Mariamma, a sixteen-year-old devadasi, however, commanded the adulation and respect that rivalled the priests. Mariamma, Meera’s great-great-grandmother, would sing bhajans every evening. Her honeyed voice would rise above the thrum of the waterfall, captivating hundreds of devotees in a trance. Grown men would weep openly and open their hearts and purse strings. Goodwill and gold coins poured into the temple and it grew in stature by leaps and bounds, until the day the ground shook.

The earthquake of 1843 has barely been recorded in the history of the Deccan. Calling it a quake would be a stretch, since half the population argued that they didn’t even feel the tremors. Nonetheless, the ground shook enough to change the course of a certain tributary ever so slightly. What was but an insignificant event in the grand scheme of things was a tectonic shift for Vellasami. The waterfall evaporated overnight – it was as though the gods had abandoned the shiv-ling. This was seen as an ominous sign by the devotees, and some argued that a demon had cast his eye on the enchanted place. Within months, just like the waterfall, the devotees reduced to a trickle and the temple lost its glory. Financially, Vellasami was in dire straits – as the temple had grown, the number of residents and dependents had increased. Without the devotees’ patronage, they were close to destitution.

Then, a rather vulgar proposition offered a glimmer of hope in the dark. Mansinh, the prince of Bhawadh and Vellasami’s disciple, promised to donate any amount it would take to deploy thousands of labourers to carve a path and create an artificial waterfall over the shiv-ling, thereby returning the holy ground to its original state. In return, he would get the devadasi he desired the most – Mariamma. A livid Vellasami banished the prince from his ashram, lamenting the fact that his own student was capable of such immorality – going against the will of god, having the nerve to command nature and demanding a devadasi for his own pleasure.

However, Vellasami soon realised that all the young girls living in the temple would be in similar situations if the place that offered them refuge ceased to exist. With a heavy heart, he decided to sacrifice one life to save the others.

‘Will you sing in the royal court of Bhawadh, dear Mariamma?’ he asked her one day after agonizing over the situation, yet unable to conceive an alternative by which the temple could be saved.

‘Is god present in the royal court of Bhawadh?’ she asked in all innocence.

‘He will be,’ said Vellasami, standing on the edge of truth and untruth. And so Mariamma went to Bhawadh, then to Skripal. Later, she sang in the royal courts of Bhiwandi and Moradabad and Goa. But she hadn’t been traded only for her divine voice – passed around patrons and kingdoms, Mariamma found herself enslaved by men who used her as they pleased, and then discarded her when they’d had their fill.