The Delirium of Negation

by Victor Mahn

  “Yes. I know.”

  “All right. Now! Close your eyes and hold the object of your desires in your mind. Lock onto it, with ferocity, like a storm!” The Rogue knew what it is that Siddhanath desired but wanted him to create the visuals in his own mind without his direction. The significance of his own mental creation was paramount to the success of the ritual.

  “There… I see it!” the Rogue, with his own eyes shut now, informed Siddhanath. “Ready?”

  “Yes, I am ready! I see her clearly in my mind. I am ready for this!”

  “Good. Good! And did you bring the ashes of the dead from the ghat?”

  “Yes, they are here. Can I open my eyes?”

  “Yes, my dear. We will start presently. But we need the ashes, now.”

  Siddhanath opened his eyes, removed a small sack which he had neatly fitted into the side of his loincloth, adjoining his left thigh. He presented it to the Rogue.

  The Rogue nodded, said, “Smear it on your chest and hands.” Siddhanath obeyed.

  “Now, we start. Close your eyes! Do not speak. Breathe in the fumes, let it in. Let it envelop your senses. It will awaken you to new possibilities and new worlds, my dear!” the Rogue issued these commands, waited a while to be sure that Siddhanath would sit quietly. At least for now…

  Siddhanath was grateful for the breathing practices he had been conducting that morning next to the river. He knew that he would be able to inhale large amounts of air into his lungs, which had now enlarged over the course of practise, roughly several months now. He felt his thighs and heels aching, being seated on such a coarse ground. It was uneasy, to be in this situation, in this room. He tried to focus on what was happening, the here and now. It is difficult…

  Suddenly, there was a strange smell. It was putrid and strong, as though a thousand dead corpses had fallen from the skies onto where they were. The odour of decaying flesh was strong—Siddhanath had been near decaying corpses; often unknown persons or suicides, and he knew the scent. The smell that he was inhaling into his system was so pungent, and there was no way to drive it out. It had filled his lungs, and he was not sure if the heat he felt at his chest was due to this. The intensity of the heat increased sharply, and he knew it was not natural. None of this was natural. He was growing tired.

  His thoughts were zigzagging from one element to another—his mother, the dead cat that was found next to the well where they draw water daily, the story of the churning of the ocean, Kausalya, the formation of a drop of blood at the tip of his left forefinger when he pricked his fingernail by accident, the fishes and turtles in the river Ganga, and the image of Pishachamochana that morning. Pishachamochana, and his warning! What of it? What does it mean? Did it relate to this?

  His energy was spent, and he only managed to inhale several more smoke-filled breaths. A moment later, as his mind assumed a form which was foreign to him, he passed out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Daksin-murti sat in silence in the yard of his home. The Brahmins within the city were affluent, and they built houses with a courtyard in its centre—always taking the shape of a square. The evening sun was already disappearing beneath the horizon, behind the familiar mountain ranges. Nonetheless, there was enough light for him to see and assess the situation. For them to see, he corrected himself. Word was already out on the streets that something was amiss with his only child. Even rumours of possession had already started spreading. Apparently, it is easier to spread tattles than to cultivate aptitude.

  Siddhanath’s breathing had become steady now. The vapour formations on the mirror which was placed just below his nostrils revealed as much. Everyone was relieved, especially his mother, Niranjana Ma. She was the pulse of the family, kept a steady head about all practical matters of household living. But upon seeing her son in an incapacitated fettle, she descended into a state of despair that none saw forthcoming. The blow was too much, and the lamentations held a grief that was too great. She was not prepared to lose her child to the netherworlds and she made that fact clear to all present at that hour of dusk when Siddhanath was brought down from the bullock cart that transported him.

  With Niranjana Ma having been given a mild tranquiliser and made to lie down on a mat behind the parapet surrounding the courtyard, Daksin-murti was able to gauge the damage to Siddhanath’s essential organs: skin, hair, breathing and circulatory organs. Somehow, his external structure was intact, but Daksin-murti detected some internal burns, just below the dermis. Amazingly, the upper skin formations seemed to have not been exposed to extreme heat.

  Perhaps he ingested something? He could have got close to the pyres about Manikarnika Ghat. Yes, that would be it. I did see many corpses there for cremation today. That would have accounted for the volume of fumes in the vicinity.

  But that did not link to when (and if) Siddhanath would awaken from the unconscious state he was in. Daksin-murti had ruled out poisoning from snakes and scorpions and other insects. There were also several fishes in the Ganga that were said to be poisonous, but this was not their spawning season. So, poison was out of the analysis. It had to be some form of temporary shutdown that his body had triggered, to avert something. But what? I am losing time, and I may lose my son!

  High-pitched wailing could be heard from the corner of the courtyard. The mother is distressed, and she had cursed the thousand forms of God for her sorrow.

  “Brother, we should try it again,” Iravanth Iyer – who was regarded as the authority for curing the sick in Kāsi – suggested. He possesses a vast knowledge of the workings of the human body which goes into recondite principles of anatomy and of response-reaction to antidotes that he concocts as part of his art, as he had gathered the intricate philosophies of Ayurveda (the science of life) during a decade-long pilgrimage to South India. He had written several journals, each being about a thousand pages in length, in his own hand. He prizes these records above all else. But now, he was dumbfounded. This was beyond him, and he could not say it out loud.

  Daksin-murti pulled the blanket that was on Siddhanath further upward, now covering his chest entirely. He noticed that the Yajñopavītam was no longer on his son. Something to be cautious about? I don’t know what is happening…

  “Is that what you propose, Iravanth?” he asked.

  “Well, he appears to be apoplectic. Due to what, that is what we must seek. It is definitely derived from the outside,” Iravanth said. He was looking upward at the sky, then, “Daksin-murti, we are phasing into Kapha. We have until ten o’clock tonight to revive your son. Else…” He cast a downtrodden look. “He has a steady pulse, too, which is a good sign.”

  “Yes, I understand.” The evening muhurta – a measurement of time, which is approximately forty-eight minutes – was now in Ajapāda, the Goat Foot. “It is inauspicious now, I understand. We shall wait a while for us to try it once more.” The next phase, the Ahir-Budhnya, the Serpent at the bottom, was an auspicious one.

  “Very wise you are, Daksin-murti.” That’ll give me time to think.

  The father of the boy sighed; ignored the compliment entirely. He walked past the kitchen, headed to the shelves where copper pots and plates and tumblers were placed. He managed a smile, just for an instant, as he acknowledged that the smaller pots, plates and tumblers were placed at the bottom shelves so that the ‘younger one’ may be able to reach it when needed. The practise seemed to have survived the past decade—Siddhanath had been four when Niranjana Ma outlined that rule. Daksin-murti grabbed a couple of items, which clanked when held together in his left hand, and he shuffled back to the courtyard.

  The darkness grew deeper, and the insects had commenced their buzzing and humming. Iravanth was facing Siddhanath, had his palms together and his eyes closed, chanting a prayer. The energies would need to be regulated for the body of a fourteen-year-old, and we need to hurl off whatever adverse agency is at work, at that energy level. An immense task, for we know not what is happening exactly. Oh, Gods Above! What is happening?!
/>   “We would need some water from the river, brother,” Iravanth said presently. “It is a very powerful source of Shiva.”

  Daksin-murti concurred with that statement. He, too, was a student of the Vedantic lore, and he had experienced and reviewed the act of sprinkling the water gathered from the Holy Ganga onto the corpses that were brought to Manikarnika Ghat. He understood the need for traditions, however, he was also witness to countless miracles that the river had professed. He knew there were domains beyond the physical, and that this was beyond logical reasoning and comprehension. Perhaps this is where Siddhanath was biding?

  “Yes, brother Iravanth. You ought to get your sons to fetch us some of the water. I do have some of it in the cistern yonder, but it has been some time since it was filled, and its effect may not be as forceful as required,” Daksin-murti said, while wondering why he had said ‘required’ when it was illusory, for neither knew what was actually required to be carried out to save the boy’s life.

  “At once,” Iravanth strutted off, bearing the proudness of being one of the few in Kāsi who has three healthy sons. Who could afford to have three healthy sons, to be precise. Daksin-murti always muttered his criticism in private. It was an abhorrent thing, pride. But, oftentimes, people would not be able to discern when pride ends and when envy begins. Oftentimes, it is truly obscure, and therein lies the true pitfall of all lost souls. Today, the lost soul is my son. I pray to all the Gods that he will not be lost for long!

  Daksin-murti could not ascertain how long he had been studying the countenance of Siddhanath, as Iravanth made an appearance at the scene again. “Here, brother! Apparently, the boys collected some of Mother Ganga’s waters just this afternoon. We have some time on our side!” he said, sounding upbeat, given the circumstances. His sons did not ensue, as was the custom of the sect of Brahmins: children were not be out after sunset.

  “Have we? Time?” Daksin-murti echoed his thoughts. “I hope you are right, Iravanth.” Darkness was enveloping Kāsi now, and the blowing of the conch shells as part of the Ganga Aarti could be heard – the Ahir-Budhnya.

  Just then, something appeared from the skies over the arable landscape just outside the house of Daksin-murti. It was an odd spectacle, and fortuitous that it should happen the way it did—but it did happen that way. An eagle, with its talons curved backwards to assist in its descent to the spot they were in, appeared, hauling something slender in its tightly-shut beak. It swooped low, gracefully adjusting its flight path toward the courtyard, and released its haul. It fell with a loud thud, suggesting that it was several kilograms in weight. And it started slithering instantly. A serpent.

  “Cobra!” Iravanth shrieked.

  “Quick! The boy!” Daksin-murti exclaimed in response. He grabbed a pot he had earlier procured from the kitchen, advancing towards the cobra. It, however, did not seem interested in harming anyone, most particularly Siddhanath, as it was wriggling away in the opposite direction of the assembly. It was obviously trying to save its skin. But the omen of the hour is getting perverse, stimulated further by the sudden appearance of this cobra. Many cultures have regarded serpents as a negative entity, notably due to its forked tongue—suggesting the deceitful nature of the creature. The feeling was that, if it could speak, it would undoubtedly cast truths with lies. As such, it was not to be trusted as a friend, nor could anyone deal with it in distant isolation as foe. It is nature’s depiction of treachery. And it showed up near my unconscious boy...

  With a singular thrust of his arm with the copper pot, he cracked the head of the serpent, killing it in a fraction of a second.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Siddhanath could not believe his luck—everything went smoothly! The snake and the eagle were a nice touch, though. It was elegant, in a sense. The Rogue did say that he had a ‘special treat for all those at home’, but this was taking it up a notch, into the dominion of unknown enchantments. However, it worked, all the same. The theatricals that were needed for this ruse to succeed were indeed elegant.

  He was just lying there, in the family hall where they usually have their meals together on the floor. There was ample space here, and there was the need for adequate ventilation for the fumes to be thinned out—his father and their neighbour had been burning incense sticks for the past four hours. It must be close to midnight now, Siddhanath estimated.

  He backtracked to the events that took place at the Rogue’s hut—the enthralling ritual, with the invoking of the entity that is Wrath and the incantations lasting several hours, while he was immobilised to a rigidity close to that of a corpse. And the mental communication with that entity (at least, that is what he had thought it was). It was a muted chatter in his mind at first, but then it gathered traction and the entity had become emboldened to reveal Itself to him. To his astonishment, Wrath looked like a honey bear; the only peculiarities that struck Siddhanath were that He had thick black fur, a snout and long arms, and He, too, was draped in a loincloth. The last bit almost made Siddhanath laugh. “Well, are you not a lucky one? He chose to show Himself to you. A feast for the eyes, my dear!” the Rogue grinned, though Siddhanath sensed envy in his deeply-set eyes, as the Rogue turned his head away to conceal that emotion.

  Siddhanath felt that time was greatly stretched while he was suspended in that state of paralysis. He had been analysing his situation, weighing the odds of eloping with Kausalya tonight. He also summed up Wrath’s character and intentions. Surely such a whimsical-looking being had to be magnanimous? Things will be well.

  The Rogue had taught him several mantras, though he had been warned that they were dark in their embellishment, which would assist him in his endeavour tonight; starting with one which had shaped the current situation. His heartbeat had been made to reduce to about a tenth of the normal waking rate, and his breathing had been so markedly prolonged that without the study by a skilled and seasoned hand, one would easily take him for dead. Siddhanath was astonished to discover that by reciting these mantras, the body shifts to form a certain order, establishing itself to a function that only the person who had recited said mantra would know.

  He had unearthed some of the ancient texts, within the runes that were housed at the underground vaults of the mandir he had been affixed to as a Vedic scholar, and he recalled having read of the basis of the science of sound, and its repercussions to the surroundings (which includes the human body, mind, and energy systems). The text had expounded that the natural state of existence is energy in motion, which seems to take on a rhythmic attitude, from the very small to the very large—everything was in motion. Everything had a birth, and everything will have to die. That is the law of creation. Thus, everything had to be in a state of dance, to expend the energies within and transfer it to the Brahman—the Ultimate Reality. The prompting factor for the recollection of this for him had been the allusion to the Shiva Tandav, the idea that everything is Shiva, and Shiva is in everything, and He dances ceaselessly to keep existence in a stirring sea of births and deaths. Such a beautiful way to depict creationism-ex nihilo.

  The text goes on, segmented by Trisbuth for each topic or subject matter: moving through the concepts of chakras within the human body; the law of Karma and the law of Darma; the physical observations of the energy structures (such as heartbeats, the process of peristalsis, and the regulation of hormones as well as several others which he could not recall) and the interconnectedness of one with all. This had been an aberrant concept for a teenager, merely years older than a child, to be able to grasp and to appreciate such knowledge. Siddhanath was sure that many adults themselves would not be able to comprehend the depth of these texts in their lifetimes. But he understood them, and he hungered for more of such lore.

  So, basically, what the chanting had done is to strike me at the energy level, realigning my internal systems. But he noted the rapidity of the change: it was amazingly quick, as though his organs had been awaiting the command for transition. He was also sure that his lungs had expanded in size, fash
ioned for the reduction in the intakes of breaths. However, his mental awareness had been heightened. His eyes were closed, but his mind was carrying out something odd. It was crafting a mental image with the data obtained from sound, particularly from the reverberations of the speech made by his father, the neighbour Iravanth Iyer, the clanking of pots in the kitchen, the sobs from his mother, the procession at the banks of Ganga. And the sounds made by the unseen insects and other nocturnal beings. This, too, must be an effect of the chant I had been taught.

  But a scent was evident, which had lingered from the Rogue’s hut and it had followed him here. It was a musky scent. He had been analysing this for the past several hours as well, and he was jubilant when he thought he had it figured out: it was the scent of a bear! More accurately, an odour of a bear with wet fur. Siddhanath relaxed somewhat, upon hitting on that knowledge. Wrath was around him, comforting him, letting him know that things will turn out well, giving him strength to remain silent and be in a state of patience (an onerous task for a teenage boy).

  An hour passed, and he lay there, unmoving. The time to act was nigh, and he had the process played out in his head several times over. I will need to get to the south-eastern realm of Kāsi, where I will meet Kausalya, just outside the Vinayaka Temple. We would then rush across the Ganga. She will be gentle with us, to be sure, for She understands our plight as young lovers! Just as She had presented Bhishma to the great king Shanthanu, Mother Ganga will grant us safe passage across to the other bank, and thence to our freedom to start a family.

  The hour of dawn is most symbolic to the Hindu culture, Siddhanath’s father would often say. The framework of rationale for this had now been long forgotten – or worse, had been put forth to the multitudes of those indifferent to that framework – but his father outlined several scientific formulations for the hour of sunrise. The gradual increase in temperature when the sun’s rays slowly compound in intensity, which in turn would heat up the veins and arteries that channels blood throughout the cardiovascular system of a human. Thus, one would be expedient in rising just before sunrise, and to bask in the warmth of the sun for several minutes, followed by some stretches of muscles and limbs. Another aspect his father always propounded was that of the gravitational pull of the moon and the sun at sunrise, which, much to Siddhanath’s perturbation, he could not fully soak in. He understood theorems and law such as gravity, but he failed to see its significance during dawn as opposed to the other hours of the day.