Kamakhya Temple : When she reached Kamakhya, she came to know that the goddess was menstruating. The hotel owner told me this with great joy, as if someone was telling good news. And to be honest, it was auspicious. It was time for Ambubachi. The sanctum sanctorum of the temple was closed, but the blue sky was open, the mountain was open, the sky was open. Tantrikas were coming, devotees were coming, curious people were coming, and I was also included among them.
My steps got stuck several times while climbing the hill. The king was walking ahead and I was following him. Looking at her back, it suddenly occurred to me how backs are false, perhaps even more than faces, or perhaps just as much. Many times, it is the backs of the people we know best that we see the most.
On the way, the first Tantrik was found sitting on a black stone. There was ashes on his body. White ash was visible on his skin as if someone had tried to erase it and stopped midway. Red threads were tied in his hair. Her eyes were so strange that it was difficult to understand whether she was seeing something or had seen everything. He looked at me. He did not smile, but there was a momentary movement on his face, like a pebble falling into calm water and the waves rising and then becoming calm. A real human skull was placed in front of him, with dark colored flowers on it. Those flowers felt like a wound to me.
I wanted to stay there for some time, but the king held my hand and led me forward. He was in a hurry as always.
Goats and calves brought for sacrifice were seen in the temple premises. This scene was creating a strange uneasiness within me. One white goat in particular remains in my memory. He was very quiet. It was brought fully decorated, as if it had been prepared for some special occasion. He was not bleating. Her silence was disturbing me the most. I kept wondering did he know what was going to happen to him? Or did he not know anything? Both possibilities seemed equally horrifying to me.
There was also a big black platform. There was something in his brown eyes that I couldn’t put into words at the time. Maybe I can’t give it even today. I would like to write about her eyes in a novel someday.
Tantrik was reciting mantras at the time of sacrifice. Those mantras were not dissolving in the air, but seemed to be penetrating inside the stones, in the atmosphere, and even in my bones. The sword rose, paused for a moment and then fell. I didn’t close my eyes. This was my own insistence. The king had closed his eyes.
After the sacrifice there was blood on the stones, there was blood on the ground, and beneath them all was the Brahmaputra flowing far away.
On my return, I met an old man on the stairs of the hotel. He told that the color of Brahmaputra changes during the days of Ambubachi. It is a popular belief that the blood of the goddess descends into the soil and the soil into the river. He said that these days Brahmaputra is no longer just the son of Brahma, he becomes that of a goddess.
I looked towards the river. No red color was visible from a distance, but there was a strange heaviness in the water. It seemed as if she was shedding some ancient story within herself, some mystery that never ends.
That evening, after returning to the hotel, both of us sat near the window. There was the Assamese humidity of June outside and vodka was kept on the table inside. Raja likes Absolut. I also liked the same that night. Her face looked unusually calm and beautiful in the yellow light. I kept looking at him
And I kept thinking that I often forget this.
I told him I wanted to write a novel.
I said on Kamakhya. On the goddess. On blood. On Tantrics. On Brahmaputra. On that white goat. On the eyes of that scoundrel. The king remained silent for some time. Then he took me in his arms and said softly, you can write an epic, not a novel.
I laughed after listening to him, but along with that laughter an unknown warmth also spread inside. Maybe it wasn’t just the warmth of the wine. Maybe it was from Kamakhya. Maybe wished. Perhaps there is a mixed feeling between the two of them, which is difficult to put into one word.
That night, for the first time, I felt that a knot that had been tied within me for years had been loosened. It seemed as if some hesitation, some hesitation, some unspoken fear was being left behind.
The king slept, but I remained awake for a long time. There was darkness outside the window and the word “epic” was echoing inside. For him it might have been a compliment, but for me it had become a challenge. I decided that very night that I would write on Kamakhya. I will write on that Tantrik. I will write about the silence of that goat. I will write on the eyes of that scaffold. And also on that Brahmaputra, which was still flowing red in my imagination.
The next morning the flight was delayed at Guwahati airport. Raja was roaming in the duty free shops and I was sitting on a bench. In my bag was the book Chhinnamasta by Mamoni Raisam Goswami. I took it out and started reading. While reading, I felt again and again that Kamakhya is not just a temple. It is an experience, a consciousness, an acceptance of a woman’s body and woman’s existence that is rare anywhere else.
Sitting in the plane, I looked at Assam spread below. The greenery was spread far and wide. The Brahmaputra was not visible, but I knew it was there, with its secrets and its stories. The goddess was still menstruating.
And by then I had decided that I would not leave this journey as just a memory. I will write it. Maybe in the novel. Maybe in some other form. Many other things are uncertain, this decision on home, city, office, future is certain.Kamakhya.
This is such a name that after writing it one has to remain silent for some time.
