The world slowly darkens, as the stars awaken from the daylong slumber. Sounds dampen, as the illusion of silence settles in. Quietly, the garden slowly clears of people as the hotel's guests find diversion for the remaining hours before slumber.
But the garden is not empty, not by far. Here and there, the hotel's staff move through with quickened steps. A platter is brought, and placed near the old mangrove. Bowls filled with honeyed milk, and dusted with cinnamon, are left as offerings to the spirit of the tree.
But then, they too leave the garden, to its silence and its shadows.
Soon the garden is empty of all but one man, who sits on a bench. Western, one might first assume him to be a guest, but he does not carry himself as such. Half way between a local's garb, and that of the U.S., his t-shirt doesn't fit well with the deep indigo sarong that wraps his waist. Nor does his long hair seem well suited to the hot, humid climate of Chennai. Deft fingers bend bamboo, and palm leaves, into small offering baskets that will litter the streets in the morning. The daily offerings to the Hindu gods. As he works, he sings quietly to himself, wordless tunes from the Ramayana.
After a while he stops, and places his work to one side. His dark eyes lift to the stars, and capture his attention. Stars not hidden by the light pollution of western cities.
The mangrove tree bends and creaks with the wind. The topmost boughs of the great and ancient tree move, leaves all whispering. Birds and small monkeys still move in and out of its network of branches and limbs.
The mangrove tree creaks...
And there is a whispering against the surface of its skin, a sliding breath against the bark...
And there is a slick seeming shadow, black on black...
He rises from beneath a system of roots, slipping easily, nearly invisibly through the lower branches, his great form suited only to this great tree. Yes, Most Beloved, we are bound.
It is by his hands and with his care that the leaves are tended, that the branches are pruned for optimum growth. He has tended this garden longer than the hotel has existed. There once was a palace here, the palace of a Pallavan king. The king that was the father of the princess he deflowered, the princess that earned Shiva's ire. The princess that Parvati raised to a heroine, and probably keeps her spirit in her court to this day, sitting upon Most Favored pillows.
Dark hands part the large leaves like a curtain, and Suryesh peers into his garden. Do any of the travellers linger...
At the foot of the great tree there is motion, movement at the roots. An industrious monkey lifts a brass bowl of milk and carries it into the tree...
Eyes lower from the heavens, as movement catches in the corners of his vision. Smile quirks up at the sight of the monkey, lifting the brass bowl. The man chuckles at the sight, "And me with out a camera." comes softly onto the wind, a melodic voice that draws out the syllables as if time was of no care. With equal movements, he once more picks up the reeds and leaves, bending and folding them into shape. Small replica temples, to place offerings of rice and flowers.
The wind moves again, in the mangrove, and rustles amongst the other residents of the garden. The wind's caress rustles his hair, and scatters the leaves that he hadn't weighted down. It conceals the sound of the shadow in the mangrove, which slithers scaled from one branch to the next.
The monkey and the naga have a bargain. The monkey does not steal the milk (nor any of his cousins) and for bringing the bowls to Suryesh, the monkey is in turn gifted with two fruits, a pomegranate and a fig. The bargain has now passed from the naga to several monkey colonies over the time he has lived here in the tree, tending to this garden, the very location of all his sin...
The monkey sets the brass bowl upon a wide bough, wide enough to hold the great body of the naga. Dark hands so finely shaped reach for the bowl, the monkey scampering away with his payment of fruit, and Suryesh settles, bringing the bowl to his mouth.
Beautifully horrible. Horrifically splendid. A man's torso ends into the body of an enormous black mamba. A man's face, heart-shaped, is surrounded by blackest hair that falls, shining and oiled, past his shoulders. He smells of clove and cinnamon, the clove oil worked into his hair. His mouth is marred only by the venomous vipers. A gift of Shiva's Bride. His kiss is death, though he live a thousand years...
Or more...
The bowl is emptied, and as he drinks, coils upon coils of a great serpent's body begin to settle upon the several great boughs of the old tree, one section dipping toward the ground.
A thousand upon a thousand whispers... like the gossiping of old women and young girls... such is the sound his scales make against the bark...
To the man on the bench, the whispers of the scales are familiar though he does not recognize them for what they are. He has been here many of these recent nights, doing odd chores around the grounds for the owner of the hotel. They go back, or so the rumors say, to a time before this man roamed like some displaced creation of the 1960s. He is here during the spring, for a few weeks, as has been the case for the last few years.
He stops, none the less in his task, as the scales move against each other and shiver beneath the silence of the garden. As has become his habit, he tries to place the sound, but never can. This man from North America has never encountered a nest of vipers, nor a serpent bodied man, and so cannot even guess as to what the sound could be.
He guesses it is some animal, though. Some resident of the garden that he has yet to see.
The monkey moves by, catching him from his thoughts. The pomegranate and fig clutched in paws, the fig half chewed. "Probably a little thief," the man muses "...taken from the kitchens. Son of Hanuman."
The voice makes the sound in the tree stop. Coils that readjusted, settled and curled around the body of the tree, each movement made as if by an independent creature, still. And hands part the leaves again, black eyes peering out to see who is in his garden tonight.
He has seen this man. This man has been in the garden doing odds and ends. He keeps the gods away. Perhaps it's just as well. Suryesh quirks up a brow. Perhaps, Most Beloved, we should welcome this stranger among us...
Besides the monkeys, there are peacocks that wander through this garden, grown fat off the fallen fruit and the spoils of bargains that the monkeys have dropped. There are other brightly pinioned and brightly singing birds and beetles that click and clack their wings.
The garden goes silent for the moving of the naga. The tree shivers again. Dark hands grasp a bow as he lowers in the shadows. Do you see the hand reaching for the other bowl of honeyed milk dusted with cinnamon?
Dark eyes blink, as the garden goes silent save for the whisper of scales on bark. Glancing around, this stranger feels the difference as deer do when wolves are about. Sensitive to the changes in his surroundings, he cannot help but look toward the tree. The great mangrove. The only source of sound in this garden, for all the animals have stilled.
And, against the bark, he can see the silhouette of a hand. A man reach down from the tree to take the other offering bowl.
Eyes widen. Not in fear. Not even, really, in surprise. Wonder at the unexpected. "Good evening?" His voice dips into the local Hindi, fluidly moving into a language filled with melody. Yet, occasionally, he trips on the notes. His stumbles giving away his lack of fluency.
Maybe if I am discovered, my soul will be put to rest. Why did I not think of that sooner?
The bowl is lifted and after the hand disappears there is quiet again. Quiet, but not silence. The coils are in motion again, resettling. In the cover of the leaves, the great mangrove hiding his equally great form, Suryesh lifts the second brass bowl to his lips, drinking fully of the honeyed milk and its sprinkle of cinnamon. They say it is good luck to feed the serpent spirits. That way, if they are full, they are less likely to eat you, yes?
"Good evening," comes this Hindi reply, soft, barely a whisper. Perhaps you do not hear it. Perhaps it was only the wind.
Another monkey appears, this time carrying the brass bowl down. But rather than simply laying it at the foot of the tree, he takes it over to you, holding it up in the hopes you'll deposit food into it.
That is what bowls are for...
The shadows in the mangrove have responded, and so the man cannot help continue. "It is a nice night, is it not?" What else do you say, to someone hiding amidst the great leaves of an ancient tree? "Do you spend much time here, or are you the guardian of that tree and thus have never truly left?" Was there even a reply, from the tree? It was so quiet, it could just have been his imagination. He stifles a chuckle at that. Certainly not the strangest thing he has done, but one that would provoke some sort of gossip amongst the staff.
The monkey scuttles over, and there is naught but rice that he can offer. Hands move together, rolling rice into a ball, and placing into the bowl. "A gift for the son of Hanuman" He smiles, waiting for it to depart before he stands.
He brushes wrinkles from his indigo sarong, and steps barefoot across the grasp. He doesn't approach too close, well outside the fall of the mangroves' leaves. But still closer than he was, so that he might catch the voice and know for certain if it was merely the wind or not.
"Does the earth spend much time beneath the moon and the sun?" Is that humor? The voice issues between the leaves, among the leaves. Airy, whispering. Maybe it is the wind. Maybe it is the tree. You approach the mangrove, but the shadows reveal little. The roots and boughs, the limbs and leaves create such a tangle of life that in this darkness the black coils go unseen.
The monkey meanwhile takes the rice and the bowl and scampers to a spot of grass. He is quickly surrounded by opportunistic peacocks.
Behind the tangle of boughs, branches and leaves, Suryesh settles, torso resting against the body of a great bough, arms folded beneath his chin, his heart-shaped face tilted. He looks down, peering between leaves to the man in the indigo sarong. "It is not often that one finds another who is interested in chatting with old trees..."
"The Sun and Moon are jealous of the earth, and that is the only reason they spend so much time in its skies. If the earth had a choice, the she would leave them behind and find other companions to dance through the sky with." He speaks, without looking up into the tree. His eyes scan the dark grass, looking for a place to sit. Find a spot, he folds his tall frame, to sit cross legged upon the ground.
"It is rare that I find a tree who is interested in chatting with quick lived humans." Now he lets his eyes go to the tree, to get lost amongst the maze of branches, boughs and leaves. He cannot see the naga, its body too dark in the shadows to be anything but more branches. His fingers, fidgeting, play with the tassels along the fringe of the sarong, then, growing bored of that, they move to his curly mass of hair, and begin the labourous task of bringing order to their chaos. A braid will slowly be pulled from them, whether they like it or not.
"Jealousy..." The word is long. Longer than it seems. The punishment is long and jealousy runs deep. "I do not doubt this. The sun and moon are jealous of the earth, and of one another. And every god that ever was born is jealous of every other one. I was jealous once too."
The mangrove tree creaks, creaks with wind, creaks beneath the grasp of a naga's scales...
"Trees are never silent. It is just that no one cares to stop long enough to listen. Why do you linger so long in the garden? Do you not know that the era of gardens is done?"
A hand reaches up to a stash of figs and dates. He eats of the sugary fruit. "I have had a poet sing to me and gods philosophize. What is it that you do? We like to be entertained, My Beloved and I..."
"I offer conversation." Is the simple response. "Do you not grow sick of worship? What does it gain you? Empty fear?" He shakes his head, and laughs quietly at himself. "I'm sorry, I do not understand its lure. I am definitely a product of this era. I don't really mean to be insulting."
"As to gardens, I don't believe their time has passed. There are beautiful gardens the world over. True, they may not be the same gardens as might have graced rambling palaces of centuries ago, but they are still beautiful. Gardens are places of beauty, and as such I like to spend time in them." He is rambling.
Hands finish with the braid, which immediately begins to come undone. Curls loosen themselves, as the wing gently tugs them free. "I'm no God. Nor have I spoken with many. But I do know that jealousy isn't their sole domain. Humanity has it in spades." A touch of bitter memory there, slipping unbidden into his calm voice. "I wonder who learned it from whom."
"Grow sick of worship..." He speaks it, the voice is most assuredly a He. He speaks it as if he truly must think about it, is seriously thinking about it. And then an echo of it sounds incredulous. Who would not want to be worshipped? Coils dangle heavily from the branches, a section of his form curling around the roots.
There, in the darkness, there is a glint, a reflection of the hotel restaurant's lights, or the light from one of the bedrooms above. A curve of something black, almost metallic in nature.
"Conversation is better than worship," he says finally. "I no longer believe in gods. My name is Suryesh..." he offers it. Suryesh, lover of Shiva, charioteer of gods. This he does not say...simply... Suryesh...
"As for who invented jealousy, men or gods? The gods invented it. Man has perfected it..."
Black scales glint in the moving light. His eyes move to watch them, but he makes no comment. His expression changes little. Merely wonder. Everything, it seems, is new to this man, as he takes it all in like a child.
"I believe in gods. It is hard to ignore the insistence of one's own senses. Here and now, I'm known by Natarajan. Most call me Raji, though." He smiles. "You are welcome too, as well, Suryesh."
Posted by rowan at September 21, 2003 12:45 AM
