Dance from the feminine

The title of this piece is borrowed from a brochure on a dance school I chanced upon, which promised an innovative method to dance and rediscover one’s own body dynamics through dancing.

I don’t know how well the programme has been received among Malayalees who would rather claim their five seconds of fame in the limelight, piggy riding on the often mediocre talent of their children through youth festivals. It is common knowledge that parents are ready to part with a sizeable chunk of their bank balance just to get their kids trained in some form of dancing that would win a trophy. This trophy is no less primitive as the trophies cavemen used to bring home after a war - human beings benumbed into slaves.

Anyway, this thought is not on dance. It is more about what goes into it. It is also about Siddha tradition of medicine and Kalari Payattu, perhaps the most ancient martial art known to humans. More precisely, about human anatomy, its dynamics and the optimal state a body can assume. There’s more than mere muscles, sinews and tissues involved here. I have been taught that each constitution is as distinct and unique as a thumb print, and it’s my wager that most dance teachers around can’t even tell whether a dance student is more of Pitha, or Vatha or Kapha constitution, following the Indian yoga tradition. Certain western systems have been inspired by the eastern traditions and have formed body sensing methods, and have been peddling that in India - a laughable irony. While we can gently brush that aside as another fad, the fact remains that dancing as a physical ex-pression demands certain technical awareness about the inner architecture of a human body. Usually, a well-trained Kalari Guru can easily identify a student’s constitution from the first few steps and design a curriculum according to that - reason why some Kalari schools extract so many years of training  from certain students. This is closely associated with the Siddha tradition of medicine: in Siddha, these three constitutions, along with myriad other parameters, are what drives a human being into certain states. For example, excess Pitha in body can cause extreme aggression that manifests in twelve ( I believe) ways. That’s why Tamil calls a madman ‘Paaithyakkaaran’ - a man who has excess pitha. Pitha pushed by Vatha can create terrific fighters, but unless that’s grounded in Kapha, which is slow and steady, the fighting stamina won’t last. It’s a very delicate balancing act. The same may be said about dancing. Krishna Shabdam in Kuchippudi, for example, is just as swift and riveting as a lusty love making. No slow movements, no space for silence to gauge the audience’s reaction, no time to replay. The only replay is another fast sequence of the same pallavi or charanam. So, when a teacher trains a student in this particular piece, he or she should first get in an insight into the generics of the student’s composition. A Kapha-dominated pupil would be never be able to do justice to it. But she or he can definitely do ballet - grounded, balanced, measured movements that go in whirling motion.

Looking under the surface you discover even more amazing secrets about body in motion. In Kalari, after a certain stage, a dedicated student can easily shed the first sheath in Yoga called Anna Maya Kosha - meaning, he or she can go without three meals a day to train, say, five hours every day. The second sheath, called Prana Maya Kosha, that’s body’s own unique reservoir of energy - what athletes call the second wind - takes over. From there on, the practice assumes an easiness, a natural flow. The body is directed by Prana. Sometimes you actually forget that you have a body and sometimes, the breath completely stops. This happens especially in Mey Payattu, where blocks and blows are delivered with such hair raising speed, that there’s absolutely no time to think about one’s own body. Only breathing is noticed.

Here, the term dancing from the feminine has a relevance. Traditionally, in all patriarchal societies, women have been perceived as passive. Yet, some of the most potent martial art forms are passive. Kalari Chuvadu, for example, are passive movements, observing the opponent’s moves and receiving his energy patterns. No resistance is offered - it’s like the ebb of an ocean: you venture into it, the sea receives you and drags you down into its fathomless depths. Women seem to be more receptive to this idea than men. I remember an evening in Kochi, taking two tiny kids from an alien land to the sea in Fort Kochi. The boy, though aggressive otherwise, suddenly fell quiet and apprehensive at the sight of the ocean. The girl, slightly elder, just went into the water as if it was her element, holding onto my hand. Ditto with their parents - the father instantly built a macho wall around him, silently proclaiming that such mundane things like stepping into the sea was beneath him. The mother, just stood on the shore, watching, watching. I was watching her and I could see all Vata - air. She knew that once she stirred up the water, it would be a tsunami...she was an accomplished dancer herself. But not quite aware of her own inner pathways.

Unless dancing is blended with a thorough knowledge of interior workings of the body, no dancer can ever achieve that state called ecstacy. And that’s exactly the aim of every body-related art: happiness, without any external reference point like an object, a value, a situation. Be it martial art or dance, after a good practise session, if this feeling doesn’t swell up inside your entire being, that’s the benchmark that there’s room for debugging. For that, meditation is the definitive way. Vipassana, in particular, seems to be a promising technique in this regard. The few times I have been through Vipassana sessions have proved to be faster and finer in experiential wisdom than any other. Together, Kalari, meditation and Siddha tradition, can turn around the art of dancing into the real ritual it is meant to be: Dhyana, and finally, liberation. When you practise selective wisdom, you look uninspiring on stage. Embrace the entire body of arcane knowledge that was tested and proven through trial and error through eons, you become a forest fire that blazes through the psyche of the audience, making the session perhaps a life transforming moment.

It’s my personal wish that all men should learn to dance. And discover the feminine within. Feminine that’s described in so many Tantric texts as Sakthi. Sakthi, force, that sucks in the energy of the living moment and alchemise it into a path of power. Moral, physical and spiritual power. Then, you will not need much else. As Kalari says, when you practise Verum Kai, that’s weaponless combat, your aura becomes so big that people sense it and give way to you, no matter how small you look. But once you learn to protect yourself under a small shield against a lethal shower of blows from a one kilogram blade, crouching like a tiger, soon your aura shrinks at will: you pass by like a shadow on the street, unnoticed by the world - which is how Ninjas, notorious for sneaking in through any reinforcement, find and kill their victims. Your hara - Prana - becomes a lasso in your hand with which you can rope in attention at will or let go. Dancing from the feminine, in my humble opinion should attempt it, even if for the sake of a fad.

The bridge between body and the awareness is always the nose. Breathing is the rope that you use to grope around in the dark labyrinths of your sub conscious, manoeuver the swamps and demons, exorcise your past, light up a lamp in all the corners of that sacred space, perform your Manasa Puja to your Sakthi there and come back, using the same breath rope. Once the rope is severed in the process, you are struck, perhaps forever in the labyrinth - which is why so many authentic gurus advise against fifteen minute kriya yoga programmes. It isn’t easy. The Chuvadu in Kalari called Bali Chuvadu, actually comes from this experience: Bali, who asked Sugreeva to tie a knot around his waist before going into the cave to slay the demon, was caught up in the cave because Sugreeva had untied the rope, acting rather stupidly.  Bali had to negotiate the way back using his breath alone. Hence the name Bali Chuvadu. It’s complex. Forever shifting like the sands of a desert dune, feeling, feeling around for a chink in the armor of the opponent’s defense. In that way, it’s a feminine form of Chuvadu.

Tantra is closely associated with all these aspects of moving the body towards perfection. Through learning to manipulate prana, the tantric dances the tandava, free from all the fetters body has been taught from the reptilian brain. Such as there’s gravity, body is a mass, body is opaque etc. Of course, this is another topic, but close in nature to dancing. A dedicated student of dance or martial art should learn the basics of this: in fact it’s a closely guarded secret that in Kalari, after the highest stages, qualified students are initiated into Mantras for application in certain Marmas.

In Tantra, Shiva and Sakthi are of equal importance. Akulavira, the ancient text on Tantra takes a very radical but entirely typical stance, saying that the Akulavira, elsewhere described as the Parampadam (the supreme part) and the Sahajanandam (spontaneous bliss), alone gives liberation. It is identical with the guru. Akula, as Bagchi points out, is Shiva, the witness while Kula is
Shakti, the cluster of energies. In a remarkable verse (56), it is said that the path of the Kaula is of two types - the artificial (kritaka) and the sahaja (spontaneous). The real or Sahaja
is that in which Samarasa resides.

“Tantric view of Moksha.— Moksha, in the tantric sense of the word, is the unfoldment of powers brought about by the self-realization. It is not the giving up of the mortal coil and thus acquiring immunity from death. To a real Tantric, birth and death are phenomena of his own creation. He finds gratification as much in the one as in the other (cf. Bhairavastotra of Abhinava Gupta). He is the Bhairava whose name even strikes terror into the destructive agencies and at whose sweet will the world lives, moves and has its being. His sole article of faith is that death has significance only for those who are subject to mortality and not for those who have risen superior to its idea by their living belief in the deathlessness of the soul (cf. Tantraloka p. 192, vol. I)

Dancing from the feminine has two facets: one, a deeply political ideology - but getting involved in a polemic about that would be explosive, since it’s all about territorial hegemony - the male and the female terrorism. And  dictatorial power as described insightfully by neo-marxian researchers. It is my personal experience that most art teachers are extremely dictatorial in temperament - to the point of obsession. Perhaps this has something to do with an over working of the right hemisphere. A little crossword puzzle everyday for ten minutes should help.

The other side is the metaphysical, still controversial, but rewarding in the long run. Ideological coffee tables never helped anyone experience a cup of Java. For that, learning is the priority for the modern dance and body-architects. It is a deep gold mine of ex-pression, waiting to be unearthed, if you have your ropes, ponies, sidebags, shovels, Omar Sheriff and Gregory Peck ready. But who is interested, other than a few rich, indo-anglicized upper caste unemployeds who can afford the luxury of running a school that always makes Ekalavya stand outside the wall and peep through the wall to learn. And finally chop off his very core skill to compensate for being a Dalit...As long as dancing is monopolized by Menons and Nambiars and Chakiars and Thamburans, it will never liberate itself, as Marxism said, from the shackles it has tied itself around with.

In the college, I had a batchmate  - Shiela. All the boys were under her spell. That  ravishing. She looked and acted like a princess. We all envied, adored her. She spread around covert hints that she was very rich.

One day, as Shiela was coming out  of the classes, there  was a sight that stopped her right in her tracks. An old woman was  coming in the opposite direction. Shiela hastily walked upto her and tok her aside. The old woman gave something to  shiela.

Surprised friends asked about her and Shiela  coolly replied " oh, that's my maid servant!"

That was her mother. She built such a pretentious facade around her that she couldbn't divulge her really pathetic living conditions. She was on the lookout for a rich boy  and got him.

Thank God, I am gone from the cover!

God is online

The age of soothsayers is back in India. An educated guess is that the maximum number of publications that come out from the press belongs to astrology and related departments. So what is news? The news is that youngsters account for the lion’s share of the subscription. 

Belief in God and His powers has never enjoyed such pull in the recent history of the subcontinent. Till the middle of 1990s, it was the material school that reigned supreme. To be politically correct, the youth were not atheists but maintained a very skeptical notion towards the so called ‘logies’ – astrology, numerology etc., etc. In the scheme of political, cultural issues, the pseudo sciences were just not a serious enough bother. 

The tarot reader’s luck turned with the onset of the millennium. It had seemed that the year 2000 ushered in collective phobias about the future. Tomorrow suddenly loomed over the Himalayas and the sight was not very pretty. Poor working conditions and terms along with unemployment dogged a fresh generation that had terrific skill but not opportunity.  

The real opportunity, however, lay across the turf, in the businessman’s court. As keen-eyed as ever, it didn’t take the seasoned publisher to dowse the niche for a ‘spiritual’ press. 

Soon enough, magazines, one after another rolled out and were consumed hungrily by a terrified, superstitious market. Along with Information Technology, the fever of spiritualist practices pervaded the soul of India. Denounced by every level headed Indian from Swami Vivekananda to Mahatma Gandhi, these superstitions got a good conduct certificate from the practitioners of its western counterparts as well, such as Wicca and tarot and you name it – the fact that these ‘prophets’ and ‘sorcerers’ are also

out to make a quick buck seems to have been lost on the frenzied population of India. One thing Bharat Mata has proved: that India is the definitive millennium market for superstitions, from the idea that IT makes a Bill Gates out of you, to God has a single purpose and that will be emailed to you if you pay a dollar. 

The stereotypes have also been changed: gone are the bald-headed, pot bellied old men who mouthed incomprehensible stanzas in Sanskrit or the old hag with a cauldron before her. The astrologer is hardly thirty plus, often holds a management degree, svelte, cool and very, very up market. The witch is, well, what some wives would call a real witch – she is thirty forever or if possible, younger. She comes in all sizes but keeps herself in shape. Unlike yesterday, she is no longer afraid to affirm her status as a witch in the society. Luckily, the coven is not proclaiming ‘so mote it be!’ in a stage show like the Christians. But they are also in the bandwagon, reading tarot, runes, sticks, tea leaves, anything. 

Whether all this has any purpose is permanently under discussion. While that goes on in the soap box, what one would like to know is, has any of this fatuity been proven in any of the labs across the globe? If the answer is waxing lyrical like ‘it has been proven in the laboratory of millions of minds’, please excuse, there’s book waiting for me – The Complete works of Swami Vivekananda. Want a quote? "I would rather have every one of you be rank atheists than superstitious fools".

Corridors with an bad reputation 
 

      Running through the pale yellow corridors of the campus, running away from love, I suddenly realised I had run in to another corridor - this one. The Asylum. From the college, to the crazy cage - how many years, how far! Or is it that far? A hair's breadth, that's all.

      # 

      My ex-wife - or x and y, together, the only complete wife - cried, listening to the harp that I used on my cell phone for dialler tone. Whom did she remember? Which me? Where had we met? Which corridor was it? This is what my doctor calls one of the bad habits of the corridor: it doesn't have a past or future. Only "now". Move away from the queue for a second and the corridor forgets you. Or rather you forget the corridor. The river that's corridor flows past without you - with its hundreds of mouths and lips and hands and

      legs. 

      # 
 
 

      The corridor has got another bad habit. While we are inside it, we speak about everything except ourselves. That's what I ran away from: not from anyone outside, but a me who stalked me from the past with a knife, a me who waited for me in the future, staring into the abyss of madness.

#

      The corridor always had rooms, to call its own. But entering these rooms, I have never heard any one of them addressing the corridor as 'my corridor'.They always shared a mute slave-owner bond. The Corridor was free to do anything, the room had no choice but oblige. The corridor ignores the rooms who don't obey and flows away from it. Leaving the room and its inmates alone. Like I did. So, is it me who's the corridor? Is it in me that all corridors in the world begin and end?

      #

      Getting away from the campus corridor, I ran into the news room of a daily. There were corridors here too. Public spaces. No corridor has got privacy. Still you can even have sex in there. Like the extramarital sex of my colleagues - all you need is a finger as cover.

      #

      Caution is advised while stepping back to the corridor from any room. You never know where you might land up or what may wait around the corner. I drifted into an advertising agency, as a copywriter. That's where we, my wife whom I mentioned earlier and I had met. It was not a corridor.

      #

      Could it be why our relation broke down like the neck of a small lovebird that fell prey to a predator? Or did it break? How can it die when a corridor that's our son fill our vacuum like the green that fills all the greenery in the world! Oh my God! 

      Some of the dialogues overheard in the campus: 

      "History Association convenes formally in the afternoon. A musical concert by eskay thereafter..." 

      "I love you Padma." 

      "I love eskay, Joe. Consider me your sister, if you like. If I marry, eskay would be my man." 

      Joe smiled. It was more of a teardrop.

      #

      How about eskay? Let alone loving someone else, he doesn't even have time to fall in love with himself! He was running, running like Anguli Mala, the murderer, a feverish run that wouldn't stop until he met with Buddha. In between, how many hearts crushed, how many pails of tears!

      #

      Finally, the flight ceases in front of this asylum. In the corridor, voices: 

      "eskay. What's eating him?"

      "Stark mad, that's what."

      "Looks sober, though."

      "Hey, not so loud! He can hear you..."

      "So what! I didn't say anything nasty..."

      #

      No, brother, you have been extremely circumspect. Still, as Buddha said, I am not accepting this gift from you. You can keep it...

      #

      Between the corridors that run parallel- Rose my wife and me - there are two rooms which cut me into four: love and lust.

      #

      In the room of love, you can smell two perfumes. One, Jasmine. The scent of brown earth and fresh flowers right after the first summer shower that invades your senses, marching to the beats of the tingling drums...two, Padma. Another Padma. The rich fragrance of an obscure European wine that goes to your head slowly, making your soul sing a soft tune, making sleep hard...

      #

      In between, I have frequented the sulphourous room of lust several times and sweated. I have attained nirvana, trying handjobs to homosexuality. But, after each orgasm, I come back to this one, this new Padma, like a pale tune on Veena. Once, I saved myself from making love to my best friend's wife. Not that I am a great soul, but I realized that even animals show humaneness, on that occasion.

      #

      Perhaps the best woman in the world is my wife Rose. Because, she had shown in her life that a human being can be Buddha-like, forgiving etarnally to an erring man.

      Still, I love the wine that's Padma. Padma to Padma, a full circle. Now?

      #

      Though I studied history, I haven't learnt anything from history. I don't know much about the corridors of history. I guess the corridors of power end in the bush behind the Headmistress' room in the high school. I know that corridors are not extinct. They shall be around as long as life is around on this planet. After all, life itself was born inside a corridor!

      #

      So shall be gossips, calumny, heady illicit relations, heartwarmingly tender loves, a knifewound on that heart, a lot of expletives, tombstones and tears finally.

      #

      Where's the corridor that's waiting for me?

December 25; dear diary. 

When I have pluck'd the rose,

speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate,

Nor set downaught in malice. Then must you speak

Of one that loved not wisely but too well;

Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought,

Perplex's in the extreme; of one whose hand,

Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away

Richer than all his tribe. 

    - Othello 
 

There are times when I know I am the luckiest man around; so far, no guy in my social circle can boast of a more lovely, charming and smart wife. She is just the right cocktail of sesitivity, sensibility, ready wit, oomph and romance. 

But more often these days, especially on nights like this when I come home early and slouch in front of the soap box, having nothing to do, I feel I am boxed in a labyrinth of lies, treachery and violence. I am sure she has affairs with the people she does business with. 

Where is the proof? Oh yes, I ask myself the same smart question. Do I have any proof? No I have never been tipped off even by her enemies about an alleged affair. I have never seen her with any man under doubtful circumstances. But then, why do I get upset when this colleague of mine, notorious for sleeping around, speaks about a mysterious woman with whom he had a one night stand, lately! Somehow, the feeling that it is her sneaks upon me

like a slow but sure tide...But I have never been a good observer, not to say a good judge of human behaviour. 

And, come to think of it, I do remember occasions when I had found her talking with him, laugh with him as if the were bosom friends - if you would pardon the pun. There were moments when  had caught her searching for an excuse - times when she would get back late from a so called meeting, and just crash on the bed. Tired, I am sure, but from what, I wonder now. 

Ah, the lights have gone out. Perfect. I just love darkness. Now, sitting here, I can see the street and the tiny lamps across the courtyard beyond, in an apartment like this. What could be going on behind those mysterious, dark walls? Would all those chaste wives of the poor, unsuspecting husbands be slaking their carnal thirst on a ' friend of husband' or the sales executive who happened to visit her the other day with a new soap or the teenager son of their neighbour... 

I used to burn with fury and frustration at the very thought Rebecca might also be doing the same thing behind my back. The same thing? Yes, am I not doing the same thing with Destiny, the divorced 30 year old whom I had met on a trip? A short affair, I had told myself, but it had grown into a full blown relationship of late. Destiny has not suggested anything, but I can see that she has already made me her man about the house and it is no longer a passing interest.  

I keep telling myself that there's a huge difference between my affair and those afflictions of Rebecca. I would toss and turn in bed, go into silent protests, pick up trivial little rows, just to provoke and get a hint from her. Never. She is very clever. But that merely goes onto prove just how sharp she is, does it? 

Whenever I brought up the subject of faithfulness, she would casually brush it aside, saying something like it's all a matter of trust and only time will tell. I would keep quiet, because I would feel a choking sensation on my chest, when I hear that. Am I doing the correct thing? Lord! 

Destiny has begun dropping hints about consummating our relationship. She needs a child, apparently. How can agree! How can I not agree! I have to decide between Rebecca and this girl. Can I tell Rebecca about Destiny? Oh, no, never! What happens to me if Destiny walks out? I just can't afford it. Am I doing the right thing? Why not, after all there's nothing wrong in seeing a woman because I am a man!  

But how about Rebecca? This womanizer friend of mine has started on another account of exploits, all about the same mysterious woman. I don't like the way he looks at me when he recounts them. It would seem they are addressed to me.Over the past few months, I have been watching Rebecca, looking for a telltale sign. I would call up her office and someone would answer that she had gone for a meeting - meeting over lunch, huh?  

It has become a cat-and-mouse game for several months now. Only difference is, if I had been a poor mouse earlier, now it's her turn. And she doesn't suspect a thing, my poor little darling of a wife. 

There, it is striking nine. She said she would be back by nine. Said it was an important presentation. I should know better. I called up her office and found out that the meeting was with the company my womanizer friend was working with...I called her I would be going out of town and would be back only tomorrow. 

I might as well get ready. I shall check if the gas cylinder in the kitchen is on. Alright. there's enough gas leaking out without giving off unwanted smell. The kitchen door? That can stay open. Will she suspect? No way! She will know there's a leak only after she switches on the power in the living room. I won't fancy being burned to death. It will be horrible. 

Now, before I leave you in the hands of death, my love, you should know that it was me who did it. You will never know why, but in the last pangs of agony, you will tearfully, lovingly wish that I was there, so I shall scrawl my name on the telephone book...bye, my love.. 

Rebecca was feeling down. The presentation was cancelled at the last moment, and Jerry suggested that they go to some restaurant, have a snack and check back on some bad debts by clients. It was already past nine, but since Robert had promised he wouldn't be back for the night, there was no hurry. Even if he was home, there was some food in the refrigerator. He would be punch drunk when he would be back. She was giving up hope on him. She had also started feeling a slight regret, but then, he was such a good guy most of the time, which made up for all those nights of sheer misery. Perhaps he needs a little more time, she thought. 

She was tired by the time Jerry and Rebecca split. It was well past midnight. All she wanted was some sleep. The car stopped in front of their apartment. She looked out of the window. A cop came up and enquired. “ You put up here?” 

She got out of the car mumbling 'yes.' 

“Something wrong?” she asked, suddenly feeling boiling iron swelling up her feet. 

“ “ Which is your apartment, miss?” Another senior cop asked. He was taking down notes. 

“ Five D.” Rebecca knew it now. 

“ Iam sorry, miss. There has been a fire.” The cop said sympathetically. “ Was that your husband in the apartment

Fifteenth Kilometer – The Consort

She appeared out of nowhere. It was as if she was born of all that dust. And lust. Dusky. There was an aroma in the air. Like a dark, nocturnal flower suddenly opened its eyes.Father Merrin could sense her walking along for a while , but he didn’t take heed. Finally, she said, in a voice that was low like surf on the shores,

“ have you got something to eat, mster?”

Father didn’t answer.

“Aren’t you hungry, master?”

He kept quiet.

“I have a small dwelling here. You can rest awhile”

Suddenly he was famished. She turned to a pocket road. He obeyed. The sheath of the chain began to shiver subtly. His whole being began to whisper, ‘ danger, danger…’

But there was nothing he could do but go behind her. The spell was hard to break. Despite the feeling, he began to chant,

“He summoned the Twelve and began to send them out two by two and gave them authority over unclean spirits. ...12 So they went off and preached repentance.  13 They drove out many demons, and they anointed with oil many who were sick and cured them.

After this the Lord appointed seventy-two others whom he sent ahead of him in pairs to every town and place he intended to visit.

The seventy-two returned rejoicing, and said, "Lord, even the demons are subject to us because of your name."  18 Jesus said, "I have observed Satan fall like lightning from the sky.  19 Behold, I have given you the power 'to tread upon serpents' and scorpions and upon the full force of the enemy and nothing will harm you.  20 Nevertheless, do not rejoice because the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice because your names are written in heaven."

The  woman turned to look at him. In the moonlight, he saw  that it was full of blood. As if someone peeled off the entire skin from her face. She smiled like a grimace and two huge fangs appeared. The earth began to move. And corpses began to emerge. The zombies began their dance, approaching him. He kept on chanting. Flames appeared beside him. They took on the face of demons and licked his skin. Father Merrin was oblivious to pain. He chanted,

John said to him, "Teacher, we saw someone driving out demons in your name, and we tried to prevent him because he does not follow us."  39 Jesus replied, "Do not prevent him. There is no one who performs a mighty deed in my name who can at the same time speak ill of me.  40 For whoever is not against us is for us. And if Satan is divided against himself, how will his kingdom stand?  For you say that it is by Beelzebul that I drive out demons.  19 If I, then, drive out demons by Beelzebul, by whom do your own people drive them out?  Therefore they (Jewish exorcists) will be your judges.  20 But if it is by the finger of God that I drive out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you.

With a roar, he manifested.

“ I need the magick book” several voices said simultaneously.

“Over my  dead body” Father  said.

He bellowed. The earth shook.

“Do you know who I am vermin? Do you understand your master?”

“I have no master but the supreme one.”

“I am the one.”

“You are but a  servant”

He roared again. The corpses were closing in.They were tugging at the bag. Father pushed them away. He lit a lamp with olive oil and threw it in the direction of  the south. A huge fire broke out and started swallowing corpses. They went up in fire like twigs. Roaring again, the figure of Belzebub rose over the melee.

“Give me the book,” he said.

“Lord, there’s no one but you whom I adore. If I have to obey Satan, then you are not…” He screamed and in his Ganja-laden mind, the scream went up till the sky.

A bolt came down, blazing the entire region. The moment it touched the ground, it assumed shape: Raphel.

He towered the scape by sixteen feet. His shield of iron shone in the moonlight. His sword glinted ominously.

“Dare you touch my master” His voice was as cold as the iron. With one swipe of his sword, the darkness, corpses, fire, woman everything disappeared. Only dust remained, as an Amen.

Father Merrin was senseless. When he came around, he was comfortably cozied up in a bed. He sat up.

“My bag..” He groaned.

“Everything is safe Merrin. Rest is essential.” The  elegant abbot of the seminary greeted  him.

“So, it is safe?”

“Absolutely.”

Tenth Kilometer – The Pack

As far as the eye could see, the path lay like a snake. On both sides, barren fields waited a rain. Dust devils hid Father Merrin’s sight frequently. Head, the full moon turned phlegmatic, hanging like spit from a werewolf. All stars had disappeared. A sudden pall descended the earth. Merrin could smell something coming – dust. But not just dust, death. He frantically looked afar and wide. Nothing.

Slowly, in his Ganja-laden eyes, a wild dog appeared, crossing the road from right to left. Father Merrin stopped and stooped to gather some pebbles when he realized it: it is not one, it’s thousands. He remembered, as the pack closed in, a blue flame suddenly burst forth from the ground and spread like wild fire among the pack. There were groanings, yelps, screams, human noises. Those that touched the blue flame were instantly reduced to ashes. But they kept on coming, jumping at the throat of Merrin. He wasn’t scared anymore. He was more careful about the documents. He kept holding onto it and chanted:

The person with the evil spirit then sprang at them and subdued them all.  He so overpowered them that they fled naked and wounded from that house.  17 When this became known to all the Jews and Greeks who lived in Ephesus, fear fell upon them all, and the name of the Lord Jesus was held in great esteem.  18 Many of those who had become believers came forward and openly acknowledged their former practices. 

The fumes choked him. When he came around, smoke had filled out the entire sky.

For miles around, ash lay. He sighed and heaved himself upright. It was the six iles to go. His Watch had stopped sometime back. It showed fifteen past one.

Have I Been

Cast Away?