Climbing Chamundi Hill

by Ariel Glucklich

  The sources from which the stories (but not all the story fragments inserted within them) have been taken include the following:

  “The Leper” comes from tale number 24 in the Jatakamala of Aryasura.

  “The Brahmin and the Goat” comes from tale number 18 (“Mataka Jataka”) in the Jataka. “The Death Sentence” comes from the Mahabharata, Anusasana Parva, 1.8–76.

  “The Minister’s Death” comes from Vetala 12 (of the Vetala Panchavimshati) in Kathasaritsagara, chapter 86.

  “The Boy’s Sacrifice” comes from Vetala 20 (of the Vetala Panchavimshati) in Kathasaritsagara, chapter 94.

  “Too Many Lovers” comes from the Kathasaritsagra, chapter 4.

  “The Brahmin’s Quest for Magic” comes from Vetala 18 (of the Vetala Panchavimshati) in Kathasaritsagara, chapter 92.

  “The Turtle Boy” comes from “Concerning a Royal Princess and a Turtle” in Village Folk-Tales of Ceylon, collected and translated by H. Parker (Dehiwala, Ceylon: Tisara Prakasakayo, 1971–73), vol. 2, no. 151. (The fragment about the delicate women comes from the Vetala Pancavimshati, story number 11.)

  “To Trust A Woman” comes from Kathasaritsagara, chapter 58.

  “Fate or Curse” comes from Jaiminiya Brahmana, 2.269–72.

  “Fried Kings” comes from “The King Who Was Fried” in Tales of the Punjab, translated by Flora Annie Steel (London: Bodley Head, 1973).

  “The Test” comes from the narrative of Shyavana and King Kushika in Mahabharata, Anusasana Parva, chapter 52, verses 7–53 and 69.

  “Love for the Dead” comes from “None Will Follow After Death” in Sri Ramakrishna, Tales and Parables (Madras: Sri Ramakrishna Math, 1967).

  “My Uncle in Hell” comes from Jaiminiya Upanishad Brahmana, 3.6.1–3.

  “The King Who Became a Woman” comes from the Mahabharata, Anusasana Parva, 1.12.

  “Father Sacrifices Son” comes from the Aitareya Brahamana, 7.13–18.

  “The Purifying River” comes from the Varaha Purana, chapter 175.

  “Shiva’s Fool” comes from “The Story of Innocent Sangayya” in Siva’s Warriors: The Basava Purana of Palkuriki Somnatha, translated by Velcheru Narayana Rao (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990). (The enclosed story about Shiva in the Pine Forest comes from Brahmanda Purana.)

  “The Weaver Who Became God” comes from Simhasana Dvatrimshika (“Thirty-Two Tales of the Throne”).

  “The Girl in the Stone” comes from Yogavashishtha, 6.2.56.

  “Ruler of the World” comes from Yogavashishtha, 6.2.180.

  FURTHER READINGS AND TRANSLATIONS

  Amore, R. C., and L. D. Shinn. Lustful Maidens and Ascetic Kings: Buddhist and Hindu Stories of Life. New York: Oxford University Press, 1981.

  Beck, Brenda E. F., et al. Folktales of India. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987.

  Cowell, Edward B. The Jataka: or, Stories of the Buddha’s Former Births. Delhi: Cosmos Press, 1973.

  Dutt, M. N., trans. Mahabharata. Delhi: Parimal Publications, 2001.

  Emeneau, M. B., ed. and trans. Vetalapancavinsati (Jambhaladatta’s Version). New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1934.

  Gold, Ann Grodzins. Fruitful Journeys: The Ways of Rajasthani Pilgrims. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press, 1988.

  Haksar, A. N. D., trans. Simhasana Dvatrimsika: Thirty-Two Tales of the Throne of Vikramaditya. New Delhi: Penguin, 1998.

  Keith, A. Berriedale. A History of Sanskrit Literature. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1993.

  ———, trans. Rigveda Brahmanas: The Aitareya and Kausitaki Brahmanas of the Rigveda. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1971.

  Narayan, Kirin. Storytellers, Saints, and Scoundrels: Folk Narrative in Hindu Religious Teaching. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1989.

  O’Flaherty, Wendy Doniger. Tales of Sex and Violence. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985.

  Olivelle, Patrick, trans. The Pancatantra: The Book of India’s Folk Wisdom. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997.

  Shulman, David. The Hungry God: Hindu Tales of Filicide and Devotion. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993.

  Somadeva. The Tales from the Kathasaritsagara. Trans. Arshia Sattar. New Delhi: Penguin Books, 1994.

  Speyer, J. S., trans. The Jatakamala: Garland of Birth Stories of Aryasura. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1971.

  Tawney, C. H. The Ocean of Story. Ed. N. M. Penzer. 10 vols. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1968.

  Venkatesananda, Swami. Vashishtha’s Yoga. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993.

  Introduction

  Mysore’s racetrack surprised me in a city of such traditional sensibilities. It was luxurious and lush in a slightly decaying, end-of-the-Raj sort of way. The white paint of the grandstand was peeling and the track surface rarely mowed; the grass seemed tall enough for tiger hunting. A ghostly feel pervaded the place when Rony and I arrived one early afternoon in mid-September 1997. Rony told me that the racetrack doubled as a golf course, which gave the place an eerie, almost surreal feel—despite its ripe beauty.

  Mysore was renowned for its Hindu crafts—sandalwood carvings of gods and animals—and for the nearby Sankaracharya monastery, the temples on top of Chamundi Hill, the huge Nandi bull, the centers of Sanskrit learning and yoga, the Hoysala temples, and the Lalita Mahal palace. I did not expect a racetrack, let alone the eighteen-hole golf course that surrounds it, with its last six holes actually inside the track. We found the clubhouse nestled under a canopy of huge tamarind and babul trees, bright with clusters of yellow flowers, just west of the grandstand. Rony insisted on playing every Indian golf course he could find and had inflicted deep humiliation on himself while trying to conquer India’s eccentric links.

  This one too was lying in wait for the Sanskrit scholar. The tees and fairways were fine, but the greens were not green at all, more like brown or soiled white. A layer of sand covered the hard ground around the flags marking the holes. Players had to putt on a surface where the ball actually left a track and might suddenly stop dead, burrowing into a softer patch of sand. My friend, who relished such strange challenges, booked a round, which included a caddy and a “spotter”—a young boy who would chase the drives and chips and locate every ball, even those that ended up in the waist-high rough. The sun was just past mid-sky, and it was still hot, though a slight breeze was blowing from the direction of Chamundi Hill through the tall thickets of reeds in the wetlands. The area was deathly still, even the crows made no sound at this time of day, and no other golfer was in sight. I knew Rony would take his time, savoring his peaceful obsession unpressed by other players. He asked if I minded giving him the afternoon to play and suggested that I explore the area near Chamundi Hill.

  We were not there as tourists. I was recovering from severe illness—sunstroke and food poisoning—which I contracted while working as a biologist in Varanasi. Mysore was renowned for its clinics of Ayurveda with their traditional Hindu healing practices. But, as Rony put it, the papayas alone would cure me. “Let me take you down there,” he had said. “It will bring you back to reality.” I spent days on the clinic’s shady veranda, killing time by watching crows taunt a hawk in the heat of day and butterflies struggle to top a huge coconut tree covered with purple bougainvillea. I loved India during those afternoons—and hated it. My mind was pulled up toward the sky and its promises, but my stomach and muscles kept me stuck in a queasy, swampy place below. After two weeks of treatments I finally felt strong enough to join Rony, who never remained stationary for long.

  I took off in the direction of Chamundi Hill. The narrow asphalt road on which we had arrived by motor rickshaw ran from the racetrack toward the wetlands and the dense vegetation beneath the hill. I wanted to observe wildlife or just enjoy the semitropical flora in the half mile between the track and the hill. I hadn’t felt this strong in weeks, and I began jogging along the road, then veered off into the marsh behind the third fairway left by the monsoons. I felt a sudden urge to test my stamin
a against the hill—either that or perhaps the shimmering vegetation drew me to it. The gently sloping four-thousand-foot hill, with its light brown outcrops of granite boulders, reminded me of the pictures I had seen of the mystical Mt. Carmel or a Greek mountain with a temple on top—a miniature Mt. Olympus.

  I jogged slowly on a footpath that threaded between the high reeds of the marsh. Dark green water covered with slime and teased by darting insects chilled the breeze as I moved easily. Every now and then the path dissolved into the muck, but I kept going. By the time I emerged at the other end of the marsh, just under the hill, my running shoes were soaked and muddy. Breathing hard, I sat on the step of a small booth shadowed by a huge peepal tree and slowly removed my shoes and socks.

  It was a devotional spot—I could see that right away—and therefore hospitably cool despite the hot September sun. Several sacred trees, peepals mostly, spread an immense canopy over the area. Hundreds of pilgrims could fit in that space—Durga Puja, the sacred fall festival for the goddess Durga, must be a riot here—but I was completely alone with a few dozing monkeys. A ceremonial gate led the eye to a stone path, then to four steps made of basalt slab on which pilgrims had smeared vermilion dye in the manner of offerings to a god or goddess. From there the path led between several small booths like the one I was resting in and up the northern face of the mountain. Past the shadowed area of the lower steps the path glistened in the heat.

  I began to breathe more easily and felt my strength returning. The steps beckoned. I decided to carry my shoes in hand and climb as far as it took until they dried.

  “Just like a pilgrim!”

  I turned around just as the old man came out from behind a booth. He was bony and dark, with thick white hair sticking out from under a black woolen ski cap. His brown polyester trousers and green knitted vest over a white shirt defied the heat of the day. He carried a long walking cane, a bag was suspended over one shoulder, and he was smiling broadly as he pointed at my feet.

  “You’re going up Chamundi with bare feet—are you a seeker? Do you bear a gift of penance for Mahadeva or his beloved Chamundi?”

  His English was perfect. I found that rather common in Mysore and throughout South India, but he had startled me so, I remained silent for a few moments, which he took as an invitation to introduce himself.

  “P. K. Shivaram, retired librarian for KPTC—that’s Karnataka Power Thermal Corporation Ltd., namaskar,” he said with hands pressed together in greeting. “How do you do? I don’t think it’s a very good idea, my friend. Perhaps today you should make do with an offering of marigolds, or just devotion. Your feet,” he pointed, “are too soft. Look at mine.” He kicked off his cheap rubber thongs. His feet seemed huge for such a small man, flat and cracked and bony like old oars. “Our Shiva is no Jesus, of course, but he will accept even your sweat as a sign of love. Don’t kill yourself, young man.”

  As he talked in his unhurried way, I began to think how silly it would be to tell him that I was merely drying my sneakers, now tied around my neck. It may be dumb to attempt a barefoot climb up Chamundi Hill, but it was more embarrassing to imitate such devout behavior while acting as a porter for wet shoes. So I shrugged and asked if there was any harm in starting up the hill barefoot, then putting on my shoes when my feet began to hurt.

  “No harm at all, my friend. Do what you can. I’ll tell you what…” he added, “I’m going up myself. I do every Thursday—of course, I take the bus down. Would you mind if I joined you, young man?” He did not pause for my answer. “I shall walk beside you if you walk slowly. I am sixty-seven years old, you know…Can’t go charging up the way I used to when I was your age. But I hope not to slow you down too much.”

  He was definitely a talker. The words flowed out of his mouth effortlessly, each one chained to the next and inexorably pulling it out. I felt impatient with his chatter and afraid he would slow me down, or worse—discover that I had lied to him about my intentions. But then he surprised me.

  “As long as you walk with me, your feet will not hurt—I promise you that!”

  I was already at the first step. The stone was warm, even in the shade, and I could feel its rough texture under my soles. “What do you mean? How can you possibly prevent my feet from hurting?”

  “Stories, my friend. I shall tell you pilgrimage stories. We have a tradition here. We tell each other stories as we climb up the steps—there are one thousand and one steps, just like the number of Shiva’s names. We walk up the mountain telling stories, and the stories have the same spiritual merit as the hardship of walking barefoot up the mountain, or fasting, or chanting the names of Shiva. Some enjoy telling stories because it’s an art, while others prefer to listen because of the pleasure that makes them forget the pain. If you pay attention,” he paused and added in a conspiring voice, “the stories might turn you into a true pilgrim and give you pleasure at the same time! Let me tell you a story, and we shall see how your feet feel.”

  I was up at the ninth or tenth step and already the skin of my feet was softening to the rock and warming to the red soil that the rains had washed off the mountain onto the path. Pleasantness would soon give way to discomfort, then to pain, and the old man was insinuating that he could see through me. Clearly the retired librarian was going to either embarrass me or drive me crazy. But before leaving, before putting my shoes back on and running away, I decided to give it a shot.

  “Yes, I would love to hear a story. Is it about Shiva or Chamundi Hill?”

  “No, not at all. It is about pain, and about the trials of leading a good life while trying to stay healthy.”

  THE LEPER

  Just to the west of this district was a land of luxurious mountain forests. The ruler of that paradise was an avid hunter who favored the more defenseless animals for his game.

  One day he spotted a young buck grazing at the edge of a clearing and raised his weapon for a kill. Just as he was about to release the bowstring, a strange figure appeared between the animal and his arrow. The king lowered the bow and squinted, for what he saw astounded him. He could tell it was a man, possibly old, but so badly misshapen that it was hard to be sure. The man’s skin was blotchy with large ulcerous spots, many of them oozing a yellowish-gray fluid, and large flakes were peeling off. His hair was wildly disheveled and dusty, his black teeth protruding through distorted lips. He was naked but for some filthy rags around his bony waist; his emaciated body was crooked like the branch of an old olive tree. As the king lowered his bow, the hideous creature prostrated itself in exaggerated humility.

  “I am so sorry for interrupting your hunt, Your Majesty. Please forgive me…”

  But the king was too bewildered to mind. “Who are you?” he asked. “And what is the matter with you? Are you sick, or are you a demonic spirit? You have the appearance of a ghoul, but your eyes look sad as only human eyes can be.”

  The man approached, lowering himself further. “I am no demon, sir, but a pathetic mortal here to protect this innocent animal.”

  “So your interference with the royal hunt was not an accident?” boomed the king in a thunderous, majestic rage. “Don’t you know that I am the king and lord of all these lands? Why is this animal worth losing your life for?”

  “Your Majesty, I know the forest belongs to you.” The man remained low at the king’s feet. His voice, surprisingly, gave no evidence of fear. “But I am here to protect you too.”

  At this the king broke into laughter. “Protect me? What could you possibly mean by that?”

  The man hesitated briefly before speaking. “This awful condition that you see, it’s leprosy. I did not always look like this.” He sank into a sad reverie for a few moments, then continued. “It’s a moral disease. You don’t just become a leper; it finds you if you commit a sin. With Your Majesty’s indulgence, I shall tell you what happened.”

  The king nodded and dismounted, and the two men sat in the shade of a banyan tree. The leper kept a respectful distance from the king, but i
mmediately began his story.

  “Many years ago I owned a farm in the foothills of the magnificent Himalayan range, far to the north. My land bordered on meadows and forests in which a variety of fruit trees and brilliant flowers grew, where bees hummed as they produced nectarlike honey. Into that heavenly wilderness one day my favorite cow wandered, so I went looking for her. For days I searched, but there were too many canyons and ravines in which the dense thicket could hide an entire herd of cows. Despair robbed me of all sense of time and direction—I soon became lost. I grew hungry and tired but kept looking for my precious cow. Then I saw a large tinduka tree rich with ripe fruits growing on the edge of a precipice overlooking a river with majestic waterfalls. It was a frightening place, but I climbed the tree like a fool, looking to reach the ripest fruit at the very end of the overhanging branches. Suddenly the branch to which I was clinging broke, and I fell down, screaming in terror.

  “I plunged into the water, reaching the bottom instantly. Fortunately, I managed to push off. The current and fate then swept me onto dry land. I was shivering from the shock and the cold water, but felt lucky to find my body intact. After some time I began to look around for a way to get out, but the place was a trap. The river ran down the canyon, churning through noisy rapids, walled on both sides with sheer rock cliffs. There was no getting out. I saw a few tinduka fruits, which are too sweet by the time they fall from the tree to the ground. Still, I fed on these and drank from the river. In a matter of days—it was obvious—I would be dead. There was no point in yelling, for no traveler would likely come by that remote place. Despondent, I sank to the ground and stayed there, crying and eating the dwindling supply of fruit.

  “On the fourth day of my imprisonment there—I was already delirious with despair—I heard a voice from the top of the cliff. ‘Who are you down there? Are you man or animal?’ I couldn’t see the caller, but I cried back as loudly as I could, ‘I’m a man. I fell down a few days ago while looking for my cow.’