Yakshagni - An odyssey of unbroken devotion - II

35) Avadhi's Relief

The boy, Rishu led Dushyant to the chief of the village. Unfortunately, the headman turned out to be taciturn. He refused to speak to strangers and berated the boy for bringing outsiders to his house. The embarrassed boy then took Dushyant to his little cottage where his mother welcomed Dushyant grudgingly.

The front courtyard of the cottage afforded an amazing view of the misty valley. Sitting on a traditional charpai, Dushyant surveyed the landscape. Rishu and his mother offered him buttermilk.

"Oh, you shouldn't have gone to such trouble..." Dushyant uttered apologetically.

"You are our guest. How can we let you go without offering anything?" the woman countered.

While he sipped the buttermilk, the boy's mother inquired, "Rishu was saying that you wanted to talk about folklore."

"Yes, he was singing a song about a mother and her son..."

"Oh, that! it is an age-old one. The Pahadis have been singing that for almost a thousand years."

"Can you tell me the names of the persons you mention in the song?"

The woman chuckled, covering her mouth with the pallu of her saree, "How can we know their names? It is so ancient that most of the villagers have forgotten the song."

"Still, if you do recall something?"

"Only the headman of the village would know something. We have no clue. You must ask him."

"Ma, he refused to speak to him," Rishu said in response.

"Then, we can't help you," the woman nodded regretfully.

"What about the guruji in that Ashram, ma?"

"Haan, you can try there. But I am not so sure."

"Where is it? I can try my luck once," Dushyant probed.

"I will take you," Rishu offered enthusiastically, however, Dushyant noted the displeasure on the mother's face, so he declined the boy's offer. Following Rishu's directions, he proceeded in search of the Ashram. The road was not inhabited much and Dushyant realized that it was one of the most dangerous routes for vehicles. One side of the narrow road plunged to deep gorges, and on the other side, the mountain walls rose majestically. The roads were cut out from the rocks. In some places, the jutting and jagged rocks provided a canopy, and in other places, there were thin streams that oozed out of the crevices.

Some of the turns on the highway were precariously sharp-edged. The road sloped down towards the valley. After walking for a kilometre perhaps, Dushyant saw a flight of narrow steps leading to a bridge over River Maitsaya. He went down the steps and regarded the bridge uncertainly. The bridge was made of thick ropes, and it swayed to and fro in the gentle breeze. Bracing himself, he put a cautious foot on the bridge. It seemed strong enough, so he pushed his way laboriously to the other end. As the boy had cited, the river gushed furiously here.

Arriving on the other bank of the river, he saw another stairway in the opening between the ridges. Huffing and panting, he climbed up the steps, contemplating the wisdom of the ancients for choosing to live in such a gruelling terrain. When he reached the top of the steps, he spotted the arched gate of the Ashram, from where, another track went upwards. Inhaling the crisp and fresh air, he went up the path.

At the surface level, there was a young man sweeping the floor of the courtyard. He was puzzled to see Dushyant, "Namaste! How can we help you?"

"Namaste, I would like to meet Guruji."