Shakti: The Feminine Divine (20 page)

So saying Shakti stalked off. Shiva and Vishnu chased after her, begging her forgiveness, swearing that no sculptor, no matter how talented, could hope to capture the perfection of her features.

The True and False Prophet

F
OR A BRIEF
spell following Mahisha’s demise, there was peace and quiet in the three worlds. The first couple of heaven had never seemed more in love with each other, now that their possessions were restored to them, and everyone was keen to follow their example and just bask in the moment. The prolonged period of their disgrace and exile had been extremely hard on them. Sachi could not believe that such a grave crisis had overtaken them despite her iron will, which she had firmly believed would see her past everything. Her disillusionment had been complete when they were forced to live in the inhospitable mountains, hiding and foraging like rats, stripped of every luxury they had grown accustomed to.

Indra and Sachi could draw no comfort from each other, as the latter’s palpable disappointment and the former’s resentment acted as wedges between them. They tried to mask this growing distance with empty words of encouragement uttered mostly in the company of others. To distract herself
from her misery, shattered self-belief and Indra’s sullen need, Sachi had turned to prayer and fasting with typical extremism, guided by the rishis and sages, with whom she had formed an alliance.

As always, the other women in hiding were quick to follow her example. They all prayed to the gods to deliver them from evil and guide their menfolk back to the path of victory and prosperity. But the prayers mostly acted as a distraction from the squalor of their immediate surroundings and elevated at least their senses to a more rarefied realm.

Now that their prayers had been answered, Sachi no longer had dreams about being ravished by a wild buffalo. Indra stopped fantasizing about hurling his thunderbolt at her and forever closing those translucently veiled eyes filled with baleful reproach. Flushed with triumph, they even resumed their lovemaking on the days when Sachi was not practising abstinence.

Sachi was hugely revered in the heavens for her faith, which had kept the fires of hope burning during their darkest moments, but Indra tended to view it with secret cynicism. He found her devotion somewhat contradictory because he was well aware that the jealousy she had long harboured against the Goddess had not vanished miraculously.

Mahadevi and her embodiments had proved too powerful to hate, but that still did not stop Sachi from giving voice to her theory on Mahisha’s death. She insisted that it was through Shiva’s and Vishnu’s grace that they had all been saved. Since no one knew the exact details, the entire question was open to debate. For all they knew, Mahisha may just as well have been the Goddess’s lapdog and all she had to do was call him to heel and shackle him until the heat died down.

When Sachi was not disparaging Shakti, she was engaging herself with the ritualistic practices that prompted many to assert that it was her purity of purpose which had seen them triumph over their enemies. Basking in her new-found popularity, she failed to notice that her husband was no longer himself, and had not been for a long time.

‘I am fortunate indeed to be the undisputed sovereign of heaven,’ Indra would brood. ‘It was bad enough in the past, when Vishnu or Shiva got the lion’s share of credit for my victories on the battlefield. Now it is even worse! The greatest enemy of the devas was vanquished in battle by a mere female, whom in another avatar I had chased away from this very heaven with my thunderbolt. Accursed fate put me in the ignoble position of begging for her aid and, worse, receiving it! And now I have no choice but to suck it up and worship at her feet…

‘If that were not bad enough, my scheming wife, who brainwashed me into killing Trishiras and caused this almighty mess, is being made out to be a paragon of virtue who saved her husband’s sorry behind by dint of prayer and sacrifice! Not one word has been uttered about my valour in fighting the buffalo demon or the sacrifice I was prepared to make to ensure the safety of the mortals! It would have been better if Mahisha had succeeded in killing me!’

Having locked each other out, Indra and Sachi allowed their relationship to crumble, pride dictating that neither stooped to pick up the pieces for the arduous process of reconstruction. Marital dissatisfaction was a reality only when it was acknowledged and the first couple were the very picture of contentment. There was not a soul in heaven that did not envy them the strong bonds of their marriage, which had weathered
every hardship and endured steadily through good times and bad.

But deep down where pretence was banished, Indra and Sachi were assailed by doubt, fear and unease, knowing that this stability was nothing but an illusion. Their negativity fought its way past her brittle faith and his hard-nosed practicality to emerge from their subconscious mind and shape their reality. Thus they nudged forward the events that would snap the fragile threads of their pretended happiness and once again bring strife and sorrow.

This lurking unease merged with discontent and reared its head in paradise, choosing for its victim Twastha, Indra’s old enemy. The bereaved father had delighted in Indra’s fall from grace and had hoped that Mahisha would kill him at the earliest. But his nemesis seemed to have a remarkable resilience and despite the buffalo demon’s best efforts, he had managed not only to survive but reclaim the throne of heaven.

‘If only Mahisha had had the good sense to concentrate on killing Indra!’ Twastha would repeat obsessively to Recana. ‘Mahadevi would have elevated him to sainthood and given him a position of honour by her side, rather than unleashing Durga! Instead, he went mad with power, running amok like a crazed buffalo, forcing the Goddess to conclude that Indra was the lesser of the two evils. It is the foulest of luck that things have come to pass in this manner!’

‘You are right as always, dear husband!’ his aggrieved wife would reply. ‘The cowardly killing of our son Trishiras has all but been forgotten. Indra has not only escaped punishment for his crime, but has gone from strength to strength, with the higher powers seeing fit to grant everything his blackguard heart could desire.’

‘That bastard has managed to hold on to the power he loves better than his own wife and children. The pious Sachidevi remains devoted to him, though he is devoted to notching up sexual conquests among harlots, who shamelessly welcome the scoundrel to their beds! He commands the respect of everyone in the three worlds despite being a murderer, shameless womanizer and cowardly rogue, who depends on Vishnu, Shiva and Mahadevi to fight his battles. Worst of all, he lives a life of ease in the exquisite palace I myself built with these hands at the plum centre of the most wondrous city in the three worlds!’

‘Such injustice can scarce be borne!’ Recana lamented. ‘With every fibre of my being I have wished for misfortune to overtake Indra. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see him lose the power he hoards so jealously, as well as his precious family and kingdom. Death should come for him when he has had the time to rue the fact that he has lost everything and even then, it should be a protracted and painful one. Then and only then will my anger and sorrow be assuaged!’

Cursing Indra to her last breath, Recana eventually wasted away, and Twastha was left with naught but a gaping void in his life, which he filled with his need for vengeance.

Thus, while the devas and humans were rejoicing, the father of a slain son drew on the full extent of his Vedic knowledge and began a yagna that would give him the means to exact revenge. Fuelled by righteous indignation, he infused the spells and incantations he chanted in an unwavering stream with the power of his intent and ascetic merit.

Soon, his efforts bore fruit. As the yagna neared completion, a giant stepped forth from the writhing flames. He was dark as night and his eyes were pools of molten
gold. Like his elder brother Trishiras, Vritra, for that was his name, possessed the qualities of nobility and unsullied virtue that marked him as special. He was blessed with a radiance that accentuated his beauty, which shone all the more for its essential goodness, belying the ill-will that bore him.

The first thing Vritra did was to take note of the tears that ran down his father’s face, which had been ravaged by long years of mourning and unappeased anger. He touched Twastha’s feet with respect and then, clasping his hands, promised to do whatever was required to alleviate his suffering. It was exactly what Twastha needed to hear. His patience had finally been rewarded— revenge would be his.

Vritra’s rise disturbed the superficial stillness of life in Amaravathi and released the roiling passions within, its ripples spreading to include all the devas who had allowed their consciences to snooze for so long. The decaying ruins of an old crime was refurbished in their memory. Much to their chagrin, they knew that justice had to be served. The devas were gripped by shame that none of them had had the stomach to stand up to their king, forcing him to answer for the murder.

Indra felt strangely elated; he had been expecting just this sort of crisis and was glad to be proved right, although it was hardly a matter for good cheer. He was sick and tired of his recent moroseness and feelings of inadequacy. The constant danger that plagued his life had surfaced in the form of Vritra and he welcomed its return, feeling more alive and vital than he had in ages.

‘Let him do his worst!’ he thought gleefully. ‘Twastha’s monster will raise an army and start a war. In all likelihood, he will prevail in the initial skirmishes at least. Unopposed might is a powerful additive, though, and soon he’ll be guilty of worse
transgressions than mine, and any residual sympathy for his doomed cause will evaporate. Soon my judgemental subjects will be clamouring for his blood and I’ll find a way to provide it. My detractors can mutter all they want behind my back about how I rely on Vishnu and Durga to fight my battles; the fact remains that I am a survivor and I’ll prove my worth!’

Even Sachi, who was in no mood to admit that she had been an accessory to murder in the past, became increasingly protective about her husband and spoke up staunchly in his favour. ‘It is a king’s job to deal with traitors using drastic methods and you were well within your rights to kill Trishiras. He should have known better than to jeopardize those in whose service he had been employed and consort with his mother’s relatives behind our backs. A dog that bites its owner’s hand can hardly expect to be rocked on the master’s lap, now, can it?

‘I see no reason for Twastha and that ghoulish son of his to get so vindictive and self-righteous. What is Vritra doing now? Is he preparing for war? Why are men always in such a hurry to march off to battle? You would think there was enough bloodletting to sate even the most bloodthirsty of males after the great battles waged by Mahisha and yet, we seem to have another almighty clash on the cards.’

‘That is the interesting thing, dear wife,’ Indra replied absentmindedly. ‘So far Vritra has not done anything I would have expected of him. We know for certain that he promised his father to do whatever was needed to stop his suffering and Twastha replied that only my head on a platter would appease him. Now, most self-respecting demons would have repaired into the wilderness to perform endless tapas to supplement their natural gifts and win boons of power granted by moronic gods who ought to know better. In fact, Twastha suggested he
do just that, but so far Vritra has not shown the least inclination to do any such thing.’

‘It is very suspicious!’ Sachi said, looking so worried that Indra was touched despite himself. ‘Surely he must be plotting some kind of vile scheme. Our history is littered with the tales of those who dared to wage war against the chosen ruler of the heavens; not a single one of them escaped a horrible death. Perhaps that is why Vritra does not want to take the traditional route and has something far more sinister in mind to ensure success for himself. Be wary, my lord! The three worlds look to you for guidance and if anything untoward were to happen, all would be lost!’

‘It will not come to that,’ Indra assured her brusquely, feeling irritation stir inside him again.

Thanks to that damned Mahisha, she seemed to think he was incapable of pulling up his own loincloth and needed Shiva, Vishnu or Durga to piggyback his way past every ugly crisis that reared its head.

Indra monitored the movements of his new enemy closely. Soon, it became clear that Vritra did not mean to wage war; rather he was in the business of edification—cleansing hearts clogged with hate and freeing minds mired in ignorance, or something that sounded equally sanctimonious. He was an ardent devotee of the Goddess and was keen to spread the message of her glory, which, he intimated, had previously been deliberately obliterated or played down by the male-dominated bastion of Vedic scholarship.

The self-proclaimed teacher usually wore no clothes although, much to the chagrin of the celestials, he had been known to sport feminine raiment on occasion. He did not bother to run a comb through his abundant hair. To top off
his unforgiveable sartorial sins, he denounced the love of jewellery and obsession with material comforts that plagued the celestials. There was more, but Indra could hardly take any more of his preaching and tended to zone out while his spies repeated Vritra’s long-winded discourses verbatim.

The king of the heavens was initially glad that he was up not against a mighty fighter but a deranged prophet, filled to the top of his damaged brain with the most cockamamie ideas in creation. Surely none would take a naked nut job seriously! As it turned out, though, Vritra was a powerful orator. He seemed to exercise a hypnotic power over his followers, reminiscent of the dubious Mahamoha and Mahamaya for which the Goddess herself was renowned.

Soon, he had attracted a sizeable following of like-minded fanatics who wandered around naked or took to cross-dressing, insisted on eating only raw food and imbibed liquor in indecent quantities. They wandered around spouting gobbledygook that ought to have been considered just provocation for a punch on the kisser. Most of the celestials considered the cult bad news. However, the number of adherents to this radical way of living, with a rabid devotion to Vritra’s new-fangled ideas, made up for their meagre numbers.