The Delirium of Negation

by Victor Mahn

  The road wound around like a snake, too. It traversed through the villages, showing the amassed hovels of the poor, and the abodes of the wealthy. He saw the Kailasanathar temple, with its white sandstone walls adorned with human-animal carvings. It was an interesting concept, though. By illustrating such a fusion, the portrayal is that man is the ultimate animal, and is capable of all animalistic function and behaviour. The only auxiliary mechanism is that relating to cognition. And imagination. Such as the ability to imagine the pain that I will surely inflict upon him with my wrath…Wrath! You are an abetter to his ill-mindedness… Should I come for You too?

  The jinker cranked on the road for some distance, and then, abruptly, came to a jolting halt. The driver turned and spoke in a language of the south; of which Siddhanath could only comprehend some of the words. But he believed that he understood what was being said: that the place of worship he’d been seeking was in the direction of where the mountain ranges led. About a week’s walk away. Siddhanath nodded, clasped his hands together, and beseeched the driver to allow him to continue his riding with the cart for some more hours.

  They rolled onward again, and they entered another part of the city of Kanchipuram. Mendicants and monks were evident here, primarily because the more affluent citizens were here. The buildings had been constructed in a close and tightly-fitting manner here. They could travel a shorter distance to get their alms, Siddhanath reasoned. At one stretch of a road he saw, much to his bewilderment, a monk, draped in an ochre robe of the monastic order of the Buddhist sect, but he had a built of a competitive wrestler. He seemed that he could lift an entire bull off the ground and walk several feet forward with it!

  Such are the paradoxes of life… I am yet to be sixteen, and I have witnessed the death of my child and wife. And here I am, on a path to kill the one who had brought me such wretchedness…

  Siddhanath was silent throughout the journey on the cart. Close to dusk, he thought he saw some lines of housing that seemed to be not so cheery, and the population here appeared thinner. “These are now occupied by the widows of the sepoys employed by the British order,” the driver said. “You would need to go to the last house there, where it is not a widow who resides there, but a mother who had lost her child.”

  Well, that will work for me nicely. I, too, have lost a mother, Siddhanath thought. He thanked the driver, handed him the last of the sweet cakes he had, and commenced walking to the house. It was a lonely-looking hut, and he was glad to see that the old mother was in the yard outside, apparently working on her crops, that made all but two rows of it which was sufficient to feed her through the coming season of drought.

  After an introduction and some small talk, she was delighted to have Siddhanath stay the night.

  “You do look like the son I lost. Maybe God decided to show you to me, so that I may once again perform the duties of a mother,” she said. Siddhanath thought at the convolutedness of that, that God should take away her son and place him here in his stead, temporarily and without any form of affinity to her.

  He thought it would be best not to show his unease in her home. Again, with the utter differences in language, he could only grasp bits and pieces. But gestures and hand signals were used often, and he understood that supper is being prepared, and will be ready soon. There was the water-well beyond her home compound, which was used by the families around the area. He went to that space, brought up a pail of water in it, and splashed some on his face. It is warm… He poured the rest of the water onto his feet, hoping to reduce the ache.

  The old woman had spread a banana leaf out on the floor for him, with pots of rice and spicy gravy (composed of high-protein pulses and carrots) at its side. She had a copper plate out for herself, on which she seemed to already have placed some rice and curd. She waved to Siddhanath to sit and to start eating, and he was too wearied from the journey, and had grown too brash to show any humility, he promptly did as instructed. The old woman seemed to have a tear roll down her face. Perhaps her son was just like me. I guess, just like me as I am now: a wanton embodiment. The meal was done, and the twilight hour had passed. With darkness closing in around Kanchipuram, the old woman retired to her mat at the porch of the house. Siddhanath was given a place within the hut, and he was soon staring up at the straw-covered ceiling.

  “I would need to get in touch with someone from the north. Some questions would need answering, before I could go looking for him,” he said silently. He thought that the ideal place to look for one such person would be at the temple he had passed earlier. With the recent victory of the Sahib, there would be celebrations and orisons conducted at the temple. And northerners would most likely to be found there – whilst on their trip down to holy Rameshwaram to pay homage to Lord Ram after he had won his battle further south. This was another victory, which the folks will take to mean something deific… Lord Ram had come here again to cleanse the lands…

  Siddhanath arose early the next morning, just before sunrise. He packed his belongings, dabbed himself lightly with the water from the well, and did one set of the sun veneration yoga. Energised enough to make the journey out to the main commercial square on foot, he bade the old woman farewell, and told her that her son is at peace in the afterlife, to which she wept quietly and nodded, “Yes… I know.”

  By noon, he sank down onto the grounds of the mandir of Kailasanathar. The ten-mile walk had drained him to the bone, and he was glad to be under the shade of a huge banyan tree at the temple’s lawns. He appreciated the fact of the difference in temperature between the shade and the sun; they were quite distinct. Siddhanath spent the rest of the afternoon remarking the types of people who had been coming and going through the temple, watching them intently. His aim was single now, and he channelled all his focus on it. The detection of the Rogue…

  Just after he had cremated Kausalya, Siddhanath sought out a man who had a vile reputation; and he lived deep in the interiors of the sandalwood fields. Walk for two days, and you will see unfamiliar trees, which look pale and dead, but they are still living. There will be a small river, which appears black and the water seems to hold no sacredness. This you must follow for another half-a-day. You will then see him, this elusive man. The majority of the populace seemed to know of him, at the very least, of how to get to him. This man whom Siddhanath met was known for his brewing of a stock which gives psychoactive effects and is deemed to elevate spiritual experiences. The ascetics and holy men swear by it, he told him.

  After the brew was poured and handed to him – and it had the most unpleasant of stenches – Siddhanath downed it in one swallow. The brewer, with raised apprehension to what he had done, began slapping his back, trying to force the consumed liquid out. But Siddhanath stopped him, and with the continued thrusting of his hand, he felt the effects of the drug hit him suddenly. He collapsed backwards, facing the clear skies of blue and white. Surrealism took over, and he began painting the sky with his mind’s colours, the palette of which surprised him, for he never thought himself to be artistic at any level whatsoever. He next experimented with sound, and whether each boom and clap could pour forth a shade of colour of its own; it did!

  A bursting of colours began fading away, and there was this one red dot which seemed to be gyrating at the corner… he focused on it, and… it was the bindi on Kausalya’s forehead. Siddhanath moaned with despair then, and the drug responded appropriately. The sky became dark in an instant, and it was night. Kausalya’s face faded, too. But the bindi remained, and it continued rotating, moving to the middle of the frame now. A bright, white lightning seemed to have hit the scene, blinding Siddhanath for a moment. He recoiled and raised his hands to his eyes. Then, the brooding face of Pisachamochana came from the void. He still had His mocking smile on Him. But it was not static as that in His temple in Kāsi – this manifestation seemed to have His mouth and eyes opening and closing, which made Him look even more terrifying.

  Siddhanath screamed, but Pishachamochana laughed amusingly. So
! You have decided to play with fire! You do not have the worth to handle it, truly… You should not have meddled with Him.

  Siddhanath was silent. He wasn’t prepared for a lecture now; he wanted to press on with the painting of the atmosphere. But the Terrible Demon-God would not let him. I have some tidings for you, little one. I did warn you once before, but you did not heed My words! He grinned broadly and continued. But fear not! I heard you… of your appeal to Me, and I will grant you some tidings. His whereabouts… is what you seek.

  And in that surreal vision, the bearings of the Rogue were made known to Siddhanath. He was not sure whether to trust it, but he was without purpose, and there was no harm in pursuing it. Consequently, he ended up here in Kanchipuram.

  The sun had set now. The final rays were fading, and the crowd began dispersing from the mandir and from the commercial square. Shopkeepers and ware-cart owners were seen to be shutting their establishments. Even the birds took to the skies and left that part of the city, for the crumbs of bread would not be forthcoming now.

  Siddhanath got to his feet. He rubbed his knees and stretched his arms outward. He followed the throng out of the temple and through the square, being shoved at all directions in the process. But then he caught a glimpse of something… or someone, achingly familiar. And that figure was not moving, but just stood there, facing him. Siddhanath stopped in his tracks, regarded the face of the Rogue, though the man looked more youthful and more spirited. They were just feet apart.

  “I have known… for some time now, that you would come for me, my dear,” the Rogue said.

  Siddhanath glowered at him, breathing deeply and loudly. “You should have hidden away from me…”

  The Rogue smiled. “Why? Sooner or later, you’d catch on. I could not do this forever. Neither could you. But why not give the good-side a win? Let the balance tip over there, for once?”

  “You have a lot to pay for…” Siddhanath was controlling his anger.

  “As did you, my dear… But, but I do guess that you did pay for it, in the end. You did pay your debt, in your next life…”

  “In my… in my next life! What are you prattling about, you filth!”

  “Well, well! I thought you would have figured it by now! No? Well, let me shed some light on the darkness. Let me be your guru!” the Rogue laughed, shaking his head. “If you recall, my dear… You pulled off your sacred thread and had it cast into the fire. You were already known as the twice-born then. And the very act of taking your thread off is… would only happen when you are dead! But you weren’t, and you went on to make a life of your own with… her. So, when Wrath took her away from you, my dear, you’ve already had your debt paid! The accounts are settled!” the Rogue said. “But look here!” he pulled his collar away, revealing a part of a thread: “I, too, am a Dvija! Something which you would not have known…”

  Siddhanath had been looking down at his clenched fists. Paroxysms of rage had been mounting steadily within him as the Rogue spoke.

  “You speak of tipping the balance? Let me help you in that regard… for you may have taken my Kausalya away as payment… but… the life of my unborn child… that’s just… bad debt which must be written off!” He darted toward the Rogue, who did not move; he seemed to almost welcome the attack. And Siddhanath knew just where to aim. With the mounting traction of his sprint toward the Rogue, with the whole world bearing witness, he swung his arms out, and planted his long fingernails onto the jugular of the Rogue. He kept running several feet further, with the Rogue still entrapped in his grip… until he heard a loud crunch…

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Shiva temple at Thruvidaimaruthur in Tamil Nadu is a structure of magnificence: the grandeur of the sculptures and artistic carvings captures the hearts of men, women and children, forcing them to be amazed by the four splendidly-built gateway towers known as gopurams, which have the carvings of some ten thousand figurines, each with grand colours and lifelike mien. Known as the Mahalingeswarar Temple, the main deity is Shiva, represented in the form of a lingam.

  Several kings from different eras, and thereby, from different kingdoms, have had a part in the construction of the temple which is composed of several buildings. The main altar and the immediately surrounding shrine is estimated to be some two thousand years old. The Chola kings have seen it fit to etch some facets of history and literature onto the many pillars and columns surrounding the temple, in the ancient language, Tamil. The inscriptions are now slowly being eroded by constant rain.

  On the top end of the major columns, one could spot a grotesque-looking animal, akin to a lion with wings, or some semi-aquatic creature with elephant-like legs. These have been placed on purpose by the architects and builders of old, for fear that the beauty of the temple would be too overwhelming that one might curse it through the act of non-belief—not merely doubt, but a deeper sense of non-belief. The lion has its mouth agape, with its tongue sticking out, fangs poised for a quick attack if provoked.

  I am like that lion now, broken and ugly. But utterly dangerous. With nothing to lose. I have been quiet and patient, and I have stopped the cycle of breath for the devil. I must admit that I did enjoy killing him, his blood oozing onto my skin, and I could sense his life’s warmth evaporating. He died with the knowledge that none could have saved him, not even Wrath. Not even Death. Wrath… I will give anything to see you in the flesh, to strangle you with my bare hands…

  The legend surrounding the Mahalingeswarar Temple is one that is unique in all the nation. The temple has links to an absolution, in which a prince of a royal court had to seek the assistance of Shiva in lifting the curse that is inherent from his carrying out a murder. There are many variants to the story, of course, but the underlying backdrop of the story of Brahmahatya – the act of killing a member of the Brahmin caste – is somewhat of a constant. And there is an idol portraying the act of Brahmahatya within the temple grounds, within one of the sanctums, which made the temple one of a kind. The reason for this was relatively unknown to the masses, and the fact of its origin had now been turned into a fabulous myth.

  They say that I can be cleansed of my curse at this place. When I immerse myself into the pond within the temple compound, I shall arise purified. The Lord of the Universe Himself will absolve my sins. O Lord! How low have I gotten to! I am an empty shell, a husk with no seed, and as though I am the Earth without the inkling of the wonderful firmament… I am soulless…

  Siddhanath dragged his feet around the first shrine, walking under a poorly-lit passageway, which gave the feeling that it was a small cave, and the deity of this shrine, Mookambigai – a representation of the consort of Shiva – was at the far end of the path, at a place which is known as the womb of the temple, the Garbagriha. Though he was now in the south of India, the figure of the goddess had components and aspects of the northern regions. He acknowledged the intention of the builders, creating the effect of marvel to the aspect of God. Or, at the very least, to create fascination about the concept that the universe had been brought forth, and is being governed, by an intelligent energy source. And once the cycle is approaching its end, the energy source will collapse everything and restart the pattern of existence once again. What better way than to build large structures and create silhouette effects using light? he thought.

  The demarcation of the shrine was cleverly concealed, but Siddhanath could easily spot it. His father had instructed him with whatever knowledge he had on the arts and designs of temple structures, though the detailed knowledge of masonry and construction is a closely-guarded secret of the guilds of architects and builders. This knowledge, however, had been transferred onto palm-leaf manuscripts, and in northern regions of the country, the manuscripts were housed at the repository of the Manikarnika Ghat.

  The Brahmins were the experts on the theory of artistic representation of the form, posture and character of the many gods and goddesses in the Hindu culture. They derive this extensive knowledge from the four Vedas and other script
ural works, passed on from father to son. As such, the Brahmins were the architects of the present-day temples, and this would have limited the individualistic self-expression of the builders themselves who could not just chisel away at the stones to carve figures and other such elements as they please. In this temple, however, there were sections where the Brahmin's control was not present, such as the carvings of Ganas, mythical dwarf-like humans with huge bellies, on several columns and in some of the spires.

  Siddhanath knew that the Ganas took on the role of attendants to the main deities. But he had his eyes locked on one of them, which gave an eerie sense of recognition. It had a moustache and its eyes seemed to be glaring straight at him. Siddhanath took it as a sign of prophetic significance. He knew exactly who that Gana was, and it was as though it was coaxing him to engulf himself with the rage once again. But he also felt a calmness, which he attributed to the sense of familiarity of one he had known quite well. Pishachamochana, you did see me end the life of the bastard Rogue, did you not?

  His mind had been sluggish since his committing of murder. It troubled him a little that he did not know Rogue’s true name—in fact, there was very little that he knew of the Rogue. He was appalled at the obscure figure, and the impact that he had in his life. He had started an avalanche, which had picked up a momentum so huge that even the wheels of God could not have altered its course. What will be the repercussions of this? Will I know when it has ended... that it is the end?

  An elderly man clad in a dhoti came by his right side and said, “Young Sir, you seem like someone from the north. Am I right? Good. Why do you seem unsure of the steps around the place? And do you not know that it is not the prayer time? Would you like me to be your momentary guide?”

  “No. No, thank you. I know what I am doing,” Siddhanath answered, looking disdainful. He became aware of the stubbly hair on his face; his facial hair was thicker than it had ever been. Signs that I am almost an adult. Almost. And I have committed the ultimate sin…