Bhairavi Read online

  ‘Do you come here often?’ A surprised Chandan asked her, making Charan laugh.

  ‘Yes, absolutely yes. Not just me, now you will also come here often. When Guruji comes here to meditate, I have to bring him his chillum. Then, Maya Didi would often say, “Just keep standing there, Charan. A virgin is at the centre of a guru’s meditation. If you keep standing there, his meditation will bear fruit.” Guruji just sits there as if made of stone. I hand over the chillum to him and watch these pageants from behind this very Peepal tree. When Mad Gopal spots me, he gets me the tea here. He might be empty in the head but his heart is of gold. He keeps clove, cardamom, cinnamon and other spices in a bottle. He says he makes special tea for me. But he is an absolute rascal otherwise, very wicked. Calls his stall ‘Shamshan Vihar’, a garden of funeral pyres it is indeed!’

  Chandan was tired and out of breath.

  ‘Ran out of breath so soon!’ Charan wiped clean the top of a rock with the end of her sari and made her sit there even as she herself sat at her feet.

  ‘I sometimes tease him mercilessly right in front of his customers. The tea is absolutely cold, you madman! Looks like you boiled it on the ashes of a cold pyre. He laughs and makes another cup. He wouldn’t dare take offence at my words. He doesn’t have the courage to look into Maya Didi’s eyes though. Says, “The day your Maya Didi comes to burn here, I’ll treat all my customers to complimentary tea.” And there it is, his stall. Good that it’s open.

  ‘Oh you madman, where have you gone to?’

  The coconut tree next to the stall shook and out of it, like a snake, with a body like a coconut, crawled the smiling madman and stood in front of them. He looked at Charan first and then at Chandan. His ugly pock-marked face lit up first with surprise, then joy and finally, curiosity covered it with creases.

  A chill ran down Chandan’s spine.

  All she could see in front of her were the open cremation grounds, a steadily narrowing river and that giant Chandal. ‘Wah wah! You found a splendid scarf today! Which beauty handed it over to you while climbing into the pyre? Give it to me, I’ll wear it to the Vat-tala Mela away from that crone’s eyes and look like a young bride, won’t I?’ exclaimed Charan.

  She had draped that snatched-from-a-pyre scarf around herself and was admiring her reflection in the broken mirror in the stall. ‘What are you doing?’ A scared Gopal jumped in front of her as if hiding her. ‘Can’t you see! The owner’s corpse hasn’t even burnt entirely. What will the family say?’

  But that mischief-monger of a girl had wrapped the scarf around her neck like a muffler and plonked herself on the broken iron chair in the stall.

  ‘Let them see. It will be a while before they come back. Besides, they have their backs to us, they are not facing us. Haaye-haaye, she is so fair. From whose house is she? Just look at her feet, Bhairavi.’

  Chandan glanced at the burning corpse with fear as if she were seeing one for the first time in her life.

  Two fair alta-adorned feet had freed themselves from the constraints of the pyre as if the mistress of those young feet, not being able to stand the heat of the fire, was preparing to jump off it.

  ‘She is Nand Babu’s daughter.’ Gopal started saying, ‘She got married just last Phalgun. Don’t you remember, I had fed you sandesh for her wedding? Came to her parents’ home to deliver her child. Suffered for three days and died this morning.’

  Charan took off the scarf in a tizzy. She still remembered the sweet taste of the wedding sandesh. How could she take the scarf off the corpse and fool around with it!

  Chandan kept standing as if she were made of wood. She couldn’t take her eyes off the burning pyre. When the flames started licking the young feet, she covered her face with her hands.

  She had heard of a similar incident from her mother. Of the Upreti clan in the hills. The unborn child of such a child bride had taken her life. Had torn the womb asunder at the cremation grounds to come out, alive. He was called Upreti. She didn’t know whether there was any truth in the account or if it was all make-believe; had the mistress of these fair feet also climbed the funeral pyre without having fulfilled her desire to see the face of her unborn child? The relatives standing around the pyre had backed away a little by now.

  Was that her father—who had just last year with the fire as witness given her away for marriage— standing in the crowd here in the presence of the same treacherous fire to give her away yet again, with his head bent in helplessness?

  ‘Oi Madman!’ Charan’s shrill voice surprised Chandan out of her reverie and she found the dark wraith-like madman staring at her. On hearing Charan’s call, he moved to put the kettle on the fire. ‘How that dratted man is staring at you! Looks like he is forgetting the charms of the old one after seeing the beautiful new Bhairavi. Isn’t it so? Listen, by the time we come back from the temple, keep two cups of special tea ready. And if your relatives don’t leave or if god forbid a new party doesn’t arrive, get our tea sent to the back end.’

  She brought Chandan to a narrow street.

  Chandan found it all difficult to believe; on crossing paths with a funeral procession she used to wrap herself around her mother, and keep shaking and shivering with fear all night. But now, she was crossing the main cremation ground without a second thought. Sometimes the runaway flames of a pyre would stroke her sari; at other times the smoke of a dying pyre would make her nose and eyes sting: the kind of smoke that would come from their non-vegetarian neighbour’s stove and enter her vegetarian mother’s nose making her flare up in anger. ‘May that meat eater die, looks like she is roasting lamb again, her son-in-law must be visiting.’ Mother would say as she closed the windows and yawned.

  Their neighbour was a Tibetan with four daughters and all four of her sons-in-law were sheep wool hawkers who often stopped to rest in their motherin-law’s house. It was in honour of these sons-inlaw that she would roast sheep and consecrate the entire colony. The burning smell today reminded Chandan of her maiden home. She stopped walking for a moment. Charan reprimanded her again, ‘Oh hello, walk fast, the temple is right there.’ The thin flow of the river had formed a pool near the temple like the body of a young girl.

  ‘Pull up your sari to your knees and hold my hand tightly, understood? Don’t step on the rocks, they are very slippery; you’ll be in bed again for a month if you slip off them.’ The river was like a line around the temple, separating it from the rest of the world, and it was deep. The mischievous waves of the cold water began to pull her down and she got scared and lost her balance.

  Somebody jumped up and held her. When she turned to see who it was, she closed her eyes in fear. Strange, strong hands held her up and made her stand and before the two could become alert, her saviour took a long jump and crossed the enormous flood made by the fountain. Even Charan who didn’t think much of anyone was in shock for some time; then she laughed and pulled Chandan out of the deep end.

  ‘Why did you get scared? That’s what they do, come out of nowhere like snakes. The saying that a sanyasi and a snake live in the same house is true. Looks like they had been following us with their silken claws. They had surprised me too once.’

  Chandan was unable to shake off the memory of those two long arms. Such warm hands, they were like embers of burning camphor. Had that creature been born from a volcano? Charan seemed to have read her mind. Had this restless young girl also gained enlightenment with her guru?

  ‘What are you thinking, Bhairavi? You must have found the guru’s hands very warm? The first time I was handing over the chillum to him, my elbow brushed against his and almost got a blister. Oh my god! Were they arms or logs on fire! You could cook roti on them.’

  Then taking a long breath, she launched into a monologue, as if she were walking alone. ‘He isn’t a common man, like you and I. One camphor stick burns outside and one inside. Maya Didi also fires up in the same way sometimes. One day I had gone to Vat-tala to hand over the chillum and saw the two of them sitting across each othe
r, like a snake couple. I heard the guru telling her, “The one Shiva calls Shakti, the entire creation sun-worshipping Maharajani, Boddh’s Tara, Jain’s Shri, Brahmagyani’s Swadha, Vedic’s Gayatri and the ignorant, Mohini, you are that Mahamaya, the great enlightened one.” That day, Maya Didi’s face glowed like never before. Long, black tresses, enormous eyes, sitting in Lalit asana, she was radiant like a goddess. She started saying, “You are my only Shiva, Guru and I am your Shiva Shakti.”’ Chandan listened, surprised by the wild child’s erudition.

  Had this unlettered girl picked up all this while cleaning and lighting chillums at this Aghori akhada?

  Her long shapely legs were in the water one moment and out the next. Her faded sari dyed with palash flowers, adorned with a blue lotus and a border of large green leaves, fluttered in the wind, making it look like a Batik print quivering with sadness, a fettered aanchal; this butterfly flying around freely in the middle of nature’s bounty, had she managed to memorize these things by listening to them every day?

  ‘This is the temple. Wash your feet and walk behind me, you won’t be able to walk without me guiding you.’ She rang a huge bell tied with iron chains at the gate and went and stood at the stairs waiting for Chandan. The sound rang out like the fierce sound of church bells that echoed among the trees. To enter the ancient temple’s doorway, Chandan had to contort her tall frame into an arrow. She lost her guide after taking a few steps into that fearsome darkness. ‘Didn’t I tell you to hold my hand!’ Charan’s voice was lost in supressed laughter and then she stood next to her flapping like a bat.

  ‘Here, hold my hand and walk behind me.’

  Stepping timidly on the floor, which was cold like a slab of ice, Chandan kept walking like a blind beggar holding Charan’s hand. Almost half a gajj away, a tiny ghee lamp lit up a small room housing the linga, and it emitted a surprising amount of light.

  Saying, ‘Jai Shiva, Jai Guru’ Charan started ringing the ancient silver bell hanging there. Chandan was caught unawares again. She could neither fold her hands in prayer nor could she blink her eyes. The temple looked so familiar but this was the first time she had set foot here! Was it a memory from a previous birth hidden in her subconscious? No, no, she had been assailed by the memory of walking into a similar blinding light after a great darkness in a different Shiva temple. Were all ancient Shiva temples deliberately built in the middle of such darkness? On that occasion, she had accompanied her mother to the Gyaneshwar temple while in ill-health. Her mother wanted to offer thanks for a wish-fulfilment. It was near a similar forbidding crematorium; she had had to step on an ice-cold floor, and a single ghee lamp lit up the linga there as well, the light falling across a brass idol celebrating the Chandravanshi king’s taste in sculptures.

  Mother’s honeyed voice seemed to touch her eyelids now:

  Trishradri Sankash Gaur-Gambheeram

  Manobhoot Koti Prabhashri Shareeram

  Sfoorannmoli Kallolini Charuganga

  Lasat Bhaal Balendu Kanthe Bhujanga.

  [The one who is fair-skinned like the Himalayas.

  The one whose body glows like a thousand dignified

  gods of love.

  The one from whose head the sacred Ganga flows.

  The one whose head is graced by the small moon

  and from whose neck dangles a necklace of snakes.]

  Who was singing the same paean to Shiva that was Ma’s favourite? She looked around surprised and saw Charan swaying and singing while shaking the silver umbrella.

  Mrigadheesh Charmambar Mundamalam.

  [The one who wears a garland of skulls around

  his neck.]

  This temple seemed to have been built by the kings of the Pala dynasty. The work of the Bengali sculptors in the form of the idols, their life-like expressions, folds of garments was unparalleled; the image of Parvati sculpted out of the black wall of the temple was riveting. To the south was the grand Shivalinga, with little Kartikeya stroking the lion-chariot on one side and on the other side was Ganesh on his mouse, dancing, with his trunk clutching his mother’s sari. Fanning Parvati’s head were the square leaves of the Kadali favoured by Bengali sculptors.

  ‘The sacred fire here keeps burning all the time, it is our guru’s. I come here every morning to light it. Come, I’ll show you his prayer room!’

  Charan and she crossed a bunch of spiral staircases to reach a room with a window with the kind of jaali work usually found in Imambaras. A river could be seen from the window. The air was refreshed by the breeze from the bamboo groves. From one nail hung a rudraksha mala and on another hung a black skull.

  ‘Look, there’s Gopal’s shop! It almost seems like you can touch it from here but it must be about a mile away. Oh god, there are three pyres burning there! Has the entire Bashirghat village come to burn today? We won’t be able to get a cup of tea on our way back either.’

  Charan took out oil from a bottle kept there, made a cotton wick with great care and lit it. Then with folded hands, she stood in front of the rudraksha mala hanging from the nail. The lamp burning at the window threw out light from its many perforations. This jharokha that reminded Chandan of one of the handis of Garba dancers had two idols carved in them. One slim, tall and fair-skinned and the other shiny dark-skinned, plump, striking a dancing pose like a Nepali khukri, and symbolising Vankanya who changed her form like nature.

  ‘Let’s go!’ She touched one rudraksha bead to her dark forehead and turned around. ‘Let me put a log in the fire and then we can go back.’ Charan took her on another long pilgrimage, finally arriving in an entirely different room where wood was stacked up like a pillar. Charan pulled out a thick log from the pile. She sensed Chandan’s curiosity again. ‘You must be wondering who could’ve dumped all this wood in the midst of this wilderness. A huge fair happens here on Shivratri. Both Hindus and Muslims are followers of Shiva. I have heard that in the Sunderban jungles, labourers still meditate taking the name of our guru’s guru. Even tigers feel frightened on hearing his name. The only offerings accepted here are Dhatura flowers and wood for the sacred fire. That is all our Shiva asks for! This one time, a merchant from Kolkata arrived here and offered ten trucks full of wood.’ Charan wiped her hands after putting the thick log in the fire. Then she started opening the knot in her pallu.

  ‘Let’s rest for a bit and then leave. Earlier, I used to return only in the evenings. One puff and then only sleep. I have come prepared, don’t worry.’

  She took out a small chillum from the knot of her sari and then reaching out behind the idol took out a small packet and poured its contents into the chillum and started laughing, ‘I take one prasad of Shiva here and one at home. The one I take here staves off the fear of ghosts and spirits on the road, and the one at home, of the witch there. Ever since the shakti mandal here was pulled away by a lion, I have had to run back sooner.’

  Lighting the full chillum with the sacred fire, she roared, ‘Jai Shiva Guru’ and touched it to the Shivalinga and then to her forehead. Then, cupping the chillum with both her hands, she took a long drag and started coughing. The light of the lamp was waning. Charan was acting like she had had an attack of madness.

  She was dancing, coughing and singing, ‘Jai Bum, Jai Bum, Bumlahari, Bum Bubum Bubum Bum Bumlahari.’ Her voice echoed through the temple.

  What could Chandan do?

  On the one hand were the roads lost in the smoke of burning pyres, the chance of running into ravenous and cunning lions, the walk through long and winding roads, the aggression of the Chandal, the memory of eyes that could look into your very soul; on the other, in a dark, strange temple a companion lost in the intoxication of marijuana.

  What if two ash-smeared arms embraced her?

  Chandan tried to snatch the chillum away before the lamp went out. ‘What are you doing, Charan, don’t smoke any more. Let’s go home, I am scared.’

  She choked as she said that. Her outstretched arms caught at nothing and kept hanging in the emptiness. Two burni
ng, intoxicated eyes carved into the Shiva idol on the temple’s broken walls seemed to be shooting arrows at her, pushing her back. Where did that idol come from? Was this tantric temple making her see things or was the smoke from Charan’s magical chillum getting into her nostrils and making her hallucinate!

  ‘It isn’t just marijuana.’ Charan bellowed with laughter. ‘There’s something else in it too—the poison of dog piss! Understood? One drag and you are a queen! Pluck diamonds off golden trees and eat them. That’s the reason Gopal says, “A girl is better than the boy who hasn’t smoked weed.”’

  It was such a fearsome idol! Parvati on her lion and Ganga on her tortoise. On one end, Nagalok carved in stone, half the body human and the other half serpent. Shiva’s descendants with their hands folded, with feet in motion as if the whole temple would ring out with the sound of their footsteps— khat khat khat! Above them heaven, different gods on different chariots, in the middle, Shiva dancing with his ten hands, and around his neck, the snake! Chandan took a few steps back just on seeing it. This looked like the beloved snake of that sanyasi. The lamp had gone out. All Chandan could see were Charan’s red eyes and the embers of her chillum.

  ‘Jai Guru, Jai Guru! Here, you also take a drag, then we can leave.’ Charan invited her but Chandan kept standing still.

  ‘Don’t say no, it is Shiva’s prasad. Here, this is how you take a drag.’ Shrinking her nose, she took a long drag. After this presentation, she took Chandan’s hand and made her sit next to her with great affection. She put the chillum on Chandan’s trembling lips.