Mani - Devi

A mavasya is the night of the new moon.

The inky expanse of a clear starry night. Cold, refreshing breeze. A river gushes nosily besides a dark canvas of tree-tops. Lights flicker on the other side of the trees dim oils lamps hung outside huts and shades, emanating feeble rays of hope and strength against the cold darkness of the night. Dogs curl on the softest spots they can find. Bells tinker as cows and goats shuffle under their shades. An old woman coughs.

The night grows older

Away from this sleeping village, under the foliage of the trees, walks a lone human figure amid silent glares of the trees. It is holding a candle. Slung over its shoulder is a heavy jute bag. A little white goat follows close behind, tied to a rope. The light from the candle falls on thick, twisted trunks of the nearest trees, dark and gloomy, but nothing beyond. It is bright enough to see a crumbling brick-path on the ground though.

The figure un-hears the whispers coming from the trees; it un-sees the movements beyond the dwindling sphere of light and recites an unholy prayer in its mind, for it has come so far to pray, and pray it must

A clearing in the foliage. The night sky peeps down from the heavens. And in that clearing sleeps an ancient mango tree. It has grown taller and deeper and broader for centuries, looming high above the canopy, its foliage forming a dome above the clearing. The branches spread wide and hang low. Its crown looks down at the vast expanse of the trees around. It sees the rushing river. It sees the sleeping village. It sees the glittering stars. And it sees a human and an animal enter the clearing.

Graves protrude from the ground along the periphery of the clearing a broken stump, a withered slab of stone, mounds rising under layers of decaying leaves, a crumbling stone pillar

In the silence of the night, the cloaked figure sits under the gnarled branches of the ancient tree. Close to the trunk not only grows, but blossoms with exuberance a red rose shrub. The jute bag is put down to one side. Two more candles are lighted and fixed on the ground. A blanket is pulled out. Draped around the body. Hooded over the face. The field of vision is narrowed. The narrower, the better, for then it will see less of those who intend to interrupt the proceeding. It closes its eyes. Folds its arms. Takes a deep breath. And the ritual begins.

First comes the awakening.

Its lips move in silent verses. The chanting grows louder and coarser. The figure begins to sway. The young goat is terrified. It noses its way into the blanket, away from the coldness that is rising from the graves.

The chanting stops abruptly.

There is going to be pain now.

The cloaked figure pulls out a rope from the jute bag. It drags the goat out from under the blanket. Puts a knee on its chest. Pins it down. Ties the rope around the snout. A rusty and not-so-sharp dagger comes out of the jute bag.

One by one, the limbs of the goat are hacked off. Red stains the white fur. The little goat wriggles in pain, faint bleats emanating from its throat. Blood falls on dry leaves. Blood on the blanket. Blood in the air.

The cloaked figure arranges the limbs into two crosses in front of the tree while the goat squirms like a fish out of water. Eyes wide. Gasping. Gagging. Bleeding.

The dagger now pierces the left eye. Gouges it out. It is placed above one of the crosses, moist and steaming. Now comes out the right eye. The little goat bleeds and kicks with the stumps protruding from the body, eyes replaced with red holes. Leaves and twigs cling onto its wet, white coat.

The hood slips and the figure sees the things it had tried not to see. They have begun to appear in the darkness of the tress, away from the clearing dark shapes , vague, alive, floating amidst the trunks. Some still emerging silently from the graves. Some floating down from the trees.

The human lowers its gaze. It pulls down the hood and continues the ritual.

The not-so-sharp dagger plunges in between the ribs of the goat and tears through the flesh. Blood rushes out and fingers go in. They grab the bones and pull, and shove. Soft, distinct snaps. The ribs break. A hand goes in. Pulls. And pulls again. Harder and out comes a heart glistening in the candlelight. Warm. Fresh. Beating.

The cloaked figure stands. It raises the heart to the ancient tree. Bows its head, then tosses the heart at the roots. The goat has stopped struggling it is a mere mess of sagging flesh, broken bones and warm blood. Its ears are grabbed. Pulled back. Throat exposed. Slit

More blood. The dagger works its way up. A little twisting. Turning. And the bones snap. The head comes off. It is placed tidily in between the two limb-crosses and the body is flung at the roots.

The awakening is complete.

The cloaked figure closes it eyes. Folds its hands. And it waits

The ancient tree is silent and still. The stars watch. So do the floating shapes at the periphery.

Is something wrong?

The human panics. The silent shapes feed on its emotion. They move impatiently amidst the trunks outside the clearing. It must not look at them for the terror they inflict brings instant death. But there is no turning back now. The ritual must continue.

A wish must be made.

From the jute bag comes out something wrapped in a piece of red cloth. It is placed inside the severed mouth of the goat. The hooded figure cuts its thumb and runs it over the snout. Makes small heap of dried leaves. Adds twigs on top. Lowers a burning candle. Waits. The heap catches fire, and on that little fire and the lot of smoke that emanates, it places the head of the goat with the piece of red cloth still in its mouth. There is smell of burning hair. Now the tingling scent of burnt skin. It closes its eyes and sings an ancient song. The fire dwindles by the time it ends. It rubs a little ash on the decapitated head and rises, holding it high in the air. The blanket falls. The dark shapes have come closer now. It immediately lowers its gaze again, walks around the thick trunk of the ancient tree and disappears.

Moments pass. The cloaked figure reappears, trembling. The act is done. It hurriedly goes back to the seat and covers itself again, its eyes always lowered. It touches its forehead on the ground before the tree.

The wish is made.

Now comes the price it must promise to pay for the wish.

The cloaked figure gets up again and plucks a rose and a thorn. Two petals are pulled out. A pinch of mud from the roots of the tree is placed in between them. Blood from the heart is smeared. The rest of the rose is neatly placed next to the eyes. A finger is pricked with the thorn. A drop of blood falls on the petals with mud in between. Its time now. It closes its eyes. Takes a deep breath

Zeenat! the figure speaks aloud the name and throws the petals in the dying embers. They shrivel and shrink and turn into ash.