A new story. Working on it in stages. This is part one)
“I came here because I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. Or at least I thought I did. Sometimes I wonder if spirituality is a curse that I need to bear just as I bear these robes against my shoulders”, the young monk told himself again. He shifted his weight uneasily as he took the passage don in his book of dried palm leaves.
He looked around the rocky hermitage and the low, scrubby forest setting.
The sunlight burned his sparsely haired scalp viciously as he fought a throbbing in his loins and slipped once more into deep meditation.
“Why am I here?” he hissed under his breath as he struggled to keep his eyes locked away from the world. “Oh devathavi, my goddess of the Six Heavens, why must you haunt me so?” Meditation was turning into an intense labor.
Whenever he shut his eyes and pursed his lips in concentration he saw the angelic face floating past him.
When the clouds of his lids covered his eyes, so began the monsoon of sinful pleasure.
It started as a drizzle.
The light rain of her laughter and the gentle softness of her kiss pattered over him.
Then the slow music of shifting hairs began as her ebony mane swung and shook about him, follicles aromatic with coconut oil and jasmine. Her sweat flew off her oiled body, then dripped off the eaves of his forehead, pooling up at his crossed feet.
Finally the storm came.
There she stood, splendidly radiant in her nakedness, perfume rising from her breasts and in between her legs.
A perfect force of the cosmos was pouring over him like a new shower of rain, soaking him to the skin and making his robe cling to his body. He reached out…and lightning struck with her touch…
The next thing the monk knew, the loud yell of his master was cutting into his ears. The big, bald hulk of a bhikku was blotting out the sunlight, towering over the confused youth. He looked wildly around.
Where was she now?
The other monks remained in meditation, that strenuous exercise which allowed no play and no feeling of closeness to soft, heated flesh. He felt breaths tunneling through the chests of the other novices. Control of breathing to forge the inner purity of young minds. Angrily he hung his head, wringing his hands as he looked darkly at the chief monk.
“Son,” began the old man, “you seem rather disturbed of late. I’ve tried to guess what’s going with you, but I also want your opinion on what’s going on with yourself. Could you tell me?”
“I…I don’t know…Sir…fatigue, I think…?”
“I hardly think so! Son, I have seen you around the hermitage and you clearly are not the boy you were when you joined us. You’ve been neglecting all your duties, you, you haven’t swept or performed any rites as of recent, and you haven’t even studied your portions of the sutra we’ll be doing for the ceremony at Mahagama. It’s not like you. You were better than this ten years ago.”
He looked sourly at his master and then at the scrubland spread all around him. Flocks of crows circled the skies above him, morphing slowly into his goddess’ own raven tresses.
A strong smell of jasmine and frangipani haunted his nostrils-her tempting perfume was running up and down his body, attacking all other senses and attempting to pull him back into that perfect daydream. Angrily, he jerked his head back again, clasping the back of his scalp in his hands. His fingers tightened as he gritted his teeth, frown lines digging deep into his forehead.
Listening to this old fool was the last thing he wanted.
“Are you alright? Please tell me.”
His shoulders relaxed and he raised his head.
A heavy curtain of silence had been drawn across the rock-face. Hardly any breath came from the young monks around him, who gazed solemnly at him. No wind came to cool them or to lift his spirits; the skies watched the drama of saffron-robed men with bated breath. A small rock gecko scuttled across the ceiling of their cave as it hunted flies sheltering for the heat. The world around him was sinking silently into an abyss where all his companions were scouring his soul with deep gazes. One of the younger boys coughed, and his friend lovingly patted his back. The old chief monk shifted his weight uncomfortably, his old jowls wobbling as he walked over to the apparently sick young man.
“I’m fine, Master. I’m just fine.” The words felt false.
“Just remember”-the old man looked up as he sent his young pupils back to their cave shelters-“why you are here.” His expression grew dim and bleak as he hobbled off.
Why was he here?
He had no satisfying answers.
A hand journeyed to his shoulder. “If there’s anything you need to tell me.” The voice was mixed with concern, and something a little less readable. His young friend was just sixteen and the latter’s dark eyes dug into him like they always did.
“Like I said, stop it. I’m”-he got up and took a deep breath-“perfectly alright.”
“You told me that sometimes you had nightmares of your past. But you never told me what they were, so I want to hear it from you.”
The teen monk continued. “No, you aren’t. You want to feel something that you’re not supposed to, don’t you? Or else, do something forbidden…right? I know that something’s wrong but if you won’t tell me I can’t help you.”
“Then don’t help me! My life hasn’t exactly been perfect and now it’s just coming back to haunt me, that’s all. It’s probably nothing anyway”-his voice dropped down to an almost whispery version of itself as he tried to swallow back the note of falsehood in his throat. The skies were bleak, a flat, cloudless sheet of blue that mirrored itself in their dull young eyes.
“Just ask yourself,” he told his companion emotionlessly, “why you’re here.” He turned his head towards his younger friend. “Why are you here?”
“To hopefully achieve something worthwhile, I guess.” The teenager looked questioningly at his older friend. He stood up and left without any expression on his face and left his associate to ponder on whatever it was he was forbidden from doing. “Just remember,” the boy said, turning back, “we are a brotherhood. You can tell us anything.” With a slow wave of his hand he walked down the steps cut into the rock-face.
(Back on it once more. After such a lengthy wait, here’s more of my historical work. Hope it’s likable. This is where their relationship starts getting more and more strained, and we will know who is responsible for it too.)
Also see at-https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=720430937968397&set=a.227989033879259.69054.100000044923625&type=1&theater
(Continued from where we left off last time)
“Safe….safe,” he hissed as her words stung him again, tenderly but painfully ripping at his ears as the wind howled around him. He looked up and pawed the air. “You made a promise and you broke it when you left me. And I’m supposed to feel good? To still be in debt to you?”
A faint ripple of mirth had finally breathed past his cracked lips.
Soulless sighs washed over him from the entrance of the cave as he saw a slender arm reaching forward. His eyes had gone into a blur, into a shimmy, and he crossed the veil between this world and the next. Or
so he thought. But the shape grew brighter as the hand kept reaching. A slender hand with bruises, a young had but callused from a rough lifestyle,
The same hand that had caressed him unconditionally and gently, sweeping away his misery.
“Why now of all nights? What do you want?”
“Your faith left you,” the pained voice replied, “and so I came back. Besides, you keep on crying about everything. You were stronger as a child than you are as a man.”
Gritting his teeth as best he could, he reached out at the wall as the other hand grabbed him firmly and shifted gently inside. “Really?” came his sarcastic growl as he watched her body stepping lightly into his hellish home.
Moving back, he saw his handiwork.
Still bleeding terribly from her half-stitched, half-torn vulva, she knelt before him.
The hair was now immensely long, matted, flowing down to her buttocks in a hellish cascade with dried blood, mud and oily grime. Pale cheeks, pale but spectacularly beautiful, bore tear stains from crying for years with no hope. Her skin didn’t sag, but it looked deathly, salty white.
Standing painfully, not raising her head, she replied, “Yes my son, that’s pretty much it. You’re still trapped in your memories. There’s a world out there that hates our very being. I never told that wretched place about you but I would expect more knowledge from my child.”
She groped around the cave, looking for a place to lie down. Kicking off her sandals she leaned against the right wall.
“Your child,” he replied tersely, cupping the shifting face in his huge hands, “is still living in the stone shell you made for him years ago. If only you were still here. You had to leave me for all the men in Malayadesha, didn’t you? Or where was it truly you went? And I just want to know why.”
The voice that replied him was a serpentine hiss, but no ordinary snake could sound like she did. It had never failed to rasp at his soul, a steely, jagged, rusted blade that could flay a writhing beast as painfully as possible. He had been among the demons of the night, but what was this? This, this was like facing the mightiest Naga King himself, a dreadful monster with many heads who could kill a thousand men and not even break a sweat.
Even the reptilian eyes, the smooth and slender nude belly and limbs, all screamed, “Snake” at him.
She laughed like she could hear his thoughts.
Silvery but chilling him to the bone. “You have lived so long in the dark pit of your memories.”
“Memories of when you left. But tell me,” he circled her as she spread her legs out vulgarly-making a gush of excitement throb through his organ as she did, “are you really there? Or just my memories here to torment me?”
(Six months of drama are finally over, thank the gods. But I’ve just walked into exams, so this small bunch of posts will be a filler for something bigger and cooler.
This is a small story in a series that will be posted here. Don’t know how often, but still. As for that demon mask….I don’t know what possessed me to put it there)
(A rakshasa is a demonic humanoid from Indo-Sri Lankan mythology. It is either malevolent or benevolent, but is almost always depicted as a dark-skinned, fearsome-looking beast with a taste for human flesh. But what if the demon we all feared, was a human with merely the desire to be loved for what he is?)
The memory kept on playing itself a million times over in his mind as he felt the hardened, puckered scar tissues on his left cheek. The crinkled marks stretched down to his mouth, and pulled the slightest bit of skin towards the orifice full of big, powerful teeth. Images kept flashing again, cutting deeply through even his most jovial dreams.
Dreams of a mother.
A mother who was wild, pale and naked, cradling her offspring in her lap. That same cave, over twenty years ago was where she had fled.
That same cave where she wailed and wept into the inky night as her belly grew with him.
That very cave where the only ones who watched her scream with deathly agony were a small family of bats hanging from the left wall of the cave roof, wings obscuring their tiny faces.
He had been right here from the very start.
Warm milk flooded his tiny mouth as she cried again, the moon’s stray beams highlighting the monster she bore in her arms.
Raw, red eyes always half-closed.
No chin, but heavy brow ridges and nose.
Hair matted with blood.
Thickened gray patches of scarred and ridged skin; a strange, inhuman disease no doubt.
A terrifying child who could never be part of the world around him, given to her as a blessing by some infernal god.
But she still wept as only a mother could as the stench between her legs filled the cave. She kissed her bestial son a hundred times, whispering Buddhist prayers into his ear. And as she felt her vulva, caked with blood and membrane, she also heard his tiny heart beating with hers, a drum in that dark and distant night.
“Nothing will happen to you,” she promised him over and over, stroking the rough skin on his torso. “I promise, as long as you are here, I will forever keep you away from evil men.” The moon was at its peak.
Here was the glorious white eye in the sky telling her that it was them month of Vesak, a holy month. But even on the most sacred nights, she knew, some fiends from hell could cast their wretched spells on the weak and unknowing.
(Next part continues later)
We give it different names. Whether you call it rage, frustration, fury or indignation, it was the subliminal force that drove people to extremes of violence that bathed our island in blood. It is the force you deal with every day, whether you feel outraged after a passing car decorates your immaculate white shirt with splotches of mud or when a colleague yells at you for no reason at all.