The Delirium of Negation

by Victor Mahn

  “Oh, boy. I sure hope not! Do you know if… if we have to re-fence the entire place! It will take a whole week to get it done,” the supervisor said. The flunkey seemed to be examining the panels that were directly before them. “There’s no way for us to know for sure. We’ve never encountered a tiger before. Deer, boars, snakes… those are the norms. Even I have encountered some of those, as well as other types of beasts whose names I do not know. Guess we’d have to take a gamble with this tiger.”

  Siddhanath peered through the gaps, said, “Well, if I recall my lessons correctly, a tiger is a solitary beast. And it needs a territory of its own that could be quite large. How big a space you think is in there?”

  “Large enough for a tiger, I am sure. We’ve to decide… now. Of what we are to do. I can get a team working on getting the fencing higher. Like I said, it will take a week. And there’s the cost of the materials… the manager will not like to hear that. Unless…”

  “Unless, what?” Siddhanath asked.

  “I am guessing that it will be cheaper to get a game-hunter ourselves instead. Right now, hunt the damned beast! Now before later, when the damage is done and when it had made this place its home, and we’d have to take the brunt of it…” the supervisor said, rubbing his chin.

  “That’s not a bad idea…” Siddhanath said. “Not bad at all. Some of the folks out there on the purlieu of this sandalwood field, I know that they are meat-eaters. And that they hunt. There’s also the rumour that one of the families own a British weapon… a rifle? Is that what it is called?”

  “Yes… ahh… you’re on to something there, boy! Those kinds… they would like the opportunity to hunt down a tiger, put out its fur for display. Stating their bravery for the others to marvel at! Yes, they’ll buy into the idea. Now we need only to be convincing one person, and the entire scheme to get rid of the tiger will be underway…” the supervisor said.

  “Yes. The field manager. I will talk to him, if you’d prefer.”

  The supervisor thought for a bit, with the manservant watching him intently. I wonder what he does, this manservant…

  “No, let’s go together. Now. You’re done with the inspection of that tree earlier, I imagine? Good, let’s go to the meal shed. He’s bound to be there.”

  “Fine. Lead on, Sir.”

  They walked back on the path they had crossed, traversed the tree on which Siddhanath had been perched, and moved further down the path. In fifteen minutes, they were at the site where the employed would take their meal breaks under the shade of a straw-roofed tents. Shri Devakar was spotted to be writing in his journal—seemingly the day’s stock count. The three of them approached him, but he turned them away, for he’d like to be undisturbed for the next few moments, as he was analysing the numbers and translating them into revenue and profits.

  So, they edged away to the water canteen and took sips of water. Siddhanath was observing the workers who were eating their home-cooked food, carried in their copper-trimmed containers. They seemed to be perspiring, for the winds were not present today, and the heatwaves came in rapid successions. And he swore that he found that some of them have tanned rather badly—their skin had seemed to become leathery and… A tanned skin… leathery… Siddhanath paused, gripping onto something that was hazy, partially hidden from his train of thought. He knew something, his mind was trying to tell him something, pinpoint on an unstoppable machinery… or a person? The Rogue…

  He flinched as the memories of the Rogue came to the foreground. He thought of the past, of the deal he had made with him. And the result of that deal was the life he was living now. A perfect life, with the one whom he loves more than he loves himself. And there is this piece that does not seem to fit… a strange feeling that something had been playing out right under his nose, and that he had not been aware of it.

  “Come, boy. The manager is calling us,” the supervisor said.

  They spelt out the plan they had concocted out there in the fields to Shri Devakar, who did not interrupt them. He had been sipping on his tea, gazing from one to the other, and when they had laid out their idea and awaited his feedback, he took a large gulp of the tea and banged the metal cup squarely on his work desk.

  “So… you two men think that we should kill this thing?” he asked. His voice sounded unfriendly.

  “Well… yes, Sir. We think we should employ the hunters…” the supervisor said, glancing sideways toward Siddhanath, expecting support. Siddhanath nodded that he approved the thought. I am, however, an underling. The field manager may not heed my opinions, anyhow.

  Shri Devakar sighed, picked up his cup, and slammed it down again as he found it to be empty. “You two… you two know that we are in the midst of the Navratri? And on the eighth day, we will have the Durga Ashtami—the worshipping of the Goddess. It will be utterly insensitive to do this… killing…”

  Siddhanath and the supervisor locked eyes for a moment. “I am sorry, Sir…but I do not think that I see the relevance of that to—” the supervisor began speaking but was abruptly cut off by the manager.

  “Fools! This is the day of the worshipping of the Goddess, of her weapons and her mount. And she rides on the mount of a tiger! What would the villagers think if I were to issue a killing order for this tiger! And they say that it is a white tiger... that it is unique and rare. The encircling twenty villages will speak of my evil deed!”

  The supervisor looked apologetic. “I am sorry, Sir. I did not think of that bit… We were looking at the fencing as you’ve told us to, and then we thought that the—”

  “I know what you would have thought! Better judgement is what I am asking of you. And of you, Siddhanath! You mentioned that you are well-versed in the movements of the planets and the seasons. And of deities!”

  “Yes… yes, Sir. I am sorry,” Siddhanath became meek.

  “Well… find another way with the tiger. Go!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Siddhanath hurried home, fighting against the strong winds and the drizzle that was being blown sideways. It seemed that the weather, too, had decided to be uncertain; the hot and humid day was swapped completely with one that was wet and filled with gloom. He was now completely drenched, and he found it hard to lift his feet off the muddy ground and brace forward. He removed the towel from around his neck and periodically wiped the droplets off his eyelids and brows. With persistence, and a rising fear within, he managed to reach the front of his hut. To his horror, he found the door open.

  He rushed in and found that the kitchen utensils and some pieces of clothing – metal plates and tumblers, and a white dhoti and a shawl – were stashed at the corner furthest away from the door. Next to that was their straw bed, and on it, lay Kausalya, curled into a ball under the blanket. He ran to her and was relieved to see her well… and… alive.

  “The wind! It was strong! I couldn’t… the door, it broke off! I tried to fix it, but it didn’t work. And it was becoming cold, so I snuggled under the blankets on the bed. I got scared, dearest!”

  He hugged her, then affectionately kissed her forehead. “The baby… how is—”

  “She’s all right! I didn’t exert myself. After a moment of trying to fix the door, I thought it’ll be better for me to leave that to you… so I got here to bed,” she replied. The wind seemed to be howling.

  “Well, that’s a good thing! You did the right thing,” he said. He cuddled up to her, arching his belly away from hers. “Cold?”

  “No, not really. It is just… loud! But you’re here now! And I am brave once again.” She smiled, and he found her to be more beautiful than ever. He kissed her lips, and held her close, patting her back to calm her and to invoke sleep. The wild storm provided a sense of comfort, in its way, and soon, they were both drifting off into a deep sleep. They were not used to sleeping at this time of day, but there was nothing much to be done either. Kausalya, on a day with calmer weather, would have been at the pots and the stove, cooking something. But the pots were all on the floo
r now, rattling and chiming with the oncoming gale.

  Heavy winds soon brought with them a heavy downpour. The entrance to their house had a puddle forming, to which the two were oblivious now. The eventide this day was of a shade of grey, and the rain made the transition from day to night ever more unobservable. The chillness of the wind was a good pacifying agent for their sleep, however. Siddhanath was thinking of his situation, whether a third-party looking from the outside would deem his life to be a success. And why not? I have a beautiful wife for whom I have deep affection… And we will have our firstborn in a matter of months! That’ll enhance our trudging through life. And I did promise her that we will return to our families… when we have laid a sturdy foundation. Which will mean that we would need two children, at least!

  When the first blow came, Siddhanath’s awareness was so enervated that he was not aware of the attack. Nor of the intruder who was in their midst. He was groggy from the deep sleep he was in, and his senses were slow to kick in. But the second strike changed everything. He felt excruciating pain from his abdomen, and a searing heat rising at that part. He grabbed at it, found it to be wet. He dreamily brought his hands to his face, and saw… blood? He smelt it and confirmed it with an alarming impulse: my blood… I am bleeding!

  Then came a thrust toward the bed, and Siddhanath was flung to the floor. The entire room seemed to be swirling, and when he ached to get to a sitting position, he found that the floor was wet too. Then he remembered the rain, of the sleep that had befallen him and his… Kausalya! His eyes went wide, and he pushed himself off the floor as quickly as he could. He twirled about in place for a few seconds. And then he saw it… the fearsome white tiger…

  The black stripes on white fur was of such contrast that the very arrangement of the bands against the body of the huge cat was enough to send a shudder down his spine. He froze in place, staring at the huge, brilliant golden eyes that was staring right back. The tiger made a series of growls, which gave the picture that only its upper and lower parts of its mouth was in motion. It was poised for a pounce at any moment now, and it started to lower its body.

  Siddhanath became aware that he had been clutching his midriff, and he raised his hands, with his bloodied palms facing the tiger. He did not know if that was a smart move, with the scent of the blood now readily flowing into the tiger’s senses, it could also mean an invitation. Oh God… Shiva! What is this! What a situation you’ve placed me in! He saw the tiger lifting its shoulders, and he knew that it was about to pounce on him, possibly aiming at his neck… to plant its long fangs in me…

  He assessed if he should move backward, and the amount of space he had to manoeuvre, and the distance to the exit of the house. But I would need to check on Kausalya! My God! Whatever has this beast done to her?! Siddhanath, from the corners of his eyes, saw the belt of tools he used while up on the sandalwood trees; it was about a yard away. But it would require him to jump across to it—there wouldn’t be enough time to just dart across to it on foot. I need to leapfrog across the bed, and would have to be careful on how I land… I need to be facing the tiger, and not show it my back…

  He cautiously flexed his knees slowly, attempting to not draw the tiger’s attention to it. I would need to be quick! He timed himself for a countdown, then leapt into the air. The angle he dove toward the belt was the quickest, he knew. He came crashing onto the floor now, his elbows and shoulders taking quite a hit, and he let out a grunt. He hadn’t turned to face the tiger yet, but had successfully placed a grip onto an instrument, which he pulled out hastily. It was a gimlet, and he was glad to have had it sharpened just the day before. He held onto the T-shaped tool with his arm stretched outward. And with the traction gathered during the jump and the minimal twirl he performed on the ground, he proceeded to swing around toward the terrifying creature.

  He was too late… by just a fraction of a second. The great paws of the tiger, with their five-inch-long claws drawn out, were about a foot away from his face. Siddhanath perceived a sluggard of a tiger which had decided to be here today, for the animal’s foot that was flying toward him in the air seemed to be rigidly placed at that spot for several seconds. He felt that the tiger was here to present a dark-humoured play, and that it was a feeble being, not a brute as the villagers had been saying.

  But then Siddhanath knew that he was mistaken. It was not the white tiger that had been moving in slow-motion, but himself. His mind slowed down the activities in the vicinity. He believed that that is what takes place when one is to meet one’s end—the dénouement of life comes at such a slow speed, which seemed to almost decelerate the end, causing, instead, time to move backward, away from that moment.

  The final blow hit him across the right-side of his face, smashing him down to the ground. Again, everything seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. He took in the images that his eyes had been randomly latching onto: the wrecked door which was still trying to cling on to its hinges, the darkness of the night outside, the fallen appliances, traces of water pools within the house, the rusty chest that he had procured from their immediate neighbour – which they had been using as an improvised cupboard for storing their clothing – and the wooden floor he was now on. He seemed to have entered a tunnel, with the images beyond the centre, beyond the focal point, looking hazy. And the tunnel seemed to become smaller, and the haziness on the periphery growing. The tunnel ultimately collapsed on itself, and he fell into a pit of darkness.

  The last thing that Siddhanath’s senses had picked up before passing out was the sound of a loud crunch.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Rogue took flight from the village as swiftly as a desert mongoose coursing after a beetle. Haste is my greatest weapon now… though I am spent from the change I have made, I know that I do not have much time. I would need to distance myself from this village as quickly as I can.

  Yet again, he cursed under his breath that he could only travel under the cover of darkness. My enemies, he thought, would cover three times the span that I could, for they are able to move through the day, as well as being more able than the weakened state I am now in. But he rushed on, often tumbling over brush and other undergrowth of the desert-like environment. The air was intensely arid tonight, and he only had a single flask of water; he didn’t have enough time (and the presence of mind) to gather the necessities, and he wanted to travel light. Had to travel light…

  He was regarding the merits of either consuming the water in sips over the course of the next several hours, or to quaff it all now and carry on with his journey. He had been in a similar situation before, when he had captured the little princess of a famous sheikh in the western lands – a girl of five, he recalled – and had her held for ransom. He was younger… way younger… than he was now and had sharper wits. His decision-making was not delayed, and he always had the tenacity to correct a course of action should it go wayward. Nowadays, survival is key… and haste the weapon. With key and weapon, he marched on the dirt path, surrounded by isolated trees that seemed to have started shedding their leaves.

  The Rogue made a rapid pit stop, removed the cap of his flask and steadily drank the contents. He discarded the empty flask onto the side of the path, ran another quick assessment of the situation, then moved onward. Haste, speed. He glanced skyward, leftward, rightward, and to the back. The fear of being followed had been growing on him, and he knew why—he had left the boy to live. Spoilt, yes, but he will live. He thought of what Wrath would think about that, for he hadn’t contacted Him since the affair at the village. In all, he had not summoned his master for twenty-two days. I would need to do it tonight, though. Perhaps He will grant me safe passage through the way…

  There came to his view a series of low-levelled bael trees ahead, to which he adjusted his path. Once at the enclosure, he dropped the sack that he had been heaving, and felt the immediate reduction in the strain he’d been experiencing. A moment of catching his breath, then he was scrutinising the place. It seemed weird that
there were no signs of birds or other animals here. Nor are there bats! Which is peculiar, indeed. The Rogue thought about using his inner sight to ascertain the reasons for this, then decided it was better to perform the rite for the invocation of Wrath instead. And by enquiring into such matters with Him would give rise to an impetus to gaining such knowledge from the nether-realms. If the Master is in a mood to answer my queries, that is…

  The Rogue looked out to the dirt path, pleased with the fact that no-one was on it. He then began constructing the necessary scene for the ritual: the chalking of the ground to the shape of the constellations of the sky, the placement of the calabash bowl at the head, the seven drops of blood held in a small glass case (given to him by Wrath Himself, though the origins or the type of blood were unknown to him) placed at equal distances around the circle of constellations, and the chanting of the dark conjuration before stepping into the circle. He did all of these with the attention to detail that is required, lest Wrath would not be able to be present there on that plane with His full vigour.

  After an hour, the ritual was to begin. The Rogue looked at the ground, at the symbol he had crafted. The trees surrounding him had cast their shadow onto it, and the image he beheld reminded him of the stripes of the tiger whose body he had transmuted into. He held his breath, then walked into the band. The vista beyond became fog-like, black and blue, and seemed to be ablaze like a heatless flame. He was now at the entrance to the nether-realms, and it was at this spot that Wrath and himself would meet for a conversation. The Rogue sat cross-legged before the bowl, and he placed the package he had been bearing into it. The dark blotches on the surface seemed to look like the naevi on the neck and shoulder of his dead mother, and he tried madly to chase that memory away.