by Daljit Nagra
are happy sending ministers: Fire-God has indulged a junior
to heat stoves for yummiest pulses and gourds
and Water-God’s minister is being cheered en masse
each time he is nourishing the parched vats with wine.
Lord of the Underworld,
with his twenty eyes, is ever watching circumambient.
His ten heads beaming their tamarind smile,
his ten heads from a distance are dog-ugly indeed
for who on two shoulders wears ten heads?
CLOSE SHOT
and each face is film-star sexy
and with fangs projecting from his mouths
the madams all pun him, flatteringly of course,
Horny Boy!
Into this
partying and general mela
with no guilt and no harm taken
or self-reflection next morning,
runs Raavana’s
one beloved sister
Soorpanaka
caterwauling.
To which booms ten-headed Raavana,
‘BASTARRDDDDS YOOOO ALLL SHUTTTING UPPPP.’
In a decahedron out-of-tune chorus
at the sight of his even more tuneless kid sister.
Soorpanaka’s panic has been so terror accosting
that raksassy from the city
have been road-rushing to witness
a face flattened woman wailing for the lord’s pad.
Raavana, so shocked, spitting,
‘What the bastard matter is with your face, sister?
What fucker-mother-bastard fuck with you, sister?’
Chapter Minus Two: Lollipop Ogre
Rama, Sita and Lakshmana meet a dweller of the forest.
The undulatingly gharam sun across Dandaka forest.
And across it moving deeper and darker onward
seduced by sandalwood and suchlike aromas,
onward for a homestead
through the trackless red-burr bushes and brush …
Such trees they never before had seen
for the trees were wrapped fiercely around by creepers,
creepers sucking each tree’s squinge-breath.
The lakes deep and the water still as slate, chilled.
The birds phlegm-barking
whilst that sly blood-eyed cuckoo, the kokila, snuck its
eggs. Said Rama, ‘I hear a breath – is it poised to pounce?’
‘I am ready to
pounce back!’ added Lakshmana.
They were standing before
a giant-as-trees fellow with a headless torso.
His mouth was on his belly
and above the belly-head, a sole yellow eye.
The ogre was dressed in bloodied
tiger-skins sloppily patched. Poor stitchwork. In its hand
a pole
impaled with heads from two
wolves, three tigers and four lions!
The heads were
crammed on the top
like a juicy
but a bit drippy
lollipop.
The ogre licked the warm blood
with the tongue on his belly.
Knowing the onlookers would take a while
taking in his pell-mell
the beast had already pounced at Sita
and stuffed her under his spare arm.
Sita shrieked as she eye-ball’d
the dead heads in the monster’s other hand
and eye-ball’d the monster’s forehead winking-eye.
Monster to Sita, ‘You is beautipul. Beautipul!’
Then to amuse himself with the boys,
‘What, I, some huckster, hawker-wallah,
selling my drippy caboodle, you think? Not for sale!
You humans with matted hair is not in priest dress.
Who is you, with this rundy-randy?’
Rama was struck with shock so the ogre continued,
‘I am Viradha, a gandharva. We, my kind
dinner on raw, even cooked, man.’
The boys kept still for fear Sita might be killed.
‘I will make this rundy-randy my bride.
If you do not scram I will be drinking your blood
at our wedding service.’
Viradha bounded away with Sita. Sita begging,
‘Spare the princes. Drink only me.’
But Viradha was a cheeky gandharva, ‘I will be
drinking you too in darling lovemaking!’
Running after Viradha, the brothers shot arrows that
stuck in his back – porcupining him.
Tickled by these irritants, Viradha turned around,
‘I was granted a boon that I not be killed by weapons.
How you cubs kill me
with your girly figures?’
He dropped Sita to the floor and ran at the brothers.
Rama shot an arrow that split Viradha’s trident.
Viradha pulled out a sword
and the boys sword-fought Viradha.
Viradha was getting overwhelmed
by the virtuoso sword skills of the mortals.
He was impressed; so impressed he ran away.
But the boys were at him. They grabbed him
and sliced off
his arms. Viradha squirmed on the ground.
They punched him up pretty bad. Viradha was blood-guts.
But still breathing.
Lakshmana was trying to cease the squirming
so he could stab the eye in the ogre’s chest.
Viradha whined, ‘Who is you two, so hardcore?’
When he heard the name Rama, his soggy mouth said,
‘I was told by Wealth-God, Kubera, I only shed this
tortured body should I die at Rama’s hands,
this Rama who is gifted with worldly riches
that the sound of his name
miracles rebirth.’
Rama was flattered into perplexity, and enquired,
‘If you once lived in the heavens
how did you come into this …?’
‘I was cut to this form for being an upstart
who is so cheeky
that the great artist Ramba is happy
bedding him!
Kubera getting irked by my upstarting
cursed me so I became this poor monster.
I’m pleading, you bury me in a very deep pit.’
The boys questioned Viradha further
then after digging a pit filled it with Viradha bits.
They could hear Viradha’s soiled gross-glee,
‘This sick frame in a sick life …
I must again be worth … heaven!’
The brothers stood perplexed, but saluted one whose soul
evacuated eagerly
from its mocked
life – careering
in an upwards
bromine haze.
Chapter Minus One.five: Until Mahanirodhanibbana
Rama and Sita argue about the use of force.
‘… must you have come to the forest, Sita?
All about us, we are crowded by cruel hootings,’
said Rama, still spattered with Viradha’s blood.
But Sita, who had started the tiff, was sleeves up-rolled,
‘Rama, you will become hardened by all these killings.
Could guile or prayers not support us in this forest?’
‘Our warrior conduct insists I put out demons.’
Sita was calm, ‘Dharma demands relenting
one’s violence potential at all times. Do you need to cut off
quite so many limbs in the name of killing?’
‘I must send out a message to the forest demons.’
‘Should not war be properly justified?
You would not a falsehood utter,
nor, I know, you would not wrongly touch
another woman, so I assume you would fight
according to proper provokings and l
imits.’
‘But Sita, these raksassy, gandharva and arsoora
do not fight by our rules.’
Sita softening, ‘I sense our caste duty
is to destroy evil just as I sense
dry fuel bursts into flame when near a fire,
and that a warrior is ignited by a blade at hand.
Let me tell you a short tale, please, Rama?’
They sat cuddly against a branch as Sita spoke,
‘Long ago a sage who lived among birds and fruits
had his limit tested by the god, Indra.
One day the god changed into a soldier
carrying a sword. On his way to an ashram,
he left his sword with the sage.
At first the sage merely admired the studded sword
but soon the bright blade was like a temptress.
He said to himself, “What fine execution this will do
if in mighty hands.”
First he was merely touching it to feel its weight
then soon enough he found himself
chopping from high trees
bright fruits. Then soon carrying it willy-nilly.
When Indra returned to collect his sword
he saw, to his horror, all about the sage’s hermitage
a carcass gallery. Motley dead animals
whose throats had been cut in a spree
lay scattered about this once veggie.
Flies, guts and blood ubiquitous.
Indra was so scorned by the sage’s butchered
lusting soul
he sent him ek-dum
into the underworld!
Rama, perhaps your bow wielding
will shield your feelings from a lover’s slight
touch …’
‘Indeed, Sita, how wise are you.
I must always keep a pure mind up
albeit I must clean from this kingdom barbarity.’
‘I wish you will not interfere in every forest dispute.’
Rama looked towards the dozing heavens and said,
‘I promise, Sita, one day we will live
in that sphere where we are free as spirits,
free without bonds and attachments in that place known as
Mahanirodhanibbana.’
Sita smiled as she followed Rama
to their makeshift abode;
Sita carrying his bow and arrow.
Chapter Zero.one: The Goat Cannibal Killer!
A sage explains his recent conduct in dealing with two demons.
They went south and arrived at an ashram
to meet the … the great Sage Agastya.
It’s said if all the sagacity and spiritual penance between
the Himalayas and Vindhyas were placed on one scale
and Agastya on the other, the northern scale
would be tossed
upwards by his weight!
The sage looked tortured,
‘… a colony of us sages live nearby
and your fourteen-year tour in our midst
may support us but lately we been losing ourselves.
Rama, all type demons recently infested-pested
this formerly peaceful forest,
they rub their chummy-tummy
at the thought of eating sages dead raw.
I tell you Rama, if we sages were not bent upon pure peace
neither could the world survive our wrath
nor a single demon survive our slaying-playing.
But I had had enough of peace, I tell you!
To my shame, I lately ended a foul caper-shaper.
Too many sages have been wiped out
and we have been under threat for our lives.
I learned about a mad-bad goat business.
Two raksassy become fatty-boys on eating sages.
One raksassy, Ilvala, will pretend he is a sage
and then as a pretend-sage he befriends a real sage.
The other raksassy, Vatapi, will then show up
as a goat, as a bleating goat.
The sage and his new friend, Ilvala, will kill this goat
for jolly good din-dins.
When the goat has filled the bellies of the new chums
Ilvala will then suddenly bawl,
“Out now you please come, Vatapi, matey!”
At this racket-packet, the real sage
hears a bleating from his stomach
and then a hot feeling and straight his tummy
will rip a snip.
Before he knows it
his guts
will be stripped apart like two curtains pulled back
to unveil the actor:
he who was once a goat now becomes Vatapi again.
The dead sage is then din-dins for Ilvala and Vatapi.
Drat chum-buddy Dinnertime, I call it.
So what I do? I chucked in my praying.
I chucked it in and sought Vatapi.
When I found him I followed his pitter-patter:
O look, there is a gorgeous goat, he said,
why don’t we chase it … O let’s kill it …
Suchlike bunkum-pocus I “yes, yes, good idea” agreed upon
then we killed it, skewered it, cooked it.
Said Ilvala, “Not too much we cook it,
I like juicy meat,”
but already I burnt the goat a bit.
Then we were biting-shiting goat meat.
I chewed each shitey-bitey over hundred times.
Irked, Ilvala finally tried to rend me,
“Out now you please come, Vatapi, matey!”
He thought he’d make good din-dins with my doughty figure.
But no! No, no gut cutting I felt.
Nor no tummy burst or even split in my inner lining.
The risk I ran paid off. I had eaten Vatapi
a bit too pukka.
Not off-guard was I caught. I mocked Ilvala,
“What is it, my gut catch your matey’s tongue?”
He switched from benignant old sage to raksassy
with long poison claws ready-steady for me.
Till I looked him in the eyes
and with my red-flame look
I chewed him fine
into dust
powdering
upon a dry
leaf.’
The gutsy Agastya, ashamed of his own ‘warrior’ tale,
was consoled by Rama, ‘Peace is not on high.
It must be grafted with soiled hands.’
‘My dear Rama, I am breaching the word,
dharma, daiva, karma and so on so.
I must recover my former powers – beginning again
penance.’
Rama kneeled, saying,
‘We will pray for you. Then we must move deeper
for we are still too close to the forest borders.’
Chapter Zero.zero: Dear Diary
Sita writes about their new home.
‘… then once roaming under the nyagrodha trees what a feeling of watery coolness within the shade. Rama said these nyagrodhas are famed for housing a thousand elephants beneath their unending expanse. The forest is protection and primitive pain, for sure.
Even the vultures are primordial here. We sighted one such giant on a branch. It said, “Lord Rama, I was your father’s companion once and we were so close you will have heard it remarked: if King Dasaratha equals body then Jatayu equals soul to total a whole.”
Having been recently roughly touched about by poor tormented Viradha Jatayu’s calmness was good for my nerves! Jatayu glows from good feeds on ogre meals, and with his voice cut-glass he is excellently dashing.
What comfort he has served us. He said, “My Lord, you are imperilled here. Follow in my wide shading wings and I will take you to a safe life in Panchavati. It is a dark grove mingled with flame trees, trees safe from forest fires. Nearby, you will find plantain trees with their dessert banana; near too and fast growing the finest rice since its
bright seeds are sharp-tipped.”
After days, and a huge distance south from Ayodhya we arrived by the Godavari river, in Panchavati. We were struck by the stream wafting perfumes from the lotus and the grounds strewn with dharba grass for our garments. Rama used a word from his region, ‘cushy’ which he told me means ‘joyous’, then embracing me
he said, “How cushy I am Sita! How cushy you are always making me, always my Sita; and how cushy is the bounteous giving Godavari, and how cushy are the deer in their freedom roaming, and cushy too are the peacocks by the mountains whilst glowing crimson in tippy-tappy dance about the flowering cashew!”
Rama and I went cushy along the river, knowing full well our dear Lakshmana will have already killed a blackbuck for its meat and brought lotuses from the calm verges. We then made meat and flower offerings and prayers. Within days, at the tableland of rills, by a clear spring, Lakshmana had beautifully brought materials from our midst and built a solid house that was framed
with long bamboos and floored with grass. He wove the walls with chunky wood which he tightly lashed to keep the wind out. I watched him applying clay, like an artist at fast and efficient work. Like a seamstress with sequins, to dazzle our abode, Lakshmana laid peacock feathers intimately, one over the other. Then he took some wood ribbons and latched them over the feathers to secure the iridescent colours, which like a thatch, or a lit crown, became our roof. Rama simply hugged his Lakshmana. Lakshmana looking shy, “Such work is reward enough.”
