Durga

THE SUN WAS ALREADY SETTING by the time Durga made it to the riverbank. The horizon was a riot of colour, and the colours were reflected and distorted by the river’s surface. The waters were never still. She sat down by the river, stretching herself. Her body ached all over from the pounding it had taken. A grimace twisted her face. Her teacher was certainly a hard taskmaster. He showed no mercy and gave no quarter. Not that she wanted him to. If she wanted to be a warrior, she had to learn to take a beating. This was something she had wanted all her life, and now she had the opportunity. She was not going to complain about a few bruises. Or the fact that she had to take her bath so late in the day.

She lay down on the bank, hidden from view by the tall grass and reeds that grew there. Her body relaxed, her hand brushing the top of the soft grass and the rough sand. This was a favourite hideout for her. No one ever came here, everyone preferring the public ghat at her village to this secluded spot. Here, she was one with the world around her, the clamour in her mind quiet. The peace of her mind was matched with the serenity of her surroundings. The silence all around was broken only by the sound of the flowing water and the warble of birds, but they were so intrinsic a part of the place that she hardly heard them.

She lay for a while, waiting for the sweat on her body to dry, her body loosening till it felt like she was sinking into the ground. A smile played on her lips as she rose. Stripping off her clothes, she slid into the water, the coolness of which served to calm her even further. She washed her clothes and spread them out on the grass to dry before swimming into the middle. The evening swim was always a good way to regain her equilibrium, a certain way to make her tranquil. She could forget everything when she was in the water. Yet, she couldn’t stay in here for long, not when the night had already started stretching shadowy fingers across the sky.

Durga! The shout came from the village. She ignored the call. It was probably the crazy old woman who kept shouting her name every evening. The first time she had done that, Durga had gone to her, wondering what the old woman had wanted. But the old woman did not even look at her, just kept shouting her name. Durga had been seven at the time and had been fascinated by the woman. She had even wondered if it was a game till her uncle and aunt had dragged her away, muttering about crazy old women.

Durga swam ashore just as the sun was finally dipping beneath the horizon. The evening sun bathed the river in red and gold and Durga could imagine she was rising from a pool of blood as she clambered ashore. She shook her head with a wry smile and started to dry herself with a towel, wrapping her long hair in it. She dressed herself in the clothes that were still wet, though no longer dripping wet. She would change once she got home. The night wasn’t cold enough to make her catch a chill.

The village was in darkness as she reached it, the few lit lamps in the porches of the houses bathing those areas in golden glows. She was well aware of the disapproving and leering glances that came her way, but paid no attention to them. Let them disapprove, let them leer; it was a matter of indifference to her. She was inured to all that by now, and she knew well that none of them dared do anything more than look. None of them dared raise their voice against her or to make any lewd remarks openly. Her teacher had declared that she was under his protection and not many people dared to cross Damodara.

People speculated on the nature of her relation with the hermit warrior who was training her in arms and who stayed with her in her hut, but Durga was indifferent to what they thought. Mostly, Damodara slept underneath the tree in the courtyard, sleeping inside the hut only in case of rainstorms. When he did sleep inside, they slept in the same room because her hut only had the one room, but they did not share a bed. Damodara had promised to help her attain her dream of becoming a warrior, and if she had other plans than simply realising a dream, he did not appear to be concerned by them.

She felt nothing but contempt for the terrified villagers who were too cowardly to protect their own, but that contempt was not unmixed with compassion. She did not trust them anymore, but she wished them no harm. They needed protection. They had already proved how woefully inadequate they were when it came to safeguard the village and its people. Damodara was now the shield of the village against any hostile forces, and therefore the villagers bit their tongues when it came to Damodara and Durga’s ‘relationship’. Not fully, but at least they kept their gossip inside their own houses.

They still refused to allow their women to approach her or to have any sort of communication with her. Not that she minded. To be honest, the women were the ones she couldn’t tolerate much. Their judgemental glances and coldness had bothered her more than the lewd remarks and leering glances of the men. However, that too was in the past, of the time before Damodara had come. Now, all she had was pity and contempt, though neither made her feel the slightest desire to have any dealings with them. The crazy old woman was the only grown woman who didn’t shun her, and that thought made her feel amused.

There had been a time when Durga had been fascinated by the old woman, later she had become curious, then cruel and mocking. Afterwards, she had become indifferent. Nowadays she was again curious, though she hid it behind a façade of nonchalance. She gave a cursory glance at the place where the old woman customarily sat, at a corner near the temple in a makeshift shelter that had been built by the villagers, back in the days when they had nothing to worry about except the rain and the flood. The old woman sat there, muttering to herself, a lamp lit in front of the shelter. The shadows of the nearby trees fell across the road near where she sat and Durga was reminded of the ghost stories her aunt used to regale her with when she was little.

She shivered a little as she hurried to the hut that stood at the very edge of the village. The evening breeze had a nip though they were well into vasanta and her wet clothes were not helping. Damodara gave her a glance as she reached the hut.

It might be better if you didn’t tarry so long by the river at this time, he said, his gravelly voice calm.

He was standing outside, next to the big tree in the courtyard. He was tall, taller than all the other men in the village and had long, matted hair. He was dressed in simple clothes of black and that combined with his dark complexion made him nearly invisible except for the moonlight filtering down to the earth.

Yes, acharya, she said quietly.

The weather is changing, he said. You do not wish to be taken ill, do you?

"No, acharya,"

Tomorrow, you will need to practice longer.

She nodded, remembering belatedly that he probably could not see her since the lamps were not lit.

Light the lamps, he said. I’ve prepared food. Have yours, and do the exercises before going to bed.

The nightly exercises were something she often forgot or was too tired to do, which was probably why he felt the need to remind her of every now and then. She hastened to light the lamp.

Shall I serve food for you as well?

They usually ate together except when he was fasting, which he did occasionally.

He shook his head. His dark eyes were looking far away. I shall fast tonight, he said. The moon is rising.

She went inside the hut, closing the door behind her. If he was fasting, then he would not be sleeping either, but prowling around the periphery of the village. Nights like this were when the village was susceptible to attack and thus, on nights like this, Damodara kept watch, though no one ever asked him to. No one had thanked him either, when he had staved off an attack from bandits the previous year. The villagers were too scared to even be grateful.

Durga ate her food and cleaned the hut before blowing off the lamp and going to sleep in her corner. She had been afraid to sleep for a long time, but ever since Damodara had started staying with her, sleep had come easily to her, though nothing ever stopped the nightmares. If Damodara noticed, he never said anything and she was grateful for that.

DURGA TOUCHED THE BARK of the young sapling. She did not know why she kept coming here, to this place. There was nothing for her here, nothing except death. And memories.

Durga! The shrill scream rent the air.

It had been her own voice that had screamed on that day, her voice that had sobbed and had begged for mercy. Durga’s hands tightened on the rough bark. She closed her eyes and focussed on her breathing like Damodara taught her to. She had to regain control.

She opened her eyes once she felt her breathing and heart rate return to normal. The hill side was the village smasana. The row of young trees that surrounded it marked the boundary between the dwelling places of the living and the dead. The trees were planted far enough not to be burned by the fires that rose from the pyres when they were lit. They also acted as a filter for the smoke and ash that would have been blown into the village if not for their presence.

Would she be able to recognise the graves of her family? Or of any of the others who had died that day? Probably not, but she would never be able to forget the screams. Her own cries had been lost in theirs that day, but to her, each had sounded distinct. She wiped her hand across her forehead, as if trying to wipe away the memories. Wasn’t it bad enough she had nightmares about them without having to think of them while awake too? She was ashamed of her weeping that day, and of her actions too; inaction rather, though she knew there was little else she could have done. She pushed it out of her mind; she did not want to dwell on the past. It did no good.

A movement at the edge of her vision arrested her attention. She frowned as she turned to face the smasana. The movement had come from the trees that marked their other border. She took a step back, melting into the shadows behind the trees, her mind racing as well as her heart.

The villagers never came here; they were scared of ghosts. They came here only when a funeral had to be had. Then, they would come, beating drums, the noise of which they believed would keep away the ghosts. But at all other times, they gave the smasana a wide berth. Even at the times of funerals, they would stay only long enough to see that the pyre caught fire properly. It was up to the group of men who lived beyond the edges of the villages to ensure that the fires were tended properly till the dead was reduced to ashes and a few bones which were then floated away at the ghat.

Those men had all been killed in the attack by the soldiers. They had tried to fight, though none of them had been trained. It amused her that those that the villagers called outcasts and untouchables had had more courage and heart than anyone else. It had been five years ago, but the villagers still went around terrified, as if Mahisha’s soldiers were around the corner, ready to pounce on anyone.

Nowadays, Durga tended to the funeral pyres whenever required. Though the villagers pretended to ostracise her, they still needed her. She was not afraid of ghosts; she knew from experience that the living were to be feared more. There was nothing here to harm her, and she found the solitude soothing. Besides, her family was here, and there were days when she needed to remember, days when she had to remind herself why she had to lie to her teacher.

Today, there had been no funeral, and she had come here because she had no training till later. The day after his fast, Damodara slept almost throughout and Durga was left to her own devices till he woke. While Damodara slept underneath the large tree in the courtyard of her house, Durga had cleaned the hut and washed all their clothes. She would need to return before nightfall to prepare food, but till then she was free to do whatever she wished. Practising by herself had got boring after a while, though she spent more than half the day doing it.

There was again a movement. Someone was there in the smasana, someone who was not attempting to be stealthy. That could mean one of two things— either they were confident enough not to be stealthy or they were comfortable enough not to be stealthy. Either possibility was worrisome. Of course, there was a third possibility that it was one of the village lads visiting the smasana for a dare. Perhaps she should try and scare him off in that case. She gave an inward shrug. Despite their parents’ attitude towards her, the children did not yet look askance at her. They were even openly admiring at times. Besides, if it was one of the children, it would do them good to learn there was nothing scary in a smasana. The dead did no one any harm. It was the living that one needed to be wary of.

A man in black robes stepped out into the open, startling her. There was something vaguely familiar about him. Perhaps it was the robes. They were similar to Damodara’s, his stance also identical, as he stood surveying the line of trees where she was hidden. He was fairer in complexion than her teacher, but his long hair and beard were equally matted, if not more. He was not carrying any weapons that Durga could see, except a staff, but he still looked like a warrior. His dark eyes moved over the trees methodically.

Who’s there? he asked, squinting into the shadows cast by the trees. Please come out. I mean you no harm.

His voice was mild, and slightly husky. It was not an unattractive voice, though something about it made Durga wary. She did not move; he might be alone, but then he might not. She didn’t want to give away her position just yet. He might guess she was there, but he could not see her, and if he was an enemy, then she could always sneak away to warn the villagers.

He spread his hands wide, dropping his staff on the ground. There was a small bundle tied to the staff, but it made no noise as it fell. It likely contained his spare clothes.

I mean you or the people of this village no harm, he spoke again. I come seeking Damodara. I’m a friend of his.

Durga frowned. If he was a friend of her teacher’s, then she had to lead him to him. She took a chance, and stepped out of her hiding place.

How do you know him? she asked.

The man looked at her, his gaze roving over her, yet, there was nothing lewd about it. Durga had a feeling he was assessing her as he would an enemy or an ally. He was almost as tall as Damodara, and even more fierce looking. It could also be that she was used to Damodara’s looks, and therefore he looked milder.

We’re friends, he said. As I already said. My name is Bhairva. Can you take me to him?

She nodded, still cautious, and yet reassured. She knew the name, though not the person. She wasn’t the only one who had nightmares. I’ll take you to him, but he’s resting now. You’ll need to wait for him to wake.

I can wait, he replied as he picked up his staff and bundle. Lead the way.

Durga could feel the curiosity in his gaze; he made no attempt to hide it. There was shrewdness in his gaze as well, as if he was trying to figure out just where she fit into his friend’s life, and could not come up with any satisfactory answers.

That was his problem, not hers. If her teacher wanted him to know, he would tell him. If not, he could keep on being curious.

THE VILLAGE WAS JUST THE SAME as every other Bhairava had seen. There was the neat row of huts, the small gardens, and the children playing in the courtyards. There was the village square with the large tree under which the village elders held sabha to resolve the minor day-to-day matters that needed their attention. There were the dogs that sniffed the air and barked experimentally at passing strangers. There were the cattle sheds to one side, and the sound of bells and the lowing of kine. There was the temple, near to the ghat, though at this time of the day, both were deserted. Under the tree near the temple, lay stretched out the priest, taking his afternoon nap before it was time for the evening prayers.

Bhairava sensed the mistrust and fear that rolled off the people in waves so palpable, he felt the sourness of it in his mouth. That mistrust too had become familiar to him. Ever since Mahisha had come to power, his soldiers had moved from village to village and town to town, seeking out rebels, or just burning the places for the fun of it, and carrying away women and wealth. The people had started learning what it meant to mistrust strangers. Even here, Bhairava could see the signs of huts having been burned down and rebuilt, though it looked as if it had happened some time ago.

Bile rose in his throat, that he swallowed down. After all these years, after all their efforts, they had not been able to make any dent in the royal forces. All they had achieved was to bring down more hardship and misery upon the people. Logically, Bhairava knew that the rebellion was not what caused this oppression. The oppression was what had led them to rebel. But before the rebellion, outlying villages like this one had an illusion of safety. Of course, it was only an illusion, and not real; the despot who ruled over them would never have been content to leave them alone, but they had still been relatively safe.

Bhairava’s frowning glance fell on the woman who walked in front of him. He could see the disapproving glances directed her way by the women, the furtive glances from the men, and the friendly smiles of the children. She was very young, a girl in fact, and what she did at this young age to gain so much disapproval was a mystery. Though she walked with a studied nonchalance, it was easy to see that she was aware of every glance directed at her. It only made her stand straighter, and to walk slower, as if challenging the owners of those glances. Her gait was that of a soldier, and though her form was undoubtedly feminine, he could still see the scars on her arms and the hint of muscles. A woman soldier? That would explain the disapproval, though. Bhairava still remembered how judgemental his own villagers had been about Maheswari and Vaishnavi.

Durga! An old woman sat in a crude shelter, shouting aloud before her voice dropped to a murmur. Durga!

The girl gave her a sidelong glance as she passed. The dusky face darkened, and she seemed uncomfortable, but the old woman was oblivious as she sat there crooning to herself. Interesting.

She led him to a hut at the very edge of the village. The courtyard was small, and the hut was new. The tree that stood in the courtyard, in contrast, was ancient and large, and stretched out beneath it, an arm thrown over his face and fast asleep, was Damodara.

Bhairava was aware of a relief that was disproportionate. He had been prepared for a long search, and had even been prepared for the news that perhaps Damodara was no more, though even the thought had been enough to nearly shatter him. To see him here now, unharmed, was more than he had hoped for. Damodara looked older, thinner and more careworn, and there were hints of grey in his dark hair; it had been five years after all. Bhairava felt lighter, the tight knot that even he hadn’t realised had been in his chest for five years dissolving, and it was as if he could finally breathe.

He moved towards the sleeping man, but found his way blocked by the girl.

You cannot disturb him, she hissed.

Bhairava was amused at her obvious protectiveness. Did she even know who Damodara was? Probably not.

I’ll only sit down in the shade, he said softly. I shall not disturb him.

All right, she said. She made no move to stop him as he sat down near to Damodara, putting down his staff and bundle to lean against the tree. She also made no move to leave.

What’s your name? he asked

Durga, she said.

The name the old woman had shouted. Was it significant? Who was the old woman?

Where do you live? he asked. Didn’t she have any place to go?

I live here, she said, her chin thrown forward defiantly.

She was waiting for him to judge her, Bhairava realised. Judging her was the last thing on his mind, though he felt troubled.

What are you up to, old friend? He gazed at the sleeping form of Damodara. This is not like you.

The reason for the disapproving glances of the villagers was now made clear, and the reason for the way she was watching him, defiant and wary at the same time. It tugged at his heart, the courage with which she was meeting the judgement of everyone around her, but it was not unmixed with concern. What was Damodara doing? He could not be unaware of how things would look to the ignorant villagers, and yet, why had he done nothing? But then, Damodara had always been supremely indifferent to what the world thought. It had been the same when they had been boys, and their classmates used to make fun of Vaishnavi or Maheswari. It had always been Bhairava who would jump to their defence, and fight those boys. Damodara would not hesitate to fight to protect people, but not from tongues.

His eyes couldn’t leave her face, his heart aching for the vulnerability she hid behind defensiveness. Yet, she had not spoken a word to those people, nor even shot them a dark look. Obviously, she was attempting to follow in Damodara’s footsteps, except she was too young, and expected to be judged.

What right had anyone to judge her?

I see, he said calmly, eyes on hers, schooling his features to hide the thoughts that passed through his mind. She relaxed a fraction.

He is my guru, she said, as if she deemed him worthy of an explanation.

He’s good at teaching, Bhairava said, neutrally.

I’ll be in the house if you need anything, she said. Don’t wake him.

Bhairava leaned against the tree, a slight frown on his face. Teacher? What was Damodara up to? He glanced at his friend again. He was more troubled than he cared to admit. Was this why Damodara chose to disappear? To assume protection of this village and this girl?

What are you up to, my friend? he muttered aloud as he closed his eyes wearily. He wanted to have a nap too, but his brain was too active.

His mind went back to the last time he had seen Damodara. It had been in a village similar to this one. They hadn’t got there in time, and Mahisha’s forces had burned the place down, and had carried off the women, even the girls who were yet to reach puberty. The men and boys had all been slaughtered, even the babies. Damodara had been devastated.

He strikes five blows to every one of ours, he had said once they were back in camp, his frustration evident in the way he paced the small room. We are outnumbered and outmatched. He doesn’t care about who stands in his way. And always, always, the people suffer. We need to find another way.

If there is one, we’ll find it! Bhairava had snapped. He had been upset as well, the sights he had seen in that village still haunting him. He had wanted to punch something, but kept hold of his temper with difficulty. You know as well as I do that a direct attack would do no good. We are no match for Mahisha’s armies. This is all we can do!

So, we just let the people die? Damodara had snarled.

We’re not letting them die! We’re protecting them as much as we are able to! Bhairava had felt his own anger rising to match his friend’s, and this time he had made no attempt to hold it back. Did Damodara think this was any easier for him?

For every village we save, he burns down five! Damodara’s voice was quiet, but each word was spoken like the lash of a whip. For every person we save, his soldiers kill, rape and maim ten! We’re not protecting anyone!

Bhairava had never seen Damodara become angry. It was always he who had lost his temper, who couldn’t control his anger. Damodara had always been calm, no matter what the