The temperature drops in the lush gardens of the Chennai Hotel. The ground is cool and soft. Here, the leaves of fig trees and pomegranates whisper. But it is the sound of water that is everywhere constant. Stone lotus flowers in bloom hold water pooled. But from blossom to blossom, water also tumbles. Natural fountains. There is no path here, only the parting of branches or the bending of growth that lets you pass down this way, but not that way. There are small benches on which one might rest, and though the canopy here is too thick to allow for grass, there is a kind of succulent ground cover that is inviting.
Ah yes, the canopy. It is a gift of the mangrove tree. Or trees. It is difficult to tell -- so many branches, so many roots visible above ground... there could be more than one. The leaves are broad and provide a great deal of shade. They trap moisture. During rains, water from its leaves drips into the stone lotus pools and then tumbles after to its roots. It is an ancient tree. It fills the sky as far as the eye can see.
The wind moves through my Most Beloved. Through the cavernous holes I have created, whispering. Through the great leaves, through the canopy that hides the sky. That hides the stars from my eyes. Issuing, ten-thousand scratches upon the soft bark of my mangrove tree, I mark my way even as I make my way. Slow, upward for another evening. Unseen in the branches, though a living city. The hotel windows nearby, clear views of the garden. But the tree, O my Most Beloved, is a protective tangle.
I pass unseen...
The garden that surrounds the tree, with its lotus and its fountains, is flowers and its herbs, is full of nocturnal life. Tropical birds take their rest in the trees. The monkeys of the market shake the tops of the trees... even my tree... seeking sustinance in the cooler air. For spring it is, but it is already cloying, the humidity. The moist air from the Bay of Bengal. The heat. Soon it will be the rainy season...
I lift my dark eyes to my canopy. I wonder how my home will last the season. Even as I have done every season since awaking here. I will have to return to the depths of the earth, sleep through the monsoons, shed my skin and return. It is always the same. Years of rebirth and yet it is always the same.
Beyond the tree, past its roots and its leaves and its canopy, the hotel's sun room closes for the night. And with the lowering of the lights, the garden blooms. Night is its time...
He has not seen himself in many years. Has not seen his skin purple-dusk, the great frame of a warrior. The great form of a serpent. Black and violet scales emerge where groin would begin, and his great coils wind heavily, twisting as shadows, spreading over the mangrove tree. He lies on several layers at once. His heart-shaped face resting upon his crossed hands, that rest upon the bark of a great bow. His eyes are black. His hair is curled and lies over his shoulders, moist with clove oil. And Suryesh watches over the garden. It is his task. It is his fate. It is his destiny. Calm eyes looking out over sights he has seen for more years than he knows.
When one is constantly reborn, every year is a new existence...
It is a blessing...
It is a curse...
A peacock slowly wanders, picking up the figs that have fallen on the ground.
The dampness begins to take shape. Falling droplets of water shift and move upon the soft grass, picking up other comrades in its motion. The trees do give up their cloying tears, for the sky soon fills with heavier drops.
Rain comes quickly sometimes. It takes so little for spring's humidity to become showers. The air fills quickly, saturated thick with water, and at some stage, a storm must begin.
Near the tree, a column of water forms, denying the laws of physics. "I do like this garden," comes the voice, head and shoulders curving masculine. "But I think I come here too much already," the voice continues, column suddenly having legs and invisible feet that crush the blades of grass beneath.
The living column of water tilts its head back, letting his arms open widely, gathering in more of the sky's attempts at relief. A glass, he has become, filling quickly into solid form. Tendrils, almost like serpents, twine about his head, vanishing into his skull and forming a mane of thick hair. Black now. Arms lower, and as they do, rain-filled shape becomes a flesh-and-blood man, dressed simply in a sleeveless white shirt and ice-blue coverlets that ripple in the rain's breeze.
Yet, as deities can, he remains dry.
"I thought you deserved a cooling off," the handsome man replies, a smile forming at his lips in almost coy fashion. His eyes match the color of his calf-length silks, turning downcast in time to see his toes color living.
Eyes blink rapidly as a drop of water, having begun its journey in heaven, and having fallen through a thousand clouds before landing upon one mangrove leaf, and then from that leaf to another leaf, ends its Destined Journey upon his eyelid. Coils move seemingly of their own accord, stretching, grasping, maximizing the amount of surface area touched by the rain.
The heart-shaped face of Suryesh tilts toward the sound, lifts from his hands. His elbow props up upon the bough, his head resting on the heel of his hand, and he exhales. "Great One, I do not know how to thank you for the gift of this rain..." His voice. It comes with an issuance of wind in the trees. More resonant than hiss, softer than a whisper.
Ten thousand whispers, scratches against the wood, as coils upon coils readjust. Part of him lowers toward the Greatness of Shiva, it is the only way he knows how to bow. The only way this form allows. "To what do I owe the great fortune of this most esteemed visit? What great feat have I done... that could have deserved me this fortune? I am a lowly tender of gardens, O Divine One..."
Even as it has been Fated for me to be. Suryesh downturns his gaze. The form of Shiva taken in, only in furtive glances. Nothing ever direct. There are... provisions and rules...
Shiva continues his smile, looking to Suryesh as he wiggles his new-found toes. "Fortune?" he wonders aloud, not standing so much on circumstance tonight. Tongue holds talk of how Suryesh should hate to look upon him as much as he once delighted in it. The conversation has been had so many times. The point is simply made with the question and the arch of Shiva's etched brow.
Instead, a hand comes out, placed beneath Suryesh's heart-shaped face. Shiva sighs.
"Maybe I should not have come," he goes on. "But, my path led me here." As it has before. Hand drops, both slipping inside silken pockets.
A pair of brilliant blue eyes, sapphire-like in their resonance, lift towards the sky from a balcony, a dark head tilted as if to catch distant notes from some musician's tuning. Smooth skin crinkles as an infectious grin crosses ambiguous features, and Valmiki, the poet, courtier of many and lover of none, shimmies back into a recently discarded tunic, leaving the hotel room with the soles of feet thickened by much walking left bare.
From pillar to post, and post to doorway, in quiet and in avoidance of staff, mischief in expression and humour silent in mind, Valmiki creeps...
Until that leafy bower is sought and found, and there, the poet hesitates, being neither Hero nor God, nor ever was. Content, Valmiki listens, paused on that threshold, in shadow, eavesdropping while cognizant of potential consequence.
May one ask a God why he or she has come? Or moves in ways that are unfathomable? May one ask a God to give up allegory, puzzles, metaphors and speak plainly? One would have better luck asking the sun not to shine. One should not ask Why A Thing Is Thus, but accept the Thing As It Is. And that includes Destiny and Fate.
Coils slip heavily along several of the boughs, as Suryesh lowers himself to a bough that allows a good view of him -- for those who know to look -- and allows him a full view of Shiva.
His form is one of strength, the cut of an archer, of a charioteer, purple-dusky skinned, until skin turns to scales. His petal mouth belies the vipers that exist beneath. The kiss that is death to most. The kiss that once was pleasure. "You have done, whatever it is you should do. Your Will is the World, O Divine One. Who could question this." Strong hand makes a motion. Please... pull up a branch. "You are welcome to shelter under my tree. There are figs plenty. Pomegranates. My garden is yours, Lord of Heavens."
His head lifts toward a sound, something in the shadows, but lowers again. One of the peacocks perhaps. "So... you are wandering tonight. Did you visit your temples, O Shiva? There are bowls of wine and spices lain out for you all over the city. You may have your fill. I hope my... humble garden pleases you. Though I have no wine."
"I require not wine, Suryesh," Shiva murmurs, certainly distracted this night. "You are right, I have seen the sweet gifts left to me." And now? Well, now, I am Here. "And your garden is the finest in the city...do not think otherwise. There are many beautiful, this is true, but your garden...has you." And the others do not.
The offer of the seat is declined with a smile and turn of Shiva's feet upon the grass. He paces, beginning at his left. Gaze wanders upward, despite the rain. And why not? He has no fear that such would fall into his glassy blue eyes.
"I am rash, Suryesh," Shiva whispers, closing his eyes. "I know this. It is how I Am. It Is So. And yet..." head tilts, smooth smile growing, "...I Am So, and yet I feel regret. No," he looks to the naga, turning around at the end of his walk, "...is it regret? Or is it...something else?"
Soundless and careful, the K'shatriya with eyes marked of another land nonetheless is fascinated. Not in many lives has such a meeting so been witnessed, and almost the poet reaches for pen and paper which are not there. Just in time, location is remembered, and with a shiver that sends a long blue-black braid dangling forward over one uplifted shoulder, Valmiki crouches down amidst the roots of a tree, palm resting against the bark.
Water trickles from stone lotus to stone lotus, and falling water glimmers, reflecting light.
Lips purse, more purple than a lotus. As if full of passion, potent. But such a passion as would kill. "You are... as you Should Be, O Divine One. That is The Way Of The World. You call it Regret. That is a God's Discretion. It is simply your will. Good or Evil. Is that not for those beneath you to trouble themselves with?" Is divinity neutral?
Suryesh lowers to the bough once more, shoulders flaring as he wraps his arms against it -- not around it, for the bough is too great, and even with his weight, which is mighty, he barely bends it. "Hmmm... not regret. I do not think it is regret, if I may speak freely, O Divine One. Remorse." A pause and dark eyes finally settle on the figure of Shiva. "Is it remorse?"
Coils once more are on the move, resettling their bulk, knotting around branches. He is seemingly endless, as endless as night. "You come to visit me, and I am grateful for the company, as I am for the bowls of milk and honey left for me. It sustains me, O Great One. I could feed from your forgiveness," a whisper, even of his soft voice, it is a hush. "But... I expect the honey and milk to last a while..."
And your forgiveness harder to come by...
Ah, there it is. Shiva smiles, stopping in his forward progress. Blue silks continue to shimmer around him, and the sleeveless shirt keeps him cool.
"And my forgiveness to never come..." he surmises from Suryesh's last statement, brows arching as if a question. A shift, and Shiva faces the naga directly.
"Remorse, regret. Maybe it matters not what the human tongue calls it. I cannot change What I Am. But hardness can fade, Suryesh, with the passage of an age." Witness me here, now. "Things Change." That you know. He laughs a little, "I am oft reminded of this by..." you and "...the Preserver." And so, you mimic one of his aspects. Know that was no mistake on my part.
"...by myself," Shiva adds, closing his eyes again.
What consequence, this? Valmiki straightens unconsciously. And... the outer form, one might think if the West were called upon, Rosalind, seeking after her Orlando. But to those who see beyond flesh alone... the spirit within burns with a masculine flame that feminine flesh wrapped in male garb do not contain and do not conceal.
Peacocks are lovely to look at, but rather problematic to those trying to remain concealed. As silently as possible, the secret listener tries to shoo the bird away without giving away that fact, of an eavesdropping presence, even while picking up one of the fallen figs to press between nimble fingertips.
"Perhaps," tannined lips murmurs almost soundlessly, "another epic waits to be born..."
Almost soundlessly...
And to the senses of a serpent-man, the almost-silence is a pinprick. The heart-shaped face, the lovely deadliness, hardens as it turns toward the sound. And then he sees the peacock scramble. Damn birds. He is content that it is nothing more and after a moment... settles...
But even so, an eye shifts to the base of his tree, now and again...
"I do not know if there is a human word suitable for the conditions of a Divine One such as you, Great Shiva," the voice issues again, insinuates itself more than sounds. Airy between leaves. "I do not know how many ages have passed, each year is its own Creature. But that earning your forgiveness is my eternal task. If it is done, then I am done." The lips curl a little at this. To forgive me, you must end me.
"A conundrum, is it not," the naga murmurs, "... forgiveness and justice. How do the two co-exist? How is it one may resolve what one has done, and yet be forever mindful of it. I do not envy you, Great Shiva, to have to be their balance..."
There is no reply to that comment, nor a look to the odd sounds. Shiva has done another pass across Suryesh, coming to a squat not so far from one of the peacocks. "Shikhivahana," he whispers, "...watches over you." Perhaps because his father loved the now-naga once. Shiva makes a small noise at the peacock, encouraging it forth.
Not so surprising, it comes to him.
"If I were of this Age," he posits, "...I would call it Opportunity. Justice and forgiveness are the Beginning." As if he heard Suryesh's thoughts. "Never the End." That, he knows, for he Is. There comes a smile at that, comfort in his own paradoxical state.
Shiva's wrist bends, picking up a fig that's offered to the peacock. The grin seems permanent now, and his energy lifted somewhat.
"And there is no regret or remorse. It is...the great anticipation of Change," Shiva proclaims, lifting from his squat. That's it. "The desire to begin revolution, though one must wait."
"Ah, but I said I was rash..." in all directions.
If only I had a recorder...
What price, the interview between a God and a Hero, however transformed? Hands curl into fists, fists jammed up underneath a pointed chin, eyes alight in fascination. Oh, temptation is compounded on top of temptation!
And the bloody bird which tried pecking at Valmiki's foot, goes to the hand of the god - oh, dear. The poet ponders - stay, and hope for the best, or retreat?
Discretion is perhaps the better part of valour - the noble rises fully, wincing as joints crack slightly, and pauses once more on that threshold.
"Yes, you did." And I did not disagree. One does not disagree with a god. We have already seen where this has brought us. Dark eyes lift and scan the canopy of wide leaves. "The birds eat my breakfast, but they keep the bugs out of my den. The relationship is mutually beneficial, Great One. But only because they fear me. I am not rash. But I am venomous." And his soul has grown cold. Reptilian.
Suryesh is quiet upon your other words. Coils shifting, always shifting, moving once more from branch to branch. The tree creaks with his readjusting weight. "You are glorious, O Divine One," he murmurs, he closes his eyes. One can only look at the greatness of Shiva for so long. "My opportunity comes with every spring. I shed my skin. I gain new scales. I watch the birds and monkeys mate in my trees, I tend the gentle blossoms of the lotus. I linger in my den to protect the new buds of my Old Beloved, my tree. And then, in the winter I sleep. In the spring, it begins again. But every year, ends the same. I am not of This Age. I am merely caught in it, Ageless. So it was To Be. I have come to accept it. You need not feel the Remorse that is not Remorse, or the Regret that is not Regret. Suryesh is content."
Who is to be discontent in the face of God?
The naga slides, disappearing among the branches a moment. But he can be heard. Everywhere. Great coils shifting, as his torso lowers toward the base of the tree. Dark eyes peer between leaves as he watches the god feed the peacock, the symbol and form of Shikhivahana. Tormented by the sons of a former lover, it is a just fate for infidelity one might expect.
When Suryesh emerges again, back leaning against the trunk of the tree, his coils spreading before and beneath him, he holds a pomegranate. "I anticipate change. When shall it be permitted to me?"
The sound of falling water is constant here.
"As soon as I Can," Shiva confesses. The truth of his visits. "When Justice and Forgiveness twine, and we can start over." When my heart is no longer hardened and my mind convinces the rest of me to let go. When I have meditated long enough, that all I am is the Regenerator.
With the peacock enthralled by the fig, Shiva's feet rustle upon the grass a last time. He comes to a halt near the trunk of the tree, facing Suryesh.
"I shall see you again, Suryesh," a small smile upon the god's lips. "We are rewarded in that..." Shiva explains, "...for our story continues." Unlike so many others.
The large leaves of the mangrove tree whisper, telling the secret of where the wind moves...
Valmiki's lips curve up into an almost impish smile, and as soundlessly as he is capable of, he retreats back to the pavilion, and back to his hotel room. But he will return... in time...
The sound of falling water is constant here.
The fruit of the pomegranate is hard to reach. Hard to know. It is mostly seed, and the seeds are not as sweet as the pulp that surrounds them. The juice is potent, so much so that its taste is overpowering to most. But some find it refreshing. It is said to soothe bitterness...
Perhaps Suryesh should bathe in it...
He breaks the fruit open with his hands, his fingers wet with it. He lifts it to his mouth. He sups upon seeds. Spitting them out at the peacock once the juice and pulp are suckled from them. "I will continue to wait," comes the hiss. "As I have done these two ages," two thousand years. Dark eyes settle on Shiva, but only briefly, before returning to the fruit in his hands. "I shall be here, in the garden of your devising. Waiting, O Divine One. To drink from the cup of your Mercy." He leans his head back, curls softened and made shiny with clove oil blending with the bark. "Mercy," he murmurs. And with a sigh tosses the fruit down. Four peacocks congregate, three previously unseen.
"Shiva the merciful, Shiva the Creator, Shiva the Fire of Living. I, your ..." his mouth twists, "...faithful servant, await you. As always. You are welcome in the garden that is your own."
And I guard it as if it were... truly...
And isn't it?
Closing his eyes, Shiva inhales a deep breath, allowing it to tingle fingers and toes.
Be glad, Suryesh. The anger is gone. My own bitterness passed so long ago. And soon, all I shall have left is Peace. All blockages removed.
When the ice-blue eyes open again upon the naga, there is genial hope there. Some would call it Love.
The rain droplets cause deep blue marks upon the silk he wears. White shirt begins to soak. The rain falls in the garden in all places, including the spot where The Destroyer stands.
Immediately, the male form becomes transparent, filled with catching water. His face never leaves the naga, watching and waiting...
...until the water form capitulates and splashes harmlessly upon the grass beneath Suryesh's coils.
From the balcony, the poet Valmiki lays hands on a carved railing, head lain then on hands, overlooking the garden...
...dreaming while eyes open...
Suryesh closes his eyes as Shiva dissipates, becoming All once more. He is never gone. Such is the way of gods. And the way of those who have wronged gods...
The naga exhales and his heart-shaped face loses all expression. There is only placidity, and the realization that he must prepare for coming monsoons. The tree sounds beneath his weight as once again the great coils readjust, blending purple-black with the shadows. Strong hands, hands that once held the reins of a god's chariot, that once held a god upon pillows of pleasure, that once held a king's daughter, pluck large leaves from interior branches and gliding against the tree, he descends to its base. The deep part of night, when all in the hotel nearby are sleeping. The naga passes darkly beneath the boughs, disappearing among the roots and into the earth.
Posted by rowan at May 24, 2003 11:48 PM
