From Almora to the Tibetan frontier I followed, to a great extent, a
different route from the one I had taken on my first journey, as I
wanted to visit en route the interesting shrine of Debi Dhura. The
character of the country traversed varied little from that already
described in a previous work. I will only in this book describe things
and places and incidents of the journey that are quite new, leaving out
a detailed account of my itinerary.
Passing through forests of walnut trees, fine oak and deodars, kaiphal,
rhododendrons, utis, and yew, and travelling at elevations varying from
5510 feet at Almora to 6630 feet at Debi Dhura, I reached in two days’
journey the sacred temple situated on a great granitic plateau, the
ridge of which extends for several miles.
It was in the afternoon. During the entire journey rain had come down
in torrents; but as I arrived at Debi Dhura, the storm, which had been
particularly fierce that day, cleared as by magic; the heavy,
leaden-black clouds rolled away on every side, leaving behind most
exquisite tints, of gold and red and green, of a superb sunset. With
the wind rising, the white mist which covered the valleys below us rose
slowly like a curtain, and a magnificent panorama shone in radiant
beauty in the now crystalline atmosphere. Beyond the lower and nearer
ranges of pure cobalt blue and dark warm greens, towered to the north
snow-clad mountains of absolutely sublime beauty.
Shortly after my arrival an old priest came to greet me. He had in his
hands a brass vessel filled with red flowers which he offered me,
begging me to follow him to the shrine across the road.
“This is the world-famous shrine of Debi Dhura, the shrine to Mahadeva
Varahi Debi and Bhimden,” said he, with a series of grand salaams. “Ah,
sahib, your health and soul will greatly benefit by your visit here,”
muttered the cunning old rascal, who by now had been joined by other
priests.
We walked up past the sacred swings to the temple standing on the crown
of a hill among really beautiful deodar, walnut, oak, and Olea fragrans
trees. The temple itself was of no interest or beauty, but curious
indeed were the gigantic boulders leaning against each other, allowing
a narrow entrance into a cave containing a well and a shrine.
No foreigner is allowed inside the cave, for it is—they say—the home of
Debi, and must not be desecrated by humans of other faiths. My men
seemed greatly excited over their visit to the cave, and they were
profound in their salaams. They were muttering fervent prayers when
they came out. On being asked what they had seen inside, they would not
or could not say. As a matter of fact, I believe they had seen nothing,
for the cave was very dark.
On we went, down some slippery steps, until we came—some hundred yards
below—to a curious rock rising to a great height above the ground.
“Ransila, the giant,” called out the priest, pointing at the rock and
calling it by its name.
We climbed upon it to examine the extraordinary crack which split the
rock in two. The fissure was so clean and sharp that it seemed produced
by a violent blow rather than by the action of water. A similar crack
was noticeable in a lower rock, and neither of these fissures seemed
very ancient. Lightning may have caused them, or more possibly an
earthquake.
The explanation given by the priests was quaint, and it was interesting
to watch the expressions on my men’s faces, who received with great
suspicion my matter-of-fact explanation of how those cracks came to be;
whereas they gazed open-mouthed and took in unreservedly the fairy
legend recited to us by the priest. Here is the legend.
Bhim Sen or Bem Sing and Debi were one day playing pachisi, a game
resembling chess, and very common in India. They were seated on the
above-described granitic boulder, “the Ransila,” and to give colour to
this narrative a square engraved in the rock marks the spot where they
sat. Other mystic signs, marks, and figures are also pointed out to
credulous pilgrims. It appears that while so engaged, Bem Sing heard
the voice of a shert, a rich man, drowning in the distant ocean,
hundreds and hundreds of miles away. He listened. The shert prayed God
to live.
Regardless of the fact that the distance from Debi Dhura to the ocean
is, as the crow flies, at least 700 miles, Debi remained quite
unconcerned, and continued to play the game with his right hand, while
he stretched—the legend does not say whether to its full extent—the
left arm and lifted from the foaming water not only the drowning man
but the sinking ship as well.
On withdrawing his arm and resting it upon his lap the attention of his
partner as well as of the onlookers was attracted by the wet on Debi’s
hand and forearm. They inquired the cause, but Debi curtly requested
them to mind their own business and go on with the game. Puzzled and
angry, the others demanded an explanation. Insulting remarks were made
and, finding no other explanation, a suggestion was made that he was
perspiring something else instead of perspiration from his arm. At this
point Debi deemed it prudent to vanish.
Bem Sing’s wrath was at its zenith. Amazed, even upset, he searched for
Debi all around, and, unable to find him, he seized a large boulder and
with it struck the big rock Ransila with such violence that he split it
in two, in order to discover whether Debi was hiding inside it.
The onlookers in the meantime, terrified by the doings of these
abnormal beings, had fled in all directions, while Debi had quietly
retired to the cave which I have already described, and where—they
say—he dwells still. The boulder used by Bem Sing in his feat of
strength is shown to this day to the open-mouthed pilgrims at Debi
Dhura. So firmly had he grasped it in his hands that the marks of his
fingers and thumbs are still deeply impressed upon the granite.
The end of the legend brought forth the usual request for a generous
backshish, while more flowers were produced and handed to my followers,
who adorned their ears and caps with them.
We returned to the sacred swings, of great height, with iron chains
instead of ropes, upon which pilgrims, old and young, swing themselves,
either singly or in couples. During the months of June, July, and
August, when a pilgrimage and fair are held at the shrine, these swings
are kept going all day and the greater part of the night. Thousands
upon thousands of devotees visit the weird rocks and leave handsome
oblations. A special festival is held in August, when throngs of
natives assemble and sacrifice goats, sheep, and occasionally
buffaloes. As many as one hundred sheep are killed during one of these
festivals, and the sacrifice takes place either on the Ransila rock or
at the entrance of the cave.
Everything at Debi Dhura is connected with stones and rocks. Between
the two swings and near a quadrangular stone wall some four or five
feet high, lay a big natural ball of granite, called “Chela,” or “the
test of strength.” They say that only one man in a hundred can raise it
above the ground, one in a thousand is able to lift it up to his waist,
and not a human being alive can lift it up and deposit it on the wall.
Whoever performed the latter deed would have every happiness for ever.
Although according to the priests the stone weighed 4000 lbs., its
actual weight was not more than 350 lbs.; only it was difficult to get
hold of it, and it was well-nigh impossible to do so by sheer strength.
But when brute strength fails, ruse is often easily successful, and so,
being somewhat versed in the laws of leverage, balance, and impetus, I
succeeded, much to the amazement of everybody, in placing that stone
upon the wall. It was an effort though, I can tell you.
A peculiar feature of the annual fair is the procession from the shrine
in the cave to the summit of the hill, a few hundred yards off, upon
which is a stone shed and a cairn. The men who carry the stone idol in
this procession are all stark-naked,—a very unusual case with
Hindoos,—and so also are many who follow in the procession.
Another feature of the festival is that strange custom which one finds
in most countries of Asia—the annual stone-fights. About a thousand men
collect in an open space, and are divided into legions of five hundred
each, a short distance from each other. When both parties have amassed
in their respective camps a suitable amount of ammunition in the way of
stones, collected in mounds, and also a good supply carried on the
person, the combatants draw nearer and nearer in a line. At a signal
the fight begins, and they fling stones at one another by means of
slings and forked sticks, whirling the missiles through the air with
terrific force. The more people get injured the fiercer becomes the
fight, till the ammunition fails,—and it lasts a long time, because the
combat is, as it were, a mere exchange of ammunition.
The wives and daughters and sweethearts of the combatants view the
melée with trembling hearts from a raised point of vantage well out of
range of the missiles. The fighters get to such close quarters that
pounding one another on the head with stones is not uncommon, and it is
only when all are worn, wounded, aching, and blinded by the dust and
blood that an armistice is called. Hardly any one escapes unhurt, but
no one ever complains, no matter how serious their wounds may be, as
they believe that no one can actually be killed in these sacred fights.
As each man falls senseless to the ground, he is conveyed to the temple
where the following treatment awaits him. The Brahmin priests beat and
rub him well with a bunch of nettles. It is said to be an infallible
remedy.
No ill-feeling is said to remain between the legions after the fight is
over, and with bandaged heads and limbs they all join in a common bura
kana—a big meal.
The fights generally begin by the children being made to fight first,
the elders joining in when well excited over their sons’ doings.