The Last Days of Kali Yuga

by Paul Haines

  He advanced through the flames, the fat melting from his body, as I retreated.

  I had never been Prahlad. I was Holika.

  I leapt from the balcony.

  #

  I staggered naked into the street as flames consumed the hotel. Firelight flickered in the sweat on my body. Rivulets of red and blue and yellow burned away as they merged with the blood streaming from the gashes on my chest. There was no longer any dye; my skin had become gulal. Throngs of people lined the street, bodies pressed close. Black faces, brown faces, white and sunburned, cooked like leather and baby skin. The thud of thousands of feet pounding the earth, the incessant, rhythmic stomp of the mob.

  Harry's laughter rose with the crackling flames, until I could no longer tell if they weren't the same, a roar crashing inside my head. I dared to glance behind. Harry strode through the fire, melting, shifting, transforming girth into height with every step. Hiranyakashyap walked again, Asura king of the underworld, cruel and ruthless. His eyes glittered, as did the scimitar slicing the air around him. The rings on his giant fingers shone and sparkled, refracting the rays of the dawn sun.

  'Another year, Holika!' he shouted. 'Another year!'

  I tripped and sprawled in the dust. My chin crunched and teeth snapped down onto tongue. Clambering to my feet, I spat out a mouthful of blood. It hit the dirt with a puff, a listless rolling of once-life coated in dust.

  Beneath the roar, the slow-boiling chant of the crowd: 'Holi! Holi! Holi!'

  They pressed closer, funnelling me towards the far end of the street. I swung Holly's blade before me and the throng leapt back, hissing, then closed in again. Pushing me, driving me forwards.

  A water balloon exploded near my feet. Blue dye splashed the dirt. Steam rose from the earth. I ran, my vision blurred and stinging. Another balloon arced through the air, splattering my legs. Another hit my back as hard as stone, rupturing acid. I screamed and gagged on the blood in my throat. A flurry of balloons burst on me, my head, my groin doused in liquid fire. I tried to shield my face. More dye rained down and I ran forwards again. I could no longer hear Harry, only the thunder of the crowd.

  'Holi! Holi! Holi!'

  Holi!

  Cow dung hurled from the mass, striking me on the side of the head. Soon dung flew from all sides; fresh, wet, and cloying; hard and stale, cutting edges into my flesh. The crowd surged closer and bowls of blood were upturned, stinking coppery swathing heat.

  I ran.

  Chicken heads, feet, beaks, and feathers flew through the air.

  'Holi! Holi! Holi!'

  Intestines, stomachs, livers, organs, flesh.

  They were on me; hands clawed and tore. I swung the blade again, scything a path ahead of me towards the lane leading to the lake.

  If this lake is salvation, where do you think the sin is washed to?

  I could hardly breathe; the air tasted thick, like butter rancid from the sun. The crowd seethed closer, fists pumping into the air.

  One face, one chant.

  'Holi! Holi! Holi!'

  Flames swallowed the hotel and murderous clouds billowed into the morning sky. The stalls along the street blazed, fire leaping from house to house. Harry was nowhere to be seen. The crowd advanced slowly, forcing me down the lane.

  I knew what they wanted. I knew where I had to go.

  The lake caught the eye of the morning sun, the water a shimmer of flame and sparkle. The ancient palace of Hiranyakashyap loomed over the ghats, its stone walls bulging impossibly, bullying the neighbouring buildings. Lights burned brightly in the once-deserted arches. Shadows of thick-limbed beasts fell over the massive tiles. Laughter and screaming echoed from within the palace walls.

  The crowd urged me up the steaming ghats. The cracked steps sizzled the soles of my feet. The pain helped to focus, to drive. Up and up, to the lip of the lake. The surface churned.

  Harry, now an oiled column of muscle purged of fat, stood in the palace entrance. He thrust the scimitar into the air with every chant.

  'Holi! Holi! Holi!'

  The sun raced into the sky, burning away the clouds to sear the land. The lake hissed and heaved.

  If I opened my mouth to swallow the water, to drink my sins, I would wake up. I'd be lying in my sweat on the hotel bed. Hot flushes and chills. Harry would speak to me of delirium and offer me pills. That is what I wished for.

  But there would not be that awakening. The lake offered salvation, but the sins stayed in the water, always in the water. And when I swallowed, the lake would reveal my past lives in this death. That I knew.

  The demon demanded to be set free. An awakening after all.

  For I am Holika and I shall open Vishnu's throat and Prahlad's veins, bathe in your blood and bring down the rains.

  I began to drink ...

  ***

  Afterword: The Festival of Colour

  I happened to be in Pushkar, India when Holi, or the Festival of Colour as it is also known, was celebrated by people throwing coloured powder and coloured water at each other. The myth it is based on is also the myth running through this story, of Prahlad defeating the demoness Holika through his devotion to Vishnu.

  I hit the streets of Pushkar with my posse, all of us armed with bright dyes and waterbombs, and we strode through town like a dishevelled version of the Magnificent Seven. The town's kids were waiting for us, oh yeah, were they waiting. Within an hour we were wet rainbows retreating to the safety of our tourist hotel, with its broken glass topped walls and shotgun guard. I didn't notice any Indian women participating, only men and children. I remember one young American girl surrounded, trying to cover her head with one arm as she was bombarded by the children while trying to fend off the men casually groping at her breasts beneath her shirt. I asked her if she needed help but she was determined to handle it herself. It wasn't only the town's kids who were waiting for us, oh no.

  Holi can become something much worse than that. Pushkar is a sacred town and no alcohol is allowed. Instead, there is plenty of bhang—hashish and big thick chunks of it in yoghurts, smoothies, cake, what you need I make for you. The bhang provides a much mellower experience of Holi for the ignorant traveller. In the towns soaked with whiskey, violence is not uncommon and groped breasts a preferable alternative for many a tourist than what can and does happen.

  I loved Pushkar, even if I spent the first two days huddled on the toilet floor covered in diarrhoea and barely able to move. On the third day, I rose to discover Pushkar in the grips of Holi, and I embraced it.

  This was the last of my backpacker horror stories. I have more of them, but have been reluctant to write them. I don't know why, perhaps the fear of being typecast. (Ha! I already have been). I am still unhappy with the ending of this story. I have rewritten the last two pages probably a dozen times, and I feel something is still missing from the ending. I've asked and asked, but nobody has been able to tell me what that something is, let alone that it was missing.

  ***

  Burning from the Inside

  Now

  I'd like to say I feel unsettled here, but I don't.

  From my hotel room I can see the river Torrens snaking through the park, the lush of leaf in contrast to the desert sands that lap at the shoreline this city makes. The sun is settling on the horizon, finally a thing of beauty rather than the raging father in the sky, now its urgency is almost spent. One can imagine the river, that gurgle of water, a searing temptation for the heat bursting forth from the dead heart of this red island continent. A thirst to be quenched? Or something to be destroyed, the last bastion of hope holding back the inevitable conquest that shapes this dry land? Ornate spires reach for the heavens, dozens of them, over trees, nestled between crossroads and office buildings, the cross of Christ thrust up bold and true. One only has to glance in any direction to find the house of God here. From this spot alone I spy the Holy Trinity, Scots, St Patrick's, St Peter's, Christ's, Brougham Place and Immanuel. And here I am. In the City of Churches. Adelaide
. My new home for the foreseeable future. The murder capital of Australia.

  My window looks towards the west, over the grand boulevard that is North Terrace, a street lined with massive sandstone monuments—libraries, museums, art galleries, parliament—proclaiming the greatness of the only settlement to be founded without the stain of convict blood. These buildings humble the rest of the city, not so in size but in grandeur, as if they were built for a time when the streets prospered and the anticipation of unbridled growth reigned. For an Adelaide where the young didn't leave as soon as they could, and the old stayed not to die.

  If my room were on the other side of the hotel, I would see darkness rushing from the east, for once the sun descends beneath the lip of the desert, night blankets the city. And so, soon, it will be time to leave my room and explore the streets. To see if the city lives by night as it does, barely, by day.

  I shower and masturbate listlessly into the drain. The life that spills onto the floor is quickly cooked and hot water tears it into swirling strings of muck. I always do this before I go out. Helps me to quell any premature urges—to keep some modicum of control.

  I dress and take the elevator down to reception. The concierge approaches with a friendly smile and small pleasantry. With his well-groomed body, sharp and spick, he urges me towards the restaurant.

  I decline. 'Where's a good place to go in the city?'

  'Ah,' he nods effortlessly. 'East Rundle Street has a good selection of cafes and restaurants, you know, if you like the café sort of thing. It's just around the corner, just after the mall ends. Where are you from, sir?'

  'Melbourne, originally.'

  He grins and laughs something polite. 'Ah, the Paris of the south. Well, the East End's not quite your Acland or your Brunswick streets, but the food's good and the prices affordable. Chinatown is not far from there either, but,' he grins again, 'if you've been to the one in Melbourne ...'

  'Sounds fine. How do I get there?'

  He shows me a tourist map—the city centre is only a small grid—and offers it to me as I leave. I decline. I don't think this place is big enough to lose myself in.

  I take a small piss-stained and stinking alleyway near the hotel and emerge into the neon porn of Hindley Street. It's not like Sydney's King Cross—there are no hookers, the pimp's menace is noticeably missing, and pushers are nowhere to be seen. Club X, the McDonald's of Australian porn, proclaims 'Cyber Sex here!'. Black doors with red fluoro lead to dark hallways for Gentlemen's Clubs. Mostly, though, pubs advertise live nude dancing with the allure of pokies. It seems the plague of poker machines has decided to nestle comfortably in this part of town. It shouts louder from the signs than silhouettes of long legs and pert breasts. And what could be better than a bit of tit, a cold beer and a pull—not on your cock, but on a pokie machine? Or so it seems. At least these places have patrons; the niche restaurants and bars along this stretch of road look decidedly forlorn.

  A scraggly-haired guy who looks in his late thirties staggers towards me. 'You goddenny blowie, mate?' Stains on the shirt stretched over his paunch are stale. 'Caarrmon, mate, just some fucken blowie, fer Chrissakes!'

  A young drunk, standing sentinel over an old drunk collapsed in a puddle of piss, howls into the night as I pass—some wordless, tuneless sound that had perhaps once been a song he'd known in better times. A scrawny middle-aged Aboriginal man argues with his haggard-looking wife over cigarettes as they enter through a doorway crowned by a TAB sign. I pause in the doorway and glance in. A reflection in the mirror over the bar shows a woman gyrating against a pole. She's wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt. An old song blares from the pub. This is not my beautiful wife, this is not my beautiful life. I wonder how this can be considered a song for erotic dancing then realise no one really cares. They're just waiting for her to get her gear off. The singer wails again. How did I get here? The dancer's young and bored, and it looks like she's going to disappoint her customers. Her clothes are staying on.

  This is the red-light district in the City Of Churches. Tame, really ...

  How did I get here?

  #

  St Kilda—Before

  'Nah, I grew up in Brisbane.' He takes another slug of whiskey and coke. He's dressed in black, with soft, expensive-looking leather shoes. Beads have been braided into several strands of his long, black hair. A spidery hand, dripping with ornate, silver rings strokes his goatee. 'Came here about four years ago.' He laughs. 'Usually the other way round. All the Melbournites are heading north for the sun. Me? I like the dark.' He offers me his glass again. 'You sure you don't want a drink?'

  'No thanks.' I'm waiting for the girl I was kissing in the pub to come back from her bedroom. I'm hoping she's making herself more presentable for the rest of what the evening has left.

  'St Kilda's got this vibe, you know,' the drinker continues. 'An amazing sort of vibe.'

  I can't remember his name. I'm not sure the girl I'm with introduced us. I guess that means I'm disposable and that suits me fine. I can't remember her name either. Meeka? Mica? Michelle? Who knows? I cast a glance towards her doorway. She told me she'd be back in a second. Should I just go in?

  A dreadlocked girl passes a joint from a tired beanbag she and her boyfriend are nestled in. I pass it straight to the whiskey drinker who's changing the CD. The Church's "Magician Amongst The Spirits" resonates eerily into the lounge room from speakers hidden in crammed bookshelves sharing space with statues of Buddha and Chinese dragons, crystals, incense burners and paraphernalia for smoking.

  Her door is still shut. How long's it been? Ten minutes? Is that too long?

  'You been living in St Kilda long?' The drinker washes down the smoke with his drink.

  'About a month.'

  'Not long then. Enough for first impressions only. What do you think?'

  'Seems pretty cool. Good pubs and cafes and things. The beach is a bit rough.'

  The girl in the beanbag laughs, a smooth smoky sound. 'Too many needles.'

  The drinker swallows the contents of his glass and refills it, more whiskey than coke. 'And what else?'

  I glance at her door. It's painted a seductive green, the brass door handle shining, calling my hand to turn it. 'I dunno.'

  'She'll be a while, mate,' says the drinker. 'Micana likes to take her time. This place is more than just pubs and restaurants. It's more than a beach. Why did you come here?'

  'Micana. She invited ...'

  'Not here, mate, not to this house. To St Kilda.'

  'The drugs, the prostitutes ... you know, why everyone else comes here.' I laugh and the drinker smiles politely, though the edge of his smile waits for the real answer. 'I heard it was a good place to be. All the travel guides say to check it out. Lots of people. Like you said, it's got a good vibe.'

  'Why do you think?'

  This isn't going the way I thought it would. Micana's door is still shut and I'm stuck talking to some bohemian 'intellectual'. I shrug.

  The dreadlocked girl exhales a blue cloud between me and the drinker. The cloud shifts and swims, curling in swirls to break across the ceiling. Tiny stars glow beneath the dissipating smoke, where little moons and planets rise, an artificial constellation glued to the ceiling.

  'What about all this?' the drinker indicates the incense and crystals.

  'Sure, there's a lot of that around here. Lots of yoga and massage. Spiritual healing, that sort of thing.' I don't know if he's for or against it though. If he lives here then maybe I should stay tight-lipped. 'Good energies, right?'

  'Ever felt drawn to a place?' The drinker asks. 'Ever wondered why all these spiritual—shall we say magical—things congregate in the same place?'

  A soft breath of perfume and an arm slips round my shoulder as a warm body snuggles in against me on the chair. Micana strokes my cheek with a gentle finger and smiles.

  'You talking about your magical nexus again, Dave?'

  'A nexus?' I ask.

  'Don't get him started,' Micana says.


  'A nexus is a connection.' Dave takes another slug; he's started already. 'And St Kilda is one of them. And it's not just sweetness and light, it's not all that Moonstar massage and crystals and dragons and meditation shit you see down Acland St. Sure, that's part of it, but it's only a part. You heard of Aleister Crowley?'

  I haven't, but I don't get a chance to answer.

  Micana whispers in my ear, her hand inside my shirt. 'Come into my room. Let's play.'

  #

  Now

  The river Torrens slithers past the zoo and Adelaide Oval, beyond the airport to spill into West Beach, where the water is unseasonably warm this summer. A few minutes south lies Glenelg beach, where the first South Australian colonists landed in 1836. A site steeped in historical interest, a beach famous for its gentle waters and clean sand, where predators lurk a little further out in the deeper waters. Shark attacks are not uncommon in such places, but this beach in particular is famous for other reasons. Perhaps famous is not the right word. Children go missing here.

  Dusk falls late this time of year, the sun still high, the early evening softening its blows, allowing people to spill out from the four-star hotels, the seafood restaurants and noisy bars onto the warm sands where the water sucks at the shore. The skins adorning the sands are mostly white, though a tan cannot hide the ancestry within the genes. The Aboriginal community appears to be missing here in this rich vacuum of holiday-makers, though their traces can be seen littering the parks and alleyways of the city, half-empty bottles cleverly disguised in worn paper bags.

  The smell of tanning oils and fried fish mixes with the fresh salt of the sea as I meander along the beach. In any other beachside town of a major city—say a St Kilda or a Surfer's Paradise or a Fremantle—the new-age shops, the experiential, celestial, spiritual side would have moved in to celebrate such a place, such a nexus. But not here. This is not a soulless place of cheap tourism and cheaper T-shirts—the things that epitomise the southern coast of Queensland—it's subtler than that. Almost relaxing, calm. I don't know why, but this feels good. And as soon as I realise this I feel nauseous.