Life and death, as the Ancients aver

The protocol was wrong. You, born the highest. It’s a different matter whether you were born at all. You have given birth to Universes. I do not know how you did that. Whose was the male seed? Shiva? The nameless, faceless, formless Parabrahman?

Shri Aadi Shankara was your devotee. It is rumoured that he went up to Kailasam and saw the hundred stanzas of the Soundarya Lahiri written on the snow. Nandi wiped it off. Was it not meant for human beings, even one as refined as him? He got the first Forty One shlokas. “Shiva Shakthyaa Yuktho” it starts. There will be no breath of a movement, no Creation without the mingling of Shiva and Shakthi.

Look around. Except for a few parthenogenetic creatures, its always a male and a female which brings forth progeny. Sometimes, imitating Shiva in the Ardhanareeshwar form, the male and the female are in one body.

It’s easy for you, dear Divinities. You make the laws. For others. You break them for yourselves, without any consequences. That’s the beauty of it. It does not matter. Rich and powerful people on Earth can manipulate human made laws to a certain extent.There are always Three percent of the people who will do only what is right. A Ten percent who will only do what is convenient. The rest will just follow whoever is winning. Is this slack morality? Laziness? Ennui?

But why am I discussing philosophy with you now? Always, it was only you who decided. I could agree with you and amicably set out to do what you wanted. Or I could crib and finally end up doing your bidding. Do I sound like an obedient, traditional wife? Submissive. No opinion of mine worth having. What was the point of having opinions, if they could not be adhered to?

So let’s come to my favourite topic. Us. Yoj have always given me a most attentive hearing. I must give you that.

How many times have I bathed, changed into fresh clothes and come to see you in your abode? Have I not got you silk, flowers and very very rarely gold jewellery? Have I not give you silver lamps, with golden ghee made from melted cow’s butter, spreading a soft glow and fragrance?

Have I not sat upon your cool granite floor, reciting your One Thousand intricate names, sometimes under my breath, sometimes loud?

Have I not held hands with the Full Moon, which dims all the stars, but makes the midnight sky velvet silver? Have I not stood on icy mountains where you come for a pre-dawn dip in icier waters? Have I not felt you as inexplicable fragrances, the night air carries? Have I not seen glimmers of you in the rough world of animals?

You put on garish shows for Sunrises and Sunsets, changing the direction of your palette, which makes us human beings innocent of the precision of Mathematics and the endlessness of Time, mark as Day and Night.

You were there in the warm brown eyes of a man with silver locks, whose womb I want to be born to, next birth.

Of course, there will be one more birth for me. Maybe many births. What I am about to do is a sin, is heinous. They have extolled the worth of this body. The sanctity of the soul in it. Some say it is nothing but you, in me, in living beings. Was it not you in the rings of a tree which had grown, but is now petrified, like the warm rock, basking in the evening Sun? What was not you?

My action is based on this tenet. The World thought of you as Mother. Someone who loves with the all encompassing, unconditional love of one who gives birth. Some thought of you as Power, Strength, the Energy which can bestow anything, to anyone, anywhere.

But sometimes your choices were inexplicable. Why? Why the senseless hurt? Why the rusty smell of old spilt blood in the marketplace? Why the insatiable greed for Wealth? Why the delight at random suffering? Because it gives one a false sense of being better? What was worse? To suffer or feel elated watching suffering?

You don’t make mistakes. Then you wouldn’t be you. Did I make a mistake in falling in love with you? I should have kept a minimum distance from you. Thought of you as a Univeral Mother. Mother with a capital ‘M’.

But I thought of you as mine. My love.

It never bothered me that you were busy with your Creations. That they all, rightly, has claims on you. I just wanted that one privilege. That you would come when I can. Physically. I was prepared to wait, to never rush you.

But not with your insousiance. But I am concerned specifically with you. My only Love.

Yes, your Creation, creations are beautiful. The vast colour changing dome of the sky, holding the pathway of this Earth, with its air mantle. Crane your neck up. The unbroken arc up, teaches you space. Look at the miracle. The unseen gases, oxygen and hydrogen mix to form water. The two dry elements, retaining their colourlessness and odourlessness, their ability to shape shift; but getting its wetness from somewhere.

The immediate need to breathe. To survive. The secondary need, to drink. How many days can one survive without water? Surely, much more than the Four minutes without Air. Any longer, you may survive biologically. But you will be brain dead.

Were there many who went through that situation? Looking around, it would seem so. Huge crowds, keeping quiet when children are raped, this Earth is raped. When fools and knives are labelled leaders and celebrated. People who blithely hand out pain and suffering to others should be restricted, if not wholly stopped, right? Should they be allowed power over a hapless people watching mutely? In the name of Democracy, should such people be voted into power? Is there something called good for the majority?

But I am getting old. I have run out of patience. It would not do if you came to me if I was unconscious. Yes, yes. They have all said you are a concept, a matter of Faith. That your Thousand arms will not be made of silken skin, flesh and bones. That I will not hear your voice. See an answering glint in your eyes.

Shall I dip pure white flowers in my diseased blood and do archana to you, my life ebbing away as the mantras give you strength? Shall I enter the ever caressing arms of the Sea? Shall I get hold of enough insulin to inject me to a floatful death?

Bhaavana maathra santhushta Hridayaaye namo namah.

Remember? You, who are satisfied just by the Sankalpa. Each breath I take, each heartbeat of mine will yank you to me.

Death? Let me see if my mind can push my body to you. Death? People may label it thus. But you know, as I do. It was not Death. It never was. It was Love, for the Divine

Thiruvathira Tirunal Lakshmi Bayi was born XII Princess of thr erstwhile State of Travancore