Climbing Chamundi Hill (12 page)

“Do you mind if we resume walking? My feet feel fine now.”

The old man nodded silently, maybe thinking of another way to ask his question. Instead, he simply said, “Let me tell you another story.”

FRIED KINGS

King Karan was very popular among the residents of his capital city. Every morning, as the market came to life at city center, he would personally supervise a group of servants carrying a large bucketful of gold for distribution to the citizens. Each day Karan made a vow that until that bucket of gold was given away, he would not eat his breakfast. Of course, this was an astounding vow—his many doubters expected the king to go broke or break the vow in no time. But neither happened. Not only did he continue to find gold for distribution each and every morning, but he was a man who showed no anxiety, looking chubby and jolly day after day.

Months and years passed by as every morning this ritual continued: a frenzied tumult in the city market followed by a serene breakfast at the palace. What the skeptics could not even imagine was that the king's generosity depended on his ability to tolerate pain and on the great power of a cannibalistic Tantric sorcerer. Every morning, before the sun showed itself beyond the eastern mountains, King Karan would silently walk over to the house of a recluse on a hill outside of town. There, the kitchen would be ready with a large vat full of boiling cooking oil, into which the king would lower himself and fry.

As soon as the king was well done, nicely browned and crisp, the sorcerer would use a large fork to remove him and proceed to breakfast on him. He would
eat the entire king, cleaning off the bones and smacking his lips in pleasure as he licked the grease off his fingers. When that was done, the great magician would assemble the bones and, using a special spell, he would restore the king—a bit stiff but otherwise fine—to life. He would pull a magical coat, which was just a dirty and patchy garment, out of the closet and then shake it vigorously until a bushel of gold coins came clanking out. These would be gathered up by the contented king and dragged back to town.

That was the deal, pure and simple. The king allowed himself to be fried and eaten, the Tantric sorcerer provided the gold, and the citizens of King Karan's city got richer. Everyone was quite happy. Of course, it was a painful ordeal for the king. At first the sizzling burn of the oil tormented him to the point of despair, and he dreaded his mornings. Eventually he became accustomed to the pain and to the repeated death. He even hummed or whistled as he walked up the hill, entered the kitchen, removed his shoes and clothing, and immersed himself in the oil vat.

However, King Karan was not the only exceptional king in that region of the country. Another was King Vikramajit, who ruled in the beautiful city of Ujjain. One day, his gardener told him that a pair of pure-white swans landed in his garden. The king hurried outside to investigate why the birds so honored him with a visit. He saw the pair looking forlorn and immediately instructed his gardener to feed the birds.

“I tried, sir,” said the gardener. “I gave them grain, but they wouldn't touch it.”

“This is correct, Your Lordship,” said the male of the couple. “He very graciously offered us a meal of grain. But you see, we are from the great Mansarobar Lake, where all the swans have lived for generations, feeding only on fresh unpierced pearls. A drought has now dried the supply of pearls in the lake, and so my dear wife and I flew away, looking for fresh pearls elsewhere. Pearls are all we eat, Your Majesty.”

The king was impressed by the dignity and beauty of the two swans and touched by their plight. He promised to feed them as best he could and immediately ordered his secretary to bring a basketful of pearls. The swans thanked him effusively and ate to their heart's content.

This continued for several happy weeks. One day, as a basket arrived and the swans calmly ate, they noticed that one of the pearls was pierced. They reasoned, correctly, that the king was running out of pearls. This made them sad, not for themselves, but for the dear king who had been so generous with them. They both knew it was time to fly away and search for food elsewhere. King Vikramajit tried to persuade them that his store of pearls was holding up, but one early morning they were gone. As they flew over the countryside, they sang Vikramajit's praises, matching the rhythm of their majestic wings with the glory of his illustrious name.

That is what King Karan heard one day, as he was getting ready to distribute the gold. “What is this?” he thought, looking up. “Who is this king? I fry myself every day and no one sings my praises, let
alone the birds in the sky!” In a jealous pique he ordered his bird catcher to capture the two swans. As soon as he had the birds caged up, he demanded to know who this King Vikramajit was and what had he done to deserve such praise. When he heard what the swans had to say, he immediately summoned plates full of pearls for his forced guests, but to no avail. They would not touch the precious food.

“A righteous king, which you pretend to be,” said the female swan, “does not imprison innocent animals. With King Vikramajit we were honored guests, free to come and go as we pleased.”

King Karan, noble and magnanimous as any rival, or at least as circumstances allowed, released the female. The beautiful bird took to the air and immediately flew back to Vikramajit's palace. There she breathlessly told her benefactor everything. The king wasted no time and set out to rescue the male swan. He knew that if he was to avoid war, he would have to act discreetly, so he entered King Karan's capital disguised as a simple servant and obtained a position at the royal palace. Every morning he helped carry out and distribute the gold among the cheering throngs of citizens. He realized early on that such a vast quantity of gold could be obtained only through unusual means. On a hunch he began to follow King Karan, and his efforts paid off when one morning, before dawn, he spotted the king on his way to the Tantric magician.

Vikramajit stealthily approached the window and peeked in just as the king was gingerly lowering
himself into the boiling vat of oil. He saw the sorcerer testing the king with a fork, eating him greedily, and licking the bones, and, finally, to his amazement, he saw the assembly of the bones turn back into the chubby old king. Then Vikramajit saw the filthy rag of a coat yield its crop of gold coins. It was then that he came up with his plan.

The next morning King Vikramajit woke up before anyone else. He went to the kitchen and prepared himself for cooking. Using a sharp knife, he slashed his entire body till he was marked with hundreds of bleeding cuts. Then he made a special curry mix using salt and pepper, spices, ground pomegranate seeds, and pea flour. He rubbed this seasoning all over his skin, working it nicely into the cuts. Smelling like a rare Kashmiri tandoori, he showed up at the house of the Tantric sorcerer. The old magician was short-sighted and failed to notice that his visitor was a different man, but he loved the new smell. As soon as the oil vat began to sizzle with the new dish, the diner made impatient smacking sounds and rubbed his hands in relish. And the taste, the taste was too exquisite to describe—better than ever.

That morning the magician could barely keep from eating the bones as well. He managed to stop only by thinking about the next day's meal, but by then he had munched down the king's right large toe. Embarrassed by losing his self-control and feeling guilty, he said, “You were so much tastier today, Your Majesty. What has changed? Tell me how you did it and I shall give you whatever you want.”

The king told him that since the frying was so painful, he decided that he might as well taste good. He promised to spice himself again the next day. But then he added, “I'd like to have the coat. The gold is so heavy—why not just let me have the coat? I promise to return next morning.” The magician, who was getting drowsy now, gave him the coat, and King Vikramajit returned to town, limping on his right foot.

An hour later King Karan came as usual, whistling and kicking up stones. He let himself into the house, but the old man was in bed, napping contentedly under his covers. Oddly, the large vat was empty and cold, though a strange smell lingered near it. Karan called out and woke up the sleeper.

“Who are you?” asked the drowsy magician.

“What do you mean ‘Who are you?'? Who can I be, you old fool? It's me, King Karan, your breakfast! What's going on this morning?”

“I already ate you—have you forgotten?” mumbled the sleepy man and turned over. “You were delicious today.”

The king was stunned. “That was not me, idiot. What did you do?” he cried out loud. “Get up and eat me now!” He shook the figure under the blankets, but it was no use.

“I can't eat. I'm stuffed…Come back tomorrow.”

“In that case give me the gold. I must have the gold.” But the coat was gone and the king, devastated and feeling betrayed, had to return to the palace empty-handed. That morning he found enough gold
in the treasury and ate his breakfast. But the next day he had none. The citizens were surprised—they had become accustomed to charity. Many planned their budgets expecting the daily windfall, added rooms to their homes, purchased horses on credit. Now they quickly became angry and started to chant obscenities at the king. The poor man spent the day fasting in his quarters, and by nighttime he was starving.

As another day went by in sorrow and hunger, the new servant came into the king's private rooms and tried to persuade him to eat. “Your Majesty, the kingdom depends on a healthy monarch,” he said sensibly. “It is better that you break your promise than jeopardize the future of the royal house.” The king said nothing, so his servant continued. “Sir, don't starve yourself. It's a slow and painful death. So many people who love you will be heartbroken, and the gods will frown on this waste of life.” Although he used every means of sweet talk and common sense, Vikramajit could not persuade the visibly upset king to break his vow. He was impressed. Returning to his own room, he fetched the coat and brought it to the royal quarters. Then Vikramajit revealed himself to King Karan, showed him his foot, and told him everything. Then he said, “Here is all the gold you need, good king. You may keep the coat—but only on one condition.”

King Karan did not hesitate. “Tell me what it is, and I shall immediately comply.”

And so the male swan was released, and King Vikramajit left King Karan with the coat. The latter
no longer resented it when the swans flew away praising their liberator. He now realized who the greater man was. Although he allowed himself to be fried for the sake of his reputation, the other was fried and lost his toe for the freedom of two birds.

I had grown up with Grimm's fairy tales, where people—usually children—were cooked and served up as food and often returned to life at the end. This story felt different because the kings volunteered to be cooked, and there was something very culinary about the whole thing—the story was almost appetizing. “I think I'm hungry!” I said.

My guide laughed. “Yes, I quite agree, and I'm a vegetarian! Would you like a little snack? I have an apple.” He fished a red apple out of his bag and broke it in two, and we ate in silence for a few moments. The steps were unusually steep, and several were broken with sharp edges. The lotion was still giving off its magic, but that made my back feel worse. The scattered clouds in the west coalesced into a distant bank—then I saw an Indian robin dive over a bush, dropping a little white load.

“Do you know why fruit tastes sweet and looks appetizing when it's ripe?” I asked the librarian, now playing the role of guide myself. He shook his head. “Trees have a deal going with the birds and other animals—‘You can eat my fruit, but carry my seeds in your gut till they're ready to come out!' It's quite clever actually: tree and bird together.”

The old man laughed at this and said, “That's the smartest thing I ever heard about bird shit.” Our eyes locked then, and we both threw away the apple core at the same time.

Then he asked me, “So what do you make of that strange little tale I told you?”

“It's clearly about self-sacrifice. Agreeing to undergo pain, even death, to achieve your goals.”

“Which are?”

“Fame in the case of one, compassion in the case of the better king.”

“Of course. Now, isn't it strange that the kings die—fry—and then come back? Don't you think their sacrifice would be more impressive if they just simply died?”

“That's true, but I expect there's some kind of resurrection symbolism here. If you're a good Christian, like my Catholic mother, death and rebirth are the highest currency of holiness and sacrifice.”

“That's quite impressive. Your mother sounds more and more interesting all the time, if I may say so. But notice how important food is in this tale. The first king cannot eat breakfast unless the magician eats, and the second king is consumed with the need to feed the swans. And there's more. The swans eat expensive pearls, while the citizens receive gold as part of their king's generosity. So there must be some hidden connection between the kings' willingness to cook themselves and the welfare of others, which takes the form of treasures. Do you see all of that?”

“I do, but what does it mean?”

The guide looked around till he found a small bush with dried twigs. He broke one off carefully and, as I waited, he began to pick his teeth. “Sorry, young man. Apple always gets stuck in there.”

Finally, he spoke. “You might wish to read it as a lesson in psychology, a story about who we are and who we want to be, or about the ‘I' and the ‘me.' The ‘me' is ravenous and must always be fed in order to survive. The ‘I' is the one who
tries heroically to feed the ‘me' its most precious commodity. Do you wish to guess what that might be?”

“I don't know. Self-esteem? Will?”

“Consciousness, young man, consciousness. Unfortunately, the act of feeding ‘me,' who is a social creature, consumes the ‘I' to the point of death. That means that the true self gives away its consciousness to the ‘me'—it becomes dissolved in or identified with the invented self. It dies. But you should know that this death lasts only an instant, the ‘I' must be reborn immediately in order to feed the ‘me' again. So it takes on a new life in the new instant that follows its depletion, and the cycle goes on and on.”