The Son-in-Law of Jodhpur - The Temple That Revealed Itself in the Dark

The Son-in-Law of Jodhpur

- The Temple That Revealed Itself in the Dark

The Ravana Temple Exterior (Night).

The evening had already loosened its grip by the time we left the majestic Mehrangarh Fort. Stone and history stayed behind as we exited through the Blue City Gate, where Jodhpur quietly changes character. The noise thins. The alleys tighten. The city begins to whisper instead of perform.

Ravana with Shivlinga

It was October 2024. The sun had bowed out early, leaving behind a dusk that felt less like nightfall and more like suspension. We searched for a while and finally found an autorickshaw, asking to be taken to a temple. Which one, I can’t recall now. Perhaps it didn’t matter. The driver drove on, then stopped abruptly in front of a huge gate; imposing, shut, and utterly silent.

This already felt wrong.

Or right.

Mandodari (Original Click)

Beyond the gate lay a long ascent. Stone steps. Many of them. The kind that slow you down, force breath into awareness. We climbed, unsure of what awaited us at the top. The gate closed behind us. The city fell away. Inside the complex, the light was scarce. Shapes emerged before details did. I won’t lie; it was a little scary. The first space revealed itself as a Shiva temple. Low-lit. Almost reluctant to be seen. The Navagrahas stood nearby, each occupying their own quiet geometry. Other deities shared the space, coexisting without announcement. This wasn’t a temple that guided you. It expected you to pay attention.

Mandodari (AI-cleaned)

Kamlesh Kumar Dave, the priest, moved ahead of us; calm, unhurried; speaking softly about the Navagrahas, the temple, and the others. Then, without explanation, he gestured for us to follow.

We walked.

Lord Shiva Painting on Wall

A little away from the main temple. Further into the complex. And then the light disappeared entirely. Trust me; it felt spooky. There were no lamps. No bulbs. No illumination of any kind. Just darkness; complete, unnegotiated. We hesitated, then instinctively switched on our phone torches. Thin beams cut through the pitch black, revealing stone, walls, trees, garden paths… and silence.

Amarnath Jyotirlinga

And then; a temple in the dark.

Not announced.

Not framed.

Not lit.

Navgraha Chamber

Nearby, in a separate space, stood Mandodari; close, yet distinct. Present, but not imposed. Her placement felt intentional, like a quiet acknowledgment rather than a declaration.

Ram–Sita–Hanuman

Then we were led to what was genuinely thrilling: the temple.

A form of Ganesha believed to have come from Nepal

There we saw him; Ravana, the greatest devotee of Lord Shiva. Sitting in stillness, revealed only because we chose to look. Kneeling before a Shivling, holding a vessel in his hands, eternally pouring water in devotion. No aggression. No theatrical fury. Just surrender. Or so it seemed. The absence of light did something profound. It stripped the figure of spectacle. Without shadows dancing or gold catching the eye, what remained was intent. Devotion without performance.

Kamlesh ji spoke softly then.

This temple belongs to the Maudgil (Mudgil) Brahmins, who trace their lineage to Ravana himself. According to their belief, Ravana was married to Mandodari, daughter of the King of Mandore; the ancient capital of Marwar. In other words, Jodhpur is Ravana’s sasural.

Suddenly, geography reconfigured mythology. Lanka receded. Mandore advanced. Ravana stopped being a distant antagonist and became something far more unsettling; familiar. We had never been to a Ravana temple before. I later learned that there are said to be seven or eight such temples dedicated to the King of Lanka. But this one felt different; almost mythic. Undiscovered. Unspoken.

Ravana’s kuldevi, Kharanana Mata

Back in the Shiva temple were the others. The Amarnath Jyotirlinga. A form of Ganesha traced to Nepal. Ram. Sita. Hanuman. The Navagrahas. And a fierce goddess few outside this lineage know; Kharanana Mata, revered here as Ravana’s kuldevi.

India, where devotion isn’t linear.

Where belief refuses to choose sides.

Where mythology remains lived, layered, and unresolved.

Where gods aren’t separated by ideology, but held together by continuity.

Before we left, Kamlesh ji handed me two things; a Jyotish magazine and a small pamphlet about a museum he hopes to build someday. But the true offering had already been made.

Detours, we learned that night, are always worth it.

- Arin Paul. 

The House Where Pather Panchali Was Born: Gouri Kunjo, Ghatsila.

It was an early February morning in 2013. I stood before a quiet, modest house in Ghatsila, Jharkhand. Whitewashed walls, a red tiled roof, green shutters, a verandah with a locked iron gate. A house that looked ordinary — but held within it the extraordinary. This was Gouri Kunjo, the home of eminent author Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay (12 September 1894 – 1 November 1950).

 

It was here, in these rooms, that he wrote Pather Panchali (Song of the Little Road, 1929). A novel that gave us not just a story, but an entire world. Apu and Durga — their joys, their hunger, their wonder at the simplest things — all first came alive within these very walls. Later, Satyajit Ray would immortalize them on screen, twenty-six years later. But the seed was planted here, in the silence of Ghatsila, in the solitude of a writer deeply attuned to the rhythms of rural Bengal.

 

When I visited, I wondered — what was it like in 1929? Rural Ghatsila, where literature and life blended so seamlessly that even cracked walls seemed to whisper fragments of prose. Ghatsila’s green silence outside; inside, the hum of memory and pen scratching paper. Perhaps it was in this very verandah that he paused, looked out, and dreamt of Nishchindipur.

 

Today, when I think of Pather Panchali, or watch Ray’s Apu Trilogy, I rarely stop to think of the room where it all began. And so, on his birth anniversary, I felt compelled to share.

Photo: Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay with wife Rama Bandyopadhyay (Photo Courtesy: Trinankur Bandyopadhyay).