It wasn’t unusual for Pārvatī to fall asleep while Śiva recited the Vedas to her. The hymns made her impatient or drowsy. But she would soon rouse herself again, as if driven by a goad. There were only two things she never tired of discussing: theology and women, the latter insofar as they were — or had been—Śiva’s women. Pārvatī sat up in bed, bare-breasted, her skin moist and glistening. She gazed steadily ahead of her and spoke to Śiva, who was lying by her side: “Prakrti, māyā, śakti: you see how, when we set off along the path that leads back to the beginning, we always come across this element that flaunts its feminine noun. Never existing alone, but always such that nothing else can exist without it. Nature, illusion, power: these are the words your ingenuous Western devotees will pronounce one day, though generally without realizing how each is the shell of the other. There is no nature without illusion, there is no illusion without power, there is no power without nature. As for māyā, rather than ‘illusion’ it would be more apt to call it ‘magic,’ that strange thing that those supposedly of sober mind are convinced does not exist, while actually it would be far more sober to say that nothing in existence can exist without it. But even that would not be enough, and this is what I want to talk about, that’s why I’m here next to you waiting for you to lay me down on that tiger skin, get rid of your Ganas and launch your liṇga on the vessel of my thighs, so that the māyā in me may cloak it in a liquid veil.”
Pārvatī said: “Your mouth comes to me like the unmanifest that rejoices in qualities. Then I feel I am flowing in you. But sometimes you look at me like a man who sees loose women going into an empty house and doesn’t so much as touch them. No less secret, at such moments, is our own contact. When we don’t touch, it’s as if I were putting my fingers in my ears. Then I hear the sound that dwells in the space within the heart: like a river, like a bell, like a chariot wheel, like the croak of a frog, like the rain, like the word spoken in a cozy corner.”
One day they went down to the sea, which Pārvatī had never seen before. On a beach not far from Kāñcī, Umā played with Śiva’s phallus, which was a column of sand. She didn’t notice the sea swelling up. Soon the waves came crashing down on her. Umā clutched the liṅga in her arms, like a doll, to protect it. When the waves withdrew, the column of sand was etched with the scars left by Umā’s bracelets and nipples.
They spun out the game of pleasure, ratilīlā, made it digressive, circular, rambling. At their feet, Nandin the bull slept, occasionally shaking his big head. White with ash, Śiva’s chest was crossed by two dark stripes: a cobra and Pārvatī’s arm. Śiva whispered to her: “Kālī, you Black One.” It was a name Pārvatī didn’t want to hear. She had always wished, stonily, for her dark skin to grow pale, to be like the skin of those princesses who lived beyond the mountains, whose miniatures people had sometimes shown her. She slipped out from Śiva’s grasp and hissed: “You are the Great Black One.” An argument began. Ever since they’d been alone, this had been their life: sex, dice, bhangā, arguing, tapas. And erratic conversation. Each phase enhanced the others and came around again quite regularly. Śiva said: “You’re hard as a spike of the rock you were born from. There’s nowhere one can get hold of you, you’re like the sheet of ice around your father. You’re tortuous and twisting as a mountain path.” Then Pārvatī sat before Śiva, hugging her knees tight, shut up in herself, staring at him with furious eyes. “And the only thing you like is ash, you smear it over yourself the way my maids rubbed themselves with sandalwood oil. You’re only happy when there are corpses burning all around you. Your earrings are snakes. Why did you drag me away from my palace, from my family, if my body isn’t enough for you? Why do you make me live like a tramp, wandering about aimlessly? Why do you prevent me from having a child like any ordinary woman would? I’m only black because I’m part of you. If you see me as a snake, I must be the only snake you haven’t loved.” Pārvatī jumped to her feet, choking with rage, and went out. Nandin followed her, imploring her to stay. “Go away,” said Pārvatī. “The only thing you should worry about is making sure no other women come here. Your Master thinks of nothing else. Don’t forget to keep your eye on him through the keyhole. When I get back, my skin will be a golden apple, its down soft and light as the dawn. I’ll dazzle him. My tapas is strong enough to do that and more.” And the proud Pārvatī went off, her hand clutching Ganeśa, who, full of dark thoughts, lowered his big elephant’s head.
Nandin stood guard, never moved. But he was half asleep one night when a snake slithered up. It was Āḍi, the demon, who had long been waiting for a chance to get even with Śiva, who had killed his father. Sliding along in the dark of the pavilion, Āḍi assumed the likeness of Pārvatī. Motionless, Śiva watched her approach. He felt happy. He had always counted on her sudden changes of mood. And this time she had been away too long. Through the window casing, the moonlight fell on a magnificent, shy girl, with dark skin. “So nothing’s changed,” Siva thought. The false Pārvatī was walking around him. It was a habit they had, before touching each other. Śiva began to undress her, slowly. He lifted her hair to find a tiny blemish she had, the shape of a lotus flower, on the nape of her neck, to the left. He couldn’t find it. He realized he was being tricked. The false Pārvatī had stretched out on the ground, arms raised in an arch above her head, fingers twining. From Śiva’s phallus sprouted the vajra, the three-pronged thunderbolt, flashing a moment before burying itself in the false Pārvatī. The vulva it penetrated concealed an adamantine tooth, ready to shred Śiva’s phallus. For a while the scene resembled a convulsive coitus. The two bodies arched. Then the false Pārvatī shuddered and stiffened, heat blazing from within. Then she fell back on the floor.