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Instagram hosted Chapter three of the fun videothon on Instagram with four of the TOI Write India winners. One writer had to start the story and the rest develop the plot further, handing over the baton to each other, adding their twists to the plot, finally take it to an exciting conclusion! And all this through videos.
For those who missed it, here is the complete story, along with the Instagram posts you can look at:
Story: Love of the DeityEpisode 1 by Harshali Singh‘Ramendra… why did you give this name to me Ma?’ a young thin boy, barely seventeen, asked his mother.
‘Because they represent two parts of a man, one of Lord Ram, who sacrificed everything for his Dharma and one of Lord Indra, the most powerful of Gods.’ his mother said to the young man who looked at her inquisitively, with a smile.
‘Why do you ask so many questions Ramendra, always doubting? You should try and become more like your father. He was already the head priest of the temple at your age. He didn’t get here by questioning his faith, you know. And you are still struggling’ his mother said reproachfully.
But isn’t questioning the most important skill that humans possess? Without it wouldn’t we be like any animal, blindly following what someone has said.
Still confused Ramendra wondered if he should continue or quit before more of his flaws were highlighted. He saw his mother’s attention was back at picking the small Parijat flowers for his father’s daily Puja. How can she do this every day without wondering what life holds for her beyond the four walls of her house? Does she ever wonder what talents she has beyond cooking and serving or feel cheated out of a productive life? And is giving birth to you and bringing you up to be able to ask these questions less productive than working at an office? A voice in his head questioned, the tone mildly scolding.
He turned around smiling secretly and walked towards the temple. This was their home… their work, their Karm Bhumi and their Dharma Bhumi as his father used to say. He quickened his step as he caught his father’s eye. Head down he walked past the hard questioning gaze of his father who continued mouthing his morning chants, waking up the Gods one by one.
The silence of the shadowed inner sanctum of the Temple calmed his anxious heart as he leaned against the rock wall giving himself a moment to breath. The solitude inside of the temple was warmer due to the akand jyot that had been burning since the temple had been built. Here he could lay down his mask for a few moments and enjoy the freedom of just being what he truly was…a tormented soul.
Ramendra walked up to the stone face that his father had washed a while back with milk, honey and paste of exotic herbs as was his morning ritual, the abhishekh*. He would soon adorn the stones with jewels and sindoor* and clothes in bright colors, readying it to face the hundreds of devotees who thronged the temple for just a glimpse of the Devi, the Goddess.
I wonder what you think. Are you even in there or are you sitting somewhere else and laughing at us watching this whole madness. He could barely make out the undulations of a face on the stone. How could this be the Goddess Shakti, this small stone? he thought for the nth time. ‘And why can’t she be Shakti?’ he heard a clear voice. Expecting the voice Ramendra turned and looked around the dimly lit cave. ‘I still have not found the answer to that question Devi…’ he said peering into the shadows.
‘Is it because the stone is small? Would it have been better if it had been massive, a shila would her powers be perceived as more pronounced?’
‘Well… yes…’
‘Do you think being small is a disadvantage?’
‘When you are faced with several boys much bigger than yourself baying for your blood, yes…’
There were several huge monsters baying for my blood when I fought them.’ the lady smiled
‘A single woman, why did the Gods not help?’
‘That is their story to tell… but I suppose they were making a statement too’, he saw the lady smile.
He approached what he could see was a woman dressed in a plain cotton saree, sitting on floor and eating the Prasad*, his father had placed on the golden alter of the Shakti. She kept popping the walnuts and almonds in her mouth one after the other even as Ramendra’s gaze followed the arch of the nut from her slender fingers to her mouth. His stomach rumbled with longing.
‘Would you like some?’ she asked holding out her cupped palm filled with nuts. He knew he shouldn’t but hunger made him nod his head in the affirmative. ‘Take your pick, I can’t eat so much. And I don’t want sweets. The ladoo* is too sweet anyway. Your mother has again been generous with the sugar’.
‘I shall try and keep them less sweet tomorrow’.
Her trilling laughter rang inside the cave making his hair stand on end. He had recently started having vivid dreams. Dreams he was too ashamed to put in words. But once seen he could not…un see them. What bothered him was that Devi knew each thought in his mind even before the thought manifested in
dreams.
Would she know what he had seen while his subconscious played havoc with his mind? His eyes touched every part of the cave scared of looking at her.
‘Why do you shy away?’
‘I …I…’
‘Ramen, it is all right. There is nothing to feel bad about. You are discovering
yourself now. These changes, this confusion is to be expected ’.
‘So you know’
She only smiled.
Episode 2 by Pranshoe Pandey‘But how’
“There is a reason why people pray to me,” said the Goddess, “Reading people’s minds is a very small part of my powers.”
“You know it all then…”
It did not surprise him. He knew it was only a matter of time before she found out.
A week had been enough. Ramen looked away from her, fidgeting uneasily in the warmth of the sanctum. There was something about the closeness of the stone walls and the smell of the
chandan and the ghee which made him queasy. Perhaps it was the proximity to truth. The truth which he had kept from others and from himself. Was today the day that it all unraveled?
“There’s no point in running away from yourself,” said Devi after some time, breaking one of the laddoos in the brass plate on the altar into numerous grains and taking a pinch. “No point in smothering what you see in your dreams and what you feel and express secretly but are too embarrassed to accept.”
Devi flicked the pallu of her saffron saree and produced a crumpled piece of paper. She unraveled it slowly with two fingers careful not to smear it with the grease of the laddoo.
“Nice drawing,” she said scrutinizing the paper.
“Hey!” said Ramen alarmed, “Give that to me” He stretched his hands towards her trying to snatch the paper but failed. “Where did you get it?”
“Where you had left it for me,” said Devi, “In the depths of the temple well where you threw it after drawing it.”
Ramen blushed red and stepped backward, into the refuge of the darkness lingering in the corner of the sanctum, he could barely bear the gaze of the Goddess.
“Come on,” goaded Devi, “there is nothing to be embarrassed, young man. What is wrong to be infatuated by a woman?”
“I am not infatuated by a woman!” growled Ramen clenching his teeth growing redder still in a curious muddle of embarrassment and fury.
“Oh no you are not,” said the Goddess, “you are not infatuated by any woman, are you?” she looked again at the figure on the paper. A beautiful woman lounged languidly on a rock beside a river. Her long dark hair fell upon her frame in enchanting swirls, cloaking her frame and the rock that she lay upon. Beneath the sparse cover of her luxuriant locks, the woman wore nothing. She was naked. Just like the rock she sat upon and the rumbling river which glanced off her feet.
“She looks just like me,” Devi said, “It seems, you are in love with me.”
Her words fell like a boulder upon Ramen’s head. Truth, Ramen had learned, was often heavy and cumbersome.
“What if I am,” he shot back, “are you here to punish me for this blasphemy?”
Devi stood up and brushed the grains of the laddoo from her frame. She went to the carved stone figure kept behind the divine stones and with the end of her saree, slowly rubbed grease and crimson sindoor from the Trishul which the sculpture clasped in her right hand, “I don’t need to visit people personally to punish them you know.”
“Why are you here then?" asked Ramen, "Why did you manifest yourself to me?”
That was a question that had been lingering in his mind for the past week. Ever since he had ventured into the sanctum trying to hide from his father and found her sitting in the temple feasting on the Prasad. He had met her daily since then, talking for hours at end.
Devi did not answer. She merely turned to clean the other hand of the sculpture, revealing a carved lotus. She ran her hand upon the stone and a real lotus appeared in her grasp. She gently put the flower in her hair, where it hung, peeking bashfully.
“Many people pray to me,” she said turning to Ramen, “for things they want, for boons and divine benevolence, but I seldom have lovers. People who are enamored by me, who dream about me, who draw pictures of me secretly then throw them down the well.”
Ramen’s eyes brightened and he felt brave enough to emerge from the shadows of the sanctum to meet the gaze of the Goddess. It was hard to ignore the warmth which exuded from her eyes and pierced through his countenance.
“You have no problem with it then,” ventured Ramen.
The sound of his father blowing the conch suddenly reverberated in the sanctum. He had a ritual of ending his morning pooja with a flourish, blowing the conch in one long, endless cacophony.
“What would your father think,” asked Devi, “when he finds that his son desires the object of his worship?”
Ramen fidgeted uneasily, weighing if he ought to express what he thought. “Your mind is an open book, you know,” said Devi, “It’s hopeless to even try to conceal anything in it.”
Ramen sighed in exasperation. There was no point keeping this from her. “My father has prayed to you all his life,” he said slowly, “Every day! He starts at dawn, bathes your form, feeds you and then chants those Vedic verses till it grows too dark to read. I bet he too longs to see you, to bow down before you and repeat
those mantras in person. And yet you never manifested before him. But here you stand now. In front of someone who ventures to your shrine only to hide from the world, who never brings you any Prasad, only steals from your share. Doesn’t that prove that my love is more powerful, pure and honest than his devoutness?”
Devi smiled, “There is no winning with you in a battle of wit and words. No wonder your father is wary of you. He thinks marrying you would cure you of your questions. I think he has a girl in mind as well.”
“I desire no other girl,” said Ramen moving closer to Devi. Their gaze met and for a moment Ramen felt his face would catch fire. But there was no holding back now, he persevered through the pain, peering straight into those dark endless eyes.
It was Devi’s turn to hide from his gaze. She turned abruptly to face her sculpture once more. “I think it’s time to go,” she said without facing Ramen and taking a step towards her bust.
“Wait!” said the boy, “you said you could read my mind.” Devi halted without turning.
“Then tell me what is in my hand” Ramen raised his clenched fist towards Devi, who kept still for some moments before turning to face his outstretched hand. She glanced questioningly at his fist.
“What is it?”
Ramen parted his fingers to reveal a lotus. The one that Devi had put in her hair. “How did you…” smiled Devi touching her head to verify the missing flower. “You play tricks with me,” she extended her hand to claim the flower back. But as she touched the pink blossom there was a queer change in the sanctum. It
grew cold suddenly and an arcane draft of air blew through the closed cave, ruffling Devi’s hair. The lotus shriveled with the touch of the breeze, and transformed quite suddenly, thorny vines extended from between the wilted petals and snaked around the sanctum in a maleficent dance before embracing the
Goddess in their unyielding grasp. Devi’s eyes glowed red with fury as the vines picked her up and carried her to the altar, where she was tied to her stone figurine. The boy observed the sudden turmoil in reticence, then he stepped closer to the restrained Goddess.
Ramendra peered at Devi struggling in the grasp of the vines and grinned like he hadn’t for a thousand years. The Shakti was finally his. “It seems, after all,” he said with a hint of jubilation in his voice, “you weren’t as successful in reading my mind as you thought.”
Episode 3 by Debasree BanerjeeHis eyes shone with eternal malevolence; his voice dark and foreboding. No longer looking anything like the fledgling teenager on the verge of self-discovery, Ramendra’s words seemed to cut a chill everywhere they reverberated. They were growls of passion, as if a wild animal had got the very first taste of blood on its lips.
“Why Devi? Isn’t it unfair for you to be the sole possessor of the supreme power through eons of eternity? It almost tantalizes me to think of you as a woman now, devoid of all your divinity. A woman who claimed to be a mind reader, and the source of all action in the entire universe, but a woman nevertheless, who let down her guard in front of a hapless seventeen year old boy. What a shame!”
It was a disembodied voice now that seemed to come from nowhere and yet from everywhere; taunting and arrogant. The stern voice of Ramendra’s father came in from the distant, carried by the air made heavy with an ancient maelstrom of energy, just like what happens in the sky during a thunderstorm. He was evidently looking for his son, who had been out of his scrutinizing gaze for too long now.
The booming dark voice goaded on… “Devi, can you hear my pathetic father? He thinks he can give me one of his stern stares and can scare the hell out of me. Little does he know how close he is to experiencing the real hell, and that too after all these years of incessant mantra chanting and a plethora of rituals to follow. What a mockery of the fragility of human existence. I pity all the fools out there who have invested lifetimes of faith in you...”
The voice stopped suddenly, faltering for the first time; the sanctum was completely empty. The vines lay around the altar like vile slithering serpents, but held nothing in their grasp. Devi was nowhere to be seen. “Stop playing games with me!” the voice echoed around the sanctum hitting the stone walls with such fury that the mighty structure trembled with the energy. “You know you cannot evade me now. Come on!”
A laughter erupted shaking the very foundations of the temple, bringing down a deluge of stones that broke free after years of adhering with the bigger structure. It was blood-curdling and primordial, guttural and terrifying, and nothing like any human being had ever heard, but at the base of it, it was a woman’s laughter. It was a woman’s voice this time; trilling one moment with sparks of an unknown energy and somber just the other moment.
“I thought you heard about the mighty King Ravana of Lanka. Such a great and learned scholar, unlike anyone the universe has ever seen. But all the years of tapasya and knowledge couldn’t impart that one thing in him. You know what? Wisdom! Knowledge without wisdom is of no meaning, and wisdom asks a seeker to drop the baggage of the cardinal sins, or the ‘sadaripu’. Ravana was inebriated with visions of his own supremacy and was immersed in vanity, pride and arrogance. Call that ‘mada’ or hubris, whatever you will.” With that, Devi reappeared in the sanctum, but not in her saffron robes this time.
She was so luminescent that it was difficult to say how she looked or what colour she wore. The brightness was blinding, and threatened to clear away every nook and corner of the remaining pockets of darkness that refused to go, stubbornly habitual of years of persistence. “Do whatever you can, Devi! Your key to divinity is mine now. Don’t you dare preach me scriptures. I have already spent thousands of years reading them.”
Ramendra’s voice had lost the edge of certainty now, as perfect darkness swirled around the brilliant light, threatening to engulf it completely. “Ramendra! Ramendra!” His father’s voice kept getting nearer and angrier. The heavy wooden doors guarding the inner sanctum burst open, and the man’s voice sounded nearer; almost like it was a part of this frenzy that was unfolding there amid the swirling paraphernalia of colors and sights. And then, all the frenzy subsided, leaving the sanctum just like it had been this morning, before it all began. Standing at the altar was the old man, clad in his humble dhoti and supplicating before the age-worn stone statuette of Shakti.
“Om……..” he chanted. His voice was clear, demure and… all pervasive, lacking the quality of either of the voices, Devi’s and Ramendra’s. It was strange because it was devoid of everything. As one listened to it, one wondered whether it was a voice or a sight or a smell or a touch or a taste. Whatever it was, the message was clear. “Immanence and transcendence don’t get separated. One is nothing without the other. How could Devi be here if I were not? Who would be the actor and who the observer? Didn’t you ever question the very nature of existence, as inquisitive as you were; or rather, as curious and skeptical you have always been, smitten by your inherent nature? You should at least have understood the concept before vying for supremacy.”
Episode 4 by Tino de SaRamendra froze, barely breathing, and almost as motionless as the idol of Shakti behind which he crouched. His father had chanted just that one word, ‘Om….,” yet an avalanche of layered meaning ricocheted off the stone walls of the garb griha. Ramendra’s mind was in a frenzy.
The calculated calmness and self-assurance with which he had spoken to the goddess seemed to ebb away in the face of the chanting of a simple, and largely unlettered man. There was nothing more to be achieved today. Ramendra remained hidden until his father completed the rituals and left the temple for his morning meal, and then stealthily slipped out himself.
The next day Ramendra was once more in the inner sanctum before dawn. The air was thick with a heady mixture of scents – snuffed out joss-sticks, burnt sandalwood, pungent camphor and the over-ripe smell of decaying flowers. It made him dizzy. In silence he focused his gaze upon the idol, channeling all his mental energies through that gaze, willing the goddess to manifest herself. Time was no longer of consequence, so he could not tell how much of it had passed. But presently there was a faint smokiness that emanated from the statue, swirled about and then coalesced into the form of Devi.
“So you could not resist me?” Ramendra smirked.
Her eyes flaming, Devi said: “The gods are not beyond dharma. It is Divinty itself that upholds the Moral Law. Anyone who is willing and able to concentrate enough will be rewarded with a response.”
Ramendra chuckled, “But I am not just anyone. You must have realized that by now, Devi. Tell me, among all the demons that you fought – and thought you’d vanquished – who was the fiercest in battle? And why?”
Devi’s countenance began to take on a fearsome appearance, terrible and wondrous at the same time. “Mahishasur!” she said.
It was not so much an answer to the question, as a statement of recognition. “Indeed. And why, Devi? Why?”
The goddess said nothing.
“Let me tell you,” said Ramendra. “Because he was a Shifter of Shapes, a Changer of Forms. When you struck at the buffalo’s hump, he turned into an elephant; when you sliced off its trunk, he turned into a lion, then a bear, then a snake. A nine day battle and an apparent victory earned you the epithet Mahishasurmardini by which you have been worshipped and praised through the ages.”
Ramendra paused, then continued, a wiliness entering his voice.
“But if Mahishasura can turn into an elephant and a bear and a snake, then,” – here he paused again for effect – “then why not into a young lad? Krishna tells us whenever there is a decline in dharma, the Lord manifests himself; know this Devi – and so do the demons!”
“You flatter yourself, Ramendra,” said Devi coldly.
“What my father does day in and day out, the poojas, the rituals, the chanting – is that not flattery too?” Ramendra’s voice faltered a bit, but he quickly gained control of himself.
“A boy, a starry-eyed lad of seventeen, easy to dismiss. But I got you, didn’t I? All I had to do was to throw a drawing into the temple well, and you could not resist me. It is not I who flatter myself, Devi. Clearly even goddesses are subject to flattery.”
“And now that I’m here, what do you think you can achieve, Ramendra? That little trick you tried with vines yesterday – you know how that ended.”
The sarcasm in Devi’s voice had the bite of salt on a fresh wound. Ramendra was nonplussed. He had Devi practically in his grasp; but what should he do now? What could he do now?
Like the previous day, his father’s approach was heralded by loud chanting, followed soon after by the grumbling of the heavy wooden door as it swung open reluctantly on its rusty iron hinges. Once again, the spell was about to be broken. But Ramendra stood his ground.
“Don’t leave me, Devi!” There was a hint of pleading in his voice. The goddess who had almost merged into the stone statue of herself, stepped back and turned, a look of infinite tenderness in her eyes. Ramendra’s father was shocked to see his son, standing before the idol of Shakti, his eyes closed, his face contorted with anguish, his hands moving in gestures as if conversing, yet no sound coming from his lips.
The old priest was so perplexed he hesitated to even touch his son. He stood transfixed, his chanting halted, a mute observer to this strange madness of his son.
The goddess spoke to Ramendra: “I will not leave you, Ramendra. I cannot leave you. If you desire me, I am yours. I dwell in you.”
“Dwell in Mahishasura?” Ramendra asked incredulously.
The goddess laughed gently with a laughter that had the tinkling of silver bells in it.
“It is Mahishasura who dwells in you, Ramendra; you are not him, just as you are not me. Mahishasura and I, we battle eternally within your breast. All those doubts that trouble you, those nightmares that torment you, those are our battles.”
“Are you battling now?” asked Ramendra, his voice subdued.
“Of course we are! What do you think has been happening all this time!” she asked rhetorically.
“And who is winning?” asked Ramendra.
“That depends,” said Devi.
“Depends on what?” Ramendra queried.
“On you,” replied Devi simply.
Looking at the puzzlement in Ramendra’s face, she explained, “You see, it is so much easier to satisfy Mahishasura. He is there to promote all the alluring options in your life – the lazy ones, the negative ones, the doubts, the selfishness, the greed and the desire for instant gratification. With every satisfaction he grows stronger.”
Devi smiled and continued, “But I am so much harder to please,” she said almost coquettishly. “I am picky. I am choosy. I pose challenges, I demand effort and energy and guts. And with your energy, your efforts and your work, I grow in strength. And when I am victorious, the rewards are rich – rich beyond anything you can imagine.”
Ramendra looked at Devi with stupefaction. As comprehension dawned, it turned his mind topsy-turvy. Everything he’d thought, was not so. Nothing was what it had seemed. With stinging clarity Ramendra realized that he himself was not what he’d thought he was. The ground seemed to shift from under his feet, and he fell.
The old pujari had all this time been watching in bewilderment too afraid to move, as his son stood with eyes shut, as in a trance, speaking no words, yet his handsome features displaying a whole panoply of expressions. Suddenly Ramendra fell to the ground, as though axed. The old man rushed to pick him up, but the boy was too heavy. The father cradled his son’s head in his arms, tears streaming from eyes in his helplessness, as he tried to revive him.
The old priest looked up beseechingly at the idol he had so lovingly bathed, and dressed and fed and worshipped a thousand times. It looked back at him inscrutably with its stone eyes. A faint whiff of lotus blossom wafted from the statue.
“Strange,” thought the old man in the midst of his trepidation, “I only ever recall offering hibiscus flowers to the deity.”
