Every time I visited my grandparents’ house in Salcette Goa, I would accompany Thomas, who worked in our house, to the shrine outside the village. In reality there was no temple or a shrine or even an idol at the spot, but a huge Banyan tree with a hollow base which looked like it was the entrance into a tiny cave. Unlike other temples where there is an idol which is decorated with flowers and perfumes and the place is buzzing with devotees, this shrine was stark, empty and devoid of any decorations. However, there were signs that oil lamps were being lit regularly as dark soot had blackened the roots of the Banyan tree.
Every Wednesday, we would walk up to the village boundary where the tree was located with a bottle of country liquor and a roti or bread made of husk with a preparation of meat placed on top. We would also carry a small bottle of oil to light the lamp. I had also seen people leaving leather shoes and rough woolen shawls (kambal) under this tree. Thomas would light the lamp and then ask me to place the food and liquor at the base of the tree. Our offerings were always made after the sunset. Before leaving we would fold our hands in reverence, circumambulate the tree once and quietly walk away without talking. Thomas would warn me not to look behind.
Curious about the entire proceedings I once asked my granny: “For whom do we carry this food?” She said, “He is our Rakhno.” Rakhno in the language of the region (Konkani) means protector. A guardian spirit. For us Rakhno was a village spirit who protected all of us. We worshipped him and at the same time feared him.
No one knew how he looked but there were many opinions — some said that he was a tall man who was dressed like a shepherd. He wore a woolen shawl on his shoulders and carried a wooden staff. Some believed that he carried a sword rode a horse and always moved with a band of followers. What everyone agreed on was that he had a fearsome gaze and that if you looked into his eyes you would either end up dead or crazy.
My mother had her own story of Rakhno which I have tried to tell in her words, as I remember it:
“Once I and my friend went to the riverside to play. The river was little distance away from the centre of the town. We were there a long time and got so busy gathering pebbles that we did not realize that the sun had set and night was approaching. We were alone and the darkness made us afraid so we began to cry. Suddenly we heard a male voice calling out to us. “What are you two girls doing so late in the evening?” His voice was rough and commanding.
Frozen with fear, we could not speak. We could not see him but the voice was clearly emanating from a few feet away. He rebuked us for being out so late and said he would drop us home. “I will walk behind you” he said. “Now get moving”, he ordered.
We clutched each other and began walking. We could hear the sound of leather shoes marking the road behind us. It was a peculiar sound, that which you hear when someone walks in a new pair of shoes. He was probably carrying a wooden staff which he banged on the ground with every step he took. His footsteps were very heavy so we presumed he must be a tall man. We reached my friend’s home and the sound of the staff stopped. In a gruff tone he asked my friend to run into her house. “Don’t look back”, he warned. I realized I was all alone. I could see the lights of my house in the distance. I began to run but my feet were getting heavy. I was sweating and panting profusely and as soon I stepped onto the doorway I collapsed. I don’t remember anything after that…”
My Granny believed it was Rakhno who had safely brought her daughter home. Since then she had set up this practice of sending food to this village deity every Wednesday.

Story Collected by : Vidya Kamat

Told by : Sitabai Pai Panandiker

Location: Salcette . Goa
Tags: Village spirit God, Rakhno, Village guardian, belief, meat, food offerings,

Deep in the rolling hills outlying the Great Rann of Kutch, some 65 odd kilometres from Bhuj, is a centuries old Hindu monastery steeped in medieval traditions and customs, its actual age disputable. There is not another soul for miles; the only sound heard being that of the peacocks singing in the surrounding forests. Within the monastery’s thick limestone whitewashed walls a sole yogi, with a handful of companions, keeps an exclusive tantric monastic order alive—the Kanphata (slit ears) sect founded by the sage Dhoramnath.

The traditional founder of the Indian sect of slit eared yogis is Gorakhnath but in Western India, Dhoramnath, his fellow disciple introduced the Kanphata doctrines into Kutch at the end of the 14th Century. Legend claims that Dhoramnath stood on his head for 12 years on top of Dinodhar Hill, an inactive volcano behind the monastery, in self-imposed penance for a curse he inadvertently made. Upon being urged by the gods to cease his penance he agreed on condition that whatever his eyes first saw would turn barren. And thus the Rann of Kutch was created. A temple dedicated to him stands on the hill.

Shrines and vermillion smeared stones dedicated to yogis having taken samadhi dot the monastery grounds. While the monastery exteriors are plain, clad in limestone with vermillion marks, its interiors in contrast are a riot of colour. Walking through corridors, arches and rooms, I enter the inner sanctum of the main temple around which I circumambulate in pitch darkness. My exploration ends on the roof overlooking a sea of domes topping the shrines, listening to the birds sing to each other in a beautiful, almost eerie, surreal world. 🙂

The monastery, however, is unfortunately also derelict and falling apart. Which is sad, taking into consideration the colossal amount of heritage it holds in its midst, including an eclectic collection of colourful 18th Century Kamangari wall paintings and intricate jaali work on its walls.

Kanphata yogis worship the Hindu god Shiva and are distinguished by the large earrings they wear cutting through the hollow of their ears, hence the name “slit ears”. Seated cross-legged chatting with the resident yogi, he and his companions explain the sect’s emphasis on acquiring supernatural powers instead of following orthodox practices of prayers and meditation. Referred to as Maharaj, the yogi, I am told, is renowned in the region and community for his uninterrupted meditation during the full nine days of navratri. Apart from slitting their ears, the ideology of the Kanphata Yogis incorporates elements of mysticism, magic, and alchemy absorbed from both Shaivite (devotees of Shiva) and Buddhist esoteric systems, as well as from Hatha Yoga.

Dusk is starting to fall. As I stand amid the old, desolate, Prussian blue hills and flame smeared sky with silence for company, the magic of Kutch, today replete with tantric traditions and ancient fossils, the stark beauty of the place envelops me within its fold. Did I just say it was beautiful? Let me repeat it nevertheless, for words and images are not always sufficient in capturing or chronicling such moments. These are instead etched in our memories to turn our eyes dewy when we remember certain days gone by.

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