An epic tale meanders by the river

Hugh and Colleen Gantzer

In Chitrakoot, we walked through the enchantment of an epic. Our guide was the Ramayana, as translated by the scholarly Governor-General of India, Chakravarti Rajagopalachari. He had described the arrival of the exiled royal family in Chitrakoot.

“Then they saw at a distance the Chitrakoota hill. They were glad and began to walk briskly towards it. “How beautiful this region is” exclaimed Raama.... They proceeded to put up an aashrama there for themselves. Lakshmana was a clever workman. He soon constructed a strong hut, which was weather-proof and made it comfortable and convenient. Single-handed, he completed the mud hut with windows, and doors all made of bamboos and jungle material.”

A wooded hill still dominates the Chitrakoot landscape. Much of this region is typical Deccan Trap country: undulating plains made of ancient lava fields. There are also large patches of beautiful forest, well-watered with streams and rivers. On the ghats of the Mandakini River, which divides MP from UP,  brightly decorated boats row past slowly; people bathe in the sacred waters; open-fronted shops are radiant with bright pyramids of sindoor and a little boy is having his head shaved in a mundun ceremony. 

Our guide’s voice breaks into our thoughts. “Up these steps is where Lakshman built the Param Kutir, the first hut for the family”. The simple wattle-and-daub shack has been replaced by a pillared temple. A pujari tells us that it was here that Bharat had held his great court to persuade his brother Ram to return to his kingdom. A little way down the steps, however, is another temple, the Bharat Mandir, with colourfully robed idols representing the court of Bharat. According to its officiating priest, this is where the great durbar was held. 

Beliefs are like myriad bright butterflies fluttering around the truth: they accept each other’s existence.

We leave the ghats and drive into the forested hinterland. Here, the Mandakini is a chortling forest stream, sparkling around boulders, all very serene. In a pavilion on the banks of the stream, a scholar reads the Ramayana, creating a cameo of a distant age. This is Janaki Kund where Sita bathed. Further upstream, at Sati Ansuya, a great and glittering temple bears little resemblance to the hermitage in which the sage Atri and his virtuous wife Ansuya once lived. An NRI father seems to explain the story of the visiting Trinity disguised as mendicants and the transformation that Ansuya worked on them!

The certainties of one age are often in dissonance with those of another.

We leave the Mandakini behind us and seek the brief appearance of another. Eighteen kilometres from the town, within two deep and linked caverns, water flows, bats squeak and twitter and an outcrop of black rock thrusts out of the ceiling. The rock is all that remains of the audacious Mayank who dared to steal Sita’s clothes when she was bathing. The stream, associated with the three royal exiles and flowing through the caves, is said to be the Gupt Godavari, or hidden Godavari. It vanishes underground after emerging from the mountain.

Geologically, Chitrakoot is in the ancient lava lands of the Trap Country of the Deccan where caves and rugged topography are a common feature. We trudged up 620 steps cut into another mountain. The high shrine dominating it is Hanuman Dhara. Further up, a rather precarious flight of 167 steps, a pandit beckons us to Sita’s Rasoi. His explanation that she built her kitchen here to feed pious pilgrims seems inadequate. But the view from this elevated place is impressive: the plains and weathered ravines surrounding Chitrakoot stretch to the far horizon like a great relief map. 

According to legend, Chitrakoot Hill was hollow, lit by a sustaining blue light, and is the monastery of immortal savants who secretly oversee the affairs of the world, diverting it from self-destruction. They also argue that, when it rains, 24 springs gush out of the hill at the same time. This can happen, they contend, only if percolating rain water fills its subterranean lake and it spills over its banks, gushing out of overflowing ducts which then emerge as springs. 

That’s logical, but belief and logic, apparently, occupy different parts of the brain. They certainly exist in separate realities. We continue to be enchanted with the reality of the epic of Chitrakoot.