Leaves whisper in his shifting, settling, his darkened coils wrapping around the mangrove like shadows. Shadows they are, to anyone else who would see. But his time, his time is no other man's time. Only in the dead of night. He avoids the sun at all costs. Too hot, too warm. He lingers beneath the earth, coiled around the root system of this ancient tree. Midnight when he rises, stirring slowly to his nightly rituals. He guards this garden, he guards this ancient tree and those who live in it. He is a servant of monkeys and squirrels.
     Strangely, he finds a kind of honor in it. Made humble for these last several centuries, he cares for the leaves of this mangrove as he once cared for the feet of a god.
     Scratching. Not the sound of the wind, but of his scales gripping the body of the tree. Both tree and serpent sigh in the motion. His great tail drapes heavily upon a series of different branches, his upper body, the torso of a great hero, rests upon an upper bough.
     Rustling. The sound of the skin of a fig being moved in his fingers, a downy brown globe cupped by his large hands, its sweet flesh torn by otherwise venomous teeth. Vipers curved and long as any cobras. But he only feeds on the honeyed milk left for him by superstious waiters and the figs left to him by a woman named Taahira. There are some who know the good luck that can come from feeding a snake. If his stomach is full, he will be less likely to hunt after you, am I right?
     A mouthful of fig, Suryesh lifts his black eyes to the moon, visible crescent between the wide leaves of the mangrove canopy.

     As you look up, there arrives the first drop of rain between your eyes. Then a second. And five more. They are soft, these raindrops, cool and sweet. Soon, the leaves sound with their multitudinous arrival, tip-tapping before they fall helplessly to the grasses below.

     Ah, monsoon season. There is a sigh of resignation. One cannot do anything about the weather in India, nothing but wait. Large leaves of the mangrove hold the better part of the storm from his head, like a congregation of umbrellas, and so he does not move, there is no need. In fact, the humidity does wonder for the air and for the skin, scaled coils shift upon branches to feel even more of the drops, cool without being cold, frequent without being oppressive. Suryesh closes his eyes, sighs, and pops the remainder of the fig in his mouth.
     Dark eyes open again, darker eyebrows opening upward, outward, at the thought that his honeyed milk is getting diluted. He lifts his head, tilting it to look at the brass bowl below, at the foot of the tree, in the shelter. Well, if it starts to rain much harder, I will simply have to adjourn to my cavern.

     The milk remains still. Untouched by droplets from the sky.
     "I would not have you think me...spiteful," Shiva says softly, appearing next to the bowl of milk. He looks down at it, then up and over to you, coming from an cut in the fabric of space and time. Barefoot as usual, the rain does fall upon him, dressed moderne. His white shirt catches droplets, and black pants, slightly baggy, appear darker in splotches. Only his eyes show the color that graces his skin in all of those paintings and artwork. Bluer than blue. And his hair is almost invisible against the onyx of night.
     He comes with the rain now, it seems. On the occasion he does show. How special you are, Suryesh! How many of Shiva's loves does he visit? Does he still see after a thousand years? How many does he care for?
     Yet, it is true. If this is love and care, one would not wish it upon one's enemy.
     Perhaps he hides in the droplets. Prying eyes of Parvati and others veiled by the rains that even they do not control. He travels in the molecules, reforming himself in a sufficient downpour. Maybe they are tears for mistakes made.
     "I am sorry," the Destroyer says, keeping his distance. He always does. All he can give you now is space. Or rain. Maybe one might mistake them for fingertips when the drops roll at your cheeks.
     "If you wish to be left to your dinner," he offers, "I can leave."

     "No, I am honored by your Presence, O Destroyer, without whom the Universe could not have been. I, the lowest of all creatures," being too serpentine to be human, and yet a perversion of a serpent even among the snakes of the world, "... though knowing my place in your firmament's shadows, am grateful for the visitation."
     For, indeed, this is a special occasion. This is twice now in the same century, Great Shiva. And twice more than any other lover of yours has had in the millennium of Christ, he well imagines. He does not take it for granted.
     "Would you care for a fig? I have apricots I dried in the sun. My bowl of milk and honey from the superstitious boy from a good and honored family, it is yours. And the hospitality of this mangrove tree." He lowers himself, slither and coil, spiral and plop, until the great naga is on the ground and bowing at your bare feet. It is a traditional greeting.
     The rain refreshes the earth, the sky, those that live upon the earth and beneath the sky. Perhaps it is the apologies and the compassions of gods that make the world live and blossom. You are all perhaps not as thoughtless and removed as you have seemed.
     Perhaps the greater miracle is that gods apologize at all...

     In bending, you will not see his fingers lift to touch your hair. Nor the stop, when he realizes he cannot. Shiva nods, fingers still yearning, then places his hands behind his back in a clasp.
     "I will not have your meal," he says, "...it was brought to you by dutiful and honored hands. You are kind to offer it. Please enjoy it."
     Shiva looks away to the tree's canopy. It is selfish to be here. Yet, I have stayed away too long. But what do I bring? Little. My hands are...tied.
     "And you are not low, Suryesh," he whispers below his breath, heading towards the tree now. His hand touches it and the energy shifts. "I admire your tree. It is strong." Just as you are now. "All trees should be like this."

     Hands come to take the brass bowl as he slowly lifts from his bow. He is massive, a creature, a thing, but raised upon his coils, coils that spread out upon the earth now like a swamp of shadows, he seems to be nearly human, for a moment. He still does not lift his eyes to your eyes. It is not given to him to do this, it is not his place. Besides, he could not bear it.
     Suryesh cradles the brass bowl in one arm and slowly begins to hug around the tree, the great mangrove bearing his returning weight with a low groan. "We have come upon an arrangement. I keep the monkeys off, a young woman brings me figs...." And so on. "I have... come to an agreement with this garden. I... am fitting into the... balance of this garden. There is sunlight, O Shiva, and then there is darkness." His voice is smooth, soft always, never lifted in a yell or shout, always even, rarely above a whisper. He looks to you, finally. Your blue eyes. It is a quick look. He lifts the brass bowl in both hands and he sips of it.
     "I am not low in your eyes," comes the voice in wonder. Suryesh looks to you over his bowl. Then into the bowl. "I speak out of my firmament, the depths of the earth," an apology. "You will think me ungrateful. I am not wishing to seem ungrateful, Great Shiva."

     "If you were low, Suryesh," Shiva replies, turning so the tree is at his shoulder, "...would I be here? Would we have...conversations." Whatever these are. "Am I so unforgiving, that I would come...to confirm and taunt...your present station?" Maybe I am that way. I am not the Destroyer for nothing.
     But in destruction, comes more. Ever more. More than Krishna could summon forth.
     Shiva's hand comes from behind his back. A golden saucer for you. Upon it, cake in syrup. "For you," he offers.

     You are being too kind. I do not know how to react to this, but to lower myself for a beating that never is offered. "You must let me do something for you," Suryesh murmurs, settling upon the lower bough of the tree, directly above your head, oh great one. "I cannot accept this without... reciprocation, Shiva. It is too much," even receiving a syrup cake from your hand is too much for this former demi-mortal.
     He receives the cake. He sets it upon the wide branch with his bowl of milk. High above, figs and apricots are waiting. "I can wash your feet in lotus water, there is a pool behind the tree, your feet are getting dirty standing beneath my tree. I cannot bear to think of my home soiling your feet." Suryesh looks to you.
     ...The heart aches with the flooding of memories. How he would wash your feet in glistening pools of water. Water lotus floating by. He would perfume it. He would wash your feet, fingers gliding over your skin. He would kiss the arches of your feet and then dry them. Then coat them with almond oil. He would spend hours doing this. Suryesh would adorn your feet as if they were the very jewels of heaven, for weren't they?
     There was a time when you were with another lover, sometimes there was more than just you and he. And he would wash and oil your feet, even during your loveplay. It was a great honor. It was a principle joy. It was the height of pleasure.

     Perhaps he remembers too. Shiva gives a slant of his lips and says, "Maybe...another time." Your adoration of his feet was ever only the beginning. In his eyes, Suryesh, images of the past flicker. Mayhap, it is the future.
     As the Time draws near, maybe it is Hope that the Destroyer brings. He is very quiet when he comes, and the tension of love and anger both flow freely from him. Love and anger, not specifically at you, but at everything. This very moment, itself.
     "Maybe the rains will not hurt your tree so much." He looks at you, at the face he loved. "Enjoy your meal....Suryesh."
     I still love you.
     His eyes seem much like the fluid raindrops as he watches you eat. Then, quietly, "I will let you have your peace." To dine. To exist without having to deal with Me. With Us.

     "The tears of gods are the life waters of the earth. The tree is grateful for the rain, as I am for your visit," he softly says. Suryesh bows his head, he closes his eyes. He must not cry, for that would hurt the tree. Acid and poison. He may not kiss. He may not cry. Not without destruction.
     "Thank you, O Shiva," the naga whispers, his dark. Only when he thinks he is out of sight, only when he may barely see you between the wide leaves of the mangrove, does he whisper adoration. My love, whom I have so wronged.
     Tension. Love. Regret. Anger. Jealousy. Adoration. These can exist in the same space. And all at once. Suryesh retreats to the upper branches of the tree, with his milk and honey, his syrup cake, his figs and his apricots, and his broken heart.

Posted by rowan at May 25, 2003 01:57 PM