Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Monday, December 15, 2008
Krishna
The sun wanted to shield itself from the macabre; therefore it hid behind the candy floss clouds. The abode of the Lord had been defiled with the blood of an untouchable. The body was still there, blatantly and shamelessly laughing at the reign of the blasphemous. Birds of prey after acknowledging the deity in the inner sanctum, were relishing this unexpected bounty. Flies, cockroaches and other rodents were all present at the congregation. The temple priest torn between the anguish of committing the unpardonable sin of touching an untouchable’s carcass and the horror of incurring the Almighty’s wrath by letting the carcass defecate His home, had let the feast last for two whole days. Finally, shedding his impotence, he paid some Ahirs to shoot at the birds and clear away the body. As for the dried stains of red on the black granite of the temple...it would be difficult to efface their existence.
While the Priest was astute enough to claim that it was an untouchable’s corpse that was being ravaged, he proved incapable of determining the gender.... It was a beautiful girl who lay dead there. A girl whose saga of affliction, nobody in that remote village ever heard.
It was a household that spurned her. Her unpardonable fault being that alas…She was born as a She. They had lost her mother to the illness just after her birth. The child was born mute. Nobody really knew when or how she turned deaf. Some thought that her world was so devoid of love, laughter and music that the ears just decided to shut themselves to the rest of the world. So she stayed dumb, deaf and motherless, embracing her own solitude.
However, as wonton Irony would have it, the Girl was not without hope. Hope with its tenacious quality of seeping into the most dismal of all conditions, had touched her as well. She had once heard a flute, the notes rising in melodious harmony seducing her, enticing her, beckoning her to come and embrace the nameless. She had heard it just once. Once and never, never again. She clung to a hope, desperately; obsessively. A hope that one day, the dusky, beautiful God of the cowherds and shepherds would call her to Him. It was his love that pumped blood in her veins. It was her devotion that provided sustenance.
Krishna, Krishna, she would meet Him one day. She would meet Him one day. She would meet Him one day.
When illusion becomes reality, happiness also becomes tangible. Decades were spent, yearning and waiting. That night when the Moon had waned to the minimal possible extent, She saw Him: olive skinned, broad- shouldered, slim-waisted and virile. Krishna so close, so near. He was talking to some villagers, his face lit like that of a cherub.
She could say they did not like Him. They avoided Him. They became agitated and nervous around Him. He was a foreigner, they said. A refugee. Another hapless victim from the aftermath of the war. Fools! Blundering, idiots! Ignoramuses! How could they not know…….
He was Krishna. He was Kanha. He was Gopal. He was Giridhar. He was real. He was here.
A God, who had come to save her- from Her, from Them. He looked into her eyes and she felt longing. Longing that was so familiar but laced with a sensation that was so alien. She danced in the rain that night, her feet following an eonian rhythm, her arms lifted while paying silent homage to him. He had come to her finally. He was standing beside her now, watching her with deep, hooded eyes.
He was Krishna. She was Radha as she danced, entranced.
He was Krishna. She was Meera as she touched his feet.
She let the cascading rivulets cleanse her. They poured in a steady stream - on her lustrous and curly locks, on her pliant lips parted wide in anticipation, on her aching and swollen breasts, between her thighs to the apex of her existence, on her numbed feet that were never stopping, never pausing. Pregnant with concupiscence, she beseeched him. He lifted her and laid her, warm and wet on the hard floor. Desire - deep and carnal - tore away the remaining folds of semblance and sanity.
After an era she heard the flute again. Kanha was playing it again. Life-giving symphony that was blending with the rain, seeping through the earth, entwining the trees, gently stroking human and animal...rising and being one with space. Every nerve, every cell came alive at his touch.
He was Krishna. She was Radha as she clung to him in blissful oblivion.
He was Krishna. She was Meera as she moved to him in peaceful submission.
He, potent and virile, plundered her softness. It was Fusion. It was Creation. Nudity, chastity, Pain and Want were offered at the altar of ardor. Every unblemished contour was tasted; every entreasured curve was explored. He surged within her as she rode the clouds and played with the waves.
Fulfillment was sought in a spinning vortex of pleasure and pain. She, whose world of silence was stripped of all music, screamed out again and again and again in agony and ecstasy. Everything faded into anonymity save for the man and woman. The creator, his creations, creating creations through their coition. One last spasm racked her as the mist cleared and light broke in.
He was gone when she woke up. There was no sign of him save for those imprinted on her body. She bore the brunt of the sun as it burned down on her, reprimanding her for her folly. The emptiness, her nakedness taunted her as the ache in her heart began to grow. He could not leave her now. Why now, when He had made her, His.
He was Krishna. She was Radha.
He was Krishna. She was Meera.
He was infinite. She…only human.
She saw him up there, his face flashing vividly amidst the limitless azure. She saw his hands, his arms held wide open in invitation. He called out to her. She heard him. His darkness, clothed in an amber colored garment was waiting for her. He was fading into the union of the earth and the sky.
"Krishna!” she called.
He kept walking.
"Krishna!" she pleaded.
He kept walking.
"Krishna!" she screamed.
He was but a blur in the distant horizon.
She would go to him. Krishna, Krishna, Krishna. There was her tranquility, calling out to her.
The last things she saw were the stains of red on the granite- the insignia of their union. Now her eyes were shut from the world.
While the Priest was astute enough to claim that it was an untouchable’s corpse that was being ravaged, he proved incapable of determining the gender.... It was a beautiful girl who lay dead there. A girl whose saga of affliction, nobody in that remote village ever heard.
It was a household that spurned her. Her unpardonable fault being that alas…She was born as a She. They had lost her mother to the illness just after her birth. The child was born mute. Nobody really knew when or how she turned deaf. Some thought that her world was so devoid of love, laughter and music that the ears just decided to shut themselves to the rest of the world. So she stayed dumb, deaf and motherless, embracing her own solitude.
However, as wonton Irony would have it, the Girl was not without hope. Hope with its tenacious quality of seeping into the most dismal of all conditions, had touched her as well. She had once heard a flute, the notes rising in melodious harmony seducing her, enticing her, beckoning her to come and embrace the nameless. She had heard it just once. Once and never, never again. She clung to a hope, desperately; obsessively. A hope that one day, the dusky, beautiful God of the cowherds and shepherds would call her to Him. It was his love that pumped blood in her veins. It was her devotion that provided sustenance.
Krishna, Krishna, she would meet Him one day. She would meet Him one day. She would meet Him one day.
When illusion becomes reality, happiness also becomes tangible. Decades were spent, yearning and waiting. That night when the Moon had waned to the minimal possible extent, She saw Him: olive skinned, broad- shouldered, slim-waisted and virile. Krishna so close, so near. He was talking to some villagers, his face lit like that of a cherub.
She could say they did not like Him. They avoided Him. They became agitated and nervous around Him. He was a foreigner, they said. A refugee. Another hapless victim from the aftermath of the war. Fools! Blundering, idiots! Ignoramuses! How could they not know…….
He was Krishna. He was Kanha. He was Gopal. He was Giridhar. He was real. He was here.
A God, who had come to save her- from Her, from Them. He looked into her eyes and she felt longing. Longing that was so familiar but laced with a sensation that was so alien. She danced in the rain that night, her feet following an eonian rhythm, her arms lifted while paying silent homage to him. He had come to her finally. He was standing beside her now, watching her with deep, hooded eyes.
He was Krishna. She was Radha as she danced, entranced.
He was Krishna. She was Meera as she touched his feet.
She let the cascading rivulets cleanse her. They poured in a steady stream - on her lustrous and curly locks, on her pliant lips parted wide in anticipation, on her aching and swollen breasts, between her thighs to the apex of her existence, on her numbed feet that were never stopping, never pausing. Pregnant with concupiscence, she beseeched him. He lifted her and laid her, warm and wet on the hard floor. Desire - deep and carnal - tore away the remaining folds of semblance and sanity.
After an era she heard the flute again. Kanha was playing it again. Life-giving symphony that was blending with the rain, seeping through the earth, entwining the trees, gently stroking human and animal...rising and being one with space. Every nerve, every cell came alive at his touch.
He was Krishna. She was Radha as she clung to him in blissful oblivion.
He was Krishna. She was Meera as she moved to him in peaceful submission.
He, potent and virile, plundered her softness. It was Fusion. It was Creation. Nudity, chastity, Pain and Want were offered at the altar of ardor. Every unblemished contour was tasted; every entreasured curve was explored. He surged within her as she rode the clouds and played with the waves.
Fulfillment was sought in a spinning vortex of pleasure and pain. She, whose world of silence was stripped of all music, screamed out again and again and again in agony and ecstasy. Everything faded into anonymity save for the man and woman. The creator, his creations, creating creations through their coition. One last spasm racked her as the mist cleared and light broke in.
He was gone when she woke up. There was no sign of him save for those imprinted on her body. She bore the brunt of the sun as it burned down on her, reprimanding her for her folly. The emptiness, her nakedness taunted her as the ache in her heart began to grow. He could not leave her now. Why now, when He had made her, His.
He was Krishna. She was Radha.
He was Krishna. She was Meera.
He was infinite. She…only human.
She saw him up there, his face flashing vividly amidst the limitless azure. She saw his hands, his arms held wide open in invitation. He called out to her. She heard him. His darkness, clothed in an amber colored garment was waiting for her. He was fading into the union of the earth and the sky.
"Krishna!” she called.
He kept walking.
"Krishna!" she pleaded.
He kept walking.
"Krishna!" she screamed.
He was but a blur in the distant horizon.
She would go to him. Krishna, Krishna, Krishna. There was her tranquility, calling out to her.
The last things she saw were the stains of red on the granite- the insignia of their union. Now her eyes were shut from the world.
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