Open your eyes, Maya.

****

Sometimes Ramlal would wonder if being born as a human was really a blessing when all he could do was silently watch. His worn out senile heart couldn't take so much bloodshed going around him. He was a devotee of Kalika. To the ignorant, the ones from whom the light of knowledge was occluded, might think this to be odd, as the worshippers of Kalika adored her avatar of blood and bones. Yet, Ramlal saw the motherly affection in the Devi's eyes, found meaning in the timeless form of hers. And lately, his life ceased to have meaning.

He was as helpless as a bird whose wings were clipped. He bled but no one saw. He felt his home, Khatra, was slowly turning into a devil's purgatory. He knew good and evil existed together, walked together, hand-in-hand like lovers sworn to fidelity. But that was a thought too sacred and deep, thriving in a place beyond the periphery of human interference. It breathed life in all of the lower beings, as humans, pushing them to lead a life.

"But what meaning does life hold anyway if you cannot see beauty in death? What is the use of living with fear of what is to come?"

Thoughts plagued him. The dark interiors of the garbha griha, devoid of moonbeams and lit only by flickering lanterns, quite perfectly portrayed his own internal picture. He was suffering from what should be done and what should not be done.

"But often by hook or crook..."

Ramlal knew everything. He was powerless. He couldn't stop the deaths. His head would roll on the cold floor if he dared to stop it. And no, he was more afraid of leaving his young daughter behind than facing death. He couldn't risk dying unless he was sure of her safety. Being a woman in this world was already a tough task. The people worshipped Shakti, however her earthly manifestations were spat on.

Hypocrites! Ramlal scoffed in the silence.

Tears drizzled from his eyes on his lap. He heaved a sigh, watching the idol of Kalika stay unmoved by his emotions. How he wished she would come to life. So many saints and philosophers claimed to have seen her, and here Ramlal, having the greatest urgency, was unable to see her.

"How long should Khatra suffer?"

As long as they live, perhaps.

Then should they be killed? Isn't killing a sin?

Kalika doesn't want to kill. Kalika needs to kill.

Ramlal got up and exited the garbha griha. He bolted and locked the door, the keys dangling on his waist. It was midnight, the roads of Khatra as uninhabited as a cemetery.

If someone could dare to walk these roads at night, it was Ramlal. Not because he was a priest who knew hocus pocus. To be honest, he knew probably nothing, except pure bhakti. Was that what saved him from the creatures of the dark?

Perhaps they were afraid of attacking the devotee of the Mother. Yet, they had already killed so many, so why spare Ramlal?

The priest smiled at the crescent moon in the sky. It reminded him of Shiva. Pisacham nisesa sama pasoonaam prathishtam– the one who is seen as equal to ghosts, ghouls and demons. And yet, he is Chandrasekhara too, the most handsome man ever alive. 

He was there above Ramlal, so no harm could befall on him.

****

It was not the world that Maya knew. It was not the earth that she lived on.

Yes, she was standing in the soil of Khatra. Yes, she could see the trees sway to the breeze and heard the howling of dogs. But this wasn't her reality. It was a reality, just that it wasn't one where she could come any day.

She could only come here when Kalika wanted.

The moon above was round and glowing scarlet against a navy blue sky. Grey clouds emanated a strange pale yellow shine and revolved around the moon. It wasn't supposed to be full moon on earth tonight but here the laws of science could be surpassed.

Shadows danced around Maya like spectres of vulnerability. Their faces were distorted, vacant sockets with no eyes and teeth blackened. The flesh on their cheeks hung in loose folds. The skin was scraped off from their fingers. The bones could be seen, which cracked and twisted as the spirits moaned. Maya stood still amidst them. They tried to reach out to her, but no one could lay a finger on her. A protective rune guarded Maya from the hungry spirits.

She walked through their group like a channel of water passing through the crevices of a cave, carving its own path with the gushing, speedy flow. Maya's feet were also floating a little above the ground. Here, she wasn't a solid, breathing human with a heart. She was here as a part of them– of the ones who followed the Mother in blind faith.

Maya had draped a red saree around herself. It was plain with no designs. Bare breasted, she climbed the stairs of the temple. Her open hair spread out like a black aura around her. She resembled Muktakeshi in her most pristine form.

The devadasis were all standing on both sides of Maya. They were crying, the sound of muffled sobs moulding the ambience into a night of sadness. Their tears made a river, turning the floor moist and fluid. Maya didn't look at them but walked ahead.

The lock broke and the doors of the garbha griha unbolted on its own. With a creak it opened wide to welcome Maya.

Inside, Kalika was waiting for her. She was as black as coal, but she scintillated like the stars. Her eyes were red like Maya's saree and her lips coated in the shade of blood. She wore a garland of skulls, some of which still held on to decaying remains of skin. Something was very unsettling about the way she stared at Maya. Her gaze was petrifying. She was a mother, a goddess benevolent, but that was a side she didn't always show. Here, she was a Maiden of Death, the Wife of a Pisacha, and in every way, she was horrifying– whether it be her colour, her bloodshot eyes, her flaring nostrils or the crimson splattered over her breasts.

"Maya..." It was a faint call, a whisper that hushed and shushed like the wind, still strong enough to be heard and distinguished from the mourning of the ghouls around. Kalika gestured to Maya to sit across from her, and she followed.

The spine-chilling snivels quietened when Kalika raised her hand. Footsteps resounded in the temple. Someone was to arrive.

And then entered the youngest son of the Das family, Abhinoy Babu, carrying his head in his right hand. From his neck a fountain of blood flowed and deluged the floor. He was wearing the garb of a Bengali zamindar– it was silk, soft to touch, glimmering golden like the sun. And yet maligned by his cursed blood. A hollow was there in the place of his heart. His ribs were broken and protruded out of his clothes like the skinny limbs of a malnourished child.

The spirits screamed in anger when they saw him. Wrath pounded in their veins. They clawed at his arms and tore pieces of his rich tunic. Abhinoy didn't seem to care. He wouldn't stop until he reached Kalika. Despite the road seeming endless, he was able to finally kneel at her red-dyed feet. He handed his head to her. In her touch, the eyeballs began melting, gooey white slush dripping down the pits of his sight. The flesh too began ripping itself apart from the cage of bones. At last, all that was left was the skull. Kalika took it and joined it to her garland of skulls.

Abhinoy turned to dust soon after. Maya, like a keen audience, saw the events unfold. She was a silent observer, her participation in this game a will of Kalika herself.

After Abhinoy came the corpse of Manihar. He too was carrying his head, dressed in a rich garb. The spirits disturbed him too, and he too gave his head to Kalika, which became an adornment in her garland.

Maya's hands reached for Kalika's palms. The goddess smiled at her, revealing her softness for the first time.

"Open your eyes, Maya."

The world around Maya spun. She felt herself being pulled back from the Mother. Kalika was going far away and ultimately vanished. Maya was subjected to a fall of gravity. With a start, she opened her eyes, believing to have really fallen down from an enormous height.

"It was a dream."

A vivid dream. A message.

Whatever she had seen in the dream was very symbolic, even intimidating. Maya's blood ran cold. She looked at the window– it was already sunup. The rays of the sun lit up her little room.

She got down the bed and freshened. After changing into a decent set of clothes, she came out of the room, and as soon as she was actively a part of the present, a nervous Khirodh bump into her. Both the women were startled, Maya a little more, because she saw the stains of tears on Khirodh's eyes.

"What happened?" she asked softly. Khirodh shook her head. Her feet curled inward and she bit her nails. Maya gently held her by the shoulder. "Don't be afraid. I am here to solve problems. Tell me, what happened?"

"Death."

Maya's eyes widened. I knew it. Manihar is dead. "I am so sorry for the loss."

Khirodh wiped her tears. "We all are. She was not a relative of ours, but she was a human! And I can't help but feel for her. She had such a beautiful streak of life, her dance was like poetry in motion. She was, she was..."

Maya squinted. It isn't what I think... "Who died?"

"A devadasi from the temple. She was killed last night. Mercilessly."