There was a small printer in the corner of the room. Rajan took the book and spread it open. Swati moved to help him, while Lakshmi perched on the table.
As the machine started to do its work, Swati asked, ‘So where are we headed?’
Rajan paused and then, seeing the frown crease Swati’s forehead, hurriedly said, ‘Madurai.’
‘What?’ shouted Swati. ‘I can’t go to Madurai.’
‘I know you are from there,’ continued Rajan, frowning a little on seeing the shock on her face. ‘But that is where we have to go. Our first stop on our pilgrimage was to a small temple outside Madurai – set into a mountain…’
‘You can’t mean Narasingam?’ interrupted Swati.
‘Yes, you know it?’
‘I spent every Sunday for three years visiting that temple. It used to be abandoned – almost. Quiet. Peaceful. Yet powerful.’
Lakshmi clapped her hands. ‘It’s meant to be, Appa. Swati ma’am is meant to come with us.’
Rajan said nothing.
Swati smiled. ‘I don’t know about “meant”, Lakshmi, but I am coming, even though the last place I want to go to is Madurai. This is the most exciting thing that has happened to me.’
Turning to Rajan, she asked, ‘What are we looking for at this temple?’
Rajan was staring at the copier. The old book was almost falling apart. Swati tenderly placed each plate, shut the machine, tapped a button, waited and repeated the process. It was almost meditative. Then he felt a hand on his forearm, jerking him out of his reverie.
‘What are we looking for at this temple?’ asked Swati. Rajan frowned. He wasn’t comfortable sharing so much with someone who was still somewhat a stranger. But he found he couldn’t lie to her, and she did not seem the type to back down.
‘The sanctum sanctorum is set into the mountain. The part of the mountain that is enclosed by the temple is covered in Grantham script. Appa used to pray to the Lord and then come and sit on the left side and lean against the mountain. Before sitting, I remember him kneeling and praying to a carving within the script on the mountain. Then he made me do it too.’
‘Too bad you guys didn’t carry a camera with you. You could have photographed the place.’
‘What is special about it, Appa?’ asked Lakshmi.
‘It’s a carving of Narasimha and Bhoomi Devi. Which is odd in itself.’
‘Why?’ asked Swati.
‘Because Bhoomi Devi never appears in any story with Narasimha. She appears with Varaha, but never with Narasimha.’
The hum of the photocopying machine continued. Lakshmi started idly flicking through the copies. Then something caught her eye, and she began to tremble with excitement.
‘Appa?’ Seeing Rajan lost in his reveries, she repeated herself, a little more loudly, ‘Appa?’
Rajan turned towards his daughter. ‘What is it, Lakshmi?’
‘Appa, there is a verse here about Narasimha with Bhoomi Devi…
‘The path to follow will stand revealed
On the eighteenth day of the Karthikai month,
As Surya’s rays illumine Ela’s tender feet,
Held tenderly in a lion’s paw’
‘Isn’t “Ela” another name for Bhoomi Devi?’
Rajan almost snatched the paper out of his daughter’s hands. Could it be? Could this be it? Then another thought came…what was the date today? 5 October. The eighteenth day of the Karthikai stood fifty-four days away.
The air stood still and the hair on Rajan’s arm stood up. He felt a charge pass through him.
This was the time.
Pralaya was beginning.
The purpose of his family, over the generations, had fallen upon him – the eternal disappointment, the drunk.
He smiled at the irony. Then fear rose up in his throat as he thought of his daughter and the explosions in the temple and his house. They were so fragile, so infinitesimally small against the forces of chaos they intended to battle. Any hope lay in a book written in code and in repeated rituals carried through a family. His father had spoken of the challenge when he had taken Rajan on the pilgrimage. ‘We cannot say which one of us will be called forth, Raju. We can only prepare and pray. But whoever is called, the Lord will be there. Don’t worry.’ He smiled, squeezing the hand of his fifteen-year-old son, who looked frightened out of his wits. Rajan missed his father so much.
‘Appa?’
‘Rajan?’
This was the first time Swati had called Rajan by his name. That broke the spell. He shook himself.
‘We need to be at Narasingam, in about fifty-four days from now.’ He paused – thinking about when the sun’s rays were likely to hit the carving – before continuing, ‘The temple faces northwest, as does the carving of Bhoomi Devi and Narasimha. We need to be there first thing in the morning, as the sun’s rays hit the Goddess’s feet.’
Fifty-four days.
Fifty-four days.
There was a date. And now they needed a plan.
(Excerpted with permission from The Pralaya Prophecy by Mridula Ramesh, published by Hachette India; 2026)
