by Paul Haines
... and chittering, chattering, chanting.
' ... umanhanumanha ...'
Hundreds of tiny white monkeys, each the size of a fist, scampering over my body. They stop to beat matchstick fists against my flesh, lips peeled back from fanged mouths.
' ... manhanumanhan ...'
Scrambling into my ears, down my throat, filling me from within, and still more scuttle into the room. I'm glued to the floor in bodily fluid. Can't move; can't breathe. Filling me to burst.
' ... hanumanhanuman ...'
A golden monkey turns my head in his hands. Its face hovers at the edge of my vision, blurred. It speaks to me, the voice rich in a texture of decayed dreams, of long-dead kings.
'Her boon is freedom. The freedom of the child to revel in the moment.'
I try to speak but the monkeys clog my lungs, stopping air needed to sound the words.
'Yes,' he continues. 'You seek freedom yet still you run. Accept death. Confront it. Do not provoke the laughter of Kali.'
He leans forward so I can see his face. 'To accept one's mortality is to let go.'
The monkeys scream as one. 'Hanuman!'
The golden monkey wears the twisted face of Anje the midget. 'Give Kali the angel to awake the avatar. Let Shiva ride the white horse again.' He grins an ivory snarl and flicks a moon-tattooed tongue at me before he is away, the army of monkeys swarming after him.
' ... umaaaaaaannnnn ...'
Fading, burning ...
A baby crawls towards me, the bloody umbilical trailing through my filth. She grows Laura's thick black hair; her tiny mouth works soundlessly. She wears bright red lipstick, thick on baby lips. Her body snuggles in close, warm against my freezing flesh, the mouth searching for sustenance from nipples that can never work. She suckles my chest, sucking emptily, moving down and down until she finds my cock.
'Love you long time,' she coos before her mouth closes around me. Teeth sprout through the gums, biting, digging ...
Screaming ...
#
'Jesus Christ.'
A tanned white foot leading to a well muscled calf next to my head. Hot water sprays down onto me, washing away my grime. Blood trickles amongst rivulets on the floor. I didn't know I was bleeding, too. My body shudders sporadically.
'Good food, was it?' a man says.
I know the voice. Is it mine? Somehow I manage to turn onto my back. The water on my face feels like heaven. The man towers over me, his muscular thighs and chest tapering up and away to a haloed head. So far away. Something shines sharply in one of his hands.
'Glad I didn't stay,' he says.
A haloed head.
'Are you the angel?' I manage to croak.
He laughs. 'The archangel, Gabriel. Though tonight I am almost a god.'
In a moment of clarity the room sharpens. Gabe stands naked above me washing himself. It's not my blood running across the tiles into a drain clogged with semi-digested momos. It's Gabe's.
And he's cleaning my knife, my khukuri, washing blood from the blade. Steam billows up, making a golden mist with the light-bulb that had haloed Gabe's head, and in that moment he looks serenely beautiful. A man content with himself; a man revelling in the moment of his freedom.
As the blood washes from his body I see there are no wounds. He is an angel and with the Himalayan waters he has healed his wounds. Gabe. Gabriel. My saviour. My confidant.
'I think I have killed someone, Gabe. Maybe more than one.'
His voice of caramel. 'I thought that was what we were doing, Saul. You in your way and me in mine. You should try mine. It's so much more intense.'
And I realise it's not his blood at all.
#
Wailing in the streets wakes me to a room warm with sunshine. I'm wrapped up in my bed, though I'm cold for the sheets are damp with sweat. Bells toll and the wailing rises and falls between each strike. Voices chant in prayer beneath the cries, accompanied by the melodic stamp of feet. It sounds like the streets teem with people. Gabe sits by the open window.
'Gabe?' It feels like sand has scoured the inside of my throat. 'What's happening?'
He turns slowly from the window, the last ghost of a smile on his face. 'It's a funeral. And you're alive again. How do you feel?'
I try to sit up and blood rushes to my head. The world spins and Luna is holding a glass of water to my lips. Gabe still sits staring out the window, lost to our presence.
'Carly was sick as well, though nowhere near as bad as you. We're trying for the Indian border tomorrow morning.'
'You're leaving?'
'It's too dangerous here now the Kumari has been murdered. We've met a guy who says he'll smuggle us past the roadblocks out of town.'
'Who's been murdered?'
'The Kumari. The Living Goddess. You remember the little girl from the square? The police are blaming the Maoist rebels, though that's hard to believe. Why would the rebels do something so stupid? The Hindu gods in Kathmandu are far from dead yet. The city is on the edge of civil war now. You better get out as soon as you can.'
In the window's reflection Gabe is smiling. So much more intense. Gabriel the angel. Of death.
'Anyway, Saul. It's been interesting. Take care.' For a brief moment Luna stares into my eyes, searching for something. She pats my hand, stands to leave and leans forward to kiss my cheek. 'You need to lose him,' she whispers.
'What is Hanuman?' I ask before she pulls away.
'This time the what is a who,' Luna says. 'Hanuman is the monkey god, the embodiment of devotion. He helped the hero of the Ramayana to conquer the demon king. He's also a shape-shifter, grants visions, helps us mere mortals out now and then.' Luna slaps the side of her head. 'That's it! I knew it would come to me.'
'What?'
'Anjaneya. The name of the man who told you about Kali Yuga. It's another name for Hanuman.'
'Does he have any tattoos?'
'A moon on his tongue. I didn't think you'd be the sort to get into studying this stuff. Why do you want to know about him?'
'Just heard the name, that's all.'
Gabe's no longer staring out the window. He's still smiling but he's staring intensely at me.
#
The local bus stop just outside the city centre is a massive intersection with roads radiating like spokes. Buses and trucks heave under the weight of clinging passengers as they weave haphazardly between and around other vehicles stopped to pick up people, horns blaring. Dust swirls in the exhaust fumes making it hard to breathe.
'Which bus are we supposed to take to get to this fucking thing?' Gabe has wrapped a muslin scarf around his face to keep out the grit.
'I'll know when I see it,' I lie.
It's Saturday morning and the sun that should beat down in the thin atmosphere finally cracks the layer of pollution and does. It will be our last morning together. Tomorrow Gabe has found passage to Tibet. I won't be going with him.
A bus pulls up, billowing dust into a thick cloud, its numbered destination on its side. If only I knew what they meant. Anje stares down at me through one of the windows. He beckons with stubby fingers.
'This is the one!'
We clamber on board and push our way into the crowded aisle as dark faces stare at us. I try to make my way to where I'd seen Anje but I can't find him.
The smell of chicken shit is strong and the sound of squawking is almost drowned out by the roar of the diesel engine. Someone has a small cow, most likely a buff, near the other end of the aisle. The buff has urinated on the floor but people don't seem to care as the urine spreads with the tilt of the bus.
The road winds up into the mountains and half an hour later we're above the pollution. Up here the soot and carbon monoxide hangs like a thick dirty blanket over Kathmandu. The organism has turned on itself; the city is indeed dying under its own waste.
The bus lurches to a halt in a grind of gears and engine roar, spilling its passengers from the mouth of its rusting doors. Processions of people, clad in
rainbow-hued saris or drab colourless menswear, make their way up a narrow dirt road toward the summit of a small peak. They carry chickens and children; they lead buff and lamb and pigs, faces intent and conversation minimal. The noisy Nepal street is gone, for Saturday is Dhukankali. We walk with them in silence, the sun burning now in the high altitude. Gabe pulls away from me, his stride lengthening. I'm still weak from the food poisoning. His shirt already sticks to his back.
'I hoped to see you here,' a voice says behind me.
Anje struggles to keep up, his legs skip every third step to keep abreast. His rusty beard is golden in the sunlight. Like the monkey king. I wait for him to reach me then continue walking, this time slower.
'Who are you?' I ask.
'You know who I am. I have told you.'
'I know your name means Hanuman.' I'm scared too look at him. Just in case he's real.
Anje laughs bitterly. 'A cruel joke placed upon me for being a burden upon my family. I was set out to beg at an early age. The little monkey.'
I sneak a glance. His head is downcast and he struggles still to match my pace. His scalp is shiny with sweat and his breathing laboured. I'm feeling stronger. What the hell was I thinking? That this guy is a Hindu god?
Gabe stops and turns fifty metres ahead of me. 'Hurry up will you! We don't want to get separated.'
'We must catch him,' pants Anje. 'I need to show you two something near the altars. I'm afraid my health is poor. Perhaps you can carry me?'
I don't remember stopping, I don't recall lifting him onto my back, but his arms grip my shoulders. I hardly feel his weight at all. He's whispering things into my head, telling me my secrets, drawing out my poison. Suddenly he doesn't feel human anymore.
'Confront death, Saul. Accept it. Here you can buy positive karma with the price of blood.' He indicates those around me carrying chickens. He points to the lamb. 'The greater the guilt, the higher the price. Kali accepts all denominations.' Anje laughs, the sound sharp and acidic in my ear. 'All major credit cards, American Express included,' he hisses. 'What can you offer the goddess?'
Gabe has reached the summit and stands amongst the worshippers, the faithful and the guilty. A queue of patient humans and nervous animals has formed here.
'You gotta see this, man,' Gabe calls. 'It's incredible!'
'Offer the goddess!' Anje's voice ricochets inside my skull, bouncing on the brain. Then he's off and into the crowd, weaving through the saris and robes, feathers and hide. Sweat bursts on my skin. The air is suddenly thick and bubbly, hard to breathe. It flows into my lungs like a siren syrup, drawing an insect to its death. I almost collapse at Gabe's feet. My knees tremble and his strong arm pulls me up.
'What the fuck happened to you?' The look on his face doesn't speak concern, simply annoyance that I'm holding him back. 'I said you'd be too sick to do this. Before you pass out, Saul, check out the view.'
His arm sweeps along the queues lining a narrow path, winding its way around the edge of the hills down into a deep hollow. Thousands of Hindus, shuffling slowly forward; children clutching chickens to their chests; ash-eyed babies slung over shoulders while their mothers lead lambs; men herding buff and pigs; chickens, hundreds of chickens. Down and down they shuffle, into the heart of a massive stone pit flanked by ancient statues worn smooth by the centuries.
Gabe is almost running as he pushes his way through the crowd. His face is alive and yearning. 'Look at this! Look at all of this!' If I didn't know before, I do now. Blood excites Gabe like nothing else. I stumble along in his wake, my head feeling light. Sparkles dance before my eyes and sweat soaks my clothes. The crooked trees leaning from the banks of the hills teem with caterwauling monkeys. The copper stink of blood rises to greet us as we near the bottom. A hastily painted sign hangs over the entrance to the steps leading down into the pit. On it scrawled in faded black: 'Hindu only. No tourist.'
A buff is dragged shrieking to one of the sacrificial altars lining the pit. Gabe leans precariously over the edge of the pit, his grin as wide as the fear in the buff's eyes.
'This was used for humans once,' he says.
A priest forces the buff's neck onto the bloodied stone and the khukuri sweeps down, once, twice—the blade has been dulled on bone—until the head is severed from the still kicking body. The guilty one clasps his hands in prayer as the priest dots his forehead with blood fresh from the stone. He rises and the innocence is clear on his face. It drips down the bridge of his nose.
The altar to Kali the Black swarms with priests and followers. All chant over the screams of the animals, standing ankle-deep in the blood for a goddess. Long wicked blades flash in the light of the sun. Blood arcs through the air splattering the stone gods and flesh puppets; blessings are smeared and the slaughter is dragged away to where butchers prepare a pyre of carcasses.
I'm back on the shower floor covered in shit and puke. Blood washes down the muscled leg standing next to my head. Blood for a goddess. Blood of a goddess. The blood of my wife; my baby; the sluts, the whores I have since punished for their sins. My sins. The sins of my blood.
Gabe spreads his arms wide and laughs up at the sky above the pit. Dust whorls bloom on the lip lining the hollow, swirling up as the crowds cower under the onslaught. And darkness descends on the valley as coagulated clouds smother the sky, forced on by the ferocity of the winds sweeping over the mountains.
A golden monkey scampers across a roof beam over the pit. It grins with Anje's face. 'You cannot deny death.' Its mouth doesn't move. The words resonate within. In my veins. 'Pain and sorrow are woven into the texture of a man's life. Accept death, Saul. Believe in it, revel in it.'
This is karma. This is balance. But I do not believe.
Do not ...
Believe.
I'm reaching into the daypack strapped to my back. The handle of the khukuri worn to the shape of my palm glides in. The handle swings past my face. Blood has dried into the fabric binding the hilt. Monkeys, monkeys, thousands of monkeys howling in the trees. Thunder rips the sky. I step toward Gabe as he turns to me. I swing up as hard as I can. The blade slices easily up through his groin and catches in his pelvic bone.
He doesn't make a sound. Instead he stares at me. The blood is draining fast from his face. His eyes not hateful, but full of the wonder of the newly converted. Thunder roars again through the heavens and the rain begins to fall, fat and heavy. I yank the blade from his bone and blood gushes hot over my hands. The air whistles from Gabe's lungs. I grab his hair and ready the khukuri for the killing blow. And he plunges one of the small knives into my neck, dragging the blade downwards as he collapses. I stagger back, slipping in the bloody mud. Blood spurts between the fingers pressed to my neck. I slip again and tumble across the altar, sliding into the sacrificial area. Blood in my mouth, coppery and acrid, in my eyes, my lungs. People scream. Gabe laughs, high-pitched and cracking. I struggle to stand but my legs have stopped working and I collapse against the wall. It's so cold, so cold. Gabe's blood pours down the sacrificial altar, driven by the rain. It washes over me.
People and animals flee the pit. The monkeys howl as one, then fall silent. A golden skinned priest stands over me, bare-chested, watching. From here he seems a giant, his face kind. There are terrible raw scars over his chest.
'Shiva comes as Kalki, the final avatar. The last days of Kali Yuga are closing.' He points a long, lean arm to the sky. 'Open your eyes and you will see.'
I follow his finger to the heavens. There is nothing but roiling black clouds, thundering across the sky, disgorging the essence of life. Nothing but clouds. Gabe has fallen silent. And I feel nothing. Nothing.
Nothing.
Then ...
Above me, high in the clouds, a massive hoof slices through the darkness, followed by another, then another. An enormous white horse crashes through the sky bearing the most beautiful person I have ever seen. He thrusts something forward but the sky is too bright now and I cannot see clearly. His hand? His sword?
<
br /> I reach up to the light.
***
Afterword: The Last Days of Kali Yuga
Kathmandu, that fabled Himalyan paradise was a shock to my sensibilities when I arrived there in 1998, fresh off the plane and ready to follow the Silk Trail back to Europe. The poverty and the pollution was staggering, and within 48 hours, my nose was running with black muck. The streets were choked with diesel fumes from vehicles discarded by India and China. Every morning, rubbish would be swept up into piles and burnt. Burnt out travellers and fresh hedonists beginning their journeys flocked the crowded, crooked streets of Thamel, the central part of the city that is Kathmandu.
I witnessed dukankali in the foothills of the Kathmandu Valley, taking a cramped bus out of the city, then walking up into the hills with our Sherpa guide. The scene is described faithfully in the story, though I wasn't trying to murder anyone and the clouds never parted for Shiva's return. I unwittingly stood on the statue of one of the gods as I was photographing the wholesale slaughter and was quickly reprimanded by several shouting devotees to Kali. The whole experience was so surreal I just had to write about it, but how to do it justice? I didn't want to write a travel piece.
A year or so later, I caught up with a friend who had been travelling around the world for a good portion of his time. Apart from being separated from his girlfriend while they were both mugged in Mexico City, one of the most disturbing experiences he had had was when he shared a room with a stranger in a hostel in Europe. This stranger—a man, naturally—alluded to things you could get up to, things you could get away with, things he had, in fact, done, and perhaps would my friend be interested in joining him in some of these activities.