But that hatred returns whenever I remember the sounds of her lovemaking with the other man. One evening, I had entered the flat with my own key and stood silently in the drawing room. I heard her moaning in ecstasy. Her lover was a mere dull engineer. They were like two animals making strange sounds and then getting spent. I couldn't bear it, and thought of taking a knife from the kitchen and slashing her. Even the most lustful man will find it astonishing that his woman would get done to her by another person what he himself does. Why shouldn't there be release even in such painful astonishment?
Anyhow, seeing her enthralled by the illusion of gold, I thought I had a glimpse of my possible release. I took this Ayyappa vrata, postponed all other engagements, and for three months wandered in holy places. But I found no peace of mind. Then I read the story about you. That gave me hope of another way of release, and about a week ago I came to your world-famous ashram near Madras.
Such crowds of people, such jubilance! Everywhere there were colour pictures of you, clothes with your picture, stickers with your picture, plates with your picture. From the outside your ashram looked like a modern shopping place. I felt a little disappointed, but also curious. There were dharamshalas with rooms where people could stay in whatever degree of luxury they could afford. But I stayed in a resort hotel which had been built in a village on the beach, where quite a few foreign devotees also stayed.
Even if you personally met everyone for a minute, and sat like a Bhagavati Devi for ten hours, you could still see only six hundred people a day. Although I hid my identity as a TV man from everyone else, I revealed it to your managers, and so after three days I was lucky enough to get your darshan. There was a queue about a kilometre long, where each person got a half-minute with you. I had been standing in another, smaller queue. This was for VIPs who would get a full minute with you. There I had to wait, hopeful and uncertain, for darshan of your face — I who was an agent of that great change in you.
The half-minute queue people were fortunate enough to have their heads touched by your hand; but those in the one-minute queue were fortunate enough to be embraced by you. I had heard one of the mysterious tales that the pilgrims told each other: whoever has pure bhakti, whoever is standing on tiptoe, poised for release, having worn away all the karma and dirt of this becoming — when you embraced such people, it was said, your breasts would leak milk. If milk appeared, you would press it to that person's eyes. There was an old judge of the Supreme Court who got your milk, then gave up everything and stayed on to help manage your ashram.
Waiting anxiously for my turn, getting nearer and nearer, I counted on my watch the good fortune of the people standing in front of me — I wanted at least to glimpse you when I moved up in the queue. But your officers had arranged the queue in such a zigzag maze that no one could catch sight of you until they were almost face-to-face. Perhaps the intent was to make you suddenly appear like a vision.
But gradually I lost interest in following the process. Because of my TV shows, I too am adept at timing. And hadn't I come in search of you because I was tired of such games? Just like those who become artists in sexual matters and who deliberately stage the climax of an erotic experience.
Then I saw you. It surprised me that you did not seem tired, even after touching so many people. You embraced me, but I was not a blessed one who brought milk to your breasts. Did I or didn't I see the old mischievousness in your eyes? Have you or haven't you truly crossed over? But even after turning over, don't we still remain limited by our bhava? You still urinate, don't you? You embraced me just as I was thinking all these things.
You enfolded me in a divine, never-stale-however-much-touched love. I was filled with a sense of wonder. Then you went on and embraced the person standing next to me. But when you had embraced me, you made me feel for that moment that only I existed for you, just as you made the next person feel that you existed only for him. I thought that this might be a gift which never tires you although you do it day after day after day. I also felt sad that you, always sitting there that way, had grown fat despite your young age.
After having your darshan, I took up my journey again to seek out an old woman named Sitamma, who years before had become like my mother, and also to look for Gangubai, who had secretly shown me the taste of this body which I am now trying to punish in my vairagya. During this journey I also met an old man called Shastri. He fed me kuttavalakki and became like a relation from some past life.
My dear Mahamata, is the son of Gangu, whom both Narayan and I had loved, my son? It seems he intends to sacrifice all attachments in vairagya. Tell me, what should I do now?’
In this way, Dinakar finished the letter, felt tired, and slept.
20
On his third day at Sitamma's house, Dinakar thought that he had woken up very early, but when he came out he found that Sitamma had woken up earlier still, had already swept and sprinkled the veranda, and was ready to lay the rangoli. ‘Did you sleep?’ she asked. ‘Bring a chair and sit down. Look what rangoli I am going to lay. I will fill the whole veranda with the picture of Sri Chakra which is on your amulet. Isn't that rakshe from your mother?’ And she began to work.
‘Sri Chakra’ were the only words he had understood. But as he watched, he grasped little by little what began to rise on the veranda in red kumkum and yellow turmeric, and when it had fully arisen he took in the whole thing again, all the while drinking fresh coffee.
Nine triangles joining, one inside the other, creating an orbit which becomes a circle in turn becoming a chakra, the chakra becoming a petalled flower, the flower a form manifested within a square opened out to the four directions, the whole figure wombing in itself the creative energy of earth and sky.
This form had perfected itself in Sitamma's meditation, so that the eyes of an observer became absorbed in the continuous intermingling of yoni and linga, resting in the colours of kumkum and turmeric, then moving towards the point at the centre, becoming one with it.
After his coffee Dinakar felt serene, went upstairs to his room and again sat down to write, this time to the wife from whom he had separated.
∗
‘Dear Ranjana,
In the extreme hatred and jealousy I felt that day, I see now a hint of my release. I had wanted to take a knife from the kitchen and kill you. But even for a slut like you, there might have been a possibility of release in getting fucked by him. I have begun to believe this now that I can, without any jealousy, imagine that moment when you opened out continuously to him, allowing him to enter into every nook and corner of yourself, as you moaned in ecstasy. It is possible to get free of bondage through an unearthly pleasure so intense that you feel you cannot bear it, that you will die.
But if you continue to be a scheming slut all your life, you will never completely turn over. I am writing this after seeing that a girl who was touched by me in her ecstasy of passion became a mahamata. There was also a hint that vairagya might flower in you when I saw your face bloom in the ecstasy of illusion while looking at the gold I gave you. I cannot guess where you might find release. But if it happens, you will realize how easy it always was, how it could have happened at any time, how at any time you could have turned over as easily as turning over in your sleep. I wish you success in this. I never truly touched you and reached you. You have never truly touched me and held me. I hope that someday I will find it amusing that I still sometimes feel jealous when I think of another man caressing the birthmark on your thigh. Why do you want to get fucked by a worthless scum like him? I can't understand why you want to get fucked by a man who enjoys leftovers. Keep my flat as long as you want. Don't worry that I may suddenly turn up there. I am sending by registered post my key to the flat, so that I am not even tempted to do so. One thing more. Whatever I bought during the year of our marriage because you desired it, is yours.