Nandkumar M. Kamat
I stood on the lateritic plateau of Devihasol as evening settled over the Konkan hills. From where I stood the land sloped gently westward toward the Arabian Sea, now hidden beyond forested ridges. Today, the plateau was quiet except for the wind and the occasional cry of a bird. Carved deep into the laterite was the vast labyrinthine petroglyph of Devihasol, a mysterious geometric maze cut patiently into the plateau surface. Its lines twisted, doubled back, returned upon themselves and stretched outward like the nervous system of the earth. No other carving across the Konkan coast looked
like this.
I had studied hundreds of petroglyph sites across the lateritic plateaus of south Konkan, from Ratnagiri to Rajapur and beyond. Animals, birds, human figures and geometric patterns appeared on many plateaus. Some were impressive, some playful, some solemn. But this one was different. The Devihasol labyrinth was not merely a figure. It was a landscape of thought carved into stone.
I had come as an indologist and field researcher, notebook in hand, trying to read the ancient mind through lines etched in rock. Yet as dusk deepened, scholarship began to loosen its hold on me. The stone felt strangely warm beneath my feet. The grooves seemed to grow deeper before my eyes. A faint dizziness came over me.
When the vision opened the world had changed. The sea lay far beyond its modern shoreline. Twenty-four thousand years ago, during the Last Glacial Maximum, enormous ice sheets locked away vast quantities of water. Sea levels were more than a hundred metres lower than today. The Arabian Sea had retreated far to the west. Between the present coastline and that distant ocean stretched a vast exposed continental shelf of tidal flats, lagoons, salt marshes and braided rivers. Herds moved across plains that today lie buried beneath the sea. Estuaries ran longer and shallower. Mangrove forests spread across the tidal plains. The Konkan coast was broader then, raw and alive.
And on the Devihasol Plateau people had gathered. A clan stood on the hard lateritic surface overlooking the river valley. Smoke rose from hearths. Baskets of shellfish lay beside drying fish racks. Children ran between piles of stone flakes and hammerstones. Dogs barked lazily near the fires. Their shelters stood below the plateau near the bend of the river, light frames of saplings covered with skins and leaves. They were hunter-fishers and gatherers moving through forests, rivers, and tidal plains in rhythm with seasons and tides.
At the centre stood Baha. Her hair was bound with feathers and fish bones. White ash crossed her brow. Around her neck hung polished shells and seeds worn smooth with age. She was not a queen nor a priestess in the later sense. She was something older. She was a shaman. Around her stood the other women who shared her visions, Bahalen, Jinid, Ipil, Iril, and Rimil. They were healers, watchers of stars, interpreters of dreams and tides. Men approached carrying tools. Birsa the stone toolmaker. Horo the net-weaver. Surin and Soren, hunters hardened by the forest. Kandir who followed birds across marshlands. Barla who smelled rain long before clouds gathered. They knew that other clans lived across the rich landscapes of south Konkan. Far to the north and south other groups carved animals and symbols on laterite plateaus near their seasonal camps. Messages of memory, territory, and ritual travelled through those carvings.
But this plateau was different. Here the women shamans had dreamed something far more complex. Baha knelt and placed both palms upon the stone. “The earth is awake,” she said softly. The words were not a language I knew, yet within the vision I understood them. Birsa studied the rock carefully. “This stone is hard,” he said. “Hard as the dry riverbed. It will take many seasons.” Baha nodded. “Then many seasons will be given.” Bahalen stepped forward holding a shallow bowl of water mixed with crushed leaves, mushroom pulp and fish oil. With her fingers she traced faint lines upon the plateau. The lines curved and branched outward. From above they might seem chaotic, but they were not. They were memories of rivers, tidal channels, animal paths, stars and dreams. Jinid began a slow chant. The rhythm rose and fell like breathing. Soon others joined. The sound spread across the plateau and sank into the stone like roots. Birsa lifted his hammerstone and struck. The first blow rang across the ancient Konkan evening. Stone flakes flew. The work continued for days, then moons, then seasons. Men carved the main channels. Women reshaped them, deepened them, extended them. Children carried away fragments. Elders sat nearby naming creatures so they would live within the carvings. Fish. Tortoise. Tiger. Bird. Serpent. Human figures dancing with animals. Yet the labyrinth itself came from somewhere deeper than memory.
On certain nights the shamans entered trance. Rimil and Iril brought mushrooms gathered from the forest. Surin prepared bitter roots. Kandir carried dried vines used in vision rituals. They fasted, chewed and drummed. Firelight flickered across their faces. Baha entered trance first. Her body trembled. “I see rivers inside the earth,” she whispered. “I see the paths fish follow beneath the tides. I see the great mother who lives below the soil.” The labyrinth grew from those visions. Its twisting channels resembled rivers, estuaries, and tidal creeks. It was not random art. It was a cosmology. A map of land, water, life and spirit. Years passed. Clans moved across the Konkan forests exchanging shells, stories, and marriages. They knew many carved plateaus across the region. Animals at one site, birds at another, human figures elsewhere. But travellers spoke with awe of Devihasol, the great maze on the high plateau, the stone dream of the women shamans. Even the clan itself did not finish it quickly. The labyrinth grew slowly across seasons and generations. New channels were added, old ones deepened.
Then change began. At first it was subtle. The estuary water tasted different. Salt pushed farther inland. Fish moved away from familiar spawning grounds. Storms flooded camps that had once been safe. The vast plains between the coast and the sea slowly began to disappear as the ocean returned. One morning Baha, now old, stood beside Rimil on the plateau. Below them the river wound through the valley toward the distant sea. “Will they know us?” Rimil asked quietly, touching the grooves. “They will know the cuts,” Baha replied. “Not the hands.” “Will they know our speech?” “No.” “Our songs?” “No.” “Our names?” Baha looked across the labyrinth. “Perhaps not even that.” Rimil ran her fingers along the carved channels. “Then why did we make this?” Baha smiled gently. “Because the earth asked. Because dreams must become stone. Because forgetting is also part of the law.”
Below them the clan prepared to leave. Bundles, nets, children, dogs, and baskets of tools were gathered. They would move inland toward the forested slopes of the Sahyadris where rivers were young and the sea could not reach. Their descendants would scatter across the subcontinent merging with other peoples, carrying fragments of memory that would one day echo in myths and symbols. But the plateau would remain. Baha placed her palm inside one of the carved channels. “We go,” she said. “The stone stays.”
The vision shattered. Wind struck my face and the present returned. I stood once again on the Devihasol Plateau staring at the labyrinth carved into
the laterite.
