Night follows day easily enough, it is the nature of such cycles. Valmiki, similarly, must follow stories, wherever they might be found, by choice and by nature.
The poet's waited until dusk has again claimed the sky, a fine mist of rain cooling the gardens, waited for the hotel's staff to be all busy elsewhere indoors and tending to the guests. Now a slim figure creeps once more, from pillar to post, post to pillar, and then in among the trees, a bag of woven cotton held clutched to tunic'd chest.
And now the garden's inner secrets are explored and examined, a long blue-black braid tossed back over one muslined shoulder, as the poet settles onto the leafy grasses, in the shade, to wait and to listen, bag still held at the ready, breath just as tightly held. Will there be time for bargains and pleas to be made, or...
The large leaves of the mangrove tree whisper, telling the secret of where the wind moves...
The sun is already too hot by day, it has driven him underground and in the coolness of shade provided beneath the roots of the mangrove tree. Heavy canopy though it has, even lounging on the branches would have been too much. And then, of course, there are the monkeys who troll for fruit and grab more figs than they need. Their human cousins are not so different...
But now, the sun not even a pinkish reminder upon the horizon, and it is time for dinner. The bowls of milk and honey sit on the ground just beyond the canopy's shadow. The staff do not dare to trespass beneath it, fearing the bad luck it might cause. And now that the bowls of milk are actually disappearing -- though, the skeptical among the staff contend it's due to the monkeys and not some serpent spirit -- old superstitions begin to hold weight again.
Amid the sound of the water trickling in the lotus fountain, and the low sound of nocturnal birds, there is a whispering -- is it wind? -- and a scratching that breathes near the tree. And hidden in the otherwise darkness, black and purple coils slowly easing their way upward from beneath the base of the tree. A strong hand grasps a bough, and between two leaves there is the sparkling of black eyes. Suryesh pulls himself upon one of the upper and greater limbs of the old mangrove and starts to settle in for the night...
Water trickles from stone lotus to stone lotus, and falling water glimmers, reflecting light.
One tea-coloured hand that ends in neatly cut, squared-off blunt nails, reaches into the bag, rustling quietly and drawing out a flute. The instrument is old, carved from bone that's grown yellow with the passing of many years - age and power, it's said, go hand in hand, and it is no different with this. The flute's lain fallow for decades, and longer, in a home where none would take it from its place of honour...
Until now...
Delicately, the poet brushes sensitive fingertips down the flute, a wry, delighted smile quirking up the edges of full lips. Valmiki pauses for a moment - there is a delicious audacity, in daring to have one's presence known to a hero or a god, by playing a flute in their abode. Reckoning full well the risks as well as the rewards that could come, the flute is lifted ... and then played ...
A low-pitched melody which mimics the breeze, questioning little notes that roll and then pause before being echoed back again, begins to slide through the night air, the poet huddled on muslined knees, back to a thick tree's trunk.
The heart-shaped face of Suryesh, former lover of Shiva before this Unfortunate Turn upon the karmic wheel -- at Shiva's own behest, no less, as if it could have been otherwise -- had turned to face the sky, peering upward between the unfolding leaves of the mangrove to look upon the stars and offer the first of his many nightly prayers for forgiveness. But even as he had begun to settle, large coils laying heavily upon several surrounding boughs, there rose the low sound, the unmistakable sound of a flute.
He is not a cobra, that he should be thus charmed, but the naga Suryesh cannot simply... ignore it. Lowering, shifting, he peers between another covering of leaves, eyes searching the ground, the gardens for the musician. Who has come to my garden to serenade me?
... I remember sitting upon embroidered cushions, the young women and boys adoring my feet with lotus essence, and swirling designs painted there, from my violeted soles of my feet to surround foot entirely to my ankles. I remember when they would put the clove oil in my hair, turning it a shade of purple-black. And all to the sound of a flute...
It takes a certain concentration, not to mention chutzpah, to deliberately serenade a naga within his own gardens, and that concentration has Valmiki perspiring - faint beads of moisture, of humanity and of mist combined, trickle down the tanned face, down to soak at the nape of the poet's neck, into the long dark braid.
Memory is a long-lasting thing...
The poet maintains the song, elaborating on it in light, weaving, teasing notes, an androgynous slip of a figure in the shade of the tree. White cotton muslin clings, slightly transparent with the rains - the body beneath wrapped tightly in more layers of white cloth, almost bandaged, it seems. Large, expressive aquamarine eyes seem to indicate the taint of the once-conquering English, but the blaze of the full-caste is upon the high forehead. Age seems to have left the figure in the dust, past the cusp of adolescence, but surely not by much.
After a long moment, the song is allowed to fade, chin tilted downwards, flute held across the bended knees, eyes half-closed and body tensed expectantly. The lady or the tiger?
A peacock slowly wanders, picking up the figs that have fallen on the ground.
There is a breeze that moves through this garden, lifting the fading notes, holding them for a pendulous moment until the song finally passes from one realm to the next, changing incarnations. The cycle changes for all but me. Petal lips upturn upon a face that would be exquisite were the rest of its form not so monstrous. It is not so much a smile as it is something in the middle realms between Curiosity and Annoyance.
But those who are brave enough to seek an audience, Suryesh, should receive an audience...
His voice is softer than wind, echoed by the ten-thousand whispers of his scales moving against the bark of the mangrove tree. "You play a haunting tune. There is much ... melancholy in it." Those whispers again. Black eyes glitter between large leaves. This you may see. Little else from where you are but shadows. "I like it. So this is your gift, you are a musician of sad tunes?"
The voice, when the poet speaks, is a pleasant, slightly husky alto, sleepy with an underlying vigour to it. "I am honoured that one so far above me would so compliment my poor playing, my lord. In truth, such few gifts as I have got so undeservedly, music is perhaps my most shaming. I should not wish to be judged on its merits alone..."
Valmiki holds himself carefully, those wide eyes glancing about with an echo of that care - but the chin remains down, not lifting without being given leave. Words are a perhaps unexpected gift, but ... they are not the same as forgiveness for trespass ...
"I have found lives to hold great joy and sadness alike," the poet resumes, and a smile breaks across the face, almost making the androgyny beautiful in its radiance. "I am a teller of tales, one who seeks to enliven and bring pleasure and enlightenment with what I witness, or may otherwise relate. And I have come to listen, or to speak, as you would wish..."
"I am above no one," comes the whisper, and still the face is hidden by the leaves -- the eyes visible in the reflection of light against them. His body and night have become one. Though quite large, his form goes unseen. Even when it moves. Though the sound of him coiling, shifting, moving... constantly... may be heard. "And one who is so judged to be the Face of Bad Fortune is not one who would judge a musician. Not even the poorest, and you have talent..."
There is something... a sound... like wind in the leaves. Perhaps the hissing of a serpent. Laughter? "Joy and sadness..." The consonants linger. "Well, musician, if you can bring true pleasure to Misfortune Himself, then I will grant you the wish of one secret's revelation..."
The tree groans beneath a readjustment of coils. You hear a snap of a twig, and a sudden cooing: My apologies, Most Beloved. A hand, violet-dusky hued moves, a wave. "Step beneath the branches of my Most Beloved," the tree, "... and sit upon the roots..." Suryesh murmurs, settling upon one of the great boughs. Human's form, until his hips and groin where serpentine thereafter he coils largely. His upper body is that of a warrior, former charioteer and archer. And violet-dusky is his skin, violet-black the coils.
Valmiki rises with alacrity, flute woven between fingertips and then slid away into the cotton bag, and one thing the rain makes clear that otherwise is normally by happenstance and careful design concealed - though the poet strives hard, this turn of the Wheel has not been entirely according to expectation here, either.
Normally, such a form would be clad in saris and veils, rather than trousers and tunic...
It's with caution, though, that Valmiki resettles onto the indicated roots. "If I am able to bring pleasure to you, my lord, gladly will I do so, and gladly listen to whatever you would wish my ears to hear. I am Valmiki, called by some the poet, as I have been."
The bag is placed between sandaled feet, hands upon knees, and face cautiously turned upwards, blinking slightly in attempt to adjust to changes in light and shadow. "I thank you for your hospitality, my lord."
Beneath the limbs of the tree, upon the roots that can seem as comfortable as chairs, so they are formed and their bark softened and polished by the friction of scales, you may come to understand the enormity not only of the ancient mangrove but of the naga himself. In fact, coils are not far from you, constricting here... shifting there...hanging on several layers of limbs, until it ends into the warrior's frame. Heart-shaped face rests upon folded hands, hands resting lightly upon the bough. There is the permeating scent of wood and cloves. His long hair, ringlet curls, are oiled and softened with clove oil.
"If you are able to bring pleasure to me, Valmiki the Poet, you will have quite a story... indeed..." Deep eyes drift to the peacock wandering nearby and smolder at the sight. Guardians of the son of the Former Lover, you taunt me with your presence...
Less by design, the contrast here - Valmiki is a slender, small figure amidst the ancient roots, scented only with bitter herbs and perspiration and tea. It is easy to imagine such a one overwhelmed, in the fact of immortality...
"Such few pitiful stories and songs as I have are at your disposal, my lord, and similarly, my ears are yours to use. Though," and there is the glint of that daring, not quite arrogant humour, "I confess, I'd best like it if my ears remained where they are, to either side of my head, and my head attached to the rest of me."
I court danger in search of these stories, which take me in and out of places few have been, but that does not mean I find living the less sweet...
"But name your desire, my lord, and if it lies within my power, I will do what I may to lift your troubles for a time, and make your dreaming easy - such tales or songs, or what you wish of me."
"You are fortunate then that I prefer figs to flesh. But my kiss is death. Do not kiss me, sing well, and your head shall be as Krishna wills it..." He seems amused and there is the apparition of a smile. Ghostly, wandering. "Though, if you trust your fate completely to the gods, you may be surprised at the results..."
He settles in. He closes his eyes. He listens. "One caution..."
Ah, you knew there had to be a hitch, yes? A condition...
"Do not sing of love. That ... should not bring me pleasure..."
"I confess my good fortune, then, my lord." The corners of the disguised poet's eyes crinkle up with unreleased mirth, and perhaps, relief. "My lips shall not approach yours, nor, indeed, any other." Oh, yes, it prompts mirth, of a sort, as it's a bit difficult for a man in woman's flesh disguised as a man to easily seek love...
An attentive tilt of the head, a nod. "As you would have it, then, I will do as I can..."
A pause for consideration. What sort of songs can one sing, which do not involve love, in any form? It is no simple matter. Finally, hands placed together, the voice lifts, mezzo-soprano and clear and pure - no need, here, for pretense.
"When blood sees blood
Of its own
It sings to see itself again
It sings to hear the voice it's known
It sings to recognize the face
One body split and passed along the line
From the shoulder to the hip
I know these bones as being mine
And the curving of the lip
And my question to you is: How did this come to pass?
How did this one life fall so far and fast?
Some are lean and some with grace,
and some without;
All tell the story that repeats
Of a child who had been left alone at birth
Left to fend and taught to fight
See his eyes and how they start with light
Getting colder as the pictures go
Did he carry his bad luck upon his back?
That bad luck we've all come to know
And my question to you is:
How did this come to pass?
How did this one life fall so far and fast?
When blood sees blood Of its own
It sings to see itself again..."
Are you certain you are a poet. Not an archer? You hit the mark, and dark eyes smolder. How did one life fall so far and fast. Indeed. You would not believe how far. You would not believe how fast vengeance is.
How slow Forgiveness is...
Suryesh listens, his upper body still. His lower half, a tangle of monstrosity, is in constant motion. Behind your voice, there is the rhythm of scales scratching against the wood. He closes his eyes. O Shiva, one that so incurred your wrath... why do you listen to his prayers at all? Why did you not turn him into black-blue smoke and blow him away. Let the earth forget. Let him forget. Ah, but with your Mercy comes Remembrance...
Dark eyes open, dark between even darker lashes, and the face... the beautiful, horrible face is... expressionless. Empty as the heart is empty. But... did it bring me pleasure?
An eyebrow lifts, and he rises in his fullness... like the hood of a cobra spreading...his arms lift, grasping branches overhead. "You sing a powerful tune, poet..."
She lets the song fade away, swallowing dryly once or twice to regain normality of voice and of breathing, and when she speaks, it's again the husky androgyny. "I cannot claim credit for the song, as it was written, and first performed, by a woman far away in lands across the sea." Though she did choose it, herself.
"I hope that it pleased you, at least." Her voice is muted, after the song, and almost physically, the role of 'man' settles onto muddled shoulders, posture straightening, though chin down again, in proper respect. "As such was, ultimately, my goal."
"Why," he wonders, his voice no louder than a breath and yet it can be heard quite easily, "... would you wish to please a naga, the embodiment of wickedness, Misfortune, and death. It is a ..." and he smiles, and there are vipers there, "... peculiar pastime you have, Valmiki..." He lowers, coils loosening against the trunk of the tree and he moves quite near you. "... However, I did .... not hate your song. And I did make a promise..."
There is a weighty pause, full of anticipation, knowing more is to follow...
"Despite what Some think, I can keep a promise. And so... I promised to ... divulge a secret. Of your choosing. Choose well...."
Despite all the realms of antiquity, and all the lives and incarnations Valmiki has lived through, suffered through, danced through, pleasured through, this incarnation is nonetheless a child of the modern age. And so, for just a moment, before the temptation is dispelled, almost he says it...
Why ask why? Drink Bud Dry.
But almost isn't enough, and while it's enough to make the poet smother a laugh, quickly those aquamarine eyes return to pseudo-sobriety, and solemn consideration. "For curiosity's sake, perhaps, but also because - whatever one such as you may symbolize, you as I have your purpose... it is not my place to judge you, my lord, but to fulfill my own purpose - as it is revealed to me."
Valmiki straightens again, twisting slightly against the roots of the mighty tree, considering how to answer this, how to choose - to make a choice, is to decide upon a path, and to step foot upon it...
"I would know, then," he-who is she-who is he finally speaks, voice hushed, tensed with anticipation and the thrill of potential Consequence, "what offense it is that has caused you to be placed here, to require the forgiveness of Gods, to be visited by Gods, and the sons of Gods."
Perhaps that is revelation in itself, and perhaps not. Valmiki waits, breath held, fascination and fear evenly balanced on slender shoulders.
"I angered Shiva," a simple answer for something, one might expect, is easy to do. There is a pause. Oh, I suppose you wanted more details. I did not promise details. The thought crackles in the petal smile, slight though it is, and then he settles. You quickly find that you are surrounded by coils. And the heavy scent of patchouli and cloves. "I slept with the daughter of a Pallavan king. As Shiva's mercy is ..." his mouth twists, "... unending, I was allowed another incarnation. Instead of turning me to smoke, smiting me for all time, removing me from great karmic circle of Existence, he only bade that I spend eternity as the creature who cannot be loved, cannot feel love, paused upon the wheel in place, until which time he finds forgiveness... or in final burst of anger, destroys me utterly."
For some reason, I still have his love. Perhaps he is more forgiving than I give him credit for being...
The coils slide nearby you, shifting around the tree as he moves back upward, giving you some air.
A blink, an intake of breath, as an adrenaline rush abruptly spikes - the expectation of an early death, really. One cannot walk into the snake's coils and not have some expectation of that...
Curiosity still can override fear, though Valmiki keeps her hands very much to herself - no matter how tempting the sinuous coils may be, there are limits and boundaries, even in this seemingly unending twilight haze of eons past. Listening eagerly, the poet drinks in details like heady wine.
At the retreat, and the words sink in, Valmiki's mouth puckers, and an edge of sharp sorrow enters those almost too-wide eyes. "Eternity is a very long time... Is there nothing that can be done, save the waiting?"
The large leaves of the mangrove tree whisper, telling the secret of where the wind moves...
Dark eyes hold ultimate understanding in their gaze. So it can only be with those who speak with gods. "The waiting is all..." Suryesh settles upon the bough, reclining against the great form of the tree. Once more does his heart-shaped face rest upon folded hands. Such peaceful repose for the one who may know no peace. "What else may one do with Eternity but ... wait?"
Violet-black scales whisper against the tree, whispers in the thousands. Do you hear Shiva's name in that. It is whispered, repeatedly. The expression upon the naga's face seems... suddenly bored. "I may wait... and think about what I have done. When Shiva is tired of it, he will do his will. Take it as a lesson, poet. If you earn the love of One, do not seek the pleasure of Another..."
Somehow, Valmiki doesn't seem to consider that a high risk - poets and musicians have loved, and been loved, but such loves are ... ultimately ephemeral, and vanish as dew before the sun. It is love, and not Love...
Rising to sandal-shod feet, the bag is collected, and a low bow given. "I will remember your words, my lord. My thanks, for this time, this story, and this advice... " A moment's hesitation, and an equally hesitant frown, and one light-finger hand creeps into the cotton bag, pulling out the flute and laying it down amidst the roots of the great tree once again.
"If ever you decide you have need of me," the wanderer explains, face suddenly illuminated by a grin that almost, again, lends beauty to the intentional androgyny, "You have but to play, while thinking of me - the flute has been in my family for generations, and will know its owner. In grace and gentleness, my lord, I shall take my leave, with a thousand more thanks."
So saying, Valmiki the poet, born of woman's flesh and man's soul, turns her heels and flees, lest impertinence give rise not to laughter, but to rage, and does not pause in her flight until the sanctity of the hotel has again been reached, and gained, leaving behind the garden of the naga.
And the large leaves of the mangrove tree whisper, telling the secret of where the wind moves...
Posted by rowan at May 25, 2003 12:50 PM
