The Shower of Blessings

Fragrance and tinkling of the anklets announced the entry of Kuyili as always into the sanctum sanctorum to offer her prayers that evening. The priests couldn't resist vying with each other to serve her, forgetting even the Goddess presiding there.

Other women watched with envy. The men with lust. 

Kuyili stood in front of the deity with her hands folded, aware very much that all eyes were on her. They burned her skin, they pricked stabbed and hurt. But she stood erect, a beatific smile adorning her lips. Her mind tried to find solace in the lit-up image of Devi, whose calm smile poured balm into Kuyili's wounds.

As she turned, people moved to let her go, shrinking as if her very shadow would taint them. The priests, who had a minute ago fallen over each other to offer her kumkum and arati, felt ashamed as if released from some enchantment and realising their fall from nobility.

She disciplined herself not to flinch. Her graceful gait drew many more glances as she went around the prahara and then she left the temple with a final prayer facing the temple tower.

She entered the waiting palanquin and was borne away to her palatial home. In the safety of her home, she was the undisputed queen. Her dasis surrounded her, removing the jewels, massaging her arms and legs and rubbing fragrant pastes to get her ready for her lover of that night.

The sun sank and lamps lit homes and streets. Soon even that light dimmed. She heard the horse enter the courtyard and soon heard the footsteps of her lover at her door.

She was ready for him, having dressed up again to welcome him and bestowed him with the smile that had bewitched him in the first place.

It was a union of bodies. When she tried to share with him her feelings, either her words fell short or his understanding. So she let her mind wander freely as her body gave him pleasure.

Before the sun rose, he rode away to be seen with his legally wedded wife.

Kuyili couldn't complain, could she? These travelers to her home had bestowed her with untold wealth. She owned two palaces and had gold, silver and diamonds showered on her. There was none equal to her in affluence in the city. What if people gossiped? They still were beneath her.

She tried to quell her craving heart with such delusions about her self-worth but always her thoughts wandered to how to turn lust to love, envy to worship. Often she visited the temple to seek Devi's guidance, wondering what drew people to Her. Kuyili didn't want to be a goddess, just to be accepted as a fellow human being would be good enough.

"Madam, there is someone to see you," one of her dasis announced one day.

"Am I expecting anyone?" she asked frowning.

"He has been coming often, madam, but today he will not be sent away. Says he has a gift for you."

Kuyili sighed. Another lover?

"He forbade me from revealing what, but you will like what you see," the maid said slyly.

Kuyili was intrigued. She asked for the man to be brought in. He came carrying what looked like a statue. He placed it on a table and said, "I have seen you in the temple often. My hands have carved it much against my wishes. I present this to you."

She was amused. "Against your wishes?"

"I carve only the statue of gods and goddesses. But since seeing you for the first time some days ago, all my idols seem to look like you. So I decided to give in to the compulsion once and for all. " He unveiled the statue. Kuyili was stunned. It was Devi in all her beauty but the face was carved like hers. 

She looked at him startled. He shrugged. "Some divinity shines through, I don't know how." He joined his hands in obeisance and left. 

She ran after him and, taking the gold chain from around her neck, thrust it into his hands. He recoiled and dropped it. "I didn't do this for money." And he was gone.

She couldn't believe it but she had to run back and see the idol again. She asked the dasi who had let the man in to take the chain as her gift. She sat in front of the idol and admired it, feeling fear and love at the same time.

She placed it in her bedroom, facing her mirror so that she could look at herself and the statue. When her lover came that night, he laughed, though jealousy laced the laugh. "Crazy man! Some nutcase, obviously. Don't let this go to your head."

Hurt to the quick, she asked him, "Don't you think someone could see something divine in me?"

"To carve a Devi in your image? I hope the priests don't hear of it."

Her breath quickened. "I  know you come only for my body. But do you think so less of me that you can't believe somebody else sees something more in me?"

 

He grabbed her and pulled her to him. "Who says I think less of you? I think of you all the time."

She pushed him away and pouted, "I am just a plaything for you."

"A very expensive one at that!" he said and laughed, showing her the new jewel he had bought for her. 

For once, she felt no excitement. He saw the disappointment in her eyes and his temper rose. "Don't expect me to idolise you. I am besotted, but I am not in my dotage."

Upset, she said, "I don't expect you to idolise me, but if I am nothing but the body, you will and can see only that."

"Philosophy! Oh god! I came in such a good mood today!"

"Sorry to spoil it for you! You have put me out too. You may leave tonight."

His hackles rose. "Are you asking me to leave this home that I helped you build?"

She got up flustered. "By tomorrow, you will find me gone."

"No!" he was apologetic immediately. I didn't mean quite mean that!" He tried to placate her and she allowed herself to be soothed. For both, it was best to let things be.

But in one day, she had been elevated and thrown down. Her discontentment only increased. What was she?

She pondered and pondered and often stood in the terrace looking down at the passersby. When she was noticed, she saw that no one saw her but only what she represented - a courtesan who sinned and who lured people to lead a life of sin.

As the heat of the days increased and rains failed, she found that the mood turned from one of contempt to anger. She had what she wanted while they struggled to get even the basic things. She frowned observing the hunger and fear in people's faces as the dry days turned to a draught. Food supply had reduced and the very poor went without even a meal some days.

When she sat down to eat her sumptuous meal, she found not a morsel went down her throat as images of young children begging on the streets, hitherto she hadn't seen, rising in front of her eyes. She called her dasi and told her to distribute the food among the poor.

 

In a few minutes, the food came back untouched. "No one wants food from this house."

Kuyili felt as if a knife had been driven into her heart. But she couldn't stand by watching the misery of the people around her. She had wanted their adulation. Now that they were in trouble, how could she be indifferent?

"Do our wells have enough water? Place water in pots with a glass and make sure it is refilled all the time. On another side, keep buttermilk and porridge. No one should go away without having their fill."

"But, madam, nobody wants it from this house," the dasi said boldly. 

"Nobody need know. Keep it on the opposite side."

"What when we run out of water?"

"We will cart it from other lands. Take what it takes. Go on, don't ask me silly questions. I just want everyone to be sated and their thirsts quenched."

The dasi ran. Initially they came in ones and twos. But when the throat was parched and the stomach caving in from hunger, of what good was moral rectitude? Every hour, there stood a long queue. 

Three years Gods tested the people, or her? She used up all her wealth, her jewels, precious stones, the adjacent house that belonged to her, keeping for herself only the house she lived in. "You will have nothing left for yourself."

She paused for a second and then asked, "What was mine in the first place? It was given to me and now I am passing that on to others. Maybe this was why I earned so much. Don't stop..."

She sold the furniture of the house she lived in and yet the rains wouldn't come. She decided to move to a smaller house by selling this. That morning when the buyer was to come, it poured, and it poured and poured.

She sold it still, for it will take some time for farmers to grow paddy and for it to reach the people.

Now when she walked on the streets, people hailed, "Devi, Devi."

Though her heart warmed, she realised it was not she who needed to be praised. She ran to the temple and tears poured down as her voice broke chanting, "Devi, Devi." The Goddess had heard her prayers.

The sculptor met her at the temple with hands joined in respect. She clasped it gratefully.

When she died, people installed the idol he had carved on the road leading to the temple. They first prayed to her, seeking her intervention with Devi to have their prayers heard.

 

Based on the story of Kunjaratthammal and recommended by my friend Natarajan Ganesan that I develop this into a story. My humble gratitude.

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