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synopsis
Focusing on society, culture, religion, mythology, religious orthodoxy, philosophy, spirituality, and history, the article goes on to merge belief systems with modern concepts of equality and feminism. Throughout the article, you will meet Time (Kala) who goes on to recite the stories and raise questions that Time is unable to answer. It is a time travel from the Kailasha to the Darbar of Prajapati Daksha, from the dances in heaven to the wilderness of Nilachal Parvat on Earth, and from the dreams to the curse of the dynasty that ruled Cooch Behar. The article encompasses everything, from practices to opinions of atheists and nonbelievers. A chronicle that begins in heaven and droppeth from there on earth to relish us with its legends, that are relevant to date.
Focusing on society, culture, religion, mythology, religious orthodoxy, philosophy, spirituality, and history, the article goes on to merge belief systems with modern concepts of equality and feminism. Throughout the article, you will meet Time (Kala) who goes on to recite the stories and raise questions that Time is unable to answer. It is a time travel from the Kailasha to the Darbar of Prajapati Daksha, from the dances in heaven to the wilderness of Nilachal Parvat on Earth, and from the dreams to the curse of the dynasty that ruled Cooch Behar. The article encompasses everything, from practices, to opinions of atheists and nonbelievers. A chronicle that begins in heaven and droppeth from there on earth to relish us with its legends, that are relevant to date.
Bhadra Kali’s sacred red tongue painted the evening sky. She didn't hesitate to paint the sun too. A hot carmine ball of fire on the hues of red. Reds; which were lighter — scarlet, raspberry, rose, and crimson. The sky moved to engulf the sun. The sky was, a Hanumana eating the sun. First, it eats the lower end, then slowly moves towards its temples. The sun was eaten. Now the sky was blue; cobalt blue. It blushed in the west. Rather, a peck by Indra in the west; millennial pink and coral. The unholy blood on the tongue of Kali was washed away by maiden colors— white, sky, pink, and violet. The whiff of rajanigandha and marigold compelled the god of love to dance. A beautiful white lover danced on the maiden floor, in maiden colors. Kama danced. It was that time of the year when ‘the mother of creation’ menstruated. She lived since clocks were not a thing; since ‘time’ itself was not a thing too, perhaps older than our grandmothers’ grandmothers, but she continues to bleed and our ancestral women probably secured a relief. No more bleeding. But why would ‘Jagatjanani’ stop bleeding? Why would she stop menstruating? She was busy creating. Ferocious face, large dark eyes, and long red tongue; she was so engrossed in her creation that she forgot to bargain with ‘time’ and spent little on herself to wear her robes. Kali stood black, proud, and nude over her white husband; the Achintya. Shiva.
Let ‘Kala’, the time, recite to you, ‘the story’. A story; encompassing the worlds of mythology, religion, religious orthodoxy, recent history, curses, magic, and politics.
I'm Kala speaking, am I audible and loud? Can you hear me laugh? Can you hear me whisper into your pinna? Let me ask you a riddle, in a performance by two, if it were to be; one by ‘joy’ and the other by ‘grief’, then what shall be the conflict of emotions among the audience? Just like the confusion among insects to choose the sweetest nectar; just like the confusion of ‘kaya’ to choose his beautiful ‘maya’; but again, one may ask, “What do you need? What do you desire?”, to produce a conflict of emotions among the audience. But who is responsible for joy, grief, love, lust, hatred, and desire that blooms out of our hearts like a sunlit sunflower??... Answer… Answer? Huh, you foolish mortals will never find it. Let me tell you the story. Listen. Do not forget the question but, I will ask you again when I am finished.
After Sati married Shiva against the desire of her father, she began to live in the abode of her husband amidst demons, spirits, ‘bhoots’, ‘pishachas’, and other undesirable, unwanted scary creatures in the Kailasha. Daksha, her father, disliked Shiva because he didn’t look like other gods. He didn't wear a crown or a headgear; rather he bundled his rough-thick-long matted hair into a bun on top. He did not wear any ornaments or clothes; rather he had an exposed torso, his shame hiding under the skin of tigers, and there were no ornaments — golds or silver but only garlands of neel kantha, calotropis gigantea, and rudraksha. He was above worldly styles, tastes, and aesthetics. He meditated; conquering the truth, eternity, life, and death. What is truth? What is the essence of life? What is death? Where is eternity? where is the scope of life? How was death born? Did death ever die? Or is death immortal? How can death who is already not dead open the doors of death for others? Oops! I was carried away. Pardon. Pardon. So where was I? Yes, Daksha disliked him. Upon his daughter marrying Shiva; he abandoned her but disagreed to change his mind. Even he refused his father’s advice. The advice of the creator, Prajapati Brahma himself. He arranged for a grand sacrifice. All the gods from different worlds were invited except the residents of Kailasha. No Shiva, that was understandable, but why not Sati? Why was a daughter not called? Is she no more ‘a daughter’? Did the auspicious fire of marriage declare the end of all relations; between a father and a daughter, a mother and a daughter, sisters with sisters? Is marriage a cliff between two lives? Ohhh! I am carried away again. Pardon. Pardon.
Sati, on receiving this token of information, hurried to her husband. She asked permission from her husband. Why does a wife require ‘a permission’? Is the husband all correct? Is he the ruler, the governor of the woman he is married to? I am not carried away, you, mortal. I ask you… think, think. Nevertheless, a stubborn Sati arguing with Shiva went to her father’s abode. Palace dazzling with beauty. Lotus and lilies. The aroma of food: all sweet and spicy. “Here comes my forbidden daughter…”, Daksha begins. He continues. Discarding and scoffing over Shiva. He insulted the external looks of Shiva, his clothes, his ornaments, his dwellings, and so on. Then he insulted his deeds, his associates, companies, and companions. Unable to hear anything wrong about her beloved husband Sati sacrifices herself. Then, an enraged Shiva woke up from his deep meditation. I, Kala, was born out of his rage. I was ordered to slaughter Daksha and he, Shiva,carried the lifeless body of Sati. He danced, carrying his dead beautiful wife in his arms. A dance of destruction. Natya-raj; Nataraj.
“He forbade his identity as a father;
[disgusted by this view, Vishnu played a trick]
there was no trace on his forehead to bother.
[he found ego receding in a village]
Dull, gray and white face, red stain on his lips;
[he picked it up and threw it on the feet of Shiva]
Within his heart, there were scars so deep.
[he stopped]
There was no piece of cloth he wanted to wear.
[at this moment, when the lifeless body was aside; he went with the second plan]
Blood and bottles of liquor were all his body could bear.
[on the request of the devas, he ordered his Sudarshan]
Ribs peeped through his blue skin.
[the Sudarshana cut her body into 108 pieces]
His limbs were not powerless but thin.
[whereever fell the pieces; emerged a temple]
Strength in mind and bloodthirsty eyes;
[her Yoni; perhaps her vulva fell in your present-day Assam, on Nilachal hills]
did empower him to challenge the might.”
Even today, the yoni in the Nilachal hills menstruate; once every year. It is that time of the year when farmers in Bengal, Assam, Tripura, and Bangladesh do not plough their fields, it would hurt the goddess because she was now embedded in the soil. The widows do not cook; actually cooking is prohibited altogether but mortals cannot survive without cooked food. “MAYA”... ‘THEY ARE’ mayaaaa… Not a green-eyed mischievous playful lady but a group of notorious naked children hallucinating and intoxicating everyone with their innocence and for, there is innocence; they are no sinners!!!... The answer to my question. It’s Maya who governs you, me, and the world and casts a curtain of illusion before the Gods even. Cooked food is Maya. Can these fish-eating, meat-eating Bengalis, and Assamese go without tasting flesh? Can they survive on soaked sago, soaked flattened rice, milk, sugar, and bananas? No, these mortals. Also, all the Devi temples are closed. Women wrap statues and pictures of Durga and Kali in their homes. For this period of three to four days, Durga ceases to meet the mortals and Kali her children. They rest. Whether they sleep or play, we do not know. But yes, I do remember the prince of that Cooch Behar saw her dance. Oops! How can I forget this story? I thought I was done. I even revealed the answer to my question. Pardon. Pardon.
The Forbidden Goddess in the forests of Nilachal hills lived in abandonment for years. She was finding a suitable builder for her abode. She caught hold of the pious king of Cooch Behar in his dreams. She appeared in a motherly disguise, wrapped in a bright red saree with gold in her arms and feet. She said, “I am here in Nilachal Parvat, forbidden away from humanity and into the wild. Kama-Roopa is my disguise there. Find me, my child. Help me shower my blessings to the world. I'm waiting”. The king followed her orders. He found her. He then went on to build a temple. Flowers showered from heaven, and Kama deva danced in the sky. Kama-Roopini Ma Devi Shakti was happy. But one day, ‘that time of the year’ arrived again. Devi desired silence and peace. The doors remained closed. One night the egoistic son of the pious king who was inquisitive about what happened within the stone walls of the cave when the doors went shut, entered through the holy doors of the temple. He saw her dance and went blind. “Ma… ma”, he cried. The prince was found crawling in pain outside the temple. How did he reach outside the cave; it is difficult for me to tell too. These magics of Devi Adi-Shakti blindfold me. She manages to hypnotize me, how? I'm yet to learn. How can one blind time? Am I not the eternal? Am I not the end and the beginning; the beginning and the end? Anyways, the king asked for forgiveness. He prayed for his son’s well-being. Because the king was pious, the goddess returned the prince his pair of eyes. In return, no one from the family even in the future should glance an eye on the Nilachal Parvat. A curse. Curse, that remains alive to date. The carts from the royal palace then had their curtains pulled while crossing the hill, and now even the cars from the palace have their sun shades pulled. Huh! I'm done at last. These stories pass from one generation to another adding some spice and reducing a few facts, turning histories into myths, but that is what is supposed to happen. A wave is followed by another; then another and another. The waves may vanish but who can question their existence? Nevertheless, the wave did exist. What is there to question about existence and nonexistence? Stories will come and go; legends will sprout up and vanish; what should remain alive is the essence, the fact that it binds people together. Where is the distinction in society? where are the differences? The goddess bleeds like a mortal. Where is the barrier? Oops! I'm driven again. I'm Kala speaking, was I audible and loud? Did you hear me laugh? Did you hear me whisper into your pinna? I will ask no riddle. (Kala vanished)
There is a fair every year to celebrate this festival. The Brahmaputra turns slightly copperish. Journalists, non-believers, and atheist ecologists often point their fingers, blaming the purohits of the temple for mixing kumkum into the waters but again no such shreds of evidence assert their assumptions. The red menstruated piece of cloth is divided into two. One goes to the purohits of the temple and is kept by the eldest purohit of the temple; whereas the other is delivered to the palace of Cooch Behar. A piece of cloth that is considered so polluted in society, is revered once it has the blood of some supernatural element. During this time of the year, in the month of Ashad (the third month in the Bengali calendar), ascetics from different parts of the country flock to the Kamakhya temple. This is the time to complete and fulfil their sadhana. An unfathomable energy is felt and experienced here in the Nilachal Parvat. A point on earth or a time when science and logic vanish to serve us answers on a spiritual and philosophical platter. Who is Kali? Who is Durga? Who is Kama-Roopini Ma Devi Shakti? Huh! She is Uma; a woman from our family, perhaps a maiden living amidst us, playing, dancing, and laughing. Goddess bleeding like a mortal. Where is the difference?
“Her feet match the color of her cloth,
It was not Alta but blood — red exposed and clot.
Fluttering hair open, driven and kissed by the wanton wind;
Don't ask her for there is nothing, she didn't.
What she cares is not about her tattered blouse;
or her hair entangled with the forest branches;
Not about what foolish parrots blubber newsletters in society.
Not a strain of worry over her bhayanak face,
She did quench her thirst for Revenge,
She did quench her thirst for Revenge,
She did quench her thirst for Revenge”...
By: Riju Chanda
Riju Chanda is currently pursuing History at Hansraj College, Delhi University. Born in 2004, in Habra, West Bengal. He completed his schooling at Delhi Public School R K Puram.
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