The Delirium of Negation

by Victor Mahn

  He made his way down the steps as quickly as he had climbed them moments earlier and now resumed his walk to the southern banks of the Ganga, just at the borders of the Panchakroshi Road. A single doubt flashed in his mind: whether Kausalya would be there, or whether she had not been able to muster the courage to flee from her family, into the arms of her lover. The doubt turned to fear, and he wouldn’t venture on the thought any further. Wouldn’t, and couldn’t. What will I do then? I didn’t venture on this thought as I had been confident of our flight from Kāsi together, hand in hand. But what if she does not turn up? How quickly my life could turn upside down, topsy-turvy? Heavens above and below! Do not fail me!

  Signs of the day breaking were evident - the sky was beginning to show pinkish hues. It was the winter season, and dawns happened earlier, and dusks came later. The calls of birds could be heard as well, but it was still not time for the reciting of the morning mantras and prayers at all the major altars about Kāsi. Thus, he still had the ability to manoeuvre without detection.

  Several thoughts ran through him, the chief of them being whether he would need to quicken his pace, to reach the Panchakroshi Road earlier than the agreed time. That would present several disadvantages: he would need to stay hidden until he could spot Kausalya, and the road is known as the entrance point into Kāsi, so many a bullock cart transporting pilgrims, merchants, visitors, and conscripts of the local Maharaj would be using it. Even those contemplating suicide would rather end their lives in Kāsi, and they prefer to come unnoticed themselves during the early hours.

  Siddhanath weighed all these elements, thought that it would be imprudent to hasten his arrival at the road. He would now need a sense of belief that the Rogue and his master, Wrath, would fulfil their promise; a belief that is not to be shattered. He felt his throat tighten, and the fear of the unknown constrict his chest. Belief. Hope. Faith. Three distinct words that give rise to a perception of acceptance that the unknown will be beneficial, that everything will come to fruition in the end. He could not hold on to that belief, as any boy of that age would. Belief, hope, faith...

  He thought of his mother then. About how she would be sleeping soundly now, thanks to the tranquilising agent that his father had administered—he had heard the conversation between the neighbour and his father amidst the sobs of his mother. I may not see her again, he thought. He wondered of the future of his family without him. About the arresting sadness of the loss, of them never knowing what had befallen him. He thought that he may write to his parents in several weeks, saying that he is alive and well and had started a family of his own in a land far south. That he had run off with Kausalya, the daughter of the Chief Priest of the mandir.

  His mind floated onto another realm: that of the erotic. It was a plane where he traversed occasionally, as he had ‘come of age’ about a year and three months ago. He thought that he would make Kausalya his wife by consummation. Of course, there would be the symbolic act of tying the three knots of the mangal sutra – the holy thread of marriage – around the neck of the bride by the groom. But the act of making love to his beloved Kausalya, that was something he had long dreamt and hoped for. I hope that when the time comes, I will not be clumsy and unsure.

  The sky was becoming brighter, and the path in front of him easier to navigate. He was at the street where the last stretch of residences stood, and beyond that was a flatland of grass. And even beyond that, on the far side of the Panchakroshi Road, were the designated tree under which Kausalya would most likely be waiting. Most likely, though I would rather have her running to me now…

  But there seemed to be no sign of her. Nor of any living thing surrounding the span of a dozen yards in any direction. He felt his heart skip a beat. Nervousness began to intensify within him, as he faced the fact that the adventure might have ended, even before it had begun. What shame! How…what will I do?

  At the horizon, he knew, were the fields where paddy and barley had been grown for several generations past. Kāsi has been known for its fecund lands, and that is a delineation of anything that is linked to reproductions, renewals, rebirths, and resumptions. The lush green stems amongst the fields were seen to be moving in waves with the oncoming winds. Siddhanath felt the coolness of the air, but he was anything but tranquil. He also knew that he could not be standing there for much longer, nor could he hide and observe from a post— there were no such places in this part of Kāsi. The road leads off to beyond the realms of the Holy City.

  The scene before Siddhanath seemed to become crisp and bright as the sun began to rise. This, too, he could see, at the horizon beyond the Panchakroshi Road. Kāsi will be abuzz with the activities of man and beast soon, and he would have to decide on a way forward. Right now. Decide! He could just walk home to his parents, and claim that after last night, he could not recall anything—of where he was or what he was doing, that everything was imperceptible. And that he had been called – no… summoned – to someplace which he could not define. And then he came to, and had been giddy for a while, and then decided…

  He heard some rustling on the plane below him, just several yards away. He crouched immediately, lest it was some pilgrim or… someone sent to locate him? He held his breath, tried tuning his senses in the direction of the levels below him, which, in these parts, were mostly strata. No sound came. He waited. And then, he was not sure if he had heard it correctly – but it positively sounded like someone was chanting. And… a female’s voice! He felt some life enter him at that, and he slowly got to his feet.

  He clicked his fingers and heard the voice halt now. He chuckled, for he knew that it must be her. He spoke now, “I know it is you over there, Kausalya. Whatever are you doing?” She responded immediately, “Oh… oh my God, thank God it is you!” Siddhanath saw her come up presently, panting and looking pale. “Oh, I was afraid! Terribly so! I was thinking of what I was to do if you did not show up!” she was literally shaking, as she held her mouth and nose with her cupped hands.

  “So was I, my dearest. I almost believed that you were not coming, and that all our dreams and… well, it’s all right now. You are here,” he said, holding her arm and drawing her hands away from her mouth. “And what were you doing, chanting? What was the chant about? It was faint.”

  “Oh, I was chanting the Triyambakam mantra, imploring the Lord Shiva for courage! You… you’ve no idea, how I felt when I did not see you at the tree! I just collapsed there, on the ground,” she said, still trembling. He embraced her and found that it was the first time that they were this close, the first time they touched. He felt intoxicated. This is the feeling that I want to feel, always…

  “I couldn’t think of going back… Oh… How would I go back? A girl, from the priestly clan, taking flight in the night… My father, he’d—” she started.

  “I know… I know. It is not the same for a girl. There are some… limits. You’ve breached yours. And you can’t go back there any more, Kausalya. That path is forever closed for you,” Siddhanath said. He assumed a more assuring tone, “We will go forwards, Kausalya. You and I, we have… a whole new life. We will be joyous and prosperous. And when we have firm footing in that life, we will come back to Kāsi.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Rogue was coming out of his quasi-stupor state, which always happened when he was in conversation with Wrath. Though he had always tried to impede the feeling of nausea whenever the nexus was over, he always failed. Always. It was Wrath’s way of testing his disciple’s solemnness. His signature. It was always to make one feel so sick to the gut, and that was always how He’d weed off the ones that are worthy and the ones that aren’t. He’d cause you to twirl with all your might, questioning your morality and limits. And then, He will break you. Always…

  He slowly cast his eyes open and stared dead ahead. And he saw… nothing. It was just after midnight, the hour at which Wrath would be most vivacious; and it seemed that was the time He took on the form of a sentient being. The dialogue between them would
always be about Him giving out instructions to the Rogue, and they were non-negotiable. Wrath adjured the Rogue on a task that would need to be carried out that very day. Non-negotiable…

  And in return, He would accord the Rogue with powers that bordered on the extravagant… powers that only the Demi-Gods should have. Wielding such powers are not for mere mortals, Wrath had said once. It is not that you are not worthy, mind you. But it is that you are not able to, as your physical composition is not structured in such a way as to be able to house and harness such power. It is like having two hearts in your body. Could you imagine them both beating at their own rhythm? How would you regulate the flow of blood? Wrath’s laughter was deep and ear-splitting, and the Rogue would often shudder when it came, for there was an undercurrent of malice with that laugh. Always…

  Tonight, however, a payment with blood was needed. That was the price, for the Rogue had neglected the alliance between them and had indolently attended to the tasks that needed to be done. The only reason that Wrath had granted him leeway for the past several months was because of the rewarding payment that the Rogue had given—which was far greater than what was requested. As a demon, Wrath was an entity of parasitic qualities. And that would mean that He required nourishment in the form of raw organs and blood from other living beings with consciousness. The Rogue outdid himself when he had presented Wrath with a kid that had been suffering from muscle tremors and was observed to be moving about in a circle when grazing at the grasslands where the Rogue had been settled for some time before stepping onto the borders of Kāsi.

  And it was during these moments that the Rogue’s fear of Wrath would be greatest. He would place the subject of sacrifice on an ornate formation he’d cast on the ground, with a small funerary-like pyre beside it, to present the impression that the sacrifice is a funeral. The Rogue would then invoke Wrath to come forth to take possession of the oblation. It was all carried out during midnight, and it was the only time when Wrath would take on a physical form, bear-like and menacing. He would come forth from the pyre itself, and the most fearsome part of it all was when He ripped the sacrificial object with His fangs, with blood exuding down His furry black body. He grunted endlessly during His feasting, and He seemed to take a liking for wriggling His head when attempting to tear flesh from bone. For the Rogue, it has always been a sight of shocking terror. Always…

  They were now not in Kāsi, but on a hunt. And the predator will always go to where the prey was hiding. So, they moved southward, to hotter climates. The time for a feasting is drawing nigh, and I would need to deliver! But what He is asking for… though I had agreed to it then, for it seemed to be a trivial thing. But now… when I would need to carry it out, I quiver!

  The Rogue had one limitation that did not play to his advantage: he could only travel after sundown. The side of darkness places such a limit, for everything that the Rogue is doing, even his very being, would need to be confined to darkness. Usurping supernatural powers without effort nor with the wisdom to harness them, does have a heavy penalty. The Rogue felt that he had not seen a sunrise, or been under the warmth of the sun, for about a decade now. And it was a cause-and-effect deal that he had made with Wrath: a decade barred from the sun, grants you a decade longer to live on this earth. Such was the trade-off for the alliance that they had between them.

  Thus, moving under the cover of night would mean that there would be a minimal number of travellers to hitch a ride with. And he would need to be cautious about food and water supply, and there are many poisonous creatures that are active at night. To be stung by a desert scorpion, for instance, would mean that his fate is sealed, regardless of his powers; he could not squeeze out every particle of poison that might find its way into his system. No, that is another limit.

  He stepped out of his hut, gazed at the stars. Theirs was a distant and ancient light, possibly one that was emanated even before the Earth came to be. There were the constellations—the scorpion was always the easiest to discern. This was not the lethal one, but the one who directs. And thence the Rogue got his bearings. He marked it in his head – south is where that tree is – and he went back into the hut, quickly gathered his personal effects, and arrowed out. He glanced back, chanted the prescribed spell, and watched the hut fade out to nothingness. It was one of the useful mantras he employed – the hut followed him, and in the moments before sunrise, he would have the hut placed back on a suitable spot with another chant.

  The goat path was not easily seen in such a night, without lunar aid. But his eyes had been adapted to such conditions for long years, and they adjusted quickly to this night’s exploits. He walked with a dreariness that suspended his rational thinking—that he should not make the walk tonight, that he should recast his hut and rest the night within it. He wondered of his existence, of how he had been living for the past ten years, since the day he took the pledge to serve The One Who Engulfs Anguish. His life was now all about walking, from village to village, and serving Him by presenting sacrificial offerings. And for the next ten years, he predicted that he would be doing the very same thing. What have I got myself into?

  He thought of the command that Wrath had given tonight. Of the entire scheme that the two of them had played thus far on the other two, who are the pawns of the game. They were the unwary travellers, and they would soon pay the ultimate price. Innocence is an aspect that increases as the age of the person in question reduces; it was an inversely-proportional variable. This seemed to be a universal law, and it could not be broken by anyone, including Wrath. Therein lay His limitations, and the Rogue was sure that others such as Kala Bhairav would have been brisk in pointing out that fact to Wrath.

  The Rogue pondered on the place at which Wrath resides. What is that place? And what does He do during the other times when we are not in conversation? He long had these sorts of queries but dared not ask Wrath the answers to them. The ancient lore describes that entities such as these take on energy formations when they are in the other realms. Physical manifestations only take place when they are traversing on this plane. What does He look like in that space?

  He knew that Wrath is on a permanent lookout for possible votaries, and that is how he had been earmarked and approached by Him, about a century ago, and in a land far off—a place of snowy mountains and long hours of daytime, where the men hunt moose and yaks, and the tribe drink water that has been mixed with raw alcohol out of casks (so that it does not freeze at temperatures close to absolute zero). That seemed like another life, another birth. And when the Rogue’s village had been attacked by vigilantes, Wrath had made an appearance beside him, on his deathbed, and awarded him a way out of a certain death. Now death has taken the form of a living hell for him.

  He caught a whiff of the two that he was seeking out. They are within a mile, he estimated. I should be quick about it. The deed would need to be done, and the sooner he could present them as sacrifice to Wrath, the better it would be. He felt himself wearied thin—the karma from carrying out such evil was finally catching up to him. And then there would be a price to pay on this front as well. But for this, I could never escape, even if I were to take on many thousands of births…

  He replayed the conversation he had with Wrath earlier. He had been ever more accusatory tonight and growled at the Rogue’s attempts to afford an explanation – I am not as energetic as I was when You found me! There was aggression in the growl, and in the entire conversation anyway. Then Wrath outlined his orders to the Rogue, charging him for the presenting of Siddhanath and Kausalya. But He seemed to take a special interest in the female; the Rogue was puzzled. And yet, that was Wrath’s nature—that of obscurity, and to leave much of his purpose unknown to his servant.

  But tonight, He had broken His rule, and divulged His needs, which brought the Rogue to his knees with horror and mortification—I would like the woman, for one is just forming within her womb! That is the most succulent thing to taste… one that I have not had in a while…

  CHAP
TER EIGHT

  Kausalya brought in the clothes from the lines outside, scampering as she did so. The monsoon winds had brought with them an indefensible rage to throw anything in its path to the side, and so she found some of their clothes on the grassy surface of their newly constructed shelter. She heard some chirping of chicks in a nest hidden from her sight, but she was sure that their mother would come by soon to roost there and give them warmth against the chilly winds.

  She dumped the pile onto the straw bed and adjusted her hair. She peered out, gauging the strength of the winds against the arrival of her husband. Oh my, I hope he hurries home… the rain will be here soon. Her elfin face had grown thinner, and her skin was a tone darker. She looked at the oval mirror they had purchased from the local market a few days ago. It was not large enough for one to see the reflection of one’s entire face, so she had to move about in several directions to get a picture of how she looked. I like the redness of my bindi, and it is at the precise centre of my forehead. She smiled.

  Her saree was thin, and she felt cold when some wind found its way through the panelled walls. She tucked the garment around her hips to under the layer on her right, then gently placed her palm on her swollen belly. She was six months into her pregnancy, and she felt fine. That is most crucial to me, Siddhanath did not make any reservations in telling her that, which was almost daily. He made it a point to get her a canister-full of cow’s milk once every two days; as that was what he could afford from working at the sandalwood fields. But he was not employed to carry out back-breaking work such as chopping down the trees himself. The field manager, Shri Devakar, observed the agility of Siddhanath, and his nimbleness, and so they had him tested out about a month ago. And the test was that he would need to climb a sandalwood tree, inspecting the health of its bark and leaves. If there are traces of sickness, and if the sickness is observed to be localised, then he is required to remove it with the tools that he will be carrying around his waist. Siddhanath proved to be one of the best climbers the manager had employed.