It was a gorgeous neem, its branches spreading luxuriously from two gnarled trunks rising tall from the meadow. Durga decided to stop for the night. One by one, she lay down the weapons on every hand - trishul, khaRga, lance, sword, mace. The discus was still spinning away. She put the lightning bolt on a piece of wood where it wouldn't spark on the ground.
It was only that morning that she had been created, and despite her terrific mastery of weapons and tactics - not to mention language, bearing, and social skills, she had a feeling of something missing. She knew of everything, yet she knew nothing - there was no comfort of familiarity. "History," deva-guru Brihaspati had told her, "Remember, you have no history." No history: this meant that she had no memory, no experiences to anchor her vast knowledge and expertise. There was a fly buzzing near her third eye. Her sixth hand brushed it away casually, even as the second, third and tenth were easing her corset and preparing for the night. She conjured up a small deer for her lion and he pounced on it neatly and disappeared dragging it behind some bushes. As for herself, while she knew about hunger, it was the same dry knowledge - she had no idea what it actually felt to be hungry. She decided against food. The moon had just risen through the branches of the neem - a tad bigger than a half moon - probably the ninth day of the waxing-moon fortnight. She could have gone on through the night and entered Mahishashur's kingdom tonight itself, and she knew she was ready in every sense. No, she was not tired - in fact, the realization that she would never experience being tired underlined her sense of loss. She had been born a full-blown woman, but all she wanted to do was to drink in this world, this night, store every moment in the empty casket of her experience. Let life sink in a little. That's the only reason she had stopped. Of course that's not what that pompous Indra had wanted, was it? These gods, all those men, strutting around her - such a pompous lot. Even that four-headed doddering fool without whose indulgence that buffalo demon would never have become such a menace in the first place. And that arrogant discus juggler who thought the universe was at his fingertips. The whole lot of them - losers. So badly thrashed by this Mahishashur! How they ran away, tails tucked in. Pah! And now they had to turn to woman, as they always do. Spreading the anchal of her resplendent red sari, Durga lay down, her open tresses radiating like tendrils of shadow in the moonlight. Although she had everything she could possibly want, something was not right. She felt the weight of her responsibility. Tomorrow she would kill that demon and god knows how many others - the earth would flow in their blood. She would have done her job. Was she nothing more than this job!! She felt a wave of despondence - a vast emptiness welling up inside her. Was she merely an automaton to meet the needs of the universe? What of her own wants? Who would fill the empty corners of her soul with song, where would she find meaning in her own life? Everyone wanted her to deliver this victory... So many of them, so many wants. Why is it that the world always wants, wants, and wants of its women - who will look after the woman inside? A single tear trickled down her cheek onto the silk. The stars blurred out for a moment. Through a parting in the neem, a moonbeam struck the red on her sari, painting it dark purple. She could hear the rumbling snore of the lion nearby, and the mild crackle of the lightning bolt. She was goddess, but she was also woman. She would rise above it. Her day would come, though not tomorrow. Tomorrow would merely be her victory. Durga closed her eyes for the night.
amit mukerjee
lucknow Caferati readmeet
22 October 2005