by Victor Mahn
Siddhanath’s father, Daksin-murti, was an appointee of the Manikarnika Ghat, though he does not touch the hundreds of corpses that come in daily to be reduced to ashes and then be dispersed onto the Ganges. Dakshin-murti is a scholar—an Acharya, one who teaches by conduct. Before working at the ghat (steps), he was part of a local Gurukul, a residential school just beyond the river, basically playing the role of an adept bard. He had been handpicked—no one could pinpoint by whom exactly, to be a part of the team working on genealogical records at the Manikarnika Ghat. Dakshin-murti had been fortunate to view some of the ancient family trees, the lineage running from some twenty prior generations. The reasoning for tracing out such data, he was told, was for resolving disputes of property ownership, and to provide the descriptive depth when one (most often the males of family) is asked “Who are you?”: to tie oneself to the forebears, which is a custom very much welcomed.
He got up, cleared the dried leaves from his back and about his loincloth, and headed westward. He got a glimpse of the ghat where his father was right now. Thick black smoke puffed into the air, showing that there was no wind. All over Bharat, his father had once said, crematory grounds are placed outside of places of dwelling, as they are impure and would defile the sanctity of places of worship that are usually found nearby. But not here in the City of Light; death is seen as a passage to another realm of existence. Death is celebrated here!
Siddhanath’s thoughts raced to the prospect of triumph of today’s act with the Rogue. He did not speak much; he did not even mention his real name. Nor that it mattered much to Siddhanath. He wanted the deed done and Kausalya to be his bride. This the Rogue promised, and more. He pledged a life of contentment and joy. Siddhanath quickened his pace.
There had been much said about the Rogue when he was first seen wandering the inner lanes of the city. One of the more prominent rumours is that he was a hellion from the outside—an outcast sent to the forests due to a disgraceful act in his past. He was a vanvasi; a forest dweller, punished for his sins. Too many tales. The fabrications are myriad like the ever-flowing life itself. But he will help me! He has agreed to. I saw it in his eyes!
But Siddhanath did sense something amiss about the Rogue. The man spoke in an arrhythmical manner, accompanied by severe facial contortions. He did mention that he was a stutterer, and that he had always been that way since a child. Well, that is not too bad a thing, perhaps... The effect would also have been increased by his exile.
Siddhanath was almost there. Out of the corner of his right eye, he could sense the outline of trees and patches of water forming the many lakes and ponds that are said to have been dropped from the heavens, as was the mighty Ganga Herself. Small shrines and carvings of deities on lone walls were budded all about the city. He wasn’t even sure if he had seen all of them. However, the greenery proliferated in this holy city, which was pleasant to the pilgrims. For reasons which seemed mystical, there was an abundance of trees and water, which many a pilgrim would not have laid eyes on for months, or even years, as the outward lands had been experiencing a bane of drought for the past several decades. As such, this city had also become to be known as Anandavana—the Forest of Bliss.
Come exactly at noon, the Rogue had announced to him. So be it! This would be the simplest way for Siddhanath to get what he wanted. Almost there…
Siddhanath stopped short of a few paces from the entrance to the temple which scared him the most in all of Varanasi. He felt a drop of sweat glide down his forehead; though he had been fully exposed to the sun, he had not perspired on his walk there. But this was something else. The Pishachamochana temple was a place that is formidable, and it always arrested Siddhanath at the same spot, though he gathered that he had only ever ventured out this way three times in his life. He froze in his tracks and dared not glance at the temple, but could see the ochre-covered outer walls, which were low and cracked.
He took a few steps forward to the entrance, stopped, and turned his head slightly to the right, toward the sanctum of the temple. And there, facing him direct, was Pishachamochana Himself, gleaming. The sight Siddhanath beheld was terrifying but was also awe-striking. Here was a God who liberates demons, though He was Himself a demon. ‘Pishacha’, his Sanskrit tutor had replied when Siddhanath enquired on the subject, refers to demons or goblins. ‘Pishachamochana’ means ‘the place where demons are set free,’ he explained, satisfied that Siddhanath was inquisitive. It is a singular treat to get one so curious.
The tutor had then outlined the fable following Pishachamochana (at least, whatever he knew about it): that He was once a demon who wished to plunder the city. But Kala Bhairav, being Shiva in His violent and terrible form, and regarded as the police chief of Kāsi, decapitated the Pishacha. However, as Kala Bhairav had complete dominion over Kāsi, He allowed the Pishacha to be at the outer realms of the city and had been given the task of liberating other demons from the agonising state of being that they were in. He was thenceforth known as Pishachamochana, the Terrible Demon-God.
What scared Siddhanath was the sardonic smile that sat on Pishachamochana’s face on a bulbous, round head made of greyish stone. He had a moustache too, and jagged, sharp teeth. His eyes, peering out coldly onto the world, seemed to be without pupils. He always had a garland of orange flowers around him, and on his forehead, a red, circular tilak. Right behind Him was the Holy Trident made of wrought iron. The inner sanctum was not lit up, and the effect of the darkness surrounding Pishachamochana made the overall view surreal. He was on top form today.
The Rogue, however, had differing views of the Demon-God. As Siddhanath recalled, the Rogue laughed when he was told of the fear that had been struck into his heart. Why be afraid of one who liberates? His reasoning seemed fair, to be honest. But the cold stare? How does one overcome that?! All Siddhanath got as a response from the Rogue to these questions were laughter.
A few weeks after these questions were posed, the Rogue revealed that he was a disciple of one such demon. Not Pishachamochana Himself, but one of those whom He had tried to liberate, but couldn't—the demon being a powerful one. He offered his allegiance to this one, whom he calls Wrath. And in return, Wrath gave him some powers for use. For one, the Rogue claims that he could instantly manifest food after chanting a spell. I can also recall dreams, as far back as those that I have had since I was three! the Rogue had declared.
Siddhanath had been dubious about Wrath, and the nature and purpose of his foul-mindedness, for he is a demon after all. The Rogue laughed at this too, and declared that Wrath was more of a friend than foe. He bestows many things to fulfil the desires of the heart, my dear, he would often say during their discourses. He is not evil—he desires to help us...
“If that is true, then why is he a demon and not an angel?” Siddhanath enquired further.
The Rogue seemed to be put off by such questions. “Enough, my dear! Do not question those who are on our side. It tarnishes our happiness.”
“Beware!” Siddhanath was snapped out of his flowing memories; became aware of his presence at the western realms of Kāsi. This new voice seemed to have come from the outside—from external sources. And the only other source was—
“Beware!” The voice now seemed to have thrust itself into the core of his brain, so that he may hear it clearly, with its intended meaning. He peered keenly to his right once again. Pishachamochana was sneering in his sarcastic gloat. Siddhanath caught a glimpse of what he thought was Pishachamochana’s eyes glistening with reddish hues. The shades of red were sudden and rapid, as they formed and ended quickly. Siddhanath detected emotions of ire piercing out from those eyes. The sky above, too, seemed to have dimmed.
There is something here! The thought impaled him. Before long, several rays of the sun emerged and allayed the gloominess. Siddhanath was aware of several huts some distance behind the Demon God’s temple. There are those who are faithful to one such as Him; the caretakers of the temple. It was a strange concept for Siddhanath, that adults
would want to be associated with an entity which is not entirely negative, but then again, not positive either. The negativity was pronounced, too. The fields around here were desolate, bridging to a sensation forlorn of comfort and mirth.
He launched forward, with the last trickle of sweat almost drying up. The temple was several yards behind him when he bravely mouthed the words, “Well, Pishachamochana, you will be regarded in my heart as someone who aided me in obtaining what I want. And for that, I thank you!”
CHAPTER TWO
The Rogue had settled himself at the corner of his hut, which was out on the periphery of what was delineated as the divine grounds of Kāsi. He knew the reasons for this, of course, but he would not share these with his guest, who had just entered the hut and was adjusting to the dimness of the interior of his residence. The Rogue was silent. He wanted his guest to speak first—that was part of the ritual.
“I came at the hour you have ascribed. I hope you are pleased,” Siddhanath said while trying to make out the outline of the Rogue, whom he had just spotted in the left corner of the square hut. He was cognisant of being limited to the outer realms of the Holy City, as such was the law for one who was abhorred by the community for a long while now; way before Siddhanath was born, thus he did not have the complete story of this outcast. But the law was apparent enough, and he did not want to defy that. Nor do I see the need to…
“Yes, I am pleased, my dear. And so is He.” The Rogue pushed himself up with his left arm (the stronger of the two) and began advancing to the centre of the hut. He had prepared a heap of firewood, just enough to last for about an hour. He kicked a small twig toward the pile and cleared his throat. Siddhanath thought he was about to say something, but nothing was uttered. An acrid scent of kerosene filled the hut.
Siddhanath regarded the hut to be adequate for one who needed only the simple things in life. It was in the exact shape of a square, with a length and breadth of about ten feet. The roof was fashioned from dried palm leaves which had been neatly woven to create a hold strong enough to withstand the winds of the harvest season. And there was no tiling or panelling for a floor; it was built directly on the sandy and rocky dirt. The centre of the hut was levelled, though. This is where the ceremony is to take place, no doubt. Siddhanath could not wait for it to start.
“So how will this happen? You carry out the ceremony and I sit quietly?” Siddhanath inquired.
“Yes, somewhat. Wrath will ask you for your pledge and might ask you for something in return. An endowment.”
“Oh…” Siddhanath was not sure what he would need to give up. Nothing big, I hope?
“Or maybe He will not ask for anything. Even if He does, it will not be in your current lifetime, but the next.”
“Oh. It will be fine, I guess. I do not have anything considerable to give, anyhow. Just some trinkets. Some seashells. And sweets that I have been saving up to share with Kausalya.” There, I mentioned her name, to reinforce into Him what I want. I hope You can hear me, Wrath!
“I have been meaning to ask you, why is He known as Wrath?” Siddhanath went on.
The Rogue turned to face him now. He was not as tall as Siddhanath had him registered in his mind. And he had a slight hunch. He, too, was clothed only in a loincloth, but had a tattered rag wrapped around his chest and partially covering his back. His body and limbs were lean and appeared to be dried to a husk from being exposed to the sun for a considerable period of time. His ribs seem to protrude from his body, aching to be released. He was emaciated by choice, having spent the last few months in the preparation of this moment. Even he had a price to pay; another fact that he saw fit to remain hidden.
“He did not actually want to be liberated from his Pishacha state. He felt that He was more agile and able to help a greater number of people that way. So, when the Guardian of Kāsi redeemed Him from the condition He was in, He was deeply resentful, and filled Himself with intense anger. The intensity of that anger is strong, and it drives Him to accomplish great things for those who are loyal.”
“I see.”
“Soon, you will see, my dear. You will learn of His exultant nature, of His benevolent self!” the Rogue seemed to beam.
“And He will give me what I desire?”
“Yes! And much more, as I have mentioned. He is generous.”
“I bequeath myself to Him, if He does give me a life of love with Kausalya!”
“He will, my dear,” the Rogue moved now to the corner where he had perched for the past several hours and picked up a wooden box which was filled with flint. He walked back to the pile of firewood; sat on the floor, cross-legged. He signalled Siddhanath to do the same.
“Do you remember, my dear, of the first thing you said when you came in here?” the Rogue asked.
“What? What I said? Well, I—” Siddhanath hadn’t expected such a query, and he jogged his memory in a futile attempt. He could not remember—he was replete with excitement.
“Yes, you uttered something truly important.”
“Important?” Siddhanath had a rueful look, for he could not recall what he had uttered a minute ago. With the level of excitement reduced, he said, “I think I said that I came at the appointed hour, and I hoped that you are pleased about that.”
The Rogue smiled. Then, “Did you hear that, Wrath? He hopes that You are pleased with his adhering to your command!”
Siddhanath was perplexed at this—the Rogue was under the notion that he was talking to Wrath when he entered the hut. But why? It was he who so instructed me a few days ago, not Wrath…
A swift, cold wind seemed to have found its way into the hut through the narrow entrance. A pang of trepidation arose, passed, then… stillness. Was that a response from Wrath? Is that how He speaks? Siddhanath’s mind was filled with the ardour of the moment, and it was both alarming and tranquilising at the same time. But the sense of terror, which had been aroused when passing Pishachamochana and pushed to the background as he entered the Rogue’s dwelling, lurched forward again, tugging at his throat. These were realms which a teenage boy did not understand, and he would like it all to turn out to be a dream. But what of my Kausalya? I am so close to it now, just need to get through the ritual, as the Rogue had promised.
The Rogue appeared to be looking fixedly at Siddhanath’s chest. For a boy who preferred scholarly pursuits, his body was growing to be sturdy. But that was not what the Rogue was looking at. His gaze had been locked on the sacred thread that was on Siddhanath, stretching from his left shoulder to below his right armpit—the Yajñopavītam. This indicated that he had been initiated in the rites of passage that are carried out in a Brahmin household, basically marking the acceptance of a student by a guru for the learning of Vedic knowledge. As such, they are known as the twice-borns—Dvija. They undertake the natural physical birth as all beings do, but they would also need to take on a spiritual birth, which happens during the rites of passage, the Upanaya.
The Rogue started on making a fire using his flint kit. He blew haphazardly into the low flame, urging it to pick itself up.
“Your thread—take it out and cast it into the fire,” he told Siddhanath.
“What?! No!”
“The significance of the thread is no more, my dear. We need to do things in the proper way. We need to do it only once if we do it right. And you will get what you want today. There is no need to wait another day.” Such words of promise were cast out into the air between him and Siddhanath. The boy is sure to take the bait.
Siddhanath hesitated. It was one thing to undergo a school of Vedic teaching under a renowned and respected guru, but it was quite another to toss the token distinguishing his scholarly status into the flame in front of him now. He had not really thought things would go this far, to be honest.
“I think you need to relax, my dear,” the Rogue said, smiling.
It had some effect, though, and Siddhanath’s arched shoulders loosened up and fell back several inches. His breathing became calmer too. We
ll, it is just a string, after all. I don’t have to get all bent out of shape for that. Besides, Harinath will be more than happy to make another for me, Siddhanath reassured himself.
“There are reasons for this. There are reasons for a lot of things surrounding today. I am sorry, my dear, for seemingly being mysterious,” the Rogue laughed, then continued, “For instance, why we must have the ritual at midday. We are about to invoke Wrath, for a deed that is not entirely under the realm of Light—it is not a hallowed act, as you would know. I am sure you would have accepted that! What we are about to do may be iniquitous to others. But they will not get what you will! Kausalya will be yours by sunset today, my dear. And you will have many children with her and be joyous throughout your days here!”
He allowed some moments to pass, for the words to sink into Siddhanath’s mind. He saw Siddhanath nodding as he cast his eyes downward at the flames. Then, “In order to carry out such a deed, we would need to do so in pitch darkness when the sun is at its zenith. This is symbolic, and it must be so. Do you see it now, my dear? We have our reasons, both Wrath and me. We are on your side.” Another smile.
“Yes, I see what you mean. There are reasons.”
Almost immediately, his right arm darted toward his left shoulder, and he held the string as he lifted his left arm and pulled it off in one motion. He rolled the string into a ball, and lobbed it into the fire, which had now become a flame fitting for a ritual.
“See? That is easy enough.”
“Yes.”
“It will be all right. You will receive more than you give, I assure you.”
