Music Welcome to Snewscast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snewscast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. If you'd like to get an email once a week with upcoming stories and other news, please subscribe to this newsletter at snoozecast.com. This episode is brought to you by The Society of Elephants. Tonight we'll read the opening section from the Caves and Jungles of Hindostan, written by Helen Blavatsky and published in 1883, this episode first aired in January of 2020. Madame Blavatsky was a Russian occultist and philosopher who traveled around the world, including India, before moving to New York City. She co-founded the Theosophical Society in 1875 and gained an international following from the esoteric religion that the society promoted. Madame Blavatsky was a controversial figure, championed by supporters as an enlightened

guru. society promoted. Madame Blavatsky was a controversial figure, championed by supporters as an enlightened guru and derided as a fraudulent charlatan by critics. Her Theosophical doctrines influenced the spread of Hindu and Buddhist ideas in the West, as well as the development of Western esoteric currents like the New Age movement. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. your body into the softness of your bed. Now take a few deep breaths. in the evening of the 16th of February 1879, after a rough voyage which lasted 32 days, joyful exclamations were heard everywhere on deck. Have you seen the lighthouse? There it is at last, the Bombay Lighthouse. Cards, books, music. Everything was forgotten. Everyone rushed on deck. The moon had not risen as yet, and in spite of the starry tropical sky, it was quite dark. The stars were so bright that, at first, it seemed hardly possible to distinguish, far away amongst them, a small fiery point lit by earthly hands. stars winked at us like so many huge eyes in the black sky, on one side of which shone the southern cross. At last we distinguished the lighthouse on the distant horizon. It was nothing but a tiny fiery point diving in the phosphorescent waves. The tired travelers greeted it warmly. The rejoicing was general. a glorious daybreak followed this dark night. The sea no longer tossed our ship. Under the skilled guidance of the pilot who had just arrived and whose bronze form was so sharply defined against the pale sky, our steamer breathing heavily with its broken machinery, slipped over the quiet, transparent waters of the Indian Ocean straight to the harbor. We were only four miles from Bombay and to us, who had trembled with cold only a few weeks ago in the Bay of Biscay, which had been so glorified by many poets and so heartily cursed by all sailors. Our surroundings simply seemed a magical dream. the tropical nights of the Red Sea and the scorching hot days that had tortured us since Aiden, we, people of the distant north, now experience something strange and unwanted, as if the very fresh, soft air had cast its spell over us. There was not a cloud in the sky, thickly strewn with dying stars, even the moonlight, which till then had covered the sky with its silver recarp, was gradually vanishing, and the brighter grew the rosiness of dawn over the small island that lay before us in the east. The paler in the west grew the scattered rays of the moon that sprinkled with bright flakes of light, the dark wake of our ship that left behind her, as if the glory of the west was bidding goodbye to us, while the light of the east welcomed the newcomers from far off lands. Brighter and bluer grew the sky, swiftly absorbing the remaining pale stars one after the other.

And we felt something touching in the sweet dignity with which the queen of night resigned her rights to the powerful usurper. The last descending lower and lower, she disappeared completely. And suddenly, almost without interval between darkness and light, the red hot globe emerging on the opposite side from under the cape, lent his golden chin on the lower rocks of the island, and seemed to stop for a while as if examining us. Then, with one powerful effort. The torch of day rose high over the sea and gloriously proceeded on its path, including in one mighty fiery embrace the blue waters of the bay, the shore, and the islands with their rocks and coconut forests. His golden rays fell upon a crowd of

parses. and the islands with their rocks and coconut forests. His golden rays fell upon a crowd of parsees, his rightful worshipers, who stood on shore, raising their arms towards the mighty eye of Ormust. The sight was so impressive that everyone on deck became silent for a moment. Even a red-nosed old sailor who was busy quite close to us over the cable stopped working and clearing his throat, nodded at the sun. Moving slowly and cautiously along the charming but treacherous bay, we had plenty of time to admire the picture around us. On the right was a group of islands with Garry Pory or Elefanta with its ancient temple at their head. Garry Parry translates to the town of caves according to the orientalists and the town of purification according to the native Sanskrit scholars. This temple cut out by an unknown hand in the very heart of a rock resembling porphyry, is a true apple of discord among the archaeologists of whom none can as yet fix, even approximately its antiquity. Alfonta raises high its rocky brow, all overgrown with secular cactus, and right under it, at the foot of the rock, are hollowed out the chief temple and the two lateral ones. Like the serpent of our Russian fairy tales, it seems to be opening its fierce black mouth to swallow the daring mortal who comes to take possession of the secret mystery of Titan. It's two remaining teeth, dark with time, are formed by two huge pillars at the entrance, sustaining the pallet of the monster. How many generations of Hindus, how many races have knelt in the dust before the tree murty, your three-fold deity, O Elefanta? How many centuries were spent by weak man in digging out in your stone bosom this town of temples and carving your gigantic idols? Who can say? Many years have elapsed since I saw you last, ancient, mysterious temple, and still the same restless thoughts, the same recurring questions vexed me now as they did then, and still remain unanswered. In a few days we shall see each other again. Once more, I shall gaze upon your stern image, upon your three huge granite faces, and shall feel as hopeless as ever of piercing the mystery of your being. This secret fell into safe hands three centuries before ours. It is not in vain that the old Portuguese historian Don Diego de Cuta, boast that the big square stone fastened over the arch of the Pagoda as a distinct inscription having been torn out and sent as a present to the King Don Juan III, disappeared mysteriously in the course of time. Close to this big pagoda, there stood another, and farther on even a third one, the most wonderful of all in beauty, incredible size, and richness of material. Worse of all, they left no inscriptions that might have given a clue as to what happened. Thanks to the fanaticism of Portuguese soldiers, the chronology of the Indian cave temples must remain forever in enigma to the archaeological world, beginning with the Brahmins, who say Elephanta is 374,000 years old, and ending with Ferguson, who tries to prove that it was carved only in the 12th century of our era. Whenever one turns one's eyes to history, there is nothing to be found but hypotheses and darkness. And yet, Garry Puri is mentioned in the epic Mahabharata, which was written, according to Colebrook and Wilson, a good while before the reign of Cyrus. In another ancient legend, it is said that the temple of Tremerti was built on Elephanta by the sons of Pandu, who took part in the war between the dynasties of the sun and the moon, and belonging to the latter were expelled at the end of the war. The Rajputs, who are the descendants of the first, still sing of this victory, but even if their songs were popular, nothing is positive. Centuries of past and will pass, and the ancient secret will die in the rocky bosom of the cave still unrequited. On the left side of the bay, exactly opposite Elefanta, and as if in contrast with all its Antiquity and greatness spreads the mile of our hill.

The And as if in contrast with all its antiquity and greatness, spreads the Malabar hill, the residents of the modern Europeans and rich natives. Their brightly painted bungalows are bathed in the greenery of Banyan, Indian fig, and various other trees, and the tall and straight trunks of coconut palms cover with the fringe of their leaves, the whole ridge of the Hilly Headland. There, on the south-western end of the rock, you see the almost transparent, lace-like government house surrounded on three sides by the ocean. This is the coolest and the most comfortable part of Bombay, fanned by three different sea breezes. The island of Bombay, designated by the natives, Mumbai, received its name from the goddess Mumbai in Marati Mahima, or Amba, Mama, and Amba, according to the dialect, a word meaning, literally, the great mother. Hardly 100 years ago, on the site of the modern esplanade, there stood a temple consecrated to Mamba Devi. With great difficulty and expense, they carried it nearer to the shore, close to the fort, and directed it in front of Bolesvara, the Lord of the Innocent, one of the names of the God Shiva. Bombay is part of a considerable group of islands, the most remarkable of which are Salcetta joined to Bombay by a mole, Elefanta, so named by the Portuguese because of a huge rock cut in the shape of an elephant, 35 feet long, and Trombay, whose lovely rock rises 900 feet above the surface of the sea. Bombé looks on the maps like an enormous crayfish and is at the head of the rest of the islands. Spreading far out into the sea it's too claws. The Bombay Island stands like a sleepless guardian watching over his younger brothers. Between it and the continent there is a narrow arm of a river which gets gradually broader and then again narrower, deeply indenting the sides of both shores, and so forming a haven that has no equal in the world. It was not without reason that the Portuguese, expelled in the course of time by the English, used to call it Wena Bahia. benefit of tourist exaltation, some travelers have compared it to the Bay of Naples. The whole resemblance between the former consists in the fact that there is water in both. In Bombay, as well as in its harbor, everything is original and does not in the least remind one of southern Europe. Look at those coasting vessels and native boats. Both are built in the likeness of the Seabirds' sot, a kind of kingfisher. In motion, these boats are the personification of grace with their long prowls and rounded poops. They look as if they are gliding backwards, and one might mistake for wings, the strangely shaped long, latine sails their narrow angles fastened upwards to a yard. Filling these two wings with the wind and curing so as almost to touch the surface of the water, these boats will fly along with astonishing swiftness. Unlike our European boats, they do not cut the waves, but glide over them like a seagull. The surrounding of the bay transported us to some fairy land of the Arabian Knights. The ridge of the western gots cut through here and there by some separate hills almost as high as themselves stretched along the eastern shore. the base to their fantastic rocky tops, they are all overgrown with impenetrable forests and jungles inhabited by wild animals. Every rock has been enriched by the popular imagination with an independent legend.

All over the slope of the mountain are scattered, the pagodas, mosques, and temples of numberless here and there the hot rays of the sun strike upon an old fortress, one stredful and inaccessible, now half ruined and covered with prickly cactus, at every step some memorial of sanctity. a deep vihara, a cave cell of a Buddhist big shoe saint, there a rock protected by the symbol of Shiva. Further on a jaina temple, a holy tank, all covered with sededge and filled with water, once blessed by a brahmin, and able to purify every sin, all indispensable attributes of all pakodas. All the surroundings are covered with symbols of gods and goddesses. Each of the 300 and 30 million deities of the Hindu pantheon has its representative in something consecrated to it, a stone, a flower, a tree, or a bird. On the west side of the Malabar hill peeps through the trees, Vala Kesvara, the temple of the Lord of Sand. A long stream of Hindus moves towards this celebrated temple. Men and women, shining with rings on their fingers and toes, with bracelets from their wrists up to their elbows, clad in bright turbans and snow white muslins, with foreheads freshly painted with red, yellow, and white, holy sectarian signs. The legend says that Rama spent here a night on his way from Audhya to Lanka to fetch his wife, Sita, who had been stolen by the wicked King, Ravana. Rama's brother, Lakshman, whose duty it was to send him daily a new lingam from Benares was late in doing so one evening. Losing patience, Rama erected for himself a lingam of sand. When it last, the symbol arrived from Benares. It was put in the temple and the lingam erected by Rama was left on the shore. There it stayed during long centuries, but at the arrival of the Portuguese, the Lord of Sand felt so disgusted with the foreigners that he jumped into the sea, never to return. A little farther on, there is a charming tank called Bonatirtha, or the point of the arrow. Here Rama, the much worshipped hero of the Hindus, felt thirsty and not finding any water, shot in air out, and immediately there was created a pond. Its crystal waters were surrounded by a high wall. Steps were built down leading to it, and a circle of white marble dwellings was filled with twice-born brahmanas. India is the land of legends, and of mysterious nooks and corners. There is not a ruin, not a monument, not a thicket that has no story attached to it. Yet, however they may be entangled in the cobweb of popular imagination, which becomes thicker with every generation. It's difficult to point out a single one that is not founded on fact. With patience and still more, with the help of the learned Brahmins, you can always get at the truth when once you have secured their trust and friendship. The same road leads to the temple of the Parse fire worshippers. At its altar burns an unquenchable fire, which daily consumes 100 weights of sandalwood and aromatic herbsers lit 300 years ago.

The sacred fire has never been extinguished, notwithstanding many disorders, sectarian discords, and even wars. The parsees are very proud of this temple of Zara Tushka they call Sarastha. Compared with it, the Hindu pagodas look like brightly painted Easter eggs. Generally, they are consecrated to Hanuman, the monkey god and the faithful ally of Rama, to the Elephant-Head headed Ganesha, the God of the occult wisdom, or to one of the devis. You meet with these temples in every street. Before For each there is a row of Ficus Reliosa centuries old, which no temple can dispense with, because these trees are the abode of the elementals and the sinful souls. All this is entangled, mixed, and scattered, appearing to one's eyes like a picture in a dream. 30 centuries have left their traces here.

The innate laziness and the strong conservative tendencies of the Hindus, even before the European invasion preserved all kinds of monuments from the ruinous vengeance of the fanatics, whether those memorials were Buddhist or belonged to some other unpopular sect. The Hindus are not naturally given to senseless vandalism and of friendologist would mainly look for a bump of destructiveness on their skulls. At last we were anchored and in a moment we're besged. Ourselfs is where as our luggage, by numbers of naked, Hindus, parsees, moguls, and various other tribes. All this crowd emerged as if from the bottom of the sea and began to shout, to chatter, and to yell as only the drives of Asia can. To get rid of this babble, a confusion of tongues as as soon as possible. We took refuge in the first bunder boat and made for the shore. Once settled in the bungalow awaiting us, the first thing we were struck with in Bombay was the millions of crows and vultures. The first star, so to speak, the county council of the town, whose duty is to clean the streets And to kill one of them is not only forbidden by the police, but would be very dangerous. you