Out Of The Blue

By Indira Soundarajan

"The mind seems to be a slave to our bodies. It might have the power to think and differentiate, but it is unable to influence anything that happens around it..."

Shyamala returns to Kannamangalam with her friend Raghav in the hope of finding tranquility and musical inspiration. However, she finds herself in an embroilment with an enigmatic bairagi who is haunting the village and derailing the lives of its inhabitants. The reason? He is desperately trying to acquire the flute of Krishna through her.

The village becomes a hotbed of religious debate when death and disappearance crop up unexplainedly along with a claim that Shyamala is a reincarnation of Draupadi.

Can peace and normalcy be restored in the celebrated haven of intrigue? And how? Through faith in the unseen or through rational thought and action?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pustaka Digital Media
• Release date: Sep 6, 2021
• ISBN: 6580500706878

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Out Of The Blue

Author:

Indira Soundarajan

Translated from the Tamil by

Aswini Kumar

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Digital/Electronic Copyright © by Pustaka Digital Media Pvt. Ltd.

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Table Of Content

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

1

The palm leaf manuscripts, seven bundles of them, fell into my hands unexpectedly while I was searching for something completely different. It was almost like how you bump into someone totally unexpected when you are on your way to see someone else. I could see the words, ‘Sabda Mukundam’ written on the front leaf of the first bundle and below it, in a small hand: ‘Musical lexicon written by Krishna, the beloved of all, in order to breathe fresh life into all lives.’ When I turned to the next leaf, I could not immediately decipher the words that were written. I hurriedly got hold of a magnifying glass and read the writing.

It said, I gifted my flute to Kannamangalam Uddhava upon his request. My flute will sing when Uddhava or anyone else plays it with a pure heart and no selfish intent. My Sabda Mukundam will show them the way. This is my pledge of honor, Vaikuntapathi.

I was stunned to read these lines.

***

The Yadavagiri hill stands to the south-west of Kannamangalam. Adjoining it, like a long, black, winding python, lies the road to Pudukkottai. A car was heading down that road at a normal speed - a black late model, the size of a small chariot. Yadavagiri was not a very high hill; a tape measure would have sufficed to calculate its height. It was perhaps 100 feet tall and the 5000 square feet of the hilltop had almost entirely been taken up by a Krishna temple.

The road takes a turn near the hill which is shaped like the hood of a snake. Shyamala stopped the car in a corner at the turn and stepped out.

The ravishing sight of her would have caused a lame leper on his deathbed to leap. She was effortlessly beautiful and had luscious locks that made the hair of shampoo ad models seem ordinary.

In a plain white salwar suit, she looked like an angel descended from heaven above.

A gruff voice was heard complaining: Shyami, what are you doing? We're getting late. A young man emerged from the car. With half-moon glasses, thick uncombed hair, a soul patch on the chin, large red ear-studs, a kurta, jeans and sneakers, he looked like a hippie - an anachronism.

Shyamala, whom he had addressed as Shyami, was intently watching the temple atop Yadavagiri Hill and did not pay any attention to his complaint. She checked the time on her wristwatch.

Shyami?

Wait, Raghav. Remember I told you about a Krishna temple on a hill in our town? See, there it is. She pointed with her lacquered nails.

I saw this from a kilometer away. Why stop here again?

Shush. No one enters our town without stopping at the temple. Do you know how beautiful the Krishna idol is here?

So what? Even a monkey can be made up to look attractive. Let's go. You're wasting our time.

"Yeah, yeah. We have fifteen whole days ahead of us. So, what's the hurry? Anbumani and I, used to race against each other to see who got to the top of the hill first when we were young. Anbumani was always the winner those days. Anbumani is the son of Ramaswamy who farms our land. Do you remember his favourite clothes?

Stop it Shyami! This is boring. What do I care for the clothes your Anbumani wore?

There's no need to get snarky, Raghav. Here you are dreaming of becoming the music director. How will you cope then?

Her pretty pouting had the desired effect.

And don't you get all upset now. I only mentioned Anbumani to you because he is also a musician.

Really? A musician?

"Yeah. He is a very gifted flautist. Even back then, he could play the most complicated ragas with great ease. He would play an alaap non-stop for three minutes without pausing to draw breath. Wow! I can still hear him! We will have a lot to do with him in our search for new music forms."

Shyamala started up the steps as she was talking.

Hey, where are you off to?

"Come on up with me. Let's have a darshan of Krishna first. There's this small hall called the ‘flute hall’ where it is believed Krishna himself comes to play the flute even to this day.

Shyamala went up quickly, all the while talking, but not really caring to see whether he was following her or not.

Shyami! Wait for me. I’m coming.

Okay then. Run up and overtake me like Anbumani if you can.

Saying this, Shyamala started running up the steps and he tried to speed up at her goading.

Who's this Anbumani? I'll prove I'm better than him! Saying so, Raghav ran very quickly up the steps and, at one point, passed Shyamala and ended up beating her to the temple's entrance. But the exertion took its toll on him and he could not stop panting. Holding his waist, he bent in half, struggling to regain his breath. At the sight of him, Shyamala could not help but laugh.

Anbumani never panted like this, you know? she teased him again while he took off his glasses. He glared at her as he wiped his face.

Shyamala went past him into the forecourt of the temple which was devoid of people. Raghav, who was still panting, saw, from a corner of his eye, a truck reversing dangerously close to their parked car at the bottom of the hill and almost grazing it.

Hey, watch it! Raghav spontaneously cried out. Shyamala called out from inside, Raghav, come on. The temple is open. Her voice reverberated through the empty space and reached his ears.

He turned to go in.

He entered a dimly lit hall which smelt unpleasantly of bats droppings.

Fixing his glasses firmly on his nose, he went further in. The sanctum was small, and inside, illuminated by flickering oil lamps, was an idol of Krishna which was about three feet tall. It somewhat resembled the famous Krishna of Guruvayoor. The temple priest, Aravamudhan, was seated inside the sanctum in front of the idol and reciting the thousand names of the Lord in his praise. When Shyamala went in and stood near him, he shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted at her. He couldn't have been any less than eighty.

Who is it? Have you come for the service? he asked.

Yes, uncle, replied Shyamala.

Uncle? Who are you?

I am the daughter of Kannamangalam Chellappa.

Oh, I see. You are ‘Flute’ Chellappa's daughter. You're the one studying music in America, right?"

Yes, uncle. I trained for a while in Hollywood while studying music at California University. I also did some research.

"Very good. Very good. Even though he is nearby, your dad does not bother to turn up here these days. But I'm glad you came. May Krishna's blessings be with you. Wait, I'll do the aarthi."

Aravamudhan performed the aarthi and when he got up to hand out the sacred basil, he noticed Raghav.

Who's this?

He’s, my friend. His name's Raghav. He's a music director.

Is that so? That's good, that's good.

He placed the sadari on their heads. Raghav put a hundred rupee note on the plate.

But I do not have change. You are my first customers today, said the priest.

Raghav's face changed as though he had tasted something bitter.

First customers? What do you mean?

No, I meant you are the first to arrive here today.

Sorry, I do not get you.

I meant I do not have change to give you for these hundred rupees. Since no other devotees have come so far, I do not have any change on me. That's what I meant.

I didn't ask for change.

Oh, you mean the entire amount is for the temple?

His face brightened immediately and no further clarification was required to explain his situation and the temple's circumstances.

Okay uncle. We'll just go around the temple.

Shyamala started walking around the dark temple. Raghav, who was walking behind her, commented, Why is the temple in this condition? From all that you said on the way here, I had a different image in my mind. But now...

Yes, Raghav. I'm stunned too. I must have a word with Dad when we reach home. As far as I remember, he would even miss a meal but never miss visiting the temple.

Their circumambulation complete, they were about to leave for the outer hall when Aravamudhan called out, Excuse me. Are you going to walk around the outer periphery?

"Yes, uncle. Why?

"Be careful. At the back of the temple a bairagi is lying all coiled up like a snake under a tree. If he tries to start a conversation with you, don't respond. Just come away."

"Really? Who's this bairagi?"

"How would I know. All bairagis are said to practice magic, spells, voodoo and things like that. He looks like a North Indian and speaks a mixture of Hindi, Sanskrit and Tamil.

When he sees anyone, he asks, ‘Do you know Raag Vasant? Do you know Vijayapathi?’ He has a flute with him and when he plays it, he makes us forget ourselves. He's that good. He is a riddle none of us has been able to solve."

When Aravamudhan stopped talking, they could hear the bairagi's flute music wafting towards them on the wind.

As though pulled by an invisible rope, the two of them started walking in the direction of the music. Raag Vasant!

2

The Krishna who resides at Yadavagiri Hill Temple is full of infinite kindness. There are enough and more witnesses to bear testament to the fact that the Lord, who we see as an idol inside the temple, has manifested himself personally in several forms at various times.

Whether you believe those sightings or not depends on your mindset. One story relates to a flautist who had visited the temple and sat in the Flute Hall where he played Alai Payudhe in Raga Mohana in praise of the Lord.

But his playing was discordant and there were many false notes in his rendition of this beautiful composition. The temple priest, who had no ear for music, kept nodding his head and making sounds of appreciation and, enthused further by this ‘encouragement, the visitor somehow finished playing the entire melody.

Afterwards, while going round the temple, the flautist was stunned to see Krishna in the guise of a poor Brahmin sitting under a tree and singing the same song flawlessly. At the flute player's request, he explained the nuances of the song and how best to bring them out on the flute. That's all fine, but how did the visiting flautist realize it was Krishna himself?

The Brahmin excused himself to go into the sanctum and when the priest followed him there, no one was inside!

There were no other exits from the sanctum either.

The place was redolent with the smell of heavenly flowers.

The visiting flautist was enthralled when he realized what had transpired!

***

The music of the flute lured Shyamala and Raghav. The priest sighed in frustration and muttered complainingly, "They couldn't hear my warning, but they heard the bairagi's flute clearly! Now, it's between him and them. God knows what's in store for them."

Aravamudhan went back to the sanctum and sat in front of the idol again. He brought out a yellowed and mouldering prayer book and, in the light of the flickering lamps, attempted to read it. But his mind wandered back to the time when he had tried in vain to chase the bairagi away from the temple precincts. The latter had glared at him, resulting in Aravamudhan catching an ague-inducing fever almost immediately. The priest recalled how cold he had felt as a result. He had swaddled himself in several layers of cloth available in the temple but even that had proved ineffective in controlling his shivering.

In spite of the sanctum of the temple being built out of thick heat-retaining black stones which kept the chamber perennially warm, he had suffered from the fever and the chills. Within the constricted space of the ten by eight sanctum, and with the central pedestal supporting Krishna's statue measuring nine feet by two feet, you needed to be particularly healthy to be able to stay in there and conduct the Lord's worship. It was normal for sweat to pour down your body profusely as if it were a wet cloth being wrung dry.

But even inside that potential oven, he could not control his shivering. Somehow, he had managed to lock the sanctum up and, mumbling the Slokas all the way, stumbled home and laid himself down to rest. He shuddered as he recalled those frightful moments.

And meanwhile outside...

The bairagi, wrapped in a black shawl, was sitting in a space that was large enough for an elephant to graze, underneath a tree with dry leaves spread all around him. His sitting stance was unusual in that it was a yogic triangular pose. He was playing his flute.

He sported bushy facial hair which sprouted like silver wires. His head had knotted and tangled locks. Bare-bodied, he displayed the thiruman on his chest and forehead. Normally, orthodox Vaishnavites wear the thiruman on twelve places on their bodies and do so with geometric precision. But on the bairagi's body, they were carelessly applied. The red vertical line on his forehead seemed to flutter like a flame.

Slightly sunken eyes, yellowed teeth, a rosary made from the holy basil tree around his neck, a dhoti and a dirty upper cloth completed the ensemble.

At a distance were some more dirty clothes and a few religious texts.

Despite his appearance and the surroundings, his playing was so magical that Raghav felt transported. Shyamala, in a trance-like state, went to a small earthen mound next to him, sat down there and listened to him play with rapt attention.

As the man continued with his fabulous improvisations, Raghav forgot himself and egged him on with his encouragement: Wow! Bravo! Great! Well done! Beautiful!

Finally, the music ceased.

Both were rendered speechless.

Sssssss!

Angry hissing was heard immediately. The sound brought Shyamala and Raghav out of their stupor, and when they shook themselves and turned, they encountered a frightening sight.

Next to the bairagi was a three-headed snake. Its hood was three feet above the ground and three forked tongues were flickering in and out of its mouths. Its beady eyes were sharp and piercing.

Shyamala quickly got up and positioned herself behind Raghav in fright. The bairagi casually remarked to the snake, That's all for today. Come back tomorrow, as though addressing an old friend. And the snake slid off into the undergrowth.

With a small laugh, the bairagi turned towards Shyamala and Raghav and, caressing his beard, asked, What do we have here?

That was how he normally began conversations and you had to carry on from there. But Shyamala and Raghav were in such a state of shock that they were in no position to respond to him.

Hey! Who are you? Say something! he continued, hoping to shock them out of their daze. They came to, but Shyamala's gaze was fixed on the undergrowth into which the snake had slithered.

What are you looking at? It's gone.

No! It... it...

Yes, a three-headed snake. Why? Are you scared?

Y-y-yes. I have only ever seen the likes of it in pictures.

That's true. People can't imagine something that doesn't exist. This snake dwells in this temple. It comes and goes as it pleases and it loves music.

We couldn't believe our eyes. So far, we have seen anacondas in the Amazon swallowing large prey whole on National Geographic, but never a three-headed snake. This must be a rare genetic mutation.

That's alright. Who are you?

"W-we came to have a darshan of Krishna. Your flute music drew us here. Fantastic playing. I'm sorry I don't have my recorder with me now, or I'd have recorded it."

Oh, that. When I am bored, I play. If you enjoy music that much, you probably have some connection with it too?

Connection? Our entire lives are tied to music! We only studied History, Geography, Tamil, English and other subjects at school. After school it has been music and only music. We are currently into musical research.

Excellent. I didn't get your names.

I am Shyamala. He's Raghav.

Is he your boyfriend or your lover?

This abrupt question flummoxed Shyamala.

"No... that... neither. He's just a very good friend. Also, he's a great music director. He's done several albums. One song in particular, The Day of the Kiss, written and sung by him, is very popular in the US. It's been played on their FM stations many times."

Her praise for Raghav did not seem to have touched him at all. He closed his eyes as though in thought, running his fingers through his beard.

What are you thinking?

"About you two. I am a bairagi and a bit of a trickster like the Krishna. Now, shall I tell you a few things you have not told me."

His tone was suddenly serious.

Please do.

You're ‘Flute’ Chellappa's daughter, aren't you?

Y-yes.

And you, he said to Raghav, you wish to compose music for a film, is that right?"

Exactly.

And you are both here because you want to compose the title track for a TV serial about Krishna, and you are hoping at the same time to collect a few carnatic and folk tunes for a new album. Am I right?

His questions were point-blank.

Raghav looked at him with bulging eyes.

Your purpose will be fulfilled. Raghav, you have several experiences waiting for you. Carry on.

He waved his hand affectionately.

But who told you all this?

My friend, Krishna!

No, but how did you say all those things? It was almost like you took a good look into our heads!

"There's nothing 'almost like' about it - not at all. I have in fact seen your thoughts. I told you I am a bairagi."

Meaning?

"One rung below the rishis, one rung above the siddhas."

I don't get it.

There's no hurry. You'll get it eventually.

Are you alone on this mountain top?

"Alone? Oh no. If I am bored, I call the garuda. Do you want to see him?"

He picked up the flute again, pursed his lips and blew. The holed bamboo transformed his breath into music.

The air rose into the skies bearing that music. From the woolly clouds, a garuda came swooping down at them.

3

There was a time when the whole village of Kannamangalam was at death's door due to an outbreak of dysentery. The cause was traced to the village pond, the inhabitants' source of water. There was, however, a strict societal ban that prevented certain castes of the village from bathing in and using the water from that pond for any purpose.

There was caste discrimination in Kannamangalam, but if you look at it this way, that very same evil saved the marginalized factions from the epidemic.

Mannar, a cowherd, was a member of the fringed communities. He was quite adept at playing the flute. To pass his time while tending the cows, he used to create make shift instruments out of leaves and reeds and produce his own brand of music. He then graduated to bamboo tubes with holes punched in them randomly and, with practice, became quite proficient at creating passable melodies.

Unable to contain her pride at her grandson's prowess, Mannar's grandmother blessed him, comparing him with Lord Krishna, the magical flautist and legendary cowherd. That was Mannar's first introduction to Krishna and he peppered his grandmother with repeated questions like: Who was he really? Was he a cowherd too?, Why was a god reduced to herding cows? and so on and so forth. Based on her replies, he adopted Krishna as his role model. Even today, the flute Krishna used is at the temple on top of that mountain. When it is played, everyone, including cattle, will listen spellbound. Rain will fall on parched lands and diseases will be totally eradicated. These statements by his grandmother kept working in Mannar's mind. He was sad that the village had been affected by dysentery and so he went up to the temple. The priest was not there as he too had been afflicted by the same complaint.

Mannar unthinkingly picked up Krishna's flute and walked around the village playing on it.

Miracles occurred and troubles too followed!

***

The garuda swooped down from the skies like a whizzing arrow.

Shyamala was stunned at the sight. The bird perched on a branch of the tree above and shook itself. The throat feathers were fluffy and white - reminiscent of cotton wool - while the rest of its body was a beautiful mixture of black and henna brown. Fierce-looking eyes and a curved beak completed the picture.

Raghav looked at it dreamily. The bairagi wiped his lips and remarked, Ah, there you are Samba! And the garuda responded with a screech.

Just wanted to see you. Were you aimlessly circling overhead?

The garuda seemed to nod its head in acknowledgement.

I am surprised the sound of this flute reached you at that height. Your enemy has just been and gone - the three headed snake!

He paused to cough and clear the congestion from his throat.

Alright. You carry on. At that, the bird fluffed its feathers with its beak and launched itself into the air. It soared and glided, riding the thermals without needing to work its wings in its majestic flight. Anyone watching it would wish he could simulate that passage through the air.

Watching the garuda soar, Shyamala felt that way. Raghav did too.

You, see? I'm not alone here, said the bairagi, dragging them both back to reality.

We are lucky to have met with you.

It's all been written in the order of things. Who's going to cross whose path is already foretold and it'll happen.

You are spouting philosophies we don't understand. But we have seen with our own eyes that music can manipulate snakes and birds. That's enough for us.

"The raga you played to call the garuda was Harikambodhi, was it not? asked Raghav. It was clear where his interest lay. Shyami, he continued, when you described your town to me, I wasn't too impressed. But we are yet to enter the town and I'm already speechless. Let's go now Swamiji, I'll come back definitely this evening to see you again. I need to talk to you and record everything on my camera. You are like my guru."

Raghav kept gushing. The bairagi merely caressed his beard and smiled. An enigmatic smile.

They made their way back with a lot of gusto and saw Aravamudhan in the sanctum. He looked up at them.

Uncle, we're off, said Shyamala.

Take care now, he said, his words laced with caution.

They climbed down the steps quickly and when they approached their car, then found a group of villagers curiously inspecting themselves at the vehicle. One man was peering into the car's glasses with a grimace, appraising his moustache, while another was studying his teeth closely in them to see if they needed cleaning.

When they reached the last step, Raghav pressed the alarm on his car remote and the vehicle started screaming. The villagers, shocked at the sudden noise, jumped back, and Raghav pulled open his door saying, You guys had better look elsewhere to do your grooming. Shyamala got into the passenger seat and, with her characteristic gesture, pushed her hair back with her hand.

The villagers had seen girls as pretty as her only on the makeshift cinema screens they were accustomed to.

As Raghav deftly steered the car onto the road, he seemed full of new energy.

Isn't all this exciting? Shyamala asked.

Not only exciting, Shyami, but also like a dream. If I told anyone what I saw today they wouldn't believe me.

Why bother about others Raghav? This is our personal experience.

But I still have one regret, Shyami...

They had entered the town by then and Shyamala started directing him to her house.

Go straight, Raghav. What regret?

Why did you tell him I was merely a friend?

That question seemed to prick her.

What else did you expect me to say?

Shyami, stop your games. Am I not your fiancé?

"Fiancé? Are you crazy? I never knew you had such an idea in your