“But why a monkey? Why not a dog or a cow?”
“Well, did you see the monkeys at the bottom of the hill?”
Come to think of it, I did see a few bonnet macaques dozing on the roof of a booth. They were well fed and contented—unlike the aggressive, flea-bitten variety I was used to fighting in Varanasi. I smiled and nodded.
“They have to be monkeys because monkeys are in-between creatures. They are part animal, part human; they walk on the ground or jump in the trees. And monkeys are also mischievous—they jump this way and that; they hurl things at you to get your attention. That’s what storytelling does.”
“So this story is just about literary interpretation and not about religious or mystical ideas at all?”
The old man feigned anger by sticking out his chin and furrowing his brow, then said in a deep voice, “I shall not dignify this kind of question with an answer. Come, look at this graffiti.”
FATE OR CURSE?
My grandfather’s servant Gotama carried himself like a nobleman. He was not a lowly servant, mind you, like those who cleaned the house or fixed things; he was more of a personal assistant. Still, he acted like the equal of any aristocrat, and my grandfather did not seem to mind. On business travels or hunting expeditions Gotama would oversee the preparations and check on the stable boys and the packing. Once the journey was under way, he often rode alongside grandfather, and the two of them would talk for hours.
Grandfather was a nobleman, a minister in the king’s court and a proud man. He respected Gotama’s self-esteem and often relied on the older man’s wisdom. One day as they were riding together, grandfather asked his assistant how he came to be so self-assured.
Gotama casually answered that his confidence should hardly surprise anyone, considering his royal ancestry. What was surprising, he told his listener, was that he ever came to be a servant in the first place.
Grandfather, who normally observed the privacy of his servants, could not control his curiosity and immediately asked, “What act of fate or karma led you to your present station? Was it a terrible sin one of your ancestors committed?”
Gotama responded defensively that it was neither fate nor karma, but the result of a curse. He then told my father the following story.
The last man in Gotama’s ancestral line to actually serve as a king was Maundibha Udanyu, king of a prosperous and peaceful state. In his kingdom lived a Brahmin called Yavakri, who was the worst scoundrel who had ever lived in the country. Yavakri was a privileged and overindulgent young man with a lethal power that very few Brahmins possessed and fewer yet would ever consider using. This power allowed him to seduce women with one magical sound: “Hay!” Any woman who heard him produce that sound felt immediately compelled to sleep with the monster, only to die as soon as he was satisfied. If by some miraculous strength of will she was able to resist the urge to sleep with Yavakri, she died sooner.
One day, when King Maundibha was performing the prestigious and rare horse sacrifice, this despicable Brahmin came to watch—waiting for a chance to cause some mischief. Moments after the priests uttered the first ritual chant, Yavakri interrupted. “Ha! You made a mistake! I knew you would, you imbeciles…You chose the wrong verses and now,” he turned to the pale king and poked his finger in the air, “you’ll be dead in one month, Your Royal Majesty.”
The king was no fool. Although he feared the curse of the excited Brahmin, he did not feel powerless. Immediately he instructed the priests to destroy all the implements used in that unlucky ritual and to smear the royal houses with mud. “This expiation,” he explained, “will protect me. And let it also be a pledge.” He turned to Yavakri. “It is you, Brahmin, who will die. And as soon as you die, I will return to my sacrifice and complete it according to the law.”
Yavakri was amused by the king’s little drama. What were the king’s chances against the curse of a Brahmin? He turned away contemptuously and headed back into town looking to inflict pain on someone else. His chance came sooner than expected, and in the person of the king’s own cousin, Mamsi. Poor Mamsi happened to be heading toward the king’s ritual grounds just as Yavakri was leaving, and one look at her full figure and pure chocolate complexion made that dreaded sound echo in the alley: “Hay!”
The young woman turned her head in the direction of the voice and knew her fate in a flash. It felt like a burning itch that had to be scratched, right between her shoulder blades. She felt a surge of disgust followed by a chill that moved down her back to her legs. “But if I resist this—I know I can—either way I’m dead.” She felt torn by two competing urges, and she froze in her spot. “He’s standing there waiting. What should I do? I’m dead, I know it. I am dead.”
So Mamsi hesitantly approached the evil man and spoke. “I have heard of you so I know I shall die today. I decided it would be better to die by giving you pleasure because you are a Brahmin. Please let me go home first, and I promise to return to your house tonight.”
Yavakri laughed at her pleading voice. Her misery gave him more satisfaction than he knew the sex would. “No, not tonight, woman. You may go home, but I will expect you in one or two hours. Don’t keep me waiting longer.” He turned and walked away merrily.
Back at her home Mamsi set about her preparations while sobbing softly. She chose a somber sari in which she expected her body to be found and slathered herself with a whole bottle of perfume. Her husband heard the noises and came into her room. When he found out why she was crying, he flew into a rage. “That’s the last straw. I don’t care if he is a Brahmin—he has bewitched his last victim. Now listen, dear wife. Get me some sacrificial butter.” He purified the butter and performed oblations for the god of fire, Agni. Taking fine sand, butter, ground sesame seeds, barley, and sacred grass, he began to mold a figure while chanting, “O Agni, animate this form with your beloved nymph Preni. As I adorn her for Yavakri, give her life so that she may save me. Amen.”
Shortly after the words were spoken, the nymph opened her eyes, then moved. She was the very image of beautiful Mamsi, except for one detail. She had hair on the soles of her feet. “Go to Yavakri, Preni, and do what he tells you!” commanded the husband. The nymph turned and left. Mamsi’s husband then took some more butter and repeated the ritual to Agni, but this time he brought to life a ferocious, jealous gandharva who was carrying an iron club. As soon as the gandharva roared to life, Mamsi’s husband pointed in the direction of the departing nymph and told the creature, “Your wife just went to Yavakri. He lives over there.”
Yavakri was delighted to see Mamsi arrive in her most lovely jewelry and smelling like a grove of fruit trees. He spread out the bedding, but then noticed that the woman was smiling. He scoffed, “Why are you smiling, little woman?”
“Why should I not smile?” asked the nymph.
“Because you are going to die. That’s why!”
The nymph showed her teeth again. “Ah, but you have never lusted after a woman like this!” She held up a hairy foot. The Brahmin merely shrugged and took the nymph. She willingly lay beneath him, unlike any of his previous victims, he thought. But suddenly, on a hidden impulse, Yavakri turned over and saw the gandharva towering above him, blindingly bright and scorching with rage.
“Please don’t kill me, sir!” cowered the Brahmin. “I know this looks awful. Please tell me how I can make this up to you!”
The fiery gandharva stared at the whimpering naked man and hissed, “You have until dawn to behead every living creature that your father owns. That might save you.” He paused, then added with a low rumble, “Then again, it might not.”
Yavakri’s father owned a whole village with farms full of livestock. The villagers were bewildered at the sight of the master’s son rampaging through the yards, killing everything in sight. “Let’s tie him up—he’s gone mad,” they said. But Yavakri’s father stopped them. He told the excited villagers that Yavakri must have his reasons—who knows, maybe this apparent madness was divine inspiration! He was, afte
r all, a gifted Brahmin. “Leave the boy alone!” he finally ordered.
One of the villagers, the woodcutter, was deaf, and he did not hear that order. When he saw the young man chasing and slaughtering the animals around his house, he feared for his master’s property. He grabbed his ax and killed Yavakri with one accurate blow.
“So that was the end of Yavakri?” Asked my grandfather. He was still riding alongside Gotama, his servant.
“Well, some people say it ended in such a way. But others say Yavakri kept on killing animals even as the sun was rising, and then the gandharva found him and killed him. Either way, he died that day.”
“Then what happened?” My grandfather asked, and Gotama finished the story.
When King Maundibha heard that his tormentor had died, he gave instructions to repair the place of sacrifice and told his priests to perform the horse sacrifice again. As the ritual began, however, Yavakri’s father arrived and took the same seat his son had previously occupied. Crouching there, he loudly challenged the king. “Maundibha, I see you have not learned. You’re still making mistakes in your ritual. Do you call yourself a nobleman? I know you cursed my son—but don’t kid yourself. You had nothing to do with his death. Your curse is impotent—the boy simply reached the end of his allotted time.”
“Your son was an evil man, sir,” answered the king boldly. He was worried about offending another Brahmin, but fatigue loosened his inhibitions.
Yavakri’s father seemed more gloomy than angry. He nodded—it was an undeniable fact. He conceded the fact and repeated, “I know Yavakri had his faults, but let me reassure you that you did not kill him. He was killed by his own actions.”
Maundibha stared silently at the Brahmin. The old man raised his voice again. “Of course, the curse of Yavakri will come to pass, Maundibha. Because your ritual is flawed, you will soon die and your descendants will become servants. That’s what I came to tell you.” Then he got up wearily and left.
“So you see, my friend,” Gotama turned to my grandfather, “I am the victim of that Brahmin’s curse.”
“But did the king die?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he did, at one time or another everyone dies. Who can ever say whether life is meant to end or has been ended by a curse? A life span is far more mysterious than one’s position in society, don’t you agree?” The two men continued riding and discussing serious matters of fate and chance.
As soon as the old man stopped speaking, I sat down on a step. It was a flat slab, so my legs stretched out awkwardly, but I didn’t mind. I was sure I had stepped on glass or that a stone had cut me to the bone. But when I checked there was no cut—just a psychedelic red-and-blue bruise the size of a silver dollar. I felt disgusted with myself, with my weakness.
The guide sat next to me, grunting as he eased himself down onto the step. “I see you’re having a crisis, my friend. Don’t feel bad—most pilgrims do at one point or another.” He reached into his cloth bag and fumbled around until he found a flat aluminum can—it looked like an old shoe-polish can with the label removed—and opened it. “Here, I have a lotion you can rub on your feet as long as you’re not bleeding.” The lotion looked like tar, but had an oddly familiar smell that I couldn’t identify.
“What is it?” I ran a finger through the buttery substance, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.
“Oh, it’s an old remedy, made mostly of date palm sap and some gum resin. Don’t worry my friend, just rub some on your feet.”
I felt silly and rude at the same time. Something about the texture of the cream made it feel defiling, even on my burning feet. Then I rubbed it on. “Is this one of those old magical remedies I’m always hearing about in Varanasi? You know, dead lizards and fish oil?”
The old man laughed at my undisguised contempt, which he must have thought a bit bombastic under the circumstances. “Do you smoke?” he asked, surprising me.
I said I did not, and he reached back into his bag. Again, he poked around for a while, then pulled out a piece of folded-up old newspaper, which he carefully unfolded. There were three hand-rolled cigarettes in there, the kind you can buy individually in kiosks everywhere in India. He put one of these in his mouth and methodically folded the others back inside the newspaper, which he returned to the bag. Suddenly he struck a match—it had been concealed in his surprisingly large hand—and lit the cigarette. He inhaled deeply, rolling his head backward and closing his eyes in pleasure. I was mesmerized by all of this; it seemed so out of character for him.
Before exhaling he looked at me and winked. Then he blew out a perfect ring, which drifted in my direction and began to expand. As it approached me, it became wavy, like a flower petal. Then, without taking another puff, he blew another ring, which moved quickly into the first ring and settled inside it. Then he blew another and another. There were now four concentric rings of smoke, and he quickly poked his finger into the rings and rotated his hand. For an instant—I couldn’t even be sure I saw it—the smoke formed a perfect yantra, or ritual geometrical design, this one a star with flower petals around it. The next instant it disappeared.
“Did you see her?” The old man smiled proudly.
“What?”
“Did you see her? That was Kali. She was right there, before your very eyes. Did you miss it?” Then suddenly, “How are your feet?”
The pain was gone completely, and my feet felt almost cool. I watched the old man finish his cigarette; there were no more tricks. I wanted to ask him about the smoke pattern and what he had called it, but felt that I’d be falling into another trap. So I kept quiet and relished the painless moment. Then I started to suspect that he was waiting for me to speak, so I turned back to the story.
“I liked your story, but I have to say that the woman with hair on the bottom of her feet was a bit spooky. What does the hair mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything, my dear friend. She’s a chimera with a small manufacturing flaw, that’s all.” The old man laughed at his own wit. “Her stuffing was showing…” Then he looked at me sharply and asked, “Can you tell me where your stuffing shows?”
That sounded like a koan, a nonsensical loaded question. I thought he was asking me about my weaknesses, maybe bad habits. Then I recalled that the nymph was made in a ritual, and I tried to calculate what the equivalent ritual that fashioned me might have been, and what the substance was. Of course, the stuff that went into making me was not grass; it was something biological and social, regulated by education and rules. Which would leave the stuffing as the vulnerable point, the key—like the solar-love flower—to unmaking my identity. If I could find that, I would then have knowledge of the mystical technique by which to create a new identity, a Kali in cigarette smoke in the world of maya. All of this came to me in a blur—it was too much to understand clearly.
“Do you mind if we resume walking? My feet feel fine now.”
The old man nodded silently, maybe thinking of another way to ask his question. Instead, he simply said, “Let me tell you another story.”
FRIED KINGS
King Karan was very popular among the residents of his capital city. Every morning, as the market came to life at city center, he would personally supervise a group of servants carrying a large bucketful of gold for distribution to the citizens. Each day Karan made a vow that until that bucket of gold was given away, he would not eat his breakfast. Of course, this was an astounding vow—his many doubters expected the king to go broke or break the vow in no time. But neither happened. Not only did he continue to find gold for distribution each and every morning, but he was a man who showed no anxiety, looking chubby and jolly day after day.
Months and years passed by as every morning this ritual continued: a frenzied tumult in the city market followed by a serene breakfast at the palace. What the skeptics could not even imagine was that the king’s generosity depended on his ability to tolerate pain and on the great power of a cannibalistic Tantric sorcerer. Every morning, before the sun
showed itself beyond the eastern mountains, King Karan would silently walk over to the house of a recluse on a hill outside of town. There, the kitchen would be ready with a large vat full of boiling cooking oil, into which the king would lower himself and fry.
As soon as the king was well done, nicely browned and crisp, the sorcerer would use a large fork to remove him and proceed to breakfast on him. He would eat the entire king, cleaning off the bones and smacking his lips in pleasure as he licked the grease off his fingers. When that was done, the great magician would assemble the bones and, using a special spell, he would restore the king—a bit stiff but otherwise fine—to life. He would pull a magical coat, which was just a dirty and patchy garment, out of the closet and then shake it vigorously until a bushel of gold coins came clanking out. These would be gathered up by the contented king and dragged back to town.
That was the deal, pure and simple. The king allowed himself to be fried and eaten, the Tantric sorcerer provided the gold, and the citizens of King Karan’s city got richer. Everyone was quite happy. Of course, it was a painful ordeal for the king. At first the sizzling burn of the oil tormented him to the point of despair, and he dreaded his mornings. Eventually he became accustomed to the pain and to the repeated death. He even hummed or whistled as he walked up the hill, entered the kitchen, removed his shoes and clothing, and immersed himself in the oil vat.
However, King Karan was not the only exceptional king in that region of the country. Another was King Vikramajit, who ruled in the beautiful city of Ujjain. One day, his gardener told him that a pair of pure-white swans landed in his garden. The king hurried outside to investigate why the birds so honored him with a visit. He saw the pair looking forlorn and immediately instructed his gardener to feed the birds.
Climbing Chamundi Hill Page 11