THE TRAIL OF THE RAMAYANA FRESH

  

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The World Geography of the Rāmāyaṇa

The Akahnda Bhārata Trail

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To my parents—
who walked ahead with grace,
and whose quiet memory walks beside me still.

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PREFACE

This book is the culmination of years of inquiry—linguistic, geographic, and poetic—into the encoded memory of India’s ancient texts and placenames. What began as scattered notes and quiet questions slowly took shape across maps, manuscripts, and margins. The work unfolded not through sudden insight, but through patient listening—tracing names, testing meanings, and watching patterns emerge in phonetics, geography, and scriptural resonance.

Portions of this inquiry first appeared in earlier form on Vedic Café, a blog I maintained during a formative phase of research and reflection. Those entries, written many years ago, served as sketches—early attempts to trace the contours of a civilisational map half visible beneath modern reading. In revisiting them now, I have revised, expanded, and recontextualised the material to reflect both new evidence and a deepened understanding. This volume is not a republication, but a reweaving: a deliberate synthesis of years of inquiry, where fragments of research are gathered into a coherent map of sacred geography.

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Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I: THE STORY BEHIND THE MANY NAMES OF INDIA

CHAPTER II: THE VĀNARA TRAIL THROUGH THE SAPTA-SINDHU

I. The Rāmāyaṇa as a Spiritual, Civilisational, Geographic and Historical Testament

II. Route From Saurāṣṭra to Afghanistan and Ahead

III. The Land of Bāhlika

IV. Travels through the Sapta-Sindhu Region

V. The Passage through the Land of Sindh

VI. The Sindhu-Sāgara Expanse

VII. Journey to Distant Lands

CHAPTER III: THE VĀNARA QUEST ACROSS WEST ASIA

I. From the Ocean to the Zagros Range

II. The Mountain Peaks and the Cities of the Zagros Range

III. The Legends and Lands of Iran

IV. Finding the City of First Light

V. Elamite and Susiana Connections to the Rāmāyaṇa

VI. Indra’s Cities in West Asia

VII. Land of the Golden Palm Insignia

VIII. The Land of Meru in West Asia

IX. Aṅgada — Founder of the Akkadian Civilisation?

X. At the Western Horizon

CHAPTER IV: THE EASTERN EXPEDITION OF THE VĀNARAS

I. The Eastward Land

• II. Journey Along the Rivers of India

  III. Travels in South East Asia and Indochina

IV. Australia and New Zealand— The Śālmali-dvīpa of the Rāmāyaṇa and Purāṇas

V. Polynesia — A Detour from the Vānaras’ Course

VI. South America, Towards the Serpent’s Head

CHAPTER V: THE VĀNARA JOURNEY INTO THE HIMALAYAN AND ARCTIC LANDS

I. The Northward Expedition

II. A Journey through the Himalayas

III. Tibet and Kailāśa

IV. Beyond Tibet

V. Siberian and Mongolian Links

VI. The Arctic Horizon

EPILOGUE

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INTRODUCTION

“If names be not correct, language is not in accordance with the truth of things…”—Confucius Zhengming

Somewhere in the world, a name—etched into a crumbling temple wall, carved onto a forgotten monument, or whispered through generations—holds a secret. A name whose meaning has faded, worn down by time, buried beneath shifting languages and lost histories. Yet, if traced back far enough, it does not merely speak—it reveals. It tells its itihasa, the way-in truth-it came to be. And it is not alone. Across continents, such names abound and form a trail—each one pointing, unmistakably, to India.

From soaring mountain ranges to ancient rivers, from sacred cities to forgotten shrines, the world is threaded with names that point to an older, interconnected past. What conventional history views as isolated cultures were, in truth, fragments of a vast civilisational weave—bound by migrations, sacred knowledge systems, and something often overlooked: the expansive, formative reach of Indic thought. 

This is not an influence. It is a foundation. Not a footnote—but the forgotten prologue of human history. Consider Göbekli Tepe—today celebrated as the oldest known temple site in the world, dating back over 12,000 years. Its ancient Kurdish name, Girê Mirazan, seems unassuming at first—until reversed. Then emerges Merugiri—Giri Meru—a Sanskritic invocation of the cosmic mountain Meru, axis of sacred geography across Indic traditions. Fittingly, the site lies in the Germuş Range—its name too echoing giri (गिरि). This is not a poetic coincidence, but linguistic memory. An embedded trace of the world's oldest civilisational voice, still echoing in Anatolia, faraway from its source in the soil of Bhārata.

The hidden invocation of Meru in Göbekli Tepe shows the application—how the same method of convergence through names, when extended outward, uncovers global linguistic and cosmological echoes that return to India’s civilisational epicentre.

Such revelations urge a reconsideration of the linguistic tools we use to interpret ancient landscapes. To step into this tapestry, we need a language resilient enough to carry the original code. A language through the prism of which names can reawaken and reveal how early societies mapped meaning onto landscapes. Sanskrit, luminous, unbroken and precise, offers this key.

When Sanskrit becomes the lens, a pattern begins to surface. The recurrence of Sanskritic placenames across continents is not a coincidence—it signals continuity. Each name evokes the epoch of ananta-kaal, the foundational stage of Indic civilisation, when wisdom was articulated, encoded, and shared across vast terrains. These echoes are not confined to the subcontinent; they resound in the Levant, the Andes, and the Arctic, tracing a civilisational arc far wider than remembered.  As we begin to hear them again, what seemed scattered begins to align. What felt fragmented reveals an obscured design. Even where records are lost, Sanskrit preserves the imprints—in sound, symbol, and structure.

This is the truth at the heart of this inquiry: India was not just one civilisation among many. It was a civilisational epicentre—radiating language, philosophy, and cosmological vision outward.  Yet as dominant historical frameworks fractured and repackaged this narrative, India’s role was diminished, its story khaṇḍita (खण्डित), broken and scattered into whispers. This series, titled the Akhaṇḍa Bhārata Trail, seeks to listen to those echoes, seeking to unveil the forgotten map of an Akhaṇḍa Bhārata of yore—traced through the names, routes, and resonances that remain.

In this book called The Sacred Geography of the Rāmāyaṇa, we begin by exploring the many names by which the land of India has been known. We then trace in detail the trail of place‑names the Rāmāyaṇa preserves—each name a lamp lit along the vānaras’ path in their search for Sītā, each epithet a clue to the sacred geography of antiquity. Following the vānaras across a worldwide network of routes, we reconstruct fragments of a vast civilisational epic. Through linguistic precision, mythic intuition, and geographic truth, what was once scattered now begins to speak.

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CHAPTER 1: 

THE STORY BEHIND THE MANY NAMES OF INDIA

An Unbounded- Timeless Land: 

A land as old as time does not wear one name—it gathers many, each a testament of its boundless horizons. Every name is a vessel of memory: of a timeless philosophy, of paths once trodden, of rivers once worshipped, of mountains once exalted in hymn. To itself, the land was Sapta-Sindhu, Bhārata, Āryāvarta, and Dravida. Beyond its borders, where civilisational boundaries blur, it was known to the Persians as Hind. To the Greeks as 'Indoi' and ‘Gangaridai’. To the Chinese as Tiānzhú. Since ananta-kaal, across millennia, these voices braided together until the name India emerged as the world’s synonym for a civilisation unbroken through time.

Sapta-Sindhu refers to a land shaped by a cluster of seven rivers, while Gangaridai derives from the mighty Gaṅga River itself. The name Bhārata shines like the radiant light of the sun, embodying the spirit of the land. Āryāvarta emerges from the sacred chants of sages reciting in measured verse—Vedic hymns that shaped its spirit and defined its sacred geography.  Dravida, encircled by seas and criss-crossed by rivers, calls to mind a peninsula of flowing waters and timeless wisdom. It is within this civilisational field that the Rāmāyaṇa takes form, offering a vision of Rāmrājya.

The Rāmāyaṇa preserves many of these names, weaving their extent into its narrative. Daśaratha is described as the ruler of Bhāratavarṣa, his dominion extending across vasundhara (वसुन्धरा) ‘earth’,  prithvi (पृथ्वी) 'world', and jagat (जगत्) 'cosmos. It speaks of the land of Sapta-Sindhu and of the Sindhu’s descent into the sea. It also venerates the Gaṅga, recounting how Sage Bhagīratha guided her celestial fall from heaven to sanctify the sons of King Sāgara, ancestor of Śrī Rāma—so that the river the Greeks called Gangaridai was already enshrined in India’s epic memory as goddess, purifier, and eternal stream of civilisation.

Hence, by the time of the Vedas and the Rāmāyaṇa, many of India’s civilisational names had already taken shape, inscribing the land with enduring identity. Others were still in the making—such as Āryāvarta, formed through the word ārya (noble), a term used to describe many of the protagonists of the epic. In this way, the geography of India was not only mapped by rivers and realms but also by ideals, with names that carried both physical and moral resonance.

Unlike mere labels of geography, India’s names function as civilisational markers. They chart not boundaries, but spheres of influence. Together they sketch a map—one far wider than the borders we recall. Vaster than the quadrilateral once drawn by Megasthenes, an early attempt to bind India within four sides; larger than the subcontinent outlined by modern cartography. For the many names of India do not merely mark territory—they mark a presence that whispers of a civilisational field that stretched across oceans.

These luminous marks on the map shone so brightly that even Claudius Ptolemy’s Geographia—composed in Alexandria around 150 CE—could not omit them. Though primarily a Greek textual atlas, its coordinates inscribed India’s presence with clarity, distinguishing India intra Gangem (within the Ganges) from India extra Gangem (beyond the Ganges), revealing Hellenistic awareness of Gangetic geography and hinting at trade routes reaching into Southeast Asia. In Ptolemy's atlas appears the name Indabara, a phonetic reflection of Indraprastha, as identified by scholars like J. W. McCrindle, a 19th-century translator of Ptolemy, suggesting that the city’s memory had already crossed into Greek cartographic tradition.

The Tabula Peutingeriana, a Roman map of roads and realms, likewise stylised India’s outline, making its presence unmistakable. The Ganges appears on it as 'Ganges Fluvius' and Pataliputra as 'Palibothra', the Greco-Roman rendering of the Mauryan capital’s name, underscoring that India was far from peripheral—it stood at the heart of Roman geographic imagination. 

Yet the most expansive, detailed, and geographically coherent depiction of the world emerges in Sugrīva’s map in the  Rāmāyaṇa, whose contours we will trace in the pages to come.

Ptolemy's Map of India and the Indian Ocean

🌺 Civilisational Echoes Beyond Borders: India’s presence was not only charted on maps—it was etched into stone, sanctified in script, and carried across lands through temples, toponyms, and ritual architecture. From the Sanskrit-inscribed fire temple of Baku in Azerbaijan on the Caspian shore to the carved pillars of Angkor Wat in Cambodia, the civilisational arc of India left its script and sanctum far beyond its borders.

Angkor Wat—more correctly Nagara Vati (नगर वटी), Sanskrit for 'City Temple'—is widely accepted in Southeast Asia as bearing Sanskritic origins, for in the Far East, such etymologies are embraced with reverence. But in the West, the same linguistic lineage often meets resistance.

The Sanskrit Inscriptions on the Temple Wall at Atesgah at Baku in Azerbaijan. Creative Commons Attribution license.

🌺 Sanskritic Imprints in Persian and Avestan Heritage: Take Baku, for instance. Mainstream scholarship offers two compelling etymologies—both stopping short at Persian and Avestan layers, yet a deeper look reveals unmistakable ties to Sanskrit. Movses Khorenatsi (c. 410–490s CE), a prominent Armenian historian from late antiquity and the author of the 'History of the Armenians', traces the name Baku to Old Persian 'Bagavan', meaning 'City of God', which is a direct cognate of Sanskrit bhaghvān (भगवान), 'the possessor of divine fortune', itself rooted in bhaga (भग), meaning 'sun', 'moon', or 'majestic'.

By the 10th century CE, in around the year 930, the original name had shifted to Baku, acquiring a slightly altered meaning in local usage. Historians linked Baku to Avestan 'bakham', meaning 'boon' or 'God‑given', which in turn resonates with Sanskrit vardhana (वर्धन), meaning 'granting boon'. Whether through 'bagavan' or 'bakham', the name ultimately flows back to Sanskrit—a source rarely acknowledged in mainstream discourse.

The Fire Temple of Ateshgah at Baku, whose Persian name means 'Chamber of Fire', likewise preserves Sanskritic echoes, where the word 'atesh' (fire) can be linguistically traced to the Sanskrit atharva. Originally referring to the Atharva-Veda priestly lineage entrusted with fire rituals, Sanskrit atharva (आथर्व) evolved into the Avestan 'atar', signifying both the divine embodiment of fire and the 'Yazata', the spiritual entity who presides over it. This shift—from priest to flame—marks a civilisational reorientation, where the 'mediator of fire' becomes the 'fire' itself. In Persian, 'atar' became 'ates', and later 'atish' in Urdu, preserving the sacred radiance of the Vedic fire.

Though the inscriptions at the Baku Temple praising Śiva and Ganesha belong to a later era, dated roughly to 900 ADE, the Rāmāyaṇic place-names scattered across Iran and Azerbaijan point to a far older memory. On the modern map of Iran, the cities of Ramsar and Ravansar still echo the names of Rāma and Rāvana. Across the border near Baku in Azerbaijan, two towns preserve a similar resonance: Siyavar, another epithet of Rāma, and Lankaran, recalling Rāvana’s Lanka, the city subdued by Rāma. Together, these place names whisper the enduring memory of the Rāmāyaṇa across landscapes far beyond India.

This raises a deeper question: who bestowed these names?

They seem not newly coined, but part of an older, Sanskritic cartography that predated even the search by the vānarás. The peaks and rivers bore names that Sugrīva, the vānará-commander, could invoke with confidence, as if the world had long been mapped in Indic terms. How did Sugrīva know of them? Who first spoke them into being? Whatever the answer, the result is unmistakable: a trail of Sanskritic names scattered across continents. Some still survive; others lie buried beneath layers of time.

Ramsar, Ravansar, Lankaran and Siyaver Trail through Iran and Azerbaijan

In mainstream scholarship, the reluctance to trace such names beyond Persian or Avestan into their Sanskritic origins, even if supported by scriptures, is not mere linguistic caution—it is a civilisational posture. It reflects an unwillingness to acknowledge India’s deeper imprint on global memory, and in doing so, attempts to shrink the borders of Akhāṇḍa Bhārata —not by redrawing maps, but by erasing its etymological traces.

This erasure is not confined to footnotes or philology—it shapes how we see the world. When names are severed from their Sanskritic roots, the map itself begins to blur. What remains is not a neutral geography, but a curated silence. To restore clarity, we must reorient the map—not by tracing borders, but by attuning ourselves to the traces of civilisational essence.

🌺 Sanskritic Imprints in Latin American Toponymy: And we must do so, not only in the Far East or West Asia, but also in lands on the other side of the world, where too an Indic civilisational trail is visible. Like Mt. Ananta of Peru, rising to a height of more than 17,000 feet, located at 13°48′50″S, 70°37′14″W—its name is unmistakably Sanskrit, resting in the Andes thousands of miles from India. 

Similarly, the name Patala appears in Peru, a striking parallel to the very term by which the Purāṇa-s. designate realms beneath the earth or the underworld, and intriguingly, South America itself. In Sanskrit, patala (पाताल) signifies ‘the netherworld’, a subterranean realm in mythic geography. The Quechua meaning of Patala is ‘edge’ or ‘plain’. Its cognate 'pata' has the meaning of 'field' in Aymara and 'above' in Guarani. The southernmost reaches of South America hold the placename Patagonia, whose name resonates with the same root. This reflects a remarkable semantic convergence grounded in geography. The endurance of patala in a name in a foreign land is no mere chance—it is anchored in shared linguistic origins and enduring cultural memory. What cartographic and toponymic tradition preceded the compass, carrying these names across continents? 

To define Akhāṇḍa Bhārata, then, is not to draw a border. It is to follow a trail. From Iran to Vietnam, from Anatolia to the archipelagos of the Pacific, and to the highlands of South America, the traces remain.

🌺The layered legacy of the name 'India: Unbounded by words, unconfined by labels, the idea of this civilisational land is too vast for one name. Here, even the gods are not known by one name alone. When Kṛṣṇa was born, he was called Nand Lal—the joy of Nand. As the 'herder of cows', he became Gopal—yet in that word 'go' lies also the meaning of 'universe'. So, Gopal is not only a 'cowherd', but the 'one who tends the cosmos'. As the slayer of the demon Madhu, he became Madhusudan. And as the dark one, he was simply Kṛṣṇa. In each name, a facet unfolds. For names here are not identities—they are revelations.

Just as divine names unfold in layers, so too does the name 'India', a civilisational referent shaped by history, geography, and global memory. There is talk now of dropping the name India. Of replacing it. But India, like its other names, is not a label to be shed—it is a legacy to be carried. For over two millennia, the world has called this land India, or Inde, or Indica.

Lucian of Samosata, writing in the second century CE, in his De Dea Syria, spoke of 'wise men from India' who journeyed to the temples of Syria. This account is reaffirmed by Orientalist Francis Wilford (1761–1822), who cites Lucian in his essay On Egypt and Other Countries Adjacent to the Cali River or the Nile of Ethiopia, published in the Asiatic Researches, Vol. III. According to Wilford, these sages disseminated knowledge and laid the foundations of civilisation long before the construction of the Temple of Hierapolis, which had already fallen into ruin two thousand years earlier than Lucian's time (125-180 CE).

Wilford notes, “Lucian informs us that pilgrims from India resorted to Hierapolis in Syria". He adds, “Ptolemy acknowledges himself indebted for much information to many learned Indians whom he had seen at Alexandria". These references are not isolated. Greek and Roman authors such as Poseidonius, Pliny the Elder, and Herodotus all refer to this land as India, or its variations. Pliny, in Natural History, calls it 'the sink of the world’s gold'. Herodotus, in Histories, describes the Indoi as 'the most numerous nation known to me' —a phrase by which he meant the sheer size of its population, hence also where civilisation flourished by virtue of its scale.

India was a cradle where human abundance gave rise to enduring, well-known urban centres like Ayodhyā, Mathurā and Pataliputra, as well as to Madurai in Southern India, once known as Kadambavanam and later celebrated as Koodal, which was the city where Sangam poets gathered, trade routes converged, and ritual, governance, and learning took deep root.

Megasthenes titled his account of this land in his Indica, describing the land’s shape, its rivers, and its customs—fragments of his writings were preserved by Arrian, Strabo, and Plinynin their writings. The name India appears in thousands upon thousands of texts—Greek, Roman, Persian, Arabic, Chinese. These books cannot be rewritten. Their maps cannot be redrawn. And their memory cannot be severed from the name they knew.

In none of these writings—spanning over two millennia—does any other name for this land emerge. Not Bhārata, not Āryāvarta, not Sapta-Sindhu. The name India is not a colonial imposition. To abandon India is to unmoor future generations from the very texts that preserve its wisdom. How will they know that the sages of Inde or Indi were the rishis of Bhārata? That the Indica was not a foreign gaze, but a mirror held to a civilisation in full bloom?

Even the ocean bears her name. The Indian Ocean—a vast body of water named not for an empire, but for essence. And no other civilisation has so deeply imprinted itself upon a landmass that the world calls the Indian Subcontinent, named from the Indus or Sindhu itself. From the river came the civilisation, from the civilisation came India, and from India the Subcontinent: all bearing the same lineage of memory. The maritime expanse of Southeast Asia—including Indonesia, the Philippines, and surrounding waters—was long inscribed on maps as the East Indian Archipelago, a cartographic reverberation of India’s civilisational presence across the seas.

Those who fear that the name 'India' is foreign forget that its form may be Indo‑European, but its root is Sanskrit—born of Sindhu, sung in the Ṛgveda, and thus indigenous in essence. To abandon it is to sever the memory carried in the oldest hymns of this land. To call this land India is not to erase Bhārata or Āryāvarta or Sapta-Sindhu. One name does not cancel another. Each carries a different inflexion of memory. 

Bhārata is a truth spoken from within; India is a truth received from without. If the name 'India' is deemed inauthentic, then so too must be Hindu and Hindustan—for all three trace their lineage to the river Sindhu.

🌺 The Etymology and Essence of Dravida: Just as the name India has its legacy, Dravida too is a name of memory mentioned in the Mahābhārata. Its etymology—though debated—offers a luminous possibility. In Tamil etymological traditions, Dravida is derived from the root Tamizh, 'tam' (தம்), meaning 'self' or 'one’s own', and -'izh' (இழ்), a unique phoneme that connotes sweetness, softness, or graceful expression. Thus, Tamizh can be interpreted as a signature of identity. There are other interpretations too, such as 'Tamiz' meaning 'own speech'. 

From a Sanskrit lens, Dravida appears to entail drava (द्रव) — 'to flow', and vida (विद) — 'to know': a land of flowing waters and flowing wisdom. A peninsula surrounded by seas, threaded with rivers, and steeped in knowledge. Drava also means 'essence'—the distilled truth of a thing, its inner nature. In Tamil, this appears as tiravam (திரவம்), directly derived from Sanskrit drava, and retaining the same semantic richness: fluidity, liquidity, and essential substance. Though philologists often trace drava to the Proto-Indo-European root dreu- (to run, flow), its presence in the Ṛgveda is far more sophisticated than a mere dictionary entry. In the Vedic hymns, drava describes the swiftness of the Aśvins, the flowing vitality of Soma, and the coursing of rivers—establishing an ancient, poetic source that transcends etymological reduction.

If the north held the Sapta-Sindhu, the south held its own constellation of sacred streams—Kaveri, Tamraparni, Godavari, Krishna—each a bearer of memory and myth. These rivers did not merely irrigate land; they irrigated language, ritual, and song. They carried the essence of a civilisation that spoke in many tongues but remembered in one.

And so, we retain each meaning—Tamizh as identity, Drava as flow, Atman as essence—allowing them to coexist as layered expressions of selfhood. Not a single origin, but a braided lineage. Not a fixed name, but a flowing one.

We return to Śrī Kṛṣṇa, who has not one name, but many. We keep them all. None is discarded. Kanha arises from Kanhaiya, which itself flows from Kṛṣṇa. The name Kṛṣṇa—from krsna (कृष्ण), meaning 'black' or 'dark'—may not, in today’s eyes, seem politically convenient. Yet we do not drop it. We do not rename him. The comparison of Kṛṣṇa’s dark complexion to the tamāla (तमाल) tree appears in devotional and poetic texts, especially in the Bhagavata Purana and later Vaishnava literature. And here a subtle resonance emerges. As a cognate of tamala, tamila might suggest a link to Kṛṣṇa, though no definitive connection has yet been found. In each of these names, a facet unfolds. Not as a contradiction—but as expansion. Names here are not identities—they are revelations.

And though we may limit Dravida to the southern peninsula geographically, its resonance describes the whole—the akhāṇḍa. A flowing identity, not a fixed one. A constellation of names, each illuminating a different sky.

🌺 The Glory of Sapta-Sindhu and Sindhu-sthāna: India’s earliest identity was etched into its rivers. In Sanskrit, a river is called nadi (नदी)—that which resounds with a roar or a murmur—its name flowing from nāda (नाद), the primal cosmic sound that underlies creation.

The Ṛgveda speaks of Sapta-Sindhu—the land of seven rivers—invoked not in metaphor, but as a civilisational axis. The famous Nadī-stuti Sūkta (Hymn 10.75) hymn calls Sindhu ‘the foremost of rivers’. Sindhu is compared to a bull among cows and a king among rivers, roaring with strength and abundance.

The five great rivers of Punjab—Vitasta (Jhelum), Asikni (Chenab), Iravati (Ravi), Vipasha (Beas), and Shutudrī (Sutlej)—formed the heart of this sacred geography. To these, we must add Kubha (Kabul), flowing in from the northwest, and Krumu (Kurram), both threading through the Afghan terrain into the Indic consciousness. These were not peripheral—they were part of the civilisational bloodstream.

The river Sindhu (सिन्धु), deriving its name from the root syand (स्यन्द) meaning ‘to flow, stream, or run’, was far more than a geographic marker—it was a cultural cornerstone. Those who dwelt along its banks did not merely inhabit a land; they belonged to a river, a rhythm, a philosophy.

In his work of etymology, the Nirukta, Yāska (dated to between 7th-5th century BCE) glosses words from the Nighaṇṭu (lexical lists of Vedic terms). Within this tradition, the name Sindhu is also associated with Suṣoma (सुषोम), derived from su (सु), ‘good’, and soma (सोम), ‘nectar’ or ‘the Soma plant/juice’.

The Ṛgveda itself (10.75, Nadīstuti Sūkta) enumerates rivers and includes Suṣoma as one of the northwestern tributaries of the Indus. Thus, while Sindhu is praised as the mightiest river, Suṣoma appears in the hymnic geography as a distinct river rather than a synonym. Yāska’s etymological linkage reflects a broader interpretive tradition that sought to connect river names with qualities and divine associations. Over time, Sindhu became the foundational designation from which multiple names and identities evolved—geographic, cultural, and civilisational.

As linguistic shifts shaped history, the Persians softened Sindhu into Hind, the Greeks adapted it to Indus, and the British formalised it as India. Yet, beneath these layers, the original name remains unmistakably Sanskrit: Sindhu, a river that gave rise to a civilisation. Ideally, the land today should be known as Sindhu-sthāna (सिन्धुस्थान), rather than Hindustan, for it is a civilisation shaped by the unity of the Sapta-Sindhu—the seven great rivers that nourished its people, carried its knowledge, and bound its traditions into a singular yet expansive identity. For that reason, the Purāṇas. referred to India as Ilavrata, the land of rivers.

All of the river names are indigenous. If, as some propose, the Ṛgvedic name Sarasvatī descends from Iranian antecedents like Harahvati or Haraxvati, then one would reasonably expect parallel forms of the other Ṛgvedic rivers to surface through Avestan or old Iranian texts. Yet such resonances are conspicuously absent. For example, the Jhelum was known as the Vitasta; it too should have an Avestan source, but it does not. Neither do any of the other rivers.

The proposed derivation of Sarasvatī from Harahvati falters under linguistic scrutiny. In Avestan, 'hara' carries variant meanings—appearing in the mountain name Hara Barezaiti as a cognate of Sanskrit giri (गिरि) or 'mountain', as well as in the river name Harahvati as a parallel of sara (सर), 'flow'. This semantic instability undermines the claim of direct descent from Avestan.

One may argue that Harahvati derives from Avestan 'ghzjar' meaning 'to flow'. However, that is not the case. The Sanskrit word jhara (झर)—meaning 'cascade' or 'gushing flow'—appears across riverine toponyms worldwide. 

The Sanskrit jhara takes the form 'ghzjar' in Avestan and means 'to flow'. In India, the name Jharkhand, wrongly interpreted as 'forest land' in Mughal texts and therefore in mainline texts, has its source in the name jhara, describing this region of 'abundant water'. Over thirty rivers run through this land. In Chhattisgarh, the town of Jharana stands on the Mahanadi. Jharagram in West Bengal lies beside the Kangsabati Canal—constructed in 1956—built over an old hydrological water path. Hundreds of waterfalls carry the name Jharna, such as the Jharipani waterfall of Uttarakhand or the Jhor Waterfall of Kathmandu. What is interesting is that, as far away as Australia, the terms 'jarra', 'jarpa', 'jara', and 'yarra' consistently appear in Aboriginal place names near vital water bodies.

The Ṛgveda preserves the names of its rivers in their original, consistent, and unmistakably Sanskrit forms, rooted not in borrowed lexicons but in the lived geography of Bhāratavarṣa. These are not names carried in from somewhere; these are names born of the land, sung into the memory by those who walked its river and knew its soil.

Today, a quiet restoration is unfolding. Not of borders, but of essence. Rivers once diverted by partition now return—not as cartographic correction, but as cultural reclamation. It is as though India is gathering back the lost threads of the Sapta-Sindhu, weaving the sundered waters into her soil anew. This is not a geopolitical gesture—it is a renewal of the memory of Sindhu-sthāna.

🌺 Sindhu and Indra in Chinese and Greek Annals: Beyond the subcontinent, the linguistic trails of Sindhu carried eastward, leaving echoes in distant lands. In ancient Chinese records, Yindu (印度) became the name for India—not as an invention, but as most scholars generally accept, a phonetic adaptation of Sindhu, the name borne eastward by traders, pilgrims, and scribes of sacred texts. Yet these Chinese records also give us a clue, something to chew on: they hint at another possibility, where the name may have wandered not only with Sindhu, but with Indra himself.

Though most scholars trace the origin of Yindu to Sindhu, another interpretation lingers in Chinese lore: that the name India may bear the imprint of Indra (इन्द्र) himself. Indra, after all, was the most prominent deity of the Ṛgvedic age. The Chinese, who revered many deities within the Indic pantheon, rendered Indra as Yin de la (氤德拉), a form that may have shaped the evolution of Yindu (印度) in their records.

Indra surfaces in that old Greek manuscript called Indica as well, where the author, Megasthenes, equates Zeus with Indra—presenting the Greek god as the closest analogue to the Indian king of the gods. Both were sovereigns of heaven, both wielded the thunderbolt. One wonders: did the suffix deva in Indra-deva echo faintly in Zeus? Could the roots of the name India lie not only in Sindhu, but also in Indra, the mighty warrior who slew Vṛtra, the serpent-demon that held back the waters, thereby liberating the river Sindhu and releasing its life-giving flow?

Indra appears as Yin e La in the Chinese pantheon. Idol at Zhihua temple, Beijing, China. Picture by Wikipedia, Creative Commons License

Whether this journey of the name India flowed from Sindhu or wandered with Indra, both pathways unveil a deeper reverence. India, not merely named, but remembered as a land where divine order found its voice on the banks of the Indus. The legacy of Indra himself, carried within the name, is another reason it must not be lightly set aside. It deserves to be considered: for through Indra’s name, India becomes truly indigenous to India—rooted in its own sacred soil, resonant with its oldest hymns, and inseparable from the divine memory of its rivers and gods.

🌺 From Yindu to Tiānzhú: To the later Chinese-Buddhist chroniclers, India was not merely Sindhu-sthāna or 'Indra’s land on the Sindhu'. They renamed her Tiānzhú: 'the heavenly realm', the summit of sanctity, where sages walked, scrolls whispered truths, and the soil itself was thought to store transcendence.

Although conventional scholarship traces 'Tiānzhú' to the Persian Hinduka, that trail feels thin. The phonetic resemblance may stand, but it lacks thematic coherence with how India was perceived by Buddhist chroniclers—not merely as a geographic entity, but as a sacred zenith of wisdom.

Sinologists such as Axel Schuessler trace the etymology of 'Tiān' to Tengri, the Sky Deity revered in Mongolic and Turkic traditions. Yet, Mongolian 'Tengri' resonates uncannily with the Sanskrit tunga (तुङ्ग), meaning 'peak', 'height', 'eminence', or 'mountain ', infusing the term with metaphysical gravitas, a root that re-emerges in the name of the sacred mountain, Kanchan Chunga. 

Traditional Chinese terminology also reflects this lexicon of elevation: Tudui (mound), Feng (peak), and Fenghui (summit). These are conceptual cognates of Sanskrit tunga, not merely linguistic parallels—but signs of a shared sacred grammar in which elevation becomes enlightenment.

Contrary to mainstream assumptions, therefore, Tiānzhú was not a linguistic derivation of the Persian Hinduka. Buddhist chroniclers embraced the term at a time when Indic conceptual frameworks, particularly Sanskrit, permeated the spiritual and intellectual lexicon of Asia. Tiānzhú was not just ‘heaven’; it was a pinnacle, consecrated and sanctified across tongues—emerging from tunga in Sanskrit, resonating through Tengri in Mongolic speech, and culminating in Tiān in Chinese.

Even when India is named in foreign tongues, the etymological thread—knowingly or not—leads back to India's own lexicon, where memory, meaning, and myth are eternally embedded.

🌺 Just a Syllable Apart- Sindhu and Xhingu: The glory of the name Sindhu may well have carried far beyond the Indian subcontinent and Asia, finding unexpected resonance in places as distant as the Amazon. The Brazilian River 'Xingu'—pronounced 'Shingoo' or 'Singoo'—bears a striking phonetic resemblance to 'Sindhu'. While the name 'Xingu' is traditionally traced to the Tupi-Guarani word Yh'uu, meaning 'Great Water', the phonetic and semantic similarity to 'Sindhu' is more than superficial. Tupi-Guarani, a sprawling linguistic family native to South America, embodies a sophisticated worldview where rivers, forests, and spirits intertwine—making its water terminology a fertile ground for deeper etymological reflection. The full story of Xingu, and its tributaries that whisper Sanskritic syllables, will return in a later chapter—when we follow the vānarás across oceans and into the sacred geographies of South America.

These correlations may appear tenuous at first glance. Sceptics, understandably, might dismiss them as false cognates—names that sound alike but share no historical connection. Yet as we return to the land of Xingu, and later to other regions of South America in a forthcoming chapter, it will become increasingly clear that what seem like coincidences are, in fact, too patterned, too symbolically resonant, to be dismissed so easily.

Elsewhere, we find echoes of Sindhu in China, in the name of Xinghu Lake in Zhaoqing; in Africa, in the Sinda River of Zaire and Sindabezi Island on the Zambezi; and in Europe, where an ancient river town in Greece was known as Sinda or Pisidia. Bound by water and name, these sites suggest that Sindhu—far from being confined to the Indic sphere—flowed across continents, carried by the prestige of this sophisticated civilisation, leaving its imprint on toponyms, hydronyms, and even mountain names across distant geographies.

🌺 Bhārata (भारत), the Light That Defined a Civilisation: Where Sindhu (सिन्धु) evokes the sacred flow of waters, Bhārata (भारत) radiates illumination. According to Yaska’s Nirukta, one of the earliest treatises on Vedic etymology, ‘the sun is called bhārata, and its light is bhāratī—a poetic affirmation that the name itself embodies brilliance, both words emerging from the root word bha (भा) - 'light', 'stars', 'the 27 nakṣatras', and 'radiance'. 

Though history often associates Bhārata with the legendary king of the Kuru Dynasty, his lineage merely reaffirmed a deeper truth: that the land was never just territory, but a realm defined by enlightenment. Bhāratavarṣa was named not only after a ruler but after an idea, an ethos that stretched beyond time. Bhārata is a name not simply tied to rulers or dynasties, but one that reflects a civilisational pursuit—to seek, to see, and to embody knowledge. The syllable bhā, from which Bhārata draws its radiance, signifies not just light in the physical sense, but the illumination of consciousness itself. In Shakta traditions, bhā is the primal glow that emerges from the void, where thought, sense, and self dissolve into pure awareness. To invoke Bhārata, then, is to invoke a land where the fire of insight burns at the centre of being.

🌺 Linguistic Kinship in the names Bhārata and Britain: Some scholars have speculated that the glory of Bhārata may echo even in the name Britain. The ancient Britons, known as Prittanoi, were described by classical sources as 'the painted ones'. This interpretation, often linked to body tattoos, is not particularly convincing—it's implausible that an entire civilisation would derive its name from ornamental ink. A more enduring etymology emerges through light: Britain links to the Old English 'beorht' (bright), derived from the Proto-Indo-European root 'bhereg' - (to shine). This isn’t merely a linguistic coincidence—it signals a persistent cultural ideal: light as sovereignty.

Laurence Waddell, in his controversial reconstruction of Phoenician origins, proposed that the name Bhārata may have diffused westward via maritime channels. He argued that the Phoenicians—whom he linked to Āryān ancestry—carried not only trade goods but fragments of spiritual and civilisational memory into the Mediterranean and British Isles.

If Bhārata were transliterated into Phoenician, it would appear as B-R-T, written without vowels, as per Semitic convention. In other words, Phoenician, like other Semitic scripts, preserves only consonantal skeletons—so Bhārata, when stripped of its vowels, naturally resolves into B-R-T, a trilateral root that remains stable across phonetic shifts and geographic migrations. This root easily unfolds into Brit, Briton, and Britain—all possible vessels for ancient echoes of Bhārata.

Though the Phoenician language is poorly preserved, related Semitic tongues offer speculative clues. Hebrew contains forms like 'baher' or 'ba'ir', which relate to 'brightness'. They are not direct cognates, but they gesture toward semantic kinship. In contrast, Sanskrit offers a striking and exacting parallel: brihat (बृहत्), meaning 'radiant', 'splendid', and often used to denote divine brilliance in Ṛgvedic hymns. It’s not an abstract loftiness—it’s pure intensity of light. This semantic precision collapses the distance between Bhārata as a name and Britain as an idea.

Such resonances sit beyond mainstream discourse, but they invite reconsideration: perhaps Britain carries more than a geographic legacy. Perhaps it still hums with a Sanskritic vibration—silent, embedded, and enduring, through the Phoenicians, who it has been debated are none other than the Ṛgvedic Panis.

There is another theory seen in mainline sources that the name Britain originates from Brittos, the Celtic name of the Celtic inhabitants of Britain and southern Scotland. The name of the tribe is remarkably close to the earliest tribe of India, the Bhāratas. That name was recorded as Prittanoi by the Greeks in the 4th century BCE. 

🌺 Pārtha, and the Irish Legend of Partholon: Further echoes arise in Irish mythology. To begin with, one might say that the ancient Britons’ name Prittanoi bears a phonetic resemblance to Pārtha, a title of Arjuna, descendant of King Bhārata. Intriguingly, Irish lore speaks of Partholon, a civilising hero who arrived in Ireland with a thousand followers after the Biblical Flood. According to the Lebor Gabála Érenn, Partholon was the son of Sera, who was the son of Sru, who in turn was the son of Esru—a lineage that curiously mirrors the Puru dynasty of Bhārata. The phonetic proximity of Sera, Sru and Esru to Puru and Kuru suggests more than coincidence. Partholon and Pārtha, both linked to dynasties of divine favour and civilisational legacy, suggest that the mythic resonance of Bhārata may have quietly permeated Indo-European memory.

🌺 Āryāvarta-What the name tells us: Just as India’s ancestral names—Sindhu and Bhārata—encode layers of meaning and civilisational depth, so too does Āryāvarta, a name that invites us into a world where geography, lineage, and dharma converge. It is from this nucleus—Āryāvarta—that leads us westward into a rich tapestry of linguistic and cultural parallels with ancient Iran, where the echoes of Āryā continue to resonate across sacred texts and storied landscapes.

The earliest mention of Āryāvarta occurs in the Baudhāyana Dharmasūtra, composed around the 8th–6th century BCE. Traditionally attributed to the sage Baudhāyana of the Kṛṣṇa Yajurveda school, this text belongs to the Vedic-Brahmanical corpus of ritual and law. Although the name ‘Baudhāyana’ may appear to echo terms like Bauddha or Buddhi, it is important to note that the Dharmasūtra long predates the birth of the historical Buddha. Thus, the association of Āryāvarta with Baudhāyana firmly establishes its roots in the Vedic tradition, dispelling any confusion that the term might be Buddhist in origin.

Historically, Āryāvarta referred to the vast region stretching between the Himalayas and the Vindhyas, encompassing the fertile Gangetic plains. More than a territorial concept, Āryāvarta represented an ideological and cultural nucleus, shaping the evolution of noble clans, philosophical traditions, and societal frameworks.

This nobility was earned through conduct, not birth—a distinction echoed in Yāska’s Nirukta, one of the earliest Sanskrit etymological dictionaries, which defines ārya as śilavat (शीलवत्)—one of noble conduct, also called śiṣṭa (शिष्ट), implying a moral orientation rather than genealogical status. In Ṛgveda 1.51.8, Indra is invoked as the protector of the ārya—not a race, but a community aligned with divine order and ethical conduct.

Ṛgveda 1.103.3 reinforces this ethical framing, contrasting ārya with dasyu—not as ethnic opposites, but as those who uphold Vedic principles versus those who either reject it or do not have the knowledge of it.

Etymologically, ārya stems from the root ṛ (ऋ), the ancient Vedic vowel-root meaning 'to rise, to be worthy, noble’. This root underlies key Sanskrit words: ṛta (ऋत), ‘cosmic order and truth’, ṛṣi (ऋषि), ‘the seer who perceives that order’, and arhati (अर्हति), ‘to be deserving or worthy’. Within this semantic constellation, ārya connotes nobility of conduct, speech, and thought, for in the Vedic context, ārya never denoted ethnicity or territorial belonging. It was an ethical adjective—anchored in dharma—signifying nobility of conduct, speech, and thought. Accordingly, its opposite was anārya: one who acts ignobly, outside the bounds of dharmic duty. This moral contrast, expressed through the pair ārya/anārya, is distinctively Vedic; no comparable etymological or textual explanation exists in other Indo-Iranian or Indo-European traditions, grounding the term firmly in the Vedic tradition.

This contrast of noble and ignoble, expressed by sages like Vasiṣṭha and Baudhāyana, is also reiterated by rishi Vasiṣṭha and Baudhāyana—writing roughly 3,000 years ago, sometime between 800 and 600 BC, who anchor the term ārya not in lineage, but in shishta (शिष्ट) or shistachar (शिष्टाचार): the refined, the disciplined, the culturally attuned. Patañjali, in his Mahābhāṣya, also begins not with geography but with ethics—he first defines śiṣṭa, then declares that correct conduct defines Āryāvarta, and only then traces its boundaries. Accordingly, śiṣṭa is not the name of a race.

The Bhagavadgītā itself collapses any racial reading of ārya, grounding it firmly in dharma, not descent. This is made explicit in one of the most important verses of the Bhagavadgītā (2.2), where Śrī Kṛṣṇa rebukes Arjuna’s hesitation in battle:

कुतस्त्वा कश्मलमिदं विषमे समुपस्थितम् |
अनार्यजुष्टमस्वर्ग्यमकीर्तिकरमर्जुन ||
kutastvā kaśmalamidaṁ viṣame samupasthitam
anārya-juṣṭam asvargyam akīrti-karam arjuna

"Whence has this weakness come upon you in this moment of crisis. It is anārya —unworthy of noble conduct—does not lead to heaven, and brings dishonour, O Arjuna".

Here, Śrī Kṛṣṇa uses anārya (अनार्य) to describe Arjuna’s reluctance—not as a comment on lineage, but on conduct. To be ārya is to act in accordance with dharma, i.e. duty; to be anārya is to abandon it. Thus, Āryāvarta is not the land of a race called Ārya—it is the land of dharma, of those who rise through righteous action. In later texts as well, like the Manusmṛti,  ārya is associated with those who uphold Vedic values, perform sacrifices in ritual as well as in duty, and live by dharma.

In Zoroastrianism, the closest idea to śiṣṭa —the refined and disciplined person—is the 'ashavan', one who lives by 'asha' understood as truth, righteousness, and cosmic order. Yet the Avestan 'asha' traces back to the Sanskrit āśā (आशा), meaning ‘hope’, ‘wish’, or ‘expectation’. In Avestan, ‘asha’ or ‘aêshô’ also carries the same meaning. Thus, while 'ashavan' later comes to mean ‘morally upright’, its root leans toward aspiration rather than obligation. Unlike the Bhagavadgītā, which defines ārya through firm ethical duty, the Zend texts soften this expectation, where noble behaviour shifts from ‘duty’ to ‘hope’.

This shift—from duty to hope, from conduct to aspiration—makes the rules softer. It allows more people to be called ārya, not by how they live, but by how they wish to be, to be regarded as noble. Over time,  ārya ceased to be a litmus test of conduct and hardened into a label of descent. Once it’s used to define a tribe or a race, it loses its meaning entirely. What was once a litmus test of character in the Bhagavadgītā becomes a badge of birth—and the ethical spine collapses.

This decline in ethical precision mirrors the east-to-west drift of meaning itself—where ārya, once a measure of conduct, begins to blur as it travels. As boundaries of Āryāvarta shifted—shaped by migrations, maritime exchange, and linguistic diffusion—the civilisational current moved not into India, but outward from it. The Indo-Iranian cultural sphere, often described as shared heritage, carries unmistakable markers of Indic origin—ritual, language, and myth. Iran’s very name, derived from Aryan (Land of the Aryans), reflects this continuity.

🌺 The Indian Āryāvarta versus Iranian Airyanem Vaeja: Before the rise of Zoroastrianism, the people of Iran were followers of Vedic principles. Zoroastrian texts mirror this connection, referring to Āryāvarta—Sanskrit for 'Land of the Arya'—as Airyanem Vaejah, its Avestan counterpart. This mythic homeland of the Aryans is often linked by scholars to regions east of Iran, overlapping with territories westward of the Sapta-Sindhu.

Linguistic and mythological parallels between the Vedic and Avestan traditions indicate that Airyanem Vaejah was not an isolated entity; it was an extension of Āryāvarta’s civilisational sphere. Rather than an independent construct, it reflects an evolving Indic influence that spread westward—subtly but unmistakably—reinforcing the idea that the nucleus of early Indo-Iranian culture emanated from the Indian subcontinent.

🌺 The etymology of the word Avesta: The Avestan texts themselves never employ Ārya or any other explicit designation for the language, leaving its native name uncertain—perhaps it never possessed one.

The mainstream view holds that Avesta derives from Persian اوستا (avestâ), itself from Middle Persian abestāg. But these are later languages, so that is incorrect. Some scholars propose a hypothetical Avestan form upastāvaka ('praise song') as the origin.

Turning to Sanskrit—the Rosetta Stone of Indo-European languages—this reconstruction gains resonance. The root upastha (उपस्था) carries the sense of worship or reverence, while upasthāna (उपस्थान) denotes the act of worshipping or attending. The element vāk (वाक्), 'speech' or 'hymn', provides a natural semantic bridge: upasthā-vāk (उपस्था-वाक्) could be understood as 'speech offered in worship', aligning neatly with the ritual and liturgical character of the Avestan corpus.

The second strand of etymology concerns the 'Zend-Avesta'. Here Zend comes from Old Persian zend, via Pahlavi zand, meaning 'commentary'. Again, this is a later correlation.

Mainstream historians state that the word Zend comes from Avestan ‘zainti’ or 'knowledge’ and trace it to the Proto-Indo-European root gno- (to know). Yet Sanskrit offers a clearer etymological origin with scriptural support. The Sanskrit jñāna (ज्ञान), 'knowledge', survives in modern Hindi as gyān (ज्ञान). In Avestan, the phonological development is straightforward: the palatal cluster jñ- in Sanskrit softens into z-, yielding ‘zainti’. This shift illustrates the Vedic heritage embedded in Iranian speech, rather than an isolated Iranian innovation. In this light, Zend is best understood not as a derivative commentary tradition alone, but as a linguistic echo of jñāna—knowledge itself—underscoring the Sanskritic substratum of the Indo-Iranian sacred vocabulary.

Thus, while mainstream philology emphasises Middle Persian transmission, a Sanskrit lens reveals deeper Sanskritic continuities: upasthā-vāk (उपस्था-वाक्) as worshipful utterance, and jñāna (ज्ञान) as knowledge. For example, Aitareya Upanishad (Ṛgveda lineage, 3.1.3) states: Prajnānam Brahma (प्रज्ञानं ब्रह्म), which means ‘Consciousness (prajñāna) is Brahman’, prajñāna is a compound of pra + jñāna.

In this light, the name Avestan, derived from jñāna itself, becomes a testimony to the Sanskritic substratum that shaped the spiritual vocabulary of Iran, challenging the assumption that later Persian forms explain its origin.

To speak of ancient Iran as 'other' is to ignore the textual, archaeological, and linguistic continuity that binds it to India—not as a neighbour, but as a limb of the same body. The Sapta- Sindhu and Airyanem Vaejah are not competing mythologies—they are mirrored memories of a civilisation that flowed across rivers. Iran was simply para (पार), 'the land that lay across the Sindhu', hence its earlier name Parasa, from which stems 'Persia'. 

The Ṛgveda itself provides glimpses of such movements across the Sindhu River, particularly through the conflict between Indra and Vala—a struggle that not only defined territorial shifts, as Vala (वल), the ignoble ‘cow-stealer’ and mleccha. In this movement lie the seeds of later cultural identities in regions far beyond the subcontinent.

Hence, India’s various names remain in plain sight. It is their meanings that flicker—half hidden, half remembered. They are luminous seeds scattered across time, surfacing unexpectedly in places such as Britain or Persia (Iran), or in rivers such as the Xinghu across the world from India. These names do not mark territorial pride, but a deeper inheritance—one that encodes cosmologies, migrations, and civilisational memory. The world remembers India, often unknowingly, through the syllables of its own maps.

🌺 The Western Threshold of India: If India’s ancient names are seeds of memory scattered across continents, then its western frontier—marked by Afghanistan and Balochistan—forms the soil where some of those seeds first took root beyond the present-day boundaries of India. These regions, often viewed as peripheral or external to India’s civilisational core, in fact preserve echoes of its earliest expansions. Their very names—Afghān and Baloksh—carry linguistic and mythic traces that challenge colonial assumptions, especially the notion that horses and horse culture were introduced into India from the West in 1500 BCE. In truth, the equestrian ethos was firmly established across both India and Iran much earlier, woven into the fabric of Vedic and Avestan traditions alike.

🌺Afghanistan as the Land of the Ashvakas: To understand Afghanistan’s deeper civilisational memory, we must begin with its name. The term Afghan is widely believed to derive from the Sanskrit ashvaka—meaning 'horseman' or 'cavalryman'—from ashva (अश्व), the word for horse, in both Sanskrit and Avestan. This is not a casual linguistic coincidence; it reflects a cultural imprint deep enough to name a people and a land.

Classical sources such as Arrian refer to the inhabitants of eastern Afghanistan or Ashvasthan as Assakenois, while Pāṇini names them Ahvakayana—a clan renowned for their equestrian prowess. The presence of horses in what might be termed as Greater India was evidently ancient enough to shape clan identities and geographic nomenclature. The name Ashvaka appears in Panini’s Ashtadyayi (circa 5th century BCE) and is referenced in Ashokan inscriptions as a distinct group within the Gandhāra region.

Panini’s mention of the Ashvakas does not mark their emergence—it marks their endurance. The Sanskritic word ashva (अश्वा) had already galloped through centuries of Vedic verse, ritual, and metaphor when Afghanistan was first named after it. By the time Panini codified it, the horse was not a foreign arrival—it was a native metaphor, a cultural constant, and a naming force, hence its history in India is older than acknowledged.

In Sanskrit, the etymology of ashva is clear and provides a cultural context. In the Brāhmaṇa texts and the Ashvamedha ritual, the ashva (horse) is explicitly identified with prana—the vital breath that animates the cosmos (Satapatha Brahmaṇa 13.2.2.6). Since prana itself is expressed through shvasa (श्वास)—that is, 'breath', 'exhalation', and even 'snorting'—the horse or ashva (अश्वा) becomes a living metaphor for 'breath in motion'. Neither of these words has an Iranian root; they stem from the core of Indic thought.

Beyond the Indic civilisational arc, the etymology of the word ‘horse’ remains obscure. English horse, from Old English hors, traces to Proto-Germanic harss- or hrussą, but its deeper origin is uncertain. Scholars link Latin 'equus' and Greek 'hippos' to the Indo-European root ekwo-, which is an obvious cognate of Sanskrit ashva. Yet they hesitate to include ashva in the same lineage—because doing so would collapse the migrationist narrative. To acknowledge ashva as a cognate is to admit that Sanskrit preserves the root in its purest form, not as a late borrowing but as a civilisational constant—attested in the Ṛgveda, embedded in mythic memory, and echoed across Indo-Iranian languages.

This linguistic continuity is not isolated—it aligns with archaeological and cultural evidence. The Aryan Invasion argument for the late arrival of horses into India falters in light of findings like those cited by Dr Shiv Shastry in his paper Wheels, Chariots and Horses in India. He writes:

“It is possible to say with some degree of confidence that chariots were a recognisable part of life in India by 2500 BCE. The earliest chariots must likely have appeared at least 500 to 1000 years before these images were painted, placing the antiquity of chariots in central India to a time period in the 4th millennium BCE".

At Bhimbetka, a UNESCO World Heritage site in Madhya Pradesh known for its prehistoric rock art, one particular painting of a horse has drawn scholarly attention. Premendra Priyadarshi, in his research, 'Bhimbetka Horse with Riding 10,000 Years Old', dates the image of the horse to approximately 10,000 years ago, placing it in the Early Holocene Mesolithic period. Priyadarshi interprets the artwork as depicting not just a horse, but a mounted figure, implying familiarity with riding or domestication. This challenges the mainstream view that horses arrived in India with Indo-Aryan migrations around 1500 BCE and instead proposes that equine imagery—and possibly domestication—existed in Central India millennia earlier. This interpretation opens the possibility that horses were known, remembered, or symbolically represented in India’s deep prehistory.

Even if the horse was a foreign arrival in India, the evidence suggests it came far earlier than the migrationist models allow—woven into India’s landscape, memory, and myth long before 1500 BCE. The reluctance to acknowledge such evidence reflects the methodological caution of mainstream scholarship, yet it also delays a fuller unveiling of historical truth under the banner of scientific rigour.

🌺 Balochistan and the Western Reach of Bhārata: If Afghanistan holds echoes of riders thundering across vast plains, Balochistan tells a quieter tale —one traced through valleys, riverbeds, and forgotten mountain passes. Our story begins in the Ṛgveda, where Indra’s presence shapes the Sapta-Sindhu, a civilisational node from which stories and migrations begin to unfurl westward, where lay the territories of an Akhāṇḍa Bhārata that with time came to be associated with present-day Iran, Iraq, Syria, Lebanon and beyond.

Among Indra’s many battles, one stands out: his conflict with Vala, whom he drives westward from the Vedic heartland. While mainstream scholarship does not explicitly trace Vala’s migration, a rational reconstruction suggests that his realm may have been re-established beyond the Sapta-Sindhu—in the region now known as Balochistan.

Indra’s victory over Vala, as recounted in the Ṛgveda, sets in motion a sequence of displacements—of people, names, and symbols. As Vala’s followers move westward, their traditions adapt to new geographies. In Balochistan, the ancient name Baloksh—preserved in Jaina texts—offers more than geographic reference. It may carry an etymological trace of Vala himself. It echoes not only the name Bala, but perhaps the memory of Vala himself, reshaped through terrain and time. As Vala’s people settled westward, they may have carried his name, gradually reshaping it into Bala—a name that survives in stones, syllables, and stories.

One corridor in this unfolding migration stands out: the Bolan Pass, a natural gateway linking Sapta-Sindhu to Baloksh. It’s not just a route—it’s a linguistic clue. The Bolan River and Bolan Pass may well derive their names from Vala/Bala, suggesting that this rugged valley wasn’t merely traversed, but named in memory of those who passed through it. The names Bolan, Baloksh, and Bala form a constellation that suggests movement, naming, and settlement. Every twist of the terrain feels like an echo of movement—of people threading their path through the river valley, following the contours of geography and myth alike. The terrain itself seems to whisper of a passage—of a people driven westward, of a name that refused to vanish.

The Bolan Pass may owe its name to Bala,  the chief of the Panis, whom Indra drove away from the Sapta-Sindhu

As this alignment of name and path comes into view, it reveals how the landscape itself may be silently narrating the story of Bala’s migration. The linguistic and cultural continuity hints at a gradual displacement of populations from east to west, reinforcing the idea that the movement was not incidental but a part of a larger historical shift. And it is Indra who himself becomes the trigger of this shift.

🌺The Emergence of Baal God: And then, further west, a transformation occurs. In the Levant, Baal emerges—not merely as a deity, but as a civilisational anchor. Temples in Lebanon and Syria bear his name; rituals and myths revolve around him. Could this Baal be a distant echo of Vala? A memory carried across mountains and rivers, reshaped into divinity? Bala emerges in Phoenicia—not as a defeated figure, but as Baal, the supreme deity of the region. This transformation suggests that the legacy of Vala was carried westward by his followers, embedding itself into the temple traditions of Lebanon, Syria, and beyond. Some of the oldest sanctuaries in the Levant were dedicated to Baal, reflecting the profound impact of this civilisational migration.

The possibility that Vala became Bala, and Bala became Baal, is not a claim—it is a question. But it is a question that deserves to be asked.

This continuity—of name, migration, and myth—suggests that the story of Vala did not end with his defeat. It evolved. It travelled. It reappeared in new forms, in new lands, under new skies. The Vala–Bala–Baal arc is not a settled theory, but a line of inquiry—one that will be explored in depth in a forthcoming volume.

🌺 The Panis and the Phoenicians: The migration sparked by Indra’s conflict with Vala did not merely scatter a people—it seeded a transformation. Alongside Vala’s displacement, another group is driven westward: the Panis, the trader class of the Sapta-Sindhu. In the Ṛgveda, they are portrayed as hoarders, obstructors of light—figures Indra must overcome. But outside the Vedic lens, they may have been merchants, navigators, and cultural transmitters.

The Indian traders or the Panis had well-established maritime trade routes from the Red Sea to the Mediterranean,  resulting in flourishing trade, indicating that the Phoenicians were the Vedic Panis.

As they move westward, the Panis re-emerge in the Levant as the Phoenicians—enterprising mariners whose mastery of trade and navigation shaped Mediterranean commerce. The phonetic echo between Pani and Phoenician is striking. The geographic arc—from the Indus to the Levant—is plausible. And the civilisational memory they carry—of trade, of navigation, of symbolic systems—suggests continuity, not rupture. Their arc—from merchants of the Sapta-Sindhu to coastal traders of the Near East—speaks to the reach and resilience of India’s early civilisational imprint.

Just as Bala may echo Vala, the Phoenician may echo the Pani. These are not conclusions—they are connective threads, waiting to be followed. This thread will be explored in depth in a future volume.

🌺 The names Meluhha and Malaya Parvata: Many scholars have long proposed that Meluhha, often heard in the context of trade, specifically mentioned in the Mesopotamian texts, may in fact be an early reference to India itself. Many have regarded Meluhha as the maritime face of the Indus Valley Civilisation, which may in fact be a veiled reference to the Western Ghats—Malaya Parvata, the mist-covered highlands of southern India. The name Meluhha echoes Malay, which itself derives from mala (मल), meaning mist, veil, or any obscuration in Sanskrit and Dravidian tongues. These ridges, perpetually shrouded in fog and rich in timber, herbs, and upland trade goods, were likely the ecological and cultural source of the maritime exports that reached Mesopotamia. Rather than a single port, Meluhha may have been a civilisational corridor—stretching from the fog-veiled forests of Malaya to the brick dockyards of Lothal. In the song Vande Mataram, the phrase malayaja śītalam refers not merely to a cool breeze, but to the intensely water-laden, mist-heavy breath of the Western Ghats—a breeze born of mala. In this reading, Meluhha is not just Sindhu’s tide-bound emissary—it is Malaya’s breath, carried by boat, remembered in trade seals, and whispered through mist.

And so the land carried many names, each a mirror of its timeless self, each a vessel of continuity, inscribing the land with memory and meaning. In their unfolding, we glimpse the story of Akhāṇḍa Bhārata—a civilisation whose identity has never been singular, but always expansive, layered, and enduring.

🌺 Maps and Journeys: Yet names alone do not hold the map; journeys do. Long before the vānaras of the Rāmāyaṇa stirred their search for the Goddess-Queen Sītā, the terrain itself bore echoes of older wanderings—Viṣṇu’s three strides across the cosmos, Śiva’s restless passage around the world after Satī’s fall, and the vast horizons invoked in Vedic hymns and Purāṇic lore. These were not abstractions but remembered routes, layered under myth yet grounded in collective memory. By the time of the Rāmāyaṇa, the world was already mapped in consciousness, awaiting the footsteps of new travellers.

And so we begin our journey with the vānaras—keepers of ridge-lines and riverbeds, whose movements across the land extend the story of Akhāṇḍa Bhārata into terrain at once remembered, real, and enduring.

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CHAPTER II- THE VĀNARA TRAIL THROUGH SAPTA-SINDHU

🌺I. The Rāmāyaṇa as a Spiritual, Civilisational, Geographic and Historical Testament:

The Rāmāyaṇa is conventionally interpreted as an epic of devotion and dharma, yet its earliest layers reveal another dimension: a geographic testament. Long before borders were drawn or maps inscribed, the vānaras set out on vast journeys, crossing mountain chains, tracing the course of mighty rivers, traversing dense, forested realms, and venturing across oceans into remote lands. These epic movements, preserved in the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, encode the civilisational expanse of the ancient Indic world—offering an epic cartography that maps landscapes stretching beyond the subcontinent toward distant horizons and preserving them as historical and geographic testimony.

🌺 From Pampa to Hampi: This geographic awareness comes into focus at Rishyamuka, a rugged hill overlooking the ancient River Pampa—identified today with the Tungabhadra in Karnataka. It was here, in the kingdom of Kiṣkindhā, that the vānaras assembled. The region is now known as Hampi, where the old Pampa still threads its way through a landscape of granite boulders, its name faintly echoed in the toponym ‘Hampi’. Amidst the meeting point of hills and riverbanks, Śrī Rāma (श्रीराम) had once turned to Sugrīva, the vānara chief known not only for his courage but for his deep knowledge of the land.

“How is it that you know the earth so well, in all its breadth and detail?” Śrī Rāma asked.

Sugrīva bowed and replied, “I shall recount everything in full—listen closely to my words".

With this exchange, the Rāmāyaṇa offers one of the earliest recorded reflections on geography—not as a theoretical concept, but as a mapped terrain. The dialogue between Śrī Rāma and Sugrīva invites us to see the landscape not as a backdrop, but as a participant: a space remembered, traversed, and named.

This terrain—now marked by Kiṣkindhā Water Park, Pampa Sarovar, Hampi, and Anjanadri—is the living geography of the Rāmāyaṇa. Here, Sugrīva stood atop Rishyamuka Hill, beside the river Pampa, and recounted the earth’s contours to Śrī Rāma.

🌺Not Myth, but Itihasa: This grounding in geography not only reflects the tangible landscape but also challenges us to reconsider how we perceive the epic. The Rāmāyaṇa names itself itihasa- a Sanskrit compound of iti (इति), ha (ह), and asa (अस): 'in this manner—in truth- it happened'. It asserts itself as history, not myth or a symbolic tale, but as a chronicle of events, anchored in time and space. To dismiss it as myth is to ignore its calibrated routes, its topographic precision, and its testimony to terrestrial reality.

Over time, however, the lens through which the Rāmāyaṇa was viewed began to shift. As devotional traditions deepened, the epic was reimagined—not as a geographic chronicle, but as a spiritual allegory. Later devotional works, such as Tulsidas’s Ramcharitmanas, reflect this lens shift. Written in the sixteenth century, Tulsidas sanctifies Śrī Rāma, casting him as a divine ideal. Vālmīki, by contrast, preserves Rāma’s human dimensions as well. He is portrayed not only as a man of restraint and moral discernment—tested by exile, loss, and duty, but also as a statesman of foresight, and a sovereign who governs both: terrain and matters of state.

The vānaras, too, are depicted in markedly different ways. In Tulsidas’s vision, they are metaphorical monkeys, embodiments of devotion, humility, latent divinity, and martial prowess. Vālmīki, instead, interprets vānaras as nara (नर), or people of the vana (वन)—the forest. This subtle distinction positions them as forest-dwelling clans, skilled in specialised warfare and intimately familiar with complex terrain, rather than as mythic creatures as we portray them today.

Given that Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens coexisted between approximately 50,000 and 43,000 years ago, and that Neanderthals exhibited advanced tool use, geographic adaptability, and social organisation, it is plausible to hypothesise that the vānaras of the Rāmāyaṇa may represent a cultural memory of Neanderthal populations—mythologised through epic narrative and preserved in oral tradition.

Given that Neanderthals (c. 400,000–40,000 years ago) and Denisovans (c. 200,000–32,000 years ago) overlapped with Homo sapiens—most intensively between approximately 50,000 and 43,000 years ago—and that these archaic populations demonstrated advanced tool‑making, ecological adaptability, and complex social organisation, one may conjecture that the vānaras of the Rāmāyaṇa encode cultural recollections of such groups, preserved through oral transmission and refracted into epic narrative.

They might equally correspond to an unrecognised hominin lineage, distinct yet proximate to early humans, whose cooperative behaviours and resilience left a lasting impression. In this view, the vānaras represent remembered communities at the margins of human ancestry, marked not by fantasy but by their tangible difference and enduring presence in collective memory.

🌺The Intriguing World Map of Sugrīva: Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa is an early exercise in civilisational geography—its routes remain traceable, its landscapes identifiable, and its chronology aligned with the terrestrial contours of present-day geography. The rivers and ranges Sugrīva invokes often match the earliest recorded names preserved in local place lore and oral memory—not only across the Indian subcontinent, but also in traditions that ripple through regions far beyond. This continuity suggests a linguistic and geographic imprint older than the epic itself—a cartography preserved in Rāmāyaṇa and other texts. Sugrīva's dispatch of search parties across cardinal directions for the abducted Sītā reveals a sophisticated grasp of river systems, mountain corridors, and coastal boundaries. Seen in this light, the vānara chief Sugrīva emerges not merely as a commander, but as a proto-cartographer. 

But how did Sugrīva come to know the world so intimately? At the outset of the search, he recalls his own exile—driven out by his brother Vali, wandering from place to place until he found refuge on Mt. Rishyamuka. That is the explanation he offers to Śrī Rāma. Yet his recollections are strikingly exact. He names rivers, mountains, and borderlands not like a fugitive stumbling through terrain, but like a cartographer retracing familiar paths. Vālmīki leaves the origin of this knowledge unspoken. The suggestion, however, is unmistakable: the presence of the vānaras across the world was deliberate, and Sugrīva’s awareness extended far beyond the surface of the tale.

🌺The Epoch of the Rāmāyaṇa: The journey of the vānaras is a passage across a map etched in the age of ananta-kal. While traditionally interpreted as timeless, ananta-kal may be loosely correlated with the emergence of anatomically modern humans—whose cognitive capacities are equivalent to ours—dating to at least 200,000 to 300,000 years ago, according to current paleo-anthropological evidence. It is in this context that we view the dating of the Rāmāyaṇa. 

The commonly cited date for Śrī Rāma’s birth—5114 BCE—is based on detailed celestial configurations described in the epic: Cancer ascendant, five exalted planets, Moon conjunct Jupiter, star of the day the Punarvasu nakṣatra, and birth under the Abhijita mahurat—the moment of shortest shadows cast by a sun directly overhead. Modern astronomical software confirms this precise alignment on January 10, 5114 BCE, according to the solar calendar.

Sceptics often ask: why does Chaitra Navami, Śrī Rāma's lunar birth tithi typically celebrated in March–April, appear in January in 5114 BCE? The answer lies in the phenomenon known as the precession of the equinoxes—a slow shift of the axis that alters the apparent position of stars and seasons over a cycle of approximately 25,765 years. Because of this drift, the same planetary configuration described in the Rāmāyaṇa recurs at regular intervals. The date 5114 BCE is simply the closest match to our current era, but the same alignment could have occurred 25,765 years earlier—or at multiples of that cycle. This pushes Rāma’s birth to roughly 30,000 BCE, 56,000 BCE, 82,000 BCE, or even deeper into the mythic twilight of 100,000 BCE, where historical time dissolves into civilisational memory and cosmic rhythm.

This recalibration finds paleontological support in Hanumān’s account of four-tusked elephants that he encounters in Laṅkā, creatures known to science as Gomphotheres, who vanished over 12,000 years ago. Fossil evidence around the world corroborates their extinction timeline, suggesting that the events of the Rāmāyaṇa occurred long before conventional estimates.

Ayodhyā cannot be younger than 5114 BCE, for the planetary positions recorded in the Rāmāyaṇa fix Rāma’s birth to that horizon. Ayodhyā, thus, belongs to the deep antiquity of the Sarasvatī age, not the later Iron Age settlements to which it is often relegated. The closest Harappan site to Ayodhyā lies roughly 500 km to its east; it is now known as Alagirpur, also known as Parshuram-ka-Khera, the name derived from Parshuram Kshetra. The site is dated to 3300 BCE.

Together, celestial mechanics and paleontological clues invite us to recognise the Rāmāyaṇa as a text of deep antiquity, one whose historical framing spans epochs, cycles, and the layered timelines of mythic geography.

A Skeleton of Gomphothere The species became extinct 12000 years ago.   American Museum of Natural History Photo by: Ryan Schwark – Wikipedia Commons

🌺 The epoch of the Vedas: The Ṛgveda must precede the Rāmāyaṇa, for the epic itself acknowledges the authority of Vedic knowledge. In Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa 4‑12‑60, Hanumān praises Rāma by saying: “Vedavidyāsu niṣṇātaḥ sarvaśāstrārthakovidaḥ”, which translates to, “Deeply versed in the Vedas, and skilled in the meaning of all śāstras". This testimony situates the Vedas as already established scripture by the time of Vālmīki’s composition.

Yet literary testimony alone cannot anchor chronology. It is the astronomical references embedded in the Ṛgveda that compel us to place its origins in a far earlier epoch.

According to Vedic astronomy, the day of the Spring or Vernal Equinox marks the beginning of the New Year, when the length of the day is equal to the length of the night. In his 1893 work, The Orion: Or, Researches into the Antiquity of the Vedas, Bal Gangadhar Tilak interpreted Vedic astronomical data in relation to the precession of the equinoxes. He stated that the Ṛgveda contained information indicating that, at the time of its composition, the vernal equinox aligned with the constellation Orion, also known as the Mṛgaśīrṣa (मृगशीर्ष) nakṣatra. A nakṣatra is a smaller division of the zodiac that spans 13.20 degrees, compared to 30 degrees for each zodiac sign.

Modern astronomy confirms that the equinox indeed occurred in the nakṣatra between 6000 and 4500 BCE. In Sanskrit, Mṛgaśīrṣa (मृगशीर्ष), literally ‘the head of the deer’. Its identification with Orion suggests that some of the oldest hymns of the Ṛgveda preserve a memory of this epoch—an interpretation supported by the measurable science of precession.

The Vedic Legend of Prajāpati and his Celestial Chase confirms the above. The myth tells of Prajāpati, the cosmic progenitor, who, in the form of a deer, pursues his daughter Rohiṇī across the heavens. This pursuit is not merely a tale of divine transgression; it encodes a precise astronomical truth. Prajāpati is none other than the Sun itself, and the ‘chase’ is the path of the Sun’s position among the nakṣatras at the time of the vernal equinox over a period of time.

When the equinox fell in Mṛgaśīrṣa (spanning the cusp of Taurus and Gemini) around 4500 BCE, the Sun was said to be ‘chasing’ Rohiṇī. By 3000 BCE, the equinox had shifted into Rohiṇī itself, and the pursuit continued westward into Kṛttikā, then onward through Aries—passing through the Aśvinī and Bharaṇī nakṣatras. By ~1900 CE, the equinox lay in Uttarabhādrapadā (Pisces). Today, it resides in Revatī (Pisces), and in the future it will drift into Śatabhiṣaj (Aquarius). The legend thus preserves a living memory of the precession of the equinoxes—a cosmic rhythm unfolding across millennia.

🌺 Sugrīva’s Summons and the Journey from Kishkindha: Just as the Ṛgveda encodes cosmic events with precision—anchoring human memory in the movements of stars and eclipses-the Rāmāyaṇa encodes terrestrial networks with equal clarity. Where the seers mapped the heavens, Sugrīva, king of the vānaras, mapped the earth: his summons to the vānaras reveals not mythic fancy but the epic’s vision of expansive, long‑standing geographies, inscribed across frontiers and oceans.

When Sugrīva pledges his support to Śrī Rāma in the search for Sītā, he does not summon new allies; instead, he calls forth vānarā warriors already stationed across distant territories. Their convergence at Kiṣkindhā is more than a simple gathering—it is a coordinated mobilisation that shows the vānaras were not scattered tribes, but rather part of a long-standing, far-reaching network with enduring connections, their presence marked across landscapes from river valleys to distant coasts.

The name Kiṣkindhā (किष्किन्धा), celebrated in the Rāmāyaṇa as the kingdom of the vānaras, carries etymological possibilities that mirror the liminal nature of its inhabitants. Later traditions, and present-day mainstream sources, connect the name to kiṃ + dadhāti (that which is established in a puzzling way), an interpretation that reflects ambiguity and mystery but likely arose after the original meaning had faded from memory.

A more archaic reading may derive the name from kīśa (कीश)—meaning ‘sun’, and ‘ape-like’—and kindeva (किन्देव), ‘demi-god’, yielding a sense of reverence for ape-like, semi-divine beings who embodied both solar vitality and primal wildness. This dual resonance—solar brilliance of the untamed—captures the paradox of the vānaras as beings poised between human and animal, mortal and divine. Geographically, Kiṣkindhā is anchored in the rocky, cave-strewn terrain near the Tungabhadra river (modern Hampi), a landscape that itself embodies elevation, enclosure, and mythic ambiguity. Thus, the etymology of Kiṣkindhā fuses linguistic roots with topographic symbolism, presenting the kingdom as a sacred site where demi-godlike ape beings were revered in antiquity.

From this sacred terrain of Kiṣkindhā—home of the revered ape-like demi-gods—the vānaras emerged not merely as mythic beings but as decisive actors in the epic narrative, their kingdom becoming the command centre for Sugrīva’s far-reaching campaign. Sugrīva’s plan for his task is swift and decisive. He divides his forces into four brigades, dispatching them north, south, east, and west across the known world. Under his command, the vānaras journey westward from the banks of the Indus River to the highlands of Iran and the Mediterranean shores; eastward to Śālmali-dvīpa, known today as Australia; and across five oceans to the Adriatic Range, invoking the Andes of South America. They travel northward across the Himalayas to the Arctic and southward into the well-known realms of Laṅkā, all in search of the Goddess-Queen Sītā.

Vālmīki describes the western route beginning in Saurāṣṭra and culminating near Mt. Meru in a distant land.

🌺 II. Route From Saurāṣṭra to Afghanistan and ahead: Of the four paths, the western route begins in Saurāṣṭra (सौराष्ट्र). One search party, led by Sushena, written as Suṣeṇa (सुषेण), Sugrīva’s father-in-law, was commanded to head westward toward a major geographic marker, and culminate at it: the legendary Asta Mountain. In Sanskrit, asta (अस्त) means ‘sunset’, marking the westernmost boundary of the known world. In Vedic tradition, this domain lay under the rule of Varuṇa, the deity of Cosmic Waters, symbolising the outer limits of westward exploration.

🌺 Saurāṣṭra-the Land of Salt: The journey thus opens in Saurāṣṭra—the peninsular sweep of Gujarat that still bears its ancient name with quiet defiance. Mentioned in the Bhagavata Purāṇa and Mahābhārata as a kingdom ruled by the Abhiras, devotees of Viṣṇu, Saurāṣṭra stands as both a geographic and mythic threshold.

Mainstream etymologies often interpret Saurāṣṭra as ‘a good state’—from su (सु), ‘good’, and rashtra (राष्ट्र), ‘nation’. Occasionally, the name is understood as the ‘land of the sun’, from saura (सौर), ‘sun’, invoking solar worship and sun-temple architecture. Yet a more grounded reading may carry greater historical significance.

Given its coastal location and prolific salt pans, ancient geographers likely derived Saurāṣṭra from saur (सोर), a Sanskrit root associated with salt or saline contexts—effectively making Saurāṣṭra mean 'the salt realm'.

Archaeological studies suggest that salt was a strategic resource in Gujarat even during the Indus Valley era. Sites like Dholavira and Lothal, situated near saline zones, were ideally positioned for salt production and trade. In his paper The Important Stone and Metal Resources of Gujarat during the Harappan Period, archaeologist Randall Law highlights salt as one of the key incentives for Harappan expansion into Gujarat, along with access to grazing pastures and maritime resources such as marine shells. These goods, especially salt, were likely transported inland via watercraft or cattle caravans toward the cities of the northern plains. Though direct evidence of salt-making installations remains sparse, the environmental context and trade patterns provide significant insights.

Thus, the name Saurāṣṭra may encode not just mythic memory but economic legacy. It suggests that even before the times of the Rāmāyaṇa, salt was already being harvested here—perhaps on a scale we can scarcely reconstruct. The land’s nomenclature reveals that ancient mappers were not myth-makers but empirical observers. Their toponyms were shaped less by abstraction and more by the concrete realities of geography, trade, and natural wealth.

🌺 Ancient trade route to Takshashila and Puṣkala: From the western edge of Saurāṣṭra and Vidarbha, that is present-day Maharashtra and Goa, the vānaras appear swiftly in Balkh, part of present-day northwest Afghanistan. Vālmīki offers no detailed account of their route in the Kiṣkindhā Kāṇḍa, suggesting a path so well-trodden it required no elaboration.

But, in the Uttara Kāṇḍa, Vālmīki names two cities on this northwestern route, conquered by Bhārata, brother of Śrī Rāma: Takshashila, the well-known Taxila of later times and Puṣkalavati, recorded by the Greeks as Pucela. According to the scriptures, Bhārata’s sons, Taksha and Puṣkala, were placed as kings—Taksha at Takshashila, Puṣkala at Puṣkalavati—establishing the civilisational reach of Ayodhyā into the north west. Both cities are described in the Rāmāyaṇa as radiant with wealth and grandeur—flourishing nodes along ancient trade arteries.

Puṣkalavati, identified by Sir Alexander Cunningham, the pioneering archaeologist and founder of the Archaeological Survey of India, is now known as Charsadda, located in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. Its name, meaning 'four roads', evokes a confluence of trade routes, marking it as a vital mercantile hub. The Rāmāyaṇa itself describes Puṣkalavati as a wealthy and splendid city, suggesting that even in epic times it had already emerged as a centre of commerce. Derived from Puṣkala (पुष्कल), meaning ‘abundance’ or ‘splendour’, Puṣkalavati’s prosperity appears inseparable from its role in facilitating exchange and trade. In the times of the Kushana dynasty, the city came to be known as Puṣkala-Kushana.

Here, a striking etymological continuity emerges: the name Puṣkala may echo in the ethnonym Pakhtun/Pukhtun, the self-designation of the people of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. Just as Takṣaśilā gave its name to Taxila, Puṣkalāvatī may have left its imprint on the identity of the region’s inhabitants. The phonetic shift from Puṣkala → Pukhtun/Pakhtun suggests a deep cultural memory, where the abundance (puṣkala) of the city became inseparable from the people who carried its legacy.

In mainstream scholarship, however, the etymology of ‘Pakhtunkhwa’ remains uncertain and debated. While some link it to ancient tribal names (Paktiya, Pactyans), others see it as a later ethnonym without direct continuity from Puṣkala. Yet the resonance of names—Takṣaśilā, Taxila and Puṣkalāvatī, Pakhtun—invites us to read them as echoes across time, binding epic geography with living identity. The word Khyber has an equally interesting etymology, as the reader will discover ahead in the chapter.

🌺 Pranga, The Prayag (प्रयाग) of the Northwest: In the shadow of Puṣkalavati, lies its quieter sister—Pranga, named after the sacred Prayag, the confluence of the Gaṅga, the Yamunā and the Sarasvatī. Here, in the northwestern cradle of Bhārata, three rivers meet: the Kabul, the Swat, and the Jindi—each name steeped in legend.

Kabul, the Kubha (कुभ) of the Ṛgveda, flows with serpentine grace—its name derived from the Sanskrit root for ‘crooked’, inscribing the curve of its geography. Swat, the luminous stream recalls shveta (श्वेत) or 'white' in Sanskrit—its waters glacial, pure, and swift, descending from the highlands like a hymn. River Jindi, also called Kot, perhaps from Sanskrit kotara (कोटर), meaning 'curved', is a tributary that completes the triad, embracing the land in a sacred clasp.

Prang, in present-day Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, was known as the Prayag of the Northwest. It was the triangle where the Kubha (Kabul), Swat (Shveta) and Jind (Kotara) Rivers met, forming a sangama.

Together, these rivers form a triveni, a triple confluence akin to the Gaṅga–Yamunā–Sarasvatī at Prayag. Though Vālmīki does not name Pranga explicitly, its location aligns with the north-westward trajectory of the vānaras—suggesting that this confluence, like its Gangetic counterpart, lay along a natural corridor of movement and ritual significance. Pranga served as a pilgrimage site, a northern Prayag where Hindus once gathered to perform rites at the meeting of waters. Though now half-forgotten, Pranga, still reminds us that the sanctity of sangama—or confluence—was not confined to the Gangetic plains; it flowed through the veins of the northwestern frontier of India as well.

In later centuries, merchants and pilgrims from Saurāṣṭra journeyed northward along this well-worn land route, passing through Charsadda and Taxila, bearing their goods—and their devotions. Thus, the rivers bore witness not only to trade, but to pilgrimage, inscribing the sacred geography of Bhārata far beyond the Himalayas.

🌺A note about Śrī Rāma's Ayodhyā and Śrī Kṛṣṇa's Madhuvan: For a moment, we retrace our steps along the vānara path. The route from Saurāṣṭra to Takshashila passes through Madhuvana, the ancient city and sacred grove consecrated by Śrī Kṛṣṇa, poised at the confluence of the Uttarapatha and Dakshinapatha trade routes. This confluence formed a pivotal node in the subcontinent’s arterial network, a significance still visible in its modern incarnation, Mathurā. Likewise, the even more ancient Ayodhyā, dated before the birth of Śrī Rāma, at the latest in 5114 BC, may have been a pilgrimage, but it was a flourishing centre of exchange as well.

The legacy of Śrī Rāma and Śrī Kṛṣṇa drew merchants, pilgrims, and dynasties alike, binding the subcontinent in a web of exchange and devotion. The enduring prominence of Ayodhyā and Mathurā affirms what the ancients already knew: these cities were not only sanctified by epic memory but vital centres of commerce, pilgrimage, and power. Their significance was understood in all its dimensions—spiritual, economic, and political—making them itihāsa: history alive in routes of trade, etched into the landscape, and sustained in collective memory.

The mythic legacy of Rāma and Kṛṣṇa was the magnet drawing merchants, pilgrims, and ruling dynasties alike, weaving a web of connectivity across the subcontinent. The continued significance of these sites confirms what the ancients understood: these are not mere stories, but itihāsa—history alive in trade routes, inscribed upon the landscape, and carried forward in collective memory.

🌺 Kubera’s Corridor and the Khyber Pass: Tracing the trailblazing route toward Balkh—a path evidently familiar to the vānaras—we enter a terrain alive with ancient continuity. As the vānaras moved westward from Puṣkalavati, they would have encountered a mountain pass.

Today, this passage is known as the Khyber Pass—a corridor linking Charsadda to Jalalabad. Charsadda of the present is the Puṣkalavati of antiquity. Jalalabad, meanwhile, seems to echo the old city of Chandrakanta, mentioned in the Rāmāyaṇa. But, more about it later.

The Khyber Pass, long recognised as a vital trade artery between India and Central Asia, may carry a name older and more mythic than commonly assumed. While modern etymologies trace the name Khyber to Arabic or Hebrew roots, this may be a surface gloss. There is a compelling possibility that Khyber is a distortion of Kubera’s name—the ancient lord of wealth, guardianship, and northern realms. Why, after all, would a gateway nestled deep in Indo-Iranian terrain bear a Hebrew or Arabic name—unless later tongues overwrote something far older, more native, and mythically resonant?

If that sounds unbelievable, consider this: Kubera is not merely a deity of riches. He is the custodian of the North, the guardian of gateways, and the patron of trade routes. He is the god of the trader class. What better tribute than naming the most strategic northern gateway after him?

Kubera's name appears to ripple across languages and regions: in Arabic, 'kabura' means 'to be great', and in Maltese, 'kbir' is the word for 'great'. In Aramaic, 'kbr' means to be 'much' or 'a lot' while in Amharic, 'kebbere' means to be 'precious', and 'keber' means 'honour'. In Persian, 'khazaneh' means 'treasury' while in Mongolian, 'khybu' means 'hero'.

All of these words together evoke the essence of the Vedic-Puranic deity Kubera. These cognates cannot be dismissed as random coincidences. They suggest that Kubera’s name and function—wealth, greatness, guardianship—were embedded in northern trade networks, evolving into regional adaptations across Turkic, Semitic, and Mongolic languages. In this light, the Arabic or Hebrew etymologies appear less like origins and more like layers written over a deeper Indic mythic substrate.

In the Indic tradition, Kubera and Khyber are not merely cognates; Sanskrit situates Kubera within a profound cultural and economic framework—as divine treasurer, guardian of the North, and custodian of gateways. This layered significance sets the name apart from other linguistic parallels, which echo only fragments of his essence. Seen in this light, the Khyber Pass becomes more than a corridor of trade: it is a threshold where language and geography converge, carrying forward India’s northern connections into Afghanistan, Iran, and beyond.

🌺 Is Jalalabad the Chandrakanta of Rāmāyaṇa: In the Uttarkāṇḍa, Vālmīki names a city in the north-west, which came to be ruled by Chandraketu, the son of Lakṣmaṇa. The city was named Chandrakanta as mentioned in verse 4-102, 2-5.

The route from Takshashila to Balkh passes through the Khyber Pass and the fertile valley of Jalalabad, which is situated in a region that was known, until a century ago, as Nagarhara (नगरहार) - a reference to the 'garland of towns' on the Kabul River. At Jalalabad, the Kunar River—descending from the Chitral highlands—merges with the Kabul River. The Chitral gets its name from Sanskrit chitra (चित्र) meaning 'excellent' or 'brilliant' - a description of its natural beauty. The Kunar gets its name from Sanskrit khavari (खवारि) meaning 'rainwater' or 'vapour'.

The route from A. Saurāṣṭra passes through B. Śrī Kṛṣṇa's Madhuvan (Mathurā), C. Takshashila (Taxila), D. Puṣkalavati (Charsadda), and E. the city of Chandrakanta (Jalalabad). The vānaras reach Balkh and then turn to Multan and Karachi on the Indus

At Jalalabad, the Kabul River makes its most luminous gesture: it flows through a sweeping crescent-shaped bend. Joined by the Kunar, the river curves into a radiant arc, evoking a crescent moon—delicate, deliberate, and serene.

It is this celestial curvature that lends the city its name: Chandrakānta, the ‘beautiful moon’.The name mirrors the visual elegance of the landscape. Tradition holds that Chandrakānta was bestowed upon Chandraketu, son of Lakṣmaṇa, as his domain. Yet one wonders—did the city take its name from Chandraketu, or did Chandraketu himself come to be named after the resplendent Chandrakānta he ruled?

The bend on the river at the intersection of the rivers Kunar and Kabul. At the crescent-shaped bend stood Chandraketu's city of Chandrakanta, now Jalalabad in Afghanistan.

Nearby, on the present-day map, lies the town of Kanday, just west of the river’s confluence. The crescent bend falls within the bounds of Jalalabad, yet the name Kanday may preserve a fragment of Chandrakānta from the Rāmāyaṇa —its kanta echoing faintly as a phonetic relic in local speech.

It is to the city of Chandrakānta that Lakṣmaṇa is said to have accompanied his son Chandraketu, as the latter established his kingdom. Adjacent to Jalalabad lies the province of Laghman, a name intriguingly linked in some traditions to Lamech, the father of Noah in Semitic lore. Yet for those who follow the Rāmāyanic path, Laghman reflects Lakṣmaṇa—a name enduring not only in genealogy but inscribed deeply in tradition.

Lakṣmaṇa’s legacy often seems overshadowed by that of Śrī Rāma. Yet westward from Laghman in Afghanistan—towards Tehran, Baghdad, and Ankara, across the ancient lands of Akkad, Sumer, and Mesopotamia—we encounter traces of Lakṣmaṇa and his younger son Angada. Bestowed by Śrī Rāma with the domain of Karapatha, their story extends into these regions, a thread we shall follow more closely in the next chapter.

This entire region fell within the ambit of ancient Gandhāra. The name comes from Sanskrit roots—most scholars trace it to gandha (fragrance, aroma) + āra (region or bestowing), meaning ‘the land of fragrance’.

🌺 III. The Land of Bāhlika: We now return to the sojourn of the vānaras and pick up the trail at Bāhlika, an ancient district mentioned in the Rāmāyaṇa as well as in the Mahābhārata. Though in present- day geography, Balkh refers only to one province of north-west Afghanistan, in ancient geography this entire land was addressed by only two names, Gandhara and Bāhlika, and covered a much larger area.

🌺 The Forgotten Garuḍa Temple of Bāhlika: According to the scriptures, the Purāṇic ‘King of the Birds’ was born here. Could the echoes of that myth still linger in this land—hidden in ruins, memory, or forgotten sanctuaries?

Nearly two centuries ago, British scholars writing in the Asiatic Journal of Bengal recorded traces of a Garuḍa temple near Bamiyan, on the banks of the Surkhab river—a memory now almost entirely effaced. Captain F. Wilford, in his essay Sacred Isles of the West (Asiatic Researches, vol. VIII, 1808), attests: “Garuḍa’s den is well known to this day to the pilgrims, and to the Hindus of these parts'.

The temple was marked as Shibi on Captain Rennell’s map. Captain James Rennell (1742–1830), celebrated as the ‘Father of Indian Geography’, was a British surveyor and cartographer whose maps of Hindustan became foundational for early Orientalist scholarship. Today, this site is known as Shibar, northwest of Kabul at 34°55′12″N, 68°02′24″E, within Bamiyan province, not far from Band-e Amir Lake—once revered by Hindus as a counterpart to Lake Mānasarovar.

Wilford himself explained how the name Shibar arose. In his essay The Chronology of the Hindus (same volume), he notes: “The place is called Shibr in Major Rennell’s maps, for Shabar; and it is not far from Bamiyan. There, Garuḍa used to devour all the Shabaras who passed by; in the Purāṇas, all savage tribes are thus called". (p. 258)

Hence, Shibar is not a random toponym but a survival of Shabar, the Purāṇic term for forest tribes, woven into the Garuḍa legend. The name itself preserves the mythic memory of Garuḍa’s den, anchoring the site in both geography and scripture.

Nearby lies Shahr-e Gholghola, 'the City of Woes'. Tradition holds that it was named after the massacre unleashed by Genghis Khan when his grandson fell in battle. Yet Wilford suggested the name had older resonances: Gholghola, he argued, was a variation of Garula—the Pali form of Sanskrit Garuḍa. Thus, Garuḍasthāna became Garulasthān in Buddhist times, and later, after Mongol devastation, was reshaped into the Pashto Gholghola, its sound echoing ghoghola or 'tumult'.

In this layered terrain, Garuḍasthāna was not erased but refracted—through the etymology of Shibar, through Buddhist reverence, and through Mongol wrath. Wilford’s speculative philology, though contested, invites us to read Bamiyan not merely as a valley of statues, but as a radiant node in the epic cartography of Bhārata. One also observes that in the ancient epics, the realm of Bahlika included the present-day Bamiyan Region.

🌺 Note on Ancient Gandhāra and Kandahār: Ancient scriptures seem to refer to only two lands in connection with Afghanistan—Gandhāra and Bāhlika—which together covered the cultural and geographic expanse of the region. In present-day usage, the name Kandahār is sometimes mistakenly linked to Gandhāra, but the two are distinct. Gandhāra lay in the Northwest, centred on the Peshawar Valley and Taxila, while Kandahār in the south was known in antiquity as Alexandria Arachosia. The name Kandahār may stem from the Sanskrit kandara (कन्दरा), meaning 'cave' or 'valley', aptly describing its rocky terrain and the adjoining Arghandāb valley.

🌺 Arghandāb Valley and Setumatī: As for the Arghandāb Valley, its name derives from the Arghandāb River, which mainstream sources connect to the Old Iranian Haetumant—cognate with Sanskrit setumatī, meaning ‘embanked’, a reference to the River Haetumant itself. Yet the rugged terrain and natural barriers of this region suggest another layer of meaning: Arghandāb may carry the imprint of Sanskrit argala (अर्गल), ‘obstruction’ or ‘bolt’. This resonance, intriguingly, seems to echo in the Greek rendering of this land as Arachosia.

In Greek, the root arg- carries connotations of delay, inertia, or lack of motion, appearing in forms like ‘argós’ (sluggish) and ‘argá’ (late), hence converging with the Sanskrit meaning. It is not implausible, then, that the Greeks recorded the name of the river and land as Arachosia—a phonetic and conceptual carryover of the original Sanskrit argala (अर्गल).

🌺 Is Bamiyan the city of Kukshi: Returning to the vānaras’ route, one of the most evocative placenames invoked by Vālmīki is the city of Kukshi. The verse is striking, for it invites layers of interpretation to those who pause over its meaning. Within the genealogy of Śrī Rāma’s ancestors, Kukshi appears as a king of the Ikṣvāku dynasty—an early ancestor whose presence anchors the lineage. This ancestral tie, together with the city’s grandeur, is perhaps why Sugrīva includes Kukshi on the vānaras’ path, alongside Puṣkalavatī and Candrakānta, cities associated with later scions of the same royal line. Kukshi, son of Ikṣvāku, emerges as a key figure in consolidating the dynasty’s power, founding a city and extending its dominion.

The Sanskrit root kukshi (कुक्षि) meaning ‘cave’ or ‘cavern’, evokes the image of a settlement or kingdom, carved into Afghanistan’s rugged terrain—reminiscent of the rock-cut complexes of Bamiyan and Takht-e-Bahi. The Bamiyan cliffs contain more than 750 caves, most of them of natural origin. In this light, Kukshi of the Rāmāyaṇa may be understood as centred upon Bamiyan itself: a cavernous terrain remembered across traditions under different names. King Kukshi’s very name may have derived from the cavernous landscape he built upon, much as Candraketu’s name reflects the half-moon bend of the city of Candrakānta. The River on which Bamiyan stands, and the Valley too, is known as Kakrak; the name without a known etymology. Kakrak perhaps also preserves a memory of the name Kukshi.

The Legend of Kukshi: Later traditions remember the king Śrī Kukshi as Vikukshi (विकुक्षि), the prefix vi (वि) denoting ‘expansion’, a title that suggests ‘the vastness of his cavernous kingdom’. In the Purāṇic accounts, however, Vikukshi’s story acquires a more intricate texture. Vettam Mani’s Puranic Encyclopedia recounts how Ikṣvāku, the founding king of the dynasty, entrusted his son with the task of hunting for a ritual śrāddha. It was a solemn duty, one that bound the prince to the rhythms of ancestral remembrance. Yet on his return, Vikukshi paused—perhaps weary, perhaps tempted—and killed a hare. He cooked it, ate it, and only then came back to the court. It is from here that Kukshi came to be known as Śaśāda or ‘hare killer’.

This seemingly small act carried immense weight. To consume the hare before the śrāddha was not merely a lapse of discipline; it was a breach of ritual purity. In the ordered world of Ayodhyā, where lineage and rite intertwined, such a transgression could not be overlooked. Ikṣvāku expelled his son, and with that decision, the prince’s path veered away from the centre of power.

Exiled, Vikukshi wandered westward. In epic and Purāṇic traditions, such episodes often veil symbolic meaning. The hare (śaśa), a creature of the wilderness, stands at the threshold between cultivated order and untamed margins. His act thus becomes more than a moral lapse: it marks a crossing of boundaries—from the ordered Ikṣvāku court into the wilderness, and further westward into lands where new centres of worship arose.

This legend conceals the memory of a prince moving outward from the heart of India to establish dominion in a far‑off western land. Hence, in his two names—Vikukshi and Śaśāda—we glimpse not only 'expansion' and 'transgression', but the civilisational movement that embedded dynastic presence into distant geographies. The worship of Devi in Kabul, remembered in older traditions as Kubha, also resonates with the Vikukshi legend: during his exile, he turns to the Goddess, perhaps as he moves westward and passes through Kubha, an ancient Śakti centre. What appears as a tale of exile may in fact preserve the story of the foundation of Kukshi beyond Candrakānta and Kubha.

Although the oldest traditions connect Bamiyan with the name Vāmiyān, the commonly accepted etymology today traces the name to Old Persian Bamikan, itself derived from the Avestan bamim, meaning 'shining' or 'radiant'. The Persian trail, however, offers no further clues. Instead, this Avestan root resonates deeply with Sanskrit, where bhāmin (भामिन्) signifies 'radiant' or 'splendid', ultimately stemming from bhā (भा), 'to shine'. It is the same shine or light that threads through the name Bhārata (भारत), linking Bamiyan to its ancient civilisational identity extending into the deep past.

🌺 The Flora of Kukshi or Bamiyan: Sometimes continuity is preserved not only by names of great cities or corridors of trade, but also may lie hidden somewhere in a single verse that offers a clue—like Vālmīki’s mention of the flora of the land of Kukshi on the vānara path—which opens new landscapes of meaning, linking terrain and tradition as the narrative unfolds.

Vālmīki’s description of Kukshi includes a striking botanical detail:

पुंनाग गहनम् कुक्षिम् वकुल उद्दालक आकुलम् || ४-४२-७
तथा केतक खँडान् च मार्गध्वम् हरि पुंगवाः |

(Rāmāyaṇa, Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa 4.42.7)

Oh, best monkeys, conduct search in their extensive and delightful rural areas and spacious city of Kukshi, as well as in the woods with Punnaaga trees, areas filled with Vakula, and Uddalaka trees and even in the thickets of Ketaka trees.

This verse is more than a poetic ornament. It is a geographical clue. Though some translations interpret kukshi simply as a cave, most scholars interpret Kukshi as a place name. The mention of fruit‑bearing trees in the same passage—cherry, apricot, mulberry—tells us of water, for orchards thrive only where irrigation sustains them. Kukshi or Bamiyan, lying at 2,500 meters above sea level, is cradled between the Hindu Kush and Koh‑i‑Baba ranges, nourished by the Band‑e‑Amir and Bamiyan rivers. The valley’s beauty, with its fertile orchards and flowing waters, explains why it became a centre of settlement and, in even older times, a seat of the Śakti cult. Cities arise near rivers, and Bamiyan’s dual rivers made it a natural locus for both agriculture and worship.

Yet the verse also presents a paradox. The plant traditionally identified as Punnaga—Calophyllum inophyllum—thrives in coastal, humid climates and does not naturally grow in Afghanistan. Why, then, would Vālmīki invoke Punnaga in a highland valley where its accepted botanical identity is absent?

A key insight emerges from Narahari’s 13th‑century Rājanighaṇṭu (verse 13.99), an Ayurvedic medicinal thesaurus. Narahari, physician and scholar, identifies Punnaga as a synonym for Kampillaka (Mallotus philippensis, the Kamala tree), a member of the Euphorbiaceae family. Unlike Calophyllum Inophyllum, Mallotus Philippensis grows abundantly in Afghanistan and is locally known as Qanbil. Both species are valued in Ayurveda, yet they thrive in vastly different climates. What unites them is not geography but pharmacology: both yield medicinal compounds used in treating skin disorders and inflammation. Narahari’s identification shows that Ayurvedic scholars were not merely compiling lists of synonyms—they were actively reclassifying plants to preserve therapeutic relevance across diverse terrains.

Seen in this light, Vālmīki’s reference to Punnaga near Kukshi was not an error but a reflection of a fluid, terrain‑sensitive tradition of naming and healing. The verse thus serves a dual purpose: it helps us pinpoint the vānaras’ route on the present‑day map, and it reveals that Ayurvedic knowledge—its substitutions, adaptations, and ecological awareness—was already embedded in these lands during that era.

🌺 King Kukshi and the Kushan Dynasty: The terrain and its healing traditions were not isolated details but part of a civilisational fabric that Kukshi’s descendants carried into the empire. Could Kukshi’s kingdom have been the precursor to the Kushan Empire, which flourished between the 1st and 4th centuries CE? Mainstream etymology links ‘Kushana’ to the Chinese ‘Gushan’—a term used in Han sources to denote the Yuezhi tribes who migrated into Bactria—yet the phonetic shift from /k/ to /g/ is not unusual. Viewed through the Ramāyanic lens, the continuity of names—Kukshi and Kushana—suggests that the dynasty’s identity may have drawn upon indigenous traditions rather than external derivations. The empire that emerged here can thus be seen not as a foreign transplant but as a civilisational flowering rooted in the land once associated with Kukshi, son of Ikṣvāku.

The Kushan Empire rose upon a network of cities that themselves echo Ramāyanic geography, suggesting a civilisational continuum from epic memory into historical polity. Puṣkalavatī (near modern Charsadda) recalls Bhārata’s son Puṣkala, while Takṣaśilā/Taxila was founded by his other son Takṣa—both explicitly named in the Rāmāyaṇa. Mathurā, ruled by Śatrughna in the epic, became the Kushans’ southern capital and a flourishing centre of sculpture and trade. Purushapura, present‑day Peshawar, the imperial seat under Kaniṣka, resonates with the Ikṣvāku–Puruṣa lineage, while Bactra/Balkh and Bamiyan evoke Kukshi, Rāma’s ancestor, through their cavernous terrain (kukshi = cave). Even Begram, with its luminous finds, recalls Kapisi, the ancient city identified with present‑day Bagram.

🌺 The Kamboja Question: The first references to Kapisi appear in the writings of the 5th‑century BC grammarian Pāṇini, who names Kapiśi as a city of the Kapisa kingdom. Mainstream scholarship equates Kapisa with the Sanskrit Kamboja, treating it as an Indo‑Iranian ethnonym. Yet from a purely Sanskrit perspective, the derivation is not so simple. If we read Kapisi as Kavisi—the land of kavis, poets or wisemen—then the name itself may have been a recognition of the intellectual prestige of the region, rather than a tribal designation.

Perhaps the foundation was laid in the time of Kukshi himself, embedding wisdom and genealogy into the terrain.

The etymology of Kamboja likewise demands scrutiny. Scholars often streamline it into Iranian roots, linking it to compounds such as Kam‑bogha or to the Achaemenid royal name Kambūjiya (Cambyses). Yet the recurrence of the name far beyond Afghanistan, most strikingly in Kambuja‑deśa, the dynastic name of ancient Cambodia, suggests a broader civilisational resonance. Was Cambodia’s adoption of Kambuja a conscious recognition of epic prestige? Or does the persistence of the term across regions reveal how Sanskritic lexicons embedded epic identities into diverse landscapes, from Central Asia to Southeast Asia? To reduce Kamboja to a single Iranian origin is to overlook layered meanings—tribal, geographic, and epic—and perhaps its true source was Indian, travelling both east and west across the civilisational sphere.

🌺 The Kushan Realm as Ramāyanic Continuity: Taken together, these cities—Puṣkalavatī, Takṣaśilā, Purushapura, Kapisi—show how the Kushan realm was not an alien imposition but a flowering of Ramāyanic territories. Ancestral and descendant lands were woven into an empire that carried forward epic names, dynastic memory, and geography into historical time. While mainstream historiography tends to treat the Kushan Empire as a product of Central Asian migrations and Chinese nomenclature, the Ramāyanic resonances embedded in its geography and dynastic names cannot be dismissed.

The recurrence of epic placenames and ancestral figures within the very heartland of Kushan power suggests that indigenous traditions were not coincidental echoes but living continuities. To read the Kushans solely through external etymologies is to overlook the deep civilisational memory encoded in the Rāmāyaṇa, where geography, genealogy, and ecology converge—inscribed already in the ancestral memory of Kukshi of the Ikṣvāku dynasty.

Yet the Ramāyaṇa is but one stratum of memory inscribed upon this land. Beneath the epic geography of Puṣkalavatī, Takṣaśilā, Purushapura, and Kapisi lies an even older civilisational horizon, where Vedic hymns and Tantric mappings illuminate what Afghanistan was before the Ramāyanic cities emerged.

When the vānaras passed through Bāhlika or Afghanistan as we call it today, they traversed a land where Vedic and Tantric civilisation was already present, as will become evident ahead. Its echoes are still preserved in Afghanistan’s most ancient sacred sites, though much of their deeper history has been lost. These shrines and inscriptions stand as enduring markers of a civilisational horizon that long predated the Ramāyanic cities.

🌺 The Land of Śakti Cult: Afghanistan, situated at the crossroads of Indo‑Iranian civilisation, preserves traces of goddess worship that span Sanskritic Śākti cosmology, Avestan and Iranian cults, Kushan inscriptions, and later Arab accounts. When examined together, three sites in particular — Kabul (Kubha), Bamiyan (Vāmiyān), and Surkh Kotal in Baghlan — can be read as forming a triadic geography of Śakti. This triad resonates with the Tantric conception of the innermost triangle of the Śrīcakra, where the three goddesses Kāmeśvarī, Vāmeśvarī, and Bhagamālinī occupy the three corners surrounding the bindu, the seat of Lalitā Tripurasundarī. The convergence of architectural evidence, inscriptional testimony, philological analysis, and oral tradition allows us to propose that Afghanistan once functioned as a land of the Śakti cult, where Indo‑Iranian, Vedic, and Kushan traditions converged in goddess worship.

1. Kubhā, Kubjhika, and the Temple of Asamayī: The Kabul or Kubhā region is traditionally identified in oral and local tradition as a Śakti Pīṭha, later revered as the sacred domain of the Goddess Durgā, and presently associated with the site known as the Temple of Asamayī in Kabul. This temple, still active today, provides architectural continuity for the worship of the fierce goddess. In the Greek era, the shrine came to be associated with the victory of the Greeks, and Durgā was venerated as Jayantī Devī, with the region remembered as Jayantī Devī Sthāna. The temple on the Kabul River is believed to be at least 4,000 years old. The river itself was once known as Kubhā, a name linked in Tantric tradition to the goddess Kubjikā.

2. Bamiyan and Vāmiyān: Bamiyan, once remembered as Vāmiyān, carries its own tradition of Tantric goddess worship. In her ugra (उग्र), or fierce manifestation, Śakti assumes the form of Kālī, iconographically represented with her tongue extended. In this aspect, she is invoked as Vāmikā, a name derived from the Sanskrit root vāmi (वामि), connoting 'to eject' or 'to expel', here understood as the emission of fire or energy from the mouth. Within the Tantric tradition, the goddess Vāmeśvarī—another epithet of Śakti—embodies the feminine principle and is identified with the vāma-bhāga (वाम-भाग), the left side of Śiva in the composite form of Ardhanārīśvara (अर्धनारीश्वर). The epithet vāmi also carries the meaning 'left' in Sanskrit, reinforcing her association with Śiva’s left aspect. In this form, her name Vāmikā appears to have imprinted itself upon the land, echoed in the ancient toponym Vāmiyān, now known as Bamiyan.

3. The Ruins of Surkh Kotal and Rabatak Inscriptions: Not far from Bamiyan lies the ancient site of Surkh Kotal in Baghlan, where the famous Rabatak Inscription was discovered. In this inscription, the script is Greek, but the language is Bactrian, which mainstream scholarship classifies as Indo-Iranian, though it can ultimately be traced to Sanskritic roots. The inscription records the name of the site as Bagolaggo, generally translated from Old Iranian or Avestan as 'temple' or 'sanctuary', derived from ‘baga-danaka’. This is comparable to the name Baku, traced to Old Persian Bagavan ('City of God'), itself a direct cognate of Sanskrit Bhagavān (भगवान), rooted in bhaga (भग), meaning 'sun', 'moon', 'majestic', or 'god'.

The Rabatak Inscription also makes mention of several deities worshipped by the Kushans, including Omma (interpreted as Uma, the consort of Śiva). In his translation of section 9-A of this fragmented inscription, historian Bratindra Nath Mukherjee, noted for his expertise in Central Asian languages, renders the passage:

“To lead are the Lady Nana and the Lady Omma, Ahura Mazda, Mazdooana, Srosharda, who is called … and Komaro (Kumāra), and called Maaseno (Mahāsena), and called Bizago (Viśākha), Narasao, and Miro (Mihira)".

Here, Omma is plausibly linked to the Vedic goddess Uma/Parvatī (उमा/पार्वती), a form of Śakti. Mahāsena (महासेन) is a revered epithet of Kārttikeya, the son of Śiva. Among his many forms, Viśākha (विशाख) is highlighted in the Śivapurāṇa, where the god manifests by dividing himself into distinct aspects. This explains the name Bizago in the inscription. Miro or Mihira is the solar deity, while Narasao may be a corruption of Narasimha, the lion-man incarnation of Viṣṇu.

This inscriptional testimony provides direct evidence of goddess worship at Surkh Kotal, showing that the Kushan kings invoked Uma/Śakti alongside their dynastic cult. It also demonstrates the presence of Śiva, Pārvatī, Kārttikeya, Viśākha, Mihira, and possibly Narasimha, thereby situating Surkh Kotal within a wider Indic pantheon.

The Rabatak Inscription also shows that by the time it was carved—around the 2nd century CE—the names of Indic and Vedic deities had already begun to take on altered forms. As these traditions travelled beyond the Vedic heartland into Kushan domains, local tongues and transliterations reshaped the original Sanskrit names. What began as subtle shifts in pronunciation and spelling eventually produced variants that obscured their origins, making them harder to identify centuries later. This process, visible in the inscription itself, is not a loss but a testimony to the diffusion of Indic worship: the gods of Śiva, Uma, Kārttikeya, Viśākha, Mihira, and others were carried westward, woven into new cultural landscapes, even as their names transformed in the encounter with foreign scripts and languages.

4. Varnu and Varena: Another possibility for the ancient name of Surkh Kotal has been put forth by scholar M. Rahim Shayegan in his paper Nugae Epigraphicae (JSTOR). He suggests that Surkh Kotal may have been known as Varnu, a name he connects to Varena, the kingdom of the Iranian mythical king Fereydun of the Pishdadian dynasty. Varena is described in tradition as a city with four corners, a feature mirrored in the geography of Surkh Kotal, whose rock‑bed site rises above a plateau with a quadrangular form. Shayegan interprets varnu as ‘four corners’. Yet this word is absent from Persian and Avestan dictionaries, and in Sanskrit the term for ‘square’ is varga (वर्ग), not varna. The etymology, therefore, remains uncertain and invites further exploration.

According to Shayegun, the Persian king Fereydun was also known as Thraētaona in Avestan or Traitaunas in Proto‑Indo‑Iranian, derived from Tritas, the name of a deity reflected in the Vedic Trita, more correctly Tṛta (त्रित). In the Ṛgveda, Tṛta appears in hymns such as 1.105.9 and 5.41.10, where he is invoked alongside Indra and the Maruts, linked to thunder, wind, and the release of waters. This association places him firmly within the storm‑god complex of the Vedic pantheon. Through this route, one ultimately reaches the name of Varuṇa, counted together with Indra and Mitra as the three highest deities of the Ṛgveda. Varuṇa, the sovereign of cosmic order, and Indra, also known as Virendra, thus stand connected to Surkh Kotal, anchoring the site within the wider Indic mythological horizon.

One may therefore interpret that the triad of Bamiyan–Surkh Kotal–Baghlan was not only a vital centre of the Śakti cult, it simultaneously served as a sanctuary for the wider Vedic pantheon—a sacred landscape where Tantric and Vedic traditions converged and intertwined under Kushan patronage.

Thus, when the vānaras crossed this land of Bāhlika, they were not moving through emptiness or wilderness, but through a terrain already sanctified by civilisation—its shrines, cults, and pantheon forming the picture of what Afghanistan once was. Why else would they pass through here, if not because it was a land of habitation and sanctity?

🌺 IV. Travels through the Sapta-Sindhu Region: From the cavernous imagery and the rugged passes reminiscent of Bamiyan, the terrain shifts dramatically. The mountains and caves give way, and the vānaras’ route unfolds into the riverine expanse of the Sapta-Sindhu. Vālmīki describes cool-watered streams and forests where ascetics gathered. Shrines sanctified the land, and footpaths bore the memory of centuries of passage (Rāmāyaṇa, 42.8). These details serve as unmistakable markers of the Sapta-Sindhu, whose rivers, sustained by Himalayan sources, defined the sacred geography of the region.

Here, civilisation flourished. The rivers did not merely irrigate fertile plains; they sustained settlements, sanctuaries, and trade routes, binding together the rhythms of daily life and sacred tradition. Each bore its own layers of historical and spiritual memory.

🌺 A. The Iravatī River: In this land, cities were never named arbitrarily—their names reflected spiritual resonance or geographic character, reinforcing the deep connection between toponymy and landscape. Among these, the name Iravati offers a striking example, anchoring an ancient city to the river that sustained it.

The Irāvatī, or Ravi, is one of the revered seven rivers of the Sapta‑Sindhu. While the Rāmāyaṇa does not explicitly list these rivers, the Kathāsaritsāgara (Chapter 42) makes distinct mention of Irāvatī (इरावती), both as a river and as a city. The text portrays Irāvatī as a city of unparalleled splendour, luminous enough to humble Kubera’s Alakapuri—his celestial capital by the Alaknanda, rival to Indra’s Amravati. By placing Irāvatī in league with these exalted realms, its divine stature and cultural significance are reaffirmed. The city also came to be known as Iravatyavara, befitting its grandeur. Where exactly was this cancient ity situated on the river? There are a few contenders.

🌺 The City of Iravati and Lahore: An important city along the Ravi River today is Lahore. Tradition remembers it as Lavapuri, the city said to have been founded by Lava, son of Śrī Rāma. Ptolemy, in his Geography, had noted a settlement here, calling it Labokla and placing it by the Ravi’s course. The prefix ‘Labo’ may well be a softened echo of ‘Lava’, since the sounds /v/ and /b/ often slip into one another across languages and time.

Lahore still carries Lava’s shadow. While the city’s older name—Lavapuri—keeps alive his mythic memory, an old temple known by the name Lava Temple, located inside the mighty walls of the Shahi Qila, stands as a quiet witness to that lineage. That temple, recently restored and now called Loh Temple, rises quietly amidst the fort’s grandeur, seems almost to whisper of ancient lineage, a fragile yet defiant reminder that the son of Rāma once walked here.

Yet questions linger: was Iravatī the city that later grew into Lavapuri and, eventually, Lahore? Or does the name point instead to another forgotten settlement along the Ravi’s banks?

We may, in fact, be speaking of two different sites. While Lavapuri clearly appears to be the precursor of Lahore—its name aligning etymologically—there remains another contender for the ancient Iravatī, a city whose very name resonates with the river itself.

🌺 Could Harappa have once borne the name Iravatī? Situated along the Ravi River, some 200 kilometres downstream from Lahore, Harappa’s archaeological wealth—among it the discovery of Śivalingas—offers tantalising hints. Its closeness to the river and the prosperity that flowed from trade and agriculture suggest that Harappa may indeed correspond to the legendary city praised in the Kathāsaritsāgara. The Ravi itself, known in Sanskrit as the Iravatī, was more than a river: it was a lifeline of commerce, sustaining fields, households, and merchants, and binding Harappa into the wider Indus network.

Even the city’s name seems to carry a spectral echo of Iravatī. The root Ira (इरा), meaning ‘water’, may have gradually shifted into Hara as sounds drifted across centuries. Whether this transformation reflects linguistic adaptation, evolving identities, or the persistence of older traditions woven into the rivers of Sapta-Sindhu, it strengthens the possibility that Harappa was once the radiant Iravatī—the city said to rival Alakapuri.

In this layered geography, Iravatī is not merely a river or a settlement. It is a vessel of memory, bearing forward the legacy of civilisations that rose, vanished, and rose again—leaving behind their echoes in names, artefacts, and sacred texts.

🌺 Sargodha-the Sadhusara of antiquity: Moving into the western reaches, the vānaras would have encountered lands steeped in spiritual undertones, with Sargodha in Punjab Province standing out as a site of lingering resonance. Local legend holds that its name derives from a transposition of Sadhu-Sara—with sara (सर) meaning ‘lake’ or ‘water-body’ and sadhu (साधु) signifying ‘ascetic'. In this telling, godha is said to echo sadhu, reconfigured through oral transmission or regional phonetic drift.

Thus, Saragodha or Sargodha translates aptly as ‘The Pond of the Ascetics’, a name that preserves the sanctity of its origins. This etymology aligns with the region’s proximity to the Jhelum or Vitasta—known for its ancient temples, pilgrimage sites, and ritual significance. Historical accounts and architectural remnants suggest that the region served as a convergence point for ascetics—drawn by its riverine landscape, ritual sites and spiritual lineage. Sargodha was home to many lakes—one of them, named Kirana, has a lore of its own, which we shall shortly visit as we progress along this path.

🌺 Bhera- the Land of Bhairava: Just downstream from Sargodha lies Bhera, a city situated on the eastern bank of the Vitasta, or the Jhelum, opposite an ancient mound believed to be the settlement of Old Bhera. Historical accounts, including Mughal ruler Babar’s log called Tuzuk, speak of Bhera’s presence on the trade and pilgrimage routes that once threaded through the Punjab plains towards Multan.

One interpretation of its name traces it to the Sanskrit bhira (भीर), meaning ‘steep slope’ or ‘precipice', a nod to its riverbank geography. But deeper resonances lie in another possibility—that Bhera may reflect Bherava, a regional inflexion of Bhairava, the formidable form of Śiva. Derived from bhīru (भीरु), meaning ‘fearful’ or ‘terrifying’, Bhairava embodies the threshold between sacred and worldly, the guardian who watches over pilgrimage routes and temple towns.

Bhairava's shrines, often built at the edges of cities or crossroads, marked not just locations but transitions—between the mundane and the mystical. Even today, remnants of a Śiva temple and the walled old town of Bhera speak of a geography once shaped by renunciation and ritual. The Śiva temple is known to be at least a thousand years old. Ruins of this Śiva Temple here whisper reminders of the region’s ancient religious life, anchoring the mythic into architectural remains.

In Greek records, the ancient town of Bhera is referred to as Sophytes or Saubhūti. Saubhūti was the name of a ruler associated with Bactria—also known as Balakh or Bāhlika, as we have already come across—the northwestern frontier of India. From Bhera, in 326 BCE, Alexander’s forces embarked on the Jhelum River, sailing downstream towards Mūlasthāna (Multan). This journey underscores that Bhera was already a well-developed settlement by that time, and that the Greeks traversed the same river route on which the vānaras had once sailed. Though less renowned than Harappa or Taxila, Bhera has likewise been declared a heritage site, affirming its historical significance within the Indus landscape.

🌺The Lore of Mt. Kirana and a Temple of Hanumān: As the vānaras journey along the rivers, Vālmīki speaks of 'mountains embosomed with woods', a description that closely matches the Kirana Hills—an expansive range west of Sargodha. Located near the Jhelum River, rising to an elevation of approximately 1,050 feet (320 meters), these hills stand as the only notable mountains in the region, making them identifiable with Vālmīki’s account. Beyond their geological distinctiveness, Mt. Kirana carries profound historical and mythological resonance, enriching the narrative of the vā­nara expedition.

According to Hindu folklore still remembered by the locals of Sargodha, Hanumān—while carrying Dronagiri from the Himalayas, laden with the life-restoring Sañjīvinī bhooti—traversed this path on his mission to Laṅkā. As he soared across the skies, fragments of Mt. Drona fell to the ground. The earth below gathered the fallen stones—each stone a witness to Hanumān’s sojourn, each one put together to form the hill of Kirana.

Approximately 15 kilometres south-east of Mt. Kirana lies Charnali, a site that local tradition associates with Hanumān’s celestial flight. The name Charnali is thought to derive from the Sanskrit charana (चरण), meaning ‘feet’, suggesting that this land once received the fleeting touch of Hanumān’s visit, and perhaps the other vā­naras along with him. Sargodha, Kirana and Charnali all lie in proximity.

The name Kirana likely has roots in the Sanskrit giri (गिरि). Over time, linguistic shifts have led giri to transform into 'kiri', a variation reflecting phonetic evolution through regional dialects. We have come across this process earlier, where softer consonants like /k/ replace original forms such as /g/ due to ease of pronunciation or local linguistic influences. Hence, it is plausible that Kirana once bore a form like Girika or Girina—variants anchored in giri (गिरि). The suffix ‘ana’ is an additive form, potentially signifying a cluster or range, in this case, reinforcing the idea of a mountainous expanse. Given its rocky, rugged terrain, the Kirana Hills align well with this interpretation.

Sometimes in common folklore, the name Kirana is even associated with the kirana (किरण), meaning ‘sun ray’, alluding to the way sunlight cascades upon its rugged terrain, illuminating its significance both in history and in myth.

Other Sanskrit names abound in this area. We know that Vālmīki mentions 'forests of the ascetics' in this land. Not far away from Charnali is the town of Jhang, located on the Chenab. The Punjab Government (1883) Gazetteer of the Jhang District states that the name Jhang is derived from the Sanskrit word jhangala (झनगल), which means 'forested terrain'.

As the Jhelum winds through the Punjab plains, it merges with the Chenab at Trimmu, a name likely derived from the Sanskrit tri, meaning 'three'. This etymology aligns with its geographical significance as the meeting point of three water bodies—the Jhelum, Chenab, and their combined flow, also called Chenab, which eventually feeds into the Panjnad River. The notion of tri or 'three' in Trimmu’s name reflects the ancient recognition of this confluence.

Having traced the Jhelum’s course through the Punjab plains to its union with the Chenab at Trimmu, it is useful to recall its earlier Himalayan journey before it descends into the plains.

The Jhelum originates at Verinag in Kashmir in India and from its Himalayan course descends into the plains through the Himalayan foothills, about 300 km away near Mangla, a town situated beside a reservoir also called Mangala, in Mirpur. District. The name Mangala (मङ्गल), derived from the Sanskrit word for ‘auspicious', predates the modern dam and reservoir, anchoring the site in a much older cultural memory.

Before the dam’s construction submerged the region, the area around Old Mirpur hosted an ancient settlement. Beneath the waters now stands a centuries-old Śiva temple, its dome still visible above the lake’s surface. A cavity within the structure suggests the former presence of a Śivalingam, and remarkably, the temple’s gateway remains intact—despite the site being flooded since 1965. Nearby, on the lake’s edge, rises Ramkot Fort. Though dated to the medieval period, its name evokes an older mythic resonance, linking the site to the lore of Rāma and suggesting a continuity of sacred geography.

From Mangala Lake, the river flows into the Sāgara Doab, crossing the Pothohar Plateau—a region that Ahmad Hasan Dani equates with Prshtavara, derived from Sanskrit pṛṣṭha (पृष्ठ), ‘back’, and vara (वर) or ‘area’, the ‘back-land of the Indus’. Yet the name more convincingly reflects the root pruṣ (प्रुष्) or pruṣay (प्रुषाय्), which means ‘to besprinkle, discharge, wet’, evoking the plateau’s defining waters. This interpretation situates Pothohar not as a mere geographical 'back', but as the 'sprinkled land', a terrain continually nourished by rivers between the Indus and Jhelum. The Ṛgveda itself preserves this imagery: in 7.47, the sage Vasiṣṭha invokes the waters (Āpas) of the Indus with the root pruṣ (प्रुष्), celebrating their purifying, honeyed, and life-giving qualities. Thus, the toponym resonates with Vedic symbolism, where sprinkling is both a ritual act of libation and a natural phenomenon of fertility, binding geography and sacred language into a single semantic field.

The river then flows beyond the Pothohar region towards the sites mentioned above, such as Sargodha and Old Behra, before it joins the Chenab at Trimmu and flows forward under the name Chenab.

🌺Ancient Tulamba on the River Iravati: We now trace the course of the Ravi, the Iravati of antiquity, which flows east of the Jhelum. Along its banks lies Tulamba, a settlement whose roots reach back more than two millennia. Much like its venerable neighbour Harappa, Tulamba preserves remnants of temples and sacred sites. Harappa itself, we have proposed, corresponds to the ancient city of Iravati—an urban centre that, like Lavapuri, may have belonged to the sphere of Lava’s ancestral dominion. The proximity of Harappa and Tulamba, separated by less than two hundred kilometres, strengthens the impression of a connected cultural landscape, one that also carried forward the mythic thread of the vānaras along the Sapta-Sindhu rivers.

🌺 B. The Cotton Corridor of Harappa: Harappa, situated on the Iravati, is widely regarded as the earliest known centre of cotton cultivation and exchange. Tulamba’s position on the same riverine axis is not incidental; it was strategically located on the artery that carried cotton and other commodities downstream to the Indus, and thence to wider networks of trade. The very name Tulamba seems to encode this legacy: tūl (तूल), ‘cotton’, and amba (अम्ब), ‘water’, together evoking a place where cotton and riverine commerce converged. Tulamba thus emerges not merely as a trading post but as a site where commerce and contemplation intertwined, its quiet bends along the Iravati nurturing both material prosperity and spiritual reflection.

🌺 Dulluan and the Cotton Axis: Between Harappa and Tulamba lies the town of Dulluan, also on the Ravi. Its name, phonetically close to Tulamba, reflects the interchangeability of /d/ and /t/ sounds in local speech, turning tula or cotton into ‘dullu’, the prefix in the name Dulluan. This linguistic echo binds the tract between Harappa and Tulamba into a coherent corridor of cotton trade. These names are not accidental markers on a map; they are living veins of the Harappan civilisation, carrying the pulse of its economy and memory. In their syllables, the vitality of Harappa’s cotton culture resurfaces—threads of commerce and culture woven into geography, binding antiquity to the present.

🌺 Mohenjo‑Daro and the Cotton Connection: The axis of cotton did not end at Tulamba. Carried downstream by the Indus, the corridor extended to Mohenjo‑Daro, the great city of Sindh. The ruins we call Mohenjo‑Daro — ‘Mound of the Dead’ in Sindhi — never bore that name in its own time. Its true name perhaps lies buried in silence, hinted only in the broken lines of the Indus seals.

Among them, Seal 77 caught the attention of Iravatham Mahadevan, the great epigraphist whose life’s work was devoted to deciphering the scripts of India’s antiquity. Best known for his monumental Indus Script: Texts, Concordance and Tables (1977), Mahadevan catalogued hundreds of seals with meticulous care, convinced that they held the linguistic key to the Harappan world. Seal 77, with its rare sequence of signs, drew him into prolonged contemplation. He lingered over its inscription, tracing the order of symbols, and read them as kukkuta (कुक्कुट) — ‘rooster’. From this, he imagined the city’s ancient name might have been Kukkuṭārma, ‘the city of the cockerel’. The rooster, seldom seen in the Indus corpus, seemed to him a symbol of ritual power, perhaps tied to cock‑fighting or solar cults.

However, another possibility arises from the same syllables. Kukutti (कुकूटि), a word preserved in Sanskrit lexicons for the cotton tree, fits the phonetics just as well. And here the archaeology speaks louder than the rooster’s crow. Mohenjo‑Daro yielded the world’s earliest cotton textiles. Most famously, a small fragment of woven cloth was discovered during John Marshall’s excavations in the 1920s, wrapped around a silver vessel. Preserved by the salts of time, this fragile piece of fabric, dated to the Mature Harappan age around 2500 BCE, is the oldest known cotton in the world, a thread that ties us directly to Mohenjo-Daro. If the city bore a name, perhaps Kukutti‑pura, one tied to its greatest gift — cotton, was the most appropriate.

Mohenjo‑Daro was the capital of cotton. The Indus River, flowing past its walls, was the great channel of this trade. Boats carried cotton downstream to the Arabian Sea, from where they sailed to far‑off lands.

🌺 Sanskritic Names and the Language of Harappa: If the towns along this cotton corridor bear Sanskritic names, the implication is profound: Sanskrit was not merely a later imposition but may well have been the language of the Indus Valley civilisation itself. Vast stretches of land here have recorded Sanskrit names. Downstream from Tulamba lies the semi-arid tract of Bagar, part of the Cholistan Desert, which in turn belongs to the greater Thar stretching into Rajasthan. Ancient sources describe this region as Jangaladeśa—‘forested land’—a designation that persisted from the Vedic era through the Rāmāyaṇic and Mahābhārata periods, and into the early medieval age under Prithviraj Chauhan. Though now arid, Cholistan once carried a great river formed by the Sutlej and Yamuna, whose dry bed, the Hakra, still runs through the land.

Along this bed, numerous Harappan settlements have been uncovered, including the major site of Ganweriwal. Its name, derived from ghana (घन), ‘dense’, evokes the thickly forested terrain of antiquity, and the affix ‘weri’, representing vari (वारी) or river. One reconstruction of its name may read as Ghana-vari-vara (घनवारिवर), ‘the dense-forest river-land’—a compound that brings alive the resounding waters of this ancient tract, where forests and rivers once intertwined to sustain civilisation. The abundance of Sanskritic names in this region strengthens the case that Sanskrit was the language of Harappan culture, woven into its geography and memory.

🌺 D. The Hakra– Sarasvatī Continuum: The Hakra is not merely a dry bed in Cholistan; it is remembered in Vedic tradition as part of the mighty Sarasvatī, praised in the Ṛgveda as nadītamā—the greatest of rivers.

When the Sutlej—the Ṛgvedic Śutudrī (शुतुद्री), its name glossed from śu (शु, ‘swift’) + udrī (उद्री, ‘watercourse’), the 'swift-flowing' torrent of speed and force—and the Yamunā, derived from the Sanskrit root yam (यम्), meaning 'to unite, to hold, to restrain,' with the feminine suffix -unā, signifying 'she who unites or holds,' flowed into their channels, the Ghaggar–Hakra was a perennial river, sustaining dense clusters of Harappan settlements.

Local memory preserves its name as: gāgara–sāgara (गागर–सागर) —literally ’from a pitcher of flowing rivers into the great expanse of the sea’. It is a phrase of fullness and release, though in its modern distortion as Ghaggar–Hakra, the resonance of the original has thinned, showing how names themselves undergo erosion, just as rivers do.

In the epithet gāgara–sāgara, the river’s dual nature is captured: a vessel gathering tributaries, and a conduit flowing toward the ocean. The metaphor resonates with the Harappan legacy, where rivers were not only lifelines of trade and agriculture, but also vessels of trade to foreign lands.

Overlap of the Rāmāyaṇa track with Indus Valley cotton trade towns

🌺 Civilisational Overlap on the Vānara Tract: The Ghaggar–Hakra corridor, once a fertile artery of Harappan prosperity and remembered in Ṛgvedic hymns as Sarasvatī flowing between Yamuna and Sutlej, becomes in the Ramāyaṇa’s memory the vānaras’ trail—moving westward through Harappa into Cholistan—so that Harappan cities, Vedic ritual, and Ramāyaṇic journeys converge upon the same land, a layered landscape of commerce, sanctity, and epic remembrance.

🌺E. Pilgrimage and Sacred Sites: In the land of Sapta‑Sindhu, the cradle of the Indus Valley Civilisation, we turn to the pilgrimage sites of the Rāmāyaṇa. Here, the presence of two epochs—the epic age and the archaeological age—intertwine into a single sacred landscape. These shrines, dedicated to Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, stand as living markers where memory, devotion, and history converge, preserving the resonance of the Rāmāyaṇa within the geography of Sapta‑Sindhu.

🌺 The Story of Ram Chauntra and Lakṣmaṇa Chauntra: Not far from Tulamba lies a place now known as Abdul Hakim. Near the town of Abdul Hakim, the Iravati or the Ravi River cradles two ancient platforms—Ram Chauntra and Lakṣmaṇa Chauntra—positioned on opposite banks. These chauntras, from Sanskrit chanvara (चन्वर), or resting places, are said to mark the pause of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa during their westward journey toward Hingalaj. Though the Rāmāyaṇa does not chart this route explicitly, regional lore insists they traversed the Iravati’s course, and here, the landscape remembers.

Ram Chauntra still bears the traces of its antiquity: a pillared structure crowned with a dome, leading to a temple complex with brick walls and domes that have weathered centuries. Fourteen stone steps descend from the platform to the river—steps that, legend says, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa once took to bathe or meditate by the waters. Sanskrit inscriptions etched into surviving walls whisper of older foundations, upon which the current structure—built some 800 years ago—was raised.

Across the river stands Lakṣmaṇa Chauntra, its orientation mirroring Rāmā’s, as if the two brothers were held in balance by the river’s flow. Oral tradition recounts that from this site, the brothers were once swept downstream—whether by divine will or riverine accident—to a place now known as Sītā Kund, some 15 kilometres away. There, the narrative shifts: the terrain becomes a memory of reunion, of sacred convergence.

Together, these three sites—Rāmā Chauntra, Lakṣmaṇa Chauntra, and Sītā Kund—form a triad of mythic geography. They trace not just a journey, but a rhythm: arrival, descent, dispersal. The Ravi, once Iravati, becomes more than a river—it becomes a mnemonic current, carrying fragments of epic memory through the folds of Punjab’s terrain.

🌺 Sites of Sadhu Sarai and Sarini: Nearby lies the town of Sidhu Sarai, remembered by the locals as Sadhu Sarai. It stands at the confluence of the Ravi and Chenab—the Iravati and Chandrabhaga of yore. This meeting of rivers, imbued with auspiciousness, must have drawn ascetics to its banks, leading ancient geographers to name the settlement after the sādhus and siddhas who gathered there. Sarai is a later epithet. An earlier version would have been akin to something like sarini, Sanskrit for ‘waterway’. The word sara, ‘river’ or ‘water’, has taken various forms, such as Siran in the name of Siran Valley, which takes its name from Siran River, or the Bari Doab, which should ideally be Sari Doab, for it lies between the Beas, and Ravi rivers, and so forth.

Along the sacred current of the Chenab, the vānaras would have pressed onward to Multan—once known as Mūlasthāna—a city nestled in the river’s bend and steeped in spiritual antiquity.

🌺 The Sun Temple of Mūlasthāna: Mūlasthāna, meaning 'the original site of a sacred temple', may lie unnamed in Vālmīki’s verse, yet its spirit lingers in the hush of its consecrated groves and whispering streams.

Legend says, on the banks of the Chenab or Chandrabhaga somewhere, a temple known as Aditya once rose, crowned in gold, and devoted to the Sun God. According to the Samba Purāṇa, the name of this sacred grove was Mitravana, where Samba, son of Kṛṣṇa, had performed penance and established a Surya sun temple after being cured of leprosy. The Samba Purāṇa also says that Samba had discovered an idol of Surya in the Chandrabhaga River, which he installed in the temple, indicating that the site had a much older tradition of Surya worship than the times of the Mahābhārata, hence justifying the name Moola.

In the epoch of Śrī Kṛṣṇa and his descendants, this ancient tract—Mūlasthāna—came to be known as Sambapura, named for Samba, Kṛṣṇa’s son. It is entirely within reason to imagine the vānaras passing through these hallowed precincts in even more ancient times—drawn by Sugrīva’s command to search every grove and sanctuary for Sītā.

Samba’s name may also survive in the name of the temple town of Sambrial, located beside a stream of the upper Chenab, where the ruins of an ancient shrine still stand, its weathered walls embraced by Peepal trees. Śrī Samba is remembered as the builder of many sanctuaries, yet his most resplendent creation was the Sun Temple at Mūlasthāna. In 641 CE, the Chinese pilgrim Hiuen Tsang described it as a radiant sanctuary, housing a golden idol of Surya studded with gems. Pilgrims journeyed here from across the subcontinent, drawn not only by ritual but by a brilliance in which, as tradition tells, devotion itself outshone the light of day. And given Multan’s prominence as a cotton‑growing centre, and its proximity to Harappa and Tulamba, one wonders if Mūlasthāna might also carry a mercantile echo of Tulasthāna—the land of cotton—where prosperity and sanctity were braided together.

🌺 Mitravana as Corridor: From Jhang to Multan: The precise location of Mitravan of the Samba Purāṇa remains debated. While tradition often identifies the site of the Surya temple with Multan—supported by historical accounts and its prominence in early solar worship—the name Mitravan itself suggests a broader forested vana region rather than a single grove.

A compelling possibility emerges that Mitravana referred to the entire riverine corridor stretching from Jhang (derived from Sanskrit jhangala or 'forest') through Trimmu, the confluence of Ravi with Chenab, and all the way to Multan. This tract, once thick with forest and pilgrimage routes, may have embodied the sacred terrain described in the Samba Purāṇa. Both names—Mitravana and Jhangala—evoke landscapes of forested regions.

Supporting this view is the presence of Mitru, a present-day locality near Multan, whose name echoes Mitravan. Whether this is a linguistic survival or a geographic vestige, it reinforces the idea that the solar grove of Mitravan may have spanned this entire stretch.

Not far from Multan lies the city of Sadiqabad, home to a temple dedicated to Kṛṣṇa. Nearby, the ancient settlements of Ramgarh and Kishangarh mark the terrain with names that resonate with the legacies of Rāma and Kṛṣṇa.

These sites, scattered like mythic embers across the southern reaches of Punjab and Multan, suggest that the sacred geography of the region extended well beyond the Chenab’s bend—carrying echoes of epic memory into the present. Yet within Multan itself, the sacred deepens. Beneath the solar blaze of the Aditya temple, another sanctified fragment flickers in shadow: Prahlādapurī.

🌺The Sacred Reverberation of Prahlādapurī: Still known by this name, Prahlādapurī is said to have been founded by the unwavering Prahlāda, in honour of Narasimha, the fourth incarnation of Viṣṇu—half-lion, half-man. The temple rises from a raised stone platform at the southern edge of Multan’s ancient fort, a site layered with centuries of devotion and defiance. Some traditions trace the fort’s origins to the Katoch Rajputs of Kangra or the Trigarta kingdom, its foundations reaching back to 1000 BCE.

The temple has endured centuries of upheaval—its structure folding through cycles of ruin and restoration, each layer whispering of a sanctity older than ever believed. Until the 15th century, a temple adorned with golden columns and a roof stood at this site, when Sher Shah Suri dismantled it to construct a mosque. Later, when that mosque itself succumbed, the temple was rebuilt from its own lingering breath. In another telling, the earlier structure had simply sunk, claimed by the earth for reasons unknown. Yet the sacred presence remained, folded deep into the stones.

The nearby city of Bahawalpur, which contains ruins from the Indus Valley civilisation, was identified as the home of the Yaudheya kingdoms of the Mahābhārata by British archaeologist Sir Alexander Cunningham. He stated that the Yaudheyas are the Johiyas who live on the upper banks of the Sutlej, along the Bhawalapur tract, which is known as Johiya-bar, its name derived from Jodhiya Pur – all names derived from the names Yaudheya-Pura.

Mainstream scholarships says that the name Bahawalpur, which means ‘The City of Daud’, is derived from the name of its founder, Nawab Bahawal Khan Abbasi. However, this land has an age-old history. Bahawalpur stands at the edge of the Cholistan Desert, and in its name, the prefix ‘bahawal’ seems to be a derivation of Sanskrit valuka (वालुका), meaning ‘sand’, corrupted to ‘baluka’ and then ‘bahawal’. Variations of valuka have appeared in this land right from the times of the Ṛgveda, in names such as Vala (वल), also called Bala, the leader of the Pani, who was driven out from Sapta-Sindhu by Indra, whence he sought refuge in the dry lands, away from the river expanse of the Sapta-Sindhu. Vala perhaps came to be known by that name after he arrived in the dry land of Baloksh, now Balochistan. His memory seems to be present even in Bahawalpur. These are ancient lands, and Bahawal Khan perhaps got his own name from valuka, or Baloksh or some other later variation of the word, rather than lending his name to any of these sites.

🌺 F. Pañjnad — The Great Confluence: Journeying onward from the sacred grounds of Prahlādapurī and Yaudheya, the vānaras would have arrived at Bahawalpur and then at a majestic union of waters—the confluence of five rivers known today as Panjnad. While Vālmīki does not name this site, the Mahābhārata offers a more precise cartographic detail, identifying it as Pañcanada (पञ्चनद), the ancient name of Punjab.

The name, drawn from Sanskrit—pañca (पञ्च) meaning ‘five’ and nada (नद) meaning ‘river’—refers to the merging of Jhelum, Chenab, Ravi, Beas, and Sutlej. These five sacred currents converge to form the mighty Panjnad at Uch Sharif in Bahawalpur, Punjab. Local tradition, echoed by scholars such as Ahmad Nabi Khan, recalls Uch’s older name as Uṣas (उषस्), the Vedic goddess of dawn. In the Ṛig Veda, Uṣas is among the highest of the goddesses, radiant in over twenty hymns, second only to Sarasvatī—the river‑goddess whose name itself sanctifies the land—and Aditi, the boundless mother of the Ādityas, whose solar lineage blazed forth in Multan’s celebrated Sun Temple of Mūlasthāna.

Thus, at Panjnad the rivers knot into one, while Uch preserves the memory of dawn, Sarasvatī flows as speech and stream, and Multan shines with Aditi’s sons—binding geography and divinity into a single sacred cartography. When these waters merge with the Sindhu, carrying also the Kubha or Kabul River, they become the Saptanad (सप्तनद), the ‘seven rivers’, remembered as Sapta‑Sindhu (सप्त‑सिन्धु)—the land of seven rivers, held forever in Vedic consciousness.
From this divine confluence, the narrative ripples westward.

The vānaras’ search would enter the lands we now call Sindh Province. Here, the Indus begins its final descent toward the Arabian Sea, cradling in its journey the sediments of history and the pulse of epic undertakings.

🌺Manchar Lake, a reflection of Manasarovar: As the Indus meanders through the heart of Sindh, its waters stretch an arm through the ancient Nara Canal, linking it to Manchar Lake—the largest natural freshwater reservoir in Sapta-Sindhu. In tracing the vānaras’ westward path through Rāmayanic terrains, Manchar emerges not just as a hydrological waypoint, but as a sanctified mirror—a lake inscribed with myth.

The etymology seems to whisper of its sacred past. The prefix 'Man' evokes mana (मन)—mind, magnitude, or sanctity—much like the exalted Manasarovar (मनसरोवर), the lake of the gods. The suffix 'char', in the Manchar, likely a phonetic evolution of sara (सर), long used to denote lakes and flowing water bodies, renders the name Manchar as Manasara (मनसर)—symbolising ‘a lake of deep serenity’.

This phonetic pathway finds a clear parallel in Kashmir’s Anchar Lake (आंचार सर). Here, mana truncates to ‘ana’ while sara transforms into 'char', hinting that Anchar may too have once been Mana-Sara (मन-सर)—a sacred basin of contemplation rather than the modern, somewhat whimsical designation as 'Pickle Lake’, for such an epithet feels discordant with the reverence once associated with these crystal waters.

Manchar’s spiritual aura, now faded into the margins, once reflected a rich tradition of pilgrimage rooted in ancient Sindh’s sacred geography. The lore of Manasarovar, it seems, was not bound to Tibet alone. It was seen in Kashmir at Anchar, and further west among the sacred landscapes of Bamiyan in Afghanistan, where the Hindus revered the lake now called Band-e-Amir as the ‘true Mansarovar’ recorded by the authors of the Asiatic Researches series— a proof of a tradition braided across distant lands and shared cosmologies.

🌺Sehwan Sharif, the Śivasthan of yore: Nestled in the embrace of Manchar Lake, the sacred town of Sehwan Sharif has long served as a pilgrimage locus, its spiritual contours shifting across epochs. Known in earlier times as Seevistan or Śivasthan, the name itself hints at a profound Shaivite presence, possibly rooted in the Pashupata tradition, before the site was transformed into a revered Sufi sanctuary.

A remarkable detail anchors this site: until the 1970s, a Śivalingam stood at the heart of the Dargah of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar, enshrined in the sanctum itself. Later removed, the Lingam is said to have been buried within the shrine's precincts—a gesture both veiled and symbolic, preserving a sacred continuity beneath the visible transformation.

Such layered sanctity aligns with the broader metaphysical geography of Sindh, where Shaivism and water worship converge. The presence of Jhulelal, a deity deeply venerated by Sindhi Hindus as an incarnation of Varuṇa, the Vedic god of water, affirms this fusion. His legend—rooted in the 10th century CE, when Sindhi Hindus facing persecution under Mirkshah sought deliverance through prayer to the Indus River—underscores the river’s role as both protector and witness to resilience.

The buried Lingam beneath Lal Shahbaz Qalandar’s shrine, the legends of Jhulelal, and the embrace of Manchar Lake together testify to a continuity of sanctity—reshaped across epochs yet never erased.

G. Desert Detours:
🌺 The Desert Tract — A Detour into the Thar: Though the vanāras traced riverbanks and sacred confluences (Verse 4-42-8), their search ahead was not bound to the region of water alone. Vālmīki describes a striking shift in terrain—arid lands and deserts (Verse 4-42-9), towering cliffs that rose like silent fortresses, and finally the distant shimmer of the sea (Verse 4 42–15). This landscape—marked by dry stretches, rugged elevations, and a coastal revelation—briefly departs from the path along the Indus. It marks instead a detour, a foray into the Thar Desert, whose sands cross borders yet remain stitched to the glory of Sindh.

Spilling across India and into Pakistan’s Punjab and Sindh provinces, the Thar Desert extends like a bristling canvas of wind-carved gypsum, salt flats, and arid mystique. Though geographically apart from the riverine course, this terrain appears to have been visited by the vānaras in search of Sītā before their final descent into fertile Sindh.

The name Thar appears to mirror the Sanskrit kshara (क्षार)—meaning ‘alkaline’, ‘arid’, or ‘corrosive’. This linguistic clue resonates with the desert’s saline plains, gypsum beds, and evaporite landscapes. Ancient playas such as Sambhar and Didwana in Rajasthan and Lake Khara in Sindh, rich in carbonate sediments, reinforce the desert’s alkaline signature, shaping both ecology and vocabulary over centuries.

But the echo of kṣara does not stop at the Indus basin. It seems to travel westward, carried across caravan routes and cultural horizons, until it resurfaces in the sands of North Africa. The Sahara, today a vast ocean of dunes, once held its own Holocene playas—seasonal lakes and mud-pans that recall the aqueous ghosts of the Thar. Even its name invites comparison: the very name Sahara, typically traced to Arabic ‘sahra’ (desert), invites scrutiny. Arabic preserves the root khara, meaning rough—a cognate of Sanskrit kshara. The similarity is striking: both Sahara and Thar emerge as linguistic siblings born of salt, austerity, and spiritual challenge.

Nor is this resonance confined to Indic and Arabic alone. In Akkadian, kassurru denotes gypsum, a mineral of arid landscapes, said to derive from ‘gasur’. Given the interchangeability of /k/ and /g/ sounds, one might hear in ‘kasur’ an echo of kshara—a reminder that the idea of rough, corrosive terrain may have migrated westward into Semitic tongues. India’s influence thus appears not only inscribed in rivers but etched into deserts themselves.

That Vālmīki calls this track of Thar as maru (मरु), the direct Sanskrit word for 'desert', which leaves us no doubt that the vānaras braved an immense stretch of barren land before finally setting eyes on greener terrain. 

V. The Passage through the Land of Sindh: The vānaras plough on ahead. Beyond the desert, Vālmīki’s description shifts: mountains rise, forests spread, and the land takes on a rugged majesty (Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa, Chapter 42, Verse 9) in the land of Sindh. The vānaras plough on ahead through the great land of Sindh.

🌺 The Lakki Hills and the Kirthar Range: This imagery aligns closely with the Kirthar Range, one of Sindh’s most striking geological features. The forest he evokes is plausibly the expanse now preserved as Kirthar National Park—a wilderness that mirrors Vālmīki’s vision with remarkable fidelity.

The very name Kirthar may encode a linguistic memory of its terrain. The prefix Kir derives from the Sanskrit giri (गिरि), ‘mountain’, affirming its elevated ridges. Once again, the suffix thar resonates with kshaara (क्षार), ‘alkaline’ or ‘saline’, a quality evident in the region’s mineral composition.

Geologically, the Kirthar Range is defined by limestone ridges, saline deposits, and gypsum-rich stretches—features that substantiate the etymological link between name and landscape. Just as the Thar Desert preserves the linguistic trace of kshara in its salt-laden playas, the Kirthar Range embodies the same saline and limestone character, its geology subtly inscribed into its very name.

🌺The Lakki Hills and the Rāmayanic Alakshita: Deep within this terrain, the Lakki Hills also stand as a linguistic testament to the past. The Rāmāyaṇa mentions a significant forest within this terrain, called Alakṣita (अलक्षित) in Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa, Chapter 42, Verse 14.

Over time, the name appears to have shifted phonetically into Lakki—the initial ‘a’ dropped, while ‘lakṣita’ softened into ‘lakki’. Similar transformations are seen in names of other Indic locations, such as the name Laksha-mandala site from the Mahābhārata, which today survives as Lakha-mandal in present-day Uttarakhand, remembered as the refuge where the Pandavas concealed themselves during exile.

In the present, neither Alakṣita nor its truncated form Lakki designates the forest. Instead, the name lingers beneath the folds of the Lakki Hills—inscribed in verse, but largely forgotten by time.

Meanwhile, the Kirthar Range itself preserves another linguistic memory. The prefix ‘Kir ‘in Kirthar reflects a contraction of the Sanskrit giri (गिरि), ‘mountain’, while the suffix, as mentioned above, ‘thar’ resonates with kshar (क्षार), ‘alkaline’ or ‘saline’. The name Kirthar encodes the rugged, mineral-rich geology of the mountain range, a name that fuses language with landscape.

🌺 The Lakki Hills, a Centre of Shivite Temples: The Lakki Hills of Sindh, once luminous with the glow of temple fires and ritual song, have largely receded from present-day awareness. Yet from the time of the Rāmāyaṇa until India’s partition in 1947, these hills held a sanctity etched in the memories of pilgrims, ascetics, and seekers who traversed them as part of their spiritual journey.

In the early 1800s, Captain James Tod of the East India Company surveyed this region, describing the cultivated slopes of the Lakki Hills and a nearby village of the same name in his Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan. His observations evoke what the vānaras may once have witnessed in their search for Sītā—landscapes touched by divinity, where even the terrain seemed to bear traces of the footsteps of gods.

Two miles west of the village, Tod records a sacred site dedicated to Parvati and Mahadeva, attended by springs known as Suryakund, the fountain of the sun, and Chandrakund, the fountain of the moon. These waters were believed to possess cleansing virtues, yet pilgrims had first to undergo a rite of confession—guided by priests who acted as custodians of sacred law. Those who bypassed this preparatory act emerged, Tod notes, covered in boils, a striking testament that prayashchita, purification and penance required truthfulness as much as ritual bathing. Here, the landscape itself seemed to enforce dharma, demanding that the soul be tested before the body could be cleansed.

This wasn’t the only mention of Lakki’s spiritual gravity. The 7th-century Buddhist pilgrim Huien Tsang wrote of 273 Hindu temples in the Sindh region—235 of which were affiliated with the Pashupata Shaivite order. Such numbers reveal a robust devotional culture, anchored deeply in Shaivism, flourishing in plains and highlands alike. These temples were not mere architectural relics; they were part of a living geography of sacred intent.

In his 19th-century travelogue Sindh Revisited, Sir Richard Burton further immortalises Lakki Jebel as a revered place of pilgrimage. The pilgrims called its waters Dhara Tirtha, from dhara, meaning flow, and tirtha, a holy crossing. Burton describes a fissure in the mountain’s heart—an oblique crevice visible from the Indus River. Within it flowed a hot, sulphurous stream, tinged yellow and veiled in vapour. The sick came here to bathe, emerging cleansed—physically, spiritually, or both.

Michel Boivin, writing in his  Sindh Through History and Representations, affirms Lakki’s place as one of the most significant Shaivite sites in Sindh. It served as a spiritual waypoint for pilgrims journeying toward the Hinglaj Mata temple in Balochistan.

Legend holds that during their exile, Śrī Rāma and Sītā, along with Lakṣmaṇa. found occasion to visit the sacred site of Hingalaj Mata. It is said they journeyed to the Hinglaj Mata Temple, which is among the holiest sites in the western reaches. Their path would almost certainly have led them through Lakki, a natural waypoint for pilgrims undertaking the yatra to Hinglaj. It is the same path that the vānaras would have traced later in search of Sītā after her abduction.

Nestled in a mountain cavern at the end of the Kirthar Range, Hinglaj sits along the Hingol River, whose name—like the site itself—derives from hingula (हिङ्गुल), Sanskrit for 'vermillion' or 'cinnabar', reflecting the reddish hue of the surrounding land. Nearby place names deepen this sacred geography: Aghor, just two kilometres away from the temple, recalls the presence of the Aghori ascetics in deepantiquity. They followed the Kapālika tradition of Śaktism and were devotees of Goddess Kālī.

In the Kalat province of Balochistan, the Kalateshwari Temple dedicated to Kālī stands as another testament. Though the current structure dates back 1,500 years, it was raised upon foundations believed to be 6,000 years old, preserving the memory of an earlier shrine to the goddess.

As one moves through this land, the recurrence of sites dedicated to Kālī reveals a landscape saturated with Śakti devotion. The goddess’s presence endures in shrines such as Aghor near Hinglaj and the ancient Kalateshwari Temple in Kalat, where her worship has persisted across millennia.

Rāma’s footsteps, meanwhile, may have lingered not only at the sulphur springs and Shaivite shrines of the Lakki Hills in Sindh, but also at Hingula Mata in Balochistan—revered as one of the Pīṭhas of the Śakti tradition and closely associated with Kālī’s fiery aspect. In this reading, the terrain emerges as doubly sanctified: by the goddess whose power permeates its shrines, and by Rāma, the pilgrim-hero whose journey through exile continues to consecrate this land.

From these sacred hills of Sindh, where rivers and shrines marked the rhythm of devotion, our gaze shifts westward into Balochistan. Though distant from the Indus heartland, scholars often situate Mehrgarh within its civilisational orbit, for it lies along the greater Indus system. In the epic, the vānaras who traced Sītā’s path across forests and rivers might not have reached so far west, yet the antiquity of Mehrgarh—its farmers, potters, and even proto‑dentists—reminds us that the Indus world was already vast and interconnected when the vānara journey was sung, if we go by mainstream chronology.

🌺 The Mehrgarh Civilisation: Mehrgarh is located in present‑day Balochistan, near the Bolan pass from where Vala had once crossed into western lands after his defeat by Indra. It is one of the earliest Neolithic settlements in South Asia, with pottery and farming evidence dating back to around 6500 BCE- a settlement at least 8500 years old.

Its name has often been erroneously read through later Persian and Iranian layers—Mehr or Mihira, meaning ‘sun’, the meaning derived from languages like Avestan that were yet to take root. This obscures the original naming tradition of the Indus Valley Civilisation, which was far more direct, geographic, and scientific in character. The reader is aware that the Indus Valley names are rooted in the elements of nature and the properties of the landscape, not in myth or allegory. Each name describes the landscape in the most straightforward way, stripped of theological or symbolic overlays. This naming tradition belongs to the Harappan and early Vedic milieu itself, and should not be conflated with later external influences.

Hence, to import Zoroastrian categories into the naming of Mehrgarh is erroneous, for Zoroastrianism arose much later in Iran (c. 1200–1000 BCE), nearly five millennia after Mehrgarh’s earliest occupation (6500–7000 BCE). The chronological gap alone makes it impossible for Zoroastrian symbolism to explain Indus naming conventions.

In the Harappan world, naming was about natural elements, geography, and magnitude, not allegory. Seen in this light, Mehrgarh should not be misread as ‘Settlement of the Sun’ in a Persian or Zoroastrian sense—traditions that were yet to come into existence. Such interpretations are anachronistic.

The site’s antiquity, with pottery dating to 6500 BCE and proto‑dentistry evidence pushed back to 7000 BCE or older, shows that its name belongs to the same elemental tradition as Sindhu or Śrutdri. Stripped of later overlays, the name Mehrgarh aligns with the root maha (महा), ‘great, vast, worshipped’, and is best understood as Mahāgarh, the ‘great settlement’, a designation befitting one of the earliest cradles of civilisation in South Asia. This interpretation restores the original clarity of Harappan naming practice, situating Mehrgarh within the continuum of elemental names that describe geography and scale rather than myth.

🌺 Proto‑Dentistry as Civilisational Proof: The discoveries at Mehrgarh go far beyond farming and pottery. Archaeologists have uncovered eleven drilled molar crowns from nine adults in a Neolithic graveyard, dating from 7,500 to 9,000 years ago. As Coppa and colleagues, in their article, Early Neolithic tradition of Dentistry, published in Nature (2006), explain: “Here we describe eleven drilled molar crowns from nine adults discovered in a Neolithic graveyard in Pakistan that dates from 7,500 to 9,000 years ago. These findings provide evidence for a long tradition of a type of proto‑dentistry in early farming culture".

This evidence has pushed the dating of dental intervention back to 7000 BCE or even older, making Mehrgarh the earliest known site in the world to show deliberate medical practice. The term proto‑dentistry is used because these procedures predate formalised dental science, yet they reveal a remarkable level of skill: precision drilling with flint tools, controlled technique, and even signs of healing. Later studies, such as Bondioli et al. (2010, in Mélanges en l’honneur de Jean‑François Jarrige) and Lukacs (1992, Journal of Human Evolution), confirm that these were intentional treatments, not accidental wear.

In the Fertile Crescent, Neolithic sites such as Jericho (10,000–7000 BCE) and Çatalhöyük (7400–6200 BCE) show farming, pottery, and ritual, but no comparable evidence of medical intervention. The earliest dental treatments outside Mehrgarh appear much later, around 4000–3000 BCE, and are isolated cases. This makes Mehrgarh distinctly advanced, not merely parallel. It had developed innovations in medicine at a level unseen in the Fertile Crescent at the same time.

🌺 Mehrgarh and Quetta: Mehrgarh lies not far from Quetta—once known as Shalkot, the 'Fort of Shal'. This frontier zone resonates with the epic tradition of King Śalya, ruler of the Madra/Bahlika people, whose realm extended across the northwestern marches beyond the Punjab into Afghanistan and Balochistan. The tribal name Shal preserved in Shalkot may well echo the ethnonym of Śalya’s people, situating Quetta within the same cultural memory. In this light, Mehrgarh and Shalkot can be seen as part of the broader Bahlika landscape: a frontier of fortified settlements and fertile valleys, remembered in the Mahābhārata as the domain of Śalya, yet archaeologically attested as one of the earliest cradles of civilisation. This convergence of epic narrative and archaeological geography restores continuity between the Harappan world and the later Sanskritic tradition, showing how tribal names, forts, and settlements carried forward the memory of ancient peoples into the historical record.

🌺 The Sea-Coast Cities of Sindh in the Era of the Rāmāyaṇa: Mehrgarh’s antiquity demonstrates that the lands of Balochistan and Sindh were already home to advanced communities. While Vālmīki does not mention Mehrgarh or a site on its location itself, the vānaras’ journey carried them through the same landscape, moving from the Alakṣita forest and the Kirthar ranges of Sindh toward the coast, where the search for Sītā pressed onward.

Having crossed the shadowed Alakṣita forest in search of Sītā, they would have reached a decisive stretch along the Sindhu’s course—where the river meets the vast expanse of the Sindhu Sāgara. It is here, in this liminal zone between river and sea, that the Rāmāyaṇa situates one of Rāvaṇa’s mansions, described by Vālmīki as ‘sitting pretty on the seashore’ in verse 4.42.12.

While Vālmīki does not enumerate the individual rivers of the Sapta-Sindhu when describing the geography, he does invoke the Sindhu itself—the collective waters. Yet his geographical eye lingers more on the cities that stood along the Indus as it neared its confluence with the sea, as well as those scattered across the coastline. His attention rests not on the rivers, for they were already well-known, but on the settlements—perhaps because within the labyrinth of dwellings, movements could be veiled, and one seeking refuge might pass unseen. Thus, the cities became central to the vānaras’ search for Sītā.

Vālmīki refers to a cluster of coastal cities—Muraci, Jatapuram, Avanti, and Angalepa—as 'delightful settlements alongshore', marking them as pivotal way-stations in the vānaras’ quest. Each location was to be examined meticulously, along with adjacent provinces and townships, as part of the exhaustive efforts to uncover Rāvaṇa’s stronghold. 

To identify these ancient settlements with certainty, we must look at the locations of present-day cities, which almost invariably sit atop older habitations—reflecting continuous occupation over millennia. Let us analyse them one by one.

🌺 The Sindhi Abana and the Rāmayanic Avanti: Among the cluster of coastal cities named by Vālmīki, Avanti stands out not merely as a geographical marker, but as a name still pulsing through the land’s present identity. Its very syllables remind us that Sanskrit was the native tongue of this soil, shaping how rivers, lands, and settlements were named.

Why did ancient mappers choose Avanti? In Sanskrit, avani (अवनि) means 'river-borne land’. Avanti, then, signified 'of the waters', reflecting the settlement’s intimate connection to the Sindhu. Over time, as linguistic currents shifted, Avanti softened into Abana, the /v/ shifting to ‘/b/. The Sindhis still refer to their ancestral land as Abana. The Persian or Sindhi ‘ab’, meaning 'water', paired with the suffix - ’ana’, denoting ‘origin’ or ‘belonging’, gives us Abana. Thus, Abana, like Avanti,  unfolds as 'the city of the river'—a continuity that shows how Sanskrit’s indigenous naming power flowed seamlessly into later tongues, anchoring Sindh’s identity in the Indus.

🌺 Angalepa, an Ancient Port?: Vālmīki’s mention of a city called Angalepa moors us deeper into this geographic tapestry. The very name carries the Sanskrit root angala (आङ्गल)—‘to anchor, to moor’—a verb already in circulation in India’s maritime lexicon during the Rāmāyaṇa’s age. From this root, the city’s identity as a port is almost self‑evident: a place where boats on the Sindhu found pause, where journeys exhaled before continuing toward the Sindhu Sāgara and beyond.

The resonance of angala foreshadows nautical terms across cultures, suggesting that India’s Sanskrit contributed to the wider Indo‑European sea of words. It is plausible that the English anchor and Latin ancora trace their semantic core back to this root, showing how a word born in India’s ports rippled outward. In this sense, Angalepa itself becomes testimony: Sanskrit was indigenous, already shaping the lexicon of land and sea in times as old as the Rāmāyaṇa—carried to different lands by sailors whose navigation skills were renowned, and whose voyages bore language, culture, goods, and people to distant shores, not as migrants entering India, but as sailors carrying India outward.

🌺 Jatapuram—The Ancient Identity of Present-Day Thatta of Sindh:
Among the ancient cities named in Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa, Jatapuram (जटापुरम्) emerges as a gleaming threshold near the Sindhu Sāgara (सिन्धु सागर). Its name, softened across centuries, survives today as Thatta (थट्टा), the town nestled along the Indus Delta. While the modern name evokes geography alone, Jatapuram encodes a deeper historical consciousness—its syllables carrying the sacred imagination of the land.

Thatta lies at the heart of the Indus Delta, a vast mosaic of meandering channels—seventeen mighty creeks and countless slender tributaries braided across the landscape in tangled, flowing patterns. This network bears a striking resemblance to Śiva’s matted locks, jata (जटा), which cradle and regulate sacred waters. Just as his cosmic tresses tempered the descent of the Gaṅga, the sinuous branches of the Indus unfurl toward the sea, embodying the divine choreography of containment and release. The name Jatapuram arose from this very vision—where mythology meets topography, the name becomes an invocation.

Local traditions upheld this heritage, referring to the town as Thatta Nagar (नगर), preserving the lyrical suffix nagara, and hence its earlier identity. Jatapuram, or Thatta, emerges not just as a thriving settlement but as a sanctified symbol of Shaivite reverence, mirrored in the delta’s aqueous design. On the present-day map, about 60 km southeast of the city of Thatta, at 24.358651N, 68.265296 E, lies a town called Jati.

The present name Thatta derives from the Sanskrit Jatapuram or Jatapura. The city was so named for the vision it creates of Śiva's flowing locks.

When Alexander the Great marched into this region, Greek chroniclers, perhaps struck by the delta’s descent into the sea, transfigured the word jata into Patala. Their rendering aligned with Sanskrit patala (पाताल), meaning 'low-lying', and the Greek 'ptosi', meaning 'fall'.

Another name by which the Hindus called this city on the Indus delta was Sarnee Nagar (सारणी नगर). Derived from sara (सर), meaning 'lake' or 'water body', and ṇī (णी), meaning 'belonging to', Sarnee Nagar translates to 'City by Water'—an apt description of Thatta’s embrace by the Indus.

Yet none evokes the sacred geometry of the Indus more vividly than Jatapuram. Here, the river is not merely a watercourse—it is a divine gesture. In Jatapuram, the Indus becomes Śiva’s flowing jatas—each channel a sacred strand, descending through the land in matted arcs, weaving myth into geography.

Near this landscape lies one of the world’s largest necropolises, the monumental funerary complex of Makli. Stretching across ten kilometres, Makli gathers the tombs of saints, scholars, and rulers into a vast city of the dead. Yet the very name Makli carries a resonance older than its Islamic monuments. According to scholars, Makli derives from Mahākālī, the fierce goddess whose presence once sanctified the site. Local traditions speak of ruins that mark an ancient Kālī temple, suggesting that before Makli became a Sufi‑Islamic necropolis, it was already a place of Śakti’s power.

Thus, from Kalat in Balochistan to Makli in Sindh, and onward to Jatapuram‑Thatta, the Indus plain unfolds as a fascinating land of Śiva and Śakti. Mahākālī‑Makli and Jatapuram‑Thatta emerge as layered sacred landscapes: the Indus itself is read as Śiva’s flowing hair, and the tradition of Kālī is deeply entrenched in its vicinity. In their presence together—Śiva as the cosmic river and Kālī as the fierce goddess—the terrain embodies a continuity of Vedic imagination, where mortality, divinity, and myth converge upon the soil of the Indus plain, binding desert, river, and sea into one vast sacred cartography.

🌺 Murachi Pattana—A Maritime City of the Rāmāyaṇa: Among the coastal cities named by Vālmīki in the Rāmāyaṇa, Murachi Pattana (मुरचि पत्तन) stands as a significant settlement. While Rāvaṇa is primarily linked with Laṅkā (लंका), the mention of a mansion attributed to him in the land of Sindhu suggests he exercised dominion over this northern coastal region as well, extending his reach far across the waters of the Ratnākara Sāgara (Indian Ocean) to the Sindhu Sāgara.

The suffix pattana (पत्तन), often used in names for port cities in ancient India, reinforces the coastal stature of Murachi Pattana. Evidently, it was a vibrant riverside or seaside hub on the Arabian Sea—a place where the Rāmāyaṇa’s geography entwined with maritime life, anchoring Sindh within the epic’s sacral landscape.

🌺 Why Was the City Named Murachi Pattana?: As a port city along the shores of the Sindhu Sāgara, Murachi Pattana flourished as a maritime gateway—yet its name too gestures toward a deeper sacred lineage.

The prefix Murachi threads through the Purāṇic annals of Viṣṇu's mythology. Viṣṇu, revered as Murachi (मुरचि), the slayer of Mura Danava (मुर दानव), a fearsome asura and descendant of Brahma (ब्रह्मा), embodies divine intervention against tyranny. The Sanskrit root chi (चि), meaning ‘to cut’ or ‘sever’, encapsulates Viṣṇu’s act of vanquishing Mura, severing the darkness he cast over the worlds.

It is entirely plausible that Murachi Pattana was named to commemorate this celestial victory. The presence of Rāvaṇa’s mansion here introduces a paradox—Viṣṇu’s sanctified city temporarily veiled by conquest. Yet that shadow was fleeting. When the vānaras crossed its shores, it bore Rāvaṇa's imprint. But with his fall at Rāma’s hands, Murachi Pattana was not merely liberated—it was re-consecrated.

🌺 Karachi—The Murachi Pattana of the Rāmāyaṇa? Two present-day cities qualify as possible locations of the ancient Murachi Pattana. One is Patashila (पाटशिला), the recorded ancient name of Hyderabad in Pakistan, noted first by Hiuen Tsang and later by the Archaeological Survey of (British) India. The linguistic affinity between Pata and Pattana—both denoting urban or port settlements—suggests that Murachi Pattana may once have held sway where Hyderabad now stands. In the name Patashila, the term pata is translated as ‘flat surface’, referring to the flat terrain of this coastal region.

Yet it is Karachi that most compellingly carries the spectral legacy of Murachi Pattana. Of all the cities nestled along the Indus Delta, Karachi radiates strategic and symbolic significance—an ideal coastal bastion for Rāvaṇa’s imperial ambitions, facilitating maritime trade, movement, and mythic reach.

Even the name hums with ancestral resonance. Karachi (कराची) shares a phonetic kinship with Murachi (मुरचि), separated only by subtle syllables—a plausible shift over millennia. If oral traditions carried the name Murachi Pattana forward, its essence may well have morphed into the name Karachi as cultural tides ebbed and flowed, as we shall see ahead.

🌺 The forgotten legends of Karachi, the Rambagh of Sindh: Contemporary Hindus possess limited recollection of ancient Rāmayanic sites in Sindh, which were well-known less than two centuries ago.

Long before names were rewritten, the land we now call Karachi held the sound of Rāma’s footsteps and Sītā’s grace. The stories lingered in gardens and river mouths. A part of Karachi was once known as Rambagh. British Explorer Richard Francis Burton (1821-1890) had recorded, in his book Sindh Revisited in 1877, "The Rambagh at Karachi commemorates the passage of the fighting Ram Chandra and Sīta, his wife, whose beauty and virtue have made her the type of perfect womanhood in the land of Brahma".

Today, there is little to remind one of the legends of Rambagh. Pakistani archaeologist Kareemullah Lashari has stated in his writings that in the heart of the city of Karachi, the place now called Arambagh was once known as Rambagh. It was only after the partition of India in 1947 that Rambagh came to be known as Arambagh. It may, however, be added here that the original name of the site must have been akin to Rāma-bhagh (राम-भाग), Rāma's 'division' or 'territory', rather than Rambagh with the Urdu or Hindi suffix 'bagh' (बाग़), meaning 'garden'. Over time, the name has faded beneath the dust of renamed streets, its imprint pressed like a leaf between pages of time—fragile, forgotten, but not erased.

Early chronicles speak of a momentous passage of Rāma and Sītā traversing from Rambagh to a revered Śakti pīṭha, now known as Hingalaj, nestled deep within the rugged terrain of Balochistan. That Rāma himself would journey through Rambagh and seek Hingalaj is no minor detail; it signals a sanctity so profound that even divinity was drawn to its threshold. Such sites must have radiated immense spiritual gravity to warrant the footsteps of Viṣṇu incarnate.

🌺 The ancient port city of Barbarikon or Karachi: We may take a moment here to delve into the etymology of a few other names of Karachi. Alexander the Great's scribes recorded its name as Barbarikon, pronounced Varvarikon. In this name, one detects perhaps a linguistic shift—where the original Mura (मुर) in Murachee gradually transformed into Vari (वारी), adopting the meaning of 'water', particularly when maritime trade reshaped the city's identity. In Sanskrit, vArI (वारी) signifies 'water', vari (वरि) refers to a 'stream' or 'river', and vAri (वारि) denotes a 'water-container' or 'pitcher'.

It follows then that the prefix 'Kara' in the name Karachi may well derive from vari (वरि), reflecting this transition. Over time, as the ancient legend of Mura became less central to the city’s identity, its association with maritime activity grew, influencing the evolution of its name to Vara and Kara. This shift suggests a natural progression where Karachi’s name became more reflective of its coastal and trade significance rather than its Rāmayanic origins. The Greek name Barabarikon tells us that by the time Alexander came to the Indus, the Murachee of Rāmāyaṇa had taken on the name Varavarika. 

One sees the presence of vari elsewhere in a place‑name. Not far from Karachi, in the delta of the Sindhu River, at 24.050629 N, 67.60024 E, lies a settlement called Jadewari. In this name, we glimpse the Sanskrit jharavari—interpretable through jhara (waterfall) and vari (river, stream, or waterbody). It is here, in humble Jadewari, that the true meaning of vari endures, preserved more faithfully than in any of the region’s grander or more ornate city names. The element jhara likewise survives in nearby toponyms: in Jerruck, located at 25.052059 N, 68.247366 E, and in the name of Keenjhar Lake of Sindh.

🌺🌺VI. The Sindhu-Sāgara Expanse:

Ahead of the channels of the Indus, the voice swells into the roar of the Sindhu Sāgara, the great ocean that gathers rivers, myths, and wanderers into its embrace, guiding the vānaras toward lands beyond.

🌺 The Waters of the Sindhu-Sāgara: We now delve a little deeper into the description of the Sindhu-Sāgara. Vālmīki records a striking detail at the confluence of the Sindhu with the sea. The waters encountered by the vānaras are described as timi-nakra-kūla-jalam—a compound rich in zoological specificity and marine imagery: timi (तिमि), denoting 'whale'; nakra (नक्र), 'alligator'; and a-kūla (अकूल), signifying 'turbulent' or 'unbounded waters'. This is a cartographic clue pointing to a maritime ecology consistent with oceanic ingress.

In recorded history, the Greeks referred to this coastal site as Krokola, the port where Alexander the Great camped his fleet before departing India for Babylon and Alexandria. The name Krakola may preserve the name Nakra-kūla of the Rāmāyaṇa, a picture of crocodile-infested waters, suggesting that myth and history converged at this maritime threshold. Krakola was a place of departure—both for Alexander’s ships and, perhaps earlier, for traders, pilgrims, or seafarers whose journeys stitched this coast into wider maritime networks.

It is reasonable to identify Rāvaṇa’s mansion with Karachi, or Murachi Pattana as the Rāmāyaṇa calls it, and with Krakola or Barbarikon of Greek records, rather than with inland Thatta (Jatapuram), the port town of Angalepa, or Abana, which denotes the wider Sindh. Karachi, situated near crocodile-laden waters, would have been a fitting site for the ‘glorious’ mansion described by Vālmīki, where Sugrīva instructed the vānaras to search for Sītā.

This reference is striking, for Rāvaṇa is typically associated with Laṅkā, yet the epic hints at a broader dominion. Before his defeat, Rāvaṇa is said to have possessed many mansions across the known world—a motif echoed in Purāṇic traditions that describe his sway extending into multiple realms of earth and ocean. The presence of one such stronghold near Murachi Pattana reinforces the idea that this coastal region was not merely a geographic waypoint; it was a contested site where the vānaras confronted the vestiges of a violated order—the incursion of Rāvaṇa into lands not traditionally his.

This may also explain why the vānaras took a long, circuitous route to Sindh—passing through Takṣaśilā, Balkh, and eventually arriving near the Indus delta—perhaps to scout Rāvaṇa’s northern outposts before pressing onward to other western destinations.

The Route to Sapta-Sindhu and Balkh

🌺 The land of Makran and Mt. Somagiri of the Rāmāyaṇa: Continuing along the shoreline, Vālmīki describes a striking mountain at the confluence of the Sindhu River and the ocean. This peak, named Somagiri, may be read as the ‘moon mountain’ or the ‘mountain of Soma’—a title that evokes associations with Śiva. Vālmīki portrays Somagiri as crowned with hundreds of summits and towering trees, a landscape at once dramatic and sacred.

As the vānaras advanced westward from the Indus delta, their first encounter would have been Ras Muari—a coastal headland near Hinglaj Mata, its cliffs guarding the ancient Indus Valley site of Sonari, now also called Pir Shah Juro. The origin of the name Muari remains obscure, yet it may preserve, like Karachi, a memory of Murachi mentioned by Vālmīki, or even echo Meru, the cosmic mountain, while the name Sonari itself may be a vestige of Somagiri.

In the Rāmāyaṇa, verse 4-42-15, Somagiri is described as a sea‑mountain with a hundred summits that 'shine with a white glow'. The word soma (सोम) aligns with this imagery, evoking moonlight and aesthetic brilliance. Vālmīki places these water-logged hills and glowing cliffs across the Indus Delta. 

Beyond Ras Muari, the Makran Range rises almost from the sea itself, a jagged wall of countless ridges. The Makran peaks stand pressed against the shoreline, their cliffs leaning toward the waves, so that land and ocean seem fused into one threshold. It is this proximity to the waters, with mountains standing as sentinels at the water’s edge, which renders Makran a compelling candidate for Somagiri. Somagiri’s strategic significance may have stemmed from the abundance of natural caves and coves of the Makran, offering an ideal hiding place for the abducted Sītā. 

When Marco Polo journeyed along the southern coast of Makran in 1292-193 AD, he found little to record beyond the local religious customs, which he termed ‘idolatry’. Yet such phrasing reveals more about his own perspective than about the land itself. His account reflects the lens of a medieval European traveller, for whom the deeper sacredness of the land may not have been apparent.

🌺 What the Name Makran Tells Us: The name Makran carries a tradition rooted in antiquity, long preceding the cartographies of modern geography. In Sumerian cuneiform texts dating to around 2300 BCE, the region known as Magan (also rendered Majan) was described as a vital trading partner of Mesopotamia, renowned for its copper and diorite. While mainstream archaeology locates Magan in present-day Oman and the UAE, Indian sources offer a compelling alternative: that Magan was in fact Makran, the coastal stretch of Balochistan, historically known as Makkan—a name strikingly close to Magan.

This identification gains weight when we consider that Balochistan still holds one of the world’s largest untapped copper reserves at Reko Diq in the Chagai district. In Sanskrit, one of the words for copper is markatasya (मर्कटास्य), which many lexicons translate directly as copper. It is from this term it may be proposed that the name Makran may derive. Makran later appeared as Magan in Sumerian texts. Even the Sumerian and Akkadian word for copper, 'makru', may trace its origin to this Sanskrit root. 

🌺 Makara and the Mythic Overlay: Over time, the original copper-based etymology of Makran became layered with cultural symbolism. By the time the Greeks arrived, the word markatasya had shed syllables and morphed into makara (मकर)—the Sanskrit word for 'crocodile'. However, this semantic shift gave rise to a mythic overlay: the coast was now associated with Makara, the crocodile-mount of Varuṇa, the Sea-God. In Sanskrit, the sea is also known as makaranga (मकराङ्क).

Greek historians like Arrian (circa 350 BCE) referred to the inhabitants of this coast as Ichthyophagi—'fish eaters'—a term later linked to the Persian 'mahī khoran'. While this interpretation is linguistically plausible, it is culturally reductive and an oversimplification. The name Makran, from a Sanskrit perspective, is far more than a dietary label—it embodies metallurgy, mythology, and maritime heritage.

🌺 Gwadar-The Wind-Gate: One of the port cities along the ancient vānara tract is Gwadar, a coastal sentinel through which the vānaras may have journeyed en route to the Asta Mountain of the Rāmāyaṇa. Historically known as Gedrosia, this region formed part of the Achaemenid Empire and corresponds to the western segment of present-day Balochistan in Pakistan, adjacent to Iran’s modern Balochistan province.

Gedrosia, recorded by Pliny the Elder, refers to a dry, mountainous terrain skirting the northwestern shores of the Indian Ocean. Its capital was 'Pura'—a name unmistakably Sanskrit in origin, meaning 'town' or 'city', preserving the linguistic heritage of ancient Indic civilisation in this region.

In contemporary sources, 'Gwadar' is interpreted as a fusion of two Balochi words: 'gwat' (wind) and 'dar' (gateway or door), rendering it 'the gate of wind'. This etymology resonates deeply with Sanskrit parallels—vata (wind) and dvara (door)—suggesting an ancient name akin to 'Vatadvara'. The Greeks later rendered Gwadar as Gedrosia. Such linguistic echoes remind us that Gwadar was not merely a coastal settlement but a threshold—an opening into wider geographies and narratives.

🌺 The Sindhu Delta, Balochistan, and Beyond: At this threshold, a pivotal question arises. Did the vānaras traverse beyond Makran and Gwadar, entering lands now considered foreign? Their movement along the River Sindhu toward the sea is well attested, yet the vastness of their journey compels us to pause and examine the geographic markers Vālmīki records.

In Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa (42.15–16), Vālmīki describes the confluence where the Sindhu (Indus) meets the Sindhu-Sāgara (Arabian Sea), carefully distinguishing river from ocean—terms that remain in use today. Some sceptics have argued that he mistook the Arabian Sea for an inland water‑body, but this is implausible: the precision of his description, together with the enduring nomenclature, makes such a misidentification highly unlikely.

In Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa (42.15–16), he describes the confluence where the Sindhu (Indus) meets the Sindhu-Sāgara (Arabian Sea), carefully distinguishing river from ocean. Both names, Sindhu as Sindhu-Sāgara, remain in use today. Some sceptics have argued that Vālmīki might have mistaken the Arabian Sea for an inland water‑body, but this is implausible: the precision of his description, together with the enduring nomenclature, makes such a misidentification highly unlikely.

Closer examination suggests two possible locations for the confluence. The first—and most plausible—is the Indus delta, where the mighty river empties into the Arabian Sea. The second possibility arises if sindhu (सिंधु) is read generically as ‘river’, in which case it could denote another major stream such as the Narmada, as suggested by some scholars. Yet the context offers clarity: Vālmīki explicitly states that the vānaras begin their journey in Saurāṣṭra (Gujarat), travel through Bāhlika (Afghanistan), and ultimately reach the Sindhu. This progression makes it evident that Sindhu here refers to the Indus.

The route from Saurāṣṭra to Bāhlika may appear circuitous, but it reflects a deeper logic. These were well-known cultural corridors, and the names—Saurāṣṭra, Bāhlika, Sindhu—have remained unchanged across millennia. In naming them, Vālmīki not only traced the path of the vānaras; he left us a cultural compass that still orients us. These names form a geographic frame—before the vānaras cross into lands beyond the sea of Arabia. Even if one allowed for the Narmada, the broader trajectory of the path remains unaffected, since the River Narmada too flows into the Arabian Sea at the Gulf of Khambhat. The vānaras were clearly moving along the western sea‑coast, beyond the boundaries of present‑day India, eventually crossing into territories beyond the Sapta‑Sindhu land.

Scholars who attempt to confine the westward route within India encounter a fundamental mismatch. The geography Vālmīki describes—coastal mountains rising directly from the sea, cliffs leaning over waves, luminous headlands at the confluence of river and ocean—cannot be reconciled with the flat river basins and enclosed lakes of the interior.

🌺🌺Journey to Distant Lands: Thus, the vānaras’ trail does not end at the Sindhu delta. Surging westward through Balochistan along the Makran coast, they moved toward horizons Vālmīki marks with para (पार) —‘beyond the Indus’. Here, the terrestrial compass of Saurāṣṭra, Bāhlika, and Sindhu gives way to a new domain, later identified as Parasa and Persia: the Arabian Sea corridor where coastal settlements, trade routes, and linguistic traces suggest a steady westward drift of peoples and practices—an undercurrent mirrored in the vānaras’ own sweep. It is at this threshold—where Vālmīki’s para becomes the cultural horizon of later ages—that the next stage of their quest unfolds.

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🌺🌺Chapter III-THE VĀNARA QUEST ACROSS WEST ASIA

🌺 From the Ocean to the Zagros Range

The vānaras’ westward movement from the Sapta‑Sindhu, as preserved in Vālmīki’s account, resonates with the linguistic memories of neighbouring cultures. What is often overlooked is that early India referred to the land west of the Sindhu River as para (पार), meaning ‘beyond’,  or ‘across’. The region lying across the river was thus Parasa, a term that later evolved into Persia. Although mainstream literature attributes the name ‘Persia’ to an eponymous tribe, no clear evidence of such a tribe survives; the name may simply be a reference to Indic groups and traders or tribes moving westward from mainland India.

The term para appears in the Ṛg Veda, where pārá primarily means ‘the farther shore, boundary, or limit’—both in a literal sense, as ‘the opposite bank of a river’, and in a figurative sense, as ‘the utmost reach, transcendence, or completion’.

The Sanskrit term pārá (पार) travelled westward with early migrations across the Sindhu, and retained its core Sanskrit meaning of ‘across’, ‘beyond’, and ‘on the far side of the river’ when it reappeared in Avestan, which was the liturgical language of the Zoroastrians of Iran. Even in the Persian language, we see the Sanskrit pārá (पार), as well as tara (तर), ‘to cross’, in the term ‘faratar’ with the meaning ‘across and beyond’.

The Zoroastrians called themselves ‘arya’, or ‘noble’, and their homeland Airyanəm. Yet arya is not an Avestan coinage. It is seldom emphasised that ārya (आर्य) is a Sanskrit term meaning ‘noble’, a title applied to exemplary figures such as Rāma and Arjuna. Its feminine form, āryā (आर्या), is also the name of the Vedic Goddess Pārvati. Sanskrit words or names almost never function as mere dictionary entries; they are embedded within cultural, ritual, and mythological frameworks that carry layered meanings. To treat them only as lexical items is to overlook their civilisational resonance.

The people of Persia, or Parasa, referred to the land across from them—the land of Sindhu, or Sindhu‑sthāna—as Hindustan. In both designations, whether Sindhu‑sthāna or Parasa, the river remained the fixed point of orientation, the axis from which each culture defined what lay ‘beyond’ in relation to its waters.

🌺 Astola Island and Saptadvīpa: It is along this same axis that the vānaras in Vālmīki’s account pushed westward, carrying the search from linguistic markers to the physical frontier at the river’s mouth. Vālmiki mentions many lands of significance at the confluence of the Sindhu River and the Sindhu Sāgara. He also mentions the existence of many sea-logged mountains and islands. One such island that stands out in today’s geography is Astola.

Astola’s earliest recorded mention in post-Vedic times appears in historian Arrian’s Indica, which chronicles the maritime journey of Admiral Nearchos in 325 BCE. Dispatched by Alexander the Great to navigate the Arabian Sea and Persian Gulf, Nearchos encountered local sailors haunted by eerie tales of an uninhabited island that Arrian called Nosala. A.V. Williams Jackson, in History of India (Vol II, p. 96), recounts that, “The sailors in Nearchos's fleet were frightened at the weird tales and talked about an uninhabited island, which Arrian calls Nosala". This name likely derives from Sanskrit naushala (नौशाला)—a boat shelter—suggesting that Astola retained its maritime importance into the era of the Greek incursion, much as it had during the times of the Rāmāyaṇa. Hence, Astola appears to be a distorted form of the name Nosala.

Arrian also referred to the island by two alternate names, Carmina and Karmine. These names mark the presence of the worship of the Goddess Kālī here. The Ramsar Convention’s 2001 Information Sheet on Ramsar Wetlands notes: “Ruins of an ancient temple of the Hindu Goddess Kālī are located on the Astola island".

The Goddess Kālī, also known as Karalika, derives her name from both karal (कराल) or ‘formidable’, a description of her appearance, and also karali (कराली) meaning ‘that into which everything dissolves’, imbuing Astola island with cultural depth. Author S. A Shirazi, writing on the website ContactPakistan, affirms that, “The island was also known to the Hindus as Satadip". 

Astola features a sloping plateau crowned with seven distinct hills. In Hindu texts, it has been called Satadvīpa—a name derived from Saptadvīpa, literally 'seven islands', though sometimes interpreted as 'Seven Hills', the land rising from the sea in rocky elevations. For this reason, Astola is often described as the ‘Island of the Seven Hills’ because of its ridges and elevated terrain that stand above the Arabian Sea.

The presence of numerous temples on the island suggests that Astola, far from being a mere navigational landmark, once served as a Hindu pilgrimage site—a sacred place where geography, myth, and ritual converged.

From this threshold, the vānaras’ westward movement enters a littoral zone marked by promontories, sun‑shrines, and ancient maritime settlements—sites that preserve echoes of Sanskrit, Avestan, and later Persian vocabularies. In contrast to the Sapta-Sindhu, where toponymy is anchored in empirical geography and hydrological features, the nomenclature encountered along this evolving coastline increasingly derives from epic protagonists and mytho‑poetic traditions. Strikingly, the earliest of these appellations appears to emerge directly from the corpus of Indian epics, suggesting a cultural continuum in which geography and narrative coalesce. It is within this shifting semantic landscape that the next landmark reveals itself.

🌺 Konarak, Airyanam (Iran): Konarak, a coastal sentinel along the maritime path traced by the vānaras, still seems to bear an Indic-Sanskritic name. Its conical tip juts into the sea, described by the Sanskrit kona (कोण) meaning ‘corner’. Arka (अर्क) is ‘sun’—a deity revered in ancient Airyanam too, though known as Mithira in local lore. Over time, the name Konarak seems to have absorbed the Persian 'kinara', meaning ‘shore’.

Inland from Konarak lies the town once called Parga, its name drawn from Sanskrit para (पार), 'crossing over'—a reminder of that same para which gestures outward and westward from the Indian mainland. Today, Parga is known as Pakake-e-Hutan, nestled in Iran’s Fars province. Fars, once called Pars, also carries the same root: para, the 'crossing', the 'beyond', hence displaying a theme.

The Pakake‑e‑Hutan region is mainly populated by the Baloch people as well as by the Brahui (often called Brohi) ethno-linguistic group. The Brahui, though integrated into Baloch tribal identity, speak a Dravidian language—an isolated survival in Balochistan that remains one of the most striking anomalies in South Asian linguistics. Scholars since the mid‑20th century have emphasised this point. In his Comparative Grammar of the Dravidian Languages (1970), Mikhail Andronov argued that Brahui’s structure and vocabulary are unequivocally Dravidian, despite centuries of contact with Balochi and other Iranian languages. He placed Brahui alongside Kurukh and Malto in a northern Dravidian subgroup, and interpreted its presence in Balochistan as evidence of deep prehistoric movements of Dravidian‑speaking peoples into this terrain.

🌺 Dravidian movements in Sindh: The Rāmāyaṇa itself preserves memories of northern coastal contact from the southern coast of India. As discussed in the previous chapter, Vālmīki situates Rāvaṇa’s sea‑coast mansion in the Sindhu delta region and names a cluster of maritime cities—Murachi Pattana, Avanti, Angalepa and Jatapura—along this very coastline. These references are not incidental; they anchor the epic’s northern oceanic horizon firmly in the Sindhu–Makran coastal zone. When read alongside the Brahui language’s survival, they suggest that Dravidian‑speaking groups were not confined to the Indian peninsula but had maritime and overland reach into India’s north-west, including Sindh.

Thus, what philology terms a ‘linguistic isolate’, the Brahui language, and what the Rāmāyaṇa recalls as the northern sea‑coast mansion of Rāvaṇa converge upon the same terrain: the Sindhu–Makran coastal tract. In this reading, the region emerges not as a marginal shore but as a threshold where Indic and Dravidian worlds encountered one another in deep antiquity, and left enduring traces in language and lore.

🌺 Bandar Abbas, the Hormirzad of yore: Moving along these ancient roads, tracing the Iranian coast from Konarak, the most prominent city one encounters is Bandar Abbas. The earliest recorded name of this port city—documented during Alexander’s conquest of the Achaemenid Empire—was Hormirzad.

Mainstream etymologists trace the name Hormizad (or Hormizd) to the Zoroastrian supreme deity, who in the oldest Iranian layer, the Avestan texts, is referred to as Ahura Mazda. In Old Persian inscriptions, the name shifts to Auramazda, reflecting early imperial pronunciation. As the language transitions into Middle Persian, the name undergoes regular phonological developments: the initial Aura‑ becomes Hōr‑/Hōrm‑, and ‑mazdā contracts to ‑mizd/‑mozd. These shifts produce the familiar Middle Persian form Hormizd, widely attested in inscriptions and literary sources.

In the earliest Avestan form Ahuramazda, the prefix ‘ahura’ corresponds to Sanskrit asura (असुर), following the characteristic sound shift from /s/ to /h/. Likewise, ‘mazda’ aligns with Sanskrit maha‑ (great), where the intervocalic /h/ changes to the /zd/ cluster characteristic of Avestan phonology. The Sanskrit parallels illuminate the deeper Indic root that underlies the name itself.

As for the word 'bandar' meaning 'port' in Persian, mainstream etymologists explain 'bandar' as a compound of the Persian word ‘band’ meaning ‘to bind’ or ‘to enclose’. It is cognate with Avestan 'bandha', with the same meaning. The suffix 'dar', meaning ‘gate’ or ‘door’, is cognate with Avestan 'darə'. This Avestan formation literally means ‘enclosed gate’, a metaphor for a harbour as a protected threshold where sea routes enter land. Yet when traced further back into the Indo‑Avestan lexicon, both elements reveal their Sanskrit ancestry: bandha (बन्ध) 'bond', or 'enclosure' and dvāra (द्वार), meaning 'door', 'threshold'. 

Unlike Avestan, which preserves only the linguistic roots and offers little scriptural elaboration, Sanskrit and Indic texts provide rich cultural collateral. The Mahābhārata and Purāṇas describe Kṛṣṇa’s coastal city Dvārakā (gateway city), an ancient port whose very name encodes the dvāra motif. The word bandha or bandhana also appears in multiple sacred site names, such as Nau-bandhana, the name of the mountain on which the vessel of Manu, the progenitor of mankind, rested, during the deluge. Thus, Persian 'bandar' finds its ultimate resonance in Sanskrit compounds, where the imagery of binding and thresholds was already embedded in Indian scriptures and ancient city names, giving Indic tradition a depth of textual support absent in the Avestan corpus.

Though Astola, Konarak, and the port of Hormirzad find no mention in Vālmīki’s Ramāyaṇa, they stand along the very corridor the vānaras would have traversed—thresholds unnamed in the epic, yet not untouched by the memory of Śrī Rāma.

🌺 Ramchah and Ramkan: Śrī Rāma’s name surfaces in striking pockets across the Iranian landscape. At first glance, these may appear to be coincidences—after all, the syllable ‘ram’ is not rare. But as one moves through this terrain, the occurrences begin to gather weight, and a wider tapestry of names and echoes slowly comes into view.

Just across from Bandar Abbas lies Qeshm Island, home to the remarkable ancient caves of Kharbah, situated near a village called Ramchah. The element ‘khar’ in Kharbah refers to the salt caves of the region. Here, ‘khar’ corresponds to Sanskrit kṣāra, a connection we encountered earlier in the name Thar. Not far from Ramchah stands another settlement: Ramkan.

The island itself once bore the older local name Abarkawan, which lexicographers interpret as a truncated form of Jazīra‑ye Gavan—‘The Cow Island’. Here too the Indo‑Avestan layer surfaces: ‘gavan’, or ‘cow’, corresponds to Avestan ‘gava’ and Sanskrit go/gau, (गौ/गव)  perhaps applied to the island because of its distinctive cow-like shape.

Taken together, these names—Ramchah, Ramkan, Kharbah, and Gavan—form a small but intriguing constellation. Whether a mere coincidence or the residue of older cultural memory, they mark Qeshm and its surroundings as a landscape where Indo‑Avestan linguistic threads continue to surface in unexpected ways.

Significantly, Râman itself is the name of a Yazata (divine being) in the Avesta. In Zoroastrian tradition, Râman is invoked as a beneficent spirit presiding over the atmosphere, tranquillity, and the prosperity of herds and fields. He embodies the idea of peace joined with fertile pasture—a divine image of harmony in nature. Within the Indic dharma, these very attributes are inseparably associated with Śrī Rāma, who is revered as the sustainer of order, serenity, and abundance. It is tempting, therefore, to see in the name Râman not only a Zoroastrian deity but also a distant echo of the lore of Śrī Rāma, preserved across linguistic and cultural boundaries in the Iranian landscape.

🌺 The Zagros Range of Iran in the Rāmāyaṇa: From these maritime thresholds, the path of the vānaras bends inland. Sugrīva instructs the vānaras to move swiftly ahead from Somagiri, across many yojanās, skirting the sea‑coast towards two waterlogged mountains.

The closest range off the Arabian Sea that corresponds to these Ramāyanic mountains is the Zagros, which rises from the Iranian Plateau and stretches south‑east to north‑west like a meru‑daṇḍa, a spine of stones, across the land.

Vālmīki’s portrayal of these ranges as sea‑mountains also allows for the possibility that they once formed part of the Sāgara chain, Sanskrit for ‘sea mountains’. Such a description suggests that the mapping of these mountains may reflect a memory from a pre‑Rāmāyaṇic era, when sections of the Zagros range were still coastal-bordering, or perhaps partly submerged by the Sindhu Sāgara, the expanse now identified as the Arabian Sea.

🌺 Zagros Mountain Range and the Sagartians: Mainstream literature holds that the name ‘Zagros’ originates from that of the Sagartians, a seafaring tribe that entered these mountains from the nearby coast. Their proximity to the Sindhu Mahasāgara—the Arabian Sea—suggests that the original name of the tribe may have been Sāgara, Sanskrit for ‘sea’. Over time, Sāgara may have morphed into Zagros, a distortion that still carries the memory of its aquatic origin.

An alternate theory, offered by Stephanus Byzantinus in his 6th-century geographical lexicon Ethnica, traces the Sagartians to a peninsula in the Caspian Sea called ‘Sagartia’. From there, this tribe is said to have migrated southward into the Zagros Range. Nevertheless, even in this account, the root sāgara (सागर) remains central, suggesting that the sea, and its Sanskrit name, shaped both geography and identity of the Zagros.

🌺 Sanskrit giri and Sumerian Kur: The Sumerians referred to the Zagros Range as ‘Kor’ or ‘Kur’. What might be the source of this Sumerian designation? Across the Indo‑Iranian–Mesopotamian corridor, a consistent phonetic pattern emerges: Sanskrit /g/ tends to surface as /k/ in neighbouring languages. In this light, the Sumerian Kor and Kur appear to reflect the same /g/ → /k/ transformation by which Sanskrit giri (mountain) resonates as Kor or Kur. This is not surprising, for we have already observed that in the name Kirthar Sanskrit giri surfaces as Kir.

Such correspondences invite consideration of whether Sumerian itself may represent a derivative or cognate form of Sanskrit. This hypothesis gains further weight from parallels preserved in Sumerian and Akkadian cuneiform texts—parallels that will be examined in greater detail in subsequent volumes.

Sanskrit śikhira and Avestan ‘zager’: The Avestan name for the Zagros Range is Zager Za G’R. Once again, within that name, one discerns a lingering presence of two Sanskrit words – giri (गिरि) meaning ‘mountain’ and śikhira (शिखर) meaning ‘peak’.  First, the Avestan words for mountain—‘gairi’ and ‘gairoish’—are clear cognates of Sanskrit giri, which change to ‘koh’ or ‘kuh’ in Persian. They may also explain the suffix ‘ger’ in Zager. Second, in Indo‑Iranian phonology, the Sanskrit palatal sibilant ś regularly surfaces as z in Avestan—for example, Sanskrit śva (श्वा) or ‘dog’ appears as zva in Avestan. Hence, śikhira may appear as Zager, with the initial ś shifting to z and the velars /g/ and /k/ functioning interchangeably.

Planetary names reveal similar transformations. Sanskrit Śani (Saturn) becomes Zohai in Persian, while Śukra (Venus) appears as Zohre. From this continuity, some scholars have suggested a striking possibility: that the Purāṇic Śukrācārya, the teacher of the asuras, was remembered in Iranian tradition as Zarathustra, the prophet of Zoroastrianism.

🌺 The Etymology of the name Zarahustra: The name Zarathustra (later Zoroaster) has long been explained in mainstream Indo‑Iranian philology as deriving from Old Iranian zarath ('old') + ustra ('camel'), yielding the sense of 'camel‑keeper' or 'owner of aged camels'. This pastoral etymology is linguistically defensible, yet it remains unsatisfying when placed against the cultural and mythic stature of the figure himself.

From a Sanskritic perspective, however, the roots are equally explicable: zarad (जरड /जरठ), 'aged, worn', parallels the Avestan zarath, while uṣṭra (उष्ट्र), 'camel', is a direct cognate of Avestan ustra. Thus, the conventional etymology already rests upon Sanskrit foundations.

Yet the deeper question is not whether the name can be parsed through Indo‑Iranian pastoral vocabulary, but whether such a parsing does justice to the symbolic role of Zarathustra. It is far more likely that a revered teacher, remembered as a cosmic lawgiver, would be named in relation to planetary or celestial phenomena than to the curvature of a camel’s back!

Indeed, Indo‑Iranian tradition abounds with planetary associations: Sanskrit Śukra (Venus) and Śani (Saturn) both surface in Persian as Zohre and Zohai, showing the regular phonological shift from ś to z. On this basis, the Purāṇic Śukrācārya—teacher of the asuras—has been linked to Zarathustra, suggesting that his name may encode a planetary identity rather than a pastoral occupation.

In this light, the history of Zarathustra and the etymological source of his name remain debatable. While philologists may continue to defend the 'camel‑keeper' derivation, the literary and cultural context points toward a cosmic reading: a teacher named after a planet, a star, or a celestial principle, rather than after livestock. The resonance of planetary nomenclature across Sanskrit, Avestan, and Persian strengthens this view, situating Zarathustra not in the dust of the caravan but in the orbit of the heavens.

The Mahābhārata recounts that Śukrācārya, in his role as the preceptor of the asuras, divided himself into two aspects: one embodying the wisdom imparted to the devas (gods), and the other to the asuras (demons). This act of dual transmission is often interpreted as a symbolic gesture, reflecting the way Indo‑Iranian civilisations, though diverging along distinct cultural trajectories, remained bound to a shared Vedic origin.

The repeated expulsion of Asuras, Daityas, Panis, and Mlecchas from the mainland in Vedic and epic narratives should be readnot as mythic battles, but as cultural markers of divergence. Those who were driven away embody the parallel streams of Indic civilisation — unfolding beyond the Vedic fold. At a broader level, these expulsions also underscore the east‑to‑west movements of peoples from India, standing in contrast to the presumed Aryan Invasion or Aryan Migration theories, and suggesting instead a diffusion outward from India rather than an intrusion inward.

This outward diffusion, already glimpsed in figures like Śukrācārya and Zarathustra, finds further resonance in language itself, where Sanskrit phonetics also reverberate across Akkadian and Egyptian lexicons.

🌺 Sanskrit śikhira and Akkadian ziggarut: Although mainstream scholarship generally maintains that the alternations /ś/ → /z/ and /g/ ↔ /k/ are attested only within Indo‑European languages and not in Sumerian or Akkadian, these shifts nevertheless illuminate how śikhira (शिखर) meaning ‘summit’ or ‘peak’, resonates with the Akkadian ziqqurratu, meaning ‘high building’ or ‘temple tower’. Even if conventional linguistics hesitates to accept such correspondences, there remain compelling reasons to recognise the same phonetic principles operating across diverse sound systems and languages.

The Akkadian lexicon further records sikkutu as the word for ‘pyramid’. In Egypt, Saqqara designates a prominent pyramid complex. These parallels—dismissed by mainstream scholars as coincidental and unrelated to Sanskrit śikhira—nevertheless resist easy dismissal. From a common‑sense perspective, the recurrence of similar phonetic patterns across cultures suggests a deeper resonance that strict disciplinary boundaries may overlook.

II. The Mountain Peaks and the Cities of the Zagros Range

Within this unfolding backdrop, we return to trace the progress of the vānaras as they advance through the Zagros range and the cities of this mountainous region.

🌺 The Rāmāyaṇic Mt. Pariyatra and Mt. Vajra on the Iranian Map: Within this unfolding backdrop, we return to trace the progress of the vānaras as they advance through the Zagros range. Among the water-kissed mountains mentioned in the Rāmāyaṇa, two names stand out with luminous distinction: the Pariyatra Range, whose peaks ‘shimmered like gold’ and were guarded by the fierce Gandharvas; and Mt. Vajra, described as ‘gleaming like a diamond’. The vānaras, in their quest for Sītā, were instructed to pass swiftly through these ranges and mountains, neither engaging with the Gandharvas nor plucking fruit from their sacred date palms.

The highest sub‑range of the Zagros, known as Dena, may well correspond to Vālmiki’s Pariyatra. Spanning nearly 80 km in length and 15 km in width, Dena’s proportions align with Vālmiki’s account of Pariyatra as extending 100 yojanās—a measure of vastness.

The Sanskrit prefix pari, meaning ‘bordering sides’ or ‘perimetre’, or ‘a stretch of land’, recurs here with striking resonance, describing the mountain chain with precision. In this light, Dena embodies the very sense of pari‑yatra—a journey along the bordering ridges, a sweep across the land’s edge.

Though not visible from the sea itself, Dena would have revealed its towering presence to the vānaras once they crossed into the elevated passes of the Zagros, where its snowy crest dominates the inland horizon.

Interestingly, the name Dena lacks a clear meaning in Persian. Its origin may lie in the Sanskrit tunga (तुङ्ग)), meaning ‘lofty’ or ‘high’. Through the process of lenition in Proto-Indo-European phonology—where voiceless stops like /t/ soften into voiced sounds like /d/—tunga may have evolved into 'denga', and eventually into 'dena'. This phonetic shift mirrors transformations seen in Latin and its Romance descendants: for instance, Latin 'vita' becomes Spanish 'vida', both meaning ‘life’.

Or the name Dena may arise from the Persian ‘teng’, meaning ‘narrow gorge’ or ‘mountain-pass’, which can be simply explained as the Iranian reflex of Sanskrit tanuka (तनुक) meaning ‘thin’ or ‘narrow’, or tantu (तन्तु) meaning ‘thread’ deriving from the root tan‑, with the meaning of ‘constriction’ preserved unchanged across the forms. This form appears in the names of many mountain passes here. Some of the notable ones include Teng-e Boragh, Teng-e Sorkh, Teng-e Maloon, and Teng-e Khoda Rahmat. These ‘Tengs’ or passes, mark the natural corridors through the limestone ridges of Dena.

Though mainstream scholars attribute the words ‘tenga’ and ‘tana’ to Turkic ‘tan’, Sanskrit tantu appears in the Ṛgveda more than 20 times, tied to the philosophy of the weave and warp of the tapestry of life. It is perhaps from the word thread that the concept of narrowness arises in the form of tanuka and Persian ‘tang’.

🌺 Bijan and Sanskrit Vijaya: The highest peak of the Dena Range, Qash Mastan—also known as Bijan 3—carries the heroic name Bijan, after the celebrated warrior‑hero of Iranian epic tradition. The name itself derives from Old Iranian ‘wi‑žan’. Although not attested directly in Avestan, this root belongs to the same Indo‑Iranian semantic field as Sanskrit vijaya (विजय) meaning ‘victory’, a term already present in the Ṛigveda (10.84.4) in the form vijayāya meaning ‘for victory’. In this hymn, the term appears in a martial‑ritual context, invoked in a prayer to Indra for triumph in battle over rival clans, underscoring how deeply the idea of victory was embedded in Ṛg Vedic vocabulary.

The epic Rāmāyaṇa too is structured around the supreme vijaya—the victory of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa over Rāvaṇa—making the root not merely linguistic but thematically central to its narrative world. Though the epic does not employ Vijaya as a personal epithet for Rāma, this root word appears in formulaic expressions of conquest, aspiration, and triumph, celebrated as Vijayadashami—making the semantic field of victory central to its world, even if not crystallised into a heroic name. Hence, in the Sanskrit world, this victory‑root is foundational: the earliest version of the Mahābhārata, composed by Rishi Veda Vyāsa, was titled Jaya or ‘Victory’, long before later generations called it the Mahābhārata.

The Avestan cognate of vijaya appears as ‘zaya’, which preserves the same meaning and semantic core and the Iranian form Bijan surfaces in later Iranian tradition as the heroic name Bijan. In the Iranian epic cycle, Bijan is the valiant young warrior of the Shāhnāmeh. His name belongs to a class of Old Iranian heroic appellations built on martial or triumphant roots — precisely the semantic family to which vijaya and ‘zaya’ belong.

As we proceed in our journey with the vānaras, we will return to why the tallest peak of the Dena Range may once have borne a name shaped by an older memory of a triumph—long before Iranian lore set its own hero, Bijan, upon this summit, another victory had already inscribed itself upon the peak—its traces carried in the company of vānaras, its memory echoing in footsteps too vast to name.

🌺 The Lapis-Hued Vajra: After crossing the Pariyatra chain, the vānaras, according to Vālmīki, arrive at a mountain called Vajra. His description evokes the deep, celestial blue associated with lapis lazuli. The Sanskrit phrase vajra‑tulya (वज्रतुल्य)—‘as radiant as the vajra’—is an attested descriptor in classical lexicons, including Monier‑Williams, for the brilliant, thunderbolt‑like sheen of lapis lazuli. Vālmīki’s use of this term signals a specific chromatic register, not poetic invention: a blue stone of exceptional radiance.

Persia, however, contains no lapis deposits. What it does possess—abundantly—is turquoise, another blue gemstone of great antiquity. Turquoise has a clear Sanskrit lineage: perujam (पेरुजम्) and peraja (पेरज), meaning ‘born in Para’ or ‘found in Para’, directly linking the stone to Parasa, the Sanskrit name for Persia. The modern Persian word ‘ferozeh’ descends from this Indic term, preserving an ancient exchange of mineral knowledge and nomenclature.

Seen in this light, Vālmīki’s Mt. Vajra, gleaming, blue‑hued, and described through the vocabulary of the vajra, aligns with a region where such stones were physically present. In Sanskrit, vajra denotes the thunderbolt; in Avestan, ‘vazra’ refers to a mace or club; in Persian, ‘vazra’ carries the sense of force or pressure. Across these languages, the semantic field remains stable: impact, brilliance, power. Mt. Vajra’s name belongs to this Indo‑Avestan continuum.

The turquoise belt of Nishapur offers a compelling geographical anchor. Its highest peak, Mount Binalud, rises nearly 10,000 feet and sits amid some of the richest ancient turquoise mines in the world. Even the name resonates the Sanskrit niśā (निशा)—night, darkness, blue‑hued—that echoes the mountain’s chromatic identity. Binalud, with its deep blue mineral veins, aligns closely with the Vajra described in the Rāmāyaṇa.

Thus, Mt. Vajra emerges as a point where textual description, mineralogy, and Indo‑Avestan linguistics converge. Its lapis‑like radiance, its thunderbolt name, and its turquoise‑rich terrain reflect a shared civilisational memory—one that carried the imagery of Indra from the Sapta‑Sindhu into the highlands of ancient Airyanām. This is not imagination; it is ancient geographic knowledge encoded in the language of the epic.

🌺 Bushehr, the crossroad: As the vānaras begin to move ahead from the sea coast, along the ancient mountainous corridor of the Zagros, they would have reached a settlement which is still prominent today. Now called Bushehr, it is a place the vānaras could scarcely have missed.

Present‑day Bushehr, a port and provincial capital, sits naturally along the coastal path from the coast along the Zagros, its presence inevitable. The etymology of Bushehr remains debated—some trace it to Abu Sahr (father of the city), while others link it to Bokht‑Ardashir (Ardashir has given), attempting to derive meaning by aligning it with words of similar sound, a process of folk etymology based more on phonetic resemblance than on demonstrable linguistic roots. Neither theory, however, is conclusive.

Through the Sanskrit lens, however, a clearer resonance emerges. The word vasra (वस्र), ‘crossroad’, aptly captures the town’s geographical position. The phonetic shift from /v/ to /b/ is not unusual, and in this light Bushehr becomes a vasra—a junction of paths, a meeting of directions and routes.  Bushehr may therefore preserve, in altered form, an ancient name such as Vasra. Examples of this pattern abound: Basra in Iraq, situated at the crossroads of major trade routes, likewise echoes the Sanskrit vasra—the crossroad.

Given its position along the coastal corridor, the vānaras—moving westward under Sugrīva’s command—would have crossed this threshold now called Bushehr, marking it as a point of consequence, one that would later anchor the great trade routes of the region.

🌺 Mt. Chakravan and the city of Gur or Shehr-e-Gour: From this coastal junction, the path continues deeper into the mountains. Vālmiki next mentions Mt. Chakravan, situated at the ‘fourth quarter of the sea’. It is here, according to the Rāmāyaṇa, that Viśvakarma, the celestial architect, forged a divine circular weapon called Sahasra (सहस्र), meaning ‘the thousand-spoked weapon'. The name Chakravan—from chakra (चक्र), Sanskrit for ‘circle’ or ‘wheel’—evokes the presence of a megalithic circular structure atop or near the mountain, possibly a forge or sacred installation.

The ‘fourth quarter of the sea’, when traced along the Persian Gulf from east to west, corresponds to the present-day province of Khuzestan. This region encompasses much of ancient Elam, whose capital was Susa. It is in this vicinity that one might locate Mt. Chakravan and the Sahasrara weapon-structure. All constructions attributed to Viśvakarma are of monumental scale, often megalithic in nature, and therefore archaeologically conspicuous.

Within Khuzestan lies a site that aligns with Vālmiki’s description: a city known as Gur, or Shehr-e-Gour, famed for its perfectly circular design. Persian historian Ibn Balkhi, writing in the Farsnama around 1100 CE, described Gur as having been ‘devised using a compass’. A variant name, Shahr-e Gard, more correctly, Shahr-e-Gerd, literally translates to ‘rounded city’ in Persian, reinforcing its geometric precision.

Shehr-e-Gour, Fars. Could the circular Shehr-e-Gour be the site of the ancient Chakravan of Rāmāyaṇa

🌺 The Hidden Wheel or Chakra of the Rāmāyaṇa: Gur’s most recent reconstruction was undertaken by Ardeshir-e Pabakan (180–242 CE), the founding monarch of the Sassanid dynasty. As sacred cities reconstructed in later eras often point to deeper antiquity, Shehr-e-Gour merits close examination—not as a Sassanid innovation alone, but as a possible restoration of a far older site.

According to a report in the Financial Tribune of Iran (September 27, 2014), drawing on the 9th-century historian Al-Tabari’s account, and supported by new archaeological findings, Gur was founded before a major turning point in Persian history: the defeat of the last Parthian (Arsacid) king, Ardavan (Artabanus IV), by Ardeshir-e Pabakan in 224 CE. This victory marked the end of the Parthian Empire and the beginning of the Sasanian dynasty, with Ardeshir as its founding monarch. Islamic sources recount that before Gur’s reconstruction, the entire region had been submerged in floodwaters—an event often attributed to Alexander the Great (356–323 BCE), transforming it into a wetland that persisted for centuries.

This raises a compelling question: Why would Alexander flood the area? Perhaps he didn’t. The geography of Firuzabad—a natural basin encircled by mountains—makes it prone to seasonal inundation. The flooding may have predated Alexander or occurred during his campaign without deliberate intent. Still, the effect was erasure. He neither destroyed the site nor rebuilt it, possibly because he could not. But he ensured it was forgotten. For nearly 500 years, the region remained submerged. Only under Ardeshir’s command was the basin drained, revealing the foundations of a structure with polygonal and spider-web-like defensive walls—a layout still visible from afar.

Though Vālmiki describes Chakravan as a mountain, Gur lies in the Firuzabad plains, encircled by mountains and accessible only through two narrow gorges. This makes it an ideal location for concealing weapons and fortifying against attack. According to the Rāmāyaṇic tradition, the weapon forged here was the Sahasra, a wheel-like discus, a chakra with a thousand spokes. Intriguingly, Gur (modern Firuzabad) lies adjacent to two towns named Ramshir and Ramhormoz, further deepening its resonance with Rāmāyaṇa’s sacred geography.

Today, in the highlands of Fars, Vālmiki’s Chakravan may yet endure—not merely as stone, but as a place that bore witness to the primordial moment when the Sudarshana was spun in divine fury. The city’s circular form, with spoke-like lanes radiating from its centre, mirrors the weapon itself. The surrounding ridges curve like the rim of a celestial wheel—a Sudarshana in stone, once forged in fury, now resting in repose.

🌺 The Mystery of Mt. Chakravan and the Horse-Necked Demon: Indic texts offer another compelling glimpse into the mystery of Mt. Chakravan. In Purāṇic lore, the demon Hayagriva—his name derived from haya (हय), ‘horse’, and griva (ग्रीव), ‘neck’—once stole the Vedas during a cosmic dissolution, concealing them in the depths of the ocean. He also held custody of the Sudarshana Chakra, hiding atop Mt. Chakravan itself. Seeking him there, Viṣṇu arrives—not merely to reclaim the Vedas, but to retrieve the divine weapon as well. It may be no coincidence that Mt. Chakravan itself—prone to flooding and long submerged—reflects this mythic concealment, its flooded basin perhaps standing in for the primordial ocean described in the Purāṇas.

A battle ensues between the Devas and Asuras, and to reclaim the stolen Vedas, Viṣṇu assumes the same horse-headed form as the demon, becoming Hayagrīvahan (हयग्रीवहन्), the slayer of Hayagriva  (हयग्रीव). Viṣṇu takes the form of the enemy to conquer the enemy— a 'horse-necked god'. This divine paradox—where the god mirrors the enemy to defeat him—reverberates through Indic lore and recurs with striking clarity in the Rāmāyaṇa.

In this reading, Mt. Chakravan becomes the site not only of battle but of concealment, a place where the ‘thousand-spoked Sudharshana chakra’ could be forged, placed, or hidden, and where the stolen Vedas lay submerged in mythic secrecy.

Just as many legends gather around a sacred site, so too may its name carry more than one meaning. These etymologies don’t contradict—they layer. For example, one theory links the city of Gur to the Persian ‘gerd', meaning circular—apt for a city built in a perfect circle-like chakra, hence Chakravan. The other traces the name Gur to griva (ग्रीव), Sanskrit for ‘neck’, which appears in Avestan as 'gora' and in Persian as 'gordon', in reference to the horse-necked demon, that possibly also reflects in the city name Gur.

In these legends and etymologies, a deeper truth emerges: Indian tradition has long associated the Iranian plateau with horses—symbols of power and speed. Thus, an adversary in that land becomes associated with a horse’s neck—griva—as embodied by the demon Hayagriva; and the circular weapon that vanquished him—the Sudarshana chakra—finds its architectural representation in the very layout of Gur, or Shehr-e-Gour.

III. The Legends and Lands of Iran

Iran is a land where myth and mountain, tale and terrain, are woven into one fabric. Its valleys and volcanic peaks, its cliffs and caravan routes, are not merely features of geography but living vessels of legend. These landscapes resonate with echoes that reach beyond Persia, carrying threads of Indic roots and Vedic imagination. In this terrain, stone and serpent, summit and story converge—each site a reminder that geography itself can be scripture, inscribed with the memory of gods, demons, and civilisational ties.

🌺 Kurangun: A Stone Symbol of Viṣṇu: Mt. Chakravan is not the only Persian site that may preserve the glory of Viṣṇu. Beneath the cliffs of Fars, a god rests upon the coils of a primordial serpent—unnamed in the record, yet unmistakably familiar in form and symbolism.

At Kurangun, located roughly 200 km from Shehr-e-Gour in the Fars province, a remarkable rock relief carved into a cliff face offers striking parallels. The central panel, dating to the 17th century BCE, depicts a divine couple seated within a rectangular frame. The male figure sits on a coiled serpent throne, crowned with horns, while the female deity sits behind him, similarly adorned. Both hold serpents and are surrounded by nobles or dignitaries with folded hands, in reverence.

The scene is reminiscent of the reliefs and stone sculptures that depict Vedic India. In the Vedic pantheon, the coiled serpent Sheshnaga serves as the seat of Lord Viṣṇu, with his consort Lakshmi often depicted beside him. This association is not merely speculative—the Iranian Tourism and Touring Organisation notes at its official website, www.itto.org.

“This relief shows a God with a horned crown sitting on a throne. Behind him sits a goddess who is crowned in the same way. Both hold snakes in one hand, the animal that symbolises the earth in the Elamite pantheon. Around these two deities, other characters are seen in outline. It's similar to Viṣṇu & Lakshmi in Vaikuntam".

In Persian annals, there is no definitive identification of the Kurangun relief. Though traditionally linked to the Elamite deities Inshushinak and Napirisha, the symbolic composition suggests more than local mythology. The divine couple’s posture, the reverent figures surrounding them, and the absence of inscriptions leave room for interpretation. What endures at Kurangun is less an Elamite fragment than a lingering echo of Viṣṇu and Lakshmi—an ancient memory refracted through local stone, still whispering across cultures.

The Kurangun Relief in Fars. The relief depicts a god and a goddess seated on a coiled serpent.

A sketch of the Kurangun Relief, Fars. Notice the central character seated on a coiled serpent. The divine couple is shielded by the serpent's hood. Image courtesy of the Iranian Tourism & Touring Organisation (ITTO)

🌺 The Whisper of Shesha: If the serpent throne of Kurangun bears any link to Sheshnaga, does the name Shesha appear in the surrounding geography of Kurangun? Remarkably, it does. The Fahlian River, which flows beneath the relief, is formed by the confluence of two tributaries: Shesh Peer and Rood Peer. The spring from which Shesh Peer rises is also called Sheshpeer, located in the Zagros Mountain Range, about 80 km north of Shiraz. The name Shesh Peer preserves the Sanskrit Shesha (शेष), the cosmic serpent, suggesting that the reverence for Viṣṇu’s throne rippled through the waters in this land too. The surrounding landscape—springs, caves, and mountain passes—forms a sacred geography that would resonate deeply within a Vedic context. 

🌺 Kurangun: From Trembling Waters to Chromatic Heights: The site of Kurangun likely derives its name from the ancient river Koohrang, now known as the Karun—Iran’s largest river by volume. The oldest attested name linked to the river is Ulai. Scholars trace the name to Aramaic Ulata or Hulata, which resonates with Sanskrit ullola (उल्लोल), meaning ‘beautiful waves', and Akkadian 'gillu’,  meaning ‘wave’ or ‘undulation’. These hydronyms—spanning Sanskrit, Hebrew, Aramaic, and Akkadian—form a shared lexicon describing the flow of water: waves that tremble, surge, and ripple across the land.

This resonance deepens when we consider the name of Lake Merom, a biblical lake in Israel, known in Hebrew as Agam ha-Hula. Its name derives from Aramaic 'hulata' or 'ulata', closely aligned with Sanskrit ullola. The Wular Lake in Kashmir was once known as Ullola. Its surrounding region was known as Holada, as attested in the Rājataraṅgiṇī, its name stemming from Sanskrit holaka (होलाक) meaning 'vapour bath', and holadh (होलड) meaning 'shower of mist'. These lakes—one in the Levant, one in the Himalayas—appear to share a common linguistic and symbolic lineage of mist, movement, and sacred water.

The name Ulai, preserved in Hebrew and Greek texts, also refers to the lower part of the Karun near ancient Susa. Its upstream source, now called Kuhrang, reflects a Persian naming tradition: ‘kuh’ (mountain) and ‘rang’ (colour), describing the chromatic terrain of the Zagros. 

As the reader will recognise, the Persian toponym Kuhrang finds its mirror in Sanskrit. The element ‘kuh’ derives from giri (गिरि), which shifts through ‘kor’ before settling as ‘kuh’—a phonetic pattern we have already encountered. The second component, ranga (रङ्ग), Sanskrit for ‘colour’, evokes the image of a 'mountain of hues'. The surrounding terrain of Kurangun, enriched with mineral pigments and layered with ritual symbolism, lends tangible weight to this chromatic interpretation.

In tracing the source of the suffix ranga, beyond its surface meaning of ‘colour’, we find that in the Avestan tradition the name Kuhrang resonates with the river Rangha. Mentioned in the Vendidad as one of Ahura Mazda’s primal creations, Rangha is described as a mighty stream flowing at the world’s edge. It is a semi-mythical river often identified with the Tigris and Euphrates.

Yet the ultimate source of this cosmological motif lies in the Ṛgveda, the earliest of the Indo-Iranian scriptures and therefore the foundational witness to such imagery. The Rasā River, invoked in verse 5.53.9, is described geographically as a western tributary of the Indus, but cosmically it is envisioned as encircling heaven and earth. In Sanskrit, rasa (रस) means ‘sap, essence, elixir’, underscoring its dual role as both life-giving and boundary-defining, a conception rooted in deep antiquity. Because the Ṛgveda predates the Avestan corpus, and because its linguistic and cosmological archetypes provide the template later echoed in Zoroastrian tradition, the Avestan Rangha must be understood as a reflection of the Ṛgvedic Rasā. It is this Rangha, carrying forward the Vedic vision of the cosmic boundary river, that appears, in all likelihood, in the name Kurangun.

Yet as it has become evident, one cannot ignore the influence of trade on toponymy. The name Kurangun itself may also preserve a mercantile trace. One plausible derivation links it to Sanskrit kurang (कुरङ्ग), meaning 'musk'—the fragrant secretion of the Himalayan musk deer. Musk was a prized Indian export, introduced to the West via Fars and noted by Cosmas Indicopleustes, the sixth‑century traveller and author of Christian Topography. If ascetics carried the traditions of Viṣṇu and Lakshmi into western passes, traders may have followed with musk—kurang—moving through Fars and leaving linguistic traces in the landscape. In this way, Kurangun embodies a dual heritage: the cosmological river archetype of the Ṛgveda and the mercantile pathways of India’s ancient trade.

🌺 Mt. Varaha of Rāmāyaṇa and Kuh-e-Vararu of Iran: The epic geography of the Rāmāyaṇa continues to unfold, extending into the ancient mountain ranges of Airyanam, now known as Iran. Following Sugrīva’s instructions, the vānaras journey past Mt. Pariyatra, Mt. Vajra and Chakravan, pressing forward towards another mountain peak, one that Vālmiki describes as 'deep in the chasm of water, adorned with waterfalls and radiant like a golden tusk piercing the flood'. He records its name as Varaha.

On the map of Iran, the Zagros Range rises like a formidable spine from the Strait of Hormuz toward the northwestern Iranian plateau. At its northern edge, the Zagros range fragments into the Talesh highlands, curving eastward toward the Alborz Mountains, the final threshold before the Caspian Sea. Here in the Alborz Mountains, amidst the volcanic peaks and mist-cloaked valleys, the vānaras search for the golden summit of the waterlogged Mt. Varaha.

The closest modern toponymic equivalent of the name Varaha is Kuh-e Vararu (11,739 feet), located at 35°58'15''N, 52°2'12''E, nestled in the Alborz near Mt. Damavand. Geologically, the Alborz range once stood partially submerged beneath the ancient Caspian Sea, whose waters surged far beyond their present bounds. 

Roughly 10,000 years ago, and presumably in the Rāmāyaṇic era, the Caspian’s level was dramatically higher—its reach extending toward Tehran and possibly encompassing the Aral Sea to the north-east. Peaks of the Alborz, including those near Mt. Damavand, were partially submerged, their summits emerging like islands from a vast inland ocean. This ancient geography lends weight to Vālmiki’s description of Mt. Varaha as a mountain located deep in the chasm of water.

Even in relatively recent times, the water of the Caspian Sea was higher. In his History of Persia (1815), author John Malcolm notes: “At the time of Alexander, the surface of this inland sea was about 150 feet higher than at present... it is not certain that the Caspian did not at that period include the Sea of Aral". Today, the two seas lie at a distance of 1280 kilometres from each other, a staggering measure of how immense the waters once were.

🌺 The Source of the name Vararu: The name Vararu has no known direct meaning in Persian. What stands out, however, is its phonetic resonance with Sanskrit varaha and Avestan 'varezahe'—both meaning 'boar'. This suggests a deep Indo-Avestan continuity marked by the convergence of mythic motifs and linguistic remains.

The Purāṇic lore of the Varaha avatara finds a striking parallel in the Warharan Yasht, a Zoroastrian hymn dedicated to Verethragna, the deity of victory. In verse 15, Verethragna is described as appearing 'as a boar with sharp tusks, with a yellow, golden body, with burning skin, with a sharp gaze—strong and victorious'. Here, the boar is not merely an animal but a radiant, militant force—divine, fiery, and triumphant—piercing through chaos to restore cosmic order. This imagery aligns closely with the Varaha avatara of the Purāṇic tradition, in which Viṣṇu, in boar form, lifts the Earth from the Cosmic waters and subdues demonic forces.

While the boar form evokes Varaha of the Indic Purāṇas, the Zoroastrian name Verethragna itself traces a different lineage. In his article The Aryan Gods of the Mitanni Treaties (Journal of the American Oriental Society), scholar Paul Thieme notes that the Avestan noun 'Verethragna' has a cognate in Vedic Sanskrit Vritra. In Vedic literature, Vritrahan, or 'Slayer of Vritra', is a prominent epithet of Indra. The convergence—where Verethragna assumes a boar form akin to Viṣṇu, despite his name originating from Indra’s epithet Vritrahan, which lacks any boar association—illustrates how Zoroastrianism reinterpreted Vedic-Puraṇic motifs, transforming Sanskrit epithets into distinct Avestan deities.

This interplay between transformed epithets and enduring forms finds a geographic analogue in northern Iran, where mythic contours seem etched into the land itself. Near Kuh-e-Vararu in Iran, a mountain chain of five peaks undulates like the back of a serpent. Known as Sesang, the mountain peaks, located at 36.021313 N, 51.975861 E, may preserve a forgotten vestige of the name Sheshnaga—the five-headed cosmic serpent of Indic lore. In Hindu cosmology, Viṣṇu reclines upon Sheshnaga in the Ocean of Milk (Kshirasāgara), resting between cycles of creation and dissolution.

🌺 Mt. Damavand of Iran: By this point in the Rāmāyaṇa’s westward journey, it becomes clear that mountains are not mere backdrops—they are narrative vessels, each inscribed with memory. Every peak named in the western arc beyond the Sapta‑Sindhu carries a story embedded in its very syllables. The great ranges of Persia—such as Kuh‑e‑Vararu, already examined, and Damavand, which we now approach—are not simply elevations on a map. They are revelations, markers of an ancient world where terrain, language, and tradition converge.

Adjacent to the Iranian peak Kuh-e-Vararu—linked in the discussion above to the Rāmāyaṇic Mount Varaha—stands the volcanic majesty of Mount Damavand. When approached through a Sanskrit lens, the name Damavand reveals striking etymological clarity: dama (दम) signifies 'to subdue', 'overpower', or 'tame', vanta (वान्त) conveys 'emitted' or 'expelled'. Together, they encapsulate the nature of a volcano—a force contained, yet eruptive. 

🌺 Indic Naraka, Mt. Damavand and Kuh-e-Vararu: There is a compelling possibility that the towering peak of Damavand, located about 300 Km from Kuh-e Vararu, preserves an imprint of the Rāmāyaṇic legend of Naraka. In Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa, Section 42, verse 31, we encounter the tale of a demon named Naraka, credited with founding a city called Pragjyotiṣa near Mount Varāha, where he was later held captive by Viṣṇu.

Interestingly, Naraka was born of Bhūmi (Earth goddess) and Viṣṇu’s Varāha avatara, linking the name Varaha to Naraka’s story, echoed in the Avestan cognate form Varārū. Although blessed by Viṣṇu with great power, Naraka misused it and was held captive or bandha, and suppressed or dama by Viṣṇu within Mount Varaha. By the time of this story, it appears that the Sanskrit suffix vanta or ‘expel’ had already shifted to bandha (suppress).

🌺 Damavand and Donbavand: One of Mt. Damavand’s ancient Avestan appellations, Donbavand, dates to the Sassanid era. Interpreting it through the Sanskrit prism, we observe the interchangeability of the sounds /v/ and /b/, suggesting that 'donba' could be a phonetic distortion of danava (दानव), meaning ‘demon’. Coupled with bandh (बन्ध), meaning ‘bound’ or ‘confined’, the name Donbavand evokes a compelling image: a prison for a demon. The name suggests that the captivity motif was transposed here from Kuh-e Vararu. Thus, Varārū preserves the phonetic memory of Varāha, while Damavand, through its epithet Donbavand (‘demon‑bound’), embodies the captivity motif. The two peaks, separated by 300 km, together form a layered mytho‑geographic memory: one carrying the name, the other the function. This dual witness in the Iranian landscape becomes even more resonant when we turn to the figure of Zahhak in Zoroastrian tradition.

🌺 The Legends of Naraka and Zahhak: In Zoroastrian mythic tradition, we encounter Zahhak, a monstrous, three-headed tyrant, who was ultimately subdued and bound within Mount Damavand, condemned to an eternal imprisonment beneath its volcanic flanks. Centuries later, the Persian poet Ferdowsi would immortalise this myth in his epic, the Shahnameh. Scholar S. J. R. North makes an observation regarding Ferdowsi’s narration of this tale in his A Guide to Biblical Iran (p. 50). He states that Ferdowsi at times describes Damavand as if it lay within India, suggesting a fluidity of sacred geography that transcends modern borders.

Within Ferdowsi’s narrative, a pivotal moment unfolds when Faranak, mother of the prophesied hero Fereydun, flees with her infant son to escape Zahhak’s wrath. As Faranak journeys eastward, she seeks sanctuary in the eastern mountains—sometimes named as Alborz, sometimes as the Himalayas—entrusting the child to a hermit sage. Her words, though rendered differently across versions, carry the weight of maternal grief and mythic foresight: her son, she declares, is destined to overthrow the dragon-king and restore justice to the world.

The sage accepts the child solemnly and raises him with care. As foretold, when the child comes of age, he returns to Iran, defeats Zahhak, and chains him once more within Mount Damavand—restoring cosmic order. Thus, it is highly probable that the demon Naraka of the Rāmāyaṇa and Zahhak of Zoroastrianism represent the same archetypal figure—transmitted through divergent cultural lenses.

Even more suggestive is the survival of the name Naraka as a toponym in Iran. One such site, Naraq, lies in Markazi province, located at coordinates 34°00′32″N 50°50′28″E, not far from Damavand. Another, Naraka, is found in Fars province near Shahr-e-Gur, the city we have associated with Chakravan of the Rāmāyaṇa- the site of the downfall of Hayagreeva. This convergence of place, name, and narrative reinforces the plausibility of a pre-Zoroastrian Indic imprint on Zoroastrian mythic culture.

Legends often survive in multiple and sometimes conflicting versions, yet the endurance of names in the landscape—especially in mountains—points to a deeper continuity. Place‑names act like cultural layers: even when stories shift or become obscured, the survival of a name suggests that a powerful memory remains embedded in the terrain. In this way, geography itself preserves fragments of mythic truth, allowing them to resurface long after the original narratives have been reshaped by later traditions.

IV. Finding the City of First Light

The search for the City of First Light is not only a quest for a name but for a civilisational marker. This luminous idea threads through Iran’s geography—from Pragjyotiṣa and Khorasan to Varamin near Tehran—each site standing as a beacon of beginnings. The region emerges as a centre of ancient cities, a crucible where trade routes, mythic memory, and early urban growth converged. To call it the ‘City of First Light’ is to recognise both its geographic position at the dawn of day and its civilisational role as a source of radiance, where the rise of culture and community first illuminated the landscape.

🌺 Pragjyotiṣa and Khorasan: At this point in the vānara journey, we turn to the enigmatic geography of Pragjyotiṣa as stated in the Rāmāyaṇa- the city founded by Naraka. Scholars have placed its location in the eastern reaches of India—a view vividly echoed in Kālidasa’s Raghuvamsa. Yet a curious tension arises in the Rāmāyaṇa, where a verse locates Pragjyotiṣa along the vānaras’ westward path. At first glance, this appears contradictory. But the contradiction dissolves when we consider how ancient texts encode geography not just in coordinates, but in qualities.

Indic literary and ritual traditions often name places not by fixed location, but by how they are experienced—how they receive light, evoke memory, or orient the sacred. The etymology of Pragjyotiṣa offers a clue: praga (प्रग) means 'first', and jyotisha  (ज्योतिष) means 'light' or 'luminance'. Thus, Pragjyotiṣa may signify any land perceived to receive the first light of dawn—whether due to elevation, ritual orientation, or poetic imagination. It is less a directional label than a luminous designation.

In Iran, Khorasan was long regarded as the place where the 'sun arrives first'. The word Khorasan derives from Middle Persian 'khor' or sun, and 'asan' or 'ayan', meaning 'coming'. In other words, Khorasan means 'from where the sun comes'. The Persian ‘hor’ ultimately traces back to Avestan ‘hvar’, itself derived from Sanskrit savitr (सवितृ) or ‘sun’, with the characteristic shift of Sanskrit /s/ to /h/ yielding the progression from Sanskrit savitr, to Avestan ‘hvar’ to Persian ‘khor’.

Thus, it is plausible that Pragjyotiṣa was not a single city but a civilisational designation for Khorasan—a region bathed in the first rays of light, linguistically and symbolically aligned with its Sanskrit counterpart. In India, Pragjyotiṣa is associated with parts of Assam and Bengal for the same reason.

🌺 Where is the city of Pragjyotiṣa: Suppose indeed that Vālmiki’s water-logged Mt. Varaha corresponds to Kuh-e Vararu. In that case, then, the nearby ‘golden city of Pragjyotiṣa’ built by the demon Naraka, mentioned in the Rāmāyaṇa, may well be a predecessor of Tehran itself. The geographic proximity between Kuh-e Vararu and modern-day Tehran presents a fascinating possibility: that Tehran’s ancient roots might trace back to a sacred Indic epic landscape. 

Sanskrit jyotisha (ज्योतिष) 'light' or 'luminance' also takes the form jyotisham, implying ‘to cast light upon’. In Avestan, the Sanskrit jyotisham shifts phonetically to 'xshôithnîm', preserving its ‘bright’ connotation. Similarly, Sanskrit pra, ‘forward’ or ‘first’, becomes 'fra' in Avestan, as /p/ often transforms to /f/ in Indo-European languages. This linguistic trail suggests that Pragjyotiṣam may not have been an unfamiliar name in Zoroastrian Airyanam.

Venturing into the vicinity of Tehran, we encounter the remnants of the ancient city of Rayy, now enveloped within Tehran’s metropolitan bounds. Rayy held immense historical and spiritual significance and is revered in Zoroastrian texts as a sacred site.

In his paper Pre-Islamic Monuments in Rayy, researcher Rahim Vilayati notes, "We find that different names that designate Rayy in primary historical and religious sources also reflect the importance and old age of this ancient city. It was named Raghes in the Bible, Ragha in Avesta and Ram Firouz in the Greek texts of the Seleucids, as well as in the Sassanian period".

These variants—Raghes and Ragha—are compelling cognates of Raghu, the illustrious great‑grandfather of Śrī Rāma. Their occurrence indicates that the presence of Rāma was not an isolated phenomenon; the land already bore traces of his ancestral line from the Ikṣvāku dynasty. Two possibilities arise: either Raghu—or Raghesha himself—journeyed to this site in antiquity, or his legacy was sufficiently enduring to inspire a city named in his honour. These names—Ragha, Raghu, Ram Firouz—endure like embers, each a spark from the epic fire, scattered across the Iranian plain, attesting to the continuity of dynastic presence long before Rāma’s own era.

But why would the name Firouz be tagged with the epithet Ram in the Greek texts? Across Iran, Central Asia, and West Asia, numerous sites bore Rāma’s name—as we shall discover ahead in this chapter. To distinguish this particular locus of devotion, the term Firouz was likely added. Iran was the land of perujam or 'firozeh', that is, turquoise. Ram Firouz was the city of Rāma in the Land of Firozeh. Rayy might well have been a part of the ambit of Pragjyotiṣa, especially given the presence of another nearby city, called Varamin, on the present-day map that also appears to be linked to this sacred geography.

🌺 The city of Varamin near Tehran: The history of the city of  Varamin, located just about 30 km from Rayy or Tehran, unveils another layer. It indicates that while the names Rayy, Raghes and Ragha may have had a link to the name of Śrī Raghu and Śrī Rāma, the name Varamin may be linked to the Ṛg Vedic God Indra, who is known to have been revered by the Mittani kings of Iran.

The city of Varamin in Iran bears striking linguistic and mythological traces that point to its ancient roots in the Vedic tradition of India, particularly as a site dedicated to Indra, the slayer of Vritra, described in the Ṛgveda. The etymological trail begins with the name Varamin, preserved in Persian records and associated with 'varam', a term curiously defined in local historical lexicons as both 'things that are easy and light', and as the name of a city located somewhere in the realm of Rayy. However, the Avestan term for 'easy and light' is not 'varam', but 'revim'. Therefore, we must explore more.

Some scholars have proposed that the name Varam may be connected to Bahram through the phonetic shift from/v/ to /b/. Bahram is the Middle Persian embodiment of Verethragna—the Zoroastrian deity of victory whose name derives from the Avestan 'verethra' and 'verethragnan ' meaning 'obstacle' and 'victorious' respectively. In the Vedic rendition, the counterpart of this divine archetype, Verethragna, is none other than Indra himself, who earned the epithet Vritrahana, slayer of Vrtra, for triumphing over the primordial serpent of chaos.

This connection is not merely linguistic—it reflects a deeper civilisational continuity. The Mittani kings of the region, with Indo-Aryan affiliations, openly revered Indra, alongside Mitra and Varuṇa, demonstrating the diffusion of Vedic deities into the Persian cultural sphere. In this light, Varamin, understood as 'the place of Bahram', can be interpreted as 'the place of Indra', preserving his martial and cosmic significance within the toponym itself.

In Varamin’s quiet syllables, the resonance of Indra’s thunder still lingers—his victories folded into the name, his presence veiled in stone. Could Varamin also be a forgotten fragment of Rāmāyaṇic Pragjyotiṣa?

V. Elamite and Susiana Connections to the Rāmāyaṇa

The Elamite world, with its radiant capital at Susa and its fertile Susiana plain, stands as one of the earliest centres of civilisation west of the Indus. Here, geography and myth converge: the Zagros passes open into corridors of memory, while the names and symbols of Elam echo with Indic resonance. To trace the Rāmāyaṇa through this terrain is to uncover a dialogue between cultures—where the imagery of gods, the cadence of Sanskrit etymologies, and the tales of vānara chiefs find unexpected parallels in Elamite tradition. In this way, Susiana becomes not only a historical kingdom but also a mirror of civilisational kinship, illuminating how the epics of India reverberate across Iran’s ancient landscapes.

🌺 The Susiana Kingdom and links to Rāmāyaṇa: In the vicinity of Tehran, echoes of Indra resound; farther southwest, beyond the Zagros passes, lies Susa—the radiant capital of Elam. The Zagros range housed the ancient city of Susa, the heart of the Elamite civilisation, which flourished as early as 3200 BCE. In classical literature, Elam was known as Susiana. Over time, Susiana—or Susi—was gradually transformed into Khuzis. According to Encyclopaedia Iranica (Vol. 1, pp. 687–689), the name Khuzestan means 'Land of the Khuzi', referring to the original inhabitants of the region: the Susian people. Their capital was Susa. With the rise of Old Persian, Susa became Huza; in Middle Persian, Huza evolved into Khuzi, giving us the modern name Khuzestan.

🌺 The Etymology of Elam-Sanskrit Echoes of Height and Place: The name Elam resonates across languages as both a landscape and a linguistic idea. The Elamites themselves called their land Haltamti—with ‘hal’ meaning 'high' or 'upland', a marker of elevation. To the Sumerians, this became simply Elam, the eastern highlands rising beyond their lowland plains. Akkadian texts preserved the same sense in Elamtu, while Akkadian dictionaries record elû / elīu as 'high, elevated', mirroring the Elamite root.

Sanskrit adds a striking layer to this semantic field. The root ala (अल) conveys 'excellent, lofty, exalted', a direct echo of height and greatness. This parallel suggests that the ethnonym Elam participates in a broader Indo-Mesopotamian vocabulary of elevation, where 'highness' is not only geographic but symbolic of excellence and distinction.

The second element, tamti, enriches the picture. In Elamite, it is glossed as 'place'. Akkadian lexicons list aštammu / astammu as 'place, tavern, hostel', which appears to be a variant of Sanskrit sthāna (स्थान), meaning 'place, station'. The phonetic shift—an added initial a- producing astammu from sthāna—demonstrates how Sanskrit morphology clarifies the Akkadian form and anchors it in a recognisable Indo-European pattern.

What emerges is not isolation but convergence. Elam’s name reflects a shared idiom of height, excellence, and place, visible across Elamite self-designation, Mesopotamian perception, and Sanskrit tradition. Though Elamite is often described as an 'isolated language', its core ethnonym clearly joins a regional semantic network—where Sanskrit helps us see how Elam belongs to a wider cultural vocabulary of exalted landscapes and sacred stations.

🌺 The vānara chief and the Elamite civilisation: We make the contention here that the Elamite name Susiana is not an isolated linguistic curiosity, but rather part of a deeper Indic echo in the Zagros. Suṣeṇa (सुषेण) literally means ‘well‑armed’ or ‘one who possesses good missiles’, and is also a name of Viṣṇu, which, for example, appears in stanza 58 of the Viṣṇu Sahasranāma recited by Bhīṣma in the Anuśāsana Parva of the Mahābhārata.

Over time, this name appears to have travelled westward, evolving into Inshushinak, the ‘god of Susa’. Inshushinak was one of the principal deities of the Elamites and the protector of their capital. Susa itself — the heart of Susiana — may therefore preserve either the glory of Viṣṇu in the form Suṣeṇa, or the memory of the vāṇara‑chief with the same name.

This is not conjecture. The linguistic trail is obvious. The earliest attestation appears in Sumerian as Nin‑Susinak, which later becomes Susi‑nak in Akkadian and finally Inshushinak in Elamite. The progression from Suṣeṇa → Susinak → Inshushinak is phonetically plausible, geographically coherent, and historically layered. We have already noted the striking visual parallel in the Kurangun relief, where a deity seated upon a coiled throne evokes unmistakable resonances with Viṣṇu’s iconography, which has scholarly support as mentioned in the discussion on Kurangan.

🌺 Resonance of Indic scriptures and the Rāmāyaṇa in Elam: The resonance of the Indic scriptures and the Rāmāyaṇa does not fade as you go further into the Zagros—it deepens.  There is much in the geography and the toponyms of this land that establishes this contention, as we shall explore in the discussion ahead:

1. Suṣeṇa, the vānara-chief: As we have already seen, Inshusinak has a link to the Rāmāyaṇa via the vānara chief, Suṣeṇa, who commanded the western brigade of Sugrīva. According to the Rāmāyaṇa, Suṣeṇa had a daughter named Tara, who was married to Vali, the brother of Sugrīva, until Vali was killed by Sugrīva. Following the death of Vali, Tara becomes the wife of Sugrīva. These names — Suṣeṇa, Vāli, Tāra — form a tight familial cluster in the epic, and their names seem to appear on the present-day map of Iran to this day. Some of them are listed ahead.

2. Kuh-e Vali of Elam: In the northwestern stretch of the Zagros range, the seat of the Elamite civilisation, a mountain bears the name of Vāli. Kuh-e Vali rises from Dehestan-e Kafdehak in Fars Province, its coordinates etched in stone at 29.367239° N, 53.252225° E, well within the Elamite territory.  Also, in Mazandaran, a town named Tara rests at 35.924200° N, 52.298100° E. Not a metaphor. Not a mirage. But a name carried forward—through centuries, through tongues.

When travellers in Fars Province look up at the ridge called Kuh-e Vali, the name they hear today carries a familiar meaning. In Persian and Arabic, Vali (ولی) is understood as saint, guardian, protector. It is the conventional explanation: ‘Mountain of the Saint’.

But if we peel back the layers of time, the story begins to shift. If Kuh-e Vali is truly the oldest name of the mountain, then the Persian and Arabic meanings cannot explain it. Those are later overlays, arriving with Islam and reshaping older words to fit new spiritual frameworks. Nor does Avestan or Zoroastrianism offer a clear etymology for Vali. Faced with this silence, we are compelled to look deeper—into the Indo-Iranian roots and the Indic scriptures.

2.a Kuh-e Vali and Ṛgvedic Vala: Here, the word begins to breathe differently. In Sanskrit, Vali means fold, enclosure, strength — and the reader may recall Vala from the Ṛgveda, the ‘encloser of cows’, a demon who kept the herds hidden until Indra released them. The root val (वल) itself means cavern, enclosure, or fold. In Sanskrit, the word also carries the sense of a wave — a fold or surge that rises and falls, wrapping around space.

In Avestan, cognates like var-/vara- (enclosure, protection) and vərəθra- (obstacle, resistance) echo the same semantic field. Suddenly, the mountain’s name is not just a title of sanctity — it is a description of its geography, a fold in stone, a wave of earth enclosing the basin at its base.

Kuh‑e Vali lies within the Zagros fold belt, specifically in the Fars domain, where the Arabian Plate collided almost orthogonally with the Eurasian Plate. That head‑on compression folded the crust into long ridges and enclosed basins. Kuh‑e Vali itself rose as one of these anticlines, wrapping around the basin at Kafdehak. The basin is a natural depression, collecting water and fertile soil, and the mountain forms the protective arc around it. Kuh-e Vali is the arc that wraps around the basin at Kafdehak and appears as a curved ridge, with the village of Kafdehak nestled in the depression at its base. In this sense, Vali as ‘fold, enclosure, wave’ is not just a word—it is a geologic fact. The mountain is the fold; the basin is the cradle.

2 b. Kuh-e Vali and the Aravalli Range: One often sees variations of the suffix val in Sanskrit names of mountain ranges, such as the Aravalli in India. Though the word vali (वलि) is often interpreted as ‘a line of mountains’, the Aravalli is in fact one of the oldest fold‑mountain ranges in the world. Its very name indicates that ancient geographers were aware of its folded geography, and its ridge-lines, encoding the tectonic truth into language. In the same way, Kuh‑e Vali’s name may preserve the memory of the fold that rose from collision, the arc that wrapped around the basin, and the wave that surged in stone.

Later, this geographic descriptor was absorbed into the epic cluster of the Rāmāyaṇa. Vali is the name of the monkey‑king in the Rāmāyaṇa, where the name carries the sense of ‘one of the curls’, as well as ‘hairy’.The presence of other names from the Rāmāyaṇa in Elam—Tara, Suṣeṇa, Sitak—strengthens the case that Vali belongs to the same constellation. If Tara and Suṣeṇa appear in Elam, then Vali, their epic counterpart, naturally belongs here too. In Elam, the mountain thus became more than a ridge: it became a mythic marker, resonating with the story of Vali, Tara, and Sugrīva. Yet beneath the spiritual overlay lies the older story—the tectonic fold, the basin wrapped around, the epic echo.

3. The Darband-i Belula Relief: Carved into the cliff face of Mount Darband-i Belula, on the Iran-Iraq border near Sulaymaniyah, lies a weathered relief dated to circa 2300 BCE. The relief depicts a triumphant warrior, often identified as a tribal prince Tardunni, standing over two fallen figures, widely interpreted as Hurrian captives. The accompanying Akkadian inscription on the relief, though partially deciphered, does not explicitly confirm the identities of the defeated nor detail a specific battle. Thus, while Tardunni’s victory is visually asserted, the historical context remains fragmentary.

A rock relief located on a mountain pass called Darband-i Belula in Sulaymaniyah, Iraq, dated to 2100 BCE, may depict Sugrīva at the feet of Śrī Rāma after the death of Vali/Bali.

Scholar George C. Cameron, in his book History of Early Iran, published in 1936, stated that the inscriptions on the Sulaymaniyah relief cite the names of the Akkadian Gods, Shamash and Adad. Yet a radically different interpretation unfolds when refracted through the Rāmāyaṇa’s geographic lens: the warrior in the relief may well be Śrī Rāma, with the fallen Vali beneath his right foot and Sugrīva kneeling with folded hands, in reverence at his side. This is not idle speculation—it is geographic logic, for the following reasons.:

3 a. Belula and the Rāmāyaṇic Bali: This relief stands precisely along the northwestern corridor described in the Rāmāyaṇa by Vālmiki on the route taken by Sugrīva’s vānaras as they searched westward toward the frontiers of Elam. The name 'Darband-i Belula'—the Belula Pass—resonates faintly with the name Vali or Bali, the fallen vānara king whose defeat marks a pivotal moment in the epic. The location itself corroborates the epic’s cartographic logic. In this light, the Darband-i Belula relief is not merely a Mesopotamian artefact—it is a geographic witness to the Rāmāyaṇa’s reach. The path is not a metaphor. It is mapped.

From Shiraz County, the seat of ancient Elam, to Sulaymaniyah, the imprints of the vānara journey are evident in the geography of Central and West Asia.

3 b. Tardunni and Sanskrit tara: The carving also bears a distinctly Indic nuance: vānaras bowing at Śrī Rāma with folded hands, kneeling at his feet. The vānaras are traditionally depicted in this stance.  Though an ancient Akkadian inscription flanks the scene with names such as Shamash and Adad, the carving speaks in a visual language that feels unmistakably Indic.

Though the name Tardunni is traditionally associated with a Lullubian prince of the Zagros, an examination through the Sanskrit lens suggests otherwise. Darband-i Belula is a mountain pass carved naturally by streams feeding the Dayala River basin.  The name Tardun should naturally mean 'crossing a river or torrent'. Sanskrit roots clarify this: where the root tar (तर), like para, means 'to cross or overcome', and dhuni (धुनि) means 'torrent', 'stream', or 'river'.

Avestan preserves the word 'tar' in the sense of 'to overcome’, though it offers no clear cognate for 'dunni'. This makes the Sanskrit analysis especially illuminating. The name Tardunni may therefore signify the geography itself — a marker of passage. In ancient traditions, place names encoded landscapes, though over time, these geographic markers acquired dynastic or mythic meanings, gradually veiling their original sense. Uncovering these older strata restores the terrain as it may once have been perceived.

4. The town of Sitak: Not far from Darband-i Belula lies a town called Sitak in Kurdistan—a name that recalls Sītā, the epic’s luminous centre. Such an alignment is not incidental when seen in the context of other Rāmāyaṇic placenames that one still finds on the map of present-day Iran and its vicinity. These placenames, which appear ahead, are geographic, textual, and mythic

5. Ramsar, Ravansar and Ramana: On the Caspian coast, in the lush province of Mazandaran, we notice a city called Ramsar. Renowned for its sulphur springs and healing waters, its name invites a Sanskrit reading: Rāma and sara—the Lake of Rāma. Although Persian etymology links ‘sara’ to ‘head', this seems less convincing, whereas the Sanskrit sara (सर), meaning ‘lake', accords more naturally with the geography.

Beyond this, the towns of Ravan and Ravansar—one in Hamadan, the other in Kerman—bear the name of Rāvaṇa himself and suggest that many of the epic’s characters were inscribed into the landscape. Ravansar, in Kermanshah, lies between Shiraz and Sulaimaniyah, along the vānara tract we have been tracing. It is an ancient archaeological site, continuously inhabited from the end of the glacial period, roughly between 50,000 and 12,000 years ago.

Further west, near Baku on the Caspian, stands Ramana—another name for Rāma, and a likely site of Indic worship. The name Ramana is often linked to the Romans in mainstream literature; however, the nearby town of Siyavar, itself another name for Śrī Rāma, points to an Indic source for the toponym. About 18 km from Siyavar lies the town of Lankaran, a reminder of Lanka, which deepens the lore of Śrī Rāma and his victory over Rāvaṇa.

6. Ramchah and Ramkan: In southern Iran, on Qeshm Island, lies Ramchah, a coastal town not far from the Hara Biosphere Reserve. Its name, again, invokes Rāma. Close by is an island named Shidvar, whose name is often said to derive from the Persian word ‘shetor', meaning ‘camel’ or ‘stubborn'. That interpretation, however, seems misaligned with the island’s natural character. Shidvar is renowned for its coral beaches, and its name may more plausibly reflect this association. A Sanskritic reading suggests a link to Śakra-dvar (शक्रद्वार), ‘the gateway to coral waters'. Here, Śakra denotes coral, while dvār’, an affix familiar in coastal toponyms such as Gwadar and Dwārka, marks a threshold or passage. In this light, Shidvar’s name resonates more aptly with its marine ecology, situating it within a broader Indo‑Iranian tradition of coastal nomenclature.

Locally, Shidvar is called Marou or Maru, a word that in Persian means ‘snake'. This usage recalls Sanskrit parallels such as maruand (मारुण्ड), ‘serpent’s egg’ and maruāśan (मारुताशन), meaning ‘snake’ or ‘ascetic’, evoking imagery of serpents and, by extension, the god Śiva draped in them. Yet the semantic field of maru is not limited to serpents alone. In Persian, ‘marjān’ denotes coral, and this association offers another layer of meaning: Maru as a local name may equally signify coral, aligning with the island’s ecology and reinforcing the coral‑based reading of Shidvar’s nomenclature.

Not far from Shidvar lies Lavan Island. In Sanskrit, lavana (लवण) means ‘salt’, and seas were often named for it. The Lavana Sea, sometimes identified with the Lebanon Sea, finds resonance here. The name is not merely descriptive—it is part of the Purāṇic tradition.

7. Sanskrit names on the Caspian coast: On the Caspian coast, a cluster of towns—Tuskasar, Chabosar, Paresar, and Panesar-e-Tashkan—share the suffix ‘sara’. The Persian reading of 'sar' as ‘head’ falters. These are water-bound places, and the Sanskrit sara (सर), lake, fits them like a key in a lock. One may add here that even the Persian 'sar' may be a truncated form of shirsha (शीर्ष), the Sanskrit word for ‘head’, passed down to Persian via Avestan 'sarem'.

8. Visadar Waterfall: Near Panesar-e-Tashkan in Lorestan Province, flows the Visadar Waterfall, its name a purely Sanskrit compound via vishadhara (विषधर) meaning 'the poison-bearer', or 'the serpent'. The waterfall’s serpentine descent seems to mirror the name. Close by lies Talesh, an ancient city whose people are among the oldest inhabitants of the Caspian Sea area. The name may derive from Sanskrit talak (तलक) ‘pond’ and esh (ईश) ‘lord’, making it 'a divine water-place'.In the Zagros mountains, Kuh-e-Lunkah rises—a rocky echo of Lanka. In Mazandaran, the town of Anand speaks for itself: pure Sanskrit, pure bliss. Nearby are Vari and Sari, both names for water, both nestled near rivers and lakes.

9. Bishapura and its suffix pura: On the vāṇara tract closest to the Sapta-Sindhu lie three rock reliefs in Fars—one of them near Bishapur, where even the name itself carries the Sanskrit suffix pura, hinting at linguistic continuity across Indic and Persian terrains. In the vicinity of a Bishapur town (modern Kazerun), a rock relief at Sarab-e Qandil (also known as Tang-e Qandil) reinforces this Indic resonance. Though mainstream literature traces the name Bishapur to that of its ruler Shapur, this etymology remains debatable because one sees the Sanskrit suffix pura in other ancient Iranian towns such as Nishapur and variations of pura in Mesopotamian city names such as Nippur and Sippar.

10. The Sarab‑e Qandil Rock Relief: Also known as Tang‑e Qandil, this rock relief, located near Kazerun in Fars Province, and dated to the Sasanian period under Bahram II (276–293 CE), is generally interpreted in mainstream scholarship as depicting the queen presenting a lotus flower to the king. The scene is striking—not merely for its gesture, but for the cultural symbolism it evokes.

The Sarab‑e Qandil rock relief in Fars Province is interpreted as depicting the queen presenting a lotus flower to the king

However, the lotus, while botanically native to parts of Iran, holds no ritual or symbolic prominence in Zoroastrianism. It is absent from the Avestan vocabulary and sacred rites. Instead, its significance stems from the Vedic-Indic tradition, where it symbolises purity, divine birth, and cosmic unfolding. 

Even the Persian word for lotus—'nīlūfar', literally 'blue lily', is a poetic borrowing from Sanskrit niloutpala (नीलोत्पल), meaning 'blue lotus'. What we see at Sarb-e-Qandil, then, is not a native Zoroastrian motif, but a borrowed Indic gesture—perhaps a quiet homage to the Rāmāyaṇa’s westward arc. 

11. The Barm-e-Dilak Relief: Another rock relief from Bahram II’s reign lies at Barm‑e Dilak, about ten kilometres southeast of Shiraz in Fars Province. Here, the king is shown offering not a lotus, but an iris flower to his consort Ardashir‑Anahid. The iris, unlike the Indic lotus, is a native Persian motif, tied to spring and renewal. Together, the two reliefs form a diptych: one reaching eastward into Indic symbolism, the other rooted in local Persian flora.

The Barm-e-Dilak Relief King Bahram II offering an iris flower to his consort Ardashir‑Anahid

What emerges is a deliberate interplay of borrowed and native gestures—Bahram II’s iconography weaving Indic lotus and Persian iris into a single fabric of kingship. The lotus, the names, the geography—all converge to suggest that this terrain once lay within the imaginative ambit of the Rāmāyaṇa.

12. Bahram: Even the name of the king, derived from Bahram, the Avestan deity of Victory, carries deep Indic undertones. The Persian Bahram derives from Middle Persian 'Warahran', which in turn traces back to Avestan 'Vrithragna'—the god of victory. Earlier, we had noted how Vrithragna aligns with both: the Vedic Indra through the epithet Vṛtrahan (slayer of Vṛtra), as well as Viṣṇu’s Varāha avatāra, or his boar form.

Thus, in the rock reliefs of Fars—where Bishapur’s pura, the lotus of Sarab‑e Qandil, the iris of Barm‑e Dilak, and Bahram’s very name converge—we glimpse the Sapta-Sindhu’s resonance carried westward, an Indic undertone that continues to unfold as our journey proceeds.

13. Elamite Khumban and Indic Hanumān: From Bahram’s reliefs in Fars, where Indic motifs entwine with Persian kingship, we move westward into Elamite memory—toward Khumban, whose very name and sacred city echo Hanumān and Anjana across the Sapta-Sindhu horizon.

The Elamites practised a polytheistic faith. Though our knowledge of their religion remains fragmentary, we know that their pantheon was once presided over by the sky-god Khumban. Alongside him stood the goddess Kirisha, the god Jabru, and Inshushinak, the guardian of Susa.

Khumban—also known as Humban—was venerated as the custodian of divine authority within the Elamite tradition. Keeper of the city of Anshan, his presence was woven into the sacred landscapes of Mesopotamian myth. His name echoes beside legendary realms such as the Cedar Forest of the Epic of Gilgamesh, once imagined in the Zagros Mountains, where kings sought renown and gods kept their watch. 

The name Humban stirs a memory of Hanumān—not merely as a linguistic cousin, but as a divine parallel. Khumban’s capital, Anshan—also known as Anzan—shares phonetic and mythic resonance with Anjana, the mother of Hanumān. Hanumān, revered as Anjani-Putra or 'son of Anjani', was born in a town called Anjan or Anjan-dham, named after his mother. Its Iranian counterpart, the ancient Elamite city of Anzan, still exists today and is called Anshan, located at 30.0070° N latitude and 52.4047° E longitude, nestled in the Zagros Mountains, on an old trade route, near modern-day Shiraz in Fars province. 

Anshan, an Elamite city in Iran, is dedicated to the deity Khumban, who belonged to a non-human tribe. His name and characteristics are akin to those of Hanumān

14. Suṣeṇa's son Aṅgada and Anzu: In the Rāmāyaṇa, the vānara  Suṣeṇa’s grandson Aṅgada—son of Vali and Tara—plays a pivotal role in the search for Sītā and the war against Lanka. Correspondingly, in the Elamite tradition, the god Inshushinak had an assistant named Anzu, whose name appears in Sumerian as Imdugud. The prefix Im in Imdugud denotes divinity, while Dugud—with its voiced guttural—resonates with Aṅgada, suggesting a shared linguistic ancestry.

The parallels between the two stories are more than phonetic. Aṅgada, born of a celestial lineage, becomes king of the vānaras after Vali’s death. (He is not the same Aṅgada who was Lakṣmaṇa's son and ruler of Karapatha). The Elamite Anzu likewise belongs to a non-human tribe and is depicted as a lion-headed eagle or fire-breathing bird—a creature of immense power and mythic stature. Both figures serve divine missions, both emerge from hybrid lineages, and both carry similar names. Additionally, Anzu takes on some characteristics of Hanumān. In Sumerian tradition, Anzu is the divine messenger, like Hanumān, who carries the message from Śrī Rāma to Sītā after she is abducted.

These alignments are not accidental. From Imdugud to Aṅgada, from Khumban to Hanumān, from Shushinak to Suṣeṇa—the syllables do not scatter; they persist not as borrowed fragments, but as inherited rhythms—carried across rivers and ranges, their cadence intact. In the continuity of names lies the continuity of gods—emerging in the land of Rāma, and flowing outward from the rivers and ranges of India.

15. The Tanjaro River: Sulaymaniyah, cradled by the Azmer, Goyija, and Qaiwan mountain ranges, stands sentinel in the northeast of the Sulaymaniyah Governorate. Threading through this terrain is the Tanjaro River, born of the confluence of Kiliasan and Kani-Ban streams. The name Tanjaro corresponds to the Sanskrit jhara (झर), meaning 'stream' or 'cascade'—a root that also appears in Persian as 'jhar' or 'zar', denoting 'flow'. We see this affix in river names such as the Jarehi that flows in the Khuzestan Province in Iran.  In Armenian, 'jur' means 'water'. This linguistic continuity is not incidental; it is a whisper of the vast Indic civilisation at the helm.

16. The Azmer Mountain Range: In the folds of the Azmer range near Sulaymaniyah, the terrain stirs something older than the footfall—something that evokes Meru, for the name Azmer itself may carry a buried syllable of Meru, the cosmic mountain around which the worlds are said to turn. This region, long inhabited by Kurdish communities, once practised a faith akin to Zoroastrianism—an echo of the Ṛg Vedic world-view, with its fire altars and celestial order. In Kurdish, Göbekli Tepe—the 12,000-year-old megalithic temple—is known as Gire Mirazan, or Meru Giri: the hill of Meru. Here, the vāṇara trail brushes against a deeper axis, where myth and mountain converge upon the Indic imagination of Meru, the cosmic pivot of worlds. As we proceed in this chapter, we will encounter yet another echo of Meru in Iraq’s landscape—reminders that the Ṛg Vedic vision of sacred geography still reverberates across these ranges, binding Kurdish hills to Sanskrit syllables and Indic cosmology.

🌺 The Nimrud Tile and imprints of the Rāmāyaṇa: We now continue the journey with the vānaras as they move beyond Sulaymaniyah, straddling the Iran-Iraq border. The legend of Śrī Rāma was not confined to Iran alone—it reverberated across Greater Media, encompassing present-day Iranian Azerbaijan, Iranian Kurdistan, western Tabaristan, and extended into parts of northern Mesopotamia, overlapping with what is now northern Iraq. This mountainous northern region near the Caspian Sea, along with the ancient cities of Nineveh and Babylonia in Iraq, formed a cultural corridor where the vānaras of the Rāmāyaṇa must surely have once travelled.

From this corridor comes a compelling artefact, a glazed terracotta tile excavated from Nimrud, Iraq, dated to around 900 BCE. Scholars have traditionally interpreted it as depicting an Assyrian king flanked by attendants, though the king remains unidentified. Yet we propose a different reading—one that aligns with the Rāmāyaṇic triad. The composition, the postures, and the relational symmetry evoke the familiar image of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa journeying together across distant lands, their stay in the forests during their exile, before the battle with Rāvana.

A tile dated to 900 BC, excavated at the Nimrud archaeological site in Ninveh, Iraq. The tile appears to depict the lore of the Rāmāyaṇa.

This interpretation gains strength when placed alongside a similar Etruscan artefact, dated to the 6th–4th centuries BCE, where once again, three figures walk in profile—one with a bow, one with a branch, one with a spear, during their exile before the battle and the victory over Rāvana. Though separated by geography and time, the visual grammar remains consistent. 

An Etruscan sketch dated to the 6th-4th century BCE found at the ancient archaeological site in Italy also seems to portray the triad of Rāma-Sītā-Lakṣmaṇa during their 14-year exile in the forests.

The same triadic grammar appears on the so‑called Famine Stela of Egypt, where mainstream archaeology identifies the figures as Khnum, Satis, and Anuket. Yet the arrangement is striking: Satis, the goddess, occupies the central position, just as Sītā does in the Rāmāyaṇic profile. The name itself is intriguing—Satis as a feminine deity, but also resonant with the phonetic cluster of Sītā. Anuket, meanwhile, is glossed in Egyptian sources as ‘the Clasper’ or ‘the Embracer’, a name that in phonetic drift recalls Aṅgada, Lakṣmaṇa’s son, whose name denotes an armlet or upper‑arm ornament. The g‑to‑k shift and the morphological turn from Aṅgada to Anuket suggest a possible continuity of meaning across traditions. If so, the Egyptian triad may not merely be a local pantheon but another iteration of the exile‑journey motif, with the feminine figure at the centre and the flanking companions, who might be a memory of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa embodying protective and martial roles. The inscriptions on the stela are later additions and may not reflect the true identity of the triad. We shall visit the glory of Aṅgada in another part of this chapter ahead.

The Famine Stela of Egypt: Mainstream archaeology identifies the figures as Khnum, Satis, and Anuket. Yet the central goddess, Satis, may well echo the Rāmāyaṇic Sītā

🌺 The source of the name Bijan: At this point, we return to the name Bijan, one of the principal heroes of the Iranian Shahnameh. Could Bijan—whose name marks the tallest and two other peaks of the Dena Range—preserve a distant echo of Vijaya, the very idea of victory that lies at the heart of the Rāmāyaṇa? For the epic is, in essence, the story of Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, and the vāṇaras achieving vijaya—the triumph that culminates in Sītā’s recovery and Rāvaṇa’s defeat. Bijan stands as a direct cognate of vijaya, reflecting the familiar Indo‑Iranian shift from /v/ to /b/.

The convergence of Bijan and Vijaya is unlikely to be accidental; the phonological shift from /v/ to /b/ within Indo‑Iranian languages underscores a shared etymological lineage, suggesting that the Iranian hero’s name preserves, in altered form, the same victorious resonance that animates the Sanskrit epic.

As we have seen above, along the vāṇara‑passage we have traced through the Zagros toward the Dena Range, the clustering of toponyms becomes especially striking. These figures—Suṣeṇa, Bali, Sugrīva, Tāra—belong to a single, tightly woven episode of the Rāmāyaṇa, making their potential echoes along the Dena track all the more suggestive. Could Susa retain a trace of the vāṇara‑chief Suṣeṇa, Khumban whisper the name of Hanumān, and Anzan recall Anjanā? And might the three figures on the Baram‑e Dilak relief—where a king offers a lotus to his queen—be read as a distant, stylised remembrance of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa? Had these names and artefacts been scattered across the Iranian plateau, they might be dismissed as a coincidence. Yet their clustering along the Dena corridor forms a discernible pattern that aligns with a single episode of the Rāmāyaṇa. Such correspondences cannot be lightly relegated to chance; it suggests that echoes of the epic may indeed have travelled westward into the Zagros, leaving linguistic and visual traces that demand closer scrutiny.

Such correspondences invite us to reconsider the possible reach of the Rāmāyaṇa. Are these merely accidental parallels, or did the story of Rāma travel farther and deeper into the Zagros than we have allowed ourselves to imagine? Seen in its historical depth, the Iranian plateau is simply the western continuation of the Sarasvatī–Gandhāra–Balochistan arc—a broad Indo‑Iranian cultural field across which clans, languages, ritual forms, and heroic memory moved freely for millennia.

VI. Indra’s Cities in West Asia:

🌺 Sarvasuvarna mountain, Indra's City and Mt. Meghavanta: So far, we have observed Indra’s name come up in the city of Varamin, as well as in the Avestan 'Vrithragna, cognate of Vritrahana, an epithet of Indra. We shall see a few more instances ahead, as we return to Vālmiki’s trail of the vānaras. Moving westward, from Kuh-e-Vararu and Suleimaniyah. Beyond Mt. Varaha, the vānaras are instructed to track a 'mountain range of many radiant peaks' known as Sarvasuvarna (सर्वसुवर्ण), meaning 'all gold’. Vālmiki describes these golden peaks as ones that 'betray the secrets of their bowels'. Today, we know that Iran’s largest and most significant gold mines lie in the Takab county of Kurdistan, not far from Lake Urmia, precisely along the vānaras’ westward path, who appear to be heading toward the northwestern Zagros range, in contrast to their earlier search in the southern and mid-Zagros, before turning toward the Alborz chain.

🌺 Meghavanta and Mt. Cheekha Dar: As the journey unfolds, Sugrīva instructs the vānaras to seek a peak known as Megha or Meghavanta. In Rāmāyaṇa 4.42.35, Vālmiki states that Mahendra, another name for Indra, presided over a city nestled near a peak, known as Meghavanta. On today’s map, after traversing the ancient Elamite lands of Kurdistan, Takab county and Lake Urmia in Iraq, the most commanding summit in the Zagros is the Cheekha Dar, rising to nearly 12,000 feet and unmistakable to any traveller crossing the region. It is the highest peak in Iraq. While it may appear speculative to equate Cheekha Dar directly with Meghavanta, its etymology, both in Persian and Kurdish, and the details that Vālmiki gives us, point in that direction.

Vālmiki’s description in Rāmāyaṇa’s verse 4.42.33-35 is intriguing, for it adds a sonic dimension. He states, “Surpassing that mountain, one beholds a peak gleaming with inner golden light, a mountain entirely radiant, adorned with golden streams and cascading waters.  There, elephants, boars, lions, and tigers roar from all directions without cease. Stirred by that resounding sound, they roar proudly in response.  Upon that mountain named Megha, the illustrious Mahendra, 'slayer of foes', was consecrated as king by the gods, astride his celestial steed".

In Persian, the word 'cheekh' means 'scream' or 'loud noise'—a linguistic representation of the mountain’s roaring presence. This aligns with the Sanskrit term Meghavanta—from megha (मेघ) meaning 'dark cloud', and vanta (वान्त) meaning 'emit', a reference to the 'loud noise of the thunder'.  Vālmiki’s reference, then, may not have been metaphorical but topographic: a dark-stoned mountain, crowned with cloud and thunder.

The appearance of Sanskrit megha and Persian cheekh together—both evoking sound and storm, a mountain that cries or roars—suggests more than coincidence. It is possible that the Sanskrit name seeded the later form. The Kurdish name, Çîxî Derê, interpreted as either 'Black Tent' or 'Screaming Mountain', likewise conjures a dark silhouette beneath the sky, the very image of megha. Further, the Sanskrit suffix ‑vān (वान्), meaning 'endowed with', appears in Iranian mountain names in its cognate form ‑vand, as in Alvand. These linguistic echoes, layered across Sanskrit, Persian, and Kurdish, point to a shared Indo‑Iranian memory where mountains are imagined as living presences—crying, roaring, and endowed with elemental force.

The connection deepens when we recall that Indra, revered by the Mittani kings of ancient Iran, is also known as Meghavahana (मेघवाहन)— 'the rider of the clouds'. The epithet suggests not only dominion over weather but a celestial kinship with mountainous thresholds. Cheekha Dar, or Meghavanta, looming like a black pavilion beneath the sky, may well be one of those mythic waypoints where geography and divinity converge.

Mazendaran, City of Indra: Notably, Meghavanta is not the only city of Indra in this region mentioned in the scriptures. Several Indic scholars have identified the Iranian city of Mazendaran as the city of Mahendra, or Maha-Indra. The linguistic shift is telling. In Avestan, Sanskrit /h/ often becomes /zd/, transforming Maha into Mazda. While Mazendaran is commonly interpreted as ‘Mazen’ (great) and ‘daran’ (door), its deeper meaning may well be The City of Maha-Indra—the 'Great Indra', echoing the cadence of Rāmāyaṇic verse.

This identification is far from surprising. Both Indra and Varuṇa were well known in ancient Iran, their names appearing in the Mitanni-Hittite treaty between King Suppiluliuma I of the Hittites and King Shattiwaza of Mitanni, dated to around 1380 BCE. It is the oldest international treaty known to historians.

VII. 🌺 Land of the Golden Palm Insignia:

With the landscape of Iran behind us—etched with names that echo Rāma’s legacy—we now embark on the final leg of the vānara journey. This is the path of culmination, where geography aligns with epic, and the landscape turns golden with the abundance of the palm trees.

As the vānaras press westward, the Rāmāyaṇa speaks of a series of peaks—each more magnificent than the last. Chief among them is Mt. Meru, the cosmic axis around which the world is said to revolve. From Meru, the vānaras are to journey toward Mt. Asta, the Mountain of the Setting Sun. Between these two sacred summits, they are instructed to seek a ten-leaved date palm tree—entirely golden, radiant, and crowned with a marvellous podium. Sugrīva’s command is clear: do not linger, do not pluck its fruit, and do not proceed beyond Asta Giri.

🌺 Vedic Mt. Meru and Avestan Hara Berezaiti: In the Vedic tradition, Mt. Meru is the world’s navel, the mountain of divine orientation. In the Avestan texts of Iran, its counterpart is Hara Berezaiti—a name that translates as 'Mountain Rampart', derived from Proto-Iranian 'berezaiti', and ultimately from Sanskrit brihat (बृहत्), meaning 'great'. Hara Brihat thus becomes the 'Great Mountain'. In Middle Persian, this sacred peak appears as Harborz, from which the Alborz range near the Caspian Sea derives its name. Hara is nothing if not a distortion of giri, which has taken various forms in various languages: gairi in Avestan, gora in Russian, kiri in Swahili, har and hor in Hebrew and Semitic languages.

Yet the Alborz, majestic bearer of Zoroastrian tradition though it is, lies too far north to align with the vānaras’ westward trail. To follow the trajectory charted in the Rāmāyaṇa—westward toward present‑day Sulaymaniyah and Nimrud in Iraq—we must look instead to this region for Meru’s earthly echo, a mountain of orientation remembered not only in the northern Alborz but also along the passes and ridgelines of Mesopotamia’s threshold.

🌺 The Ten-Leafed Golden Palm Tree: One clue gleams like a beacon: the golden palm. Between Meru and Asta, the Rāmāyaṇa places 'a gigantic ten-leaved date palm tree of extraordinary brilliance'. This marker of the Rāmāyaṇa finds a striking parallel in the ancient Syrian city name Palmyra—once known as Tadmor. The name Tadmor is traditionally linked to the Semitic 'tamar', meaning 'date palm', and the city was famed for its lush groves and golden-hued palms.

From a Sanskrit lens, Tadmor aligns with Sanskrit Tadpura (ताड्पुर)—literally, 'Palm City' via tāḍa (ताड) meaning 'palm tree'. The city’s very identity was rooted in these palms, which stood as sentinels of abundance, sanctity, and divine favour. It appears from the geographical location of the gigantic date palm tree mentioned by Vālmiki that the glory of a city that pre-dated Palmyra or Tadmor, which had the insignia of a magnificent golden palm tree, was well known to Vālmiki as well as the vānaras.

Palmyra is first mentioned in the archives of Mari, highlighting its established existence as an oasis settlement much before the 2nd millennium BCE.  By the 2nd millennium BCE, Palmyra’s palms were not mere flora; they were sacred emblems. Assyrian and Mesopotamian iconography frequently depicts deities flanked by stylised palm trees—often radiant, symmetrical, and elevated. These were not mere background motifs; they were vessels of sanctity, conduits between heaven and earth. 

In the Rāmāyaṇa too, Sugrīva’s warning to the vānaras—to pass quickly through these cities and not disturb the palm fruit—reflects this reverence. The palms of Palmyra were not to be touched or to be eaten; they were to be honoured.

In this artefact, Assyrian Gods are seen with a stylised palm tree.

VIII. 🌺 The Land of Meru in West Asia:
Mari and Palmyra were linked by multiple overlapping trade routes that connected Mesopotamia with Syria and the Mediterranean world. At least two major corridors can be identified: one following the Euphrates River valley, long regarded as Mari’s lifeline, and another crossing the Syrian desert via Palmyra’s oasis, which later became part of the Silk Road network. This desert route served as a vital link from India and China, carrying goods from the two countries westward to the Roman Empire. In the trail of the vānaras, we perhaps glimpse the earliest echoes of these corridors to the Roman Empire.

On this westward route, we notice the appearance of the name Meru in various forms. Mari and Palmyra were already flourishing trade centres by 2900 BCE. By around 1900 BCE, Mari became the capital of the Amorites, a Semitic-speaking people who had first appeared in 2500 BCE. The Amorites founded many cities across Mesopotamia and eventually gave rise to the Babylonian Empire. Known by different names in different records, they appear as Martu in Sumerian texts, Ammuru or Amurru in Akkadian, and Emori in Greek sources. Tablets from the powerful kingdom of Ebla refer to them as Mar-du, while Ebla itself is sometimes recorded as Mardikh. The names Amorite and Mari both resonate with Meru, suggesting a linguistic kinship. Taken together, these names indicate, just as Vālmīki recounts, that the vānaras are journeying along the path toward Mount Meru.

🌺 Mt. Meru and Mt. Asta: It is no surprise then that in a description of this tract, Vālmiki states, "There is a unique and kingly mountain in the midst of that range of golden mountains, which is called Mt. Meru, or Saavrni Meru, to which mountain generous Sun has once given a boon".

As we move westward, from Tadpura or Palmyra, two peaks rise into view: Mt. Meron and Mt. Hermon, located in modern-day Israel and Jordan. Meron preserves the name Meru, while Hermon may also derive from Har Meru, with 'har' meaning 'mountain' in Hebrew. Mt. Hermon is the highest of this range and further west of Mt. Meron. It, therefore, certainly is the Mt. Asta of the Rāmāyaṇa. The Hebrew root word 'hrm' carries connotations of sacredness, much like the Sanskrit hara (हर), which evokes divinity and transcendence.

A map depicting the Mediterranean as the Sunset Sea. The Rāmāyaṇa states that the world beyond the Sunset Mountain, near Mt. Meru, was unknown. Map from 'The Early History of Assyria' by Sidney Smith, 1927

🌺 Mt. Hermon as Mt. Asta of the Rāmāyaṇa: The location of Mount Hermon naturally evokes the symbolism of asta (अस्त) or Sunset Mountain, signifying the western terminus of the vānaras’ legendary journey. A revealing map in Sidney Smith’s 1927 classic, The Early History of Assyria, reinforces this imagery, portraying the Mediterranean as the ‘Sunset Sea’ with the Caspian Sea in the eastern direction as the ‘Sunrise Sea’, offering an astral geography grounded in earthly contours that aligns with the Rāmāyaṇic cartography.

Between the two luminous peaks of Hermon and Meron lie ancient regions bearing names such as Amurru, Simmuru, and Sumer—each a variant of the sacred syllables of Meru, as enshrined in the Rāmāyaṇa.  This linguistic parallel suggests an ancient conceptual continuity—a shared reverence for mountains as sites of cosmic significance. And so, the vānaras ascend—not just toward a mountain, but toward the mythic and itahasic horizon where the sun sets, the palms gleam, and the epic nears its turning point.

🌺 The ancient archaeological sites of Erbil, Sabirani, and Nineveh: As the vānaras approached the edge of their westward journey, Sugrīva gave one final instruction: seek out the secluded sage Savarni, who dwells near Mt. Asta. In the concluding verses of this section of the Rāmāyaṇa (4.42.48), Vālmiki describes the sage as a figure of quiet power—withdrawn from the world, yet deeply attuned to its currents. Though he lived in isolation, Savarni was no recluse in spirit. He held knowledge of the region’s affairs, and Sugrīva believed he might possess insight into Sītā’s whereabouts.

The name Savarni (सावर्णि) carries layered meanings: ‘concealed’, ‘covered', ‘hidden from view’. It evokes not only the sage’s physical seclusion but also the veiled wisdom he embodies—truths not easily seen, yet vital to the journey’s end. He is called Savarni of Meru, suggesting that his aśrama lies within the sacred geography of the land of West Asia.

On the present-day map of Iraq, near the ancient city of Erbil in the northeastern highlands, lies an archaeological site called Sabirani—a name remarkably close to Savarni, especially considering the phonetic interchangeability of /v/ and /b/ across Indo-Iranian and Semitic languages. It is located at 36°15'53" N, 43°52'44" E. According to Mapcarta, the site also appears under variant names such as Sabiran, Saghir, and Se Biran. The resemblance is not merely linguistic—it is civilisational. Sabirani is an ancient site, and its name may preserve the memory of the sage Savarni, echoing across millennia.

The region surrounding Erbil is steeped in antiquity. Erbil itself was the ancient capital of the Kurds, its citadel one of the oldest continuously inhabited places on Earth. Nearby lies the city of Nineveh, the seat of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, and Mosul, once called Mapshila, another city layered with historical depth. This triad—Erbil, Nineveh, and Mosul—forms an extended cradle of ancient civilisation. It is not far-fetched to imagine that the vānaras, in their westward search, passed through these lands.

🌺 Sinjar, Nineveh, Cel Mera, Meru Giri and the Sumerian Civilisation:
Meru’s glory, as we have seen, was never bound to one place alone. Adding to this mythic geography is Çêl Mêra (Cel Mera), the highest peak in the Sinjar region of northwestern Iraq. Rising to 1,463 meters, it lies near the village of Sharaf ad Din. The name Cel Mera bears a striking resemblance to Giri Meru, the cosmic mountain of Hindu cosmology. Kel, Gel, Giri—all variants of 'mountain' across Indo-European tongues. Mera and Meru share not just phonetics but cosmological weight. In this context, this site is significant for the Sage that Vālmiki mentions was known as Meru Savarni.

Sinjar has its own distinct archaeological and cultural identity, especially tied to the Yazidi community. The etymology of Sinjar from Ancient Greek Singara and from Sumerian ki-en-gi-ra ultimately links it to Meru Giri. In Sumerian Ki-en-Gi-ra, the Sanskrit giri appears as Gi-ra. In Greek Singara, giri appears as ‘gara’. In Cel Mera, Mera is a variation of Meru.

These parallels are too precise to dismiss. The Zagros rises like a meru-dhaṇḍa—a rocky spine stretching from its southeastern edge in Iran to its northwestern end. Names such as Savarni and Sabirani, Cel Mera and Giri Meru, cannot be brushed aside as mere coincidence. Whether Savarni Meru’s cave aligns with the Shanidar caves of the Bradost Mountains near Cel Mera in Iraq, or with the Panias cave—whose name, as we shall explore in a future volume, recalls the Panis of the Ṛgvedic era—may never be definitively confirmed. Yet what has emerged is clear: distant sacred sites of the world were perhaps as well known in antiquity as they are today. Their names endure as linguistic fossils, embedded in landscapes that have borne witness to thousands of years of ritual, migration, and mythic retelling. Vālmīki, beyond this, described the land as abhāskaram (अभास्करम्), ‘sunless’, and amaryādam (अमर्यादम्), ‘unenlightened’, signifying not merely the setting of the physical sun, but the end of the enlightened world itself. It was the frontier of civilisation, a realm where the light of wisdom no longer shone, and where no awakened beings dwelt.

IX. Aṅgada — Founder of the Akkadian Civilisation?

The vāṇara march westward ends at Mt. Hermon, the Savarni Meru of this geography. Yet the story of the land does not end here. After the vāṇara sojourn, much else unfolded that our scriptures only briefly record.

The Uttarakāṇḍa of the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa tell us that after Śrī Rāma returned to Ayodhyā from Laṅkā, in the times that followed, he entrusted Lakṣmaṇa with the rule of a western frontier called Karapatha as his seat of power. In time, Rāma extended this dynastic trust further by granting the same territory to Lakṣmaṇa’s son Aṅgada—an act that signalled continuity of sovereignty and expansion into the north‑western reaches.

As heir to this frontier, Aṅgada carried forward their legacy and consolidated a strong dominion. His realm, as traced through this geography, appears to have stretched across the expanse of present‑day West Asia, reaching into the very heart of Mesopotamia where the Akkadian Empire later arose.

This is the story of his rule, where Aṅgada’s imprint seems to reverberate in the rise of the great Akkadian civilisation—one of the defining chapters in Mesopotamia’s history.

🌺 Aṅgada, and the Western Route of Karapatha: Here, in Mesopotamia, Aṅgada’s name lingers in names like Agade and Akkad. And in river names such as Puranti or Buranuna, and in city names such as Nagar and Nimrud, echoes of an Indic sovereignty seem to be inscribed upon Mesopotamian clay.

This is a significant inflexion point. Before returning to the eastward trail of the vāṇaras in the Rāmāyaṇa, we pause to look forward in time—tracing how the dynastic inheritance carried by Aṅgada may have seeded the names and sovereignties that later crystallised into the Mesopotamian civilisation of Akkad.

1.  Dynastic Expansion and the Frontier: The Purāṇic catalogues add further detail to the story of Karapatha. The Brahmāṇḍa Purāṇa records that Aṅgada’s capital city, known as Aṅgadiya deśa, was none other than the older Karapatha (कारपथः अङ्गद्यदेशस्य राजधानी). In other words, the land once identified as Karapatha was renamed Aṅgadeśa—a renaming that reflects the prestige and glory associated with Aṅgada’s rule.

Thus, Karapatha—later remembered as Aṅgadeśa—emerges not merely as a passing name in a catalogue but as a liminal corridor of sovereignty, a threshold between Bhārata and the lands beyond. It stands as both frontier and bridge: a space where dynastic expansion carried the legacy of Ayodhyā westward, and where the memory of Aṅgada’s reign inscribed itself upon the geography of transition.

2. The Semantics of Karapatha: What does the name Karapatha tell us? In Sanskrit conventions, naming was never incidental—it carried symbolic and material weight. Etymologically, the term ‘kara’ will either derive from Sanskrit kara (कर), meaning ‘tax’, or from kArA (कारा), meaning ‘black’. Patha (पथ) means ‘road’ or ‘route’.

The Rāmāyaṇa’s placement of Karapatha in the western direction may reflect the sense of kara as 'levy' or 'tribute', suggesting that this was not merely a boundary but a trade route—an artery through which goods, duties, and exchanges flowed. Manu, in the Manusmṛti (the Mānava Dharmaśāstra), ordains a one‑sixth tax-share on domestic produce, with heavier duties imposed on foreign goods. This principle illuminates how Karapatha could have functioned as the western passage where such levies were collected, echoing systems of tribute and taxation that paralleled Mesopotamian commerce.

Thus, Karapatha’s very name encodes its identity as a road of tribute and exchange, a symbolic marker of sovereignty extending westward. Understood as a trade corridor, Karapatha becomes more than a frontier designation—it anticipates the westward systems of commerce later visible in Mesopotamia. The very logic of levies and taxation, as outlined by Manu, mirrors the tribute structures of the Akkadian world.

3. The Black Road and the Black Sea: Alternatively, Karapatha or ‘black road’ might have denoted a landscape of dark terrain, or more compellingly, a route leading toward waters marked by depth and dark hues. The element ‘kara’ recurs across the names of water-bodies: Kara-Suu Lake in Kyrgyzstan, Kara Kul in Tajikistan, Kara-Bogaz-Gol in Turkmenistan, and Kara Lake in Siberia. Yet the most evocative of these is Kara-Deniz—the Turkish name for the Black Sea. With its enigmatic blue depths and ancient maritime lore, the Black Sea emerges as a powerful referent, anchoring the name in both myth and geography.

Thus, the name Karapatha carries a dual identity: at once a trade route of tribute and exchange, and a black road leading toward frontier waters. Both meanings converge in the west, situating Karapatha as a liminal corridor where Indic sovereignty pressed against Mesopotamian horizons.

4. Sanskrit and Indo‑Iranian Connections: The Black Sea was once known to the Greeks as the Euxine Sea. Scholars note that Euxine, meaning ‘hospitable sea’, replaced the older Greek name, ‘Axenos', which means ‘inhospitable sea’, a reflection of the dangers associated with its waters. Yet this Greek renaming conceals a deeper, older linguistic story tied to Indic traditions.

The word ‘Axenos’ can be traced back to Avestan ‘akhshaena’, meaning ‘dark’, which itself derives from the Sanskrit asikni (असिक्नी), also meaning ‘dark'. The Sanskrit link is not just phonetic. Asikni is the name of the Ṛg Vedic river, later called Chandrabagha, whose modern form is Chenab. Hence, it wasn’t Greek or Roman influence but Indic culture that shaped the nomenclature of the Black Sea region in ancient times.

Even in Akkadian, a language generally considered outside the Indo‑European family, the resonance persists. The word for ‘black’ is ‘ashar’, and a ‘blackbird’ is called ‘aškikītu ṣalmu’.  In the Akkadian aškikītu, one can discern echoes of the Sanskrit asiknī, hinting at a wider semantic field that transcends linguistic boundaries.

Thus, Karapatha’s semantic resonance is not isolated. It belongs to a pan‑Eurasian lexicon of darkness, tribute, and frontier waters—linking Vedic, Avestan, and Akkadian traditions, and reaffirming the Indic imprint upon the linguistic and cultural geography of the Black Sea and Mesopotamia.

5. The Karapatha Route and its Cities and Settlements: Aṅgada’s westward journey retraced a corridor from the Sapta‑Sindhu to the Euxine Sea, passing through Iran, Mesopotamia, and Anatolia. Yet the precise location of the capital Karayana remains elusive. Was Karayana an Indic outpost, a renamed Assyrian stronghold, or a memory refracted through other toponyms—from Nimrud to Ankara, the Carpathians, or Akkadian Mesopotamia?

This unresolved question opens a spectrum of possibilities. Each candidate illuminates a different facet of Karapatha’s enduring resonance, and together they form a cartographic puzzle that we shall explore in the sections ahead.

6. Karayana and Nimrud: A compelling candidate for Karayana is the city of Nimrud, known as Kalhu in ancient Assyrian records and referred to as Calah in the Bible. Could Kalhu/Calah have been remembered as Karayana, the capital of Kārapatha? If so, Kalhu/Calah would preserve an enduring memory of Rāma’s westward expansion, encoded in artefact and toponymy.

Archaeological finds from Nimrud include the glazed-terracotta tile depicting a triadic procession: a central figure flanked by two attendants, which we have already discussed above. Mainstream scholars identify this as Ashurbanipal with courtiers. Yet the formation—leader, central figure, protector behind—recalls the Rāmāyaṇa triad of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa walking in single file during exile.

This alternative reading invites deeper cartographic inquiry. Nimrud is one possibility among several, and its suggestive parallels highlight how the search for Karayana opens onto a wider landscape of candidates—from Anatolia to the Carpathians, from Romani migrations, to Akkadian Mesopotamia—each bearing traces of Indic resonance.

Chandraketu (Jalalabad in Afghanistan), Ramsar (Iran), Nimrud (Caleh or Kaluh in Iraq), Ankara (Ankuwas in Turkey), may have been the Carpathian (or Karapatha), the stretch of land that was ruled by Lakṣmaṇa and later by his son, Aṅgada.

7. Ankara and Akkad: Beyond Nimrud (Kalhu) lies the city Ankara. Its name resonates etymologically with the name of Karpatha’s sovereign- Aṅgada. Could Ankara in Anatolia have once marked the western frontier of Aṅgada’s domain? At first glance, the idea may seem unlikely, yet the etymology invites closer consideration. Scholar Judy Turman, in Early Christianity in Turkey, notes that the city was known to the Hittites—who inhabited the region since at least 2000 BCE—as Ankuwas, with its prominence dating to around 1200 BCE.

Scholar Judy Turman, in Early Christianity in Turkey, notes that the city was known to the Hittites—who inhabited the region since at least 2000 BCE—as Ankuwas, with its prominence dating to around 1200 BCE. The names Ankuwas, or Ankuwa, closely resemble Aṅgada. Phonetic transformations, echoed in Grimm’s Law and other comparative frameworks, render the movement from Aṅgada to Ankada to Ankuwas, both plausible and resonant within historical phonology.

One possible Sanskrit interpretation of Ankuwas is ‘the place of Anku or Angu'. The Sanskrit term vasa (वास), meaning ‘inhabitation’ or ‘dwelling’, finds a fascinating parallel in the Turkish word ‘basar’, meaning ‘success’ or ‘to achieve'.  This suggests a shared semantic field—a cluster of words and meanings related to 'settlement', 'achievement', and 'belonging'. In this light, Ankara may preserve a linguistic echo of Aṅgada’s frontier, inscribing Indic resonance into Anatolian geography.

The Karapatha to Black Sea may have passed through Karachi, Ramsar, Ravansar, Siyavara, Lankaran, Sivas, and finally Ankara. These are present-day names of the cities on the map. This is the route taken into Europe by the Romani of India to Romania.

8. Karapatha, the Carpathian Mountains, and the Kara Deniz: Beyond Anatolia, the name Kārapatha finds a compelling cognate in the Carpathian Mountains—a sweeping arc of nearly 1,500 kilometres across Central and Eastern Europe, from Austria through Slovakia, Poland, Ukraine, Romania, and Serbia.

The conventional etymology of Carpathian traces back to Thracian Greek ‘Karpates oros’, which translates as ‘Rocky Mountain’, related to Albanian ‘karpe’ or ‘rock’. Yet the phonetic echo with ‘kara’, the Turkish word for ‘black’ in Kara Deniz (Black Sea), is striking. In the deep past — around seven millennia ago — the Black Sea’s expanse lay closer to the Carpathian basin. It is therefore conceivable that ancient hydronyms and toponyms overlapped with Karapatha, preserving a memory of this geographic intimacy in the Indic scriptures.

Thus, the Carpathians emerge not only as a European mountain chain but as a possible western echo of Karapatha itself, where the semantic field of ‘black’ and the frontier geography of the Black Sea converge.

9. Sanskrit in the Mountains of the Carpathian Chain: The highest peak of the Carpathians, Gerlachovský štít (2,654 m), rises in Slovakia’s High Tatras. Traditionally, its etymology is traced to a nearby village called Gerlachov. Mainstream scholarship suggests two possibilities for the source of this village's name: it either derives from 'çakıl', a reference to the gravel in the nearby river, or it derives from the title of a local lord named 'Gerlach'. Yet neither explanation carries enough linguistic depth to warrant the highest peak of the Carpathians to be named after either.

What’s notable in the name Gerachovský is its phonetic similarity to the Sanskrit giri (गिरि), or ‘mountain’. This aligns with regional terms such as 'gora' in Slovenian and 'hora' in Czech and Slovak, both meaning 'mountain'. The similarity among giri, 'gora', and 'hora' points to a common linguistic ancestry influenced by early migrations from India, situating Sanskrit echoes within the Carpathian chain itself.

In this way, the Carpathians become more than a geographic formation: they stand as a linguistic and cultural bridge, carrying Indic resonance into the heart of Europe and extending the semantic reach of Karapatha far beyond its frontier origins.

10. The Fertile Crescent: From a bird’s‑eye view, Kārapatha may be defined as the civilisational corridor stretching from the Sapta‑Sindhu in the east to the dark (kara) alluvial lands of the Fertile Crescent in the west. This vast arc encompassed the shadowed ridges of the Black Sea, the river valleys of Mesopotamia, and the Anatolian plateau—an immense sweep of geography where Indic memory and Mesopotamian civilisation intersected.

Renowned for its black, silty soil—the very abundance that gave the Crescent its name—this terrain situates Kārapatha not as a mere poetic flourish but as a plausible geographic designation, resonant with the Sanskrit kara (black, levy) and patha (road, way). Seen from above, the corridor becomes the civilisational spine of Aṅgada’s frontier domain: a route of tribute and exchange, a road of dark waters and fertile lands, stretching from the Sapta‑Sindhu to Mesopotamia’s heartlands.

If Aṅgada’s passage traced this arc, his trail would have carried him across the Euphrates and Tigris, into the dark soil of the Crescent, and onward to Anatolia’s Ankara—where echoes of his name may still linger in Ankuwasa. It is to Akkad, therefore, that we now turn, seeking the resonance of this memory.

11. Aṅgada, the progenitor of Akkadian Civilisation? It is plausible that Aṅgada’s name endured across millennia, morphing phonetically into Agade, which was the older name of Akkad. The resemblance may reflect a distant echo of his sovereignty, preserved in place-names even as the original figure faded from historical recall. Agade, the capital of Sargon’s empire, may thus represent a palimpsest—a city built upon the mythic memory of Aṅgada.

a. Who was Sargon, the first ruler of Akkad?: The phonetic continuity between Aṅgada, Agade, and Akkad is linguistically plausible, as supported by Grimm’s Law and comparative phonology. Sargon of Akkad (c. 2334–2279 BCE), the first ruler of the Akkadian Empire, bore the title Šarru-ukīn or Šarru-kēn, meaning ‘the king is legitimate’. Scholars trace šarru to the Proto-Semitic root śarār, ‘to rule’, which links to the Hebrew ‘śar’, ‘chief or ‘official’. This root, ś-r-r or š-r-r, meaning ‘to command’ or ‘to be strong’, is a close cognate of Sanskrit śrī (श्री), denoting ‘majesty’ and ‘auspiciousness’.

The Akkadian root šarru itself is widely believed to have foreign origins, and Sanskrit offers a compelling substratum. When empires form, the earliest words—titles for rulers, names for capitals, terms for sovereignty—carry immense weight. They are not merely administrative; they are cultural residues, encoding legitimacy and ancestral memory. Thus, in Šarru-ukīn, Šarru-kēn, or Sarrugi, one may detect a phonetic and symbolic link to Śrī-Aṅgada of the Rāmāyaṇa, suggesting that imperial nomenclature encoded a mythic memory of a long-lost Indic sovereign.

b. Later Rulers and Sanskrit resonance: This thread of the Indic name is not confined to the empire’s beginning. The name of Akkad’s last ruler, Sharkalisharri, preserves the same form: the suffix -sharri is a clear cognate of Sanskrit śrī. Indeed, the names of major Akkadian kings, Rimush, Manishtushu, and Naram-Sin, all resonate with Sanskrit phonology and symbolic structure. These names may preserve fragments of a deeper Indic legacy, carried westward along Aṅgada’s imperial trail in present-day Iran and Iraq or Mesopotamia, as well as in Turkey, the Anatolia of yore.

c. The River Euphrates and the Vedic Varuṇa: The Sanskrit-Indic influence is not only seen in the titles of the sovereigns. One of the earliest references to the Euphrates comes from the cuneiform texts found in the cities of Shuruppak and Nippur in southern Iraq and dates to the mid-3rd millennium BCE. In these texts, written in Sumerian, the Euphrates is called Buranuna. The name is sometimes interpreted from its cuneiform text with the prefix 'd' indicating that the river was a divinity. In which case, it may safely be stated that the name Buranuna is a variation of the Vedic name Varuṇa, the ‘god of the sea’. Varuṇa was well known in the Near East and the Middle East in deep antiquity, and later to the Hurrians, Hittites and the Mitanni. 

Variations of the name of Varuṇa also appear in the name Tarhunz, the weather god of the Luwians, who lived in Anatolia and later became a part of the Hittites. The Hittites themselves called their weather god Tarhunna. Scholars have, for the most part, accepted that the names of these gods are Indo-European, but often resist acknowledging their Vedic roots. Yet the parallels suggest that Varuṇa’s presence was deeply embedded in the religious lexicon of the Mesopotamian and Anatolian regions.

d. Trade and Textiles: Sanskrit names also occur in trade items. The Sanskrit word patta (पट्ट), meaning ‘piece of woven cloth', 'silk', or 'cotton', finds a linguistic imprint in the Akkadian term 'sipatu' of identical meaning—suggesting that the trade of Indian textiles was not only widespread but influential enough to embed its vocabulary into this Mesopotamian language.

e. Affinity between Sanskrit and Akkadian: Mainstream scholarship often treats Akkadian as a Semitic isolate, but the affinities with Sanskrit—phonetic, semantic, and conceptual—suggest deeper civilisational imprints. Sanskrit’s roots, preserved in the Vedas and epics, carry refined meanings that align strikingly with Akkadian usage.

Comparative Table: Sanskrit as Source

Concept	Sanskrit Root / Term	Akkadian Term(s)	Notes on Resonance and Drift
Mountain	giri, hari, har (गिरि, हरि, हर्)	gennu, harsanuh	Gennu may be a softened form of giri (loss of /r/); harsanuh preserves the har root. Parallels with Slavic gora/har show Indo-European continuity.
Across / Other Side	aparā (अपरा)	ebertan	Both mean 'beyond' or 'opposite side'. Reflects spatial cognition in ritual geography.
Side / Arm	bahu (बहु, arm/limb)	ahulla, ahu	Phonetic overlap: ahu as 'side/limb' aligns with Sanskrit bahu. Suggests bodily mapping across cultures.
Stone / Obstruction	vaṭa, vṛtra (वट, वृत्र)	abattu	Both linked to stone in water control: abattu = gravel for dams; vṛtra = stones/obstructions in hymns. Shared imagery of containment.
House / Enclosure	vāṭikā, vaṭa (वाटिका, वट)	beit	Beit (Semitic 'house') and vāṭikā (garden enclosure) share the idea of bounded space. The semantic field of enclosure is common.
Arise / Flow	sru, sravati (स्रु, स्रवति)	seru, sarati	Akkadian seru/sarati ('to rise, flow') matches Sanskrit sru/sravati. Both encode the imagery of upward or onward movement.

These affinities are not random overlaps. Sanskrit’s refined lexicon—already present in its earliest hymns—offers consistent semantic fields that Akkadian words echo. The notion of Akkadian as a pure Semitic isolate overlooks this substratum. Instead, the parallels suggest shared civilisational corridors, where ruling lineages and cultural exchanges (such as those remembered in the Ramāyaṇa through figures like Aṅgada) seeded linguistic imprints.

In this light, the linguistic affinities between Sanskrit and Akkadian reveal more than mere lexical overlap—they signal a deeper civilisational imprint, one perhaps seeded by ruling lineages such as that of Aṅgada. The assumption that Akkadian is purely Semitic ignores the Sanskritic substratum that explains its lexicon more consistently than any other root system.

Taken together, these resonances—Aṅgada’s name in Agade/Akkad, the royal titles echoing śrī, the river Buranuna recalling Varuṇa, the textile term patta embedded in sipatu, and the wider affinities between Sanskrit and Akkadian—suggest that the empire of Akkad was not an isolated Semitic construct but a civilisational palimpsest. Its foundations carried Indic memory westward, inscribing Aṅgada’s sovereignty into the very language, ritual, and geography of Mesopotamia. To speak of Akkad, then, is to glimpse the enduring shadow of Karapatha: a frontier transformed into a civilisation, where the mythic trail of the Rāmāyaṇa became the spine of imperial Mesopotamia.

f. The Hurrian-Akkadian Interface and Sanskritic Resonances: During the Akkadian period, the Hurrians emerged as a significant presence in northern Mesopotamia. Known for their distinctive language and ritual traditions, they established their first major city at Urkesh in the 4th millennium BCE. By the time of Naram-Sin—the grandson of Sargon—the Hurrians were diplomatically active, negotiating treaties and alliances that reveal their integration into the political fabric of the Akkadian world.

i. Sanskrit names in Hurrian settlements: While conventional accounts do not associate the Hurrians with Indo-European traditions, their pantheon, ritual lexicon, and symbolic motifs show striking affinities with Indo-Iranian and Anatolian frameworks. For example, the capital city of the Hurrians was called Nagar, which likely derives from Sanskrit nagara (नगर), meaning 'city'. This suggests that the Hurrians may have served as cultural intermediaries—preserving pre-Akkadian mythic structures and transmitting ritual patterns that resonate with Sanskritic and Vedic memory. 

ii. The Hurrians called the river Euphrates by the name Puranti. The word Puranti is Sanskrit in nuance with purna (पूर्ण) meaning 'abundant'. It is akin to Avestan 'pouro', with the same meaning. Mainstream scholars also interpret the name Euphrates as meaning ‘abundance’, so that there is no discordance here.

iii. Early study of the Hurrian language was based almost entirely on the Mitanni letter, discovered in 1887 at Amarna in Egypt. This letter, written by the Hurrian king Tushratta to Pharaoh Amenhotep III, offered tantalising clues—many of which were initially overlooked. One such clue lies in the name 'Tushratta', which bears a striking resemblance to the Sanskrit 'Dasharatha', the father of Rāma in the Rāmāyaṇa tradition.

While 'Tushratta' is not a Semitic or Hurrian name, it aligns with Indo-European phonology. According to the principles of historical linguistics—particularly Grimm’s Law and its extensions—voiced aspirated stops like Sanskrit /dʰ/ often shift over time and across language families. The transformation follows a plausible chain: /dʰ/ → /d/ → /t/ → /θ/ (theta). Thus, the evolution from 'Dasharatha' to 'Tushratta' is not only phonetically plausible but historically grounded.

And with this name, we glimpse something even more striking: that perhaps before Rāma and Aṅgada, the memory of Daśaratha himself was already present in these western lands, inscribed in Hurrian kingship and preserved in the corridors of Mesopotamia.

🌺 At the Western Horizon: If the alignments we trace between the Rāmāyaṇa and the maps of Mesopotamia and Anatolia hold—and they appear to, for no other scripture preserves such precision—then we are glimpsing one of history’s most consequential corridors. Scholarship has long examined Mesopotamia through archaeological and linguistic frames, yet this particular angle—reading its formative geography through the lens of the Rāmāyaṇa—has rarely been explored.

This recognition transforms the Fertile Crescent: not merely the cradle of Akkadian power, but part of the sphere once marked by Rāma’s lineage. The vānara trail through the western zone reveals the sheer expanse of that sovereignty, stretching from the Sapta‑Sindhu outward into lands of dark soil, shadowed ridges, and foreign capitals. What begins as Rāma’s dominion in India unfolds into Aṅgada’s expansion westward, inscribing Indic presence across Mesopotamia, Anatolia, and beyond.

Akkad, Ankara, the Black Sea ridges, and the Carpathian Mountains become more than cartographic markers; they are living echoes of Karapatha, the civilisational spine where myth and memory converge. To see them resonate with the lineage of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa is to acknowledge that the epic preserves one of the earliest records of how empires and languages spread westward from India across the Fertile Crescent.

Thus, the western sojourn of the vānaras was, in truth, a sojourn through Karapatha—a corridor where tribute and trade met shadowed waters, and where the memory of Rāma’s empire expanded into the Akkadian world. It was Aṅgada, entrusted with the westward mission, who transformed this journey into more than a passage: he inscribed Indic presence across Mesopotamia and Anatolia, extending the reach of Rāma’s dominion into new civilisational horizons.

For now, we pause with the vānaras at the feet of Asta Giri, where the sun sets, and which marks the extent of the enlightened world in this direction, before turning eastward into yet another journey with them. The western horizon fades, and the eastern dawn awaits.

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CHAPTER IV: THE EASTERN EXPEDITION OF THE VĀNARAS

I. The Eastward Land:

The eastern sweep of the vānaras, as told in the Rāmāyaṇa, is immense—beginning in India, flowing through the Far East, into Śālmali-dvīpa, and onward to the distant land of Udaya Giri across five oceans. To us, this may seem impossibly vast. Yet its terrain whispers of journeys already inscribed. In the contours of mountains, in the names of rivers, in myths etched into stone, the breath of Viṣṇu and Indra lingers since ananta-kāla—subtle, enduring, unmistakable.

Led by Vinata and guided by Sugrīva’s command, the vānaras pressed eastward. Their path unfolded in three great arcs. The first of these arcs lies in lands we recognise by comparatively early names, though not the earliest: Sumatra, Java, Bali—regions long interwoven with India’s civilisational rhythm. Here, rivers and mountains still carry echoes of Sanskrit syllables, their names surviving as living witnesses of this Indic presence.

🌺 I. Śālmali-Dvīpa and Polynesia: Yet Vālmīki’s verse casts its light beyond the familiar. It reveals a path that stretches into Śālmali-dvīpa—the land we now call Australia—and outward to Polynesia, the vast triangle of islands. Here, those Indic echoes appear transformed yet discernible, woven into the Aboriginal memory of Australia and the Indigenous mythic traditions of Polynesia.

🌺 Across the Pacific: In the last part of the arc, the vānaras continue across the Pacific to the far shores of South and Central America, reaching the Andes. Here too, across the vast oceans, the Indic presence has endured—sometimes distorted, sometimes luminous—within the rituals, deities, and stories of the ancient civilisations there.

🌺 Civilisational Arteries: To understand the plausibility of such a movement, we must retrace the civilisational arteries that made it possible. Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Malaysia, and Singapore were connected to India by continuous land routes—forming a natural corridor of exchange and cultural continuity. These were not distant or alien territories, but extensions of a shared civilisational landscape, with Sanskrit leaving deep and durable marks—not only in language and ritual, but in stone.

🌺 Vo Canh Stele, Vietnam: This legacy, for example, is vividly embodied by the Vo Canh Stele, discovered near Nha Trang, Vietnam—a rare doorway into the heartbeat of a living civilisation. Dating from the 4th or 5th century CE, it is the oldest Sanskrit inscription found outside of the Indian sub-continent. Inscribed in elegant Vasantatilaka metre, it is distinguished by unmistakable Gupta-era linguistic features. The stele, commemorating King Śrī Māra—possibly identifiable with Fan Shih-man, a ruler of that era mentioned in Chinese sources—exemplifies the deep and sophisticated reach of Indic literary culture beyond India’s immediate borders.

The inscription records a donation or endowment, a common Indic epigraphic practice linking kingship with religious merit. It uses Sanskrit terms like bhṛtya (भृत्य) meaning 'support', 'royal servant', or a 'minister', showing the adoption of Indian political vocabulary in Southeast Asia.

The Vo Canh Stele is dated to the 5th century CE. Sanskrit’s oldest surviving inscription in Southeast Asia, outside of India.

Photo courtesy: Võ Cạnh Stele (National Museum of Vietnamese History) by Hoangkid, licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Additionally, Vietnam’s ancient temple sites—especially those from the Champa period—bear inscriptions that directly quote verses from the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa. These carved verses bring to life the timeless stories of Vālmīki’s epic, retelling sacred tales that once reverberated along temple walls in Vietnam. Far from mere stone relics, these sites whisper of the vibrant cultural journey of India’s epic narratives as they travelled and took root deep in distant lands.

🌺 Vietnam, a Sangha of Parallel Rivers: At first glance, Vietnam’s ancient place names and river terms seem to bear little trace of Sanskritic influence. Unlike regions where Indic nomenclature was overtly adopted—such as Java’s Gangga or Cambodia’s Indrapura—Vietnam’s toponyms appear rooted in Austroasiatic or Sino-Vietnamese traditions. Yet beneath this surface, subtle Sanskrit resonances persist.

Consider the name of the Song Hong River. The Vietnamese words sông (river) and cùng (together) appear to be cognates of Sanskrit sangha (सङ्घ)—a term meaning 'assembly', 'community ', or 'rivers flowing together'—or its variant form, sangham (संगम्) meaning 'confluence'.

In Sanskrit, sangha derives from saṃ (together) and gha (to go), evoking streams that merge, paths that unite, and forces that flow as one. Whether by etymology or intuition, the rivers of Văn Lang (a land that stretched from the Red River Delta in North Vietnam to much of Southern China) were sanghas: gathering waters, gathering stories, gathering civilisations.

This may sound like conjecture, but let’s check the map. Three great rivers—the Lancang (Mekong in Vietnam), the Irrawaddy of Myanmar, and the Salween (Nujiang), partly flowing in China and then forming the border between Myanmar and Thailand—trace remarkably parallel paths across the highlands of Southeast Asia. Though they flow through different countries, their parallel course aligns in a choreography of descent—each river descending through its own valley: the Nujiang Valley, the Irrawaddy Valley, and the Mekong’s Upper Basin in Yunnan, all carved between fault-block mountains and the Indo-Burman ranges that run roughly north–south.

The names Kong (in Mekong) and Kang (in Lancang) are cognates of the Sanskrit sangha.  Image by Shannon, via Wikimedia Commons. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0

Their closest convergence occurs in the Three Parallel Rivers region of northwest Yunnan, China—a dramatic corridor in the Hengduan Mountains where these rivers flow side by side for over 300 kilometres, forming a natural sangha—an assembly of waters. This is no metaphor—it is a cartographic fact.

The Sanskrit sangha, therefore, is a geographic truth. Even the Chinese Songhua River carries traces of the word sangha. The Mandarin word for confluence, ‘zonghuì’ (总汇), shares phonetic and semantic kinship with sangha, suggesting a deeper substrate of shared civilisational paths. In a later volume of this series, we will find the same etymology in the name of the Congo—a river flowing far away in Africa—along with its tributary still called Sangha.

Hence, what we mistake for the absence of Sanskritic names in Vietnam, or other parts of the world, is often a presence overlooked—hidden in plain sight yet deeply rooted in Indic tradition. 

This influence of Sanskrit is not confined to limited regions or river names alone. The most compelling evidence of this shared landscape lies in the ancient names we find across the Indian Archipelago—names that preserve memory long after maps have shifted. Before we follow the vānaras eastward, we pause at one such site: a forgotten summit that may once have stood as a southern Meru.

Gunung Padang: The Forgotten Meru of Indonesia? In the mist-laced highlands of West Java rises Gunung Padang, a site that defies easy classification. At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than a hill crowned with scattered stones. But beneath this modest façade lies a layered enigma—terraces of megalithic blocks, aligned with celestial patterns, constructed with a precision that whispers of sacred geometry and forgotten knowledge.

A sketch of the mysterious Gunung Padang Mountain in Karyamukti, Indonesia. It appears to be a representation of Mt. Meru.

We focus our gaze on Gunung Padang because it may be the oldest man-made structure in the Indian archipelago, known in the Rāmāyaṇa as Yavadvīpa. Some researchers suggest that Gunung Padang could be the earliest pyramid-like structure in the world, with carbon dating placing its deepest layers as far back as 20,000 BCE. If validated, this discovery would not only rewrite chronological frameworks but also reaffirm the foundational role of Indic civilisation in shaping the ancient human story.

Mainstream literature interprets Padang as 'field' and Gunung as 'mountain'. Yet this simplistic translation does not convey the magnitude, the mystery, or the metaphysical significance of the site. Gunung Padang, shaped by ancient hands, must hold meaning beyond the visible—a deliberate manifestation of profound truths woven into its very stones.

We turn to the myths preserved by the elders of Karyamukti—the village that cradles Gunung Padang—for an explanation. The villagers translate Karyamukti as 'Liberation from Worldly Existence'. They also recall Gunung Padang as the 'Mountain of Light' or 'Mountain of Enlightenment', though the reasons are unknown, for they have faded from folklore.

Where did this memory of light and enlightenment arise? Delving deeper, we find that in the Sundanese language of West Java, the word for 'enlightenment' is pencerahan (pen-che-ra-han). Listen closely: its phonetic rhythm echoes pancha-arahan, which in Sundanese means 'five-fold guidance'.

Tracing further, the Sanskrit root of Sundanese ‘pancha-arahna’ becomes clear: it derives from Pancha-Avarana (पञ्च-आवरण)—five-layered, five-fold, encircled in five levels.

What are these five levels? In Sanskrit texts, at the most fundamental level, there exists the concept of Pancha Tattva, which refers to the five elemental truths—Earth (Prithvi), Water (Apas), Fire (Tejas), Air (Vayu), and Space (Akasha)—which forms the foundation of both physical reality and spiritual ascent. The alignment of 'enlightenment' and 'fivefold guidance' or 'pencerahan' of Gunung Padang, with Vedic Panchattatva or the five elements of truths, hints at a deep, shared cultural inheritance waiting to be rediscovered.

Now consider this: the structure of Gunung Padang consists of five distinct terraces, one rectangular and four trapezoidal, arranged at successively higher elevations. These terraces become smaller as they rise, with the fifth being the highest and most compact. They lie along a central NW–SE axis, accessed by a steep stairway of 370 steps rising at a 45-degree incline over 110 meters.

This configuration alone offers compelling evidence of human design. The five terraces—precisely shaped and deliberately aligned—follow a clear architectural logic. The stairway’s steep ascent, rising at a 45-degree angle over 110 meters, reflects a level of planning far beyond natural formation.

This ascending sequence is not accidental. It reflects the Tantric cosmology found in Vedic literature, where spiritual ascent is mapped through elemental mastery. Each terrace mirrors the journey of consciousness through the five elements. 

• The first evokes Prithvi—Earth. It is the foundation, the realm of form and solidity.

• The second, slightly elevated, resonates with Apas—Water. It suggests fluidity, purification, and the emotional plane.

• The third, more refined, aligns with Tejas—Fire. It is the spark of transformation, the light of awareness.

• The fourth, nearing the summit, embodies Vayu—Air. It is movement, breath, and the subtle winds of thought.

• The fifth, which is the smallest and highest, opens into Akasha—Space. It is the ether, the formless, the infinite.

The central stairway of Gunung Padang becomes a symbolic spine—a Sushumna nadi, connecting the base to the crown. It is the path of ascent, the journey from the gross to the subtle, from the earthly to the divine. And all of this is encoded in the name itself—Gunung, meaning ‘mountain’ in Indonesian and Malay, ultimately from Sanskrit tunga (तुङ्ग) meaning 'lofty', 'elevated', or 'mountain', and Padang, rather than prangana (प्राङ्गण) or 'the sacred field'. The word padang seems to refer to pada (पद) or steps, referring to the steps in the step-pyramid of Gunung Padang.

While Gunung Padang’s terraces clearly evoke Earth, Fire, Air, and Space, one might ask—where is Water? According to geological studies referenced by Graham Hancock, the base of Gunung Padang sits atop a volcanic caldera, carved by ancient lava flows. In later periods, this depression held flowing water—suggesting that the site once stood above a sacred basin. Thus, even Apas—the element of water, finds its place in the foundation of its structure.

Prambanan- the grand temple of Shiva with Mt. Merapi in the background in Indonesia. The original name of the temple was Shiwagraha, with Mt. Merapi as a reminder of the Vedic Meru.

Gunung Padang, through its elevation, sacred geometry, and elemental symbolism, resembles the Vedic Mount Meru—the cosmic axis, the mountain at the centre of all worlds. Indian cosmology, as described in texts like the Mahābhārata and Purāṇas, portrays Mount Meru as possessing five peaks, each symbolising a direction—north, south, east, west, and zenith—often understood as the five aspects of divinity. This quintuple structure corresponds with the Pancha Tattva (five elements) foundational to Vedic philosophy.

Emerging from this elemental symbolism, the meaning becomes unmistakable: Gunung Padang is far more than a monument; it stands as a forgotten embodiment of Meru. Centuries later, Buddhist architects channelled this cosmic archetype into the Borobudur Temple—a 10th-century stone mandala designed as an ascent toward the divine.

🌺 A remembrance Mt. Meru: Nearby, Mount Merapi—revered in Javanese cosmology as the ‘Mountain of Fire’—is venerated as an earthly embodiment of Meru. In its shadow rises Prambanan, the grand temple of Shiva, once called Shiwagraha, whose alignment with Merapi evokes the cosmic axis. Further east, Mount Semeru—still known as Mahameru—ascends to 12,060 feet, its very name recalling the mythic summit of Indic cosmology. The persistence of such names across Java—Merapi, Semeru, Mahameru—underscores how deeply the Meru archetype was naturalised in this landscape, lending weight to the view that Gunung Padang itself was conceived as a terrestrial representation of the cosmic Mount Meru.

At a height of 12060 feet, Mt. Semeru in Java has been continuously erupting since 1967.

🌺 The Etymology of Jakarta and Bandung: This thread of Indic-Sanskritic names is unbroken—even the cities here carry similar linguistic traces. Jakarta, originally Jayakarta, derives from Sanskrit: Jaya (victory) and Karta (act)— 'the victorious act'. As for Bandung, scholars trace its name to a Malay root meaning 'entwined', referencing the rivers that once looped around the region. While one might link this to Sanskrit bandhana (बन्धन), meaning 'binding', the geography doesn’t support such an interpretation. Bandung is not a place of enclosure—it is a place of elevation and expanse.

Through a Sanskrit lens, a more fitting etymology emerges: vana (वन) 'forest' and tunga (तुङ्ग) 'lofty'. Surrounded by volcanic ridges and highland forests, Bandung reveals itself as a vana-tunga—a lofty forested region situated approximately 2,500 feet above sea level.

The term tunga also appears in the name of the Tengger Mountain range, home to Mount Bromo, an active volcano and an important Hindu pilgrimage site in East Java. This volcano is part of the Bromo Tengger Semeru National Park, named after Sumeru—the mythical mountain considered the centre of the universe in Hindu cosmology. The name 'Bromo' derives from the Javanese pronunciation of Brahma, the Hindu god of creation, linking the landscape deeply to Indic spiritual traditions. The worship of Brahma then stretches from the Brahmaputra to the Brahmamala to the region of Bromo Tengger in Indonesia. Cambodia is home to Angkor Wat, with five towers as a representation of the peaks of Mount Meru.

Hence, in these lands of the Indian Archipelago, we glimpse a continuum of sacred geography—sites serving as waypoints along a larger arc of movement, one vividly recorded in the Rāmāyaṇa’s eastern expedition. Maritime routes across the Archipelago were equally well-defined, for these lands were never considered remote. The strait between Singapore and Sumatra narrows to less than 60 kilometres, while the waters separating Papua and mainland Australia narrow to just 150 kilometres. Such proximity rendered these regions—including Australia—reachable even to ancient travellers.

While Australia, known as Śālmali-dvīpa in Indic texts, is often overlooked or treated as peripheral in conventional scholarship, it bears linguistic and cultural traces attesting to a deep and enduring Indian presence. It was no distant outpost; we may yet find a Meru there as well—a luminous waypoint in the vānaras’ eastward journey and a testament to Rāma’s far-reaching mission. And so, with this, we now return to the trail of the vānaras.

II.🌺 Journey along the Rivers of India:

The journey of the east-bound vānaras begins inland—not at the edge of the sea, but within the heart of India (in Kishkinda)—before eventually reaching the eastern coastline. Along the way, the vānaras traverse a network of rivers, each recorded meticulously by Vālmīki: Bhagirathi, Sarayu, Kaushiki, Kalindi, Yamuna, Sarasvatī, Sindhu, Sona, Mahi, Kalamahi, and others. Though not all of these rivers flow through the eastern regions, each forms part of the terrain the vānaras comb in their search for Sītā—reflecting the overlaps, detours, and dispersals inherent in a quest of such scale.

In ancient cartography and literary geography, each of these waterways bears a name that reflects its physical attributes and symbolic depth. Take Kalindi, with her dark, shadowed currents; or Sarasvatī, goddess of the waters, whose name continues to stir in ritual and verse. These names are not arbitrary designations, but expressions of a tradition in which nomenclature is attuned to nature—each name shaped by the river’s rhythm, hue, and temperament. 

Many of these names have remained unchanged, still spoken today as they were millennia ago. This continuity is rare. In much of the world, ancient river names have faded or fractured, their meanings obscured by time. But in India, the rivers still carry their original syllables—Bhagirathi, the vehicle of Bhagirath, still flows as Bhagirathi; and the Saryu, its name derived from the Sanskrit root sṛ (सृ), 'to flow', still threads through ritual and rites. Their waters remain fluent in the language that once named them.

🌺 The Brahmamala Region: The kingdoms that the vānaras passed through weren’t just names either—their story still lingers in today’s geography. Ponder on the name Brahmamala that Vālmīki mentions for a moment. Its name survives in the Brahmaputra River, which flows through the valleys and plains of the Northeast along with its tributaries before reaching the Bay of Bengal. Despite its significance in the epic, the precise contours of Brahmamala have yet to be clearly delineated—a task that invites further exploration, especially in light of the geographical and linguistic clues present in this corridor. 

This region, as depicted in the epic, seems to stretch from the Brahmaputra eastward to Myanmar—formerly known as Burma—a name derived from Mramma, itself a variation of Brahma, thus situating it within the ambit of the Brahmamala.

The name Brahmamala, also called Brahmaaranya, meaning 'Brahma's forest', appears to reference the vast, dense forests stretching between the Brahmaputra River and Burma, or Myanmar. This region, rich in biodiversity and ancient wilderness, forms a natural corridor—one that aligns with the epic’s portrayal of distant, mysterious lands. Brahma is still worshipped as Mahabrahma by the Buddhists of Myanmar.

Between the Brahmaputra and the Irrawaddy rivers lies a complex zone that can itself be understood as the Brahmamala of the Rāmāyaṇa. This area is defined not by a single river but by a network of rivers and forested ridges that form a connected landscape bridging the Himalayan foothills and the northern reaches of Myanmar. Rather than a fixed boundary, it is a corridor where ecological and cultural currents converge, encompassing the natural paths through which the vānaras and sages might have traversed.

The name Brahmaaranya likely describes these broad woodlands. Brahma’s worship endures here, underscoring the imprint of Indic culture in the region. Myanmar itself bears this legacy in its very name and that of its longest river. The Irrawaddy traces its etymology to the Sanskrit Iravati—from irA (इरा ) 'water' and vati (वति), 'endowed with'. Iravati is another name for Sarasvatī.

Near the Indian boundary of the Brahmamala, Vālmīki names the region of Videha, also known as Mithila, the kingdom ruled by Goddess Sītā's father, Janaka. It is also the birthplace of Sītā. It is from this land that she derives her name, Videhi, marking her origin and identity. Videha stretches across southeastern Nepal and northern Bihar on today's map. There is a quiet irony in Vālmīki’s account: the vānaras, in their search for Sītā, are sent to comb through the very soil that once cradled her childhood. 

🌺 Magadha, the city of Indra? Beyond Videha, the search extends to the land of the Malavans, and then to the twin realms of Kashi and Koshala—both steeped in spiritual significance. Magadha follows, a region of great historical weight. Curiously, despite Magadha’s prominence in later history, its etymology remains uncertain—an oddity, given how clearly the origins of lesser-known place names are traced. One may venture here to say that the most likely source of the name Magadha is possibly linked to Indra’s epithet Maghavan, or to his celestial city named Maghava-nagara, its name rooted in the Sanskrit word magh (मघ), meaning 'power' or 'wealth'.

🌺 A land called Pundara-the significance: The vānaras are then directed toward a land called Pundara. That name derives from Pundarika (पुण्डरीक), an epithet of Viṣṇu meaning 'lotus-flower'—a symbol of purity and divine birth. This site, mentioned in the Rāmāyaṇa as part of the vānaras’ search for Sītā, carries mythic weight. Its recurrence in later texts suggests enduring significance.

A city called Pindaraka, spelt variously as Pindarika, Pundarika, and Pandarika, is also mentioned in the Harivamsa Purana. It is one of the many places Sri Kṛṣṇa visited during his journeys. Though it is often assumed that this refers to a location in Gujarat, the Harivamsha hints at a far more expansive route. 

In Chapters 234 and 235 of the Harivamsa, Kṛṣṇa boards a ship with Baladeva, Arjuna, Janardana, and their kinsmen, leaving Ugrasena and Vasudeva to govern Dwarka—a clear sign of a prolonged and purposeful voyage. Verse 3 of Chapter 234 reads:

“While living in the city of Dwaraka, Hari, of incomparable energy, sailed by sea for the sacred shrine of Pindaraka".

The ship is described in detail, furnished with all desirable objects and capable of carrying multitudes, and moving with great velocity. Chapter 235 elaborates that the Yadavas 'sport in the ocean' and 'roam about in ships', suggesting a dual purpose—both pilgrimage and maritime expedition. While the text emphasises oceanic sport, it notably omits details of the route—except for two anchors of significance: the sea itself, and the shrine of Pindaraka. These, coupled with Kṛṣṇa’s administrative foresight in appointing regents, imply that this was no casual outing but a journey of civilisational scope.

Kṛṣṇa's destination appears to align more convincingly with the Pandarika of Bihar, situated on the banks of the Utaravahini, a tributary of the Gaṅgā. Here stands a Sun temple today, believed to be 5,000 years old, its construction attributed to Kṛṣṇa’s son Samba. Though dedicated to Surya, the temple perhaps also commemorates Kṛṣṇa’s earlier visit to the site, just as the Surya temple of Moolasthana, of present-day Multan, was constructed by Kṛṣṇa's son Samba. It is fascinating that in Mesopotamian tradition, Shamash (called Utu in Sumerian) is the Sun god, his name a cognate of Samba.

The implied route of Sri Kṛṣṇa's voyage—from Dwarka, skirting the southern coast of India, then upriver from Kolkata to Patna—suggests a sophisticated nautical corridor. This challenges the Gujarat-centric assumption and reaffirms the civilisational continuity between Rāmāyaṇic and Kṛṣṇaic geographies.

That Kṛṣṇa sails to the same Pundara once sought by the vānaras—precisely because it was deemed a site of significance where Sītā might be hidden—suggests not only a continuity of geography but also a layered mythic memory, where pilgrimage and maritime exploration converge.

🌺 Anga and Gangaridai: We now return to the journey of the vānaras at Pundara, from where they head towards Anga—corresponding to the present-day region of Bihar and Bengal, the land of ancient Magadha.

Greco-Roman writers such as Diodorus Siculus, Pliny, Ptolemy, and Virgil referred to the region as Gangaridai or Gangaridae, emphasising its location in the Ganges delta and its formidable elephant corps that deterred even Alexander the Great. Ancient scholars and chroniclers named regions after their most awe-inspiring natural landmarks, and in this case, the Gaṅgā was not just a river but a civilisational artery. 

While Gangaridai is often used specifically to denote the Bengal region, it also served in ancient times as a broader reference to India itself—highlighting the centrality of the Gaṅgā and its delta in the subcontinent’s identity. This name, evocative of India’s eastern lifeline and mighty resources like war elephants, is a powerful but frequently forgotten ancient name for the land that would come to be known as India after the other great river, the Indus or Sindhu. Though the Sindhu gave India its enduring name in many traditions, Gangaridai reminds us that the Gaṅgā was equally foundational to the subcontinent’s civilisation and culture. Hence, Gangaridai is an ancient name that is worthy of remembrance.

🌺 The region of Jharkhand in the Rāmāyaṇa: Vālmīki’s narrative then alludes to a mineral-rich tract along the vānaras’ eastern path—land known for its silver mines. This likely corresponds to the present-day Dhanbad region, home to some of India’s largest deposits of copper, zinc, lead, and silver. The terrain described is not symbolic—it is specific, and it aligns with the mineral wealth of Jharkhand.

Further along the route, Valmik adds another layer of detail: he speaks of dwellings belonging to the Mandara people, whose ears, he notes, 'resemble cloth and curiously reach their lips'. This description finds resonance in the Manbhumi region, where the Munda Adivasis have long lived. This image likely reflects the Munda tradition of wearing large ear and neck ornaments, a practice still visible in the region today. The description in the Rāmāyaṇa is not fantastical—it is ethnographic. It encodes a visual memory of a people whose adornments were not merely decorative but symbolic, woven into their cultural and spiritual life. In this, the Rāmāyaṇa does not mythologise—it remembers.

The ancestral land of the Mundas—now known as Chota Nagpur—includes the plateau regions of Jharkhand, Odisha, and West Bengal. This land came to be known as Manbhum—a name whose ancient imprints still linger in local consciousness. The later emergence of 'Dhanbad' from Manbhum reflects a linguistic shift: the prefix dhan, often interpreted as wealth, may in fact be a variation of 'man', rooted in the earlier Manbhum, perhaps rendering the name Dhanbhumi. The suffix bhumi (भूमि), meaning 'land', was replaced by 'baad', a Persian-Urdu term introduced during the Mughal period—marking a subtle but telling transformation in nomenclature.

Other theories for the etymology of Munda have come up. While some claim that Munda derives from the Sanskrit munda (मुण्ड), 'head', a view supported by scholar Robert Parkin, others link Manbhum to Man Singh I, the Mughal general of the 16th century. Though plausible, all of these explanations are overshadowed by a deeper truth.

And so, we return to Vālmīki. The Rāmāyaṇa names the Mandara tribe, placing them squarely on this tract. The name Mandara, linked to Shiva, carries spiritual weight—a cultural collateral that deepens the terrain’s significance. But it also carries ethnographic weight: the name Mandara may well be the earliest textual reference to the Munda people themselves. Linguistic records trace the evolution from Mandara to Manbhum, revealing phonetic kinship and etymological depth. The Mandara of the Rāmāyaṇa is not merely a tribe—it is a name that remembers the Munda, the Manbhum, and the mineral-rich plateau they have long called home. Oral traditions affirm what the epic implies: this is not a borrowed past, but a remembered one. The land, the name, the people—they are not incidental. Manbhum and Munda emerge from Mandara.

🌺 The Silken Secret of Angadesh: Then a striking detail unfurls. A single verse—tucked deep within the forested march of the vānaras—opens a portal into a forgotten world. In Section 40, Verse 22 of the Rāmāyaṇa, as the vānaras enter Angadesh from the land of the Mandara tribesmen, Vālmīki refers to Angadesh as koshakārāṇām bhūmim (कोशकाराणाम् भूमिम) - 'the land of silkworm artisans'. This is neither a metaphor nor a myth. It is a precise ecological and cultural marker—one of the earliest textual attestations that silk was indigenous to India.

The Sanskrit word koshakara (कोशकार), meaning 'silkworm artisans', springs from kosha (कोश)—'cocoon', 'cell', 'pocket'. And from this quiet word, a thread begins to unravel. Angadesh was the subdivision adjacent to Ayodhyā—perhaps explaining its Rāmāyaṇic designation as Anga, a regional limb or outpost of the central kingdom of Ayodhyā.

Vālmīki’s verse does more than describe a craft; it anchors silk production in the cultural and ecological fabric of ancient India. It suggests that silk was not an exotic arrival but a native inheritance, cultivated and revered. The evidence whispers a story different from the one long accepted. The Ṛgveda speaks of kauseya (silk). Remnants of wild silk moth species have been unearthed at Harappa and Chanhudaro, dating back to the mid–3rd millennium BCE. The Muga silkworm, unique to Assam, is entirely indigenous to India and has no Chinese counterpart. These findings challenge the mainstream narrative that sericulture arrived in India from China around 140 BCE.

India’s silk tradition appears not only ancient but autonomous—rooted in its own ecological diversity and cultural continuity. The knowledge of sericulture may well have radiated outward from India, rather than inward from China. Angadesh, with its native silkworms and woven lore, stands as a quiet yet profound testament to this indigenous legacy.

III.🌺 Travels in South East Asia and Indochina:

After crossing many significant landmarks, the vānaras finally reach the eastern coast, where the land gives way to sea—and the contours of the known world begin to blur into older geographies, long remembered and richly inscribed. From here, they embark on their voyage beyond the borders of present-day India, arriving at the islands of the Indian Archipelago, where the terrain still bears the imprint of ancient passage.

🌺 The Islands of Gold and Silver: Java, Sumatra, and Bali
In Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa, the sage evokes the islands of Yava, adorned with seven kingdoms, each radiant with gold and silver—so abundant that they earned the names Suvarna and Rupayaka. These ancient references shimmer with recognition, corresponding to the modern-day islands of Java, Sumatra, and Bali, whose mythic aura vibrates through the ancient verse. Positioned along ancient trade routes, these lands were not remote outposts but vibrant nodes of exchange. The vānaras, in their search, were not wandering into the unknown, but were instead treading paths already gilded with wealth and song. Sugrīva instructs:

त्नवन्तो यव द्वीपम् सप्त राज्य उपशोभितम् |

सुवर्ण रूप्यकम् द्वीपम् सुवर्ण आकर मण्डितम् || ४-४०-३०

"Strive in the island of Yava, resplendent with seven kingdoms, and in the golden and silver isles enwreathed with goldmines, in and around the Yava islands". [4-40-30]

🌺 Yava, A Name Rooted in Abundance: During the time of the Rāmāyaṇa, Java was known as Yava—a name that encompassed not just one island, but rather a constellation of them. Some traditions trace Yava to the Sanskrit word for barley, a symbol of fertility and plenty.

This name held fast, like a seed rooted deep in the soil—carried through time, unchanged since the age of the Rāmāyaṇa to the present. Yet it carries a deeper resonance, one that emerges naturally from the geography of the islands. Yava in Sanskrit also means 'to join together', from the root yu (यु), indicating the union of seven islands with Yava in the centre, and Sumatra and Bali on its two sides. Over time, linguistic shifts softened 'ya' into 'ja', eventually giving rise to the modern name Java.

Sri Kedarnath Basu, in his work Hindu Civilisation, writes: "Java dvīpa, described as consisting of seven kingdoms, was probably the group of islands now called the Indian Archipelago, of which Java was at that time the most powerful". His observation affirms what the verses suggest—that these islands were not peripheral, but central to the maritime world of ancient India.

🌺 Sumatra- The Island of Gold: Sumatra was once known as Swarnadvīpa—the Island of Gold—and also as Svarnabhumi (सुवर्ण भूमि), the Land of Gold, in homage to the rich deposits hidden in its highlands. Over centuries, the name Svarna (सुवर्ण), meaning gold, gradually shifted: first into Samudra (समुद्र), meaning ocean, aligning with the island’s geography, and finally into Sumatra—a name that carries both the gleam of metal and the pull of the sea. According to Grimm’s Law of sound change, it’s a viable argument that the /d/ in Samudra could have shifted to /t/, helping shape the phonetic evolution toward Sumatra.

We must also observe another sound shift—from /g/ to /k/—also appears in Sumatra, in the name of the Kampar Kiri Hills. The word ‘kiri’ is a direct evolution of the Sanskrit giri, meaning mountain. In Indonesia, this kind of transformation is expected; the Sanskritic imprint is undeniable. But then—pause for a moment—this same root word shows up in Tanzania. Yes—Kilimanjaro. At first glance, it feels like a leap. But look closer: Kili is a softened version of Giri. And Manjaro? That’s Mandara, the mythical mountain from Sanskrit lore, famously used to churn the cosmic ocean mentioned in various scriptures. And that’s not all. Just 350 kilometres from Kilimanjaro stands Mount Meru, another name straight out of ancient Sanskrit cosmology.

The Sanskritic trail doesn’t stop there. The name of Mount Meru survives in Java in Meru Betiri National Park, a region that stretches from coastal plains to highlands reaching nearly 4,000 feet. However, the Rāmāyaṇa also mentions a tribe by the name Mandeha, which it says lives on Śālmali-dvīpa.

🌺 Rupayakam- The Island of Bali: Another inhabited island mentioned in the Rāmāyaṇa is Rupayakam-dvīpa, whose name in Sanskrit translates to Silvern Island. As Swarnadvīpa gleamed with gold and Yava flourished with grain, Bali became Rupayakam—the realm of silver.

Over time, the island came to be known as Jambava and Jambren—reflecting its wealth, a name derived from jambava (जाम्बव), also meaning gold. This golden epithet appeared in regional records up until the 7th century CE, giving the island a dual identity—gleaming with both silver and gold, like a land bathed in both moonlight and sunlight.

By the 7th century CE, the island underwent yet another transformation, adopting the name Bali, an evolution from its earlier designation, Jambren. According to legend, the revered sage Maharishi Markandeya visited the island when it was still cloaked in dense forest. He initiated its clearing to make it habitable, a sacred endeavour marked by ritual and sacrifice.

Rishi Markandeya’s legacy stretches from Bali to Samarkand.
Before Samarkand arose as the capital of the Sogdian satrapy, in around 550 BCE, territorially corresponding to present-day provinces of Samarkand and Bukhara in Uzbekistan and Sugd in Tajikistan, the city of Samarkand was known as Maracanda or Marakanda. 

As part of the spiritual undertaking brought into Bali, Markandeya and fellow rishis performed a profound ceremony: the planting of the panchadhatu (पंचधातु)—five elemental metals: gold, silver, copper, iron, and zinc. The process was perilous, and many rishis lost their lives in the attempt.

In honour of their sacrifice, the island was named Bali, from bali (बलि), meaning 'offering' in Sanskrit. The name commemorates both the ritual dedication and the lives given to sanctify the land. Though the name Rupayakam faded, its reflection remained in the island’s silver-lit waters and the graceful architecture of its temples—structures that seemed to rise from the sea like offerings themselves.

🌺 Simha Puri or Tamesek: Even Singapore, now a gleaming modern city, was once known as Simha Puri—the Lion City—in ancient texts. Its old name still resonates through its contemporary identity, a testament to the cultural continuity across time and tide. Its most ancient, recorded name was either Tamesek or a close cognate of that word, considering /t/ and /d/ are interchangeable sounds, in the journey of words. It was recorded or given by King Sang Nila Utama in 1299 AD. Perhaps its origin lies in the word dhama (धाम) meaning 'a centre of power' or 'pilgrimage' in Sanskrit that could have been brought there by the Buddhist monks. This name is seen repeatedly in place names in Singapore.

These islands, since prehistoric times, were never remote—they lay just off the Indic mainland, among the closest and most active centres of interaction. When the vānaras set foot here in the Rāmāyaṇa, they weren’t venturing into the unknown. They were treading a well-worn path, one shaped by centuries of movement. The journey wasn’t about discovery—it was about recognition. The land had already been named, mapped, and mined. Their steps followed those of traders, pilgrims, and miners before them, weaving their story into a landscape that had long been part of the subcontinent’s living network.

🌺 Mt. Shishira- A Celestial Landmark: As the vānaras press forward from the lush islands of Sumatra, Java, and Bali, they arrive at Mt. Shishira (शिशिर), a mountain described in the Rāmāyaṇa as one that 'pierces the heavens with its peak' (4.40.31). This evocative imagery conjures a towering, awe-inspiring summit—one that stands as a celestial marker in their epic journey.

On today’s map, the most prominent candidate for Mt. Shishira is Puncak Jaya, located in Papua, Indonesia—part of the island of New Guinea. Rising to 4,884 meters, it is the tallest mountain on any island in the world and the highest point between the Himalayas and the Andes. Its sheer prominence makes it an unmistakable landmark—perfectly suited to Sugrīva’s directive for the vānara search party.

But Puncak Jaya’s significance goes beyond elevation. Just under three kilometres from its summit lies the Grasberg Mine—the world’s second-largest gold-producing site. The presence of such mineral wealth suggests that ancient knowledge of gold reserves may have been subtly encoded in these epic narratives. The Rāmāyaṇa’s geographical references, far from being purely symbolic, may reflect a sophisticated awareness of natural resources and terrain.

To Sugrīva, Mt. Shishira is not merely a waypoint—it is a monumental beacon. Its towering presence, strategic location, and mineral richness make it a natural inclusion in the vānara route map.

🌺 Papua or the Land of Abundance: Papua stands apart—not only geographically, but in its staggering natural wealth. With vast deposits of gold and copper, substantial reserves of gas and crude oil, and over 63% of its land cloaked in dense forests, it holds the highest known plant diversity of any island on Earth. This is not a recent revelation; the idea of Papua as a land of abundance has long sailed across seas and been remembered in ancient crossings.

The name Papua is commonly believed to derive from the Malay word 'papuah', meaning 'frizzy'—a reference to the hair texture of the indigenous Papuans. But such ethnographic readings often miss the deeper logic of ancient place-naming. Rarely do the oldest names reflect transient tribal identities. More often, they arise from the land itself—from its character, its offerings, its elemental presence.

In his paper On the Origin of the Name Papua, scholar Sollewijn Gelpke explores multiple etymologies. One compelling thread traces the name to the Biak language, where 'papus' means 'riches' or 'goods'—a word reportedly uttered by locals on the arrival of ships. But perhaps it wasn’t the goods aboard the ships they were naming. Perhaps they were naming the land itself: 'papus' as a declaration of their identity—the name of their land.

In Sanskrit, the word papuri (पपुरि) carries the same meaning—'bountiful', 'abundant'. Given that Java, Sumatra, and Bali all bear names with Sanskrit roots, it is not unreasonable to consider that Papua, too, may share this linguistic lineage. This possibility gains strength when we consider one of its largest regions—Jayapura, a name of unmistakable Sanskrit origin, meaning 'land of victory' or 'land of prosperity'.

With 832 living languages spoken across Papua, the etymology may remain elusive. But the pattern is clear: the land has long been seen as rich, fertile, and full of promise. In lore, Papua was the land where the mountains breathe gold, and the rivers hum copper, and the trees speak in tongues older than time. Whether spoken in Biak, Sanskrit, or the language of the forest itself, Papua has always meant abundance.

The Puncak Jaya Peak, Papua, Indonesia. This is the 'Shishira' Peak mentioned in the Rāmāyaṇa

🌺 The Red Waters of Shona: Tracing the vānaras’ path to the Fly River: From the towering heights of Mt. Shishira, the Puncak Jaya of Papua, the vānaras descend toward a river described in the Rāmāyaṇa as Shona—a waterbody of 'rapid red waters' (शोण), whose name in Sanskrit literally means 'red' (4.40.33). This vivid description suggests not just speed and force, but a striking visual presence—perhaps due to mineral-rich soil, sediment, or the hue of the surrounding terrain.

The verse directs the vānaras to move toward 'the shore of the ocean', suggesting a southward trajectory. In the geography of present-day Papua, only one major river flows in that direction: the Fly River. It is the third largest river in Papua, and unlike the Mamberamo, Sepik, or Ramu rivers—which all empty northward into seas with no visible land beyond—the Fly River flows southward into the Gulf of Papua, toward the open ocean—the likely route to Śālmali-dvīpa. 

This alignment makes the Fly River the most plausible candidate for the ancient Shona. Its path matches the vānaras’ direction, and its scale and prominence would make it an unmistakable landmark. The Fly River’s reddish sediment, carried from the highlands and tinted by iron-rich soils, may well have inspired the name Shona—a river not only swift, but vividly marked by the land it courses through.

We pause here for a moment to dwell on the name of the River Ramu—possibly a softened version of the name Rāma. Rāma's name reverberates everywhere. In rivers, in songs, in stories whispered across generations.  The names of the other two tributaries of the Fly River, the Mamberamo and the Sepik, also contain the Sanskrit root words amba (अम्बा) meaning 'juice' or 'ambrosia', and stip (स्तिप्) meaning 'to seep', or 'ooze'.    

In Sugrīva’s route map, every landmark is chosen with precision. The Fly River, like Mt. Shishira before it, is not just a waypoint—it is a signpost in a journey that blends direction with meaning. As the vānaras move closer to Śālmali-dvīpa, each crossing becomes more than a passage—it becomes a recognition of a world already known, already named. 

🌺 The Coral Sea and the Southern Crossing: As the vānaras journey onward, Vālmīki describes their arrival at a furious, tide-ripped sea scattered with islands—a sea that roars with waves and resounds with noise. This vivid portrayal aligns with the behaviour of the Fly River at its mouth in Papua New Guinea, where it empties into the Coral Sea. The Fly River is known for its dramatic tidal bore, where incoming high tides from the Coral Sea push water upstream for nearly 240 kilometres inland, creating a tidal rhythm that reaches deep inland.

In the Rāmāyaṇa, this river is named Shona (शोण), meaning 'red' —a name that may have been inspired by the reddish sediment carried by the Fly River or the coppery hue of its waters. The sea into which it flows is called Lohita (लोहित), also Sanskrit for 'red', associated with blood, rubies, and the planet Mars. The Lohita Sea, tempestuous and island-strewn, corresponds closely to the Coral Sea.

🌺 The Islands of Torres Strait: From here, the vānaras are instructed to proceed to the islands of Plaksha and Ikshu, corresponding perhaps with the present-day Torres Strait Islands, which lie between Papua and Australia. Vālmīki’s description of the islands within this sea, called the Ikshusāgara, is stark: 'horrible islands', he writes, 'heaving with waves and making a resounding noise'. He warns the vānaras of lands inhabited by asuras—beings who have hungered for a long time. This may be a symbolic reference to the tribal and Aboriginal populations of Papua and beyond, whose presence and customs may have been unfamiliar to the epic’s author.

The Sanskrit word iksha (ईक्षा) means 'view' or 'sight', while plaksha (पलक्ष) can mean 'white' or 'shining'. The Torres Strait Islands are visible from the northern side, especially from the southern coast of Papua New Guinea. The strait is relatively narrow—about 150 km at its tightest—and includes a shallow chain of islands that nearly forms a land bridge between the two landmasses, hence connecting it quite naturally to the Island of Papua.

The islands are known to have been inhabited for over 2,500 years, and likely much earlier, as suggested by Indic texts. Their strategic location and shallow waters would have made them a natural passage, an ancient crossing point into the Australian continent, the stepping-stones toward Śālmali-dvīpa.

Based on its described vastness and oceanic isolation, many researchers have identified Śālmali-dvīpa with the Australian landmass. The Viṣṇu Purana offers a detailed portrait: Śālmali is surrounded by an ocean of ikshurasa (sugarcane juice) and is home to seven rivers and seven mountains rich in gems. Its inhabitants worship Viṣṇu in the form of Vayu, the wind god—suggesting a culture attuned to the elemental forces of air and motion. The journey of the vānaras moves from the familiar to the vast, from the mainland to a continent that breathes with the remembrance of ancient rites and elemental reverence—Śālmali-dvīpa.

IV. 🌺 Australia and New Zealand- the Śālmali-Dvīpa of the Rāmāyaṇa and Purāṇas:

In the Rāmāyaṇa, as the vānaras travel through the Islands of Ikshu and Palkshu, the vānaras are told that beyond these shores lies a landmass marked by 'mighty, tall, gnarled Śālmali (शाल्मली) trees'. Throughout the epic, Vālmīki often associates the names of regions with the most prominent local trees, such as the jamun for Jambhudvīpa. In this context, it suggests that northern Australia may have been densely forested with Śālmali trees.

The Sanskrit term Śālmali corresponds botanically to Salmalia Malabarica, with Bombax ceiba as a synonym. Northern regions of Australia, such as Cape York near the Gulf of Carpentaria, still host dense forests of Śālmali today. The Śālmali Tree, or Silk-Cotton Tree, is known locally as the 'Kapok' in Australia. The term ‘Kapok’ may derive from Sanskrit karpas (कार्पास) meaning 'cotton', which has been cultivated in India for millennia.

🌺 The Root ambh अम्भ्) in Australian Place Names: One of the first lands the vānaras might have encountered after crossing Ikshu and Palkshu (the Torres Strait) is Kurumba. Karumba lies in the Gulf Country region of Queensland. In its name, we see the Sanskrit root amba, meaning 'water'—indicating the presence of water. This is no coincidence; the root ambh and its variants appear in many Australian waterbody names.

In his 1886 paper, The Aboriginal Names of Rivers in Australia Philologically Examined, Reverend MacPherson observed:

“In the vocabularies we notice ambaai, a lagoon; Andalumbah, a spring; Kalumbo, salt water in Western Australia. In gazetteers, we find Arnby River, Einbo Creek, Uamby Creek, Wambo Ponds, Combo Creek, Vecomba Lake, Mowamba River, Wallombi Brook, and Yarimba Creek. The combination of ‘mb’ supplies some of the most stately forms for names of streams, such as Wararnba and Warragamba Rivers. Also, a name like Tumby Island in South Australia shows that root-words for ‘water’ are used to denote islands and promontories".

Elsewhere, he noted:
“But in dealing with ‘mb’, there must not be omitted the form ambr, meaning 'water' in Sanskrit".

This suggests that the word for water in Aboriginal Australian languages may share roots with Sanskrit. The origin of these linguistic roots will be explored further in the following sections.

The traditional custodians of the Karumba region, which had been inhabited for thousands of years, were the Gangalidda and Waanyi peoples, their names akin to the Sanskrit Gaṅgā (गङ्गा ) - the 'river', and vanya (वन्य), 'forest-dwellers'.

🌺 The peak-like mansion of the Rāmāyaṇa and the Gympie-Pyramid:
In Verse 4-4-40, Vālmīki describes a fascinating structure that the vānaras would encounter as they venture ahead in Śālmali-dvīpa. He instructs the vānaras to search for Sītā at the site of 'a gigantic, peak-like mansion resembling Mt. Kailāśa'. He adds that this awe-inspiring edifice was constructed by Vishvakarma, the celestial architect. He describes it as the mansion belonging to Vinata's son. 

Here is the verse:
गृहम् च वैनतेयस्य नाना रत्न विभूषितम् |
तत्र कैलास संकाशम् विहितम् विश्वकर्मणा || ४-४०-४०
There, built by Vishvakarma, peak-like, gigantic, resembling Kailāśa, is the mansion of Vinata's offspring. 4-40-40

An examination of the location of this Kailāśa-like structure in Śālmali-dvīpa, as described in the Rāmāyaṇa, reveals a compelling alignment with the broken-down pyramid at Gympie in Queensland, which must once have been magnificent. The vānaras, following the natural course laid out by Vālmīki, would have journeyed from the islands of Indonesia toward the southern lands—making Gympie a compelling waypoint on their search for Sītā. Not only does Gympie lie directly along this trajectory, but it also precedes the vānaras’ approach to a beautiful island further ahead across the ocean—an island whose identity remains veiled for now. 

While other peak-like structures may have once dotted the Australian landscape, no archaeological evidence has yet verified their existence. Gympie, however, stands as a tantalising candidate: a weathered monument that embodies the grandeur of Vishvakarma’s celestial architecture, and perhaps the very mansion of Vinata’s son described in the epic.

This verse reveals that Vishvakarma, the celestial architect whose name graces many ancient Hindu texts, and who is eternally linked with the creation of magnificent cities and mansions, built a megalithic wonder even in Śālmali-dvīpa. If Vishvakarma’s architectural genius extended to such distant lands, might he represent a forgotten archetype—a symbolic name for the master builders of megaliths across the world? From the dolmens of Europe to the stone alignments of Australia, we find no singular name for these ancient engineers in any other culture. 

Vishvakarma—from vishva (world) and karma (act or deed)—may well be a timeless cypher for this global legacy of creation. In this light, the Gympie Pyramid and other enigmatic structures become part of a shared architectural tradition, reflecting a shared impulse to shape the Earth in stone, guided by a cosmic blueprint.

🌺 The Meru of Australia: When early British settlers searching for gold arrived in Gympie in 1858, they recorded the Gympie Pyramid name as 'Meru'ndai'. 

And so, there it is. A Meru in Queensland, Australia! 

Meru'ndai stands broken but not forgotten. Its stones once sang with the River Maroochy, whose name still carries the breath of Meru. Four mountain peaks rise like sentinels—Coolum in the east, Ninderry in the west, Cooran to the north, and Blackall to the southwest—marking the tilted corners of a southern mandala. The River Maroochy flows through them, its name an ode to the magnificence of Meru. 

Near the Coolum Creek Nature Reserve, lies the confluence of the Maroochy River with the Coolum Creek; the name Coolum is a subtle reminder of Sanskrit kūla (कूल), meaning 'bank', 'river' or 'shore'.

Four peaks encircle the Maroochy River like sentinels— Coolum, Ninderry, Cooran, and Blackall— framing the axis of Meru'ndai.

The mountain names themselves tell a story. The natives say that the name of Mt. Coolum derives from the Gubbi Gubbi words 'gulum' or 'kulum', meaning 'blunt' or 'headless'—a fitting description of Mount Coolum’s distinctive peakless form. These words are cognates of the Sanskrit term khalla (खल्ल), which also denotes something blunt or truncated. Yet the mountain may also derive its name from kūla, meaning 'river', as this word appears frequently in river names across Queensland.

Queensland becomes especially fascinating when viewed through the Sanskrit-Rāmāyaṇic-Puranic lens. Mt. Ninderry appears to conceal the Sanskrit root adri, meaning 'mountain', woven subtly into its name. Cooran comes from the Gubbi Gubbi word 'gur'i', meaning 'mountain', closely mirroring the Sanskrit giri, which shares the same meaning. The ancient name of Blackall remains unknown, shrouded in mystery. Interestingly, the Gubbi Gubbi word for river is 'girar', which is a clear variation of the Sanskrit jhara, meaning 'stream' or 'river'.

We also see the name Meru in Queensland’s place names. For example, Goomeri, located near Gympie, was earlier known as Gu'ma'ri'nu. Since /g/ and /k/ are considered interchangeable in Indo-European phonetics, the name Goomeri may be a distortion of Kumeru, a Sanskrit term. In Puranic lore, Kumeru is 'the Meru of the south'. These linguistic traces hint at deeper connections between the Indic civilisation and ancient Australia.

The ruins of the Gympie Pyramid were recorded as Meru'ndai by the British.  Vālmīki describes a Pyramid-like structure on a seacoast in Śālmali-dvīpa in the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Book 4-40-40

🌺 Revisiting Torres Strait: The name Meru'ndai is significant, and therefore, we revisit the geography of the Torres Strait. On the eastern section of the Torres Strait lies a group of islands known as the Mer Islands, whose name has now changed to Murray. This region also belongs to the state of Queensland.

For thousands of years, Mer Islnad has been the home to some of the major tribes in the islands. On the western edge of this basaltic island stands the plateau of an extinct volcano. Geologically, it is from the eruption of this volcano that the island was created. Aboriginal tribes across Queensland are collectively known as the Murri people. Evidently, this volcanic mountain may have once been designated Meru by them.

Murri Aboriginal elders of the Meru'ndai region were known as the 'ngtja guru'.  The name 'ngtja guru' is also derived from Sanskrit. In Sanskrit, 'nya' (नय), 'naya' (नाय) and 'nayak' (नायक) all mean 'guide'. 'Guru' is a well-known Sanskrit word. Thus, the elders were known as the 'guide gurus' of the community. The people here called themselves by the names Kabi-Kabi and Gubi-Gubi. According to the Dictionary of the Gubi-Gubi, the people here also referred to Pleiades as Murin-Murin.

🌺 The Kabi Kabi people and the Constellation of the Pleaides: The Kabi Kabi people show not only linguistic similarity but also mythic continuity with the Indic tradition, as is evident from the following. The Kabi Kabi people believe their name is linked to the constellation Pleiades. This lore was first recorded by Presbyterian missionaries who visited Gympie in 1923 and later republished in the Cairns Post in 1938.

One of the key sources of this knowledge was Namatu, a respected tribal elder. Renowned for his deep understanding of Aboriginal history and traditions, Namatu lived in Mapoon, a remote community at the northern tip of Queensland near the Torres Strait.

During the missionaries’ visit, Namatu explained: “The Pleiades are Kabi-Kabi, meaning a group of girls, and other stars are named after similar animals—such as snakes and emus". This quote is preserved on the website ancient-Australia.org, which documents Indigenous Australian cosmology and oral tradition. 

In this legend, we find remnants of Indic cosmology—specifically the lore surrounding the celestial Sapta Rishis and the seven Krittika Sisters. In Sanskrit, the Pleiades are known as Krittika, a cluster of stars personified as seven sisters who are traditionally believed to be married to the seven sages of the Sapta Rishi constellation, identified with Ursa Major. It is highly plausible that the 'group of girls' mentioned by the Kabi Kabi people corresponds to these seven Krittika Sisters, suggesting a fascinating cross-cultural resonance in star lore.

🌺 The Mandeha Tribe: The Rāmāyaṇa enriches our understanding of this enigmatic region by describing its inhabitants—the Mandeha tribesmen—who, according to Vālmīki, dwelt along the cliffs of Śālmali-dvīpa’s coast, near a radiant, Kailāśa-like structure attributed to Vishvakarma. We have identified this structure’s location in Gympie, near the coast of present-day Brisbane.

Vālmīki offers a vivid and symbolic portrayal of the Mandeha tribe: towering beings of various terrifying shapes, described as hanging upside down from mountain peaks. Each day, they are said to fall into the water below, scorched by the rising sun and weakened by the power of the Gayatri mantra, yet they reappear persistently, suspended once again on the mountain-tops. (Rāmāyaṇa 4.40.42–43a)

Rather than literal demonology, this passage reflects the visual unfamiliarity of distant peoples—dark-skinned, differently clothed, and dwelling in cliffside terrain—filtered through the lens of ancient cosmology. Vālmīki, himself a forest sage of humble origin, was not describing from a place of racial superiority but from mythic imagination shaped by limited contact and inherited archetypes.

The Yajurveda adds to the saga of the Mandeha, portraying them as beings who resist the rising sun, attempting to obstruct its ascent each morning. The Gayatri Mantra, in this context, becomes a metaphysical invocation—dispelling forces that stall the dawn, both literal and symbolic.

This cyclical battle between light and shadow, described in both the Rāmāyaṇa and Yajurveda, unfolds on the shores of Śālmali-dvīpa, also known as Aruna-dvīpa. The Purāṇas tell us that Aruna-dvīpa was inhabited by the Aruna tribe. Aruna, the charioteer of Surya, symbolises the dawn itself—an acknowledgement of the eastern lands where the sun first rises. We will explore this Puranic geography in the description of the Uru civilisation of Australia.

Intriguingly, the name Mandeha appears on modern maps of Indonesia, notably on Mandeh Island in the Puncak Mandeh region of Java. This suggests that the Mandeha may have once inhabited a vast coastal stretch from Java to eastern Australia. The continuity of this name across ancient texts and present geography lends weight to the possibility of a deep, transoceanic cultural presence—one that may have extended from India’s shores to Indonesia’s archipelagos, and onward to the cliffs near Brisbane.

🌺 A Point to Ponder: Ancient Indian texts describe the Mandeha tribe—a vividly depicted people—more concretely than they do any tribe called Arya, a term meaning 'noble', that was never an ethnic label. The entrenched narrative of an Aryan migration or invasion remains a powerful story but not an uncontested fact. Seen in this light, the 'demon-like' portrayal of the Mandeha in the Rāmāyaṇa and Purāṇas holds a potency that can surpass scholarly consensus, illustrating how narratives can shape, suppress, or obscure deeper truths. The frequent citation of absent empirical evidence to uphold prevailing views may arise less from a true lack of data and more from embedded biases and constructed frameworks. The story of the Mandeha invites us to re-examine accepted histories, revealing how so-called myths often veil complex realities, and how some widely accepted theories might merit serious reconsideration.

Puncak Mandeh Hill at Mandeh Island, Java. The Yajur Veda and the Rāmāyaṇa mention a fierce Mandeha Tribe.

🌺 The Cooran Mountains: The Glass House Mountains found in the hinterland of Queensland's Sunshine Coast are also known by their ancient name—the Cooran. The Dictionary of the Gubi-Gubi and Butchulla Languages, compiled by Jeannie Bell in 1994, states that the name Cooran derives from the word guran, which means 'tall'. It also states, “Guran the name is doubtlessly derived from the word gira, meaning mountains". Here, we see the Sanskrit giri yet again. Sanskritic connections continue to accumulate—we have already come across guru, meru and giri.

There is one more intriguing word found in the vocabulary of the Gubi Gubi people: a variation of the Sanskrit jhara or jhari, which means 'river' or 'waterfall'. In the Gubi Gubi tradition, we see river names such as Yangari and Yerra. We also see jharan and jhari in the names for the water-rail bird known as djaran, and a water-spirit known as gan'dja'ri.

Clean water is called goong'gal, and a water spring is gung'gou-wu'roo'man. These two words seem to carry a memory of the Gaṅgā or the Ganges. Running water is known as wiran, cognate of the Sanskrit vari, meaning 'water', and so on. 

The Brisbane River was known as the Maiwar, with vari, embedded in the suffix 'war', in the Turbal language indigenous to Brisbane. In the early 1900s, a certain Mr A. Merton, Protector of the Aboriginals, informed in a letter to the editors of 'The Queenslander', Volume LXI, no. 1343, dated August 1901, that the Yuggarr tribesmen referred to all streams and creeks of the Brisbane River as 'Warrill'.  

🌺 The Artefacts of Gympie: The remnants of the Gympie Pyramid have now been erased by modern development, with a road now cutting directly through the site. Though the structure was already in ruins, its base remained visible until recent years. Official denials and a flurry of debunking theories have sought to dismiss the site's significance. Yet intriguing artefacts discovered nearby suggest Gympie may once have held deeper historical relevance.

One possible clue lies in the region’s natural wealth. In 1421: The Year China Discovered the World, Gavin Menzies writes: “Until 1920, Gympie remained Queensland’s largest and richest goldfield” (p. 221). This abundance of gold invites a parallel to ancient descriptions of sacred architecture—particularly the mythic structure said to be adorned with countless jewels and gleaming like Mount Kailāśa, the radiant abode of Shiva. Might the memory of such a jewel-like monument have flowed across geographies, leaving behind both physical traces and symbolic imprints?

🌺 Gympie’s Ape, Hanumān Across Oceans: Among the most enigmatic finds is the so-called 'Gympie Ape', often compared to the Egyptian god Thoth. However, given the geographic and cultural proximity of India to Australia via the archipelagos of Sumatra, Java, and Bali, it is equally plausible to interpret the figure as Hanumān. This opens compelling avenues for exploring ancient maritime routes, mythological diffusion, and early astronomical traditions.

🌺 DNA, Migration, and the Southern Route Hypothesis: Adding scientific weight to these cultural remnants, Dr Raghavendra Rao of the Anthropological Survey of India has presented DNA evidence linking Indian tribal populations with Australian Aboriginal peoples. His team’s research suggests that humans may have reached Australia via a southern coastal route through India, with a shared ancestor dating back approximately 50,000 years. This genetic link strengthens the case for ancient interactions between the two regions—well before recorded history. The genetic links, alongside artefacts and place names, also suggest that the vānaras’ remembered routes may align with real migrations.

🌺 Unacknowledged Discoveries and Academic Silence: Amateur researchers have uncovered numerous anomalies around Gympie—often dismissed due to their informal discovery and lack of archaeological context. Yet their sheer volume suggests a pattern worth examining. The refusal of universities to investigate reflects a troubling trend: where scepticism calcifies into neglect. Dismissing unconventional evidence without inquiry risks overlooking insights that could reshape our understanding.

🌺 The Uru Civilisation of Australia: Before moving ahead with the vānaras, we examine the earliest known civilisation of Australia: The Uru. Megalithic sites attributed to between 30,000 and 50,000 years, comprises of extensive sites in the central west of New South Wales. The Sun is the most prominent symbol seen in the megaliths erected by the Uru of Australia. According to researcher Rex Gilroy, “Modern-day observations at the Australian megalithic sites erected by the Uruans suggest that they were already aware of the Summer and Winter Solstices [22nd December and 22nd June respectively] in a remarkably ancient period".

The Uruans worshipped the Sky-Father and Mother Earth. However, it is the Sun that takes prominence as the most common and recurring symbol here. Culturally and etymologically, there seem to commonalities with eastern traditions. In Sanskrit, aru (अरु) and aruna both mean 'sun'. In Balinese, ‘aruna’ is one of the words for 'dawn' or 'sunrise', much like Sanskrit. ‘Aruna’ has the same meaning in the Burmese language. We have already observed that the Purāṇas refer to Śālmali-dvīpa, or Australia, as Aruna-dvīpa. Perhaps it is from the root aru that the Uru civilisation takes its name. The Jaina texts describe a huge landmass called Aruna-dvīpa, surrounded by the Arunoda Ocean, a definite reference to the waters surrounding Australia.

In the Gubi-Gubi language of Queensland, though the word for sun is 'deerum', sunrise translates as 'deerum wandam', and wandam is such a close cognate of Sanskrit vandan (वन्दन), meaning 'welcome ', making it tempting to read 'deerum wandam' as surya-vandan, with 'deerum' arising from suryam. In Indonesian, the Sanskrit surya is still in use, but now for the most part the word hari is used, which also derives from surya, the /s/ having changed to /h/. Similarly, the Gubi Gubi deerum may be a changed form of the Sanskrit surya, possibly via Indonesian.

🌺 Sanskritic Australian Place Names: Many Aboriginal place names in New South Wales reveal linguistic parallels with Sanskrit. The word Jarra commonly appears in locations associated with waterfalls, oases, or rivers—similar to jhara (झर) in Sanskrit, meaning 'waterfall' or 'body of water'. Puritjarra likely derives from Purit (पूरित), meaning 'complete' or 'filled with', and Jhara, meaning 'water', suggesting it may have once been a water-rich region.

Similarly, Jarpa in Puntujarpa may be a distortion of jhara, while Puntu could stem from pAnt (पान्त), meaning 'drink'. Kultukjarra, the Aboriginal name for River Docker, further supports these connections.

In the name Kultukjarra, we not only see the word jhara, but also kūla. And this is not the only example. The Mary River in Brisbane carries many names, each with suffixes that are variations of kūla: Moonaboola, Numabulla and Mooraboocoola. The ancient indigenous name of the Tweed River, near Brisbane, was Coolangatta. The prefix 'cool' here is a variation of kūla. These examples are not coincidences.

Several ancient sites—including Puritjarra, Puntujarpa, and Papunya—have yielded artefacts like stone tools (microliths) that closely resemble those used in ancient India. In 1984, researcher Klim Gollan proposed that the dingo-dogs were introduced to Australia from India, a conclusion later supported by a study in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, which found that dingoes likely arrived from India around 4,000 years ago. This was a significant finding, as it established ancient connections with Australia.

Many more names across Australia reflect Sanskrit influences, such as Dhandara Creek, located at the Coombadjha sacred site in northern New South Wales. In Sanskrit, dhana (धन) means 'bounty', and dhara (धारा) means 'flowing water'. Coombadjha appears to be a distortion of Kambhoja (कम्बोज)—the name of an ancient sage, brother to Agastya and friend of Vasistha, all of whom are mentioned in the Rāmāyaṇa. The name Cambodia similarly derives from Kambhoja, and the Australian site Coombadjha probably takes its name via Indonesia’s Kambhoja.

Other Aboriginal names reveal a Sanskritic nuance: Kampur-apa, Pa-Punya, Wintal-lynga, and Kaltu-aranya display Sanskrit nuances. Kampur displays the suffix pura, or village; punya (पुण्य) means 'pure' or 'holy'; linga (लिङ्ग) references Lord Shiva; and aranya (अरण्य) means both 'forest' and 'wilderness'.

This list, of course, is far from exhaustive. Many other Australian place names can be decoded using Sanskrit and Tamil, revealing deeper historical and linguistic connections.

🌺 The Dazzling Shoreline of the Rāmāyaṇa: We once again return to our journey with the vānaras. The identification of the 'Kailāśa-like mansion' with the Gympie Pyramid gains further credibility from the Rāmāyaṇa’s description of the route ahead: after the search party crosses this towering, peak-like structure, they arrive at a dazzling shoreline shaped like a necklace. This gleaming coastal arc closely resembles the white-sand beaches near Brisbane, an earthly reflection of Vālmīki’s verse.

🌺 Vālmīki's Sudharshana Island and New Zealand: Beyond the necklace-shaped coast, the Rāmāyaṇa charts a route across oceans and islands. The first of these is the Milky Ocean—Kshira Sāgara—where the vānaras encounter a towering peak named Rishabha. This ocean, identified with the present-day Tasman Sea, lies between Australia and New Zealand and contains the island of Tasmania. 

The ancient name of Tasmania is recorded as Lutruwita, derived from earlier forms such as Loe-trou-witter and Trow-wer-nar, likely rooted in one of the Tasmanian languages. In Oceanic tongues like Maori, the element vara frequently appears in words related to water. This suggests that 'wer' in Trow-wer-nar may also signify water.

According to Grimm’s Law, the sounds t and d are interchangeable, allowing us to link the Maori word 'trow' to the Sanskrit drava (द्रव), meaning 'water'—a fitting reference to the ocean surrounding Tasmania. In Indonesian, 'drava' is translated as 'river', and Fiji has an island named Dravuni, reinforcing this aquatic connection.

A similar phonetic shift appears in the Maori word ‘tawhiti’, meaning 'to run'. According to Adele Schaefer, a leading scholar of Maori, 'tawhiti' derives from the Sanskrit dhāvate (धावते), i.e. 'he runs'. This pattern of sound and meaning continues in placenames across Australia, such as Travana and Trawalla.

Thus Tasmania, Lutruwita, and the Tasman Sea may be remembered in Vālmīki’s Sudharshana Island—where vānaras crossed the Milky Ocean, and where Sanskritic echoes still ripple in Oceanic tongues.

🌺 Mt. Rishabha of the Rāmāyaṇa, and Mount Taranaki: Somewhere near the Milky Ocean, the Rāmāyaṇa describes a colossal white mountain named Rishabha, sheltering a silvery lake called Sudharshana, inhabited by celestial beings—devas, apsaras, and kinnaras.

On today’s map, if one were to cross the ocean from Gympie on Australia’s eastern coast, the first major landmass encountered would be New Zealand. Among the peaks visible from the coastline, Mount Taranaki on the North Island stands out—its isolated volcanic prominence and symmetrical cone make it a natural beacon for oceanic travellers. This mountain may well be the Rishabha that Vālmīki describes.

For the Maori, Taranaki is sacred. Its pristine streams and towering presence anchor spiritual traditions and regional identity. The name itself invites linguistic exploration: in Sanskrit, tarA (तारा) means 'star', 'shining', or 'excellent', while naku (नाकु) denotes 'mountain'. Together, Taranaki translates as 'Star Mountain'.

In Maori, however, the structure reverses. Tara is believed to signify 'mountain', while ‘naki’ or ‘nagi’ suggests 'star' or 'shining'. Despite the inversion, the core meaning remains intact—Mount Star. Intriguingly, the words ‘naku’ and ‘naki’ also appear in ancient South American languages, where they similarly denote 'mountain'. One example is Tiva-naku, a peak at the megalithic site of Tiwanaku in Bolivia. As we shall see, the vānaras’ journey continues toward the continent now known as South America.

Yet Taranaki, sacred though it is, is not New Zealand’s highest peak. Another candidate for Rishabha is Mount Cook—Aoraki in Maori, whose elevation and prominence make it a compelling match. In Sanskrit, rishabha (ऋषभ) means 'bull', but also 'superior' or 'eminent', aptly describing the mountain’s stature. The Maori name Aoraki is often interpreted as a variation of Ariki, meaning 'paramount chief' or 'high-ranking leader'. Sugrīva’s identification of Rishabha as the paramount peak aligns with this interpretation, suggesting that Vālmīki may have been referring to Mount Cook after all.

🌺 Lake Taupo and Rotomahana: The Sudharshana of the Rāmāyaṇa: Among the landmarks described in the Rāmāyaṇa is a silvery lake named Sudharshana—a name that translates to 'beautiful' or 'auspicious'. It is said to lie on an island, frequented by celestial beings, suggesting not only its sacredness but also its prominence in the landscape.

In today’s geography, the largest lake in New Zealand is Lake Taupo, spanning approximately 616 square kilometres. Formed by a cataclysmic volcanic eruption some 26,500 years ago, Taupo is a crater lake of immense scale and power, second only to Lake Eyre in Oceania.

The Maori name Taupo is interpreted as a 'rough black and yellow cloak', evoking the volcanic terrain that surrounds it. In Sanskrit, the word tapa (तप) offers a compelling parallel meaning 'heat', but also denotes spiritual austerity and transformative discipline. In Indic tradition, tapa is the fire of purification, the inner force that reshapes the soul. The volcanic upheaval that birthed Lake Taupo mirrors this process: nature’s own tapa, forging beauty through intensity.

Yet Taupo, though vast, may not be the lake that Vālmīki was referring to. Another contender is Lake Rotomahana, revered as the most sacred lake in New Zealand. Their names carry Sanskrit roots: mahana (महान) means 'great', 'sacred', or 'eminent'. The Maori word roto—meaning 'lake'—may derive from the Sanskrit srota (स्रोत), meaning 'stream' or 'spring'. Thus, Rotomahana—or more precisely Srotamahana—translates as 'great lake' or 'sacred spring', aligning closely with Sudharshana.

In Maori, ‘mahana’ also means 'warmth', and by extension, 'cordiality' or 'reverence'. A ‘marae’ (traditional meeting place) is said to be ‘mahana’ when elders are present—warm not just in temperature, but in spirit. This semantic shift from 'great' to 'warm' is subtle, yet it preserves the essence of sacred presence. Then there is the Maori 'tapu' meaning 'sacred', like the Sanskrit tapah, which means both 'austerity' as well as 'warmth'.

While ancient lakes may have changed shape over millennia, sacred sites endure through memory. The Rāmāyaṇa describes Sudharshana as a place 'frequented by the celestials'—a phrase that signals its mythic gravity. Such places are remembered not through cartography alone, but through oral tradition, reverence, and the continuity of sacred association.

V.🌺 Polynesia- A Detour from the Vānaras’ Course:

Before rejoining the vānaras on their arduous journey—one that spans five oceans—we pause at a site nestled in the heart of those waters: the islands of Polynesia, where imprints of Indic and Maori culture still surface.

The Polynesian Triangle defines this vast region of the Pacific, with its three anchor points: Hawaii in the north, Rapa Nui (Easter Island) in the east, and Aotearoa (New Zealand) in the southwest. 

The three corners of the Polynesian Triangle: 1: Hawai‘i, United States; 2: New Zealand; 3: Easter Island, Chile; 4: Samoa; 5: Tahiti, French Polynesia.

The triangle encompasses a rich constellation of island cultures, each speaking a Polynesian language. Mainstream scholars trace these languages to Proto-Austronesian, spoken in Southeast Asia some 5,000 years ago. Yet it is well established that Sanskrit was the mother language of ancient Southeast Asia—a linguistic root system from which many branches grew.

🌺 The Polynesian-India Connect: Dr E. S. Craighill Handy once described Polynesian culture as 'a mere index to Indian history', a provocative claim supported by a wealth of cultural and archaeological evidence. The vānaras’ journey, too, hints at a deep prehistory of exploration in this land, where knowledge and culture travelled across oceans long before recorded civilisations.

Evidence of ancient maritime routes emerges in striking ways:
i. Scriptural imprints: The glyphs of Easter Island bear a resemblance to the undeciphered script of the Indus Valley Civilisation. Harappan society, known for its urban sophistication and maritime trade, may have seeded cultural exchanges across the Pacific.

ii. Mythic parallels: Polynesian hero Māui and Indian Hanumān share uncanny traits. Māui lassoed the sun to lengthen daylight; Hanumān leapt toward the sun, mistaking it for a fruit. Both figures engage with celestial forces, embody playful strength, and shape mythic time.
iii. Navigational kinship: Polynesian seafarers read stars, swells, and bird paths—techniques mirrored in ancient Indian navigation. This continuity suggests a shared tradition rather than mere coincidence.

Rather than viewing these figures and motifs as isolated myths, we might see them as cultural emissaries—traces of an age of exploration that predates written history. The movement of rice-growing tribes, the memory of Kikata and Magadha, and the mythic correspondence of Hanumān and Māui all point to a deeper, older web of connection—woven across oceans, encoded in names, and carried in story.

🌺 Tracing Sanskrit Remnants in Polynesian Speech:  Across the scattered islands of Polynesia, the memory of an ancient, mythical homeland persists in many names, each echoing a Sanskritic cadence. The Maori of Aotearoa (New Zealand) speak of their original homeland as Hawaiki, Iriha, Atia, Tawhiti, Uru, and Mataora—names rich with layered meanings. They all seem to carry an Indic resonance.

i. Hawaiki: Hawaiki is described in Māori tradition as a tapu place—sacred, spiritual, and unknown. In its name lingers a reflection of the Sanskrit root tap (तप्), meaning 'penance' or 'ascetic radiance'. Tapu also denotes ‘island’ in Sanskrit, and perhaps the word was first adopted to refer to the island of New Zealand, while the memory of tapu as ‘island’ still endured. Over time, as the language faded, the word came to signify a mythical homeland.

ii. Iriha: Another name preserved in Maori lore is Iriha. In his 1923 paper 'The Origin of the Maori', published in the Journal of the Polynesian Society, Elsdon Best traces Iriha to India. He writes:

“We now come to the name of Irihia, and here encounter two interesting facts. In the first place, we know that an old Sanskrit name for India was Vrihia, and no Maori could pronounce this name otherwise than as Irihia or Wirihia". The Maori word for rice is 'aruhi' and appears to be a cognate of Sanskrit vrihi.

iii. Atia-te-varinga-nui: In the Rarotongan traditions, the original homeland of the Maori was known as Atia-te-varinga-nui. In the article, Hawaiki: The Original Home of the Maori (1921), author Percy Smith had suggested that the Rarotongan word 'varinga' (mud) might derive from the Indian word for rice 'vrihi'. The Sanskrit vrihi (व्रीहि), meaning rice, aligns with Percy Smith's translation of Atia-te-varinga-nui as 'the be-riced place'. Though this view has not gained wide acceptance, Smith may have had a point: the Māori word for rice is aruhi, which is a cognate of Sanskrit vrihi, possibly linked to 'varinga' in his interpretation. 

🌺 Varinga, Vanga or Bengal: The linguistic memory of the place described as 'Atia-te-varinga-nui' offers more than a glimpse into Maori origins—it may, in fact, help us recover the etymology of Vanga in India, the ancient name of Bengal.  The Maori name Varinga, describing a land of abundant rice, may preserve the semantic core. Bengal, as in antiquity, remains India’s largest grower of vrihi or rice. 

The word varinga also resembles varinidhi (वारिनिधि), meaning ‘ocean’, and in Vedic tradition Varinatha (वारिनाथ) is the ‘lord of the ocean’. Perhaps, in the name Atia-te-varinga-nui, 'varinga' is a reverent nod to the 'god of the ocean' or even to 'the sea-crossing ancestors' of the Maoris who reached Polynesia.

🌺 Magadha Empire and Kikata in Maori Lore: Historically, Bengal was part of Magadha. The empire’s first king, Jarasandha, belonged to the Brahadratha or Vrahadratha dynasty, a name possibly derived from vrihi, the rice-rich identity of Magadha. 

Magadha was also known as Kikata (कीकट) in its earlier days. 

The Ṛgveda (3.53.14) designates the Kikata people as non-Aryan, lacking noble traits and unfamiliar with Vedic rites. The word kikata itself means 'poor' or 'greedy'- it surely must have been an exonym for the people of Maghada, before it became a great power.  Whether driven out or choosing exile, these early tribes may have migrated eastward from Kikata, Magadha, and Vanga—carrying with them the memory of King Brahadratha and the name Vrihia, which resurfaces in the Maori lore in distant lands. 

🌺 The Pacific Rim of Fire: As the vānaras continue their journey eastward, they encounter a phenomenon described in the Rāmāyaṇa in verse 4.40.48:

“There exists a fantastically refulgent Fire in the form of a Horse’s Face that originated from the anger of Sage Aurasa. The sustenance for that Fire is said to be the highly speedy waves of the ocean, together with all the chara (mobile) and achara (fixed or rooted) beings of the world, which are swept into the fire at the close of each Era".

The verse describes a colossal fire, born of wrath, with the form of a horse’s face—consuming all living and non-living beings.
Vālmīki expands on its magnitude, writing that at the end of each epoch or era, a fire arises with an energy that engulfs all things, mobile or immobile, and the entire Creation becomes its fuel. He describes its oceanic roar—it sounds so fearsome that it can incapacitate even the most capable.

This imagery closely aligns with the myth of Vadabagni, also known as Vadavanala—a submarine fire in Hindu mythology that remains hidden beneath the ocean until the end of an era, Pralaya. Vadabāgni is said to originate from the mouth of a mare, Vadavamukha—a representation of its immense power and insatiable nature, devouring the seas and all within them.

This fiery force described in mythology is not merely symbolic; it finds a parallel in real-world geography—the Pacific Ring of Fire, a vast region known for volcanic activity and seismic disturbances.

The Ring of Fire is a roughly 40,000 km horseshoe-shaped belt of volcanoes and seismic activity that traces the major tectonic plate boundaries around the Pacific Ocean.  Its zone stretches from the coasts of Australia and New Zealand to the western edge of the Americas, encompassing most of Earth’s active volcanoes. Submarine eruptions, sulfuric emissions, and boiling waters create hostile marine conditions. Vālmīki’s precise descriptions—particularly of the terrifying Jaloda Sea—suggest an advanced awareness of such oceanic hazards, knowledge that Sugrīva appears to have understood as he sent his teams across perilous landscapes.

If the vānaras travelled eastward, encountering this phenomenon, the reference to a horse-faced fire beneath the ocean could be a reflection of their experiences navigating treacherous waters and witnessing volcanic eruptions along the Pacific tectonic zone.

The journey of the vānaras, as hinted in ancient texts, seems to align with historical maritime routes—passing through regions of intense geothermal activity. Their encounter with fire emerging from the ocean may have been a real and observable event, later encoded into mythology as the destructive Vadabāgni, waiting to rise at the end of time.

East of Australia lies a segment of the Pacific Ring of Fire. Vālmīki describes it in the Rāmāyaṇa as the 'Fantastic Refulgent Fire in the form of a Horse Face'.

VI. Transition Toward the Serpent’s Head:

Having crossed the Jaloda Sea—identified with the Pacific Ocean and its fiery rim—the vānaras now approach another vast expanse of water: the Swadu Sea. This is the Southern Ocean, also known as the Antarctic Ocean, which encircles the frozen continent.

From here, Vālmīki offers a concise directive: as the vānaras head northward from the Swādu Sea, travelling a distance of 13 yojanās, a land described as Jata-rupa-shila (जातरूप) will come into view (Rāmāyaṇa 4.40.50). This phrase, often translated as 'land of gold and stone', more precisely evokes a gold-like stone peak—a gleaming, mountainous terrain. Geographically, this corresponds to the southern tip of Chile, the vānaras’ next destination, which Vālmīki refers to sometimes as Sudarshana-dvīpa, at other times as the land where Viṣṇu placed a foot while measuring the world in three steps.

 
The closest marine route between New Zealand and South America is a direct path to Chile’s southern tip. The most efficient oceanic crossing leads from Tauranga, New Zealand, to Valparaíso, Chile, a voyage of approximately 34 days. This aligns precisely with Sugrīva’s directive for the vānaras to head straight toward this region.

Vālmīki writes: “There you shall see then, O vānaras, the lotus-petal-eyed, thousand-hooded serpent god in black clothing—namely Ananta—sitting atop that mountain, sustaining the earth on his head. He will shine like the moon, and all beings will hold him in reverence". (Rāmāyaṇa 4.40.51–52)

In ancient Indian texts, South America is described as the head of the serpent Ananta, upon which the Earth rests. This is a reference to the shape of the continent, which curves like a serpent’s hood.

The name Ananta appears in the name of Mt. Ananta in Peru, also known as Callagate

Ananta, also known as Sheshnaga, is both Lord Viṣṇu’s celestial vehicle and a symbol of tectonic stability—a striking parallel to the Nazca Plate, which sustains the Andes through subduction forces. Intriguingly, Chile still has a gold mining region named 'Rāmāyaṇa', hinting at an ancient connection preserved in place-name memory.

The name Ananta survives in the name of a mountain, which is now also known as Callangate. Its etymology, they say, is unknown. But through the Sanskrit lens, its etymology is clearly visible. The prefix 'Calla' stems from the Ayamara 'qullu' meaning mountain, but the suffix 'agate' seems to be derived from the Rāmāyaṇic ananta. Who were the mappers who named this mountain with a name such as Ananta?

Shila Beneath the Salt: Etymologies at the Edge of the World: That also brings us to the question: what etymology would the vānaras have encountered on the map of this land they were just arriving at?

In present times, the origin of the name Chile remains uncertain. Yet one may venture that it too resounds Aymara words such as 'qala' (stone) or 'qullu' (mountain)—both cognates of the Sanskrit shila (शिला), meaning 'stone' or 'peak'. Vālmīki writes that after crossing the ocean, when the vānaras first arrive on land, they will behold a Jata-rupa Shila—a golden-hued peak (Rāmāyaṇa 4.40.50–52). This description aligns with that of Ojos del Salado, the highest peak in Chile, which would have been the first visible landmark to ancient sailors arriving from the Pacific. It is the highest volcano on Earth.

Though Ojos del Salado is etymologically linked to 'salt', this association arises from the large salt deposits found on its glaciers and slopes. The name—'Eyes of Salt'—refers to the salt flats and lagoons surrounding it, as well as salt-encrusted sulphur springs on its northeastern side. Yet 'salado' is not the Aymara or Quechua word for salt, suggesting that the Spanish may have reinterpreted the original Aymara 'qala' or 'qullu' through the lens of sala, forming a Hispanicized version of an older indigenous name.

The word 'Sala' in the name may preserve a memory, possibly of shila, as we see in the Rāmāyaṇic Jata-rupa-Shila. Given that the Aymara 'qala' and 'qullu' both mean 'stone', they reinforce the Rāmāyaṇic linguistic connection. The presence of a mining region in Chile named Rāmāyaṇa strengthens the impression that this is more than a coincidence. It suggests that the epic’s memory may have settled into the land itself—carried across oceans, etched into peaks, preserved in names that still whisper the epic's story.

It is possible, then, that the name Chile itself derives from śilā, or from the gleaming peak of Ojos del Salado, which must have been the most prominent landmark for any sailor, like the vānaras, arriving at this shore—a golden stone rising from salt, just as Vālmīki foretold.

The Golden Pylon of the Rāmāyaṇa: Identifying the Paracas Trident of Peru: Moving ahead, in one of the most enigmatic verses of the Rāmāyaṇa, Vālmīki describes a radiant landmark in the land of Ananta—a golden pylon etched into the earth, shaped like a palm tree with three branches, resting upon a golden podium. Sugrīva elaborates:

“That pylon of palm tree was constructed by the celestials, as an easterly compass, ahead of which lies the Udaya Adri".
(Rāmāyaṇa 4.52)

Etched into the northern face of a mountain on the Paracas Peninsula in Peru, the Paracas Trident—also known as the Candelabra of the Andes—matches Sugrīva’s description with uncanny precision. Spanning 170 meters in height and visible from 12 miles out at sea, it juts into the Pacific and faces east. Its form, unmistakably trident-like, mirrors the Rāmāyaṇic image of a palm with three branches.  It is a structural and functional match—an artefact that aligns with the Rāmāyaṇa’s cosmographic logic.

A Singular Surviving Artefact: If this identification holds, the Paracas Trident may be the only known surviving man-made artefact described in the Rāmāyaṇa. Not a temple, not a ruin, but a geo-glyph still etched into the earth—a material engraving of a Sanskrit verse. It is the closest we have come to locating a physical object from that era, and its implications are profound.
 
Beacon for Sea-Borne Travellers: The Paracas Trident’s visibility from the ocean suggests its role as a beacon—a landmark for travellers arriving from the sea. In this light, it becomes more than symbolic. It was likely a navigational aid for the vānaras, whose journey spanned continents and coastlines. Its placement on the eastern arc of the Pacific transforms it into a Rāmāyaṇic lighthouse—guiding ancient voyagers toward Udaya Giri, the Mountain of Sunrise.

Anchoring the Rāmāyaṇic Solar Axis: In ancient Indian cosmology, Ujjain was the Earth’s navel—the anchor of the Madhya Rekha, or Prime Meridian. From this axis, the solar path extended eastward and westward—not by longitude, but by sunrise and sunset. According to the Rāmāyaṇa, to the east lay Udaya Adri—the Mountain of Sunrise—where the sun first touched the Earth. To the west lay Asta Mountain—the Mountain of Sunset—where the sun vanished into the sea. Both were directional thresholds, and both appear to have been located.

The Paracas Trident of Peru is described in the Rāmāyaṇa as the 'easterly compass of the celestial gods'.

Udaya Adri aligns with the Paracas Trident in Peru, which faces east across the Pacific. Asta Mountain, as we saw in the previous chapter, aligns with Mt. Hermon near the Mediterranean coast of Israel, at the edge of the Sunset Sea. In contrast, the nearby Mt. Meron aligns with Mt. Meru of the Rāmāyaṇa. Together, these markers define the Rāmāyaṇic solar axis—a planetary compass inscribed in myth and confirmed in geography.

A Civilisational Breakthrough: The Paracas Trident, placed precisely on the eastern arc, becomes more than a geoglyph. It is a Rāmāyaṇic compass, constructed by the celestials to mark the eastern threshold of the Earth, guiding them to their destinations in journeys before the vānaras. In Andean lore, it is linked to Viracocha, the sea-born creator deity whose lightning rod shaped the cosmos—a reflection of Rāmāyaṇa’s own language of radiant placement and divine intent.

Mt. Saumanasa, the Sunrise Point of the Rāmāyaṇa: While the vānaras set out eastward from India, their journey stretches so far across the Pacific that it ultimately arrives at lands mapped to the west in present-day cartography. Indeed, this is true of all journeys from the eastern hemisphere crossing the Pacific. The Rāmāyaṇa states that, after crossing the five oceans, the vānaras arrive at Udaya Giri, located in the land of the rising sun.

Vālmīki then describes the highest peak in the Udaya range—rising nobly to the heavens, golden, radiant, and sun-like. He states that, there, within the range, spreading a yojana at its base, is a peak that rises ten yojanās. This is the Saumanasa. Vālmīki says the peak is entirely golden and marks the celestial point where the first rays of sunlight touch the Earth.

In Verse 4.40.9, Vālmīki elaborates, “The sun passing from Jambudvīpa on the north and reaching the summit of Saumanasa, again becomes visible to the dwellers in Jambudvīpa. It is there that the great Rishis, Vaikhanasas, bright as the sun, perform their austerities". This is the path of the sun as seen from Earth—a rhythm of light and ascent, anchored in sacred geography. 

The Astronomical and Mythological Connection: However, beyond its solar significance, the Rāmāyaṇa’s selection of Mt. Saumanasa as the foremost peak within the Udaya Range, interpreted here as the Andes, carries a deeper meaning—rooted in the legend of Lord Viṣṇu’s cosmic strides.

The story of Mt. Saumanasa unfolds in the Kishkinda Kanda, as it does in many Purāṇas. When Lord Viṣṇu first descended to Earth in the form of Vamana, he took three monumental steps that shaped the cosmos. His first step touched Mt. Saumanasa, the golden-hued summit of Udaya Giri, as mentioned in Chapter 40, Verse 58. 

Which peak of the Andes Range might Vālmīki have been referring to?

Nevado Coropuna: One possibility is Nevado Coropuna, long considered the most sacred mountain in Peru, as it rises dramatically from the desert plains near the coast. It is the closest major peak to the Paracas Trident, a geo-glyph associated with Viṣṇu’s insignia. If so, Coropuna may mark the mountain where Viṣṇu placed his first step. Its coastal prominence makes it one of the highest coastal-adjacent peaks in Latin America—a luminous sentinel poised between ocean and sky.

Mount Coropuna was deeply embedded in the sacred geography of the Incas. There is archaeological, ritual, and mythic evidence that the Incas interacted with the mountain in profound ways. Excavations have uncovered over 250 structures, including 'ushnus' (ceremonial platforms), and large refuse pits filled with camelid bones and ritual ceramics, indicating sustained ceremonial activity. Ushnus resemble Vedic havan kunds, only larger in size, raised on platforms, with their name perhaps linked to Sanskrit ushna (उष्ण), meaning 'heat from fire'.

The name Coropuna carries layered etymologies in Quechua. One interpretation—popularised by scholar Hiram Bingham—renders coro as 'cut off at the top' and puna as 'cold, snowy height' or 'high plateau'. This 'cut off' imagery likely refers to the mountain’s flat-topped summit, which stands apart from the conical peaks surrounding it. Could this have been the plateau where the celestials descended? Was this the site of Viṣṇu’s first step? Is this peak where the Incas saw the arrival of their celestial gods? 

Mt. Huascaran: And yet, another peak calls from deeper inland: Mt. Huascarán. In the article 'New Ultrahigh-Resolution picture of Earth’s Gravity Field' published by the American Geophysical Union (AGU)—one of the world’s most respected scientific organizations in Earth and space sciences—the authors Christian Hirt, Sten Claessens, Thomas Fecher, Michael Kuhn, Roland Pail, and Moritz Rexer state, "The summit of Huascarán is the place on Earth with the smallest gravitational force, with an estimated acceleration of 9.76392 m/s²". Someday, the significance of Mt. Huascarán may be revealed—and with it, perhaps, the reason this mountain bears the name Huascarán, or perhaps Bhaskaran: the Sanskrit word for 'sun'.

Locally pronounced Waskaran in Quechua, the name is often linked to 'waska', meaning 'rope'. Yet this etymology feels unconvincing—too insubstantial to capture the majestic presence of a mountain so grand. A more compelling observation arises when we consider phonetic shifts: Waskaran, which may also be spelt as Vaskaran, with the interchangeable /v/ and /b/ common in many languages, as also reiterated by Grimm's law, transforms to ‘baskaran’. The standard Spanish pronunciation for Huascaran is wah-skah-rahn. All of these align closely with Sanskrit Bhaskaran: 'sun' or the 'radiant one'. This name does not stand alone.

Sanskrit links to the Native languages of South America: Let us now explore the fascinating connections between Sanskrit and several native languages of South America. Though Quechua, Aymara, and Guarani are traditionally classified as unrelated to Indo-European languages, they contain numerous cognates that challenge this assumption. The Quechua word for house is 'wasi', which is cognate with the Sanskrit vasa (वास) meaning 'inhabitation'. In Spanish, it translates to 'casa'. In English, to 'house'.

The Aymara verb 'kusisiña' (to be happy) and the Quechua 'kusi' or 'kusisqa' are cognates of the Sanskrit kushala (कुशल), which evolves into 'khushi' in Hindi. Geographic terms offer further evidence: Aymara 'uma' (water), 'jawira' (river), and 'jalana' (to flow) mirror the Sanskrit umā (उमा), jharā (झरा), and jala (जल) with the same meanings.  

The Guarani word for sun is 'kuarahy', which is a cognate of Sanskrit sūrya (सूर्य). Also, Quechua 'yvytu' (wind) and  Guarani 'pyno' (windy) are akin to the Sanskrit vāyu (वायु) and pavana (पवन), with the same meaning.

These linguistic similarities are not coincidental—they reveal a shared civilisational consciousness encoded in sound and meaning, with Sanskrit at its core. This connection goes beyond phonetic similarity to reflect deep cultural and philosophical affinities, suggesting parallel world-views about existence, perception, and spiritual reality.

The Guarani word for eyes is 'tesa'; for light, 'tesaka'; and for 'vision', 'tesape'. These mirror the Sanskrit tejas (तेजस्), meaning 'brightness', 'brilliance', or 'lustre'. More than physical illumination, ‘tesape’ connotes spiritual clarity, insight, and awakening—a subtle inner radiance akin to Sanskrit prakāśa (प्रकाश). This profound concept links to the Paracas Trident of the Incas, embodying a shared symbolic heritage.

Paracas, Tesaka, Vasaka—this triad embodies a rich, cross-linguistic convergence that transcends geography, uniting disparate cultures through a common spiritual thread of light and radiance. Rooted in Sanskrit concepts such as prakāśa (illumination), bhāskara (the radiant sun), and tejas (brilliance or inner fire), it weaves a shared language of divine luminosity across time and place.

The similarities between Sanskrit and the native languages of South America invite deep reflection. What explains the close correspondence between the names Viracocha and Virochana? Is such a connection plausible, or must it be dismissed as mere conjecture, coincidence, or chance? Yet, when viewed in light of the extensive evidence, these parallels demand serious consideration—pointing to a shared foundation of ancient knowledge woven across continents and cultures.

Vedic India and the Incas of South America: In our exploration, we turn to a compelling parallel between two civilisational figures—Virochana, the philosophical challenger from Indic mythology, and Viracocha, the creator deity of the Incas. Though separated by oceans and epochs, their stories unfold across sacred landscapes and celestial themes. Their names are not merely similar—they are structurally identical. And both the stories, though refracted through different terrains, carry unmistakable motifs of cosmic contest, exile, and transformation.

In Incan mythology, the creator deity Viracocha rose from the sacred waters of Lake Titicaca, staff or trident in hand, shaped the sun and moon, breathed life into the sky, established a civilisation, then turned eastward, crossing the endless Pacific, vanishing beyond the horizon—never to walk these lands again. Where did he originate, and to what realm did he return?

Lake Titicaca itself is no mere body of water; it is the primordial cradle of Incan civilisation. Its mythical origins are traced to Titiq’aq’a, an Aymara term often translated as 'grey' or 'discoloured'. It is a name that does not capture its deeper qualities. This name anchors itself in a sacred shrine known as Thakshi Cala, a carved stone on Isla del Sol, the Island of the Sun, believed to be the very site where the divine first touched the earth.

Yet through the Sanskrit lens, a deeper layer of meaning unfolds in the name Thakshi Cala. The term Thakshi may be a phonetic drift of the Aymara word for moon which is ‘phaxsi’. Intriguingly, ‘phaxsi’ appears etymologically aligned with the Sanskrit paksha (पक्ष), meaning a fortnight—the waxing or waning phase of the lunar cycle. In Sanskrit, the moon is also called pakṣaja (पक्षज), 'born of the fortnight', and pakṣacara (पक्षचर), 'wanderer of the fortnight', suggesting a celestial rhythm that governs both time and transformation.

This connection deepens when we consider Aymara terms like 'paxa' and 'pacha', which denote time, era, or even cosmic order. In Andean cosmology, pacha is not linear—it is cyclical, spatial, and sacred, much like the Sanskrit kāla or yuga. Thus, the carved rock of Thakshi Cala may not simply be a monument—it may encode a shared memory of lunar time, of epochs governed by the moon’s cycles, and of civilisations born from the confluence of water, stone, and celestial rhythm. We return to the same question: Is there a plausible explanation for a link between India and the Incas? Did Virochana arrive from the east and then return? Were Virochana and Viracocha the same person?

Turning now to India’s sacred texts, the figure of Virochana, son of Prahlāda, emerges in the Bhagavata Purana. His philosophical contest with Indra over the nature of Ātman—the supreme self—reflects profound debates about essence and existence.

We find in the Bhagavata Purana an interesting link between Lord Indra and an 'asura' by the name Virochana, who was the son of Prahalad and the father of Mahabali, on whose head Viṣṇu had placed his third step as he walked across the universe.

In the story, both Indra and Virochana vie with each other to impress Brahma with their knowledge about 'Atman' or 'Supreme Consciousness'. Brahma promises to grant control of the universe to the one who proves his knowledge about 'Atman'. Virochana is defeated because he links atman with the body, while Indra and the devas recognised that the atman was the essence of nature. Virochana spreads his philosophy amongst the asuras.

Indic lore often hints that the defeated Asuras did not perish—they migrated. Cast out from the subcontinent, they journeyed westward, across deserts and oceans, carrying fragments of their cosmology into new lands. This is not conjecture—it is reflected in the words of Swami Vivekananda, who, in an address to the Hindus of Madras after his return to India following the famous lecture at the Parliament of World's Religions in Chicago in 1893, expressed his view on the debate of Materialism versus Spiritualism thus: 

"Remember the illustration of Indra and Virochana in the Vedas; both were taught divinity. But the asura, Virochana, took his body for his God. Indra, being a Deva, understood that the Atman was meant. You are the children of India. You are the descendants of the Devas. Matter can never be your God; body can never be your God”.

Swami Vivekananda was of the view that Virochana, after his defeat by Indra, moved westward and established a civilisation there, carrying his philosophy of materialism there. He states:

“The Western nations are the children of the great hero Virochana".
(Talks with Vivekananda, Advaita Aśrama, Mayavati, 1939)

Just as Vala, the 'obstructer of the cows', in the Ṛgveda, re-emerges as Baal, the storm god of the Phoenicians, and the Panis—hoarders of wealth—become the Phoenician traders, so too does Virochana reappear in the Andes, transformed into Viracocha, the radiant creator.

In the Incan tradition, after their deity Viracocha establishes the civilisation, he disappears across the ocean, never to be seen again. And we can pick up his story in India. After his return, Viracocha, that is Asura Virochana, is finally killed by Indra in the Battle of Tarakamaya—a major conflict between the Devas and the Asuras, according to texts like the Matsya Purana and the Brahmanda Purana.

Could Virochana, the son of Prahlāda, be remembered in Peru as Viracocha? Even though philosophically Virochana was different, his Andean form as Viracocha carries a lightning rod—just as Indra wields the vajra. Interestingly, the word adri in Sanskrit not only means 'mountain' or 'rock', but it also means 'thunderbolt'. It’s tempting to hear in the name Andes a distortion of adri—a reference to Viracocha’s thunderbolt. The story of Indra, filtered through time and terrain, seems to reappear in the Andes, carved into mountains, remembered in legends, and encoded in the very name of the god who shaped the world.

The Land beyond Mt. Saumanasa- A Cosmic Connection: Our exploration leads us back to the vānaras’ footsteps. The worship of monkey gods in Honduras, Brazil, and Mexico may preserve a memory of the vānaras’ ancient dispersal—their role in the search for Sītā and the victory of Śrī Rāma over Rāvaṇa. The sculpture at Copán, the ceremonial masks of the Kayapo, and the descending figures of Tulum point to a shared reverence for simian beings associated with strength, loyalty, and cosmic purpose.

The Rāmāyaṇa names the land of Mt. Saumanasa as the site where celestial beings visited, hinting at an ancient link between the Peruvian region and divine phenomena. South America is home to breathtaking megalithic structures—many of which, according to local legends, were built by gods who descended from the sky. These divine architects may well correspond to the same Vishvakarmas of Indic tradition, who constructed the megaliths in other parts of the world.

Vālmīki describes this entire land of megaliths and sacred sites as Sudharshana-dvīpa, a sacred land inhabited by luminous sages—the Vaikhanasas hermits, and the Vaalakhilyas- a reference to the dwellers of the South pole—whose radiance matches the brilliance of the Sun.  In this instance, the name Vaalikhiya derives from Sanskrit valak (वलक), meaning 'pole'.

The golden peaks of Mt. Udaya or the Sunrise Mountain, which we have identified as the Andes, are portrayed as a gateway between the earthly and divine realms, illuminated by the Sun’s first rays. This positioning suggests that South America was seen not just as a geographic endpoint, but as a cosmic threshold—a place where light first touches the Earth and where the divine becomes visible.

The Monkey Gods of South America: It is no coincidence that monkey gods were widely revered across South America. In the Rāmāyaṇa, the vānaras were already dispersed across distant lands before Sītā’s abduction. Their presence in faraway regions may help explain the worship of monkey deities in ancient American cultures.

In Honduras, a sculpture of a monkey god was discovered at the ancient Copán Temple. The figure bears simian features and carries what appears to be a mace—details that align with Hanumān’s iconography. In Brazil, the Kayapo tribe conducts rituals wearing monkey masks, invoking ancestral beings linked to agility, strength, and protection. Some researchers have noted possible cultural parallels between the Kayapo and the Kabi Kabi tribe of Australia, whose oral traditions also feature simian figures.

The name Kayapo—also spelt Caiapó or Kaiapó—was given by neighbouring peoples in the early 19th century and translates as 'those who look like monkeys'. This curious designation likely stems from a ritual in which Kayapo men don monkey masks, enacting ancestral memory through dance. That detail will return with significance in a later chapter. One may also refer to the fact that kapeya (कपेय) translates as 'like a monkey' in Sanskrit as well. 

Thus, the vānaras of the Rāmāyaṇa may not only have journeyed outward but also found themselves returning to their own centre. In the Kayapo traditions of Brazil—where men don monkey masks in ancestral ritual—the vānaras appear not as distant echoes but as beings at home in their own land. Just as they encountered Gandharvas or Mandehas in the epic, here they dwell among peoples whose remembrance preserves their likeness. The Rāmāyaṇa, in this light, records not myth but itihāsa. And perhaps, when Sugrīva summoned the vānaras from every quarter of the world, this was one of the lands from which they came.

Monkey God, Copan, Honduras

Honduras Monkey God It is a mirror image of Hanumān

The Lost City of the Monkey Gods: Folklore rarely arises from nothingness, and here too the whispers are persistent. In the 1920s, Charles Lindbergh—the first aviator to cross the Atlantic solo—reported glimpsing, from the air above the jungles of Mosquitia in Honduras, what he believed to be the ‘Lost City of the Monkey God', a place where local traditions spoke of vast simian sculptures worshipped by ancient peoples.

Two decades later, following Lindbergh’s lead, the American adventurer Theodore Morde plunged into the Mosquitia forests. In 1940, he announced that he had found the fabled city, intending to return with a team to reveal its exact location. Fate intervened: Morde died in a car accident before he could disclose the site. Yet the legend endured. Long before Lindbergh or Morde, the Spanish conquistadors of the 1500s had spoken of a 'Ciudad Blanca'—the White City—said to conceal treasures of gold hidden since antiquity.

Seen through the lens of the Rāmāyaṇa, such traditions take on new meaning. If the Kayapo rituals in Brazil recall the presence of the vānaras, then the legends of Mosquitia may mark another centre where they dwelt. The ‘Monkey God City’ could be read as one of those lands—an echo of the vānaras’ own domain, preserved in stone and story.

The temple of the Descending Gods: In Mexico, the ruins of Tulum contain carvings of so-called 'descending gods'—figures with bent legs and inverted torsos, often interpreted as celestial beings. While commonly associated with Venus or the Maya bee god, their posture and placement suggest a mythic descent that may resonate with stories of divine intervention and airborne travel—motifs central to the role of Hanumān and the vānaras in the Rāmāyaṇa.

Flying Monkey Gods at Tulum, Mexico appear to depict the vānaras.

The Great River Confluences of South America: Before we bring the journey of the vānaras in this land to a close, we visit its great river confluences. Earlier, we had glimpsed the name of the Sindhu River shimmering faintly in the syllables of the Xingu. Now, as the vānaras journey through South America, we visit its sacred confluences and find that the resonance of the Sindhu civilisation grows louder—like a river remembering its source.

The Xingu River originates in the state of Mato Grosso, where two major tributaries—the Sete de Setembro and the Culuene—converge. Like the Sindhu, the Xingu gathers its breath not from a single spring, but from a braided system of headwaters. Its source is not a point, but a confluence—a hydrological chorus that begins its long northward journey toward the Amazon. Setembro, echoing the Guarani 'siete' (seven), evokes the seven rivers of the Sapta-Sindhu, while the Culuene (also spelt Kuluene) echoes the Sanskrit kūla (कूल).

This resonance deepens when we turn to the names of Xingu's two other tributaries: Iriri and Paraná. 'Iriri' is sometimes interpreted in Tupi as relating to 'honey', and 'Parana'—a name shared with many other South American rivers—is often translated as 'sea' or 'great river'. Yet Sanskrit offers a more precise and evocative explanation: ir (ईर्) means 'to move' or 'to flow'. The Varaha and Nilmata Purana refer to the Ravi River as Iravati. The confluence of the Xingu and Iriri is among the most sacred sites for the Kayapo tribe of Brazil. 

The other tributary Parana, gets its name from the Guarani word 'para', which means 'sea' in that language. In Sanskrit, parana (पारण) can be understood as 'going through', 'going across', or even 'cloud'. These meanings align seamlessly with the nature of rivers as flowing, boundary-crossing, and life-bearing forces—suggesting that the spirit of 'Sindhu' may have quietly permeated the very names and essences of these distant waters.

And that is not all. Rivers are known as 'ysyry' in Guarani, which is a cognate of Sanskrit sari. Again, in the Aymara language, rivers are known as 'jawiri', a cognate of Sanskrit jhara (झर) or jhari (झरि) with the same meaning!

 
While mainstream linguistics holds that Tupi and Sanskrit are unrelated, the Sanskrit interpretations offer a more coherent and symbolically rich framework.

The largest sangama on Earth lies deep in the heart of Amazonia, at Manaus in Brazil, where the Amazon River—known in its upper stretch as the Solimões—merges with the Paraná River in the world’s largest confluence, called 'The Meeting of the Waters'. This is not just a geographic marvel—it is a civilisational echo. The name Solimoes carries within it the ancient trace of Soriman, a proto-name that resonates with sara (flow) and manas (mind). Paraná, too, is a river—its name drawn from ‘para’, meaning ‘water’ in Tupi, and ‘to cross, to transcend’ in Sanskrit—evokes the act of sacred passage.

Across this vast confluence, water-bodies whisper their Sanskritic lineage. Lake Sakamby evokes amba, the divine mother. Lake Jarandi murmurs jhara, the flowing principle. The River Yavari carries vari, the sacred stream. Whether in Brazil, Peru, or the wider Amazonian basin, these names shimmer with memory. Even Manaus whispers of Manasa, as in Manasarovar—the Himalayan lake of vast mind and serene depth. 

Conclusion: The worship of monkey gods across Honduras, Brazil, and Mexico may be seen as a legacy of the vānaras’ pivotal role in the search for Sītā and the victory of Śrī Rāma over Rāvaṇa. The sculpture at Copán, the ceremonial masks of the Kayapo, and the descending figures of Tulum point to a shared reverence for simian beings associated with strength, loyalty, and cosmic purpose.

In their remarkable eastward journey toward the edge of dawn, the vānaras glimpsed the presence of Viracocha—whom Swami Vivekananda identified with the Indic figure Virochana, a civilisational seed-bearer rooted deeply in the Indic landscape of time and space.

That Dasharatha, sovereign of Ayodhyā, was hailed as King of the Jagat, Vasundhara, and Prithvi is no hyperbole—it is a recognition of a civilisational reach that once spanned the known and the forgotten.

The next chapter follows the vānaras as they ascend the snowbound sentinels of the Himalayas—toward lands shaped by silence, altitude, and the ancient skyward paths where the luminescent lights of the skies guided the god-like ascetics to the Northern ends of the world.

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CHAPTER V:

THE VĀNARA JOURNEY INTO THE HIMALAYAN AND ARCTIC LANDS

🌺 The Northward Expedition:

For countless pilgrims, traders, and chroniclers of the Indian subcontinent, the Himalayas have long stood as the journey’s natural terminus. Geographically imposing, culturally revered, and often treated as the civilisational edge, this mountain wall defines, for many travellers, the boundary between the known and the imagined, the settled and the nomadic, the tropical and the glacial. Yet for the northward-bound vānaras of the Rāmāyaṇa, the inquiry began where it might have ended for others.

Beyond the Himalayan snowline lies a terrain once dismissed in storytelling and literature as myth or margin—yet trade routes, ritual echoes, and linguistics reveal its continuity. There, the presence of the vānaras still lingers, etched into glacial tongues, fossilised in place names, and whispered through winds that still carry the syllables of Sanskrit.

The Rāmāyaṇa recounts that the vānara northern search party was commanded by a mighty vānara named Satavala, tasked with following a route map charted by Sugrīva. According to the epic’s descriptions, their journey begins amid Himalayan peaks and lakes, then extends into what corresponds to present-day Tibet and Xinjiang. From there, the map traces a path through the provinces of Hotan and Kashgar in China, across the vast plateau of Mongolia, to the breathtaking expanse of Lake Baikal in Siberia. The trail continues along the winding Angara River in Russia, ultimately reaching the icy shores of the Kara Sea in the Arctic Ocean.

This narrative provides intriguing evidence that the vānaras journeyed far beyond the Himalayan snow-land. This conclusion emerges from the meticulously detailed route described by Vālmīki. Specifically, it hinges on the description of a unique phenomenon—the Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis), a spectacular display of light in the sky caused by the interaction of solar winds with the Earth's magnetosphere, witnessed by the vānaras in a land that can only be identified as Siberia, and even further north near the polar region and Arctic Ocean, during the latter part of the vānaras' expedition, where their journey was to culminate. Hidden within the verses lie deeper meanings and subtle clues, which careful research continues to unveil, reinforcing the hypothesis outlined here.

🌺 The tribes of ancient North and Northwest India: When the search begins, the vānaras scour the regions of the Mlecchas, Pulindas, Surasenas, Prasthalas, Bhāratas, Kurus, Madrakas, and Varadhas, as well as the cities of Kambojas, Yavanas and Sakas. These names refer to tribes and communities inhabiting territories in northern India, across the Himalayas, and in the north‑westerly direction toward present‑day Afghanistan and Central Asia.

It is important to note that in the Rāmāyaṇa, nowhere does the name of any tribe called Ārya or Aryan occur—neither within India’s borders nor beyond them. This absence is significant: whether one accepts the traditional Indian dating of the epic in deep antiquity or the much later chronology proposed by mainstream scholarship, in neither case does the text record the existence of any tribe by the name of Ārya—indicating that no such tribe existed in the epic’s horizon, and that the notion of an ‘Aryan race’ was a construct later imposed upon history.

🌺 The Mlecchas: A commonality among the tribes that settled on the periphery of Bhārata Khanda is their history of defeat by the kings of Bhārata. While these groups originally belonged to India, they strayed from the path of dharma and were subsequently defeated by the dharmic rulers, compelling them to migrate beyond the subcontinent. Nevertheless, they carried with them elements of Indic knowledge—sometimes in fragmented forms—disseminating foundational aspects of civilisation without preserving its deeper philosophical integrity. They were referred to as Mlecchas.

The earliest attested use of the term Mleccha occurs in connection with tribes subdued by King Bhārata, the eponymous ruler after whom India came to be known as Bhārata. Among these groups, the Yavanas are particularly notable, as they appear as the earliest foreign community explicitly named within the Vedic tradition. Strikingly, the very root of their designation is already embedded in the Ṛig Veda: the word javana (जवन), derived from the root jav (जव), meaning ‘to move swiftly’, is employed as an epithet of Soma — ‘the quickener of thought’. This usage demonstrates that the phonetic form javana was native to Sanskrit long before any historical encounter with the Indo-Greeks, thereby affirming its indigenous origin.

The Atharva Veda (AV 19.39.5) later extends the term Javana to designate foreign tribes, marking the semantic shift from ‘swift’ and associating it with ‘outsider’. By the time of the Ashokan edicts (3rd century BCE), Yona/Yavana explicitly denotes Greeks, and in the Mahābhārata and Purāṇas the word expands to encompass other western peoples. In the earliest of the Semitic languages, Akkadian, the word for Greek is iamānāyu. The form iamānāyu looks like a distorted or adapted version of Sanskrit javana. Phonetically, the resemblance is striking: javana → yamana → iamanaiu.

Mainstream scholarship, as summarised in epigraphical studies and restated by scholars such as Shyam Bihari Lal (Yavanas in Ancient Indian Inscriptions, JSTOR), holds that Yavana was borrowed into Sanskrit from Old Persian ‘Yauna’ or Hebrew ‘Yawan', both terms for Ionians/Greeks. This view confuses the history of the word with the history of the people it names. The Ṛgveda shows that javana is a native Sanskrit word, meaning ‘swift, impelling’, long before it was ethnographically applied to Greeks.

This reversal dismantles the mainstream claim: rather than Sanskrit borrowing the word from Semitic or Persian sources, it is more plausible that the Indo-European ethnonym Ionian (Iōnes) reflects a cognate or even a transmission from the older Indic javana. The semantic trajectory is clear: Ṛgvedic javana (swift) → Atharva Vedic Yavana (foreign tribe) → Ashokan Yona/Yavana (Greeks) → Purāṇic Yavana (generic foreigners). The word’s Indo-European pedigree and its early Vedic attestation make it untenable to argue that Sanskrit borrowed the term. Instead, the evidence suggests that the name for Greeks, Yavanas, and its Greek variation Ionian, stems from the Sanskrit root itself, not the other way around.

🌺 The Kambojas: The Rāmāyaṇa records the Kambojas as a frontier tribe, subdued in antiquity by warriors such as Parashurāma and King Sāgara, before settling in the northwestern regions—most notably Kabul, in present‑day Afghanistan. The Mahābhārata (Sabha Parva, Chapter 27) further attests to their prominence, noting that both Śrī Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna subdued the Kamboja kingdom, underscoring its role in key epic conflicts. Renowned for their horse‑breeding expertise, the Kambojas migrated westward, integrating into Central Asian societies while preserving elements of Indic cultural and military traditions.

This legacy resurfaces strikingly in Achaemenid Persia. The Old Persian royal name Kambujiya—rendered in Greek as Cambyses—bears a direct linguistic resemblance to Kamboja. Scholars have observed that the elder Achaemenid line alternated princely names between Cyrus (Kuruš) and Cambyses (Kambujiya), a practice that may have honoured Indo‑Aryan mercenaries from eastern Afghanistan and northern India who aided in the conquest of the Near East. Eric G. L. Pinzelli (2022), in Masters of Warfare: Fifty Underrated Military Commanders from Classical Antiquity to the Cold War, states unequivocally:

“The conquest of the Middle East may have been achieved with the help of Kuru and Kamboja Indo‑Aryan mercenaries from eastern Afghanistan and northern India".

This scholarly opinion reinforces the hypothesis that both Kuruš (Cyrus) and Kambujiya (Cambyses) were ultimately of Indian origin, their presence shaping the foundations of early Achaemenid expansion.

The roots of this entanglement reach deeper still. The dynasty’s eponymous founder, Achaemenes (Haxāmaniš), established his kingdom at Parsumash in Southwest Iran. His successor Teispes bore the title 'King of Anshan', confirming that Parsumash and Anshan referred to the same region. Before the rise of Elam, the Rāmāyaṇa situates Indic presence in Susa, whether through the vānaras or through Sanskritic place‑names embedded in its terrain. This continuity makes it historically plausible that the Achaemenid empire carried an Indian source, rooted in the long Indo‑Iranian entanglement of Elamite Anzan and Susa.

The resemblance deepens: Parsumash, the realm founded by Achaemenes, echoes the Indic figure Parashurāma, who, according to the Rāmāyaṇa, subdued the Kambojas in remote antiquity. Likewise, the Elamite capital Anzan, read against the Rāmāyaṇa’s invocation of Anjani‑putra Hanumān, suggests that place‑names themselves encoded Indic genealogies into the geography of Elamite Iran—the very land on which the Achaemenid empire would rise. Within this landscape, royal names such as Cambyses (Kamboja) and Cyrus (Kuruš) resonate as echoes of Indo‑Aryan ancestry.

Thus, Persian rulers—whether consciously or by inherited tradition—preserved Indic identity through dynastic names that recalled ancestral connections. Far from being peripheral, Indian tribes such as the Kambojas were central actors in civilisational exchange, leaving indelible marks on the political and cultural structures of Persia.

🌺The Pallavas: Another tribe, first referred to as the Pallavas, also finds mention in ancient texts within a northern geographical context. Although the Pallavas are primarily associated with South India, evidence suggests an earlier presence in the north before their migration elsewhere. In its descriptions of the tribes of North India, the Mahābhārata (Bhiṣma Parva, Chapter 10) states: 

शूद्राभीराद दरदाः काश्मीराः पशुभिः सह खशिकाश च तुखाराश च पल्लवा गिरिगह्वराः

"The Śūdra, Ābhīra, Darada, and Kāśmīra peoples, along with their livestock; The Khaśa, Kāśa, Tukhāra, Pallava, and those dwelling in mountain caves".

This verse firmly situates the Pallavas in a northwestern Himalayan setting, rather than exclusively in the south. Several key factors reinforce this interpretation: (1) the mention of Kāśmīra (Kashmir), a well-documented northern region; (2) references to Daradas and Tukhāras, tribes historically tied to the Himalayas and Central Asia; (3) the inclusion of Khaśa and Kāśa peoples, often described as trans-Himalayan dwellers; and (4) the use of giri-gahvara (mountain dwellers), emphasising a high-altitude terrain.

Over time, these northwestern Pallavas—also referred to as Pahlavas—migrated westward beyond the borders of India. Their movement also aligns with broader patterns of Indic tribes settling in foreign lands, carrying cultural, philosophical, and administrative knowledge with them. Linguistic continuity between Pahlava and Pahlavi suggests that the Pallavas played a role in shaping early Iranian identity. The evolution of Pahlava into Pahlavi may signify a cultural transmission wherein these migrants influenced Iranian governance and intellectual frameworks while adapting to their new surroundings.

Ancient Indian texts frequently mention the Pahlavas alongside Indo-Scythians, Yavanas, and Shakas—groups known to have settled in Iran and Central Asia. Like the Kambojas, who became renowned for horse breeding, the Pallavas likely transmitted Indic traditions into Iranian society, possibly shaping political structures and military practices. Their migration illustrates how Indic civilisation was not merely confined to its homeland but actively shaped cultures beyond its borders.

As these tribes journeyed beyond India’s borders, they carried with them not only their physical presence but also their cultural heritage. Language, customs, rituals, and traditions persisted, connecting them to their Indian roots. Across immense geographies, the resilience of these traditions affirms the lasting influence of Indian civilisation, woven throughout the examples presented to the reader.

A Journey through the Himalayas:

We return now to the vānaras’ expedition, which Vālmīki describes as turning northeastward, pressing into the shadowed foothills of the Himalayas.

🌺 Botanical References of Himalayan Flora: The Rāmāyaṇa situates the beginning of the northward journey within landscapes alive with Lodhra and Padmaka groves, framed by the towering forests of Devadāru, the Himalayan cedar. These botanical references are not mere embellishments; they function as geographic signposts, guiding us along the vānaras’ passage through the Himalayas.

The resonance of these descriptions extends beyond the epic narrative. The distribution of Lodhra (Symplocos racemosa) aligns with the Himalayan foothills of Uttarakhand, Himachal Pradesh, and Nepal, while the delicate Padmaka, or Himalayan cherry (Prunus cerasoides), flourishes across the temperate belts of Sikkim, Bhutan, and Nepal. This progression confirms a route carved through the cedar belt and further into the north.

Valmiki’s references to Devadāru forests align with the actual cedar belt of the western and central Himalayas, extending into the southern Tibetan valleys. The name Devadāru itself—deva (देव), or god, and dāru (दारु), or ‘wood/tree’, —marks it as the ‘tree of the gods’, embodying sanctity and serving as a natural marker of altitude and terrain. This ecological precision underscores the epic’s intimate knowledge of Himalayan landscapes, where cedar groves are both sacred and geographic.

Though Valmiki does not name the rivers here, the forests he describes were likely enriched by the waters of the Vipāśā (Beas). Hymned in the Ṛgveda as the river that 'releases from bondage’, Vipāśā (विपाशा), also called Arjīkīya, is explained from vi (वि) or ‘apart’ and pāśa (पाश), 'bond, fetter', meaning 'unfettered,' a river that breaks bonds and flows free. Vipāśā echoes its geography: waters breaking free from Himalayan gorges into the plains, a liberation later remembered as Vyāsa’s river, and finally as the Beas. The cedar forests of the western Himalayas, nourished by this river corridor, thus stand as both ecological reality and hymnic metaphor—trees of the gods beside a river of release.

🌺 Mt. Kāla and Mt. Kañcana-tuṅga: Vālmīki’s narrative describes the northern search party pressing through the dense Devadāru forests until they arrive at a formidable peak known as Mt. Kāla and a sanctuary called the Soma āśrama. At first glance, the names Kāla and Soma seem unrelated, yet ancient geography and naming practices were never arbitrary; they carried symbolic, logical, and even scientific resonance. As the story unfolds, the link between kāla and soma becomes apparent. 

Vālmīki situates the hermitage near 'a mountain of gold with spacious plateaus', describing the mountain as mahāsānum-parvatam (महासानुम् पर्वतम्), meaning 'the mountain of the great plateau'. This description points unmistakably to the Tibetan Plateau, which is the largest in the world, located north of the Himalayas. Such a clue confirms the identification of Mt. Kāla with Kañcana-tuṅga, which is poised at the cusp of the Himalayan range and the Tibetan Plateau. Vālmīki further calls Mt. Kāla a mahāgiri (महागिरि), 'great mountain'—a fitting epithet for Kañcana-tuṅga. As the third-highest peak on earth, it is indeed a mahāgiri.

This mahāgiri, adds Vālmīki, is endowed with a hema garbham (हेम गर्भम्), a 'womb of gold'. Kañcana-tuṅga may rightly be described as 'a mountain with a golden womb' for several reasons. Its original name, Kañcana-tuṅga (काञ्चनतुङ्ग)—a compound of kāñcana (काञ्चन), 'gold', and tuṅga (तुङ्ग), 'peak'—literally means 'the golden peak'. This naming convention belongs to a broader Sanskritic pattern, where peaks are identified by their sacred associations: Bhṛgutuṅga (भृगुतुङ्ग), the peak where the sage Bhṛgu performed austerities, or Svarṇatuṅga (स्वर्णतुङ्ग), a mountain mentioned in the Jain Rāmāyaṇa. While other mainstream interpretations of the name Kangchenjunga exist, the Sanskritic reading aligns most closely with the mountain’s physical grandeur and symbolic luminosity.

Kanchenjunga’s name is sometimes rendered as 'Five Treasures of Snow', from the Tibetan kang-chen-dzonga, which local traditions symbolically associate with the five treasures of gold, silver, gems, grain, and sacred texts. Yet this appears to be a later, imposed interpretation. Though the Tibetan element 'kang chen' is commonly understood as 'great snow', its closest cognate, kāñcana (काञ्चन), consistently means 'golden' across Sanskrit and even later Prakrit traditions. In the same way, tuṅga (तुङ्ग) in Sanskrit denotes 'peak', while in Prakrit it carries the sense of 'tall'. Taken together, the name Kañcana-tuṅga (काञ्चनतुङ्ग)—'golden peak'—aligns more with the mountain's characteristics.

Local oral traditions, however, preserve an elaborate vision of its treasures. In her research on the history and geography of Mt. Kanchenjunga, author Claire Scheid notes in her paper Hidden Land and Changing Landscape: “Local Lhopo people believe that the treasures are hidden but reveal themselves to the devout when the world is in peril; the treasures comprise salt, gold, turquoise and precious stones, sacred scriptures, invincible armour or ammunition, grain and medicine". In that sense too, it aligns closely with Vālmīki’s description of Mt. Kāla or Kañcana-tuṅga as a hema garbham (हेम गर्भम्)—a 'mountain of gold'—implying its richness in mineral wealth and sacred treasures.

🌺 Soma Hermitage and Samaye Buddhist Monastery of Lhasa: If Mt. Kāla is Kanchenjunga, where then is the Soma Hermitage, and why does Vālmīki mention it? The importance of Soma is clear: it is one of the only two hermitages named in the vānaras’ journey—the other being the retreat of Sage Meru Savarṇi, encountered by the western-bound vānara party. On the northern terrain, otherwise described in terms of mountains, rivers, and forests, the sudden invocation of the Soma Hermitage signals a place of human and spiritual habitation, a sanctuary of wisdom amid wilderness. Its mere mention suggests that it was not incidental but a recognised landmark, spiritually resonant and strategically vital in the vānaras quest for Sītā.

Soma āśrāmā is described by Vālmīki as a place adored by the gods and the gandharvas, or the 'celestials'. The most renowned ancient sanctuary in Tibet is the Samaye Monastery. It is situated in Chimpu valley, an offshoot of the greater Yarlung Tsangpo (Brahmaputra) River Valley, in Shannan Prefecture. 

Located at the foot of the majestic Hapori mountain—traditionally known as Haibu Rishen—Samaye preserves a rich legacy of underground meditation caves and hidden retreats. The term Haibu (or more precisely Haib) means 'hidden', reflecting the valley’s aura of mystery.

Chimpu Valley's Tibetan name, Mchims phu, likewise translates as 'underground caves’. It is perhaps for this reason that Sugrīva marked the site on the vānaras’ map: a sanctuary well known, yet a terrain suited to concealment. Whatever the motive, the evidence points to Sugrīva’s familiarity with this sanctuary, and while current scholarship dates Samaye to 763–779 AD, Vālmīki’s mapping suggests that the Samaye is the Soma āśrama—a site of far greater antiquity.

🌺 Cosmic Symbolism: Although Samaye lies nearly 400 km from Mt. Kangchenjunga, the connection between the two is deeply attested—both in present-day local lore and in ancient texts such as the Rāmāyaṇa and the Ṛgveda. Scholar Claire Scheid recounts a story shared by a lama in Gangtok: A Lhopo legend speaks of two Kangchenjungas—the 'outer' Kangchenjunga, the visible mountain which stands majestically and represents linear time of the material world, and the 'inner' Kangchenjunga, embodying soma—the hidden, timeless essence that transcends it.

This duality echoes Vedic thought, where the relationship between kāla (काल) 'time' and soma (सोम) 'immortality' bridges mortal existence and divine transcendence. The Ṛgveda (8.48.3) proclaims: “We have drunk Soma and become immortal; we have attained the light, the Gods discovered".

Śiva, as Mahākāla (महाकाल), is lord of time and lord of death, presiding over cosmic transitions. Soma represents the elixir of longevity, transcending time itself. In this form, Śiva is Somanātha (सोमनाथ). Like kāla, the Sanskrit samaya (समय), also meaning 'time' or 'appointed moment,' finds continuity in Tibetan ‘samaye’.

A further resonance emerges in the name Shi Bu (ཞི་པུ་), a Tibetan compound where shi signifies 'to die' and bu denotes 'child' or 'son'. This construction stands as a direct linguistic counterpart to Śiva (शिव), the /v/ shifting to /b/, its semantic field converging with Śiva’s role as Mahākāla (महाकाल), as well as Somanātha (सोमनाथ)—lord of death, dissolution, and transformation.

In mainstream imagination, the Himalayan sites of Kailāśa and Mānasarovar dominate as the sacred geography of Śiva. Yet the Rāmāyaṇa, in naming Mt. Kāla and Soma, extends this Śaivite terrain across the Tibetan plateau, where this woven tapestry of Kailāśa, Mānasarovar, Mt. Kāla, Soma āśrama, and Samaye sanctuaries cohere into a single cosmic thread of Śiva—an expanse also revered as the cradle of Tibetan civilisation.

In the Lepcha tradition of Sikkim, the vicinity of Mt. Kangchenjunga is known as Mayel Liang, which translates as the 'holy hidden land'. In Lepcha, Liang also means 'paradise' or 'heaven'. Thus, across Sanskrit, Tibetan, and Lepcha traditions, the motifs of hidden-ness, immortality, and sacred geography converge—binding Mt. Kāla, Soma, and Kangchenjunga into a shared cosmology of Śiva, where the visible and the concealed, the temporal and the timeless, are woven into one luminous thread.

🌺 The vānaras in Tibetan Memory: The Chimpu Valley, a branch of the greater Yarlung Valley, formed by a tributary of the Brahmaputra River, is deeply rooted in ancient Indic traditions. Tibetan lore preserves another legend linked to the Yarlung Valley, which may hold traces of the passage of the Rāmāyaṇic vānaras. To the north of the Yarlung town rises Gonpi Ri, a mountain regarded as one of the favourite resorts of Chenrezig—the Tibetan name for Avalokiteśvara, revered as the embodiment of mercy in Mahāyā Buddhism. According to local tradition, it was here—at Gonpi Ri—that a monkey king and a goblin raised a family of monkeys, from whom the Tibetan race is said to have descended.

The presence of the Rāmāyaṇa in Tibet is attested in the Dunhuang manuscripts of the 7th–8th centuries. Unlike the Buddhist jātaka retellings that reframed Indic narratives into moral parables, the Tibetan fragments preserve the story of Rāma, Sītā, and Hanumān in a relatively unaltered form. Such fidelity is significant in the Yarlung context: it demonstrates that Tibetans were not only aware of the vānaras—the monkey allies and travellers of Rāma’s campaign—but also recognised their archetypal role as loyal companions and civilisational messengers. The motif resonates with Tibetan genealogical lore, where monkeys appear as ancestral figures.

Much later, after the Rāmāyanic times, the Yarlung and adjoining Chongye Valley emerged as the centre of Tibetan civilisation and the original seat of Tibet’s ancient dynasties, most notably the Yarlung dynasty of kings. Tradition records that King Nyatri Tsenpo, arriving from Magadha in India, became the first emperor of Tibet and progenitor of the Yarlung dynasty, dated as early as the beginning of the 11th century BCE—situating the dynasty’s origins deep within the Indic civilisational continuum.

🌺 Identifying Mt. Devasakha and the Sanctuary of Birds of the Rāmāyaṇa: After passing Mt. Kala, the Rāmāyaṇa states that the vānaras move into the mountains of the Himasaila range—literally 'snow stone', also called Himavata, now known as the Himalaya or 'abode of snow'. Here, Vālmīki describes peaks adorned with Devasakha trees, among which lies a sanctuary of birds. Verse 4-43-17 records, “Located ahead, there will be a mountain named Devasakha, covered with diverse birds and adorned with various trees, serving as a sanctuary for birds". This ancient passage resonates with the bird sanctuaries that still flourish across the Southern Tibetan Plateau and along the Brahmaputra River’s migratory path.

Sikkim: The Kanchendzonga National Park, located in Sikkim, spans an area of 328 square kilometres. It is adjacent to Neora Valley National Park and is integrated into 14 different protected areas spread across Bhutan, China, India, and Nepal. The Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, renowned for its high-altitude avian species, and the sacred Namtso Lake, a site of spiritual reverence for millennia, lie along key migration routes. Lhalu Wetland and the Yarlung Tsangpo Grand Canyon provide critical nesting grounds for a diverse range of bird species. 

🌺 Tibetan Plateau: Building on this foundation, the identification of Mt. Devasakha aligns seamlessly with the Southern Tibetan Plateau, where ancient bird sanctuaries continue to thrive. The Rāmāyaṇa’s description of a mountain teeming with birds is unmistakably mirrored in the protected reserves near Lhasa and the Yarlung Tsangpo River, which serve as essential stopovers for migratory species like the bar-headed goose and black-necked crane. The Lalu Wetland, positioned within Lhasa itself, functions as a natural haven for these birds, reinforcing the idea that this region has sustained avian populations across millennia.

Mt. Devasakha, described in the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, likely corresponds to mountain ranges near Lhasa, such as the Nyenchen Tanglha Range, or parts of the Gangdise Range, which align with ancient migratory routes and the ecological continuity of the Tibetan Plateau. The Nyenchan Tanglha runs parallel to the Himalayan Range and lies north of the Yarlung Tsangpo River, which, when it arrives in India, is known as the Brahmaputra. The highest peak of the Nyenchen Tanglha Range is known as the Gurla Mandhata, which derives its name from its original Sanskrit name, Gandhamādana. Arjuna, on his way to Mount Kailāśa to do tapas, is known to have crossed the Gandhamādana mountain according to Vana Parva, Chapter 37, Verse 41 of the Mahābhārata. We may infer here that the original names of the three highest peaks, as well as the name of the range called Nyenchan Tanglha, are all lost. The peaks are referred to as Nyenchan Tanglha I, II and III. One is remembered as Gurla Mandhata or Gandhmadana, the second might have been Devasakha, and the third name is completely lost, unless it is rediscovered and emerges from a sacred text in the future.

The migratory trajectory traced from the Kanchendzonga National Park to Tibet reflects an enduring ecological pattern—one that continues to exist in the Central Asian Flyway even today. It is unsurprising that Vālmīki, living in an era attuned to nature and cosmology, was aware of these routes, for avian migratory pathways are of immense antiquity, extending back millions of years as enduring ecological corridors across the Himalayas. In this light, the vānaras’ northward movement would have intentionally followed the trajectories of birds tracing pathways inscribed into the landscape since deep time.

🌺 Etymology of the Name Tibet:  We pause here from our journey with the vānaras to delve into the etymology of the names Tibet and Lhasa. The name Tibet has evolved through linguistic transformations over centuries. Its earliest origins are firmly rooted in Indic and Chinese traditions, yet mainstream scholarship often traces its name to later adaptations by Central Asian, Persian, and Turkic cultures. While theories frequently cite Turkic 'Töpüt', Mongolian 'Tübüt', and Persian influences, these are secondary linguistic adaptations that emerged much later, rather than shaping Tibet’s original identity.  

 

Tibet’s self-identification as 'Bod' was established long before Central Asian influences took hold. One theory suggests that Bod derives from 'Stod-Bod' (pronounced Tö-bhöt), where 'Stod' means 'High/Upper' in Tibetan, accurately reflecting the region’s elevated geography. Over time, 'Stod' distorted to 'Tong', then 'Tu', while 'Bod' simplified to 'Bo', leading to the Chinese designation 'Tǔbō' (吐蕃), which adopted this already-altered form rather than creating a new name.  

Yet, what is the deeper etymology of Bod itself? We trace Bod to Sanskrit bodhi (बोधि) or 'enlightenment', reinforcing Tibet’s profound Buddhist identity. Thus, Stod-Bod may signify 'High Land of Enlightenment', reinforcing Tibet’s historical and spiritual significance through its Indic roots. This etymology aligns seamlessly with Tibet’s sacred geography, creating a linguistic bridge between ancient Sanskrit traditions and Tibetan self-identification.  

Since traditional sources place the Buddha’s birth between 500 BCE and 400 BCE, it is plausible that the linguistic influence of Bodhi entered Tibetan culture through early Indic exchanges, even before Tibet formally embraced Buddhism. Later adaptations from Persian, Turkic, and Central Asian languages reflected external perspectives on Tibet but did not shape its original meaning.  

🌺 Lhasa-The Origin of Its Name: We now delve into the etymology of Lhasa, another name that echoes across centuries, carrying the weight of sacred geography, dynastic transformations, and cosmic symbolism.

Historical records tell us that Lhasa’s earlier name was Rasa, often translated as 'Goat’s Place'. Yet, can such an interpretation truly define the heart of Tibetan civilisation—the centre of spirituality, scholarship, and political power? No civilisation, especially one with profound religious significance, would root its identity in livestock. If Rasa was indeed Lhasa’s earliest name, it must carry a far deeper meaning than mere pastoral imagery.

We turn, then, to the ancient Indic concept of Rasa. In Sanskrit, rasah (रसः) signifies the essence of life, the nectar of immortality, the substance through which realms are purified and ascended. The Ṛgveda glorifies Soma as Rasa, emphasising its ritualistic and cosmic nourishment, while Tantric traditions describe Rasa as a divine fluid descending from the crown chakra, mirroring Soma’s role as celestial sustenance.

If Rasa was an ancient name for Lhasa, then rather than referencing livestock, it may well have been tied to Somarasa—the divine elixir associated with sacred geography and spiritual continuity. This aligns naturally with Lhasa’s location near Samaye, the Soma Hermitage of Rāmāyaṇa, suggesting an ancient connection between Lhasa’s geography and sacred Indic landscapes.

At some point in Tibet’s history, Rasa was renamed Lhasa—a conscious shift meant to remove the association with 'Goat’s Place'. The new name, Lhasa—literally 'Place of Gods'—reflects the city’s ascension as Tibet’s religious capital, reinforcing its sacred function and celestial significance. However, the original name Rasa already carried a sacred meaning, even though this was forgotten at the time. Those who sought to change the name did so believing they were correcting a mundane reference—yet in truth, they may have unknowingly abandoned a name that had already signified spiritual essence, the divine nectar, and cosmic purity.

Lhasa’s evolution from Rasa to Lhasa was not arbitrary—it was an expression of its sacred identity. The earliest name of Lhasa was never merely 'Goat’s Place', but rather a name that embodied the concepts of Soma and Rasa—the celestial nectar that nourished both gods and civilisations.

🌺 The Vānaras at Mt. Kailāśa: Now turning to Mt. Kailāśa, we rejoin the journey of the vānaras. Moving ahead, Sugrīva informs them that after traversing the sacred bird sanctuaries surrounding Mt. Devasakha, they will encounter a vast expanse of barren plain land. Crossing this terrain, they shall see Kailāśa resplendent with the shine of burnished gold, alongside a lake overflowing with lotuses and lilies, thronged with swans and Karandavas, and frequented by troops of apsaras.

This barren expanse, devoid of mountains, trees, or rivers, unmistakably corresponds to the Tibetan Plateau, as previously established. Kailāśa remains identifiable, retaining its ancient name. The lake referenced by Vālmīki is undoubtedly Mansarovar, long regarded as a sacred site.

The presence of ancient migratory corridors and trade routes indicates that movement through the Trans-Himalayan passes, such as Nathu La, might have led the vānara group northward toward Kailāśa, passing through Mt. Krauncha and Skanda’s tunnel, which we shall discuss ahead.

🌺 Kailāśa– The Palace of Kubera:  Having visited many sites, the vānaras ultimately converge at the resplendent golden peak of Kailāśa. The Rāmāyāna describes Kailāśa as the abode of Kubera, yet notably, Vālmīki does not explicitly refer to it as a mountain in any passage. Instead, Sugrīva’s map mentions the magnificent mansion of Kubera, constructed at Kailāśa by the celestial architect Viśvakarma. This mansion is described as having 'a silver peak processed with gold', a description that aligns with Kailāśa’s striking geological features.  

A close reading of the verses suggests that Vālmīki portrays Kailāśa not as a natural peak, but as a celestial residence. Instead of categorising it alongside the other mountains described in the Rāmāyaṇa, he refers only to 'mountains near Kailāśa', suggesting a distinction between Kailāśa itself and its surrounding landforms.  

This unique framing is not limited to the Rāmāyaṇa. In other Indic texts, particularly the Mahābhārata and Purāṇas, Kailāśa is described as a gateway to heaven, accessible only to the virtuous, a divine mansion, echoing its portrayal in the Rāmāyaṇa, and a luminous peak with gold and crystal surfaces, reinforcing its distinct, celestial identity.  

This mirrors descriptions of Mt. Meru, which is often framed as both a cosmic axis and a divine construct in various Indic traditions. If Meru can be simultaneously a peak and a sacred pillar, why should Kailāśa not be perceived similarly?  

Vālmīki’s choice of words reinforces the distinct nature of Kailāśa. In one instance, he describes it as a pale, luminous landmark rather than explicitly calling it a mountain:  

"Having swiftly crossed the terrifying wilderness, upon reaching the pale (white) Kailasa, you shall be filled with joy". (Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa 4.43.20)  

Elsewhere, the search for Rāvana unfolds through moonlit peaks and caves, but Kailāśa itself remains framed as Kubera’s mansion: "Rāvana, along with Vaidehi (Sītā), must be searched for in the caves and the mountains that shine like the moon, in every direction". (Yuddhakāṇḍa 4.43.25)  

🌺 Kailāśa– A Geological and Architectural Anomaly: Beyond textual descriptions, some scholars and researchers have noted that Mt. Kailāśa exhibits structural anomalies, making it distinct from typical Himalayan formations. Russian scientist Dr Ernst Muldashev, in 1999, proposed that Kailāśa’s summit may be a man-made pyramid, surrounded by smaller pyramidal formations. While this theory remains unverified, its popularity stems from Kailāśa’s almost-perfect symmetry and unique geological composition.  

Rather than dismissing such claims outright, it is worthwhile to examine whether ancient civilisations attributed architectural significance to Kailāśa. The Rāmāyaṇa already describes it as a possible artificial structure, reinforcing the idea that ancient travellers and scholars may have perceived Kailāśa as more than just a mountain.  

While definitive scientific evidence remains elusive, the textual descriptions, geographic peculiarities, and alignment with sacred traditions suggest that Kailāśa was regarded as more than an ordinary peak—even in antiquity. Whether this perception arose from natural symmetry or actual structural modifications remains an open question worthy of further inquiry.  

🌺 Skanda's tunnel and the Path of the vānaras: As the vānaras pressed forward from Kailāśa, Vālmīki tells us in Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa (25.43) that they arrived at the formidable Mt. Krauncha, a place where Skanda himself had once carved a tunnel through the impassable rock. The mere mention of this tunnel is more than just a geographical marker—it hints at something remarkable, an ancient feat that straddles both myth and material reality. What kind of force, what kind of knowledge, could cut through a mountain at a time when such undertakings were attributed only to beings of great prowess?  

Vālmīki does not linger on the subject of how the tunnel was made, but another of Skanda’s undertakings—the channelling of the Ganges alongside Śiva and Bhagiratha—is described in astonishing detail in the Rāmāyaṇa. The descent of the celestial river from the heavens to the earth, though couched in poetic grandeur, holds within it the image of a carefully managed diversion. The Ganges did not simply fall, unchecked, to the plains—it was tamed. Śiva controlled its flow, while Skanda, it is said, built a lake and a dam, guiding the unruly waters through the structured channels of his creation. The description of milk draining through six outlets—far from a mere metaphor—suggests the release of water through the gates of a regulated system, a crafted mechanism of control, a dam perhaps. It is in this work that we glimpse Skanda not merely as a warrior, but as a master of the earth’s contours, shaping terrain to his will.  

If Skanda built the means to contain the river, why would he not also carve the pathways that allowed men to traverse the harsh, unyielding mountains of the Himalayas? Though the text does not dwell on the particulars of how the Krauncha tunnel was chiselled, the weight of his legacy is enough to suggest that it was no ordinary cavern. It was the work of a figure whose touch upon the landscape was transformative.  

🌺 The Cleaving of the Mt. Krauncha: The Mahābhārata tells us more about Skanda’s construction of a passage through Krauncha—though it does so through the language of legend. Here, the cleaving of the mountain is not just a feat of force, but is equated with the very act of his birth. His roaring conch, his thunderous presence—these are not merely the cries of a newborn, but the echoes of a mountain breaking apart, yielding to the strike of something great. As his arrows and mace shattered the rock, the mountain was cleaved, and a passage was made where none existed before.  

Skanda’s name—स्कन्ध—carries within it the meaning of separation, of cutting, of splitting a path where the mountains offered no entry. His deeds were those of a warrior, yes—but also those of a maker of roads, a creator of ways. For this reason, Skanda is also called Kraunchadarana (क्रौञ्चदारण), the 'cleaver of Krauncha'. And after the mountain had opened under his force, the patterns of the sky shifted. The swans, the vultures, all those that migrated through the northern mountains, the Himalayas,—now they followed a new path. If birds altered their journeys, did men not do the same?  

🌺 An Ancient Tunnel and Nathu La Pass:  If Skanda cut through Krauncha, what was the place he left behind? What pass, what tunnel still bears the echoes of his name? Among the great mountain passages of the Himalayas, Nathu La emerges as a compelling possibility. The terrain here is as harsh as Vālmīki described—the elevation is formidable, the pathway arduous. At 14,200 feet, the passage remains a gateway, just as it was for those who moved toward Kailāśa and Manasarovar long ago.  

The mainstream etymology of Nathu La identifies it as a Tibetan name, with ‘La’ meaning mountain pass and the phonetic rendering ‘Na to La’ often explained as ‘Listening Pass’. Yet, beyond this conventional reading, the phonetics themselves invite a deeper Indic–Tibetan resonance. The syllable ‘Na to’ echoes the Sanskrit nāda (नाद) or ‘sound, resonance, call’, a concept central to Vedic and Tantric traditions where cosmic vibration underlies creation. Just as Skanda’s birth cry and the thunderous roar of his weapons were said to cleave open Mt. Krauncha, the resonance of nāda finds its echo in the name of this Himalayan threshold—suggesting that the legend is still remembered in that name. In this sense, the name Nathu La may be read as a forgotten memory of that primordial cleaving, preserved in phonetics long after the legend itself receded into myth. In this view, Nathu La is not merely a geographic designation but a symbolic threshold: a pass where the very act of crossing is framed by sound and resonance, suggesting a liminal space of transmission and exchange. Thus, the name embodies more than topography — it encodes a civilisational motif of vibration and hearing, situating the pass as a hinge between cultures and corridors of meaning.

Even in the movements of the birds, the legacy of the past lingers. Nathu La sits upon the Indus Flyway, the great corridor of migratory flight stretching from the cold north to the warmth of India. What shifts once in nature often remains imprinted upon the routes of men. As birds travelled through openings where mountains once blocked their way, so too did those, like the vānaras,  who sought paths across the great expanse of the earth.  

Whether Skanda’s tunnel still stands, veiled in the rough edges of forgotten time, or whether its remnants have been lost beneath new rock, new roads, new reckonings—it does not matter. The crossing exists. The story exists. And somewhere, beneath the weight of history, the pass remains.  

🌺 IV. Beyond Tibet:

Having crossed the Himalayan sentinels—Kanchenjunga, Kailāsa, and the Nathu La Pass and Tibet—the vānaras step into a liminal zone where the plateau opens toward wider horizons. To the east lies Xinjiang, to the west Shanxi: two corridors that mirror the flight paths of migratory birds. These twin trajectories, though distinct, arc toward a single convergence. At Lake Baikal, on the cusp of Tibet and Siberia, the routes meet—an aqueous axis where steppe and plateau, south and north, myth and geography all intersect. Baikal thus becomes the gathering point of journeys, a deep basin holding within its waters the memory of converging trails.

🌺 Mt. Mānasa and the Xinjiang Region of China:  The Rāmāyaṇa mentions that after crossing the Krauncha, the split mountain that marks their transition into Central Asia, the vānaras entered the treeless yet bird-rich land of Manasa. The name Mānasa, recorded in the Rāmāyaṇa, appears to have endured, and re-emerged in the present times in the name of the region of Manas, a town in China's Xinjiang province. The county seat, known as Old Town Manas, stands along the banks of a river called Manasi, which empties into a lake called Manas. While administrative divisions and territorial identities have transformed, the river and the lake have retained their ancient name, carrying with it whispers of a past so old that it reaches back to the Rāmāyanic age.

Even today, in many parts of the world, one still sees the name Manas linked with that of a lake, a river, or a river town. The survival of this name, across vast historical landscapes and civilisations, invites wonder—was this mere coincidence, or does it signal the echoes of a forgotten connection between the narratives of the Sanskrit texts and the enduring geography of ancient names in world geography? We will see instances of the name Manas as we move along.

Vālmīki’s portrayal of a treeless expanse evokes the stark barrenness of the Tibetan Plateau, the Gobi Desert, and the Taklamakan Desert. The Taklamakan, lying along the Central Asian Flyway, forms a vital corridor for migratory birds journeying from the Kanchenjunga Conservation Area through its sands to Siberia via Lake Baikal. In antiquity, human travellers often traced such natural pathways, and early trade networks too were woven along these same routes. The very familiarity of this passage suggests that Sugrīva already knew of it, enabling him to lead the vānaras across these forbidding landscapes with assurance.

🌺 Mt. Mainaka and the Shanxi Pyramids: Beyond Mt. Krauncha, Sugrīva’s map identifies another peak—Mt. Mainaka—distinguished by a 'massive mansion', said to have been built upon it by the demon architect Maya. This raises a central question: where might such a mansion have stood?

Patterns emerge when we compare other monumental structures described in the Rāmāyaṇa. The Ram Setu, for instance, corresponds to the submerged causeway between Rameshwaram and Sri Lanka, while the Kailāśa-like mansion of Śālmalī-dvīpa—discussed in an earlier chapter—aligns with the now-demolished Gympie Pyramid of Queensland. Each of these sites appears precisely where the text situates them. By analogy, it is reasonable to infer that Mt. Mainaka’s mansion, too, may be located along the vānaras’ northward migratory route.

One such route passes through the Shaanxi Province. It is home to the largest cluster of ancient pyramids, structures that were once dismissed as mere natural formations. These monumental mounds, some exceeding 1,000 feet in height, dwarf the Great Pyramid of Giza at 484 feet. Given Vālmīki’s emphasis on Mt. Mainaka’s mansion, the Shaanxi pyramids—particularly Shimao—may represent the Danava Mayasura’s architectural legacy, a site the vānaras could not have overlooked. The Pyramid of Shimao is even referred to as the Pyramid of Chinese Civilisation. Though dated to about 2300 BC, we know that the antiquity of such sites often predates modern estimates. 

Shanxi is located in northern China, defined by rugged terrain with mountains and plateaus that provide both natural defence and isolation. It lies near the Yellow River, a region historically recognised as the foundation of ancient Chinese civilisation. This river nurtured agriculture, supported early settlements, and facilitated trade, allowing societies to develop complex infrastructure and governance. Over time, Shanxi’s strategic position along major trade corridors, including early pathways of the Silk Road, contributed to its significance.

With such connectivity and historical prominence, this path was already well known, making it accessible for Sugrīva to reference in his instructions to the vānaras. Incidentally, the Xi’an Pyramid was discovered towards the end of the Second World War in 1945 by U.S. Air Force pilot James Gaussman while returning from Shanxi to his base in Assam, India. 

Shanxi province is located along a central migration passage for birds to Siberia in Russia. Birds use natural landmarks such as mountains, rivers, and coastlines to navigate during their migrations. These same landmarks often served as guides for ancient human travel and settlement, and we may conclude that the vānaras followed the same path.

🌺 Xinjiang in ancient Indic texts: Xinjiang, which lies to the north-west of Shanxi along the Silk Route, has had a deep connection with northern India in ancient times, dating back to the Rāmāyanic era. Historically known as Hotan (Khotan), the region was shaped by Indic languages and traditions, even before the advent of Buddhism and its spread.

Professor Subhash Kak states in his article The Rāmā Story and Sanskrit in Ancient Xinjiang, "Most people do not know that until about a thousand years ago, the Tarim Basin in north-west of Tibet, which is the part of Xinjiang below the Tian Shan Mountains was Indic in culture and it was a thriving part of the Sanskritic world; its people spoke the Gandhari language which many see as descended from Vedic Sanskrit, and the closely related Khotanese Saka. Gandhari inscriptions have been found as far east as Luoyang and Anyang in Henan Province in Eastern China, which attests to the vastness of the influence of Sanskrit".

He further says that several Khotanese cities bore Sanskrit names. Khotan in antiquity was Gaustana or Gosthana, 'Place of the Cow', and the modern city of Kashi was called Shrikritati or 'Glorious Hospitality'. Kashgar also derives its name from 'Kasha' with the suffix giri or 'bright mountain'. The Khotanese called their language Hvatanai, a distorted form of the Sanskrit svatana (स्वतन) meaning 'own land'.

Another part of Xinjiang, called Kuche, was known by its Sanskrit name Kucina. Kucina is equated by scholars with the Kushan empire, which emerged as an ancient Buddhist kingdom located on the branch of the Silk Road that ran along the northern edge of the Taklamakan Desert in the Tarim Basin, south of the Muzat River. The area lies in the present-day Aksu Prefecture of Xinjiang.

As stated by Prof. Kak, all these regions were Indic in culture from the earliest times, predating the Buddhist Era. The highest peak in Kuche or Kucina is the Jengish Chokusu, located near Lake Issyk Kul. Notice the word kūla, Sanskrit for 'lake', in its name. This becomes significant as we journey along with the vānaras. The name Jengish Chokusu translates as Victory Peak and is a name that belongs to the Communist era nomenclature. Chokusu appears to be a distortion of Sanskrit tunga via the Uighur 'tagh', Mongol 'tolgoi', Turkish 'dag', all of which, in mainstream literature, are linked to Proto‑Turkic origins from the root 'tāg', which meant 'mountain, peak', an apparent truncated form of the Sanskrit tunga.

V. 🌺 Siberian and Mongolian Links: 

Beyond the grand mansion of Maya Dānava, symbolised by the imperial capital of Xi’an, the vānaras turn north, travel across the steppes, and then towards the vast waters of Lake Baikal, the northern horizon of their journey.

🌺 Lake Vaikhana and Lake Baikal of Siberia:  After traversing the northern provinces, Sugreev directs the vānaras toward a vast expanse of water known in Vālmīki’s account as Vaikhana. The description is striking: a great lake lying beyond the lands of China and Mongolia, reached only after crossing the formidable stretches of Central Asia. Geographically, this trajectory leads unerringly to the eastern tip of Lake Baikal in Siberia—the world’s deepest and most ancient freshwater reservoir, a natural landmark of unparalleled scale.

The name itself invites comparison. By the principles of Grimm’s Law, the interchangeability of the sounds /v/ and /b/ is well attested. Thus, Vaikhana may represent the archaic Sanskritic form, later truncated into the modern Baikal. The shift from /v/ to /b/ confirms the precedence of the Sanskrit name, situating Vaikhana as the older designation preserved in epic memory.

Etymologically, Vaikhānasa, one who digs up, derives from the root khan (खन्), ‘to dig, excavate’. The Vaikhānasa hermits were ascetics who lived in forests, subsisting by digging for roots and tubers, hence their name. This practice gave rise to the epithet Vaikhānasa, later sanctified as a designation of Viṣṇu himself, through Sage Vikhanasa, the revealer of the Vaikhānasa ritual tradition. In this light, Vaikhana carries connotations of excavation, hollow vastness, and sacred continuity—a fitting epithet for a lake whose depths plunge farther than any other on earth.

Cultural echoes reinforce this identification. The Baikal region, home to the Buryat people, has long absorbed Indic influences through Buddhism and earlier exchanges across the Silk Road. Such resonances suggest that the Sanskritic imprint upon Siberian geography was neither accidental nor ephemeral, but part of a larger continuum of cultural memory stretching from the Himalayas to the northern steppes.

Thus, the Vaikhana of the Rāmāyaṇa and the Baikal of Siberia converge—linguistically, geographically, and mythically. In this identification, the epic’s cartography is not merely symbolic but records a continuity of names and places that bind India’s sacred narrative to the vast landscapes of Eurasia.

Vālmīki offers us further points for reflection. Around the lake Vaikhana, he describes Kubera’s elephant, Sarvabhūma, roaming with its herd of she‑elephants. Elephants, of course, have never inhabited the Siberian landscape. However, Siberia was once home to the mammoth, which disappeared at least six millennia ago. In present times, fossil remains of these great creatures continue to surface across the Siberian expanse. 

This imagery situates Kubera’s domain as extending beyond the Indian heartland, into corridors that later became trade routes reaching Siberia. If Kubera was associated with commerce and wealth, then his presence in this region implies that it was connected to the larger Indic economic sphere, playing a role in early global interactions.

There is also a geographical correlation. The Rāmāyaṇa says that on the opposite side of the vānaras' travel from the east, a river by the name Śailoda flows. Śailoda may be identified as the present-day Angara. River 'Angara' flows out from the north-western tip of Lake Baikal in Siberia and after many miles falls into the Kara Sea, a part of the North Arctic Ocean.

Despite Lake Baikal’s icy waters, the upper stretch of the Angara River is lined with thermal springs. These springs release hot water, steam, and minerals into the river. For instance, the Angarakan-Sartinsky Spring on the left shore of the Upper Angara reaches temperatures of 36-40°C. Other springs in the region exhibit similar warmth. Given these thermal features, the Sanskrit word angara (आङ्गार), meaning 'hot', aligns well with the river’s characteristics.

🌺 Keechaka and Siberian Bamboo Grass on Ancient Routes: Within the verses of the Rāmāyaṇa, Sugrīva's knowledge of geography stands out as remarkably vast. As the vānaras move ahead, navigating unfamiliar terrain, Sugrīva imparts essential wisdom. One striking moment unfolds near Lake Vaikhana, when he instructs his followers:  "Use the Keechaka to cross the lake".  Keechaka (कीचक) refers to 'reed' or 'bamboo grass', more specifically 'hollow bamboo grass', which possesses remarkable buoyancy due to its structure.

One can therefore infer that after crossing Vaikhana, that is Lake Baikal, the vānaras continue westward into the Angara–Yenisei corridor. This landscape marks a dramatic ecological shift: the dense taiga of the snow belt begins to open into river valleys and forest-steppe zones. It is in this transitional region that Vālmīki describes the Keechaka grass, hollow-stemmed and buoyant, capable of supporting long journeys across watery terrain.

This description aligns with the reed beds, rushes, and feather grasses that thrive along Siberian floodplains. For the vānaras, the reeds are practical aids to movement. Hollow stems trap air, making them naturally buoyant—bundles of such grasses could serve as flotation devices or rafts when crossing rivers and marshes.

Such use of hollow-stemmed plants was well known in ancient times. In ancient Egypt, papyrus reeds were bundled into boats and rafts, their buoyancy enabling travel across the Nile. The vānaras’ use of Keechaka grass thus echoes a wider tradition of reeds facilitating movement across water.

In epic cartography, the Keechaka grass signals the transition from Baikal’s mountainous taiga into the broad western plains, where rivers like the Angara and Yenisei open pathways across immense distances. Thus, the vānaras’ journey westward is inscribed in both vegetation and geography—the hollow grass becoming an emblem of the Siberian expanses that carry them toward the northern world.

On the northern tip of Baikal lies the town of Kichera, its name echoing the Sanskrit Keechaka. Further west, Kyakhta—an important stop along the trade route—bears a phonetic resemblance to ‘khiyag’, the Mongolian word for grass. Whether coincidence or linguistic memory, these resonances suggest deeper undercurrents, weaving together epic vocabulary with Siberian geography. Centuries later, the same corridors crystallised into the Grassland Silk Route, carrying goods and ideas across Central Asia, Mongolia, and Siberia. What Valmīki encodes in epic memory as the vānaras’ adaptation to northern landscapes finds uncanny parallels in the later history of nomadic cultures and traders who relied on these pathways. Sugrīva’s directives thus reveal an early mapping of transcontinental routes that shaped the movement of peoples and ideas across Eurasia.

🌺 Mention of Northern Lights in Rāmāyaṇa: More examples reaffirm that far from being merely a tale of war and devotion, the preserves an ancient roadmap—one that whispers clues of lost historical journeys not only across the windswept steppes and reeds of Baikal, but also through the forgotten grassland routes of Mongolia and Siberia, leading all the way to the northernmost reaches of the Earth.

Beyond Lake Vaikhana, as the vānaras press onward, Sugrīva once again guides them, offering foresight into the landscapes ahead. A revelation unfolds—he speaks of a celestial marvel awaiting them: the Northern Lights. In Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa Section 43, Verse 36, Vālmīki describes an awe-inspiring phenomenon: "Going beyond that expanse of water, you will come upon a sky, which even when devoid of the stars or the moon or the sun is illuminated by rays, as if there is light emitting from the self-luminous, god-like sages who repose there".

Here, Vālmīki draws a striking comparison between the luminous display of the Aurora Borealis and the radiance emanating from ascetics who have attained siddhis. The Northern Lights are not described merely as an atmospheric spectacle, but as a divine presence, a glow born not of celestial bodies, but of transcendental light—the light of great sages.

🌺 Journey to Kara Sea: Beyond Śailoda and Vaikhana Lake, the epic’s verses describe a radiant landscape—golden lotuses, sapphire-hued leaves, and rivers adorned with brightly coloured flowers—evoking imagery of a fertile, luminous terrain. This aligns with Siberia’s unique flora, where certain aquatic plants take on striking colours due to mineral-rich waters, a phenomenon observed in lakes with high concentrations of dissolved metals.

Looking at the present-day map, we find that Śailoda of the Rāmāyaṇa corresponds to the Angara River, which flows northwest from Lake Baikal and serves as the headwater tributary of the Yenisei River, eventually draining into the Kara Sea. This vast river system, including the Ob and Yenisei Rivers, provided natural conduits for movement toward the Arctic Ocean, facilitating migration and trade.

🌺 The Mystery of Mount Soma: The last major landmark in the Rāmāyaṇa’s northward journey is the Uttarakuru region, also mentioned in the Mahābhārata. Scholars have traditionally equated Uttarakuru with areas such as Tibet and Turkistan—stretching across the Inner and Central Asian belt between the Caspian Sea to the west, Siberia to the north, the Gobi Desert to the east, and Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Tibet to the south. Yet the Rāmāyaṇa’s testimony gestures beyond these bounds, widening Uttarakuru into far‑northern realms whose latitude feels almost Arctic: a land of divine merit where rivers shimmer with golden lotuses and mountains gleam like ritual fire.

Vālmīki’s portrayal goes deeper: he calls Uttarakuru a place that remains luminous even in the absence of the sun. This aligns closely with the natural phenomenon of the Arctic’s polar night and midnight sun—six months of uninterrupted daylight followed by six months of darkness.

🌺 The lore of Somagiri: Within this region, Vālmīki mentions a mountain named Somagiri—literally 'mountain of the moon'. The Rāmāyaṇa describes Somagiri as a 'self-illuminated mountain' glowing without the sun. This imagery offers a vital clue directly linking Somagiri to the Arctic landscape, where peaks shimmer beneath the auroral glow, their golden radiance unfurling across the sky despite the absence of sunlight.

This ancient narrative reflects an awareness of natural phenomena: the Urals and Siberian expanses, bathed in moonlight, the reflective brilliance of snow, and the dazzling spectacle of the northern lights. Vālmīki’s vision is uncannily exact—the placement of Somagiri resonates with the contours of Arctic geography, bridging mythic imagination with real-world terrain.

🌺 Linguistic Parallels between Somagiri and its indigenous names:

The name Somagiri (सोमगिरि) reveals compelling parallels with the Ural Mountains, supported by both linguistic echoes and geographic clues.

The Urals, known in Russian as Uralskiye Gory, carry a telling resonance. The second element, gory, meaning ‘mountains’, closely mirrors the Sanskrit giri (गिरि). Even the standard Russian word for mountain, gora, underscores this affinity.

What might be the etymology of the name Ural? 

Within these names, one can discern the Sanskrit giri concealed most clearly in the ‘garka’ of ‘ngarka. The Mansi word ‘nyor’ may also be understood as a variant of giri, refracted through its probable original form ‘ngarka’.

Among the indigenous peoples of the region, the mountains bear diverse appellations: it is called Nyor by the people of the Mansi tribe and Ngarka Pe by the Nenets. In all of these names, one can discern the Sanskrit giri, especially the 'garka' affix in Ngarka. The Mansi word ‘Nyor’ is also a variation of giri via its variant form, Ngarka. Intriguingly, the Mansi language also preserves another word for mountain: ‘suma’. This suggests that in antiquity, the range may have been remembered as Suma-Ngarka—a name resonant with Soma-Giri—used by the early inhabitants to designate the Urals.

🌺 Mt. Somagiri and Mt. Narodnya: The highest peak in the Urals is known as Mt. Narodnaya, which translates as 'Mountain of the People' in Russian, and seems to carry linguistic echoes that align with Sanskrit traditions. The Sanskrit equivalent of the name carries the same meaning, where nara (नर) means 'people' or 'human' and udaya (उदय) means 'elevation' or 'rising'.

Yet, the name 'Narodnaya' invites deeper scrutiny. Would an ancient mountain be named 'People’s Mountain'? This interpretation, in fact, aligns with the Soviet-era nomenclature, when names emphasising collective identity were common. Since the name Narodnaya clearly predates the communist era, it inevitably raises questions about its original meaning.

A deeper look at Russian linguistics reveals an intriguing connection. The Russian word for 'people', ‘lyudi’, shares phonetic roots with 'luny', which is a Russian word for 'moon'. The Rāmāyaṇa’s 'Somagiri' (सोमगिरि) would translate in Russian as 'Luny Gora', meaning 'Moon Mountain'.  Over generations, shifts in pronunciation may have gradually transformed 'Lunygora' into 'Lyudi', shifting its meaning from 'Moon Mountain' to 'People’s Mountain’.

Such an association of mountains with celestial bodies reflects the world-view of the ancients, for whom geography was inseparable from nature and the cosmos. Naming practices were attuned to the skies, unlike the more utilitarian tendencies of the communist era, when collective identity often overshadowed mythic resonance.

Another strand of evidence emerges from Russian vocabulary linked to the moon, particularly in the concept of lunacy. The Russian word for ‘lunatic’, ssumasshedy, carries within its prefix ssuma a striking echo of the Sanskrit soma (सोम), the moon. There is also a fascinating semantic parallel between ‘sām’ or ‘sam’ of the Mansi language with the meaning of ‘juice’ or ‘sap’, and Sanskrit somarasa, which translates as the ‘juice of Soma’. There is also a Ugaric parallel in the Khanty language, where ‘sam’ has the meaning of ‘essence’. Such meanings that tether mountains and minds alike to celestial rhythms—predate the period when Narodnaya acquired its communist tag. In that later era, description grew thinner, stripped of mythic depth, leaving names poorer in imagery and flattened in cadence.

🌺 The Tribes of the Ural Range: The tribes of the Ural Range are collectively known as the Samoyed people, a name etymologically linked to Soma. Among them, two prominent tribes—the Komi and the Mansi—carry names rich in symbolic resonance. The name Komi is a cognate of Soma (सोम), associated with the ‘sacred elixir’ as well as the ‘moon’, while Mansi is connected to mana (मन), a Sanskrit root meaning ‘mind’, ‘spirit’, or ‘sacred presence’.

The reader is aware by now of the appearance of the affix mana, or manas, or manasa, in lake names in many parts of the world. A striking parallel appears in Western Siberia in the name of Mansiyskoe Lake, also known as the Mansi. Formed when the Arctic outlets of the Ob and Yenisei Rivers were blocked, this periglacial lake once stretched nearly 9,700 kilometres across Eurasia. Its name and its immense scale evoke the same symbolic features: a landscape defined by the vastness, depth, and serene stillness of waters—qualities that resonate with the calm and expansive nature of a spiritual mind. Here, the lake name Mansiyskoe seems to preserve the same spiritual resonance that the name Mansarover does.

🌺 Mt. Manaraga: Just west of Mt. Narodnaya stands another prominent peak—Mt. Manaraga, a formidable landmark reinforcing the celestial and linguistic ties to Soma, mind, and moon. While modern interpretations link Manaraga’s name to 'bear’s claw' from the Nenets language, its geography suggests a resonance with the Sanskrit mana.

The presence of the Mana River, which flows in the vicinity, further strengthens the continuity of the Sanskritic mana, preserving ancient lunar associations, mirroring the celestial themes embedded in Somagiri itself. Hence, 'Somagiri' (सोमगिरि), Rāmāyaṇa’s golden mountain of the Northern Ocean, finds its reflection in the Ural Mountain system, its memory subtly preserved through language shifts and phonetic evolution.

🌺 Kara Sea and Uttarakuru: As the vānaras of the Rāmāyaṇa advanced to the northern limits of the Uttarakuru region—beyond which rose the unsurpassable sea-mountain Somagiri—they would have gazed upon an expanse stretching toward what we now call the Kara Sea.

According to Hindu scriptures, Uttarakuru has long been understood as the northern dominion of the Kuru dynasty. In Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa (4.43.38), North Kuru is portrayed as the dwelling place of those reborn to enjoy the fruits of past virtue—a land reserved for the ascetic and the meritorious. The Mahābhārata echoes this legacy, presenting the Kuru lineage as enduring and expansive, its influence radiating far beyond its heartland. Could the name of the Kara Sea itself preserve a memory of Kuru?

Etymologically, the name Kuru is often traced to the Sanskrit root kṛ, which means 'to do, to act, to accomplish'. Yet the resonance of kara complicates the picture. In Sanskrit, kara carries meanings of ‘hand’, ‘ray’, ‘tax’, and ‘tribute’, all linked to action, movement, and exchange. Thus, the Kara Sea may encode not only mythic geography but also the terrestrial realities of trade and taxation.

In a previous chapter, we traced the western expansion of Aṅgada, son of Lakṣmaṇa, toward the Black Sea—a realm once remembered in Indic texts as Karapatha. The recurrence of kara across these geographies suggests a semantic field tied to commerce, tribute, and the norms of international exchange.

Did the Kurus derive their name from kara—the act of giving, taxing, and transacting—or did the very name Kuru, rooted in 'to do’, shape the linguistic landscape that later produced kara? The etymology of Kuru and kara is layered, and though such parallels are unlikely to be coincidental, with the passage of millennia, it is difficult to disentangle which term is primary. They point instead to the far-reaching presence of Indic civilisation, whose trade routes extended its influence—and perhaps its very presence—well beyond the Sapta-Sindhu, into the Carpathian lands of the west and the Uttarakuru Arctic expanses to the north.

🌺The Sakha Republic: Ancient journeys beyond India’s borders are often met with disbelief—unless they are framed as trade. Yet this narrow view obscures the wider reality of antiquity. Exploration, pilgrimage, and the wanderings of mystics and ascetics were as integral to Indic life as commerce itself. The same routes that carried merchants outward also bore seekers, sages, and tribes in search of new horizons.

It is within this broader context of spiritual and exploratory mobility that Indic tribes established homes in distant lands. A striking example lies in the northeastern expanse of Siberia, where the Sakha Republic bears a name resonant with the ancient Shakya tribe. This echo suggests more than coincidence: the Rāmāyaṇa records that the Shakyas were among the many tribes who migrated away from the Sapta-Sindhu, journeying northward. Their presence in Siberia reflects not an anomaly, but the natural extension of India’s expansive tradition of movement—where trade, exploration, and ascetic wandering all converged to shape the ancient world.

And there is more to consider. One of the great rivers flowing through the Sakha Republic is the Indigirka—a name that carries dual resonance. It invokes Indra, the Vedic deity, and giri (गिरि), i.e. ‘mountain’, aptly describing the river’s origin in the high ranges. The Russian word for Mountain is ‘gora’. Such a convergence of sound and meaning suggests that Indic linguistic patterns may have left their imprint far beyond the subcontinent.

The Sakha province is also home to the Verkhoyansk Mountains. Here, the Russian prefix ‘verkh’, and ‘vershin’ meaning ‘top’, also finds a striking parallel in Sanskrit varshman (वर्ष्मन्) meaning ‘top’ or ‘summit’.

Here, the Russian prefix verkh, and vershin meaning 'top’, finds a striking parallel in Sanskrit varṣman (वर्ष्मन्) meaning 'top' or 'summit'. Proto‑Slavic vьrxъ, pronounced approximately 'vʲrkh', gave Russian verkh (top), and both trace back to the Proto‑Indo‑European root wer‑ / u̯er‑, meaning 'to raise, to lift, to be high'. This same root underlies Sanskrit varṣman (summit), Lithuanian viršus (top), Latvian virs (upper), and Russian verkh, revealing a deep Indo‑European continuity of imagery around height and summit.

But because such words and designations also find resonance in Indian scriptures and epics, these linguistic and geographic correspondences suggest that the ancient surveyors and cartographers of the Siberian ranges may have operated within a conceptual framework linked particularly, or even exclusively, with Sanskrit categories.

The examples of the Indigirka and the Verkhoyansk Mountains, taken together, reinforce the hypothesis that Indic presence in Siberia was not confined to patterns of migration but extended to intellectual engagement, shaping the nomenclature and interpretive structures through which the landscape itself was apprehended and inscribed.

🌺 Siberia, a Sanskrit connection to its name: Another intriguing example lies in the very name Siberia. Some scholars have speculated that it may derive from the Sanskrit śivira (शिविर), meaning ‘encampment’. At first glance, this hypothesis has been dismissed as fanciful, yet linguistic and historical evidence invite closer examination.

The Mongolian language, which has absorbed many Sanskrit-derived words over centuries, occasionally uses 'śivira' to denote 'shelter' or 'camp'. In the Turkic languages, a variation of 'śivira' appears as 'shibir', specifically referring to military encampments—a linguistic borrowing that likely entered through Mongolian influence.

Mongolian, deeply shaped by Sanskrit due to Buddhist texts and cultural exchanges, provides a pathway for this term's migration into Turkic linguistic traditions. Given Siberia’s historical role as a territory with temporary encampments—especially during the era of the Shibir Khanate (1468-1598)—its name could plausibly have acquired the meaning from the concept of transient military shelters established across its vast terrain.

Settlements along the Indigirka River also bear names that hint at Indic linguistic traces, such as Zashiverska, where the element 'shiver' appears embedded within the name. While further linguistic and historical research is needed to solidify this connection, the presence of ‘śivira' in Mongolian and 'shibir' in Turkic languages offers compelling evidence that Siberia’s name may reflect a legacy of mobile settlements.

🌺 Alternative Etymological Considerations: The Sanskrit variation of the name Siberia has also been seen in other ancient names of the land, such as in the river name Chivirkuy. Mainstream etymologists state that the prefix 'chivir' derives from the Evenk language, where 'chivir' means 'to twirl'. Yet they interpret the name Siberia differently, reading Siberia as 'sib ir', and deriving its meaning from the Siberian Tartar language, where 'sib ir' means 'sleeping land', which brings in the geographical angle of a quiet, distant, still land.

A Sanskrit explanation for Siberia as 'sleeping land' is plausible as well. If we apply Sanskrit linguistic principles, the word 'land' translates as pura (पुर). The suffix 'beria' in Siberia likely corresponds to pura. Though seemingly speculative, this interpretation finds precedence in Russian, Siberian, and Mongolian place names—a pattern that we investigate ahead.

🌺 Por Bajin and Vajrapura: Tracing the Linguistic Evolution: Among the many places bearing Sanskrit imprints, one site stands out. About a hundred years ago, archaeologists unearthed a mysterious fortress called Por Bajin, also spelt Por Bayzn, in the Tere-Kol Lake region of Tuva, Southern Siberia, near Mongolia. Set against the Altai Mountain Range, its origins remain a puzzle to mainstream scholars. 

Por-Bajin Fortress, Tuva, Russia Photo by: Por-Bajin, Fortress Foundation Photo by: CC BY 4.0, Wikimedia Commons

🌺 Pradyumna’s Journey and the Fortress of Vajrapura: But the answer to its origins lies in the Hindu scriptures. Por Bajin’s story lies veiled in the story of the conquest of Vajrapur, a city from Mahābhārata times, by Pradyumna, son of Śrī Kṛṣṇa. According to the Harivamsa Purāṇa, a scripture which chronicles Śrī Kṛṣṇa's life after the end of the Mahābhārata war, a city called Vajrapur was built in the middle of a lake inaccessible even to the winds, by an architect called Nikumba for an asura called Vajranabha.  

The etymology of the name Por Bajin’s may be unlocked through recognising the shift in the etymology of Vajrapura (वज्र-पुर्), meaning 'impenetrable city'. Over time, the name Vajrapura changed to Bajrapura and then perhaps, Pura-Bajra. Its memory appears to survive in the name Por Bajin, the fortress in Tuva, Siberia. This linguistic drift reflects ancient Indic settlements embedding Sanskritic terms into Siberian topography. Let's look for the evidence.

In his study, Captain Tod found that the 'Yadhu Tribe', of whom Śrī Kṛṣṇa and his three sons were the most prominent members, spread the Yadhu empire westward and northward, beyond the geographical boundaries of present-day India. Tod states in his Annals and Antiquities, Vol 1, page 85, “The sons of Kṛṣṇa eventually left Indus behind and passed into Zabulisthan, and peopled those countries, even to Samarkand". Zabulistan is the present-day region of Kabul and Ghazni in Afghanistan. Their reach extended even farther north. 

This aligns with the Harivamsa Purāṇa, which states that Pradyumna extended the Yadhu Empire northward. One of the cities he attacked was Vajrapura, where he defeated King Vajranabha. After the battle, a truce was called, and Pradyumna married Vajranabha’s daughter, Prabhavati, marking a historical alliance.

A poetic retelling of this war says that Pradyumna is transported from Dvārakā by geese to a land far, far away before he attacks the destination city of Vajrapur. The Harivamsa Purāṇa describes this city and states that it was a magnificent city, described as the 'city of jewels'. It was located far north of the Himalayan range and was surrounded by a lake.

🌺 Jean Philippe’s Study and Historical Parallels: In his work The Goose in Indian Literature and Art (Volume 2 of Memoirs of the Kern Institute), author Dutch Sanskritist and epigraphist, Jean Philippe Vogel who worked with the Archaeological Survey of India from 1901-1914, describes a flock of powerful geese fly in military like formations leaving behind 'strips of white sandalwood paste emitted from the golden tips of the wings', carrying Pradyumna to Vajrapur. This aerial journey suggests a vast distance. The sandalwood trails evoke imagery akin to chemtrails left by aircraft or vimanas—hinting at travel to a distant realm.

Scholar Hari Bilas Sarda arrived at a similar conclusion. In his book Hindu Superiority, Har Bilas Sarda, quoting Harivamsha Purāṇa, states that a band of Hindu settlers left India for Siberia, where they founded a kingdom in Vajrapur, which later came to be called Bajrapur, as its capital. It is related that at the time of the death of King Vajranabh, Pardyumna, Gad and Sambha, the three sons of Śrī Kṛṣṇa, with a large number of Brahmans and Kshatriyas, went there, and the eldest brother succeeded to the throne of Vajrapur. On the death of Śrī Kṛṣṇa, the three sons undertook what has been described as a long journey back to Dvārakā, confirming their settlement in a faraway land.

🌺 Decoding Place Names: Vajrapura, Bajrapura and Por Bajin: The name Vajra (वज्र) means ‘impenetrable’, while pura (पुर) denotes ‘city’. Together, they evoke the idea of a fortified settlement—an image that aligns directly with Por Bajin’s imposing architecture. Local Tuvan scholars translate Por Bajin as ‘Clay House’, yet this reading overlooks its defining characteristic: remarkable sturdiness. The contrast strengthens the case that the name Por Bajin may, in fact, preserve Sanskrit origins.

Interestingly, the name of the lake that surrounds Por Bajin is Tere-Kol, also called Tore Kol and Tire-Khol. In the local Tuvan language, the word 'kol' is translated as 'wash', but though it does seem to carry the nuance of water, its original meaning can be traced to Sanskrit kūla (कूल) meaning 'lake', 'pond' or 'pool'. And though the most common Mongolian word for a lake is 'nuur', for a river the word is 'gol' and 'qol', the latter is a variation of Sanskrit kūla.

Taken together, these linguistic parallels suggest that the names of Por Bajin and its surrounding waters may carry Indic imprints, woven into the geography of Siberia through layers of settlement, language, and cultural exchange.

Por Bajin, located in Tere Khol Lake, Russia

🌺 Tere Khol, Goa, and Dvārakā’s Sacred Geography: Interestingly, the legend of Vajranabha and the geography surrounding Por Bajin in Siberia find a striking reflection in India itself, particularly in the sacred landscape of Dvārakā. Por Bajin stands in the middle of a lake called Tere-Khol—a name identical to the Terekhol, a river in Goa that flows into the Arabian Sea near the village of Terekhol, also known as Tirkol. Tirkol occupies a strategic maritime location, one that could hardly have escaped the notice of Śrī Kṛṣṇa, who ruled from Dvārakā.

Between Terekhol in Goa and Kṛṣṇa's city of Dvārakā, lie the Vajrai Waterfalls and the Vajreshwara Temple, indicating the wide presence of the name Vajra in Kṛṣṇa’s land.

The region of Goa and Maharashtra, known in antiquity as Dakshina Patha and Vidarbha, is deeply entwined with the Mahābhārata. Kṛṣṇa’s presence is inscribed in the very geography: the River Krishna flows through this land, originating at Mahabaleshwar in the Western Ghats. Nearby lies Wai, believed to be the ancient Viratnagari, where the Pandavas spent part of their exile. Further along the same path are the Vajrai Falls, whose name evokes Vajrapura—Pradyumna’s legendary city in the northern reaches of Uttarapatha.

The recurrence of names—Vajra, Kol, Pur, Tere—across Tuva in Russia, and in ancient Vidarbha (Maharashtra and Goa), and Saurāṣṭra (Gujarat) suggests a civilisational imprint. It is as if Pradyumna, in founding or capturing Por Bajin in Siberia, replicated the sacred geography of his homeland. The names he chose were not arbitrary—they were mnemonic anchors, preserving the memory of Kṛṣṇa’s empire in a distant homeland.

If Dvārakā was Kṛṣṇa’s capital, then Terekhol in Vidarbha may have been his maritime outpost—a coastal node overseeing trade, naval movement, and spiritual passage. The name Terekhol derives from Sanskrit tira (तीर), 'riverbank' or 'shore' and kūla (कूल) or 'river' and 'lake'. Kṛṣṇa's son Pradyumna replicates the same logic in Vajrapur or Por Bajin, establishing the fort in the middle of a lake, which he called Terekhol.

Hence, from the rivers of Goa to the lakes of Mongolia and Russia, the same names persist. They are not scattered syllables, but civilisational ligaments, binding distant geographies through the memory of Kṛṣṇa’s empire. The Yadava reach may have extended farther than history admits—not only to the Terekhol River of Goa, but far beyond, to the Tere-Khol Lake on the border of Mongolia and Siberia.

🌺 Indian Origin of the Mongolians: A Legendary Tradition: The idea that Mongolians trace their ancestry to India is preserved both in Mongolian nationalist writings of the early 20th century and in certain Indian annals. In the 1930s, Prime Minister Anandyn Amar, in his Short History of Mongolia, asserted that the forefathers of the Mongols came from south of the Himalayas. This claim echoed older traditions recorded in Indian sources, which describe migrations from the Kangra kingdom in the Himalayan foothills to the steppes of present‑day Mongolia.

Amar himself bore a name of pure Sanskrit origin. Strikingly, even the present-day Prime Minister carries a Sanskritic name: Gombojavyn Zandanshatar. The affix Zandan—like the Sanskrit Candana (चन्दन)—means sandalwood, a fragrant and sacred wood symbolizing purity and resilience. Such linguistic echoes suggest that the memory of Indic roots continues to resonate in Mongolian identity, preserved in names that whisper across centuries.

According to these Indian annals, Mangaldeva, son of a Himalayan king of Kangra, led an expedition northward. The migrants are said to have remained in Mongolia for nearly two millennia before most returned to India, leaving behind descendants whose hereditary leader is linked to the Katoch dynasty of Himachal Pradesh. Genealogical records, such as those cited by Nageena Kamparma in Tarika Kadim Ariyavartan (1926), claim a lineage of 490 generations reaching back to 4300 BCE.

Mongolian scholars like Oidov Nyamdavaa have also highlighted these traditions, noting cultural, ethnic, and religious ties between the two regions that stretch into antiquity. In his paper, Ancient Cultural, Ethnic and Religious Ties between Mongolia and India, published in 2015 in World Affairs: Journal of International Issues, author Oidov Nyamadavaa stated, “Mongolia and India have ancient ties and some annals record that they go back 10,000 years". He adds, “A scholar of
The Super Unified Linguistic Theory, Ch Erdene, in a lecture in November 2014, stated that the connections between Indians and Mongols were more than 8000 years old".

While mainstream historians emphasise the more verifiable connections forged through Buddhism and Silk Road exchanges from the 1st millennium CE onward, these legendary accounts remain important. They reflect a shared cultural imagination in which the Himalayas serve as a cradle of Mongolian ancestry, symbolically binding the steppes of Central Asia to the sacred landscapes of India.

In the folklore of ancient India, the name Mongolia was not unknown. In fact, the etymology of Mongolia is sometimes derived from the Sanskrit mangala (मङ्गल), meaning ‘auspiciousness’, linking the name to King Mangaldeva himself.

🌺 Lakes of Mongolia and Siberia: The travelling Indic tribes, remembered in epic traditions and folklore, seem to have left their mark widely, inscribing distant geographies with familiar sounds and meanings, both in Mongolia and Siberia. From Tuva to Mongolia, we encounter hydronyms that echo Sanskrit roots, suggesting that naming itself became a way of carrying civilisational memory into various lands.

The most common Mongolian and Tuvan word for ‘lake' is ‘nuur’, while 'river' appears as both ‘gol’ and ‘qol’. Nuur, derived from the Proto-Mongolic root ‘naxur’, intriguingly parallels the Sanskrit akṣara (अक्षर), which carries the sense of 'water' or 'fluid element'. Likewise, ‘gol’ and ‘qol’ are cognates of Sanskrit kūla (कूल), meaning 'riverbank' or 'water body'. This connection is reflected in the recurrence of ‘kol’ in the names of many lakes in the region, such as Ssayakol, Koshyarkol, and Ala Kol.

One of the most sacred lakes in Western Tuva’s Bai-Taiga region is Kara-Khol. Surrounded by steep cliffs that darken its waters, the name Kara means 'black' in Tuvan. Yet this term likely derives from the Sanskrit kāla (काल), meaning 'black' or 'dark'. The phonetic shift from l to r—where /r/ became dominant and /l/ less stable—may reflect substrate influence, traces of an older Indic linguistic layer upon later Central Asian or Turkic tongues. It may also represent semantic borrowing, where the meaning of 'black' endured even as the sounds transformed.

Another notable example is seen in Lake Uvs Nuur, one of Mongolia’s largest and most sacred water bodies. Mainstream scholars trace Uvs to older Mongolic or Turkic forms such as ‘ubsa’ or ‘ubsaq’, denoting ‘briny water’ or ‘salt marshes’. Yet a Sanskrit connection is equally compelling: ‘ubsa’ and ‘upsaq’ may relate to apsa (अप्सा), meaning 'giving water', or to arṣaṇa (अर्षण), meaning 'flowing'. This hypothesis gains strength from Mongolian words for 'flow'—‘ursa’ and ‘urus’—which are close cognates of Sanskrit apsa.

Taken together, these examples suggest that the hydronyms of Mongolia and Siberia preserve echoes of Indic linguistic heritage. Whether through direct migration, cultural exchange, or substrate influence, the Sanskritic imprint appears woven into the very geography of Central Asia’s lakes and rivers.

In Mongolia, the above Sanskritic words do not exist in isolation. Sanskrit-derived weekday names remain in active use, attested in the Khalkha dialect—the standard form of modern Mongolian—and echoed in Buryat and Kalmyk variants under Tibetan Buddhist influence. These names include Adiya for Sunday (derived from Aditya-Sun), Soumiya for Monday (derived from soma- moon), Angarag for Tuesday, Bud for Wednesday, Barasbadi, derived from Brhaspati or Jupiter, Sugar for Friday, derived from Shukra or Venus, and Sanchir, which is derived from Sanischar, or Saturn, for Saturday. Their continued presence in everyday Mongolian vocabulary demonstrates that Sanskrit cosmological terminology was not merely borrowed but integrated into the calendrical and cultural fabric of the steppe.

🌺 VI. The Arctic Horizon:

Alongside the grounded journeys of traders, ascetics, and tribes—who carried Indic names and traditions across fortresses, rivers, and lakes—the scriptures preserve another kind of testimony: enigmatic accounts of passages into realms that defy ordinary geography, such as King Pururava’s descent from Kailāśa into a land that mirrors the Arctic.

Pururava was the first king of the Lunar dynasty (Chandravamsha), celebrated in the Ṛgveda and Purāṇas as a semi‑divine ruler whose love story with the celestial nymph Urvaśī is one of the earliest romantic narratives in Sanskrit literature. He is regarded as the ancestor of the Yādavas, Kauravas, and Pāṇḍavas of the Mahābhārata. In the Matsya Purāṇa, Pururava appears in a lesser‑known episode that situates him at the threshold of polar realms.

The Matsya Purāṇa offers an evocative description that aligns strikingly with Arctic geography and light phenomena. In Chapters 117–119, it narrates a legend, the journey of King Pururava, who, while travelling near Mt. Kailāśa in the Himalayas, encounters three majestic peaks. The central peak features a crevice or cave-like opening, adorned with flowers, creepers, and twiners—an inviting threshold into mystery. Drawn by its beauty, Pururava enters the cave and falls through the crevice, a descent described as roughly one furlong in depth and traumatic in nature.

The nature of his passage—whether metaphysical, glacial, or mythic—remains open to interpretation. Yet what follows is unmistakably Arctic in character. Pururava emerges in a realm described as bright yet serene, high and circular like a cap, and entirely covered in snow. Most strikingly, the Matsya Purāṇa notes that day and night are equally illuminated by the sun’s rays, which never set. There is no night, and the moon is not visible—a phenomenon that precisely mirrors the polar summer, where the sun remains above the horizon for extended periods and lunar visibility is minimal.

This description resonates with Bal Gangadhar Tilak’s thesis in The Arctic Home of the Vedas, where he argues that ancient Indic texts preserve memory of a primordial homeland in the Arctic, marked by six‑month‑long days and nights and celestial rhythms unfamiliar to tropical latitudes.

Though controversial for its broader conclusions, Tilak persuasively maintained that the Vedic scriptures preserve knowledge of Arctic phenomena, suggesting that awareness of the Arctic land was well known and documented in ancient Indian texts.

In today’s terms, Pururava’s descent from Kailāśa into the Arctic realm can be read as a metaphor for two kinds of distance we still recognise: the long, winding travel routes and the shorter, straight‑line paths. Modern air travel, for example, uses the great‑circle (orthodromic) distance—the shortest arc between two points on Earth’s surface—when flying over the Arctic, because it saves time and fuel. By contrast, traders and caravans in antiquity followed loxodromic routes—paths that kept a constant bearing along rivers, valleys, and seas, but were far longer. The Purāṇic narrative encodes this distinction in mythic form: the arduous terrestrial journey versus the sudden, direct leap into polar realms.

🌺 Mt. Gunnbjørn Fjeld of the Arctic and the Matsya Purāṇa: The Matsya Purāṇa refers to another enigmatic landmark in this region. Following its vivid account of the cap‑shaped Arctic in King Pururava’s journey, the text describes a prominent quadrangular mountain or rock. Its grand dimensions are given as 200 dhanus (approximately 300 meters or 984 feet) in base length, chaturastra (चतुरस्त्रा) or quadrangular in shape, and said to be beautifully constructed through the austere penances of sages (Chapter 119, Verse 20):

चतुरस्त्रं महाशैलं द्विशतधन्वोन्नतं शुभम्। तपसा निर्मितं तेन द्वारं तस्य सुवर्णकम्॥२०॥

“A great quadrangular rock-structure, two hundred dhanus in height, auspicious in form, was constructed through austerities by him (Sage Atri); its entrance was made of gold". This description aligns strikingly with Gunnbjørn Fjeld, renowned for its rugged, flat-topped silhouette—a mysterious landmark in the farthest reaches of the Arctic

Mt Gunnbjorn of Greenland, the highest mountain In the Arctic Circle, which the Matsya Purāṇa mentions. Photo by Maxim Bouev, British-Russian expedition Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons 🌺The Glacial Nāga and the Arctic Peak: This imagery of the Matsya Purāṇa is not mere fantasy; it serves as a poetic mirror of tangible geographic realities. लक्ष्म्युत्सङ्गतोऽद्रिस्तु शेषभोगप्रशायिनः । फणीन्द्रभोगसंन्यस्तबाहुः केयूरभूषणः ॥ ३०॥ "He (Janardana) reclines upon the coils of Shesha, with Lakshmi seated beside him; his arm rests upon the hooded serpent, adorned with armlets (keyūra)". Within this quadrangular mountain, the Purāṇa describes a radiant palace fashioned by a sage, often identified as Atri, through rigorous austerities. This palace is the abode of Lord Viṣṇu—Janardana—reclining on the infinite serpent Ananta. Ananta, symbolising eternity and boundlessness, resonates strikingly with the Norse myth of Jörmungandr, the world-encircling serpent, evoking themes of cosmic continuity and cyclical time . B

eneath Gunnbjørn’s towering presence, vast glacial sheets—the Christian IV, Kronborg, and Rosenborg glaciers—flow and coil like icy serpents. These glaciers are dynamic, sinuous rivers of ice encircling the peak’s base—embodying the cyclical force of Ananta Nāga and the protective energies of Jörmungar. The Purāṇa’s depiction of a snow-capped, sunlit realm where day and night blend into endless illumination poetically corroborates Bal Gangadhar Tilak’s thesis in The Arctic Home in the Vedas. Mythic memory preserved in sacred texts encodes profound geographic truths that echo across epochanding as the tallest mountain north of the Arctic Circle, Gunnbjørn Fjeld commands a sovereign presence in the Arctic region—a region that ancient rishis and the vānaras of the Rāmāyāna would surely have perceived as the edge of the known world, radiant and mysterious.

sceptics, it is worth noting that despite differences in belief systems, there appear to be intriguing cultural links between the Purāṇas and other ancient myths, perhaps even those associated with Gunnbjørn Fjeld. Such connections invite us to explore the extent of Indic influence, resulting in shared symbols and stories that span diverse cultures and ages.

🌺 India’s Cultural North: The northward passage of the vānaras—across the Himalayas, into China, Mongolia, Siberia, and onward toward the Arctic—reminds us that these routes are not mythical but geographical, inscribing civilisational pathways that carried ideas, rituals, and cosmologies across immense terrains. The Purāṇic evocations of migratory bird paths beyond the Himalayas, of lakes and rivers in frozen lands, of cap‑shaped realms, quadrangular peaks, and luminous domains of endless light, find uncanny echoes in the actual geography of the northern world—from the Tibetan plateau to the waters of Mongolia and Siberia, from the glacial coils encircling Gunnbjørn Fjeld to the polar summers where the sun refuses to set.

As the Chinese philosopher and diplomat Hu Shih (1891–1962) observed in his essay India and China: The Indianization of China, first published in the early twentieth century: “India conquered and dominated China culturally for twenty centuries without ever having to send a single soldier across her border". The reverberations of Indic thought in China, and further north through Russia to the Arctic, together with the resonance of Yādava traditions within the geography of Uttarakuru, attest to the enduring reach of these narratives.

In tracing these movements, we glimpse a cartography where epic memory converges with ancient terrain—where journeys once sung in verse reveal themselves as pathways across the northern world.

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Epilogue: The Timeless Civilisational Stream of Akhaṇḍa Bhārata

The journey of the Rāmāyaṇa is not merely an epic tale but the unveiling of a civilisational continuum—Akhaṇḍa Bhārata—whose rivers, mountains, and oceans inscribe an indivisible whole. The unbroken current of this civilisation flows through its three great rivers—Sindhu, Sarasvatī, and Gaṅgā—each bearing a successive expression of one continuous stream. The Indus (Sindhu) anchors the Harappan substratum, the earliest material foundation of settled life. The Sarasvatī, praised in the Ṛgveda, becomes the cradle of Vedic philosophy, humanity’s oldest textual and intellectual tradition. The Gaṅgā rises as the civilisational axis, sanctifying the cultural and spiritual continuum of Bhārata. Together, these rivers do not mark separate worlds but successive horizons of one indivisible civilisation, flowing onward into the landscapes and testimonies that extend Bhārata’s reach across the earth.

The vānara trail, radiating outward from Ayodhyā, encodes a cartography that stretches across continents—eastward to Śālmalī-dvīpa and Udaya Giri, westward to Meru and Meron, northward to the Arctic realms of Uttarakuru, and southward to Rāmeśvaram and the Setu that binds Bhāratavarṣa onto the world. This geography is not scattered fragments but indivisible testimony: a civilisational expanse that embraces the earth itself, inscribing Bhārata’s light across oceans and continents.

The southern march, resonant in Sangam poetry and Siddhar traditions, anchors Bhārata’s continuity in the peninsula. Here, the echoes of the Rāmāyaṇa converge with Tamil voices, Sinhalese chronicles, and even the submerged shoals of Rāma Setu, binding the southern trail into the indivisible whole.

Thus, the rivers, the landscapes, and the epic itinerary converge into a vision of Akhaṇḍa Bhārata—a civilisation indivisible, radiant with bhā, the light from which Bhārata itself is named. From this axis, the horizon extends beyond Bhāratakhanda and Jambudvīpa, radiating outward to embrace the entire world, carrying the light of theis timeless civilisation into new realms of understanding.

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