Mamte looked up into the sky at Jahiwal, God of the Western Wind, and scowled. His gargantuan stone face hung miles above the world. His lips curled into an “o”, his cheeks permanently puffed. Mamte relaxed her scowl. It wasn’t fair to blame him. He was only serving his purpose.
The pilgrims stared up at her. Their smiles had turned to looks of confusion. Mamte knew they were waiting for her to speak, but she had nothing to say. She’d only come here to test her fear of the hellfire.
“Everyone, pick up a handful of mud,” Mamte said, beginning a standard lesson.
One pilgrim turned to the man next to him and whispered. “Paha Byrat would’ve come up with a new lesson.”
“And her godsoul doesn’t burn as brightly either.”
They both shook their heads.
Mamte made note of them. “Feel the weight of it in your hands.”
Each pilgrim dipped the mud three times, testing its weight.
“You two,” Mamte said, pointing at the doubters. “You are guilty of the sin of faithless doubt. Is the mud heavier? Can everyone feel the weight of their sin in their own hands?”
One doubter elbowed the other.
“Yes, Goddess,” the pilgrims said. “Thank you for the lesson.”
The pilgrims filed past her and climbed into the wagon. The driver tapped the elephant on the right ear with his stick and it pulled the wagon away. The high wooden wheels left deep ruts in the mud.
Mamte heard a squishing sound and turned back toward the edge. Within the messy gashes of the pilgrims’ footprints squirmed a naked, armless, legless man. He inched his way toward the edge.
“You there,” Mamte said. “What are you doing? Stay away from there.”
He inched forward, his muddy buttocks flexing, and the bumps of his spine jutting as his back curved upward.
“Stop!” Mamte said. “I command you to stop!”
He got so close to the edge that the top of his head pushed a lump of mud over the edge.
Mamte charged forward, grabbed the short stump of thigh that served as his left leg and dragged him back.
He thrashed, leaving a ragged swath in the mud. “Let me go.”
“No.”
He let out a stream of urine and Mamte let go. He splashed down into the mud, flipped onto his stomach, and started toward the edge again.
Mamte grabbed his thigh again and lifted him up. Clumps of mud fell from his lank black hair.
“Leave me be,” he said. “It took all of my strength to get here.”
“Strength better applied to more noble things.”
He grunted and his member twitched, but his bladder was empty.
“How could you be so cruel?” Mamte asked. “The weight of your sin could’ve toppled the city.” She knew she was exaggerating, but she wanted to get through to him.
“Not with you here. If the city had threatened to fall you could’ve made the last change and saved the city.”
“Instead I saved you.”
“Why? You look like you’re ready to take your place below. Why deny yourself a place of honor in the Stone Pantheon?”
“Why deny yourself the honor of life?”
“That’s just a clever dodge to avoid the question.”
“So was that.”
“Can’t you see that there is no honor in my life?”
“There is no dishonor in either your poverty or your deformity.”
“Easily said by the beautiful woman who’s been a goddess her whole life.”
Mamte squeezed his thigh. He squealed and contorted like a fish on a hook.
“I spent a year in a hovel in the Funma district,” Mamte said. “I let every man, woman, and child suckle at my breast. None of them went hungry that year and I was proud to do it.” Her time as the Comforting Mother Goddess had been the hardest year of her life, but it was a vital step on her path.
“Only a year?” His teeth were yellow and a few of them were missing. “You did so by choice and then chose when to stop. I was born this way. I had no choice.”
Mamte nearly threw him over the edge. She was the goddess. She gave the lessons. She asked the questions. “Your anger is like a filthy stink emanating from your body. It sullies everyone around you.”
He smiled. The dried mud around his mouth crackled off. “You see. All the more reason to let me die.”
“I have a different solution.”
“What?”
“You need a bath to cleanse you both body and soul.”
He screamed in protest and tried to wriggle from her grasp. She held him at arm’s length and headed into the city.
Workers, knee deep in the rice paddies, called to each other as Mamte passed. They left their places and splashed to the side of the road, smiling and bowing in turn.
Mamte basked in their adoration. Her steps touched down on the hard-packed dirt road in perfect time. Showing everyone that if one walked a perfect path, one would have a perfect life.
A child stepped up onto the road. Her blue sari was soaked to the waist and she had flecks of rice chaff in her black hair. She bowed. “Mamte, Goddess of the Graceful Step, is this a new lesson?”
Mamte stopped. “What do you mean, child?”
The girl looked back at her family. They exchanged confused glances.
“Why are you carrying Mudworm? Are we supposed to learn from your example?”
The man in Mamte’s hand tensed.
Mamte examined him. The name fit. Dried mud still clung to his body, clustered in his hair, armpits and crotch. And he’d squirmed through the mud like a worm.
“The lesson should be obvious,” Mamte said. “Isn’t it a sin to walk past a man like this,” she held him up, “and deny him the succor that he needs?”
The people whispered to each other, making observations and wondering how to answer the question.
The little girl smiled. “Isn’t Mudworm’s body punishment for the sins committed by the two who came together to make him?”
Mamte shook her head. Ever since the rest of the world had fallen into hell, a victim of its own excesses, the gods of the holy city of Vishkapur had figured out that man’s sins had weight, and had preached against them. While most of the lessons were clear, misconceptions often developed within the populace. They expected to see the physical manifestations of sins all around them. And why wouldn’t they? All one had to do was go the edge and look down at hell.
“Even if that were true,” Mamte asked. “Is that his fault?”
The girl looked at her feet.
Mamte knelt near the girl, resting Mudworm on her thigh. “Does your family own any cattle?”
“Yes.”
“Have any of the calves ever been born lame?”
The girl bit her lip for a moment, thinking. “Yes.”
“Do you blame its parents for its deformity? What sins do cows hold in their hearts?”
“But, Goddess.” The girl bowed. “He isn’t a cow. He’s a man. Man can speak and think and build things. Animals are innocent, man isn’t.”
Mamte reached out and stroked the girl’s face, impressed by her quick thinking. The girl’s family cheered. They’d talk about this for days to come. Their family had been blessed.
“When a child is born, it comes into the world innocent and clean,” Mamte said. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” the girl said. “But after a baby is born, its parents can pass along their sins in the way they bring it up.”
“I never knew my parents,” Mudworm said. “They abandoned me after I was born. I was passed around from house to house. Everyone shared the burden until they decided that I was old enough to take care of myself, and then they threw me out.”
“You see?” Mamte asked, but nobody answered. “You all helped to raise him. The sins you passed to him as a child are yours. You are all responsible. But don’t worry. I’ll carry your burden from now on.”
Mamte stood and clutched Mudworm to her breast like a baby, before wal
king away. The people crowded onto the road behind her, arguing about the meaning of what she’d said. Some of them fell into step behind her.
They passed out of the farmland. As they drew near to the city the road turned from hard-packed dirt to white cobbles. Two oxcart ruts ran in parallel lines and Mamte made a game of keeping her steps within one of them. Every step fell gracefully into the exact center of the rut. She heard groans of frustration and arguments behind her as the farmers who’d followed her tried to keep their feet within the rut as well.
Soon the blue clay hovels of the Funma district stood to their right side and the Market district stood to their left. Word of Mamte’s coming flowed through the crowd and everyone turned to watch her pass, bowing and calling out to her, asking for blessings.
The people who walked the oxcart rut behind Mamte started a debate about whether or not they needed to carry paupers like Mamte. Arguments became louder when one of the people plucked a pauper-child from the side of the road and clutched him to her breast. The child’s mother gave chase, screaming for help. Old beggars held up their hands, offering themselves to the holy procession.
Mamte laughed. People always blundered their way toward the meanings of godly lessons, getting it wrong most of the time. She never helped them. Enlightenment came from discovering things for one’s self.
Now that they were in the city proper, the sweaty press of bodies closed in on Mamte and her pilgrims. Women wore sheer, bright saris trimmed in gold thread, and many wore rings in their nostrils and earlobes. Men wore either homespun dhotis wrapped about their waists with the ends tossed over their shoulders, or ankle-length shirts and pants. Brass pipes had come into fashion, so sweet, tangy smoke spiced the air.
Street side hawkers offered pungent curries with stacks of chapatti bread for dipping, garlands of garlic or dried chilies, and copper bowls of steaming rice and vegetables.
Buildings of the central district were connected by high, narrow archways held up by fluted columns. Tall spires, topped with bell-shaped domes rose up into the sky.
But one structure dwarfed them all. The Temple of the Stone Pantheon rose hundreds of feet into the air, and upon its many ledges were statues of the gods holding up the city.
She remembered the first time she’d gone to the temple. Sitting in the library on a chair so high that her little girl legs couldn’t reach the floor, reading the words the gods who’d come before had left for the gods that came after, and learning how to use the power of the godsoul. She’d gone back several times, but had added little to their wisdom.
Mamte stopped. Her statue stood unfinished. The stone limbs blocky, the face undefined, the legs still a chunk of rough stone. A dirty child crouched in the shade beneath it. The child poked at Raja’s forgotten chisel with a filthy toe.
She looked for Raja, the sculptor. He clung to a ladder, a brush in hand, cleaning the dust off the statue of Paha Byrat.
Passersby noticed Mamte and stopped to see what would happen.
Eventually Raja turned and saw Mamte. He flinched, almost falling off the ladder, before descending and hurrying over to her.
“I’m glad that you’ve come,” Raja said, his eyes flicking nervously to her unfinished statue. He brushed the dust from his dhoti. His face was wide, with prominent cheekbones, and his beard was thick and curly. “I need more time to study you, before I can sculpt you to perfection.”
Mamte wished that she’d taken another way through the city. The embarrassment darkened her mood. “No. My beauty is memorable enough.” She waved her hand at the pilgrims. “And I’m in the middle of a lesson.”
“Oh, my apologies, Goddess,” Raja said, bowing. “I’ll return to my work so that you can return to yours.”
Mamte led her pilgrims through Vishkapur to the lake whose waters lay within the open mouth of the goddess Sarianidi; her face upturned toward the heavens. Children jumped from her thick stone lips into the water and fishing boats dropped their nets out in the deeps above her open throat. Sailboats tacked to and fro across the lake, blown by Bailash, Goddess of the Eastern Wind; whose gargantuan face was obscured by clouds.
Mamte stepped into the shallows created by Sarianidi’s submerged teeth, letting the waves swirl around her calves.
“Keep me away from the water,” Mudworm said. “I can’t swim.”
Mamte laughed and held him up. “You tried to jump into the fires of hell and now you’re afraid of drowning.”
“I would’ve been burned to ashes instantly. It would’ve been a clean death. Drowning is slow. It gives you too much time to think about what’s happening.” He began shaking. “Please, get me away from here.”
“Haven’t you ever taken a bath?”
“I blundered into a mud puddle when I was a child and almost drowned. Everyone gathered around to watch me scream and flail, but none of them helped me. I was such a burden, why would they? I heard them talking about how much of a sin it would be to let me die, and whether it was worth it to save me. When my strength gave out and my face went under for the last time, someone fished me out. They named me Mudworm to remind me that they saved me, to remind me how much of a burden I am.”
“What’s your real name?”
He looked away. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie. It makes the world heavy.”
He turned back and stared into her eyes. “I’m not lying. I don’t know.”
“Maybe I’ll come up with a new name for you after I wash the mud away.”
“No,” he said, his eyes wide with panic. “Please.”
“I won’t let you drown. Don’t you trust the word of a goddess?”
“Yes. But I still don’t see the point.”
“Are you afraid of being clean?”
“What difference does it make? If you wash the mud from my skin I’ll still have the filth of hate inside me.”
“We’ll wash your insides next.”
“Why are you doing this? You’re so close to your final transformation. You have other things to think about.”
“I know. But, I need to leave the people with a final lesson.” Mamte gestured to the pilgrims washing paupers in the water nearby.
“The Funma district will benefit from your lesson for about a week, before the people forget and go back to ignoring the problems around them, go back to ignoring the weight of their sins. You’re just delaying the inevitable. Someday Vishkapur will fall.”
“But not today.”
Mamte knelt in the water. Mudworm screamed when she dipped him in. He thrashed and the water turned brown with mud. She held him tight, and whispered soothing words to him, while cupping handfuls of water and letting it rinse the mud away.
***
Bodies writhed against each other on the padded floors of The House of The Crimson Orchid. Moans and gasps of ecstasy echoed through the room and the air was thick with jasmine-scented smoke. Heavy iron lanterns hung from the ceiling inset with amber glass, shedding a comforting golden light.
A long, rectangular dais sat in the middle of the room. Mamte had lain there on her stomach, naked, for a year. The center of attention. The Goddess of Unattainable Lust and Longing. The perfect curve of her ass defied the calculations of every mathematician in Vishkapur. Though they never tired of taking her measurements.
Mudworm, freshly shaved and barbered, lay on an enormous silk pillow. His chin bore a thick yellow callus, and his neck was broad with muscle. He’d used them to inch forward his whole life. Thin eyebrows arched over his dark, deep-set eyes. A tailor had trimmed away the sleeves of his shirt and sewn the holes shut, leaving it long enough cover his genitals.
Mamte swept her hand past the line of women standing nearby. “Choose.”
“I can’t,” Mudworm said.
“Why not? It’s why we’re here and it’s what they do.”
Mudworm shut his eyes and turned away.
“Why won’t you choose?” Mamte asked.
“You said that after cleaning the out
side of my body that you wanted to clean the inside as well. How will this help?”
“You are full of negative emotions. Before you can achieve serenity, we need to purge you. There’s no better way than this.”
“I can’t do it.”
Mamte leaned forward and put her hand on his thigh. Mudworm tensed. The front of his shirt stood out like a miniature tent.
“You see,” Mamte said. “It works fine.”
“That’s not what I meant. Look at their faces. They’re all scared I’ll pick them.”
Mamte turned. All of them had smiles on their faces. “They seem eager enough to me.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. They’re all eager to please you, but they see it as a sacrifice.”
Mamte stood, towering over the women. “Is this true?”
The women fell to their knees and touched their foreheads to the floor. The one at the end spoke.
“Yes, Goddess, I would lay with him to please you, but not to please him.”
“And what if I said that I wouldn’t be pleased unless you please him for his sake alone?”
The women sat up and exchanged glances.
The one at the end said, “Please forgive me, Goddess. I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Fine,” Mamte said, slipping out of her sari. “I’ll do it then.”
Mamte searched her inner aspects for the power that came with being the Goddess of Unattainable Lust and Longing. It lay deep below the surface, five layers underneath the Goddess of the Graceful Step.
Her nipples hardened and her face and chest blushed red. Sweat glistened on her skin and her breathing slowed. Everyone surged forward, all of them forgetting their lovers.
“No,” Mamte said, holding up a hand. “None of you deserve me.”
They screamed in protest.
“Do you see the gifts that I offer?” Mamte asked them. “Can you feel the sweet ecstasy of longing?”
They answered as one. “Yes, Goddess.”
“Then stand and watch while this man receives my gift.”
Mudworm nearly disappeared under Mamte’s body when she lowered herself onto him. Pinkish, vibrating waves of sensual energy emanated from them. A low hum pulsed in time with their breathing. Tense and resistant at first, Mudworm soon lolled back onto the pillow, his hair nearly hanging to the floor, his mouth hanging open. Sweat glistened like glass beads on Mamte’s surging back.
Ruined Cities Page 15
