by Victor Mahn
He squeezed his eyes shut and continued the incantation. In a few moments, the breeze around him became warm, and he felt the temperature rising. The skin on his face and his bare chest tingled with the calefaction, and he knew that the doorway to the realms of Wrath had been swung open. The realm which I know nothing about, the Rogue thought. The atmosphere, in a trice, had the redolence of decaying corpses and burning flesh. It had a most unpleasant effect, and he pulled his head back several inches. Loud steps rasped in front of him, and he knew that the master had come forth. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Wrath did not appear in his usual bear-like form… the presence in front had a shape that seemed to be fused between that of man and a serpent. It was misshapen at several places, with mounds of hardened bone and flesh bulging at arbitrary angles. The scales on His face and nape were greenish-blue, and it made Him pop up like a half-produced peacock.
This was the first time that the Rogue saw Him in another manifestation, and what it meant and what it would entail, he could not make sense of. He would wait for his master to speak first, as that was part of the rite. But Wrath did not say anything but blink absently at His disciple through snake-like eyes; the transparent layer over the eyes moved up rather slowly. A moment later, the Rogue spoke, “Greetings, Master. O Benevolent One… It has been a while.”
Wrath seemed to clear his throat, though He did not move his hands with their long fingernails—they dangled at His sides. The words came out slowly, but the familiar boom of His voice was evident. It was not in any way associated to a hissing that a snake might do, but was the tense auditory expression that the Rogue had come to recognise, “Where have you been?!”
The Rogue cleared his throat too. “Master? I have been working on the enterprise You’ve entrusted me with. I have been doing Your bidding, Master…” Dread started its crawl down his spine. Who would ever know what Wrath’s behaviour will be? What will He do next? He shifted his gaze away from Wrath, aware that the gaze being returned was not affable.
“You were… doing my bidding? Is that what you were doing? You filthy sprite!” the snake-face accused. Light puffs were emanating from his body. And He had on the loincloth which he always donned. “You have made me wait…” Wrath said.
“My Lord… I had to make some arrangements… before I could carry out the task You have presented me. I transformed into a tiger, Master. And that took a while… my spells are not as powerful as—” the Rogue offered a retort.
“I know what you’ve been doing! You worthless imp! But see here! See… this,” Wrath had turned his body sideways, showing his exposed ribcage through rough lacerations on his chest. “Without… nourishment, I have to take on a lesser… existence. The bear-form… that of a mammal… was the highest mark of my physical manifestation.” He paused, visibly gasping for air in between His speech. He continued, “I… that materialisation allowed me to be on the extant on both realms… with the verve of the best of men, themselves. But now…” He lifted his arm limply to His head and let it drop, “This is how I can appear! I had to drop down a level… to that of a serpent. The cold-blooded beings… they… are less powerful. But they are survivors. So… with your absence… I have had a need to survive…” Wrath eyed His disciple carefully.
The Rogue gulped, knowing that he had caused some distress to Wrath with his not having remained in communication with Him through the nexus. Of course, it would have displeased Him… you fool! The Rogue was angry at himself. I should have cast the nexus once before the transfiguration process… He got down to prostrate himself on the ground, arms stretched out above his head, the palms clasped together in a prayer-like gesture.
“I am terribly sorry, My Lord! I did not mean to do that! If I have caused you harm, do forgive me, just this once!” the Rogue implored.
“Harm! You think that you… an imp of mine… a fleck in the existence, could cause Me… harm!” Wrath laughed, and the spectacle seemed to be maniacal. “Fool…” He said, rubbed his lame hand on his serpent-like mouth, which was just an opening on His rigid face. “I cause you harm… not you to Me…”
“Yes… yes, of course, my Lord! Of course,” the Rogue lowered his voice. He knew that Wrath was aware that he had begun trembling.
“Get up! I need to see you when I ask you this one question,” Wrath said.
The Rogue scrambled to his feet. “Yes, Master?”
“Is that… the unborn?”
“Yes, Master. It is.”
“And the mother? Did you rid of her the way you’ve been instructed?” Wrath gave his baleful glare.
The Rogue nodded in the affirmative. He looked down to his feet, gulped. “Yes.”
“Well… there are some orders you could carry out, then…” the glare continued. He stepped several paces forward to the bowl, halted and momentarily seemed to contemplate something burdensome on his mind. He stared ahead at the Rogue. “You… would need to… feed me.”
“What?” the Rogue batted his eyes.
“Feed!” Wrath’s voice boomed, and it seemed to have echoed back to the enclosure that the ritual had erected—the sound waves bouncing off the invisible fold from the chalked circle that was on the ground.
The Rogue froze, and he felt that his palms were sweaty. This was the first time that he had been instructed to do that, to feed his Master… bring the meal up to his mouth so that He may gorge on it. And he knew the reason for this was that Wrath was not able to feed himself; he needed assistance. This was a necessary repast, for it will replenish the energies within Him, providing Him with the imperative ethereal force that will… make him bear-like once again…
The worst thing that I could do now is to delay this, and wait for Him to ask me a second time... That will enrage Him beyond anything! No… No! I need to do this, the Rogue surmised. He stepped forward, brought up the package gingerly and placed it on the other palm. He exhaled, then began unrolling the stained fabric. The foetus looked… irascible…
The Rogue looked up at his Master, who was about a yard away. He took a step toward Him, and the fact occurred to him: This is the closest I have ever been to Him… And I hope that it is the only time…
“Now… feed,” Wrath said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As per the scriptures, only babies, children and saints are not to be cremated—they are to be buried. Siddhanath sat down under the sun at the cremation grounds. His eyes had been sunk into his head, and he had a ghoulish look due to the lack of sleep. He felt lifeless, and Shri Devakar had to seize him by the shoulders and pluck him to his feet. “Come… son. You are to do this. Everyone is waiting,” he said. Siddhanath persisted with his vacant look, though he did hear what was being uttered by the field manager. “She is… waiting,” Shri Devakar added, finally.
Siddhanath looked up at him, began tearing again. His mouth let out a dull mewl, and he fell into his employer’s arms. “I can’t… I don’t know why...” he said between sobs. He was shaking so badly that Shri Devakar thought that he was convulsing, thus he pushed Siddhanath away from him so that he could study him. He sighed when he found that it was not an epileptic fit.
“I know… I know,” Shri Devakar said as he hugged Siddhanath again. “We are all here for you, child. I am here… in the stead of a father.” He felt that he had to be exposed, that if there was a time for him to say such things to Siddhanath, it would have to be now. He needs to hear these things. That somehow… life goes on. And that there are others… there will be others, in his life, still.
Siddhanath gently pulled away. “Yes… I know, Sir. I… I will do this, now…” he said. He cleared his nose, rubbed his eyes, and walked away from the tree to the centre of the grounds. The surface here had a different shade, from the countless pyres that had been cast here. Now, there will be another to add to that list, he thought. How many families would have to…? How much pain…?
He looked at the wrapped body on the dry wood pyre. He was glad that he could not gaze at her lifeless face, that the assi
stants of the priest of the Ganesh temple had carried out the deed of swaddling her as promptly as they could, once Siddhanath had placed on her forehead the last bindi and he had requested them to have her adorned in the red saree that she had been fond of; the one which he bought with his first earnings. He was then escorted to the river nearby to be immersed. Three times, as per the custom.
The priest came up to his side but did not say anything. He looked around at the crowd before them, acknowledged that some of them were mere spectators to the ritual—they were the usual devotees of the temple, and had come by to observe, as though an extravagant performance was about to start. Of all the rites of passage that he conducts, the Antyeshi, or the ‘last sacrifice’, was the one that he least enjoyed. The bitterness is just too much, he said to himself.
Siddhanath unfastened his dhoti and tied it again. He was sure that everyone else surrounding him would have felt that his actions were that of a laggard. “Oh, don’t you worry about what others think of you, beloved!” He knew that that will be what Kausalya would have told him. Would have… Another teardrop burned through his right eye and found its way to the corner of his lips.
He realised that this had caused whatever shred of childlike naiveté to be expelled from him. He was no longer a child. He had now experienced something that even most adults had not experienced yet: the loss of a wife and child, though not born to them. Never born to us…
Siddhanath turned his head to face the priest. “Ready?” the priest asked, and Siddhanath nodded. The priest stood in front of him, took his arm gently and placed it on his own shoulder, and told him to repeat the chant that he was about to utter. “All right.”
They circled the pyre three times, reciting the mantra for the safe passage of the soul to the next life. The priest had also been sprinkling some clarified butter onto the pyre, and when they had come to a halt after the third round, he instructed Siddhanath to stop moving. The priest then proceeded to the part of the pyre where the feet were facing and drew three lines with the butter—signifying the Lord of Death (Yama), the Lord of Time (Kala, or Kala Bhairav), and the dead themselves. Siddhanath watched the actions of the priest and thought of the antinomies of his life’s story. I ran away from the Holy City, and now the Lord of that city is beseeched for the final rites of my beloved Kausalya…
The priest got up now, still chanting in the ancient language of Sanskrit. He looked about him, then grabbed an earthen pot which was filled with to the brim with water. He took a billhook that had been beside the pot. He walked toward Siddhanath and present it to him. “Place this on your shoulder and walk around thrice,” he said. He helped in placing it on his shoulder, then pierced a hole in the bottom of the pot with the billhook. The water started dribbling out onto the ground. Siddhanath started walking.
No thoughts came to him. He was like a mindless spirit, seeking the worlds for a purpose. He looked at the crowd gathered there, at the pack of dogs, at the evening sky. But there was nothing in his mind to chew on, nothing to process. His attention came hurtling back when the priest raised his hand to stop him. “Enough. You’ve made the three rounds,” he said. “Now, drop the pot onto the ground. Make sure it shatters.”
Siddhanath just let it slide off his shoulder but was surprised to see that the pot broke to bits, the balance of the water within it made the spot wet. He knew that the ritual was coming to an end soon… I have seen it many times at the pyres of Manikarnika…
The priest looked around the crowd, then at his aide who held the piece of wood which would now become a torch. He summoned for it, smelt it, then, with a flint from a box, lit it. He handed it over to Siddhanath. “Again, walk around three times. Counter-clockwise. No, hold this with your left. Once you’re done with the third, hold it backwards, like so,” he showed Siddhanath how. He then said, “Once you have it that way, touch the pyre with the flame. Just gently, do not force it hard, do not try to pierce it. And then… walk away, and don’t look back. That is important—do not turn, do not glance back at the pyre. Just walk away to the other side, to the temple some distance away, and wash your feet from the pail of water I have placed there. Got it? Good. Now, go.”
The final round proved to be the most difficult to complete. Siddhanath knew that after he had completed the ritual and started his walk out of the grounds – without looking back – there would be no opportunity for a future for him, in any shape, size or form. He took slow, delayed steps around the pyre. Some grains of thought found their way to his cognitive foreground now: his unborn child, of Kausalya’s smile, of whether to head back to his family in Kāsi… But what will I say to her family? To her father? This…
He was met with the raised hands of the priest again. The priest nodded. Siddhanath knew what he meant—time to move on... He turned the torch to face the pyre, touched one of the wooden parts of it with the flame, then dropped the torch altogether. He clenched his fists and marched away from the place.
Ahead, he could see several carrion-seeking birds on the branch of a tree. He felt a tremor of grief striking him at his gut again. What cruelty is this? Oh God! The viciousness of it all… Why did You give me so much, and then take it all away?
Siddhanath, too tired to weep, rubbed his palms together and warmed his face and chest. He reckoned that he had not slept for three days now, since the… attack. He could not forget the fuss he’d woken up to, after he had been knocked unconscious by the tiger. There was a mob in his home, and they’d taken the trouble to clean the place up. He had come out his daze and asked to see Kausalya. The crowd seemed unsure as to how to tell him, so one of them just pointed to the door that was hanging by its hinges. “She’s out there,” he had said.
Siddhanath dashed out of his house, found another group of people clustered at the corner of his wife’s vegetable plot. And he saw her on the ground… the top part of her body detached from that of the lower. And her innards hanging out from below her ribs, which gave the notion that some of her internal organs had been pulled at. The screams that came out of Siddhanath that morning would have woken up the dead.
Now, he walked away from her. To an unknown future. But he felt that there was one whom he could look to, who’d be able to help aid in his… measure of vengeance. Pishachamochana… please help me…
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The military campaigns of Tipu Sultan, son of Haider Ali, could be encased within the manual of his devising: the Fathul Mujahidin. The manual outlines matters pertaining to military discipline, the number of soldiers that is required in any particular regiment, and, most notably, the manner of handling the rocket artillery. The manual deep-dives into scientific and practical techniques of handling the rocket launchers, and the required angle from which the rocket must be launched, so that the rocket will curve and go in the desired direction—and ultimately, to the desired target. Tipu Sultan had made it mandatory that each of his soldiers was to receive the manual, to those who were fit and literate enough to read it.
Siddhanath had crossed the bridge along the Vegavathy river at Kanchipuram, just days after the Battle of Pollilur. He caught raw anecdotes from the passers-by he had spoken to, and he could sense from their narratives that Tipu Sultan had carried out an ingenious attack against the British.
“Never have the British suffered such a defeat,” he heard one of them say.
Another had boasted, “Well, I was witness to it all, as I was motionless on top of that coconut tree yonder, and I saw the glory of his ride out to meet his enemies!”
Yet another had said, “The Sahib had called out to me when he saw me darting out of the hut, and instructed me to hand him some water, and I felt that God Himself had spoken to me!”
Regardless of the twisting and the coiling of facts, Siddhanath was a spectator now of the aftermath of the engagement. He saw the corpses of the dead British soldiers, with their red jackets and muskets, piled up in a mound at the corners of the three major throughways of Kanchipuram. In other places, he observed
another sort of pile—those of the used iron-cased Mysorean rockets. At the other end of the road, he could see faint smoke rising from a building. Upon some inquiry, he came to appreciate that it was one of the British East India Company’s ordnance stores, which had been blasted up by one of the rockets from Tipu Sultan’s army.
In all, the scene that was in front of him from the wake of war, evinced his inner mood accurately. I feel destructed. I am already dead. He beheld groves of trees, of many types and shades. And in between them, there was surely some presence of death. At least of decay. He felt as though he was meant to come here, and to witness this place in its dismal self. See if you could relate to it, Siddhanath…
He felt something—a feeling that was once strange and foreign. But now, it was an all-too-familiar one. He could sense the presence of the Rogue. Right here, in this city. He felt it through the pricking he was experiencing, a causal factor associated with one’s only aim at seeking something, oftentimes relentlessly. And he had been relentless, and he had been seeking. And now, I have found you… You can’t run from me now! Not until you’ve dealt with me…
He placed the vessel he had been carrying onto the back of a bullock-cart that had passed by, the driver having granted permission to ride with him. He envisioned being able to spot the Rogue somewhere along the road.
A contradictory thought emerged in his head then. But… the channels go both ways, don’t they? He would know that I am here, too. And he’d be cautious, luring me away from him, casting a net to have me entangled in some other mishap. Because that is how you operate, you piece of filth! You are lower than a snake.