Chapter 2 — Motives laid bare

Year 62, Kali yuga
Present day

Anāmaka dreamt of dark caverns and endless tunnels. Tiny points of light beckoned to him from afar, and he walked towards them, but they remained just that, small flickers that never got any closer. He passed immense caves, some empty and desolate, others with deep pools of lava that bubbled lazily.

Some were filled with bodies upon bodies, most of them dead. A few crawled towards the entrance with arms outstretched, desperate to escape. As he passed, they all stopped still, their gaunt misshapen faces turned away in fear. Their unholy cries echoed through the tunnels, getting louder and louder, until the rock walls cracked, and great boulders descended upon him, burying him in the darkness.

He was then on a cliff, wind howling, strong gales trying to push him off his feet. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and turned to see the grinning face of Malasāra, teeth bared and eyes on fire.  The wind grew stronger, and swept them both up into the sky. Pale clouds swirled about them. Heavy rusted chains fell from above. Far below, a fathomless ocean churned, and black ominous forms glided noiselessly beneath the surface. And then he was falling, and the creatures in the water all looked up at him, their great maws open in anticipation. He fell slowly. The water below grew darker. He crashed into the surface with a great big splash, and woke up, startled and gasping, and opened his eyes to blinding white light. He closed his eyes again, and remembered his rescue from the cave, and his bizarre journey through the realms. Strangely, it was calming, and his breath slowed.

Anāmaka kept his eyes closed, and felt around with this hands. His fingers clasped long blades of grass, wet with dew. He pulled at them, wetting his hands with the cold droplets. Have I been out in the open before? His memories failed him, all of them vague and distant, like a long forgotten dream. 

He lay still, becoming aware of the sounds around him. Birds chirped in the distance, and he heard the bubbling rush of flowing water. He blinked, unaccustomed to the bright sunlight and opened his eyes slowly to a brilliant shade of blue. High above, white clouds floated by, like cotton blown by a soft wind. He took a deep breath, taking in the bracing air. He propped himself up on his elbows, and found himself lying on the lush green shores of a small river. All around, trees gently swayed in the breeze, their leaves rustling loudly. It was music. He looked down, and saw that he was now clothed in a grey uttariya and a white antariya.

Malasāra was by the water’s edge, crouched on a rock, absently gazing into the river. Malasāra faced away from him, and he noticed numerous long scars on the yamadūta. They covered Malasāra’s large back, the cicatrices of innumerable wounds intertwined like bramble bush. Anāmaka shuddered.

Malasāra turned, and noticed that Anāmaka was now awake. He jumped down  from his rock. “You must be hungry,” Malasāra said, pulling a small goatskin pouch from his wide cloth belt, and offered it to Anāmaka. “Here, drink this.” 

Anāmaka did not need to be told twice, he was famished. He sipped once, and it was some sort of sweet gruel. Surprisingly, it was warm. He took a few more mouthfuls, and it seemed to sate his hunger quite easily. It was almost empty, he returned the pouch. In the daylight and out in the open, far from the bodeful confines of Pātalalokā’s caves, Malasāra seemed a little less frightening to behold.

Malasāra took a sip. “This is your realm.  Bhūloka, your home.”

“I know nothing of my home, dūta.” said Anāmaka. “Where are we?” he asked, standing up. His legs felt brittle, but he was thankful to be able to stay upright on his own. He rose on his toes to see if he could still fly, but the yamadūta’s spell had worn off.

“The forests to the south of Thillai.” replied Malasāra, and took a few more gulps from the pouch. It did not seem to empty.

“An unfamiliar name—where is this city?”

“Thillai is no city. It is a small hamlet, south of Karkōttai.”

“Karkōttai?”

“Karkōttai is on the south-eastern shores of Bharathavarsha, and is the capital of the mighty Nākalam empire.” replied the yamadūta. “But you would not have heard of these names either, have you?”

“No...I have not.”

“All your knowledge is obsolete, boy.” said Malasāra. He paused for a moment, and took a long swig from the pouch. He swallowed loudly. “You were in that cave for some six thousand years.”

Anāmaka narrowed his brows, not sure if he had heard the yamadūta right.

“We are now in the Kali yuga, the Last Age. You were born in Satya yuga, the First Age, but imprisoned in Pātalalokā for the entirety of the Treta and Dwapara Ages. Much has changed.”

“Six th—thousand years?” he stammered. The deluge of questions rose quickly again in Anāmaka’s mind. “But why? Why was I imprisoned? By whom?”

Malasāra pushed the pouch back into his cloth belt. “The same master I serve—Yamā, the God of Death and Justice.”

Panic rose in Anāmaka’s chest. “I—I was imprisoned by Yamā?”

“Indeed. And for no fault of yours, Anāmaka.”

“What do you mean? Who am I? What did I do to deserve this fate?”

“Ah. Your fate—therein lies the predicament.” replied Malasāra, calmly. “Sit down, I will tell you what little I know of your past. It is only what I have heard and deduced myself, and what I was able to discover recently.” Malasāra sat down on a nearby rock.

He began: “Every being, every sentient soul, in this universe is tied to its fate. We are bound to our karma. Actions have consequences, and upon death, they are judged by Yamā, to be punished or rewarded accordingly. The ones who have lived a life of charity and goodwill gradually are allowed to ascend to Svarga, to enjoy the pleasures of heaven and eventually attain mokshā. Those who wish only hatred and malice towards his fellow men are cast down to be born as lowly creatures again and again. We are enslaved by this terrible cycle of samsāra¹, until they exhaust their karma, and only then, can they hope to attain mokshā².

“Every soul is subject to these very laws—but not yours, Anāmaka. You are the exception. Each of those beings spend every living moment worrying about the outcomes of their actions, while you walk free. Your particular soul has no sanchita—meaning you do not accrue karma, and are not tied down by karmic laws. Your actions bear no consequence in the afterlife. Somehow, your soul has cheated Creation itself. You are free to do as you please, without the burden of choice the rest of us carry.

“For you, attaining mokshā would presumably be a choice—you could sin wantonly, devastate all the world, destroying everything you touch and yet ascend to Heaven, if and when you die. Svarga and all its pleasures would still be open to you. Why and how your soul possesses these peculiar traits, I do not know. Maybe you are a flaw in Creation itself.

“The Gods realised this, and had you imprisoned. You were let to rot, shackled in the wastelands of Pātalalokā. A lot has happened in the last three yugas, the world is not the same place you once knew.”

Anāmaka’s head spun. Malasāra’s words only gave rise to more bewilderment. “Why is my soul flawed? Why hold me captive in Pātalalokā? They could have destroyed me instead, could they have not? The peculiarity of my soul is not in my hands, dūta. It is in theirs. Surely the Gods are not that cruel?”

“The Gods can choose to be as cruel as they want, Anāmaka. To them, we are all vermin, unworthy creatures, mere sport to be toyed with and destroyed. You, especially, are nothing but a failed recipe with imprecise ingredients to toss aside. Why they spared you, I do not know. But all you know of the Gods, the stories you have heard of their grace and probity, are just mere tales. You presumed they were benevolent, kindred beings? No, they are not. To think that would be folly!”

“Why did you rescue me? Would that not anger the Gods? And your master, Yamā?”

“I am not too fond of the Gods myself,” said Malasāra bluntly. “I plan to exact revenge from the Gods. I need you, Anāmaka, as an ally to this end. I need your help.”

“You desire to oppose the all-powerful Devās? And wish me as an ally? This is folly, dūta!” scoffed Anāmaka.

“A person whose soul cannot accrue karma is no mere mortal, Anāmaka. You are powerful. You are outside the purvey of the Gods themselves. You are as a crow in the night, a swan in the snow—invisible to most. Definitely a convenient trait, I would say.”

“Maybe, but opposing the Gods? That is no small task, I should think. Why is a mere emissary looking for revenge?”

“I am no mere emissary, boy. I once was a powerful general, and I served a great master, Daityeshā. He was a just ruler, an impeccable kshatriya. But he was betrayed by the Gods, and slain, before my very eyes. I swore I would avenge my master’s death, but I was taken prisoner, and underwent unspeakable torment at the hands of the Devās for centuries on end. I was tossed into every region of Narakā, punished in every possible way, until I became a mere shell. But I kept my senses with me, through all those years, but lead the Devās and their fool minions to believe otherwise.

“Thinking me to be no longer capable of thought or reason, they turned me into a yamadūta, an errand-boy for Yamā, the God of Death. For many thousands of years my only chore was to escort souls to the court of Yamā, to be passed judgment upon. All those years I stood meekly by as the cruel Yamā threw innumerable souls into the pits of Narakā, without as much as a second thought. Yes, a few did deserve the punishment, but many did not. Benevolent, you thought? Nay, Anāmaka, far from it.

“I had sworn revenge. I have been a lowly yamadūta for thousands of years, biding my time and hoping for an opportunity, a chance at retribution. And when I heard about you, I rushed to your rescue, I woke you from this sleep of death to give you that chance, Anāmaka.”

“What chance is that? What do you expect of me?”

“An alliance. An alliance between you, and me.”

“You are the one looking for revenge, dūta. Why should I share this mad ambition?”

“Where were you yesterday? Were you not in the lowest of realms, in shackles, with no semblance of hope? You would have remained there for all eternity, until you completely wasted away. Or the Devās might have awoken you, and destroyed you.” Malasāra paused. “The Gods have wronged you, Anāmaka. As they have me and my kin. To them, we are temporal and expendable. We are but toys, to be discarded and abandoned when we are no longer of any use to them. They have enjoyed this stature for far too long. It is time that someone put an end to their narcissism, their arrogance, their impudence.” Malasāra gnashed his teeth.

“This seems a foolish notion, dūta! You want to kill all the Gods? The universe might cease to exist! And what is your intention? That you would replace them?”

“Nay, not all of them. A few. It would show them that they are not the lofty celestials they think they are. Show them their frailty.”

“I think it naive, Malasāra.” He sat down on the grass, quite unsure of what to say or think. His head throbbed.

“All is impossible to the ignorant, boy. Hunting would indeed seem an insurmountable task to one who has no notion of a bow.”

Anāmaka remained silent. He stood watching the ripples on the water absently. This yamadūta is adamant. But I am indebted to him, am I not? He did rescue me from the confines of Pātalā, and to spurn him might be unwise indeed. “Are you immortal, dūta?” He asked finally, trying to steer the conversation away.

“Nay, not immortal. I exist as a slave of the Gods as long as they wish. If I cease to perform my duties, if I stop serving them, when I am of use no longer, I will be disposed of without much ceremony. Yamadūtas are but puppets to the vile Yamā. It is time someone taught the Devās humility, some modesty.”

“What if I refuse?”

“I would think you a fool, boy.” replied Malasāra. “What would you then do? Announce to the Gods again that you now free? They will not waste a moment to throw you back in their dungeons, or worse, annihilate you and your soul. Why they did not do so in the beginning, I do not know. You will not survive by yourself in this world either, you are a fawn in a jungle of wolves. The world is not what it was when you were born, this is now the age of Kali.” Malasāra paused, eyeing Anāmaka. “Even if you did survive, you will be on the run from the Devās, who are by no means easy adversaries. It will only be a matter of time before they capture you again. And this time, they will not simply imprison you. They will plunge you into the depths of Narakā, torturing your soul for many thousands of years, until you too become a yamadūta, a submissive drudge for carrying out chores they deem beneath their stature. Not a very desirable fortune, I assure you.”

“You leave me no choice, dūta.” sighed Anāmaka at length, distraught.

“Choice? My dear Anāmaka, be thankful you are presented with one! You were rotting in a cave in the lowest of realms, fettered and unconscious, with no respite in sight. Look at your fortune now—I have revived you and returned you to your own world. I am giving the freedom to choose the path ahead of you. A difficult choice, indeed—but a choice nonetheless.”

Anāmaka’s confusion weighed down upon him like a mountain. “You have indeed given me a second chance, and I am indebted to you. You have saved my life, and for that, I will be grateful. Yet, you ask me to kill gods. Whether I wish to share your goal is one thing, but my ability to do so is another. You say I am but a mere fledgling in this world. I doubt I can fend for myself, let alone aid you in—”

“Aid me?” Malasāra interrupted. “No, not just aid me. I am asking you to stand up for yourself. I am asking us to help each other. You are afraid to face them, but I am here by your side. This is an alliance, Anāmaka, among peers. You are a human, but with extraordinary powers. I too, once, was powerful in my own way. I look at you as an equal. If I did not, I would not have rescued you. Yes, you are still a fledgling, but I am here to guide you on the path to greatness, to dignity and revenge for your loathsome treatment.”

Anāmaka stared into the grass. Small insects crawled about the blades. How untroubled they seem, he thought. My survival in this new world and age does seem quite dependent on this yamadūta. If I truly was imprisoned for thousands of years, like he says, the world would indeed be a strange place, and Malasāra is the only one I know. I know nothing of where we are, and where I have to go, what I need to do. And he is the only one who to knows anything at all about me. “Dūta, I am indebted to you for rescuing me from Pātalalokā, and I am truly grateful. I will do what I can to aid you, but I ask another thing of you in return—you will help me discover more of my past.”

Malasāra smiled. “I was certain you would ask me this. This is why we are in Thillai, the village is known for its learned augurs and seers.”

Clever demon. “What now?” asked Anāmaka.

“We wait for one of my agents. He will bear us news from Narakā.”

“Your agent?”

“I only serve as an emissary, boy. I still do have some of my senses left. You think I did nothing else these thousands of years? I have waited and prepared for this eventuality, gathering those who would follow me in my ambition. My agents are my eyes and ears in all of the underworld realms and of course, here.”

Anāmaka nodded. He walked up to the lake, removed his tunic and dived into the cool water, enjoying its touch on his skin. He washed away the grime and dirt on his body, and stayed in the water for some time, grateful for being able to freely move about. After a while, he waded out of the river, feeling refreshed, and found Malasāra asleep on the grassy banks. Just then, there was a rustling in the bushes behind them. Malasāra stirred. They both turned, and out came a creature, much like the yamadūta himself, but far smaller but no less frightening to behold. Numerous small scars covered its bony face. It was short, and stood as tall as a child. It scurried over to Malasāra, and bowed.

“Tanvarōka!” Malasāra beamed. “What news do you bear?”

“Prabhu! I have just returned from Narakā. Yamā suspects nothing and neither does Chitragupta, I think. I—”

“Who is Chitragupta?” asked Anāmaka. Tanvarōka looked at him, annoyed at the interruption but quickly hid his displeasure.

“He is Yamā’s minister.” said Malasāra impatiently. He then turned to Tanvarōka. “Go back to Narakā. Find excuses to visit the Yamālaya every day, keep an eye on Chitragupta and watch the guard routines. Rush back to me if any out of the ordinary happens. Be careful to not arouse any suspicion, or Naruksha will flay you alive.”

“As you say, prabhu,” Tanvarōka bowed again deeply. He nodded curtly at Anāmaka and vanished back into the bushes.

“What is happening?” asked Anāmaka.

“Narakā is Yamā’s domain, and lies below Pātalā. Chitragupta is Yamā’s minister, and is charged with documenting every action of every sentient being in this Universe. Yamā uses these records to accord judgment on the souls after death. Virtuous souls are allowed to ascend to Svarga, and enjoy the pleasures of Heaven, while souls filled with malice and hate are sentenced to punishment in one of the Hells, based on their wrong-doings. The fact that your soul does not have sanchita, and that Chitragupta has no record of you, are intertwined. But I still do not know which is the cause and which the effect. Try as I might, I found no answer to this riddle. But I was right in assuming that the gods have truly forgotten about you.”

“You rescued me based on an assumption?”

“And we are here, are we not?” Malasāra smirked. “If they did suspect something, the first thing they would do is turn Chitragupta’s vast archives upside down, in the search for your record—your vidhipatra. Chitragupta is of immaculate discipline, he will not so easily stomach the possibility of his committing a mistake.”

“How did you come to know about my soul?” asked Anāmaka. “If Chitragupta himself does not, how did you?”

“You were a legend, Anāmaka. There were always rumours of souls that had escaped the laws of Creation, one of Brahma’s first mistakes when he first awoke from his Eternal Sleep. He was drowsy, erred many a time. To lighten his burden, He created Yamā, and passed onto him the responsibility of overseeing all the souls in this universe, all their actions and deeds. This was no ordinary task, and Yamā already had an abundance of duties. He was quickly overwhelmed, unable to do what he had been entrusted with. So, head turned down with shame, he went back to Brahma and asked for forgiveness. Brahma sympathised and went into meditation for a eleven thousand years. In his mind, he created a man, a scribe of immense meticulousness and resolve—Chitragupta. Record-keeping is his sole duty, which he has performed relentlessly since.

“Brahma’s propensity to err has since declined, and his failed attempts were hidden away in the lower lokas, to prevent them from interfering with the rest of the Universe. The Devās have sought and destroyed them over the course of time, but your soul had somehow escaped their clutches. How and why, I do not know. Later, after I was thrust into the service of Yamā, I heard whispers among the yamadūtas of your account, and I have since spent my time searching for you. After many thousands of years, my efforts finally bore fruit, and here we are.

“My assumption that Chitragupta does not know yet about you, is correct. Either he is fearful of confronting Brahma with His mistake, or he has no knowledge of your existence. I think its the latter that is true. Brahma and Yamā presumably saw no necessity to tell Chitragupta of their mistakes. He is far too righteous to let something like this lie unresolved.”

“What happens if he does come to know of me?”

“Chitragupta assigns a separate vidhipatra to every being when they are born. If he comes to know about you, he will waste no time penning a new record for you, and maybe you lose your ability. If he does so, you could become an ordinary being, and your actions start bearing consequences. But as I said before, I do not know which precedes which.”

Anāmaka tried to gauge if that was a good thing or not, but did not succeed. Dusk was falling, the sky slowly turned from the deep amber to a soft purple. Malasāra stood up. “Come, Anāmaka, the dilemmas we shall set aside for another day” he said, as if reading Anāmaka’s mind. “It is almost night, and the clouds obscure the moon. We can now go unnoticed.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the village, to meet a particularly talented seer I know.”

Soon, they reached the edges of the forest and the outskirts of Thillai. It was a small village, with about a dozen streets laid out haphazardly. Houses lined these streets, tightly packed one next to the other. They started to walk towards the village, and Anāmaka stopped. “Wait, dūta. Would you not frighten the villagers?”

“Not everyone can see or hear me, Anāmaka. I can choose to reveal myself to those I want. Walk close to me, and don’t open your mouth, lest they think you a madman, talking to the wind.” Malasāra smirked.

Anāmaka nodded, and they strode into the village, and Anāmaka watched the villagers go about their lives with great curiosity. The houses seemed tiny to him, he was almost sure he remembered them to be much larger in his time. The passing conversations he heard, was an unfamiliar tongue. The people paid no attention to him, for Thillai was frequented by many travellers looking to have their fortunes told, for the village had an industry of soothsayers and augurs. It was also on the route to the pilgrims journeying to the sacred temples in the far south.

They passed the huts, and in the centre of the village was a much larger structure, with a large striped wall around it, dark red and white. From the outside, Anāmaka saw a tall square building with a tapered sides that rose much higher than the wall. The walls were adorned with small statues. It reminded him of the buildings he had seen in Pātalā, but not as grand or imposing.

“What is that?” Anāmaka whispered, squinting in the low moonlight.

“In this age of Kali, men build temples as a place of worship. They place a stone idol in the likeness of their preferred deity and visit the temple when they feel a need to be close to God. This is quite unlike your time, in the Satya yuga, when one could attain supreme blessedness simply through kind acts and deeds. There were no temples then. It was truly an age of virtue. Do you remember?”

“No, I do not.” Anāmaka said, thinking hard.

“As I told you—much has indeed changed. Mostly, for the worse.” Malasāra walked briskly, with Anāmaka following a few paces behind. The women were starting to light lamps for the evening, and children played in the doorstep. Strange smells wafted in from the houses, dinner was being prepared. Anāmaka took in all the sights, easily distracted by everything he saw.

Malasāra stopped before a house with a low sloping roof of red tiles. This house was set slightly recessed from the street, and no lamps were lit at the entrance. It would have been easy to pass it by, had one not been looking for it. Malasāra stood at the entrance and waited for Anāmaka to catch up. “In here is Siva Kannanār, a great seer and a dear friend of mine. He is as proud as he is wise, and it would be prudent not to interrupt him, as you did Tanvarōka.”

Anāmaka nodded, his heart starting to beat faster.

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Read next—

1. samsāra: The cycle of birth, death and re-birth, the cyclical nature of existence.

2. mokshā: The attainment of enlightenment, release from the shackles of samsāra.