The Unfinished Idols

The Waning Days of Seclusion

The temple site at Puri shimmered under the sun, its half-built spires casting shadows over the sacred enclosure where the Daru Brahma rested. For nearly two weeks, the mysterious carpenter—believed by many to be Vishwakarma in disguise—had labored behind the sealed stone door, shaping the divine log into the forms of Jagannath, Balabhadra, and Subhadra. The air thrummed with anticipation, as if the sea itself held its breath. Each dawn, the sounds of creation echoed from the chamber: the rhythmic strike of a chisel, the soft rasp of wood, and, at times, a low hum that seemed to rise from the earth itself. King Indradyumna stood before the door, his hands pressed against its cool surface, his heart a vessel of prayer. "O Vishnu," he whispered, "let your forms emerge to bless this land."

The kingdom of Puri had become a vibrant tapestry of devotion. Priests in white dhotis lit ghee lamps, their flames dancing in the sea breeze, while chanting the Vishnu Sahasranama. The Savara tribe, their faces painted with red ochre, beat drums carved from forest wood, their rhythms blending with Vedic hymns in a harmony that spoke of ancient unity. Villagers and pilgrims flocked to the site, their oxcarts laden with coconuts and bananas, offerings for the deities yet to be born. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, camphor, and salt, and the distant waves seemed to chant in chorus with the priests.

Indradyumna moved among his people, his presence a beacon of hope. His silk robes, once pristine, were now dusted with sand, a testament to his labor alongside artisans and tribesmen. Queen Gundicha, her eyes bright with faith, organized the women to weave garlands, their fingers threading marigolds with care. Vidyapati, the scholar-priest, recorded each day's events, his palm-leaf manuscripts filling with notes on the chamber's sounds and the omens that dotted Puri's skies—eagles circling at dawn, lotuses blooming unseasonably in temple ponds. "The Lord's hand is at work," Vidyapati told the king, his voice steady with conviction.

Yet, as the fifteenth day approached, a subtle tension crept into the camp. The sounds from the chamber grew erratic—long silences broken by sudden bursts of chiseling, then quiet again. Indradyumna, standing by the sea at dusk, felt a flicker of unease but pushed it aside. "The carpenter is divine," he told himself, his eyes tracing the horizon where his vision of the Daru Brahma had come true. The Savara, led by Chief Viswavasu, saw the silences as sacred, their elders whispering of trees that spoke only when ready. But the priests murmured, their debates growing heated. "Is the work complete?" one asked, his voice low. "Or does the silence foretell a divine test?"

Gundicha's Growing Anxiety

Queen Gundicha, ever the pillar of strength, felt the weight of the silence most keenly. Her days were spent in service—offering lamps, comforting pilgrims, ensuring the temple's rituals flowed smoothly. Yet, each night, as she stood beside Indradyumna, her heart stirred with unease. The chamber's silence on the fifteenth day was deafening, a void where the chisel's song had once rung. She paced the tent they shared, her fingers twisting a tulsi bead, her mind racing. "What if the carpenter has fallen ill?" she whispered to herself, the thought unbidden yet persistent. "What if the divine work is undone?"

She shared her fears with Indradyumna, her voice soft but urgent. "My king, the silence is unnatural. We promised the carpenter seclusion, but what if he needs aid?" Indradyumna, his face lined with the strain of hope, shook his head. "The Lord sent him, Gundicha. We must trust his will." Yet her words planted a seed of doubt, one that grew in the quiet hours. Vidyapati, summoned to their tent, offered cautious wisdom. "The Puranas speak of divine tasks veiled in mystery," he said, his eyes scanning his manuscripts. "But silence after such sounds… it troubles the heart."

The priests, gathered in the temple courtyard, echoed Gundicha's fears. Some saw the silence as a sign of completion, others as an omen of failure. Viswavasu, his bone necklace glinting in the firelight, urged patience. "The forest does not rush its secrets," he said, his voice calm but firm. Yet Gundicha's anxiety spread, her gentle authority swaying the court. She approached Indradyumna again, her eyes pleading. "If we lose the carpenter, we lose the Lord's forms. Can we risk such a loss?" Her words pierced the king's faith, his heart torn between trust and fear.

The fifteenth night was sleepless for Puri. The sea roared, its waves crashing with a fury that seemed to mirror Gundicha's turmoil. She stood by the chamber, her lamp casting shadows on the stone door, its lotus carvings now ominous. Indradyumna joined her, his hand on her shoulder, his voice strained. "We promised seclusion, my queen. To break it is to defy the divine." But Gundicha's fear was a tide, unstoppable. "If we wait and lose him, how will we face the Lord?" she asked, tears in her eyes. The king, his resolve wavering, called for a council at dawn.

The Decision to Open the Chamber

Dawn broke over Puri, the sky streaked with crimson, as if warning of the choice ahead. Indradyumna summoned his court to the temple courtyard, the chamber's sealed door looming like a silent judge. Priests, nobles, and Savara elders gathered, their faces a mix of hope and dread. Vidyapati spoke first, his voice heavy. "The carpenter's condition was clear—twenty-one days of seclusion. To open the door now risks his wrath." Viswavasu nodded, his eyes on the king. "The sacred does not bend to human haste," he said, his tone a plea.

But Gundicha stepped forward, her presence commanding. "If the carpenter is divine, he will forgive our care. If he is mortal, we cannot let him perish." Her words stirred the crowd, mothers and pilgrims nodding, their faith in her compassion outweighing fear. Indradyumna's heart churned. He had trusted Vishnu's visions, endured the loss of Nilamadhava, and now faced a choice that could unravel his quest. Yet Gundicha's tears, her hand trembling in his, swayed him. "We will open the door," he declared, his voice breaking. "May the Lord forgive us."

The priests prepared a ritual to appease the divine. They circled the chamber, chanting the Narayana Stotra, sprinkling holy water and turmeric. The Savara offered wildflowers, their songs invoking forest spirits. Indradyumna, his heart heavy, placed a lotus at the door's base, whispering, "O Vishnu, guide us." The laborers, their hands calloused from temple work, approached the clay-sealed door, their chisels ready. The crowd held its breath, the sea's roar the only sound, as the first strike broke the seal.

The Shocking Discovery

The door swung open, revealing a chamber bathed in an eerie glow. The air was thick with the scent of neem and sandalwood, but the carpenter was gone. No trace of his staff, his tools, or his presence remained. On a stone platform lay three forms, carved from the Daru Brahma, yet unlike any idols known to Puri. Jagannath, the largest, gazed with wide, unblinking eyes, his face a circle of divine simplicity, his body limbless, a torso of raw wood. Balabhadra, beside him, was taller, his eyes equally vast, his form stark yet majestic. Subhadra, smaller, shone with a gentle curve, her eyes a quiet promise. The idols were unfinished, their surfaces rough, yet their presence was overwhelming, as if the cosmos itself watched through their eyes.

Indradyumna staggered forward, his breath caught in his throat. "What is this?" he gasped, his hands reaching for Jagannath's form, then pulling back in awe. The crowd pressed closer, their gasps echoing. Vidyapati fell to his knees, his manuscripts forgotten, his voice a whisper. "The Lord's will… but incomplete?" Gundicha's face paled, her hands covering her mouth, guilt flooding her heart. "We broke the pact," she murmured, tears falling. Viswavasu, his eyes wide, saw not failure but mystery. "The forest gods leave their mark thus," he said, his voice reverent.

The priests were divided—some saw blasphemy, others divinity. The Savara knelt, their hands tracing the idols' grain, sensing a sacredness beyond form. Indradyumna's heart broke. "Have I failed you, O Lord?" he cried, his voice echoing in the chamber. The idols' eyes, vast and unyielding, seemed to hold both judgment and compassion, but offered no answer. The king fell to the floor, his crown rolling into the dust, his faith shattered by the weight of his choice.