indiamart.com

“One… two… three… four… five,” I counted once again as I pinched five tender Durva grass blades between the forefinger and thumb of my left hand. I added an Arati (a fern), Nelanelli (a herb known for its medicinal properties), Pachakanas (a soothing aromatic bud), and two other kinds of ferns whose real names I did not know. I smiled, recalling the days when my grandmother showed me these tiny plants in the nooks and crannies of the garden in my childhood home—identifying them with colloquial names— a crow’s eye or a cat’s toenail.

It was the first Friday of Shravana, the auspicious month, and I had woken up at dawn to pluck these herbs and flowers of different colors—red, purple, yellow, and the aromatic white—from our backyard as I fought the soft drizzle of early morning rain. Back home, after a refreshing bath, I sat down and tied the herbs and flowers into a little bouquet called ‘Choodi’ using vaayu threads made from the barks of banana trunks and placed it in the prayer plate, just as my grandmother had taught me many years ago. I repeated this to make thirteen more Choodis, one for each married woman I knew and loved.

Until the previous year, I had prepared fourteen—the thickest, most colorful one for my best friend, Vineeta, who had married just a year before me. But now, looking at the Choodis lined up against the rim of the plate, I couldn’t help but feel a lingering void. Oh, how she loved flaunting the Choodi firmly tucked in her waist-length, luscious braid.

I placed the Choodis, saffron, turmeric, an oil lamp, two incense sticks, rice and pieces of jaggery in front of the Tulsi Brindavan at my house and prayed to my family gods – both maidan and married. I then gave one to my husband and touched his feet, seeking his blessing.

At mid-morning, I drove my car along the winding roads that led to Bannaje village. The journey felt serene, with the cool breeze carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wildflowers. As I approached the outskirts of the village, the landscape changed, shifting from open fields to dense, ancient forests. In that moment, cradled in the lap of nature, I forgot what I was about to witness.

I parked at the entrance of the 8th-century temple dedicated to Lord Shiva. Nestled within a sacred grove—Naga Bana—the temple seemed almost hidden by the lush greenery surrounding it. I had read about the grove before; patches of forest across the Western Ghats of South Canara had been marked as Naga Banas, where people were forbidden to cut down trees or collect leaf litter. These were parts of the forest owned by the king cobras, and disturbing them was considered a sin. Unlike most other gods, the Nagas are considered punitive and are therefore respected and feared in equal measure.

Within the temple compound, beneath an ancient banyan tree, stood raised stone platforms with snake deities carved from black stone. Some were single-hooded; others bore multiple hoods. The freshly carved idols gleamed beside the weathered ones, passed down through generations. Families, seeking solace after misfortune, had commissioned these deities, each adorned with turmeric and vermillion, embodying the village's enduring reverence for the Naga Devatas. I knew this because my in-laws also had one in another temple where we offered prayers every year.

Once inside the temple, I was struck by an eerie stillness. There was a seriousness among the gathered people. Even the children sensed this was not a regular Homa. The temple floor was adorned with a massive serpent-shaped rangoli in vivid, almost otherworldly colors. At the heart of this intricate design lay a sacred Mandala, its sharp, geometric lines drawn with unsettling precision using rice flour, turmeric, and vermilion. The serpent’s body coiled around the Mandala in a protective embrace, its sinuous form and piercing, angry eyes giving the impression of a creature alive, ready to spring to life at any moment.

A month ago, when Vineeta was still well enough to recognize her loved ones and her seizures were less frequent, her father, Dr. Raghunandan—a renowned doctor of modern medicine in the village—reluctantly agreed to his wife’s insistence and arranged for an Ashtamangala Prasna. He invited the esteemed astrologer, Sri. Sudarshan Bhat—a pleasant-looking priest revered for his extraordinary knowledge of the planets, stars and their influence on the fragile human body— to conduct the ritual.

The Ashtamangala Prasna was a ritual unlike anything I had seen before. As I observed, I learned that it was a method for seeking divine guidance when the cause of an ailment, like Vineeta’s, was unclear. Eight sacred items were arranged on a specially prepared altar: a silver kalash filled with pure water, a coconut, betel leaves, nuts, a brass lamp filled with ghee, fresh flowers, bowls of rice and turmeric, and a tray of fruits.

Sri Sudarshan Bhat sat before the altar, his face serene and focused. He picked up a small brass tray filled with grains of rice and coins—an essential divination tool for the Prasna. With a practiced hand, he scattered the grains and coins across the tray, allowing them to fall into random patterns. This was not just a physical action but a sacred gesture meant to invoke divine insight.

As the final grains settled, Sri. Sudarshan Bhat leaned closer, studying the patterns formed on the tray. His eyes traced the arrangement of the coins and grains, interpreting their placement as signs from the divine. He whispered a few more mantras, his voice barely audible, as he sought a deeper understanding of the patterns.

After the Prasna concluded, Sri Sudarshan Bhat proposed Ashleshabali Homa as a potential remedy for Vineeta’s condition. Dr. Raghunandan thanked the priest respectfully but did not act on the suggestion, holding on to some faith in modern medicine and hoping there was still time. This continued until a month later, when the planets aligned to form a Sarpa Yoga, and Vineeta turned completely into another person.

I had received a call from her mother that fateful day. Through uncontrollable sobs, Aunty managed to tell me what had happened. Vineeta had shown signs of improvement over the previous week. However, that morning when she hadn’t emerged from her room by afternoon, her parents went to check on her. They found her standing at the window, staring outside in a trance-like state. When they tried to rouse her, she collapsed, and it was only later that they realized she had been standing there, motionless, for hours, perhaps since the previous night.

When I rushed to her home, Vineeta seemed normal, albeit exhausted and in some pain despite the painkillers she had been given. The nurse who had come by had clucked her tongue, saying everyone was only working on the symptoms, not the Dosha— the root cause. That day, Vineeta had shared with me, in hoarse whispers, that someone was talking to her from within, trying to convince her. Convince her to do what? I had asked, but she had no reply. Her words, her chapped lips, and red-rimmed eyes had left me shaken. That day, I saw my best friend disappearing before my eyes.

As an educator, I have spent the past several years training my mind to remain open, even to stories and incidents that seem irrational to my ‘modern’ mind. But Vineeta’s condition that day left me speechless, haunting me with nightmares for days as I imagined what it would be like if someone took residence within me. Her behavior suggested a severe mental disorder, but it didn’t explain her physical pain.

According to many healers in our little coastal village—both modern and spiritual—Vineeta’s illness had transcended the physical and mental, crossing into a realm that defied explanation. What began as a mysterious bout of vomiting blood and changes in skin texture soon morphed into relentless, shifting pains that migrated daily to different parts of her body. Despite consultations with the best doctors across the country, her condition remained undiagnosed, leaving her family in a state of helpless despair.

Then came the unsettling changes in her behavior—Vineeta became uncharacteristically rude, even abusive, and began revealing secrets about people and events from decades before her time, things she had no conceivable way of knowing. It was as if she were channeling warnings from another world.

Dr. Raghunandan, ever the rationalist, struggled to attribute this to Vineeta’s affinity for stories or to bits of information she might have absorbed from books or childhood tales told by the villagers. But even as he spoke, his explanations rang hollow, failing to convince even himself. When every rational path seemed to lead to a dead end, he finally called for Sri Vishwambar Acharya.

I was jolted from my thoughts by the deep, piercing chants of Sri Acharya, who sat before the serpent rangoli, his voice resonating with an otherworldly cadence. Sri Acharya, a man in his middle age, had an aura of disciplined strength about him. His lean, well-toned frame and the quiet confidence in his posture suggested a life dedicated to rigorous self-care and spiritual practice. His sharp features were accentuated by intense, focused eyes that seemed to pierce through the veil of the physical world. Though his lips barely moved, the sound of his words reverberated through every corner of the temple, as if he were in conversation with something beyond our world, filling the space with an unsettling presence that seeped into my very bones.

A few minutes later, Vineeta was escorted to the hall by her sister and husband. Her parents did not look up, perhaps to shield themselves from the pain or to avoid drawing attention to their daughter, now only a shell of the girl they had birthed and raised. Vineeta sat down on a chair next to a pillar and stared into the void as usual. For a brief moment, her eyes moved in my direction—a flicker of tenderness swallowed by something ominous before I could fully register it. A faint smile appeared on her face, but I knew it wasn’t her.

In a parallel world, where we were still little girls, curious about the mysteries our mothers forbade us from speaking of or even thinking about, Vineeta would put on that same mischievous expression. She’d hold out a torch in a dark room, her big eyes and sharp nose accentuated by the light, and scare the living daylights out of us. How I wish today were just another carefree day like that.

Vineeta’s husband, Shashi, stood by her side, quietly observing the proceedings. He had been our classmate throughout school, a kind and determined soul who left for medical school after the twelfth grade. I remembered how he had pursued Vineeta with such warmth and sincerity, never giving up despite her initial hesitation. When his overtures didn’t succeed, Shashi returned to the village as a doctor and, with heartfelt respect, approached her parents to ask for her hand in marriage. Theirs was a beautiful relationship, rooted in mutual respect and deep friendship—something quite rare.

Watching him now, standing by Vineeta despite the torment of the past few months, I couldn’t help but wonder if my own husband would show the same unwavering devotion if I were, as the villagers whispered, possessed by an unsatisfied spinster demoness.

That day, standing beside Vineeta, who had become a stranger even to him, his face was etched with pain. He had lost weight, and the sleepless nights had left their mark in the dark circles under his eyes. It struck me how, despite growing up surrounded by doctors—her father, brothers, and husband—Vineeta was still fighting desperately to understand what was wrong with her.

As Sri Acharya continued his fervent prayers to Lord Adishesha—the revered king of the serpent gods—something shifted within Vineeta. Her face twitched, her eyes flickered with an unsettling awareness, and then, in a jarring moment of realization, a piercing scream erupted from her lips. She crumpled to the ground, writhing in excruciating pain.

I moved instinctively towards her, but the sight of her contorted expression froze me in my tracks. Was I afraid that her torment might somehow infect me, that I might catch whatever was afflicting her? In that chilling instant, I confronted an unsettling truth about myself and the fragile boundaries of our friendship. Someone behind me whispered in Tulu—the local language. “Achaàryer daivada kopan jaasti malther.” Acharya has stirred the wrath of the demoness.

Sri Acharya remained unshaken by the sudden disturbance in his Homa. It was as if he had anticipated this upheaval, or perhaps as the lady behind me had suggested, even provoked it deliberately. With unwavering focus, he continued to make offerings to the Naga, his chants steady and resolute as he sought forgiveness for sins that no one could name or understand.

Vineeta's family swiftly carried her to a nearby room, but her muffled screams of torment reverberated through the hall, a haunting reminder of her suffering. Those gathered in the temple shifted uncomfortably in their seats, their eyes brimming with tears and their faces etched with profound empathy, each person feeling the weight of the moment. This ceremony would be spoken for years from now about three healers of modern medicine, astrology and spiritual science coming together, setting aside their healing approaches, to help a helpless patient.

The Homa persisted for several intense minutes, the air thick with the interplay of Sri Acharya’s solemn chants and Vineeta’s anguished cries. Her screams were wild, punctuated by guttural curses that cut through the ceremonial ambiance like a sickle. It felt as though the very fabric of reality was being torn apart in the relentless battle between divine forces and a suffering soul.

I watched as Dr. Raghunandan's posture shifted into one of complete surrender. His face, etched with the raw anguish of a parent desperate to save his child, all rationale forgotten. I think that day, even he faced the limits of his own understanding. When someone fell ill in the village, they first contacted Vineeta’s father— he was our primary healer, at times next only to God. Today, he had surrendered his patient to another healer whose ways were so different from his own trusted methods.

Then, in the midst of this heightened ritual, an eerie sound emerged from Vineeta’s room—a soft, disconcerting giggle of a woman, high-pitched and oddly cheerful. The sound lingered for a moment, leaving an inexplicable chill in the air, before abruptly vanishing.

It appeared to me as though everyone—the rustling leaves, the serpents slithering on the forest floor, the silent statues lining the temple walls, and the very air itself—had held their breath, out of respect, fear, gratitude, or perhaps… mourning. Somewhere far away, a cuckoo cried out, a harbinger of the impending downpour.