Song of Kali Dan Simmons

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8

" 'Sa etan panca —purusam, asvam, gam,

avim, ajam . . . Purusam prathaman alabhate, puruso

hi prathamah

e sang the sacred words from the Satapatha Brahmana. "'And the order of sacrifice shall be this . . . first man, then horse, bull, ram, and goat . . . Man is foremost of the animals and most pleasing to the gods . . . ' "We knelt in the darkness before the jagrata Kali. They had dressed us in plain white dhotis. Our feet were bare. Our foreheads were marked. We seven initiates knelt in a semicircle closest to the goddess. Then there was an arc of candles and the outer circle of Kapalikas. In front of us lay the bodies we had brought as offerings. On the belly of each corpse a Kapalika priest had placed a small white skull. The skulls were human, too small to be from adults. The empty sockets watched us with the same intensity as the goddess's hungry eyes.

'The world is pain,

O terrible wife of Siva

You are chewing the flesh.'

"The head of our eighth initiate still hung from the hand of Kali, but now the young face was chalk-white and the lips had pulled back into a rictus grin. The corpse, however, was gone from its place at the base of the idol and the goddess's bangled foot was raised over empty air.

'O terrible wife of Siva

Your tongue is drinking the blood,

O dark Mother! O unclad Mother.'

"I felt almost nothing as I knelt there. My mind continued to echo Sanjay's words. I should have used you. I was a provincial fool. Worse than that, I was a provincial fool who could never go home again to the provinces. Whatever else came from this night, I knew that the simple verities of life in Anguda were forever behind me.

'O beloved of Siva

The world is pain.'

"The temple fell into silence. We closed our eyes in dhyana, the deepest contemplation possible only in the presence of a jagrata. Sounds intruded. The river whispered half-perceived syllables. Something slithered across the floor near my bare feet. I felt nothing. I thought nothing. When I opened my eyes, I saw that the crimson tongue of the idol had lolled farther from the gaping mouth. Nothing surprised me.

"Other Kapalikas came forward until each of us had a priest kneeling in front of us, facing us across the obscene altars we had supplied. My Brahman was a kindly looking man. A banker, perhaps. Someone who was used to smiling at people for a living.

'O Kali, O Terrible One,

O Chinnamasta, She Who Is Beheaded,

O Chandi, Fiercest of Aspect,

O Kamaski, Devourer of Souls,

Hear our prayer, O Terrible Wife of Siva.'

"My priest lifted my right hand and turned it palm up as if he were about to read my fortune. His other hand went into the loose folds of his dhoti. When it emerged, I saw the quick gleam of sharp steel.

"The chief priest placed his forehead against the raised foot of the goddess. His voice was very soft. 'The goddess will be pleased to receive your flesh mixed with blood.'

"The other priests all moved in unison. The blades slid across our palms as if the Kapalikas were whittling bamboo. A fat sliver from the meaty portion of my palm sliced off neatly and slid across the blade. All of us gasped, but only the fat man cried out in pain.

"'Thou who art fond of sacrificial meat, O Great Goddess. Accept the blood of this man with his flesh.'

"The words were not new to me. I had heard them every October during the modest Kali Puja in our village. Every Bengali child knows the litany. But never had I seen more than a symbolic sacrifice. Never had I seen a Brahman hold high a pink circle of my flesh and then bow to insert it in the gaping mouth of a corpse.

"Then the smiling, apologetic little man across from me took my injured hand and turned it palm downward. The Kapalikas in the darkness behind us began to recite the holiest of the Gayatri mantri in perfect unison while the dark drops fell slow and heavy to the white surface of the drowned thing at my knees.

"The mantra ended, and my banker-priest deftly retrieved a white cloth from his tunic and bound up my hand. I prayed to the goddess that it would soon be over. A sudden hollowness and sickness had risen in me. My arms began shaking and I feared that I might swoon. The fat man three places from me did faint, falling forward across the cold breast of the toothless old female corpse he had brought. His priest ignored him and returned to the darkness with others.

"Please, goddess, let it end, I prayed.

"But it did not end. Not yet.

"The first Brahman raised his forehead from the jagrata's foot and turned to us. He walked slowly along our semicircle as if inspecting the bodies we had brought as offerings. He paused for a lengthy moment in front of me. I could not raise my eyes to meet his. I was convinced that the drowned corpse would not be found worthy. Even now it gave off a stench of river mud and corruption like a foul breath rising from its gaping maw. But a second later the priest moved on in silence. He inspected Sanjay's offering and moved farther down the line.

"I risked a sideward glance in time to see the bare foot of the priest roughly push the fat man's bulk off its cold pillow. Another Kapalika hurried forward and hastily set the child's skull back in place on the cadaver's sunken belly. The fat initiate lay unconscious next to his cold crone, two unlikely lovers torn from their embrace. Few of us doubted whose countenance the dark goddess would next raise up by the hair.

"I had no sooner begun to control my shaking than the priest was back in front of me again. This time he snapped his fingers and three Kapalikas came forward to join him. I sensed Sanjay's almost desperate desire to move farther away from me. I myself felt little. A great coldness had moved through me, cooling my throbbing hand, extinguishing my fear, and emptying my mind. I could have laughed aloud as the Kapalikas bent toward me. I chose not to.

"Tenderly, almost lovingly, they lifted the swollen excrescence that was the corpse and carried it to the slab at the foot of the idol. Then they motioned me forward to join them.

"The next few minutes run together in my memory like half-captured dreams. I remember kneeling with the Kapalikas before the shapeless dead thing. I believe we recited the Purusha Sukta of the tenth Mandala of the RigVeda. Others came forward from the shadows carrying pails of water to bathe the putrefying flesh of my offering. I recall that I found as very funny the idea of bathing someone who already had spent so much time in the holy river. I did not laugh.

"The chief priest brought out the stalk of grass, still marked with dried blood, which had decided our young initiate's fate the day before. The priest dipped the blade in a chalice of black lamp paste and painted halfcircles above the holes in the corpse where once eyes had looked out on the world. I had seen holy effigies painted thus, and once again I fought back the urge to chuckle as I realized that it should have been the eyelids that were so marked. In our village ceremonies, such a ritual granted the clay form eyesight.

"Other men approached to place grass and flowers on the forehead. The tall and terrible Kali idol looked down as we recited the basic mula-mantri

108 times. Again the priest came forward, this time to touch each limb and place his thumb on the bloated white flesh where once a heart had beaten. Then, together we uttered a variant of the Vedic mantra which ended — 'Om, may Vishnu endow you with genitals, Tvasta carve the form, Prajapati provide the semen, and Kali receive your seed.'

"The chorus of voices filled the darkness once again and rose in the chant of the holiest Veda, the Gayatri mantra. It was just then that a great sound and powerful wind rose to fill the temple. For a wild second I was sure that the river was rising to claim us all.

"The wind actually felt cold as it roared through the temple, blowing our hair, rippling the white fabric of our dhotis, and extinguishing most of the candles in the rows behind us. As clearly as I can recall, the temple never fell into total darkness. Some of the candles continued to burn as their flames danced to the eerie breeze. But if there was still light — any amount — I cannot account for what next occurred.

"I did not move. I continued to kneel less than four feet from the idol and its anointed offering. Nor did I perceive any other movement except for a few Kapalikas behind us striking several matches to relight some of the candles. It took only a few seconds to do this. Then the wind had passed, the sound abated, and the jagrata Kali was once again illuminated from below.

"The corpse had changed.

"The flesh was still grub-white, but now Kali's foot came down on a body which was visibly that of a man. It was as naked as it had been previously, flowers still strewn on its forehead, lampblack dabbed above the eyes, but a pale sex organ lay flaccid where only a rotting pustulence had been just seconds earlier. The face was not whole — the thing still had no lips, eyelids, or nose — but the ruined countenance was recognizably human. Eyes now filled the caves of the face. Open sores scoured the white flesh, but the splintered bones could no longer be seen.

"I closed my eyes and offered a wordless prayer — to which deity I do not recall. A gasp from Sanjay made me look again.

"The corpse breathed. Air whistled through the open mouth and the cadaverous chest rose once, twice, and then settled into a rasping, laboring rhythm. Suddenly, in one fluid movement, the body rose to a sitting position. Slowly, most reverently, it kissed the sole of Kali's foot with its lipless mouth. Then it swung its legs from the base of the idol and shakily stood. The face turned directly toward me and I could see slits of moist flesh where the nose had once been. It took a step forward.

"I could not look away as the tall form stiffly covered the three paces which separated us. It loomed above me, blocking out the goddess except for the gaunt face staring over its shoulder. It breathed with difficulty, as if the lungs were still filled with water. Indeed, when the thing's jaw lowered a bit as it walked, water gushed from the open mouth and streaked its heaving chest.

"Only when it stood a mere foot in front of me was I able to lower my eyes. The river stench of it flowed over me like a fog. The resurrected thing slowly brought forth its white palm until it touched my forehead. The flesh was cool, soft, slightly moist. Even after it lifted its hand and moved slowly to the next initiate, I could feel the imprint of its palm above my eyes, burning into my fevered skin like a cold flame.

"The Kapalikas began their final chant. My own lips moved without my volition to join in the prayer.

'Kali, Kali, balo bhai

Kali bai aré gaté nai.

O brethren take the name of Kali

There is no refuge except in her.'

"The hymn ended. Two priests joined the first Brahman to help the newly reawakened one into the shadows at the rear of the temple. The other Kapalikas filed out another way. I looked around our inner circle and realized that the fat man was no longer with us. The six of us left stood in the dimness and stared at one another. Perhaps a minute thus passed before the chief priest returned. He was dressed the same, he looked the same, but he was different. There was a relaxed quality to his walk, an informality to his posture. It reminded me of an actor after a successful play, moving among the audience, removing one character to wear another.

"He smiled, approached us happily, and shook our hands, each in turn, saying to each, 'Namaste. You are now Kapalika. Await the next call of your beloved goddess.'

"When he said this to me, the touch of his hand on mine was less real than the imprint on my forehead which still tingled.

"A black-garbed man led us to the anteroom, where we dressed in silence. The other four bade their farewells and left together, chattering like schoolchildren released from detention. Sanjay and I stood alone by the door.

"'We are Kapalika,' whispered Sanjay. He broke into a brilliant grin and held out his hand. I looked at him, looked at his open hand, and spat on the floor. Then I turned my back to him and left the temple without speaking.

"I have not seen him since. For months I have moved through the city, sleeping in hidden places, trusting no one. Always I have awaited and feared the 'call of my beloved goddess.' None came. At first I was relieved. Then I was more frightened than at first. Now I do not care. Recently I have openly returned to the University, to familiar streets, and to places I once frequented. Places like this.

"People seem to know that I have changed. If acquaintances see me they move away. People on the street glance at me and leave me room to pass. Perhaps I am Untouchable now. Perhaps I am Kapalika despite my panicked flight. I do not know. I have never returned to the temple or the Kalighat. Perhaps I am marked not as a Kapalika but as a prey of the Kapalika. I wait to find the answer.

"I would like to leave Calcutta forever but I have no money. I am only a poor person of Sudra caste from the village of Anguda, but also one who may never be able to go back to what he was.

"Only Mr. Krishna has continued to be my friend. It is he who called upon me to tell you my story. I am now finished with that story."

Krishna's voice barely croaked out the translation of the last sentence. I blinked and looked around. The proprietor's feet protruded from where he slept on the floor behind the counter. The room was quiet. There were no sounds from outside the building. My watch read 2:20.

I stood abruptly, accidentally knocking over the chair. My back ached and my spirit sagged from jet lag and fatigue. I stretched and kneaded the aching muscles near my spine.

Muktanandaji looked exhausted. He had removed his thick glasses and was rubbing tiredly at his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Krishna reached for the last of Muktanandaji's cold coffee, gulped it down, and tried repeatedly to clear his throat.

"Do you . . . hrrghhhh . . . do you have questions, Mr. Luczak?"

I stared down at the two of them. I didn't trust my own voice to work. Krishna noisily cleared his nostrils with his fingers, spat on the floor, and spoke again. "Do you have any questions, sir?"

I stared impassively for a few more seconds before replying. "Only one question," I said. Krishna's eyebrows went up politely.

"What the hell," I began, " . . . what the goddamned hell does that . . . that story . . . have to do with the poet M. Das?" My fist seemed to slam down on the table of its own accord. The coffee cups leaped.

It was Krishna's turn to stare. I seemed to remember such a stare from my kindergarten teacher when I was five and had soiled my pants one day during nap time. Krishna turned to Muktanandaji and spoke five words. The yong man wearily returned the heavy glasses to his face and answered in even fewer syllables.

Krishna looked up at me. "Surely you must know that it was M. Das we spoke of."

"Which?" I said stupidly. "Who? What the shit do you mean? Do you mean to say that the priest was the great poet, M. Das? Are you serious?"

"No," said Krishna levelly. "Not the priest."

"Well, who — "

"The sacrifice," said Krishna slowly as if speaking to a dull child. "The offering. Mr. M. Das was the one Mr. Muktanandaji brought as sacrifice."

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