The Mysterious Carpenter

The Sacred Log's Sanctification

The sun rose over Puri, casting a golden veil across the temple site, where the sacred neem log, Daru Brahma, rested like a divine guest. Retrieved from the sea's embrace, the log now lay in a sanctified enclosure, a canopy of woven palm fronds shielding it from the elements. Its surface, smooth yet veined with golden streaks, seemed to pulse with an inner light, as if Vishnu's essence breathed within. King Indradyumna stood before it, his heart swelling with reverence. The log was no mere wood—it was the Lord's promise, a vessel for the divine forms that would grace his temple.

The enclosure, set near the rising temple's foundation, was a sacred stage. Priests in white dhotis circled the log, their chants of the Vishnu Sukta rising like incense. They sprinkled holy water from the Mahanadi, mixed with turmeric and sandalwood paste, while Savara tribesmen, led by Chief Viswavasu, offered wildflowers and red ochre, their songs weaving tribal rhythms with Vedic hymns. The air was thick with the scent of camphor and sea salt, and the distant waves seemed to chant in harmony. Indradyumna, his silk robes dusted with sand, joined the ritual, his hands trembling as he placed a lotus at the log's base. "O Narayana," he prayed, "let this wood become your eternal form."

Queen Gundicha, her eyes bright with faith, stood beside him, her hands folded in prayer. "The Lord has guided us this far," she said softly, her voice a balm to the king's anxious heart. Vidyapati, the scholar-priest, recorded the rituals in his manuscript, noting the alignment of the stars above. The Savara women, including Viswavasu's daughter Lalita, wove garlands of jasmine and hibiscus, their laughter mingling with the priests' mantras. The scene was a tapestry of unity—king, tribe, and commoner bound by devotion to the divine log.

Yet, a question lingered: who would carve this sacred wood? The log's divine aura resisted ordinary tools, its surface unyielding to the artisans' chisels. Indradyumna consulted his priests, their debates echoing in the temple courtyard. "Only a hand blessed by the gods can shape this wood," Vidyapati declared, his voice firm. The king nodded, his heart trusting Vishnu's plan. As the sun set, casting a crimson glow over the log, Indradyumna prayed for a sign, unaware that the divine was already stirring.

The Arrival of the Mysterious Carpenter

The following dawn brought an unexpected visitor. As Indradyumna inspected the temple's rising pillars, a shadow fell across the sand. An old man stood at the enclosure's edge, his frame stooped yet radiant, his eyes gleaming like polished onyx. His robes were tattered, patched with leaves, and his hands, gnarled as ancient roots, clutched a simple staff. The air around him seemed to shimmer, as if the morning light bent to his presence. The guards hesitated, unsure whether to challenge or bow, but Indradyumna felt a jolt of recognition, as if his vision of Vishnu had left an echo in this stranger's gaze.

"Who are you, revered one?" the king asked, his voice hushed. The old man smiled, his teeth stained with betel, yet his expression was serene. "I am but a carpenter," he said, his voice deep as the sea, "sent to shape the sacred wood into forms that will shelter the divine." Whispers rippled through the crowd—priests, laborers, and Savara alike. Vidyapati stepped forward, his scholar's mind racing. "Are you Vishwakarma, the divine architect?" he asked, half in awe. The old man chuckled, neither confirming nor denying. "Call me what you will, but I know the Daru Brahma's heart."

Indradyumna's heart pounded. This was no ordinary craftsman; the man's presence carried the weight of divinity. "Will you carve the deities—Jagannath, Balabhadra, and Subhadra—for our temple?" the king asked. The carpenter nodded, but his eyes grew stern. "I will, but on one condition: I must work in seclusion for twenty-one days, behind a sealed door. No eye may see, no hand may disturb, until my task is complete." The court murmured, some in awe, others in doubt. Gundicha's brow furrowed, but she nodded, trusting the king's faith.

Indradyumna agreed, his voice resolute. "Your terms are sacred, revered one. The temple is yours." The priests prepared a chamber within the temple's unfinished walls, its stone door carved with lotuses and conches. The Savara offered a woven mat, sprinkled with forest herbs, as a gesture of respect. The carpenter inspected the log, his fingers tracing its grain, and nodded. "The Lord's will resides here," he said, his voice a whisper. With a final glance at Indradyumna, he entered the chamber, the log carried in by priests, and the door was sealed with clay and mantras.

The Seclusion Begins

The chamber's sealing marked a new rhythm in Puri. The temple site, already alive with construction, now pulsed with a deeper mystery. From within the stone walls, the sounds of creation began: the sharp strike of a chisel, the soft scrape of wood, and, at times, a low hum like a distant mantra. The noises echoed through the night, mingling with the sea's roar, as if the ocean itself bore witness to the divine work. Indradyumna stood outside the chamber each dawn, his hands pressed against the door, his prayers fervent. "O Vishnu, let your forms emerge," he whispered, his faith a shield against doubt.

The kingdom watched in awe. Laborers paused their work to listen, their hammers still. The Savara, camped near the temple, told tales of trees that sang when touched by gods. Vidyapati, ever vigilant, noted each sound in his manuscript, interpreting them as signs of divine progress. "The carpenter is no mortal," he told the king, his eyes alight. "His hands shape the eternal." Gundicha, though steadfast, felt a flicker of unease. "Twenty-one days is a long silence," she murmured, her fingers tracing a tulsi bead. Yet she joined the daily rituals, offering lamps and flowers at the chamber's threshold.

The temple site became a pilgrimage hub. Villagers from distant hamlets arrived, their oxcarts laden with rice and coconuts, drawn by tales of the sacred log. Priests lit fires for homas, their smoke curling toward the stars, while Savara drummers beat rhythms that echoed the carpenter's chisel. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of ghee and jasmine mingling with the salt breeze. Indradyumna moved among his people, his presence calming their restlessness. "The Lord tests our patience," he said, his voice steady, "but his grace will shine."

The Kingdom's Vigil

As days passed, Puri transformed into a vibrant tapestry of devotion. The temple's unfinished spires cast long shadows over the shore, where tents and thatched shelters housed pilgrims. Fishermen offered their day's catch to the priests, believing it would bless the deities' creation. The Savara, their faces painted with tribal symbols, danced under the moon, their songs invoking spirits of wood and sea. Vedic priests, their heads shaved and robes pristine, chanted the Rig Veda, their voices blending with the tribal rhythms in a rare harmony.

Indradyumna and Gundicha hosted nightly gatherings, where poets sang of Vishnu's avatars—Krishna's flute, Rama's bow, Narasimha's roar. Vidyapati shared stories of ancient temples, where divine forms emerged from stone or wood, fueling the crowd's hope. Yet, whispers of doubt crept in. Some laborers wondered if the carpenter was truly divine, others feared the log's mystery was too great for mortal hands. Viswavasu, the Savara chief, silenced such talk. "The forest knows this man," he said, his voice firm. "His work is sacred."

Omens appeared, subtle yet profound. A lotus bloomed in a temple pond, its petals unseasonably wide. An eagle circled the chamber, its cries echoing at dawn. Indradyumna saw these as Vishnu's signs, his faith unwavering. Each night, he stood by the sea, the waves whispering memories of his vision. "The Lord is within that chamber," he told Gundicha, his eyes reflecting the stars. She nodded, her heart clinging to hope, yet a shadow of doubt lingered as the fifteenth day neared.