Chapter 1

The Stone’s Spark

The workers were busy at the excavation site in Devgarh, a small, dusty village only twenty-eight kilometers from the world-renowned Khajuraho temple in Madhya Pradesh. The air was full of brushes, chisels, and voices in the hot afternoon sun.

Dr. Jayshree Khare, 38, an internationally known archaeologist, fought for this dig for months. Surveys at Devgarh found mound formations and carved pieces which pointed to a long-lost temple connected to the Chandela dynasty. There were hints of its existence in inscriptions, but no formal digging had ever been done.

She had to deal with a lot of paperwork and arguments to get the government to finally let her dig in this protected area. She was well-known in the academic world; her name was published in journals and she was asked to give lectures in Europe and the US. In Bhopal, where she lived now, her reputation meant a lot. She was respected and admired, and newspapers often called her the “torchbearer of Indian archaeology.”

Kabir, a smart but skeptical research assistant; Ananya, a lively young epigrapher; and Mahesh, a local liaison whose deep knowledge of village lore often confused more than it helped.

The walls of the temple that was only half-buried had come out. The panels showed beautiful apsaras, gods dancing, and heavenly musicians. And then the carvings made everyone quiet.

The difference between these idols and those at Khajuraho was not their posture or artistry, but the size of their penises, which were bold and unapologetic, sticking out from the stone.

The workers looked at each other and their eyes flickered, but no one said anything. Kabir and Ananya even kept their lips tightly pressed together. Everyone saw it, but no one had the guts to say anything.

The jokes started later.

Kabir smiled. “Such boldness in carving. Like the sculptors wanted this to be the only thing people remembered them for.”

Ananya laughed nervously. “Well, they got what they wanted. We’re still making fun of the size today.”

Jayshree cleared her throat and spoke in a calm, professional tone. “This isn’t just happening in Devgarh. You can find exaggerated penises in many cultures. The Romans painted and sculpted them as good luck charms and fertility charms in ancient Greece, at Delos and Pompeii, and of course at Khajuraho. In Japan, giant phalluses are still paraded as symbols of life and protection in Shinto festivals like the Kanamara Matsuri in Kawasaki. Scholars often say that these forms were more than just rude. They were linked to wealth, plenty, and even keeping bad things away at times.”

She let the explanation hang there, cool and academic, like a shield against the heat rising in her own body.

But Mahesh wasn’t happy. He leaned forward, and his voice had an edge to it. “Or maybe, ma’am, the sculptors weren’t making up symbols. They might have carved what they saw with their own eyes.”

The air changed. Kabir laughed off what Ananya said, while Ananya rolled her eyes. Jayshree’s lips were pressed together. Her words had been safe and academic. But Mahesh’s suggestion hit too close to home for her.

The others laughed it off. “These giant idols are just the sculptors’ fantasies, not real life,” one of them said.

Mahesh’s eyes narrowed, and his voice was heavy with old secrets. “No, not fantasy. People in my village always said Londhiya men were like this—big, too big. On their wedding nights, brides would whisper about both pride and fear. Even now, people say that foreigners don’t come just for temples, but for them to enjoy their bigger size.”

Jayshree frowned a little, half-curious and half-defensive. “Londhiya? What kind of community is that?”

Mahesh leaned in closer and spoke more quietly, as if the air itself might give him away. “A scattered people from central India. First traders, then farmers. People said that they carried a gift in their bodies, a legacy that made brides shiver with both joy and fear.

“Their men sell their bodies without shame, which is not the case in other communities. Women from abroad, openly sought them, and the community regarded it as profession rather than wrongdoing.”

Kabir smiled. “Folklore. People make things up.”

Mahesh’s jaw got tight. “Not everything is an exaggeration, Kabir. Some things are just too common to not notice.”

The group laughed and let the topic go. But Jayshree couldn’t. The words, the carvings, and the stories stuck to her.

She made tea that night at her room in the guesthouse. The idols grew in her mind, huge, hard, and too much to handle.

She was born and raised in Pune in a traditional family that taught her to be dignified, modest, and self-controlled. She took that discipline with her to work and built a career that most women in her field could only dream of.

She thought of her husband Prakash. He was a history professor and he spent his days teaching students about old dynasties and battles that no one remembers. He lived by facts and reason, and he brought that same steadiness to his marriage. He never doubted her loyalty or gave in to suspicion; he had complete faith in her. He spoke softly and moved with quiet dignity.