The Chand munda saga II - Dhumralochana

"Oh! If only you had seen her lustre. Her beauty radiated among the valleys of Himalayas. We have never seen anyone as exquisite as Her, O Shumbha!
You must collect Her, take possession of Her and make Her yours. You have all the treasure in the world. The mighty elephant Airavata, Parijata tree and the horse Uccaihas'ravas ..you have captured them from Indra.
Look at that resplendent chariot yoked with swan, the shimmering gem which belonged to Brahama. The treasure of treasures, Mahapadma, taken from Kubera himself.
Ah! This everlasting garland named Kanjakini, that the Ocean bestowed upon your Holiness. The gold showering umbrella of Varuna, Prajapati's chariot, Yama's weapon of death ( Utkarinda) and all gems that have ever been found in the mighty seas.
Agni deva has gifted you and your brother, Nisumbha, with garments purified by fire.

Why must you not add this woman to your collection? This epitome of beauty, grace personified, embodiment of womanhood ... She must be yours, sire"

Shumbha looked upon Chanda and Munda silently, his gaze unwavering. His fingers drumming softly over the hilt of his sword.
Both these servants of his, were dumb to begin with. But he trusted their judgement in this matter. And his curiosity had been roused. There must be something special about this woman, that made these two dim witted fools go on and on.

"Carry my message to her. Make sure you deliver it with respect and love. I want her to come to me. Not get scared and try to run and hide", he exclaimed with a sigh.

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Chanda stamped on Munda's foot.
"Don't bow, you oaf. Master told us to be polite. Not degrade ourselves", he hissed in Munda's ear.
"Why don't you try clearing your throat? That gruff bull like voice of yours will scare her away. And then masters shall skin both of us alive"

Both of them cleared their throats and looked upon the Devi, seated on the mountains. She looked clam, magnificent, radiating an energy that both of them could palpate in the air.

"We come here to deliver a message from Shumbha and Nishumbha. Both our masters are unmatched in their prowess. They are not just ruthless monsters, they are great connoisseurs of art.
Their treasury is filled with gems from all over the universe.
You, my lady, are a gem of such sort. A gem among women. Unmatched and unparalleled. We invite you to come marry either of our masters.
You shall be gifted with wealth and ornaments, the likes of which you wouldn't have dreamed of."

The Devi looked upon them, her face gave away nothing. She spoke slowly, deliberately, each of her words ringing with deep notes and deeper gravity,
"You have spoken nothing but truth. Alas! I have made a foolish promise.
I can wed only him, who defeats me in battle. Only when a man can match my strength and pride .. will he be my husband.
Go deliver this message to your lords. If they wish to win my hand, they must come and prove their worth first"

Chanda and Munda looked at each other, a little taken aback. They had expected hesitation, pleading, even a little womanly temper and flirting.
But this, this was unacceptable.

"Do not be so vain and foolish! The entire might of Devas could not stand in front of Shumbha and Nishumbha.
How will you, a lone woman, face them? Do not make her drag you by the hair!", they roared together.

Their hair were disheveled, eyes bloodshot, fists clenched and teeth bared. They were bound by their orders.
If only they weren't here as messengers, this woman would have been reduced to pieces.

The Devi smiled and repeated, "Go tell Shumbha and Nishumbha that this all I have to say. If they are not scared to accept the challenge, let them come and face me"
                                       *             *            *                 *

Dhumralochan stood still, blood pounding in his ears and his heart beating wildly in anticipation. This was what the rakshas loves best, the pre-war stillness.
"Come! come surrender to Shumbha and Nishumbha. Or else, I shall be forced to drag you by the hair. And do not have nay doubts, I shall show no mercy to you."

Amibka stood upon the snowy Himlayan peak. Adorned with weapons, muscles poised and eyes focused on Dumralochana.
The commanding fury of her voice was accompanied by the terrifying roar of her lion.
" Come! O mighty Dhumralochana. You have come to defeat me, with the might of the Asura army, come and fulfill your duty"

This was exactly what he had hoped for. Dhumralochana ran ahead of his army, trampling those unfortunate enough to come in his path. This woman was his to crush. She shall bear the pain first-hand. He alone shall hear her first screams.
Ambika stood as still as ever. It was the collision of two forces so different, and yet so similar in essence. Her anger rose as Dhumralochana came closer.
She raised her head, shook her silken hair, her lip curled up gently and she heaved. ehr heave was nothing but a syllable, a manifestation of shakti itself.
And as the sound collided with Dhumralochana, he vanished. He disappeared in a puff of smoke, evaporated and disintegrated.

Befoee the army could comprehend what had taken place, Ambika's arrows, spears and javelins were raining upon them. Her mighty lion roared and pounced upon the approaching Asura army.
The bloodbath had begun.

He was an army in himself. untamed, ferocious and lusting for blood. His paws slashed open hearts and threw out intestines, his mouth chewed upon whatever lay in front of him. His hind legs trampled asuras by the dozen, his mane glistened with blood as he turned the army into a mess of broken limbs, severed heads and withering bodies.

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Shumbha was livid. His entire army slain by a mere woman and her pet lion?

"Chanda and Munda! Go bring that shrew to me. Defeat her, bind her and drag her by the hair. Show no mercy. She must repent for what She has done."

Chanda and Munda bowed deep, smiling. They had still not forgotten the way that haughty woman had treated them.
It was time to take revenge. And then some.

Immortality, my dear Watson.

Way back in 1903, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had to bring him back to life. Because people pestered him until he did. But that wasn't the last time he was going to reincarnate.
When Sir Arthur had published the first story (A study in scarlet) in 1887, he probably had no idea what legend was he giving birth to (or maybe he did, with his genius powers of deduction).

I had first come across Holmes in a dusty little book from my school library. Dear old Ma'am. Bhardwaj had thrust it in my hands and roared,
"Sale, how come you haven't read Holmes? Take it!"
And I took him home. Ended up staying up late, missed out on two lunch breaks, one PT period and my sanity. Before long, he began filling up the void in my life.

As first, it was just the interesting observations and the astounding mysteries. Then, his charisma drew me closer. This logical, seemingly cold blooded, classic British man ... gave me butterflies.
He was Howard Roark, Hannibal Lecter, James Bond and Dr.Jekyll all rolled in one. And, he could play violin.
Feluda, Poirot and many others came and went. But he remained the ultimate master.

I thought I was done with him when I flipped through the last pages of 'The case book of Holmes'. But, I couldn't have been more wrong.
He returned on television. The charming Jeremy Brett ( and I remember my mom got hooked to Holmes too).
The hound of Baskervilles kept returning, in countless movies and TV series ( at the cost of my torrent limit getting over early).
And then Mr.Robert Downey sexed up Holmes. And the entire world swooned over him (all over again).
The latest brilliant modern age adaptation by BBC ( starring benedict cumberbatch), is another feather in Doyle's cap.

So, what is it about Holmes? He is an unlikely hero. No superpowers, no particularly striking sense of style, not over-the-top good looking (if you go by Doyle's modest descriptions).
No love affairs to flare up his image. No kung fu, no gadgets, not exactly humble and nothing supernatural about him too.

Holmes appeals to the scientist in all of us. The hope that we all possess powers that we have not explored yet. He is an example of the heights to which man's intellect can climb.
He inspires nothing but awe, undistilled raw awe. He is as significant today, as he was two centuries back.
He personifies the fact that there exists no greater power than that of the mind. Gadgets, methods, missions and time can change.
But as long as you have a clear focused mind, nothing is impossible.

He shall continue to reincarnate and teach us all. But to most of us, he shall always be the overcoat clad, Deerstalker donning, lens holding, pipe smoking, violin playing 'consulting detective' from 221B Baker Street.

The prayer wheel

Milarepa tucked his saffron shawl closer, as he whirled his prayer wheel. The wind was brutal today. His narrow eyes were even more slanted, his flat nose wrinkled up and his ruby lips parched. His agile 14 year old frame shivered.
Even his woolen cap (woven of thick yak wool) could hardly protect his bald head from the chill.

The roads of Leh were deserted. It was past 7'o clock and the tourists had already started moving back to their rooms. Milarepa quickened his pace. If only the lama hadn't come down with fever, he would never be allowed to come out at this hour.
The sky was inky. Writers had myriad of terms to describe it's hues. But to Milarepa, it had always appeared inky. Like the very bottom of those Chelpark bottles at the monastery.

Inky seemed appropriate because it's color spilled everywhere at night.
This same street glittered in the mornings. Happy tourists, excited kids, loud guides and eager shopkeepers. The cosy little cafes would be filled to bursting, the momo stalls abuzz with customers. The little quaint curio shops, the woolen stores, travel agencies and adventure sports stalls vibrated with life.

And as the ink started dripping, everything would close. The wind from the mountains brought it's chill, it's mist and it's stillness with it. Just as it had done for centuries past.

Milarepa stopped whirling the prayer wheel, as he realized that he had almost missed his turn.
He hurried to the medical store. The guy was stowing away boxes, clearly packing up for the day.
"Para...ceta...ceta ....mol", he fumbled deep inside his robes as his teeth chattered of their own accord.
"Wait. Wait. I just packed it up"

"Arjun, come here. Enough I said!, a panicked voice came from nowhere.
Milarepa raised his head and looked around. For a moment, for the tiniest fraction of a moment, he had actually dared to imagine ...

The voice came closer as a family of three approached the store. The mother was still glaring at the kid.
"You have any cough drops? He has been coughing like mad", the little kid let out a heart-wrenching cough (almost on cue)
"Ji madam. One minute. Aye lama bhaiya .. your paracetamol tablet"

Milarepa handed the crumpled ten rupee note and left. Almost ran, as fast as his legs would carry him up the steep slope of the mountain.
The image of the family was stuck in his head. Arjun was someone he knew. Someone with long curly hair and a cheeky little grin. Incidentally, a lot like the kid he had just seen.
He remembered very little though. Just flashes of memory. Like those stains which won't go away no matter how roughly you scrub the cloth.
He remembered Arjun's docile, tiny mother ... he remembered poverty .. hunger .. cuddling with her bony frame on cold nights ..he remembered the fight she and her new husband had.. and the way Arjun had screamed at the monastery gates.

Milarepa's breathing became shallow. He stopped, bent forward and put his hands on his knees. To struggle against the untamed mountain winds on an uphill slope, was no easy task.
He did not tug his robe closer. He wished Arjun's mother was there to tuck it in. Was there to hold his hand and brace him against the winds. Was there to pat his head on that hard monastery bed. Was there to pour cough drops when he was sick.

As he absent mindedly clutched his robe, he recoiled in horror. There was something wrong with his them. A dark spot had appeared on the saffron folds.
Ink. That was what it was. Ink had not only dripped on him, it had managed to seep in.

Malirepa squeezed his eyes shut in fear, shook his head and forced his legs to walk again. He chanted "Om mani Padme Hum" as loudly as he could. His prayer wheel was rotating in his hand.

If only someone could see the young monk, they would know how bravely his prayer wheel kept whirling against the force of the winds that night.

The Chand Munda Saga - I

This story is from the fifth chapter of 'Durga Saptshati'. I have tried to translate the original work to the best of my abilities.
All the brilliance is Hers. All faults are mine.

Indra paced in his room. His brows were knit together, fists clenched and you could hear the clouds rumbling as he gritted his teeth.
The asuras had done it again. After the slaying of Mahishasura, He had hoped that they would have learnt their lesson. Hoped that they would lie low and not create chaos. But no, they raised their heads again and again.
Each new one would be more proud, vain, haughty and cruel that the last one. And this time, there were two of them. Shumbh and Nishumbh. These sons of Kasyapa and Danu, had indeed crossed all limits.

Indra looked all around Him. What used to be the royal court, was now a ruin. Surya, Chandra, Vayu, Kubera, Varuna and even the mighty Yama! They had all been stripped of their powers and disposed off.
There was no other way now. They must call upon the One.
She had given her word that she would appear, whenever called upon. She would stand by the Devas in times of calamity. It was time for the vow to be fulfilled.

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The winds raged on Himavat, the lord of the mountains. There was an eerie calm up here, the silence that usually precedes the storm. You could see the Devas standing near the waters of Ganga. Their heads were bowed, arms raised in salutation and eye glittered with hope.
And as their united voice echoed in the valleys of Himavat, the entire world stood still. The Devas sang to Aparajita ( The undefeatable one).

"We prostrate before the one who is the most loving and the most terrible.
We bow to you, you who support the entire world.
You are the very essence of volition, O Devi.
You are the one named Vishnumaya.
 You abide in all beings as the consciousness, intelligence, sleep, hunger, reflection, power, thirst and forgiveness.
You are what forms caste, modesty, peace, faith, beauty, destiny, energy, memory, comapassion and contentment.
You are the Divine Mother, the error ( for truth and error are both forms of the Goddess), you watch over all the three elements.
Oh Isavari, we call upon you. You the one who brings all things auspicious. Come and free us of our hardships"

The echoes of their words had not even died out, when they heard the tinkling of anklets. As they turned around, they saw the figure of Parvati approaching Ganges. She raised those exquisite brows of hers and asked,
" O Devas, who is it that you pray to? with such intensity and devotion"

As if in reply to her question, there sprang from a light from her body. Before the very eyes of the awestruck Devas, the ray carved itself into the figure of Ambika.
"They are addressing the prayer to none other than me. For Shumbh and Nishumbh have threatened the entire world with their atrocities"
This form of the Ambika had been born of Parvati's physical body (Kosa), and would be remembered as Kausiki.
As Kausiki spoke these words and the Devas prostrated in front of Her .. Parvati herself had turned dark . This darkened Parvati would be called Kalika and forever reside on Mount Himalaya forever.

However, the Devas were not the only ones adoring Ambika. From behind the mountains, two pairs of Asura eyes looked down upon the entire group assembled there.
Chand and Munda turned to each other and grinned. This was something that both the masters (Shumbh and Nishumbha )would be very interested in.

Empty eyes (A short story)

Bidisha latched the door from inside and jerked it twice just to be sure. The room was a complete mess. The old wooden bed was laden with unwashed clothes and bedsheets. The same old black-n-white television in the corner, the flickering tubelight and the images of Kali on the wall.

The room stank too, actually. Bidisha knew the smell well. It was the rains. The dreaded Kolkata rains that washed over the very spirit of the city. They had manged to creep into ever nook and corner of the room. 

They established their reign over the skies and the sun. And they lashed out with fury against everything that moved. For some people, rains were romantic. For Shonagachi, there was nought but ruin.

The streets flooded, sewers got choked and rubbish floated everywhere. The mosquitoes bred as quickly as the dogs. Clothes wouldn't dry and their moisture would soak the insides of the room as much as the water dripping from the walls.

Load shedding was a part and parcel of life, so were food poisoning and diarrhea. Customers and clients were few and the inflow of cash dwindled. 

Bidisha could hear Moni didi singing "Jabe rimiki jhimiki jhare bhadarer dhara". It was as if Moni could read her mind.

" On rainy days

When it rains in pattering sounds
I cannot tell how I feel
So bewildered is my mind."

Bidisha almost tore off the cloth that covered her old trunk. Beneath that old threadbare cover, lay her treasure. She threw open the lid and the edges creaked with the effort.

Right on top of her pile of clothes, lay the small notebook. Brown, rough cover and adorned with three simple lines. The kid of notebook you would find in any school bag. But, it was in Bidisha's trunk.

Bidisha turned over the pages swiftly. Scared to look at her old sketches. Afraid that their memory might erase the new one from her mind. As one of her hands flipped the pages, the other one's bangles jingled as she sought her pencil.

She threw the notebook on the bed and jumped, pencil in hand. The dark room, the sodden air, the creaking fan, the pitterpatter of rain and the sound of maashi screaming ..all disappeared. 

The arms first, lean and muscled. The kind these rickshaw pullers have. Maybe he was one. The right one had a black 'taweez' tied to it. The left one had a mole near the elbow. Not too hairy though, although the armpits were hairy. Yes!

Hands? Rough. Very rough. Smelling of bidi? Or was it hash? No. Bidi. The nails were uncut. Dirt beneath three of them. The right hand was relatively cleaner. She could still feel the grip on both her breasts. And on her thighs. 

The legs? Both muscular and hairy. He hadn't given her time to observe those. If only she had been on her knees, she could have observed better. All the legs impressions were from the five minutes he spent panting on top of her, once he was done.

The stomach? Flat, almost concave, a trail of hair in the middle. The nipples were tiny, the hair on the chest were sparse and very rough. Flat and bony. Not like those pot-bellied alcohol addicts.

And the face? The face! She screwed her eyes tight.

Thin lips, thick greying moustache, two of the side teeth were broken and all of them were stained yellow. The nose was prominent, hawk like and sprouting hair. Hollow cheeks, bearded and pock marked. The hair were gone from the centre. Flat on his head, probably due to the rain. And smelled of fumes. 

The eyes? Big, not very heavily lidded and round in shape. Popping out and staring. Like those men who had a swelling in their necks. And empty. Empty eyes she liked. They did not scare her.

It was the pained eyes that tortured her, the lusty ones that made her recoil and the angry ones that bit. Thankfully, empty eyes this one had. 

"Aaaaaayyyyyyeeeee Bidisha!! " , Maashi knocked hard on the door. Another customer? 

She threw the pencil back into the trunk and banged the lid shut. Jumped over to the mirror and plastered her lips with lipstick. One quick effort to straighten her dress and she bolted out the door.

The notebook lay on the bed. It's pages fluttering, each containing a different figure. Each capturing a different set of eyes. Moni didi was now humming softly somewhere,

"Kee phul jhorilo bipul ondhokare"

(A bud waned in the endless dark

Her fragrance like an unfinished cue

Penetrated my slumber)

The slaying of Madhu and Kaitabha

The story has been taken from the first chapter of Devi Mahatmaya.
When King Suratha asks Rishi Markendeya, as to what is the "Nature and origin of Mahamaya". The rishi tells this tale to him.
I have tried to translate the original texts, to the best of my abilities. All the faults are mine, all the brilliance is hers.

'tvam svāhā tvam svadhā tvam hi vasat-kārah svara-ātmikā
sudhā tvam akasare nitye trithāmātra-ātmikā sthitā'

The entire Kalpa had come to an end. Water was everywhere. The seas had swallowed whatever land they could find. The mighty waves had established their reign over the three worlds.
Lord Vishnu was asleep. He had taken to his mystic slumber (Yoganindra) upon the sesa-naga. And as everything appeared calm and at peace, there emerged something from his ears.

Madhu and Kaitabha sprang to life, born of Vishnu's ear wax. Both of them looked at each other and laughed maliciously.
"What must we do, brother?", one of the them asked (for they were indistinguishable from each other)
"Come! We must take advantage of Vishnu's slumber. Let us go slay someone. someone mighty and powerful."
"Why not Brahma then? he shall be the easiest one to overtake. We could pounce and Him and finish Him off forever"

And they patted each other on the back. Delighted at having reached a mutual agreement, they sauntered off to finish the newly appointed enemy.

Brahma sat on the lotus that had emerged from Vishnu's navel. Lost in meditation and contemplation of the world, he stirred from his deep trance.
He could feel them coming. The shift in energy was palpable, so was the invincible force.
Brahma closed his eyes again and the entire scene passed before Him. They had been born of Vishnu, the preserver himself. And only He could destroy them.

To rouse Hari from His deep eternal slumber ...Brahma focused his prayer on the great Yoganidra residing in His eyes.
His deep, sonorous voice resonated as He extolled Her virtues,

"You are Svaha, and Swadha. You are the Vasatkara (the vedic Yajna) and the embodiment of Svara (you the sacrifice and the Heaven that can be attained through it). You are the nectar.
You are the emobidment of the threefold mantra ( A,U,M). You are half a matra, though eternal. You are Savitri (referrign to the Savitri hymn in Rigveda) and the Supreme Mother of the Gods.

You are the One who has created this world, you sustain it and you are the one who shall preside over it's destruction.
You enclose the creative, preserving and destructive forces within you. And you change them at will. Whenever you deem it necessary to do so.
You are the great knowledge (Mahavidya), the great delusion (Mahamaya) , the great intellect( Mahamedha) , the great contemplation (Mahasmriti), Mahadevi and also the great Asuri.

You are the primiordial force that gives life. You are the dark nights of dissolution. You are the Goddess  of good fortune, the ruler, modesty, intelligence, satisfaction, tranquaillity and patience. Armed with gleaming mighty weapons ... you are terrible and yet beautiful.
Your beauty is beyond compare, O great Isvari.

You are the soul of everything. The inner force that pulsates inside all things real and imaginary. How much more can i praise thee?
Even the One who created and sustaisn and devours the world, is put to sleep (by you). Who can praise and describe you, O Devi?
You, who have formed all three of us ...Brahma, Vishnu and Siva.
Emerge! O Mighty One. Release Vishnu from his slumber. And let Him slay these two demons who are wrecking havoc"

And from the pores of Vishnu's body, emerged a blinding light. A force of such magnitude that his eyes, mouth, nostrils, arms, heart and breast ....glowed with it.
She extracted herself completely and appeared in front of Brahma. And as Brahma bowed before her, Vishnu finally opened His eyes.

And then followed the war. For five thousand years, Vishnu fought with the two asuras. Using nothing but his bare hands, He clashed with them again and again. The dance of death continued over the mighty ocean.

The Mahamaya had already cast Her influence upon them. Deluded by Her, they looked Vishnu in the eye and asked him, "You may ask us a boon"

ShriBahgavan smiled at their question and secretly bowed to Mahamaya. He then answered, "If the two of you are satisfied with my skill in battle ... give me the humble boon of killing you both"

Both Madhu and Kaitabha looked all around and smiled inwards.
"You may slay us. But you can do so only in a dry place. Find a spot where the Earth isn't submerged beneath water. And we shall hand ourselves over to you"

Then the Kamalnayan smiled, and patted his thighs. And upon his loins he laid both their heads.
Then He picked up the divine Sudarshan-Chakra, the very force of which could turn universe to dust. And slayed their heads.

And therein lies the glory of Mahamaya. The wielder of the great Maya, that binds us all.

Give the boy a doll

Why not? Give it.
Along with the GI joe, racing cars, machine guns and bat-ball ...give him a doll too. Don't tell him it's girly, don't tell him it's not something boys should not play with.
Just give it to the kiddo like any other toy.

He may pick it up and toss it aside himself (and you would breathe a sigh of relief. First test of 'man'liness passed.)
In that case, the matter will be over. OR he might start taking an interest in it. Pick it up and try pulling apart it's limbs, tearing it's hair and banging it on the floor.
He might be very interested in what lies beneath the skirt (you MAY try to stop him. Although you will breathe another sigh of relief. Manliness reconfirmed)
It's nothing dirty. Let him examine it if he wants to. It's basic innocent childish curiosity.

Le's turn to more dreadful prospects. Shall we?
He might start playing with it. Maybe brush it's hair or sleep next to it. He might give it a cute name and dress it up occasionally. He might make a house for it and put little makeup on it.
You will fight your impulse to snatch the doll back. good. fight.
He might like setting it's hair and end up being the best hair designer in the country. He might like dressing it up, and become an artist or a designer in life.

Hell! Let's assume the 'worst'. He might like dolls because he is gay. Well then, you can always blame the doll in the future. Blame the doll and reduce his inner burden of guilt.

It might be his 'crime fighting partner'. It might be a queen, and he'll be the knight. It might be his Cindrella, Goldilock, Sleeping Beauty or Rapunzel. It might become the sister he wants. It might become a best friend or a girlfriend. It might be his first crush.

It will teach him to be delicate, to handle things with care.
If  he whispers secrets in her ears, it might make him more open to women. It might teach him to trust. It might teach him respect for women.
He will build the same house for a girl later on. He will hold another girl close to him, in the future. Only this time, he will know how to hug her without hurting her.
It will make him more emotional and more deep within. It will teach him not to eye a woman with lust alone. It will make those hands more tender.


The XY chromosomes will come into action. He will become the man he is meant to be. Nothing can prevent that from happening. It has been coded into his genes. Hormones will take care of it.
All you can do is, help him become a good human being.

So, give the boy a doll. He will definitely be a better man. And a real doll will love him back, for it