forever frozen in a scream. I remember you, Malasāra scoffed, and crushed one of the skulls under his  feet. Rākshasa filth!

He shrugged his muscular arm free from the folds of the cloak. Fine, short hair covered its length, more hide than skin. A thick brass armband shone in the torchlight. He placed his palm on the rock, his clawed fingers scraped the surface. The rock cracked, and a dull echo rang through the canyon as it crumbled to the ground. The torch flame fluttered, but burned high again, strong as ever.

I must be close. Malasāra brushed the dust off his cloak, stepped over the pieces and continued on as the path grew narrower and sloped deeper down. He walked on, unmindful of the coarse debris that lay scattered about the canyon floor, small stones with razor-sharp edges. The scree crunched under his heavy step.

The path then turned and came to an abrupt end in a shallow alcove carved in the rock wall. Malasāra ran his palm over the rough stone. A small etching of a skull appeared on the surface, and seemed to be leering, even more so in the dancing light of the torch. Vakrā, you devious crow! Malasāra bared his teeth in a smile, two long canines brushing his lips. He threw back the hood, but it caught on his curved horns, and he shook it free impatiently.

Malasāra unclasped the cloak and let the heavy cloth fall to the ground. He pulled out a small dagger from a sheath on his waistband, brought the sharp blade to his now bare, wide chest. He made a small cut, and drops of blood trickled down his torso and stained his antariya in a small blotch. He pressed the nick with his thumb, and smeared his blood on the skull. A moment passed, and the skull cracked. The rift in the rock widened, and swiftly streaked through the stone. It grew, until it traced the shape of the doorway. and with a great grinding of rock, it crumbled. Loose rock fell from above, and Malasāra stepped back, arms raised above his head. Air gushed through the opening.

Malasāra stepped through. It opened into a narrow, long cave, dimly lit by scores of lamps, most of them spent, reduced to a powdery silt on the floor. The remaining flames burned tall and still, and covered the rock walls in a thick layer of soot. Malasāra raised his torch higher. At the far end, he made out a small mound, boulders and stone piled into a rough altar. On it lay a man, unmoving and unconscious. His haggard body was weighed down by heavy rusted chains; and the chains were many, wrapped around the man like a shroud, some thick, some slender, but all of them firm and unyielding. A thin smile played across Malasāra’s lips. Finally, I have found you. 

Wan and soiled, the man seemed to have never seen the light of day for years. Muddy and caked in dust, tattered rags clothed his skinny frame, now faded to the colour of the earth. His skin was cracked, like a clay statue left in the sun for too long. But he did not seem old, his face still a picture of vague youthfulness. Malasāra walked to the altar, and examined the prisoner. He poked at the man’s chest with one of his claws, but the man did not move. Malasāra then gazed at the shackles. He lifted up the links and pulled. The rusted chains gave away with a few tugs, and the prisoner slid to the ground, still unconscious.

Malasāra bent closer over the captive, and placed his palm on the man’s chest. An instant later, the prisoner gasped to life, and colour flooded his cheeks. The layer of dust on his body rose up like smoke. He sprang up, coughing and sputtering, and saliva trickled from the corners of his mouth. His eyes went wide, then shut them immediately, blinded even by the soft light of the lamps. He tried to straighten himself, but doubled over in pain, and he fell forward, clutching his chest. The chains from the altar slid and clattered to the floor. The man clamped his hands over his ears, his mouth open in a silent scream of agony. Every movement, every tiny twitch seemed to cause the man excruciating pain. He sat, head bowed, gasping with shallow ragged breaths.

“Breathe deeply, boy,” said Malasāra in a low, rough voice.

The young man snapped his head up, startled at the monstrous shape that towered over him. He saw nothing but a vague outline, and slowly his eyes focused. The creature before him had a frightening countenance, its teeth bared in what it possibly thought to be a smile, its wolfish teeth glinting in the lamplight. The man fell over on his back, alarmed. He scrambled back a few paces, eyes fixed on the figure before him.

Malasāra raised a hand. “Fear not, human. I mean you no harm.”

The man blinked a few times. He looked around, at the lamps, the stone table and the now broken chains, disoriented still. “Wh...where am I? Who—what are you?” he managed to sputter out. His voice was dry and hoarse, and spoke in a raspy whisper.

“A dungeon, you might say, but I come here to free you. And I, am called Malasāra. I serve Yamā, the God of Death. I am a yamadūta, one of his many emissaries.”

“Free me...The God of Death? Am I—am I dead?”

“No, you are not. I will answer your questions. But not here, Anāmaka. Let me take you to...a more familiar place.”

Familiar. The man narrowed his brows. What is familiar? What might be familiar to me? And...me? His breathing quickened. Who...who am I? “Anāmaka...Is that my name?”

“Nay, ‘nameless’, is what it means. I will tell you more soon. But It is time now to leave,” Malasāra picked up the fallen man and leaned him against the altar, and held him by the shoulders. Anāmaka tried to stand up by himself, but his legs felt weak, and his knees shook. Malasāra placed his palm once again on Anāmaka’s chest, and Anāmaka felt a surge of vigour flood his body. His hair tingled, and skin felt as if it was on fire. A shiver ran up his spine, and the numbness vanished from his limbs. He gasped, and his sight became clearer. He felt alive.

“Now,” Malasāra said. “You can fly.” He rose up in the air, and hovered just above the ground. Anāmaka stared. Malasāra pulled Anāmaka up towards him. Anāmaka braced himself, expecting to fall back down, but he did not. He looked down, incredulous. He was hovering. Anāmaka twisted his torso, and to his disbelief, he drifted closer to the yamadūta. Strange, I can hardly walk, but I can fly. 

“Come, follow me,” said Malasāra, picking up his torch. He drifted towards the entrance of the chamber. They flew out of the cave, Anāmaka following the light of the torch. Anāmaka lagged behind at first, and strained to keep up with the speeding yamadūta in front. Malasāra paused now and then, urging Anāmaka to fly faster. Anāmaka slowly got used to the uncanny sensation of gliding through the air, and they sped through the caverns, and Anāmaka’s mind slowly filled with fresh apprehension. Where are we? “What is this dreary place?” Anāmaka asked.

“Pātalalokā, the deepest of the underworld realms,” Malasāra replied, without turning around.

They reached the stone doorway, and Malasāra glanced back at the much smaller figure behind him. “Up!” he pointed with his clawed finger. He started to rise through the crevice, Anāmaka following close behind. Malasāra let fall the torch, they needed it no longer. Anāmaka watched as the torch tumbled to the ground, and the flame grew smaller as they flew higher. They emerged from within the crevice, and onto the plains. Inky blackness surrounded them. A sombre grey sky blanketed the land. Anāmaka’s breath quickened. He looked about the bleak landscape, hoping to see something, anything that would appear familiar. Massive boulders littered the ground. Twisted stumps of trees long dead lay motionless among the rocks. The barren land had heaved and cracked in several places to reveal rivers of molten rock underneath that flowed slowly to some unseen destination. The air reeked with pestilent fumes. Anāmaka’s heart began to pound, and his trepidation quickly increased. I was imprisoned here? Why? A fresh barrage of questions flooded his mind, as they climbed high above the plains. What great sin was I guilty of to receive such punishment? Anāmaka felt his body grow heavier. He tried to breathe, but the stifling air made it no easier. He slowed down, no longer able to concentrate enough to keep afloat, and felt himself fall. Anāmaka plunged through the dark. “Dūta!” he called aloud, as he tumbled down, eyes wide with fear. The ground below now seemed much closer.

Malasāra dove after him. He caught the falling body deftly by the ankles, and the jolt shook Anāmaka’s bones. Anāmaka opened his eyes again, and he was hanging upside down, his feet in Malasāra’s vice-like grip. The emissary looked down at him, a scowl on his face. “Panic will kill you, boy.” He pulled Anāmaka up, and held him with both arms. Anāmaka nodded, and took a deep breath, and steadied his mind. “This...this morbid land. It—I lost my calm.”

“Keep up,” Malasāra said. They now sped towards a long line of black mountains far away in the horizon. The jagged ridges rose like a ugly scar from the bleak plains, and stretched for miles in either direction. Forlorn clouds floated above the peaks, and lit up often with peals of blue lightning. But even the lightning did not do much to brighten the land. If anything, they made it more sinister.

They flew into the clouds. Heavy winds swirled them around, and cold rain battered them from all directions. Lightning seared the air, but the yamadūta weaved around them, almost seeming to know where they would strike next. Anāmaka followed closely, fearful of the bolts. Malasāra then turned straight up, and increased his pace, flying higher and higher. Soon, they broke through the clouds, and a strange calm descended all around, the rain and lightning confined to the clouds below.

A far more outlandish sight now greeted Anāmaka. Above them, a sea filled the expanse, but it was upside down, he was looking up at the surface of the water. An effervescent radiance covered the water, and it roiled with immense waves that crashed and foamed. But they were oddly silent, not a single splash was heard.

“This is the path to your mortal world of Bhūloka, but other realms lie in our path. We are in the foundations of the Universe, and Bhūloka is many thousands of yojanas above us.”

Anāmaka once again repelled the questions in his mind. They reached the ocean, and he braced as they plunged through the surface. He held his breath, expecting to be underwater. Instead, they dove in, and a brilliant white light shone everywhere, blinding him. Malasāra too shielded his eyes with his forearm and continued ahead. The diaphanous glow was everywhere, as if they had plunged into an ocean of milk. Small firefly-like insects seemed to be fluttering all around them, tiny flickers of pale yellow amidst the white. Anāmaka held out his hand, hoping to catch one, but grasped nothing.

They then broke through to the other side. “The war-torn realm of Rasatalā,” said Malasāra. Endless plains streched in all directions, riddled with deep ravines and caves. Fires burned across the landscape, and thick smoke covered the land.

They continued upwards, and arrived at yet another ocean, and pitched again into its soundless depths. They breached the surface once more, and the landscape changed now to small, rocky crags, and a blanket of grey fog lay upon the barren land. Anāmaka was suddenly filled with unease, fear seemed to weigh down upon him like a mountain, and felt a vast many eyes upon him. He looked down, and through the sullen mist, noticed countless small red eyes that followed them as they flew towards cold clouds high above. Black, slender forms slithered beneath the fog. A low hiss sounded, faint and distant at first, and quickly grew in fervour that drowned all other senses. A lone serpent, lifted its head above the rest, and flared its great hood, and from its throat came a shrill, piercing rasp that almost shook them from their flight. Anāmaka’s breath quickened, but to his relief, the snake retreated, and wriggled back into the curling mists.

Malasāra glanced back, untroubled . “This is Mahātala, the domain of the Nāga clan.”

Anāmaka’s disquiet diminished as they flew higher. What evil realms these are!  He thought, looking down at the grey haze below. He kept close to the yamadūta as they drew closer to the clouds, and they sped up even more. Realm after realm they passed, but the higher they went, the opressive shadowy dread of deeper worlds melted away, and he was glad for it: the empty abandoned cities of Talātala, the  grand opulent palaces of Sutala, the rivers of molten gold rivers of Vitala, and the immense pleasure gardens of Atala, were all either silent wastes, or thriving hives of activity.

At last they plunged into the final ocean that lay before Bhūloka. The air was now easier to breathe, and Anāmaka felt the stifling gloom of the netherworlds no longer. They soon burst through the suface, and the gentle warmth of the late afternoon sun greeted them. They were in the midst of great white clouds that glowed with a golden hue, and a stiff summer breeze blew around them. Anāmaka stopped, motionless in the skies, and breathed in the fresh air.  How long had it been since I was out in the open? Was I ever? The doubts started to come back, but Anāmaka shook his head to clear the grim thoughts, and took in another deep breath. He felt a tingling ache rise in his limbs, a dull soreness that was creeping up his back. Flying seemed to be hard work.

Malasāra stopped just behind him. “We are here, boy. Bhūloka, the realm of all mortal lives.”

Anāmaka rubbed his arms. Far below him lay green fields nestled between verdant woods and gurgling streams of blue. Hamlets dotted the landscape. Small mud huts and cottages stood nestled amidst the lush green. Anāmaka noticed the houses and felt a sudden sense of being lost. Had I a life before this? And with that, all his grim doubts came rushing back,  he could stave them off no more. Exhaustion washed over him. His head began to reel, and his eyes went black. He fell, and Malasāra dove after him once more.

---

Read next—