34
Just a Celestially Suasive Shove;
and the
Mighty Dam Breaks
Delirious agitation of their lusty
senses had been benumbed by the frenzy of her looks. The chums were caught in
an odd ennui in which their quirkish mentor’s ludicrous outpours found no open
ears. His tongue’s prickliness had no effectiveness in breaking the eerie
rendezvousness humming allegoric chants for the houri seen today.
Once inside the temple premises, they
shut themselves in their compartment to give full and free leeway to their
bawdy parleys. Their benign benefactor, finding himself completely cut off from
their world, clambered up the steps leading to the sanctum-sanctorum and sat
there before the majestic image of Lord Shiva. Elfishly he gazed into the wide
open eyes of the God, shining in perfectly pious smugness. Wrathfully he sighed
with pique. Gnarl in his looks made him seem ready for a miff with the God for
letting down this upkeeper of His faith in the eyes of lesser mortals.
Unsavoury and defiant look on his hazardously hairy face was prayerfully crying
to incite the God to open His third eye of destruction. ‘Destroy her bewitching
face, otherwise it will spell doom to holy souls on earth!’ his hitherto
enigmatic hate for the helplessly innocent girl was now hysterically running
into the blizzard of irreligiously striking feelings.
The sharers of his precincts,
meanwhile, were wildly raving over each physical part of hers. Rich tapestry
and colourful pictorial fabric of her visage etched out indelible lusty
excitement on their licentiously musing, hypnotized psyches. Each word about
her sent an exploding excitement in their genitals.
“She is mine only” completely hot from the
oven, the cheerleader cried. “You ugly testical hair-tufts shouldn’t even have
a figment of your unfit imagination about her!” he proclaimed the greedy
black-bee’s lust to sap out the whole juice of a flower all for itself.
The eloquence of his greed instigated
their own ruthless sexual thirst. “No!” they revolted very tersely. “Bravo
boss, you shared all that worthless stuff with us in the past and when it comes
to this priceless peach, you want to eat it as the sole paramour!” under a
spell of vicious barbarism they seemed ready to pounce upon him.
The ringleader protested again and said
willfully, “Why don’t you people understand? You can look out for other girls
as well. Don’t you remember there were many beautiful girls with her? She’s
their leader, I’m your boss. So by the law of it she’s mine. You people choose
yours respectively from the rest!” he ended it on a very high-pitched
dictatorial note, hoping it’d quell their opposition like in the past.
But they were rock adamant, “No, no!
Till now all booties and punishments have been shared by all of us equally. And
this time as well it’ll remain just the same!” their combined lusty gluttony
resonated with revolt while constantly eyeing the leader’s taut panache bravely
holding up the insignia of his kingship over the group.
Their tones had acquired injurious
overtones; a joggling fistfight occurred which resulted in a few bloody mouths.
When the fetid passion had evaporated with a few drops of blood, they started
laughing boisterously. In a while (in the peddler’s French) they got busy in
evolving a consensus and scheme about how to subdue and break that invincible
gypsy flower. The ugly fraternity, like eagle preening its hawkish beak to prey
upon the sparrow!
Sitting in the garbha griha of
his temple, the priest was muttering with unbearable indignation, “I’ve
failed... I’ve failed to kill her bewitching beauty! Why’s she returned to make
my religious kingdom unholy? Why?” prophets and charlatans of his godhood
dashed for life like rats as the ship of his mendicancy got a fracture in its
hull after sailing into a pointed underwater rock.
He gnashed his teeth feeling peculiarly
humiliated by the girl. Messy passions created a storm in the sea of his proud
friarship.
“The evil spirit has to be taught a
lesson,” his thoughts spewed venom. “Lord, bestow this servant of yours enough
power to dispossess that evil spirit of that unholily beautiful garb!” mired
with the utmost phobia of her glorious sheen the godhead pleaded before his
God.
He clenched his fists so forcefully
that his rough nails dug into his coarse palms. He forced down so much raw
power into his fists as if he was trying to swiggle out the whole juice from
that ripened fruit. He’d tortured many supposed evil spirits possessing the
hapless females. And he’d done it with extremely inert and impassively
cold-blooded manhood––as far as sexuality is concerned, for he was so proud of
the lode-star of his monkship (brahmacharya or the inviolable celibacy).
It was a perfect example of the surgically swift task of a tantrik. While
ever looking at the pole-star of his virginity he’d struggled on the rough and
gruff of the path of mendicancy. Got numerous tattering bruises, cuts and
wounds. Still, the mendicant friar was so proud of these jewels of celibacy and
chastity in his friarship. This pride was ever fuelled by his preternormal
loath for a woman’s beauty and body. Hence, as an exorcist he’d tortured so
many beautiful bodies, slapped uncountable rosy cheeks, pulled almost infinite
number of dark-as-night locks. Doing this the asexual countenance on his face
had never flinched even a bit from its cold, stony mask. His whole biological
instinct for the opposite sex was, thus, defined or rather gratified by those
provocative fights with evil elves hidden inside female bodies (where many others
of his ilk salaciously groped for natural instincts).
This time too he wanted to squeeze the
nectar out of this flower in full bloom, without letting even a single drop of
the irreligious liquid touch his spotlessly clean cloak. His tantra
prowess was angrily ordering him to trump-up a plan to just add one more name to
his exorcist list of paranormal patients. This time, but, the hitherto unassailable
hull of his religious ship appeared to have been damaged finally. Water which had
been imprisoned outside was fastly and furiously gushing in to sink the ever-defying
structure of religious wood.
Enchanting face of the girl
buccaneeringly vaulted over his ritualistic head with a strange somnolence.
That curse by her rosy lips had emblazoned across the deepest corner of his
existential self: hitherto virgin, unconquered and unapproached. He wanted
revenge. He wanted to smother and subdue her beauty. That was for sure. But he
was feeling agonisingly helpless. Like a schizophrenic he gasped for the loss
of voluntarity. His dam of black magic shook with impertinence against the
flashing flood started by the exalted visage of that houri.
“God, please save me from the deluge!
Show me the way out! I’ve followed your path without even a single stigma!” he
cried struggling in the inchoate swamp, his eyes looking at the serene face of
God, holding His head firm and high with the utmost faceness of love, beauty
and truth.
Could he outpour whole of his
primordial hate just through the noxious obi spluttered over her feminine
revelry? For the first time he wasn’t confident of his faculty. Very
dangerously his vengeful inner self was getting inflated to dangerous proportions.
The orgasmic orgy of primal hate needed an outlet.
“Oh my powers! Don’t betray me like
this!” perniciously he banged his fists on the floor.
The fornicating sorcerer of earlier in
him was now escapingly mincing words. Its festivous yawns after coming across a
prey weren’t up to the earlier mark. It thus didn’t satiate the blazing flames
burning inside his body. With unholy gustation and relish her image was
afflicting him, wrecking havoc with all that he was hitherto in consonance
with. Deep roots of the stony fortress around his imprisoned soul shook
crabbedly. The craggily crackling prisoner tried to replicate its tantric
fury of the past which preyed upon the helpless females with brazen shabbiness.
But all its pertinacious perjuries failed this time. Evil soul’s tormentor of
afore was now unascetically afflicted with an infirmity to mortify his own
senses. He was being dragged dangerously contiguous to something which
virtually stood for the annulment of his type of religiondom. Yes, it was an
open revolt by the mundane senses thirstily buried beneath the deep, deep crust
of religious superficiality for four decades.
At the mere notion of it he cried for
forgiveness, “Forgive me mahadev!” In penitence he struck his head on the
feet of God.
He was really proud of it––of his brahmacharya.
In fact, more than his faith in Lord, he considered this crest-jewel of his
mendicancy to be responsible for the gradual aggrandisement in his religious
fate which’d at last brought him to a peer group of religioners having temples
of their own. In that way the delectable religious journey towards local
pontification had finally caught on fine wheels. His religionhood vouched for
its total justification; after all he was so proud of being the lone survivor
to cross over to safety from the sea of sexuality in whose desirous-waters the
commoners get drowned in. Hence, he was so happy for this monumental proffer by
a benign God in lieu of his sexual chastity after that totally nondescript,
life-long ascetic itinerary.
He felt the temple limbering over him as
if its solid foundations too had become plaint along with his shaken self. In
all his meticulous, chiming accent he started chanting mantras in the Lord’s
praise, hoping the kind father’d bestow him a ‘religious lull after that
unsacred storm’. But he failed
miserably. Every ounce of his earthy weight revolted in its full physical force
against the superficiality of religion swathed around. Ravages of fickle
emotions fretted and fumed with such a passionate fire that it perversely
pierced through the religious superfluousness. Huge stony walls, erected over
the years, around his manliness came tumbling down. Oh, those spiritually
sumptuous barricades built of bricks made from soil on the path to the
reclusory! In all its perfidious perkiness the biological distinction between
man and a woman started to crop up with its sexual affinity. Untasted pastures
of insatiated desires smouldered with matchlessly lynching appetite.
Yes, he was dying to harm her,
pulverize her beautiful body, torment her soul, and pinch down her virginal
aura of subtle seduction! He wanted to go even steps further. But not through
witchcraft! The fire of desire consumptively hissed its archaically hungry
tongue to chuck up the feisty female, his tormentor. Completely sapped and trapped
his exorcist self now lay perfectly nonplussed and ineffective.
Irony was that the dispeller himself had
been possessed. And when this doctor himself fell ill who could help him. Like
a volcano the love of cruelty arising from sexual perversion erupted inside his
heart. Tension had been accumulating for aeons. It teared asunder the crust and
laid waste the religious orchard bedecking the surface. Sadism burst out like
red hot lava. Like a hissing snake it moved over the rugged surface to satiate
its senses. Rituals of sorcery flew into grim atmospherics and fell on earth in
the form of black soot and lusty lumps of cruelly eyeing sexuality.
“I’ll get her! She’s mine, mine only!” the
sado-machotist burst out.
Literally the exorcism had turned to sadism.
Like a possessed and haunted soul he
trembled with rage, lust, spurious excitement and shindy surliness.
In his new-found avatar the
priest proclaimed, “Holy virginity has to be broken and conquered by an akhanda
brahamchari like me!”
Utterly cynic and ruthless the sadist
in him was fully sure that such unblemished beauty can pour out of a virgin
only. A reverberating surge of sexuality sent an awe-hammering orgy through his
body. Helplessly moving his hands and feet in the primal swamp of lust his body
received bouquets as well as brickbats from the hungry and angry carnality.
His possessively desire-smitten mind
felt the heat of parsimoniously smouldering fire burning inside the doltish
brains of the tomfools cohabiting the temple premises with him. He was well aware
of the deadly impunity veiled behind their foolish jestings and tommy-rots.
Jealously smelling the unchecked semblance of bursting desire on their
hypnotized faces, the lame religioner found himself forlorn before this envious
entourage. Though he’d won the spurs as far as the villagers in general were concerned,
yet he was well aware of his trifling esteem in the eyes of these outspoken and
jaunting hoodlums, who regarded him just a pal at the most.
Howitzer howl of sadism in him fremescently
condemned these idiots as the hindrance between him and her. He but couldn’t
dare to divulge his exclusivist designs about her, for he knew that they’d just
pound him like anyone of their ilk. Their vices stared in his eyes. His
sandalwood paste and vermilion smeared brow contorted with the propensity of
opening his third eye of destruction (ferocious black magic) and decimate the
tom-noddy group with fire.
And when they passed by his place
completely immersed in licentiously sighing fiddle-de-dee about the gypsy
cynosure, his sexually shaking self cursed hell upon them.
“God
may throw all of you in the filthiest corner of hell where you rot for
thousands of years without even seeing ugliest of a woman!” he snorted, which
was amply nodded by his red, hot, purplish wand of sadism popping out its
rigidly taut dome against the soft loin-cloth.
Without paying any attention to their
preter-humanely aroused friend they came out of the premises. Scuffling and
laughing lewdly they headed for the village to look out for the petite girl
whose beauty was looming large over their lustfully rattling brains.
Desperately he squeezed the leviathan
ecumenically raising its hood between his thighs. Primordial hate for that
luscious-lipped female pumped throbbing gusts of blood into those plenteously
thirsty veins. Chanty chaos danced in each and every excited tissue of the hugely
inflated boneless organ. In rage he gnashed his teeth, for a priest’s austerity
prevented him from chasing the girl as they must be doing now. He was dying to
see the aureola, whose mere thought sent billowy waves of passion, rage,
revenge and lust. Hot sandy whirlwinds raged through his heart like fiery
summer gusts wanting to deflower the spring’s colours from a butterfly’s wings.
Blinded by the beauteous couture of her
image, the shikhara over his head loomed in a mammoth fiasco. Her
subliminally delectable aroma was perpetually making his ordeal more and more grueling.
Asexually zestful veteran of yore was now lynched by viciously intermittent
pangs of sadism. Lust-smeared orgy was raising its head high up into the sky,
well above the temple top.
It had been a long time since he last
wore a langot to subdue the physical symbol of sexuality, because
he was on the wrong side of age now. But today the fully free ecstasy of lusty
senses lost amidst the ambience of sexual jaunt awakened the slouching
slumberer. As he got up it hit its firmly excited opposition against the feeble
loin cloth of mendicancy. Thanks to the image of God before him, there was no
devotee there. Staring at the black stone statue of Shivalinga, the
cosmic penis, proudly standing upright for the cause of procreation, his still
slightly guilty conscience got an encouraging pat at its back from Kamadeva,
the Lord of love and lust. ‘Even the Lord’s is taut upright! Then what is wrong
with yours?’ his soul heard the reason.
As in Mahabharata, Kamadeva says
pridefully, “If anyone tries to beat me, I grow manifold over his beating!”
Yes, it’d happened to him. But it didn’t
seem a deed of the God of love and lust; rather it appeared accomplished by a
strange, monstrous representative of hate and lust. He hurriedly limbered into
his resident room lest somebody came to see him. With lightning endeavour he
fetched out the tight undercloth from his trunk. It was needed now, for his
genitals would now feel arising pangs in consonance with the rumblings inside
his heart. After firmly tying down the unbuckling male hardness under the
clothy sign of celibacy, he put a cloak over his bare bulk and started towards
the caravan site. His jerking gait, infirmity, the crutch and thumping heart
all were buzzing like squealing sirens.
“I’ll pretend to buy a tong for my
fireplace,” caught in reverberating jitters he clamped on an idea.
Ogreish look on his face was explicitly
chanting the satanic hymns for hunting her down with fetish arrows from his big
red eyes. Clumping his firm foot and the crutch’s metalled stump on the new
path he was finding it mysteriously easy to trudge ahead today. After all the
rancour of aeons had viciously transformed itself into a spiteful carnal
desire––such a soft sand to walk upon in complete contrast to the stony hard
and rugged path of earlier!
Messianic sheen of that full-blossomed
flower once again flashed across his abysmally dark inner self and a storm
surged in the sea of sadism. The underworn tight cloth again felt a very
forceful attempt by the smothered down wrestler to barge out of the hindrance.
Helplessly the exorcist felt she had a magic wand, beckoning him to run around
like a bereaved soul bereft of its former self. Fighting with her overpowering
fancy he pledged most gory of a sexual revenge.
Sight of the caravan site made it
appear a virtually impenetrable fortress; and more so without the help of those
resident ruffians.
“There’re so many protectors of this
gypsy jewel,” the Satan in him whispered suspicion into his thief like
contorting ears.
The conjuror’s sensual bewailment
somewhat wafted away, and some reason questioned, “What’d happen if someone
recognises me?”
Thoughts of his last encounter with the
gypsies cantankerously barged into his oblivious mind, now deprived of the
magical tantrums of wizardry. Fear was incipient, while he mustered up courage.
Clamping his infernal sexual rage he found himself at the edge of the caravan
site. His conjuring eyes had somewhat mellowed down to eerily empty
earthliness. Those big sockets of his now bore an unmatching faraway look
searching for daisy dales. Lost in the lusty din, and heavily burdened under the
baggage of bitterness and hostility, he found himself at the spectator’s
periphery. They were rehearsing street circus. Nobody took notice of his
arrival, as it’s a spectator’s right to reach such a performance site without
any pitfalls (even if it’s a mock exercise). Dilly-dallyingly and jauntily the
prankish and newfangled wanderers were honing their skills.
The new spectator cast a privy look. A
few of them were standing as spectators with a fastidious look in their eyes.
About seven of them, four elders and three children were going through a grueling
session. One was engaged in making a monkey dance to not so commendable beats
of the drumlet. Uncivilized pulling of rope and the stick beating the turf
around the foolishly witty pet were leaving it in temper fits. The animal with
a pronounced funny bone appeared in no mood to revive its primordial penchant
for jesting jugglery. Another was tightening the neckbelt and nostril-rein of a
huge, cowering bear. Black shabby sloucher looked so unthreatening as if its
pristine predatory sense had been totally transformed into an altruistic
principle of chaste nonviolence. In gentle disobedience it shook its head. A
sequestering request glinted in its black eyes, understanding which its master
gave therapeutic pats on its inordinate coat adorned with thickest growth of
hair.
Making chirpy chances out of peril, a
little girl with unkempt hair was walking on a tightrope. With extra-ordinary
steadfastness she held a small ring between her legs. Her big toe and fingers of
one foot holding on to the rim exactly at the point it touched the rope, while
the other one took an archy projection to roll the ring forward. With a strange
humility and caution she was crossing a milestone. At the same time her
commendable performance made her appear so firm like the wheat spikes in full
croppy bloom in the fields around. Indecipherably pinpricked by her
quintessential victory in the air, the misanthropic spectator sighed with
iniquity and cursed her a fall; as if to crucify this gypsy tomlet where a few
learners’ line of beauty and skill had already been imprinted in the most
elegant of style. Her little palms held
a balancing bamboo with commendable candour. And to unhive the failure from raising
even the littlest of noise, a man was beating a big drum. Its typical acrobatic
beats––monotonous, single-minded, unflinching and steady rhythm of bravery, and
deprived of any musical ramifications––were strengthening her resolve to hold
on at the brink of the precipice.
Other two children, one of them barely
two-year-old, were tentatively honing their unpolished acrobatic display. A
pseudonymously old woman had the task of chanting the verbal aspect of these
little showpieces of gallantry and adventurism. She could be heard shouting resoundingly,
‘Jai Kali Kalkatta Wali!’ which seemed so retrogressive to the outsider.
Fussing with a farrago of gesticulations, he hissed out a hot breath which
could turn a full-blossomed jasmine into a bone dry wrinkled mass.
Suddenly, a clown, matchless buffoonery
jesting over his features without any antics’ make-up, dashed into the
performing circle. Irrepressibly upbeat against the normalcy’s hypocrisy, he
brought epochal shift in the scene. This chubby-chump created almost a
hilarious ruckus. Gods of laughter rained down their overblown euphoria in the
form of delirious agitation plying over his totally flexible features. Rhythms
and melodies of his jestery sent tumultuous waves of laughter over the
rehearsers and they found themselves walloping on the ground. His plangent
antics almost equaled a spunky attack by some laughter-army from all sides.
The jesting scourge then headed for the
lone outsider witnessing the proceedings. His wantonly waddling gait, matching
his facial expressions, put the spectator to much unease.
“Claps for the progress and prosperity
of Sadhu maharaj!” he said aloud, clapping with a colossally mocking
expression. “From a poor hut to a rich temple! As if all it required was a drop
of gypsy blood!”
His buffoonery changed to a sort of
cataclysmic mourning. The spectator was dumbfounded. Even though having perfect
intimation of the bloodied past, he feigned obliviousness.
“So what do’u need now,” the antic
turned mourner stared, “for your further benefits?”
Ramsa, the drummer, now fully aware of
the identity of this spectator, was madly beating the leather as if his fingers
had gone stony. Memory of his brother’s loss was too cruelly adamant for any
reconciliatory gesture riding the healing back of time. So assertions and
arguments of three years time had failed to soothe his aggrieved soul. Gigantic
beats of the drum sent repercussions down the lame offender’s spine. As he was
alone from his side he looked sheepishly. Trembling with rage and avulsion,
Ramsa like an angry bull charged towards the priest. In order to strike the
last macabrous beat he was about to hit the drum on the religioner’s head when
the old caravan headman intervened and saved the outsider’s head. The licensee
of His faith on earth shivered with fear, rage and indignation.
Out of deference for the old pacifist,
Ramsa didn’t attempt the revenge again. In shattering silence he vibrated with
anger. The onus of culpability fell upon the drum beater, who was duly scolded
by the elder gypsy (though he too was fully aware of the reason for Ramsa’s fit
of angst). Perhaps, agelong wanderings across the vast hinterland of north India
With due deference, courteously
scenting out from his artistic demeanour, the old gypsy headmen poured out most
humanistic of pacifism from his mouth. But the blood from the Sadhu’s
burning eyes won’t go, who sprayed mud around through his forced verbal
wallowing in the incorrigible mire. The old gypsy’s efforts at placation fell
on deaf ears. Loudly warning dire consequences the aggrieved spectator left the
performance site. Pulsating rage was now manifoldly infuriating his lustily
fiendish self. He cursed them destruction by the God’s hand in a single swipe.
Harbinger of the spring, fluttering
around in her subtly sweet subterfuge, evasively butterflied through the village
streets. Much to the pining chagrin of her pursuers they couldn’t get a single
glance of hers in their desperate search during whole of the afternoon. The
bereaved souls helplessly fiddled about till the day lost its battle to a
looming night.
The unstoppable night of course
arrived, as it had been waiting in gleeful anticipation during the twilight. It
was in complete contrast to the yesterday night. In place of the frenzied windy
conditions there was gentlesome breeze, on whose back came stilly riding coldness
quite disproportionate to this late winter at the spring’s threshold. There was
more snowfall in the Himalayas which sourced
this cold rebuke from the mighty father.
Wafty stratus clouds cumulated in piles
garnished a halo around the moon, embellishing a white chiffon over the milky, shy
face of beauty. Spread under this symphonic milky maze the cold night felt
gentle in its timeless antiquity. Dew was in formation quite heavily, like it
was raining for the forthcoming wild blooms and their suckers’ subsequent
lyrical ballads. Ducks, the gypsy birds of water bodies, perhaps a fortnight
away from their return journey to the lakes at higher elevation in the
mountains, were floating almost passively save a minute flutter of wings here
or there, caused either by a lover’s suasive shove or a bad neighbour’s
scuffle. Eyes could, doubtingly, spot them scattered in packs in the pond’s
middle. Seasonlong breeding in the aqueous vegetation along water edges had
resulted in numerous birdlings capable of flying back with elder birds. The
watchman had found a new love for their vibrant quacks in his watery courtyard.
The night in shining amour was taking sighs of gleeful urgency for the youngest
ducklings to grow up strong and fly back with the pack. But then sometimes
nature too plays a positively ridiculous role. A few ducks might breed even to
the last moment of their departure, leaving some young bravehearts to fend for
themselves during the summers, when the pond shrinked dangerously to reach the
shape of a moat filled with mossy water in which the buffaloes walloped and defecated,
creating famine-like conditions for the fish who waited and prayed, along with
the farmers, for the conjugal bliss of monsoon rays for the rehumanisation of
parched panorama.
Still, the spring was to come in
between, whose arrival had been anticipated beforehand on Basant Panchami
(the day before yesterday) when the village lads had installed Holi-pole as the
harbinger of spring inchoately scattered over the fields. During the languidly
floating moments of the month to come, when the pink of dawn and flaming orange
of dusk starts to acquire unique ethos, dry woods were to be accumulated around
the pole. The big heap then would be lit up in a huge bonfire on the Holi
night, the festival of colours when the spring is in full bloom. At that time
the big bonfire burns as a farewell to the myriads of little ones, whose brave
bonhomie during the winters kept the frigid fates of farmers warm. Those little
bonfires during winters whose importance can be understood through these
educibly credulous and warm words of some shivering old fellow:
“I need a bonfire more than even food
during winters!”
The priest was sitting in his temple. The
myriapod of sadism was moving like an unstoppable juggernaut over his body. The
urge to get her was burning with the nethermost sanguineness of fire in his yajna
site. Fusillading freaks hadn’t returned. A couple of hours ago they’d
desperately gone out, taking the jeep with them. The drail of her image was
constantly dragging him into deeper and deeper depths of sex and perversion.
Forced by his incapacity to limit himself to his holy place’s precincts he once
again stood, had a one-sided altercation with the God, whom he thought to have
served unfailingly throughout his life. The stickler son accusatively
complained how he’d been let down by God right from his birth. His lameness,
his wanderings, his disability to not become anything else other than a
mendicant rattled his brain and he wept like a child.
Picking up his trident he came out of
the temple. Sadism felt hugely oxygenised in the free air. He, but, couldn’t
dare to walk towards the caravan site. So he lumbered along the pond’s edge,
keeping a safe distance from the caravan site and reached the alkaline
wasteland to the south of little grassy tableland. White crust of the alkaline
soil over the clayey subsoil had been bleached by winter rains. As his weight
pressed down the foamy crust it protested with susurration. The horizon was
mistily visible under the moon’s dim light. It’s however another matter that he
felt walking in total gloom. (The reality but exists in total self-referral
state, even if our eyes don’t see it.)
The physiography around him had been
tattooed tabby due to the leaching around the bunchgrass tufts. Wiry rivulets
with their patterns––detritic, centrifugal, centripetal––were formed. He strode
over them like a lynched beast. The ground beneath his feet had been
beautifully lattice-worked by the needly work of raindrops. Beauteous couture
and intricate embroidery of the hoofed up meanders formed by the flow of water
along the little pathway presented a courtly, grand landscape; many times
complex and geographically vast than it really was.
Water puddles had been formed here and
there. Though during the day feeble warmth in sunrays resulted in some
evaporation from them, but it was almost redeemed by the heavy dew downpour
during nights! In one such puddle some storks were standing silently. They
seemed to be pensively praying. Possibly it was a genuine prayer, because there
was not a single fish in the waterhole to play the game of stoicity there.
Modest murmurs of sand raised an alarm bell. Their beautiful reverie was broken
and without waiting to pay for the perils of complacency they fluttered away
into the night’s open arms.
Scarcely the sounds of their ruffling
feathers had become inaudible, when his ears caught a melodious note riding the
mist-laden breeze. Someone was playing on the fiddle. Loveful cultural slice of
this musicity was chanting with the divine purpose of smoothing all hard
feelings nailed in human hearts. It appeared some musical mystagogue was trying
to dispel the bamboozling illusions hazing around our physical selves. For a
moment the mellifluent sound traversing over an equally melliferous landscape
assuaged his raging banality. He cupped his ears to allow other notes to enter.
Under the impact of this ambient shove, the vile air inside his bosom uncouthly
gushed out of his nostrils. But then music is a languidly floating yokel,
almost a sage lucubrator, which is so lost in its rhythmic trance that it has
no time to fall in a long argument with a heart. All it does is just an initial
ignition effort of musicity. Humanistic molecules of emotions in good hearts
accept it and a self perpetuating musical reaction starts through the heart’s
fabric. But in the hearts where badness has been tattooed, the ignition fails
for want of receptive emotional molecules. Same happened to him. Carrying his
doddering, delinquent gait he crutched ahead. Some unwary pheasants swooped to
safety in consequence of his sudden unmusical encroachment.
The watchman had left a little windowish
hole in the back-thatch of his hut to have a cursory peek at the countryside
while engaged in the world of responsibilities. Through this back niche the
lantern light, burning steadily without a flicker, shone dimly from a distance.
He halted on his disparate legs. Music was richly emanating from the poor
watchman’s hut standing exemplarily in the pond’s shadowy corner. He cast a deleterious
look at the small safe heaven.
Seething rage aggravated manifold, “Even
that old terraqueous fool, his legs hanging in grave, has started to play music!”
he grunted with a spurious tone. His body shook with revulsion, “He too owes me
much for being on her side that day!” he muttered with derision.
The devil incarnate in him even
prompted him to think about piercing his trident through the watchman’s old
heart living with its dim, modest soufflés. With a disastrous volition he
reached near the hut. As an enrapturing vocal accomplice to the instrument, a
beautiful pastorale now sprinkled its seductive love notes over the misty
breeze. A sumptuous fragrance entered his nostrils as he trudged into the
cooking’s ambience zone surrounding the hut in all its cuisine ampleness.
“Hummnn! So the hungerless fish-fucker
is on a feast today!” he mumbled.
Thiefly he reached for the peeping
hole. His dangerously myopic conscience turned brazen-faced at the scene
inside. Flustered with jealousy his eyes yelled at the tiny creature, tonight’s
host. His mental tribulation pounded huge clubs on his head. His heart missed a
beat, as the verselet turned her angelic face to shine like a full moon in the candle
light. Like an ardent daughter of the house she’d taken charge of cooking.
Cared by the curvated curtsey of her hands the gypsily sumptuous dish made of
some exotic ingredients was giving rise to such a foody perfume as could arise
the saucy sensuality of hunger in any abdomen. But that would have been the
case with a normal human being with normal desires. The peeper was shaking
abnormally with paranormal hunger. His sexual perversion reached its wanton
most depths as she bent over the small stillage in the corner to draw out
something. A look at her slim and shapely curvaceous back in the tight kurta
almost threw him back. Each and every cell of his body yelled sexual tirade to
pour juice-sucking venom over all of her fully feminal parts.
The fiddle player and the host were
sitting on the charpoy. Ramsa, ever scuttling out the opposition from the
time’s healing balm, was unrelaxedly lumbered over a sack in a corner. The old
faithful was deeply engrossed in these strange, mystically friendly activities
in their lone hut. A steady fire of gratitude was burning inside the old pet;
as steady as the lantern wick, where a moth circled around the hot glass symbolising
the destiny’s circumvention. Now and then it wagged its tail, all unaware of
the transgressor as if its olfactory senses had been hypnotized by the
sumptuous fragrance spiritually emanating from the pot. So in blissful
obliviousness it tipsily ogled at the guests.
Violent flames seethed and squeaked
inside his burning heart, “She is mine! She is mine! Her virgin beauty has been
created by God for the consummation by my brahmacharya!”
He was hungry for her: a viciously
plain hunger; just like a swine is hungry for shit. If ‘religion is the opiate
of masses’, then she was the opiate to his historically deprived desires. His
sexual gulosity hissed like a snake. The enchanting gypsy song was vainly
falling over his death deaf ears. Paranormally he was staring at her face, at
the exotic pendant slung around her neck, at the antique piece emblooming her bosom.
“How blissful it’d be to suck the juice
of these two ripe fruits!” pallid black-and-white canvas of his religiosity
gasped for the colourful cruelty of love.
Spellbound by music the host was
sitting in rapt attention. Musical chords taking him on a trip down the memory
lane. The gypsy composer was producing a medley of tunes encompassing so many
rhythms picked up from here and there. With melodious modesty his skilled rough
hands stroked all these different musical feelings of different places. In
universal unison the notes flew in tandem, quite forthrightly under his command
like hundreds of sheep flocking together in response to his harking syllables.
Musical waves were occasionally interjected by cooking whispers in the pot, as
the wild rose poured down some new ingredient, invitingly sending out an
oriental scent which could drive hunger to exhilarating escapades. But the
peeper’s hunger was stonily immune to the appetising bits of recipe inside the
pot. It was eyeing the maker instead.
“I’m hungry for hundreds of years! For
you, for you my fond virgin!” the banal prowess whispered inside him.
Then the emblossoming daughter of the
house declared it was ready. The musician stopped suddenly as if he had been
playing as a payment for her special delicacy.
“Wait kids, wait! You’re not too far
away from feasting on it,” the erotica’s floral voice declared. “Let mother
earth, the bearer of all worldly wait, have her first morsel!” enchantingly
warm words came out dancingly out of her rose-red lips.
The denizens of this small and cozy
heaven waited with gleefully invigorating anticipation. She put a spoonful of
it on mother earth’s open, dusty plate. The dog raised its moron face in its
direction. With a laugh she gave it a little slap and the old animal got it that
it wasn’t his share.
The priest’s demonic possessiveness
about the genteel synonym of beatific vision and subtle seduction broke for a
moment and his impudent eyes set upon the weirdly bearded face of Ramsa. A
meretricious merriment loomed large in the candid grit over the piteously
suffering body of this not-so-healthy-looking young man. He was drunk; drunk
with wine and a haunting memory of the past. However, his grogginess could
never have mellowed down his soul convulsing for revenge.
“I’ll let loose whole inferno upon you!”
the rehearsal spectator gnashed with festering bestiality.
The melliferous bouquet, whom the host
called ‘Phulva bitiya’ like a proud father, then served her confluence-exuding
dish cooked during those moments having a feast of music. And when they munched
it, their salutiferous sighs and accolades slipping out of their tongues
tasting the best flavour of their lives stamped her credentials as the best
cook in the world.
The religioner’s worldliness was now
dangerously boiling to break open as the hungry dog outside greedily eyed the
feminine feasta sitting so prettily on a mat. She sat there without eating as
if only the food prepared in God’s kitchen was worthy of touching the unselfish
tapestry of taste-buds on her tongue. Suave notes of her breathing seemed
humming songs of innocence.
Her eyes had unhurriedly misty and
mystical gleanings. Colourful gaiety of rosy hues on her cheeks appeared
running playfully after a strange, unknown fragmentary dream.
To the primordially hungry soul peeping
from outside the feasters seemed to be in complicity against him. The hungry
wolf in him ferally howled:
“No one in this world can prevent me
from getting her!”
As the invigorating delicacy went down
into the hungry pit of his alcohol filled abdomen, like a hardened recidivist a
revengefully resilient Ramsa broke the shackles of his silence again.
“They killed my brother!” his anger
started sobbing again. “And more than that they tried to touch you... you my
little sister,” his distraught eyes were casting protective looks around the
daughter and sister of the whole caravan.
Wisdomful old gypsy’s slow but heavy
voice once again tried to assuage the ever-existing fire once again smouldering
vicissitudinously.
“Oh my son!” he said just a wee bit
staidly, “Why do you torment your soul for someone else’s crime. Believe me God
will never forget their devilry, only if you forget it.”
But the youngsters are always
hysterically immature and at logger-heads with the logic of life in comparison
to the cool climes of temper and ease-with-life-attitude often found in the
elders like this old gypsy patriarch.
“Gods might do as they like. But I’ll
have to dispense with it, otherwise my soul won’t stop pinching from inside!” the
hopes of peace to this unhealthily brooding young fellow appeared as bleak as some
dead-as-a-dodo thing.
The suffering gypsy’s votively said
words almost pushed back the hole-peeper. Shakingly the zealot composed
himself.
“If only my scoundrel brat-pack was as
sincere as Bhagte, I’d have destroyed you and your caravan and escaped with my
lovely prize!” he thought mournfully.
The brat-pack meanwhile had returned.
Blinded by her rutilancy, the unceasing cozery among them had suddenly siphoned
off. Tortured and mowed down by the lusty vexation of her almost unconquerable
aura, hideously they slipped into the bushes surrounding the caravan site. But
even now the fires were burning. So were the versatile rollings around the bonfires.
By the smell of it the hounds were barking at the unseen enemy. Poor sheep had
inseparably jutted together. The caravan seemed to be impenetrably cloaked in
security, where even these possessors of local made pistols couldn’t dare to
sneak in.
Mired in trenchant indigence, their
mentor walked along the pond’s eastern edge. Taking a folderol turn he sneaked
into the cremation site like a ghost. Picking up some ash he smeared it on his
brow to invoke the bewitching wryness of all the evil powers to satisfy the
sadist in him. All his former self had turned totally cavernous, leaving him a
helpless victim haunted by her image.
As for the humdrums
they too returned; completely unaware of the whereabouts of the object of their
deleterious desire.
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