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 [[13]]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 [[14]]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, [[15]]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.