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 flame failed to penetrate the murky void. He scoured the bleak landscape behind him once, and dropped the torch into the chasm. It fell for endless moments before it hit the crevice floor far below. A small plume of dust obscured the flame for an instant, but settled quickly.

Malasāra jumped, 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 continued along the narrow canyon to the right. Shadows ran across the walls, but were consumed again by the darkness as he pressed on. Some twists and turns later, a large boulder lay across the 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 skulls lay half buried in the loose sand, their jaws open, forever frozen in a scream. Malasāra smiled.

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 walked up to the receded stone, running his palm over the rough surface, and found a small bump at the centre. He threw back the hood, but it caught on his curved horns, and he shook it free impatiently.

Malasāra tapped the bump with the flaming torch, and waited. A sudden burst of flame engulfed the alcove. It burned bright for a moment, faded to smoke, and left behind a vague outline of an arched doorway. In the centre of this doorway was a small skull, and the crude etching 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. 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

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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 that had appeared in the flames. With a great grinding of rock, it split in two and swung outwards. Loose rock fell from above, and Malasāra stepped back, arms raised above his head. Air gushed through the doorway. He smiled again, and stepped in.

Inside, a haggard man lay unconscious on a stone altar, weighed down by heavy, rusted chains. All around him were 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 ceiling and the rock walls in a thick layer of soot. The chains were many, wrapped around the man like a shroud, some thick, some more slender, but all of them firm and unyielding.

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, there was still a vague youthfulness about him. 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 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, colour flooded his cheeks. The layer of dust on his body rose up like smoke. He sprang up, coughing and sputtering, like a drowning man pulled from the depths. His eyes went wide, then shut them immediately, blinded even by the soft light of the lamps. He tried to straighten himself, but he 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 man snapped his head up, startled at the monstrous shape that towered over him. At first 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. He fell over on his back, alarmed. He scrambled back a few paces, and looked up at the figure before him.

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

The man blinked. 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.

“I am called Malasāra. I serve Yama, the God of Death. I am a yamadūta, one of his many emissaries.”

The man shrunk back in fear. “Where am I?”

“I am here to free you from this dungeon.”

“Free me? Why am I here? 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 on the ground 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. Come, I will tell you more soon. 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. His eyes went wide, 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. It was a strange feeling, but seemed simple enough.

“That is all there is to it. 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 from the torch. Anāmaka lagged behind at first, and strained to keep up with the speeding demon in front. Malasāra paused now and then, urging Anāmaka to fly faster. Anāmaka slowly got used to the strange sensation of gliding through the air, and they sped through the caverns, and Anāmaka’s mind slowly filled with fresh apprehension. What place is this?

They reached the stone doorway, and Malasāra glanced back at the much smaller figure behind him. “Up!” he called out, pointing 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 frantically looked about the landscape, hoping to see something, anything that would appear familiar. The ground was littered with boulders of every shape and size. Cragged 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. Where are we?

“What is this dreary place?” Anāmaka asked, sniffling, as they climbed high above the plains.

“Pātalalokā, the last of the underworld realms.” said Malasāra, without turning around.

Anāmaka’s trepidation quickly increased. A fresh barrage of questions flooded his mind. His heart started to pound, his body felt heavy. He slowed, trying to breathe, but the stifling air did not make it easy.

And then he fell. He plunged through the dark, no longer able to concentrate enough to keep himself in the air. “Dūta!” Anāmaka cried aloud. The ground below suddenly seemed much closer. He tumbled down, eyes shut tight.

Malasāra dove after him. He caught the falling body 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 disapproving scowl on his face. “Panic will kill you, boy.” He pulled Anāmaka up, and held him with both arms. Anāmaka shuddered. He nodded, and took a deep breath, and steadied his mind.

Malasāra thought for a moment. “Not all of Pātalalokā is barren and desolate, Anāmaka. Come, this you have to see.” He beckoned for Anāmaka to follow, and began to fly eastwards. Anāmaka shakily trailed behind. He remained silent, and kept his eyes ahead, trying to see where they were heading. It became difficult to say if they were really flying forward, everywhere he turned, empty lands stretched to the horizon.

Then far off in the distance, a gleaming point of light caught his eye. The light twinkled, like a bright star in the night sky. It shone in shifting hues, and Anāmaka squinted, trying to see better. They flew closer, the light grew larger, and slowly took shape. It seemed to be a tall structure of some sort, a high tower. Then the tower became many, and Anāmaka saw a city, with pyramidal columns that rose high above the darkened plains. These towers shimmered, with a gleaming gem set in each of their spires, and they bathed the city below in an ethereal light. The lofty city walls magically seemed to contain this glow, it ended abruptly at the walls, and the lifeless plains took over.

Malasāra stopped, and they hovered in the air, high above the city, and outside the walls. “Behold, the city of Pātalā, the capital of the last of the Realms.”

Anāmaka stared at the sprawling city below. Golden palaces rose from the smaller structures around them, and verdant gardens dotted the spread. Rivers ran through the city, like snakes in the tall grass. Wide roads criss-crossed throughout. At the centre of the city was an enormous citadel, on a plateau above the city, and its numerous towers rose even higher. The tallest of these towers were hidden by overcast clouds trying to subdue its brilliance. As Anāmaka watched, the clouds parted slightly, as if to grant him an audience. He caught a glimpse of the tallest minaret, its soaring spire reaching far above the rest, with a dazzling red gem set in gold at the pinnacle.

Anāmaka looked on, quite speechless at sight before him. Malasāra broke the silence first. “Majestic, is she not? Her splendour invites the envy of even the Devās, it is unsurpassed in all the fourteen worlds,” said Malasāra, with almost a hint of pride. “But enough ogling, boy. Someday we will visit. Now, we leave.” Malasāra started to turn away, skirting the borders. Anāmaka followed slowly at first. He looked back, and soon, Pātalā quickly receded into the distance, back to the tiny glimmer he had first seen.

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 were going to 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.

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

Malasāra caught Anāmaka’s hand, and sped up even more. “This is the path to your mortal world, Bhūloka, but we still have quite a few realms to traverse. We are in the foundations of the Universe, and Bhūloka is many thousands of yojanas

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above us.”

Anāmaka once again staved off 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. The Yamadūta too shielded his eyes with his forearm and continued ahead. The diaphanous light 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.

Then they broke through to the other side, into a realm quite similar to Pātalalokā. “Rasatalā.” said the yamadūta. It seemed to have no opulent capital with brilliant towers, only endless plains riddled with deep ravines and caves. Fires burned across the landscape, and blanketed it in thick smoke.

They flew straight up, and arrived at yet another milky ocean, and plunged again into its depths. Anāmaka found this disorienting, and his head began to swim again. Malasāra noticed this, and pulled Anāmaka onto his back. Anāmaka fell into a deep stupor, as they passed through the rest of the underworld realms, and finally into Bhūloka, the domain of all mortal lives.

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Read next—

1. antariya: A garment worn around the legs and tied at the waist, traditional Indian clothing.

2. yojana: A measurement of distance, approximately equal to eight kilometres.