Climbing Chamundi Hill (7 page)

“That's a very reasonable point, I must agree. So what is that message?”

“Fall in love and you'll have a hungry demon on your hands…No, I don't really mean that. Look, I need to sit down for a minute. Do you mind?” I turned around and saw a dirt path leading off the steps. A beautiful
Acacia arabica,
with its feathery green foliage, cast modest shade on a comfortable-looking rock. I headed directly for that spot and heard the old man shuffle behind. There was room for both of us, facing the sleepy landscape of Mysore beyond a tall agave cactus that split the panorama in two. This felt good; I picked up the thread of our conversation. “The story's about the end of social morality, I suppose. The protectors stop protecting.”

“Yes, and why is our hero a little boy?

“Because he is the ideal scapegoat—the weakest link, the one who needs more protection that anyone else.”

“That's very nicely said. The scapegoat. Do you remember the emperor's new clothes, that wonderful story, and the little boy in that tale?”

“Yes, I do. Ah yes, I see what you're saying…It takes a young child to see through the illusion that everyone else
pretends to see—that the emperor is dressed, or that the system is working. That makes sense.”

“Precisely. There is a little boy in all of us, a naïve simplicity that is always truthful. It sees through the clutter of moral pretense. It sees through delusion. And, of course, you do not have to be a wise or learned man.”

I felt a slight breeze from the west. A few distant clouds framed the lush farmland. “I have to admit that stories about parents killing their children are especially disturbing. I know we have them too—in the Bible, in Grimm's fairy tales. I didn't think I would hear one from you.”

“Well, why not?” the old man replied. “There are several. Some are extremely famous. For instance, there's a story about a carpenter who cut a huge green bamboo tree that refused to fall down. It demanded the sacrifice of the carpenter's eldest son. The man agreed and sent the boy with a cart drawn by two bulls, a brown and a black one, to fetch the tree. One of the bulls gave the boy a magical egg and a magical broomstick. At some point the boy began to run away from the tree, which reached out to grab him. So he threw the egg at the tree, and a vicious wind began to blow. Then he threw the broomstick, and a forest of bamboos grew instantaneously. When the green tree crashed through the bamboo forest, it burst into flames, saving the boy. We have stories like that from all over India, but the most important one you will hear only later, when we move farther up the mountain.”

“You know, all the stories you've told me up to now are kind of preachy, moralizing…but at the same time, there's something passive about them too. I mean, the hero always seems stuck, even when he sees the truth.” Just then I noticed that someone had carved two initials on one of the cactus leaves. A ripple quietly tickled my intestines, where I
had been so ill, as I continued. “Your heroes have vision but they seem to be moving in molasses…”

“I see you need to rest a bit longer. You shouldn't feel ashamed about that. How would you like to hear something altogether different while we sit? Perhaps still a bit preachy, I confess, but certainly not passive.”

That was fine with me. I listened as the old man told me the following story.

TOO MANY LOVERS

My grandmother grew up in Varanasi on a rich estate at the point of the river's bend. Her mother was the daughter of aristocratic parents, raised among the wealthiest families—those that socialized with the royal crowd. Her mother's name was Upakosha. From a young age she had been remarkable. She possessed the face of a full moon with lotus-blue eyes, her mouth was framed by coral lips, and her neck displayed the three shell lines of classical beauty. She was a second Lakshmi—the torture of all the young men who ever laid eyes on her. Due to her parents' exalted station, she spent much of her time playing at the royal palace, and in later years studying and performing on musical instruments with the young members of the royal house.

As she approached her twentieth year, her parents felt that it would only be natural if a match were
found at the palace, where refined and confident young men of good breeding showed keen interest. However, Upakosha remained extremely modest, keeping strict company with the young ladies. Her studies, which she valued deeply, required that she work with a young man, a tutor who could have bested the great grammarian Panini himself in knowledge of grammar. The tutor, Vararuchi, was ordinary to look at; he could hardly match the court aristocrats in breeding or bearing. Many thought him a fool, however learned he may have been. This was probably due to his awkwardness and lack of worldly experience. It was a great surprise to all, and a savage disappointment to the men of the palace, when Upakosha's parents announced that their daughter would marry the tutor.

The couple lived happily for some time. Vararuchi was the son of merchants, who supplied him with an income sufficient to keep the couple living in comfort. One day he told his wife that, due to the dismal prospects of Sanskrit studies in the region, it became incumbent that he go to the Himalayas in order to propitiate Shiva. He deposited his money with the merchant Hiranyadatta, whom he instructed to honor any withdrawal Upakosha felt necessary to maintain the household.

With her beloved husband gone, Upakosha spent entire days at home. But every morning, as a vow to aid in the scholar's efforts, she went bathing in the Ganges. Although she became pale and thin with her longings, the young woman unknowingly thrilled
intrusive eyes as she emerged from her cold bath. Her old suitors had decided to take advantage of Vararuchi's absence and prey on the object of their lust. One day, the prince's minister, a stocky and brutish man, timed his visit to the river perfectly. As soon as Upakosha changed her clothes, he grabbed her arm and forced her toward the reeds by the riverbank. At that moment of crisis, Upakosha proved what an unusual woman she was by staying calm.

“Listen, dear sir,” she whispered in her best conspiring tone, “I'd like to rendezvous with you very much. But not here. I mean, there is my reputation to consider, don't you think?” She giggled at him, and he winked back. “Why don't you come to my house next week during the spring festival when everyone will be too drunk to notice. Come at the first watch of the night.”

The minister smacked his lips and snorted like a wild boar. “Next week it is, my love. Ah! I have been waiting for this…” He released her arm and went away whistling.

It was only after the minister departed that Upakosha allowed herself to feel the severity of the situation. She steeled herself for a solution—there was, after all, more than a week to plan. But then things worsened rapidly. The very next day Upakosha went back to her customary place at the river, where she was accosted again before even entering the water. This time it was the sleazy royal chaplain. He did not assault her—that was not his
style—but apparently he had seen her with the minister and threatened to expose her immorality. He demanded sexual favors on the spot. She made the same plans with the chaplain, but told him to come on the second watch of the festival night. The very next day beautiful Upakosha was approached on the street before her own house by the head magistrate. The fat official had an evil gleam in his eyes as he touched the woman in an overly familiar fashion. And so Upakosha had to make the same arrangements one more time, but for the third watch of the night.

She cursed her beauty and her loneliness, vowing now to stay inside, away from the greedy eyes of lechers. That same day she sent one of her maidservants to the merchant Hiranyadatta to withdraw money for presents honoring Brahmins. The girl returned after some time, without the money but with the merchant in tow. The man barged inside, displaying his righteous indignation, and said, “Your husband left no money on deposit, madam. How dare you send that servant to me.” Upakosha knew he was lying and merely waited to see what he wanted. And sure enough: “Of course, if madam needs a small loan, I might be able to extend her some credit…But I do require something in return.” The mistress of the house looked at him coldly; she told him to come the following week, on the fourth watch of the spring festival night.

On the night of the spring festival, the prince's min
ister arrived as planned, looking as elegant as a hill-station manservant. He was ushered in quietly, his excitement barely contained. However, Upakosha told him that unless he bathed, she would not see him. That seemed exacting but not unreasonable, so he let himself be led off by the maidservants into a pitch-dark back room where he was stripped and given a simple undergarment for his bath. The maids then smeared him from top to bottom with a thick coating of lampblack mixed with fragrant oil, telling him it was a special soap. As they were luxuriously—ever so slowly—rubbing him, the second man, the chaplain, arrived. The minister heard the noise in the front rooms and asked who the guest was. The girls told him that it was a close friend of Vararuchi and an important member of the palace. The minister panicked and begged to be hidden somewhere. It just so happened that a large trunk was conveniently situated nearby, so the naked man was hurriedly ushered inside and told to keep very still.

The chaplain then enjoyed the very same treatment, but before his soaping ended, the magistrate arrived. Then he too was rudely shown into the very same dark trunk with the minister. By the time the merchant was being led into the inner rooms at the last watch of the night, the large trunk hosted three naked members of the royal court. None knew the identity of the others, though all shared a profound desire to escape harm and embarrassment. But the trunk was locked shut.

At the final watch of that romantic night, Upakosha, holding a lamp, led her newest guest—the merchant—to the trunk and said, “Give me the money that my husband has deposited with you for my use.”

Seeing that the room was empty the merchant allowed himself to scoff. “Dear lady, I told you that I would give you that money, but only after you satisfy me.”

The woman responded strangely. “Listen to the words of the merchant Hiranyadatta, O gods.” With those words said, Upakosha put out the lamp and summoned the maids. The merchant was stripped, then covered roughly with the lampblack.

As soon as he was smeared head to foot, the girls shoved him out the door and told him to go home. The man yelled at Upakosha, “You will never get that money now!” However, he slithered home as quietly as a black garden snake, helplessly trying to dodge the dogs that nipped at him. He felt too humiliated to look at his own servants as they scraped and rubbed the sticky lampblack off his entire body.

The next morning Upakosha went to the court of King Nanda, where she was a welcomed guest. She formally accused the merchant of trying to steal her husband's money. The king summoned the merchant, who appeared promptly, barely dried off from his long wash. As he heard the charge, the merchant looked at his accuser with a contemptuous sneer and responded, “I have nothing belonging to that woman.”

But Upakosha declared immediately that she had witnesses. “Your Lordship,” she said, “when my husband went to perform austerities in the Himalayas, I placed the household deities in a box for safekeeping. They are the witnesses that what I say is true.”

The king agreed to have the trunk brought to court, and Upakosha spoke directly to it. “O gods, tell the court exactly what you heard the merchant say. Speak the truth and then go home. Otherwise I shall either open the box in court or set it on fire.”

The voices coming from the box were heard very quickly and clearly. “Yes, truly, the merchant admitted that he had the woman's money.” The merchant then threw himself at the king's feet, confessing his guilt and begging the clemency of the court.

Of course, King Nanda could not control his curiosity about the trunk, so he asked Upakosha's permission to look inside. She smilingly agreed, and the lock was broken open. Out then came three dark, dazed figures that looked like lumps of coal. Someone yelled suddenly, “Hey look, it's the prince's minister…and the chaplain…and magistrate!” They were all nearly naked, cowering in embarrassment. The room exploded in laughter and whistling, while fingers pointed at the scrawny black limbs of the distinguished men. Even the king could not restrain himself and screamed in merriment. After the noise subsided, King Nanda asked Upakosha what it all meant, and she told him about the entire affair.

The king summarily ordered that all four men be deprived of their property and exiled. Then, looking admiringly at the young woman, he announced, “This virtuous woman is my sister. Anyone who harasses her in any way is assaulting the very throne.” He then sent her home, accompanied by an honor guard.