A cold whisper hissed to Devadatta's ears, chilling and clear, "You think you can challenge me?" He spun around, but there was nobody there. But where is he? Suddenly, he realized he was standing alone in the middle of a festival ground, a place tha...
Unmatta Bhairava, known among the Bhairavas as the "Mad One". He is a a deity shrouded in mystique and feared for his unpredictable fury and also revered as Chhetrapalaka, the guardian of the sacred Lord Pashupatinath. The Pashupatinath Temple, nestled in the heart of the Kathmandu Valley housed one of the few temples dedicated to Unmatta Bhairava.
Unmatta Bhairavais also known as Bhoot Damar is believed to be in control of all spirits, including the celestial dancers known as apsaras and the mystical entities called Yakshis. The sacred verses dedicated to him are chronicled in the Bhoot Damar Tantra. It is said to have the power to reach across the veil that separates the living from the dead. This esoteric knowledge is not found in mainstream religious texts and is often shrouded in secrecy.
Yakshis are fascinating beings from ancient stories. They're not like the usual gods or demons you might hear about; they're something else entirely—nature spirits. Both men and women, Yakshas and Yakshinis, are tied to the natural world, and often show up in all sorts of stories and myths, across different traditions like Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and even Islam.
As the night draped itself in its most opaque cloak, the new moon vanishing from sight, Kubja stood by the Shiva Linga, her resolve as unshakable as the ancient stone itself. In the times of the Vedas, sacred geometry in the form of yantras was the conduit for the divine, long before idols took their place in temples. These mystical diagrams were keys to unfathomable spiritual energies, and among them, the yantra of Unmatta Bhairava was said to be so potent, so secretive, that not even the oldest scriptures dared to describe it.
Among the tumult, one stone, propelled by an unseen hand, found its mark with a cruel precision. It struck her cheek with the force of pent-up fury, carving a deep, grievous wound from which blood began to flow with relentless intensity. The stark red against her skin stood out, a vivid reminder of the brutality of the moment. But tonight, that same blood served a higher purpose. As the heavens opened and rain descended like a deluge, washing the world in its relentless downpour, Kubja began the ritual. With her blood, she traced the intricate geometry of the yantra upon the ground, each line a whisper of ancient power, each shape a bastion of forbidden knowledge.
Surrounding this sacred emblem were her offerings—a vivid collection that painted a picture of life and death in stark reds and somber blacks. Blood-red flowers, plucked for their color of vitality and sacrifice; the still form of her faithful dog, its spirit now a guardian in another realm; and ashes from the cremation ground, a reminder of the transience of life.
Kubja had also prepared incense, believed to be cherished by Unmatta Bhairava. She ignited them, and the scent rose high, an aromatic plea to the heavens. The air grew thick with the fragrance, mingling with the ozone scent of the storm, creating a tapestry of olfactory intensity.
The only light in this dark tableau came from the sacred fire that Kubja had kindled. The sacred fire before Kubja stood as a challenge to the storm, its flames defiantly reaching skyward, undeterred by the torrential downpour. Each raindrop that hit the flames hissed in defeat, evaporating instantly, as the fire cast a glow that fought back the encroaching shadows. It crackled and spat, its flames reaching skyward as if attempting to bridge the world of mortals with that of the gods. The shadows it cast were long and dramatic, flickering across the road turned river by the rain, a path that now seemed to lead to otherworldly domains.
In this charged atmosphere, where the elements themselves seemed to hold their breath, Kubja chanted the mantras passed down through her lineage, her voice steady and clear. It was a sound that seemed to resonate with the frequency of the earth itself, a sonorous bell cutting through the tempest's roar.
This was a moment of convergence, of past and present, of pain and hope. Kubja was both the culmination of her family's legacy and the solitary beacon for an future uncertain. In the heart of the storm, before the ancient Shiva Linga, she invoked Unmatta Bhairava, not just as a deity, but as a symbol of her unyielding spirit, her refusal to be broken by the cruelty of fate or man.
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The Yakshis, ethereal and fierce, circled Kubja, their forms a blur of motion. They whispered secrets in a language forgotten by time, their words a symphony of chaos and harmony.
Chanting the Stotra, Kubja entered a trance. The world around her faded, leaving her in a space where time and reality warped under the weight of her intent. As she called out to Unmatta Bhairava, the air around the temple stirred, a low rumble echoing through the night as if the very earth was responding to her call.
A whirlwind of energy engulfed Kubja. A wild and untamed power that threatened to consume her. But Kubja stood firm, her heart open, offering her fears, her desires, and her ego as a sacrifice to the deity. She pleaded for his blessing, not for power or revenge, but for the strength to complete her transformation.
As the ritual reached its zenith, a silence enveloped the Shiva Linga, a calm after the storm. Kubja, her body and spirit pushed to the limits, collapsed before the Shiva Linga, her mind teetering on the brink of consciousness. It was then that she felt it—a touch, light as a feather, yet imbued with an indescribable power, on her forehead.
A mark appeared, the symbol of a small two-headed drum, Damaru.
