The Tigress Plots

She grows on me and in me 

Written on Ashtami 8/10/2016 and first posted today, Ashtami 2018. The pandal was a quaint structure with some eclectic and rather quirky decor. Note the observations on what the theme might have meant to convey. Forward to 2018 and we are back with classic lines and a goddess in a contemporary rainbow-tinged edition of "daaker saaj."

As the moon approaches the first quarter, swelling oh-so-slightly each time I behold her smiling at me from the southern sky, my understanding of Durga and the uncanny theme that has placed itself around her imperfect but alluring beauty, grows too. 

"Inch by inch it’s a cinch" said Mama Kathryn*. I have no idea where the next few inches will lead me. But through the frustration of a water-supply–negative, rain-positive day, with hands turning dry and painful whenever I don’t use them – and cracking and bleeding when I use them on the wrong things – I see a gentle radiance. Our crystal clear nights help pandal hoppers as well as those who have companions to chill with outdoors. I once had  the kind of steam in me, to leg it up and down to the pandal, several times an evening. There would be quick dashes home for meals, for a pee, for just about anything. And fancy my parents deep into their seventies would make these dashes. We continue to live in such times in this country, that require us to leg it home to answer these calls.  For the simple reason we wouldn’t be able to come out alive from even the best maintained and modernized of our public inconveniences. 

But why does my mind wander to the gross? Rather than rise above it towards the sublime. Or veer towards construct rather than complain? The tired mind is deceived by the apparently easy option of grumbling. It doesn’t lead anywhere. It’s one of those blind alleys you can pace indefinitely with no notion of destination or even journey, but the mere restless pacing of a caged tiger.

This tigress is frustrated. This tigress resents the present Demon Raj. There are two “Des”. One is Devi and the other Demon. The marginalized ones are clutching at every possibility of creating an alternative myth. There have been tales of oppressed peoples who harmed no one but who came through as a threat to those who had happened to come by privilege and power and were in no mood to give it away. Those whom you feel threatened by, equally come through as “dark” forces, as those who threaten and attack you for real. It is not as simple as it looks.

There is the tigress writing these words now and thinking about the demons that threaten her. She is not an alpha female who is set up by a bunch of dominant males to use her physical allure and her wiles. She uses her own wit and her wisdom, and the support that her team pours in. She is the one on the stage flanked by her two sisters. And armed by her guy cheerleaders with their favorite toys (see her ten hands). She holds them because they are gifts and the act of giving (and receiving) delivers strength. She doesn’t use them though. Suffice it to say that the caitiffs see them in her ten hands and are dazzled. One caitiff hides behind the head of a meek, sluggish beast – a water buffalo. He doesn’t hesitate to use a dumb animal as a shield. There are other caitiffs that crawl out of the cracks. They have more venom in them and he sets them up. Meanwhile there are a bunch of caitiffs dressed in a little brief authority. They claim their power is from the gods, whoever those may be. Each caitiff is on the payroll of his favorite demigod (see “De” again?).

Meanwhile the tigress is tamed by the sight of the exquisite patterns on the fabric that seems to grow like a second skin on Mahishasura. 

She looks from him to her team mates to herself. Hey this is surreal! We all have the most incredible patterns adorning us like second skins that take a silken, fluid life of their own. I swear I saw the folds move gently as the breeze whispers around them and tells them “flutter flutter flutter.” Her head swirls and she thinks her beloved’s weed must have traveled into her nostrils; mistaken this platform for a mountain and spiraled its way up. The green man is lying on his back like a pet pooch asking for a tummy tickle. I got something wrong, she tells herself.

Hey hold it, he calls out. Please, it isn’t really me. I emerged from the imagination of those two hunks who are seated before you, struggling to mouth some poetry that they believe will help you thrust that spear into my chest. The tigress smiles. She isn’t fooled. She touches him lightly with the spear drawing a few drops. “That’s for your folly in being used” she admonishes. She can’t take her eyes off the beautiful wallpaper pattern of his shorts. Like exquisite brocade. Those designer shorts sure tantalize! She looks down at her own thighs and smiles again at the similar pattern. 

The two hunks are not part of this play they are enacting. They are intruders. They bear no tell tale patterns. She is hungry. She has much to ponder. And a night’s sleep to catch up on before she pleases the milling crowds tomorrow. She recalls that the two hunks - no they are no hunks, just well fed middle-aged men - tell them to stand ten feet away and drop the two and a half petals into the tray they take around. She remembers the glory days when the flowers flew in the air and she was lovingly pelted with them. It would be all over the front pages of newspapers. She enjoyed playing catch but she was so busy hearing their appeals that she dropped most of the catches. The men in blue would never have hired her. For all that she wanted anything to do with those pampered fools.

She needed a plan for tomorrow. Her own plan to scuttle the plans of those two bulky priests who kept forgetting their lines. Wasn’t one of them smoking on the sly between acts? She raps herself for hallucinating :)
The flowers must fly again and pelt her. They were the offerings of spontaneous love. And she needed to make those closed curtains fly apart and let the four winds swirl through her abode. Those two and so many others needed to be ticked off. They were taking advantage of their sense of entitlement and they were getting out of hand. She would make them pick all those zillions of flowers off the platform and arrange them all on that kalasha. With that thought playing in her head she signs off. 10:10 pm

*Mama Kathryn was a wise and wonderful mom, ahead of her times*

Disclaimer:
Jibes at tigers, gods, demons, priests, overpaid cricketers and the congregation are all in good humor. They are all part of the wonders of creation, Durga and this tigress love them all!

2018 Durga