(no subject)

[fakingit]

this what i have been working on all week as my final paper for women's lit:


CHATTRAMAN AND THE KALI-TIGRESS

Once upon a time, many years ago, there lived a young boy named Chattraman. He lived in a small village in India, with his mother and seven sisters, all older than he. They loved to tease him and play tricks on him, as sisters do, and once they even put a small green naga in his sleeping mats and laughed and laughed when he shrieked to see it.

"It's just a harmless little thing," the eldest said.

"Look at how he dances!" another said, as he hopped from one foot to another, wanting to both avoid the thing and also somehow catch it so he might fling it away. "He will never grow to be a great Kshatriya, if a little snake scares him so!"

"Perhaps it is a lady-snake," said another. "And he is afraid to share his bed with her!" And they all laughed again, even Chattraman, though he was still hot-faced and embarrassed when they left him to his mats and the little snake, which undulated out and away to the safety of the cool green jungle beyond.

But despite their teasing, his sisters loved Chattraman as his mother did, for he was the only son. Though born Kshatriya, the elite warrior caste, the family had long ago fallen onto hard times and now had only a few fields to till, and no great warriors to boast of. So they dreamed that Chattraman would be the one to restore their former high rank and wealth; that he would become a great warrior like Ramachandra and find favor in the eyes of the great Maharajah who ruled their lands. He would do his dharma to please the gods, and they would reward him with the wealth of Lakshmi, and good fortune would rain down upon their family once more. He was the incarnation of all their hopes.

And yet, as the only son, they also felt a great need to protect him, to shield him from danger and woe. For, if he died, who would be left to care for his mother and seven sisters? His father had died when he was still at his mother's breast, during the last great famine. He had not died of hunger, though, as so many others had; instead, he had died in the dark of the jungle canopy, torn to pieces-- hunted down, as he himself had been hunting to fill the family's cooking pot with something other than a few wilted herbs and a scanty handful of grain. In the clearing where the village men had finally found him, there was nothing left but his gnawed bones the ivory of an elephant's tusks, cracked to the marrow and devoid of flesh, and great pug-marks in the mud and the blood: the tracks of a mighty tigress.

"Maneater!" the village men whispered as they gathered the shards of bone. Tigers did not often eat the flesh of men, for they had learned to fear his weapons of bronze and iron and the accuracy of his fleet-flying arrows. But a tigress with a hungry cub might be driven to kill, and once she had tasted the meat of a man, she would never again be satisfied with the flesh of monkeys, boars, or asses. She would be possessed by the spirit of Kali, goddess of destruction, who is always hungry for the flesh and souls of men. Kali would ride the tigress, straddling it between her black thighs, hair streaming in the wind, necklaces of the skulls of men bouncing between her breasts below her ten heads, mouths rimmed with crimson blood, in search of lone wanderers in the jungle to feed upon.

--Or so it was said, and so Chattraman's mother and sisters told him, once he grew of an age that the jungle began to glow with the aura of adventure and mischief so pleasing to young boys. When he would wander towards its leafy edge, away from the safety of their hut and their village, his mother would cry,

"Do not go into the jungle, my son! I could not bear to send the men there again, to search for your remains and find so little left of you that it would not be worth the work to build a pyre for your funeral. Your father said to me before he died that I must look after you, the only son of his seed. He told me to keep you safe in your youth, that you might grow to be a man who would protect me in my old age and the seven daughters I have born. This is why we named you Chattraman, for the chattra of the gods which shields them from all evil and allows only joy and luck to pass through. The tigress which killed your father has never yet been found; she waits yet, hungering with the hunger of Kali for the meat of men. I beg of you, leave the jungle to the foolhardy men who hunt there, and stay within the safety of our home! Promise me!" And she wiped away her tears with the edge of her sari as Chattraman promised.

But the time came when Chattraman was nearing his manhood, and he realized that, in spite of his name, he could not shelter his family from the evils of the world any more than his dead father could. For a famine came again to their village, and all the villages of the kingdom. And though the crops in the field withered and died, and though even the verdant wetness of the jungle seemed to cry out for rains, the Maharajah demanded a greater and ever greater share of what little his people could reap, for the wives and concubines in his zenana were greedy and cared only for gold and jewels to adorn their noses, arms, and ears. So it was that the cooking pot of Chattraman's mother was empty again, and his seven sisters-- once plump and beautiful as ripe mangos-- grew thin as the string of akshmala that his mother fingered as she prayed to Gauri and her son Ganesh for rain to bring bountiful harvests and an end to their misfortunes.

One morning, after a night spent awake and sweating in the dark as he listened to the cries of children in other huts whose mothers could not suckle them with breasts as shriveled as a husk of grain in the parched fields, he rose from his mats and went to a small wooden chest at the foot of his sleeping-place. There his mother kept a few of his father's things, including the bow and arrows he had carried on the day he died. Chattraman took up the weapon and slung the quiver over one brown shoulder, and walked outside to where his mother sat idly looking at the baked and sere lands.

"Mother," he said, "I am fourteen now, and nearly a man. I will provide for you and my sisters as my father would have done if he still lived. I go now to the jungle, where I will hunt, so that our cooking pot will be full of good meat, and my sisters will eat and grow round and lovely once more."

"Oh my son, think of your father, eaten by the tigress of the jungle! Do not leave us, for I would rather die a thousand slow deaths by starvation than see your bones with the marks of her teeth upon them. Surely the rains must come soon."

But she saw his face, and the hard determination of youth in it, for the young believe they have supped on amrita, the nectar which grants immortality to the gods, and think they cannot come to harm. She knew that she could not keep him from doing that which he felt to be his dharma. And so she gathered him once more to her breast, then bade him wait while she mixed a paste of red ochre and a few drops of their precious water, which she then daubed in a circle on his ajna chakra to make a tilak upon his brow and between his dark eyes.

"This is the third eye, the true-seeing eye of the gods. It will allow you to see through the dangers and deceptions of the jungle, to see their true forms, if you will only let your mind see through it. Heed its warnings, for there are many gods and demons who make the jungle their home, and Kali knows well how to make foolish men see what they wish and trick them into injury or death. Go now, you foolish boy, and come home again to me the brave warrior your father hoped you would be."

He thanked her, and he kissed her and each of his seven sisters in turn, then marched steadfastly towards the dim green canopy of the jungle, with only his bow and arrows and the glowing red eye of the gods for company.

As he walked, keeping a careful eye out for animals who might serve as either predator or prey, the trees and the vines grew ever closer together, entwining with one another, until they seemed almost as complex and significant as the script of the Vedas and Puranas studied by the holy men in the great northern cities. Yet he saw no living things beyond a few skittering spiders and buzzing insects, and his fear began to ebb away. His step grew jauntier as he imagined bringing home a brace of rabbits, or a fat goose, and how his mother and sisters would cry with joy to see that Chattraman was a man at last. He would not be so foolish as to fear the jungle and its inhabitants, for he was a man, and a hunter, and a Kshatriya warrior like those of the Suryavanshi dynasty, and even Kali on her tigress would flee from the piercing heads of his well-aimed arrows!

He only half-believed these boasting stories he told to himself, for the young often dream of greatness and deeds worthy of epics like the Bhagavad Gita. But his mind wandered far afield from his task, until at last he came to a small round clearing, and saw within the circle of trees a beautiful doe. Her hide was the deep russet-yellow of raw gold and ripened wheat, and had dim dark stripes the color of wet, fertile loam. She was so lovely, and sat upon her folded legs so gracefully and quietly, that Chattraman forgot the bow and the quiver of arrows he held and could only stand in silence as he beheld the creature before him. When the doe lifted her head to look at him, and he saw that, on her ajna chakra upon her brow and between her wet black eyes, was a triangle of ochre paste, he knew her to be an avatar of the gods.

"Do you come to kill me?" she asked, in a voice like musk, and sandalwood, and pearls.

"Holy One," said Chattraman, "How could I kill such a one as you? You are too beautiful, more beautiful than any of my sisters. I could not bear to kill you, even to fill my mother's cooking pot and delay our death by starvation for a few more days."

"You come here to hunt for your mother and your sisters? Why does your father not come instead? The jungle is a dangerous place, especially for one so young, and it is said that Kali yet rides upon the back of a great tigress in her eternal search for blood."

"Holy One, that tigress killed and ate my father during the last famine, when he came here to hunt. I am fourteen, and nearly a man, and if I come home with meat for my family, I will truly be a man."

"Chattraman," the Doe said, and he started-- for he had not told her his name. "Chattraman, I am the avatar of the Mahadevi, mother-goddess of all who live, giver of life and sustenance. You come to this jungle where your father died pure of heart; you are here not to revenge his death, but only to provide sustenance for your own family. You are walking the righteous path of your dharma, and for that I shall reward you. You have seen no animals here, for they are wary of the hungry men and beasts who would make them their quarry. But today, and for every day you come here pure of heart, I will lead you to a willing animal, who will give its life to you so that you and your mother and your seven sisters will go hungry no longer. I ask only that you spill the blood of each animal into the soil of the jungle, in sacrifice to the Great Mother."

And Chattraman fell to his knees and wept into her golden fur, and when he rose again she led him to a great fat goose, which only sat and fluttered its wings as he took aim and shot. Then he cut its throat and let the blood drain away into the soil, and the Doe smiled and left him.

He returned the next day, and the next, and the next, and every day the beautiful Doe led him to a willing beast, which died silently and easily under his arrows, club, or knife-- for he need not often waste arrows on unmoving, unresisting prey. And each day he returned with enough meat to feed his family, enough and enough to share, and his mother and sisters wept with joy, and the horrors of the famine no longer touched them with its skeletal hands.

But he did not tell them of the Doe in the jungle, for there were still those who went hungry, and he did not wish to tempt them with the thought of her tender flesh. So he kept the means by which he provided his bounty a secret, and his family and the villagers admired his great skill and silent tracking, for did he not always bring home a kill? And was it not always the fattest and fleshiest bird or beast-- and in this time of hunger, when even the sparrows could not find grain enough for their meals?

Thus it was that, as the days and months passed, Chattraman gained the respect and love of all who knew him, and became known as a great and fearsome hunter, and a man worthy of his Kshatriya lineage. Until the day that the great Maharajah heard of him in his marble palace, and sent for him to come, that he might meet the man whose arrows never missed their target, whose blade never failed to pierce the heart of his prey, and whose bravery in the depths of the jungle was unmatched by any other.

Chattraman arrived at the palace, in his worn and tattered dhoti and riding an old ass, borrowed for his long journey, and could hardly believe what he saw. The royal dwelling was immense, and unlike anything he had ever seen in his village of reed and mud huts. He was greeted by many servants in white, who whisked him away, bathed and oiled him, and dressed him in a fine linen sherwani, for he could not greet the Maharajah dressed as a slave might. When at last he was lead to him, and had made his obeisances, the Maharajah-glittering with jewels, and dressed in red silk embroidered with golden thread-bade him rise, and spoke to him in a voice as rich and unctuous as sesame oil or ghee:

“You are Chattraman. I have heard many tales of your great deeds, and your miraculous providence in finding any quarry you seek. Yet instead of seeking glory, you have only sought to feed your family and your village during this time of great hunger. Thus I see that you are not only a brave hunter, but also a man who follows always the righteous path of dharma.”

Chattraman could only bow his head, and mutter, “Thank you, Maharajah Bahadur-sahib. I am unworthy of your praise.”

“Ah, but that is exactly what I have called you here to find out! For you see, Chattraman, I am growing old, and I am tired of the responsibilities of my kingdom. I wish only to sit in my gardens, and listen to the rush of my fountains, and watch the great peacocks brush the stones of my courtyards with their feathered veils, and eat and drink, and be merry with my wives and concubines. Yet I have no sons to take my place, for though my wives have borne seven sons of my seed, every one has died. You see,” he said, his noble face falling, sagging like a sack of empty grain, “To be an heir-apparent is a dangerous thing, in a royal household, where women and eunuchs are ever plotting assassinations and attempts to increase their own rank and wealth.”

“Yes, Maharajah Bahadur-sahib. But how could I help you? I am no prince, and I know nothing of palace life. I am naught but an ignorant peasant.”

“Chattraman, I have a daughter, a princess by my first wife, the Maharani, who died in childbirth. Her name is Mohini, for she is beautiful beyond compare, and kind, and gentle, and good. In a month's time, she will be thirteen, and on the date of her birth I would that she be married, for her beauty is such that she is like a ripe papaya, and must be plucked early lest she fall into coarser hands. Chattraman,” he said and, looking down, the full impact of his Brahmin bearing weighed upon Chattraman in his careful consideration, “I would like you to be her husband, and the Maharajah of my lands.”

Chattraman had never dreamed, in all his glorious dreams, that such a day might come, when he would be offered such nobility and riches, and for nothing more than bringing home a few fat geese and boars. But the Maharajah had not yet finished, for he went on before Chattraman could gather his wits to respond.

“There is, however, one condition. There are rumors that a Kali-tigress roams free in the jungles near your village home, eating the flesh and the souls of unwary men. If you would marry my daughter and become the ruler of my kingdom, you must hunt this tigress, and kill her, and bring me her hide, and then I shall know that you are meant to be the son of my heart, and the husband of my beautiful Mohini.”

At that, he gestured mightily, and several eunuchs approached him, parting the sea of attendants and servants who waited to fulfill the Maharajah's slightest whim. With them was a girl-child-no, not a child, for though her face still held the baby-roundness of a child, her slim body in her sari and choli of turquoise silk and golden brocade showed the blossoming curves of womanhood, and her face was mature beyond her years under the gauze of her fine, sheer veils. Her eyes, too, held a sadness that touched Chattraman, and suddenly he cried, with all the willful intent of a strong young man:

“Oh, Maharajah Bahadur-sahib, I will do it! I will find the Kali-tigress, and kill her, and bring you her hide, and then I shall have the heart of your lovely Mohini, a jewel more precious than any mere stone!”

The Maharajah laughed, a rolling, expansive sound which rang against the marble walls, and echoed in the ears of all who stood before him. “I see that you are indeed as bold as the tales portray you! My daughter needs a strong man, for she is headstrong, and thinks she knows what is best, and dreams of ruling as Maharani herself! But in dark times such as these, when the rains do not come, and the gods in the heavens ignore the prayers of the priests and the sadhus, the guiding hand of a man is what is needed. Go now, and return in a month's time, and if you carry with you the hide of the tigress ridden by the goddess Kali, then you both shall marry, and the wedding will be so splendid that its grandeur will be on the lips of every subject in the land!” And with that, he waved his arm again, and Chattraman was led away from him, though not before he could glance back to see Mohini, wiping away a tear with the edge of her sari, just as his mother had done so many moons ago.

And so Chattraman rode back on the tired, bony ass, dressed once again in his dhoti, but with visions of a new life in the great marble palace, surrounded by rubies, sapphires, and diamonds, clad in silks and brocades embroidered in golden thread, and servants to wait upon him, and most of all, he thought of the lovely Mohini with her milky-tea Aryan skin, spread out before him on a bed with sheets of white silk, her lips parted and wet...

When he arrived at his village, the huts seemed small, and dirty, and poor. He had never before seen his home with eyes that had beheld the grandeur of a city and a palace, and he was ashamed to think of Mohini peering into his family's hut of mud and reeds. Thus he was more determined than ever that, in a month's time, he would return to her with the pelt of the tigress so that the riches and respect of the kingdom would be his, and she would love him for it, and belong wholly to him. But he entered into his family's hut, and told his mother and his sisters of the Maharajah's offer, and of the beauty of the lotus-like Mohini, and, finally, of his quest to hunt the tigress ridden by the fearsome Kali.

His sisters exclaimed over the palace, the servants, the clothes and jewels worn by even the humblest of slaves, and asked him more and ever more questions about the smallest details of his journey. But his mother was silent, and her face was drawn and troubled. When he asked her why she was so grave, she said only,

“I am afraid for you, my Chattraman. I fear that this glimpse of royal life has done you no good, and has made you discontented with your life here. And-I fear for your life, my son, my only son...”

At this, Chattraman only laughed, and told her not to worry, and though he had not thought of it before, he promised that when he was Maharajah, this farming village would be a village no longer, but a city like those of the northern kingdoms, and all would be rich and fine, and his family would be the richest and finest of them all. But his mother only shook her head, and continued to slowly shake it, back and forth, as her fingers played along her string of akshmala, and her only son left her to her worries.

After he was fully rested from his journey to the palace, Chattraman began his preparations for his hunt, sharpening his knives, making new arrows, and restringing his bow. When he left for the forest, he took with him a woven basket, which he filled with food and a skin of water, and which he could carry comfortably on his back. He added to this his quiver and his bow, and his newly-honed blades, and went to kiss his mother and his sisters before he left them for the depths of the jungle. He was not afraid, for he knew that the Doe, the avatar of the Mahadevi, who had helped him always in his times of need, would help him once again, and he was eager to begin his search. And so it was that, when his mother begged him to wait a moment longer, that she might daub the red ochre upon his anja chakra as she had always done, he said,

“Mother, I have only a few short days before I must set out once again for the palace, for it is a week of traveling on that bony old ass! I must go quickly, and find my prey, and I have no time for the silly superstitions of an old woman!” Chattraman had never spoken to his mother thus, and she looked stricken, then only sad once more, and he left her behind without a kiss, and without the red mark of the true-seeing eye upon his brow.

He strode purposefully towards the trees and the vines, and, in doing so, remembered his first time coming here with bow and arrow, and all his boyish dreams, and laughed to think how small, how poor they seemed, like the huts of his village, now that he had the prospect of life as a great Maharajah ahead of him, with the face of Mohini shining always at his side!

When he arrived at the round clearing, and saw the Doe kneeling there, her striped and golden pelt catching the dim, lacy light that penetrated the green canopy, he made his bow to her, and said,

“Holy One, I have come again for your aid and succor.”

“Ah,” she said, “You have been gone a long time. Does your village need more meat? Many have gone hungry, in your absence.”

“Holy One, I was called to the palace by the great Maharajah who rules there. He has promised me great wealth, and all his lands, and his daughter's hand in marriage, if only I will hunt and kill the Kali-tigress who killed my father, and bring the pelt to him. If I do this, I will no longer need you to guide me to my quarry, for I shall have all the riches of the kingdom, and I have promised my family and village that they will never know famine and hunger again. You will be able to rest in your peaceful glade once more, untroubled by the violent and earthy hungers of men.”

The Doe ignored this. “Where is your tilak, your red-ochre true-seeing eye?”

“Holy One, my haste to reach you was such that I did not wish to delay by waiting for the paste to be made. I have only a short time for my hunt, before I must return to the palace for the wedding.”

“Why do you so desire to become a great lord, and why do you trust the word of the Maharajah? Do you not recall that it was his greed which first compelled you to leave the safety of your village and risk your life in the perils of the jungle? That it was his hand which stole from your village, and from all villages, what little grain they could reap? That their bellies went empty, while his coffers were filled and his wives and women wore gold?”

Chattraman had no answer, and so remained silent, but his mind conjured up, unbidden, that vision of Mohini's milky-tea skin against white satin.

“You would not hunt the Kali-tigress for the sake of your father, whose meat and marrow fed her blood lusts, and whose soul belongs forever to her, and whose skull is now only another link in her kapamala. Now, the desire for revenge of the dead is not a noble one, if it requires the neglect of the needs of the living. But it is a desire that even the gods fall prey to, when it is their dharma. Instead, you come to me with tales of glory, and promises of wealth and power you never dreamed of attaining. And I see inside you a new lust, as dangerous as blood-lust, a hunger for the virgin flesh of the Maharajah's daughter...”

At that, Chattraman protested, “I wish only to do what is best for my family, and my village. With the gold of the kingdom in my hands, and the power to use it as I will, how can you say that I will be neglecting the needs of the living? I will be a good ruler, a fair and just lord, and a kind and loving husband to the fair Mohini. And if I lust for her, so what? I am a man, and she will be my wife, and her body will bear many sons for me, who will rule when I am gone.”

“Did you ask her, if she wished to marry you? Did you not see the sadness in her eyes? Or did you only see her red mouth, her dark-lashed eyes, her milky-tea skin? No,” the Doe said, as he began once more to protest, “No, I am not finished. Mohini is young, but she is wise, and sympathetic to the plights of the people from whom her father has stolen. She wishes to be Maharani, and her reign would be a gentle one, and all her people would prosper under her loving guidance, as a child grows fat and happy in the loving arms of its mother. It is she who should rule, and not you, Chattraman, for though your heart is good, it is no longer pure, and you will become like the Maharajah her father, who feasts during famine, who prefers the company of his many wives and concubines to the responsibilities of governing, and who cares not at all about the happiness of his daughter's life!

“Chattraman, you come here today without your tilak, and I see now why you refused to let your mother paint it upon your brow. You know that you have fooled yourself, you have blinded yourself, though your eyes continue to see. You know that you want the hide of the Kali-tigress not for the sake of your family and your village, not for the revenge of your father's death, and not to become a father to the people of this kingdom. You wish to hide your lusts from your true-seeing eye, and no good will ever come of it! Mohini will never love such a one as you.”

As Chattraman stood and listened to the words of the Doe, he grew angrier, and irritated at her complacent accusations of his intent, and forgot entirely that she was not a doe, but a Doe, and the avatar of the great Mother of all. When he heard her last words, he cried out, and could contain himself no longer. Before he was fully aware of it, his hands moved to take an arrow from his quiver, nocked and drew his bow, and shot.

She fell at once, with a keening wail that went on and on, and seemed to grow louder as she died, until it became a piercing shriek, and Chattraman fell to his knees and put his hands over his ears, and knew that he had done a terrible thing.

How terrible it was, though, he had yet to see. For when he looked up, the body of the Doe crumpled, and wavered, and changed. Her fur, which had been the red-gold of ripened wheat and striped with the dark of the earth's good soil, now deepened, and became the fiery orange of a setting sun, and the stripes became as black as the inky night that comes to replace the sun. The muscles beneath rippled, and lengthened, and her tuft of a tail stretched to a sinuous, snaky length. When at last she rose again, her muzzle was squared, and her jaw was full of ivory fangs.

Chattraman could only gasp, and say, “Oh! What big teeth you have!” before the tigress smiled, and pounced.

When Chattraman did not return that day, or the next, or the next, the village men gathered and set out to the jungle to find him. Though his seven sisters still held hopes of finding him alive, his mother knew the truth, and could not even weep to ease her grief. When they returned, carrying a bow and arrow, and woven basket, meant to be carried on the back, and a grain sack that held a few cracked and gnawed bones, she met them with dry eyes.

In a month's time, when Chattraman did not return to the palace with the hide of the tigress, to receive the blessings of matrimony and take up his place as the new ruler of the kingdom, the Maharajah was sick at heart; partly with worry for his lovely Mohini, but mostly because he had grown so weary of the burden of kingship. He began to leave more and more of the decisions to her, as he grew older and fatter, for he cared only to be petted and spoiled by the women of his zenana. When at last he died, there was no man to take his place, but the court advisors and ambassadors from other kingdoms had grown used to seeing Mohini in her father's seat, and there were no protests when she was named Maharani.

She would not let the wives and concubines burn themselves in suttee, but sent them instead to an ashram in the north, where they could recite the holy sutras, and live a life without fear of assassination and without the struggle to rise in the favors of their lord. Some were discontented, but many more were grateful for the chance to improve their karma, and to escape the covetous leers and lecherous caresses of men, and they thanked her, and sent many prayers to the gods that they might favor her.

By removing the hundreds of women from the palace, the Maharani no longer needed so many servants and eunuchs, nor so many jewels and gold and saris to clothe them; and without the Maharajah's insatiable love of the pleasures of the table, she did not need to provide banquets of a hundred dishes each night. So it was that she could reduce the onerous taxation upon her people, and sent grain from her own storehouses to the villages hit hardest by the terrible famine, and her subjects could speak nothing but praise for her largesse, her kindness, her loving and motherly attention to their needs. Finally, after many years, the rains which the dry and arid fields had thirsted for fell from the sky, and the land which had been as hard and dry and empty as the bhikshapatra proffered by a hungry sadhu, now grew green again. The harvests of rice and wheat, potatoes and carrots, pumpkins and melons, were plentiful, and all could eat their fill.

Rumors of the Kali-tigress still filtered throughout the farming villages at the edge of the jungle, and it was said that Kali still rode, fierce and wild and bloody, in search of the flesh and souls of men. But the Maharani, who had once been little Mohini, knew that Kali was not to be feared. For was she not simply another face of the holy Mahadevi, mother of all? And is not death simply another aspect of the life which the Mother gives freely to her children? We who live must all die, thought Mohini, in her quiet marble palace-so much quieter now, than in her youth. It is only men who seem to fear the loving arms of the Mother, when she comes to take them home at last.

And so, she thought, let the tigress run free. Those who truly know the face of Mahadevi will be greeted by her with love.

And if the Maharani Mohini ever thought of Chattraman, the boy who had been meant for her husband, it was only to be glad that he had never come to her father with the hide of the tigress, as payment for the use of her milky-tea body on the white silk sheets of her bed, and that she was free to rule her kingdom, mother to them all.

GLOSSARY

Ajna chakra - Location of the third eye and of consciousness. Also the place at which the male/female elements meet and merge.

Akshmala - Prayer beads, rosary.

Amrita - Nectar of eternal life.

Aryan - Northern Indo-Iranian ethnic group, which tends to be lighter-skinned than the native Dravidians of southern India.

Ashram - Religious/monastic community.

Avatar - Incarnation of a deity in earthly form.

Bhagavad Gita - Epic of the Vedic period detailing moral values, ethics, and conduct.

Bhikshapatra - Begging bowl.

Brahmin - Highest ranking caste, traditionally priests and nobles.

Chattra - Parasol.

Choli - Tight fitting, short sleeved blouse worn by women with a sari. Usually leaves the navel bare.

Dharma - Literally, “law”, or “that which upholds”; spiritual path of virtue.

Dhoti - Length of cloth worn by men, wrapped around the legs and waist.

Ganesh - God of wisdom and luck; remover of obstacles.

Gauri - Fertility goddess and aspect of the goddess Parvati.

Ghee - Clarified butter. Often used as a ceremonial offering, especially to the god Krishna.

Kali - Goddess of destruction and divine wisdom; aspect of the Mahadevi. Though one of the (many) wives of Shiva, god of destruction, she is able to completely subjugate him to her will.

Kapamala - Necklace made of skulls.

Kshatriya - Second-highest caste; traditionally, warriors.

Lakshmi - Goddess of wealth and happiness.

Mahadevi - Female divine principle. Worshipped both as the source of all life as well as the destroyer of that life; mother and warrior.

Maharajah - Literally, “great king”.

Maharajah Bahadur - Honorific for a king.

Maharani - Female equivalent of maharajah; can refer either to the king's first wife, or a female ruling in her own right.

Mohini - Avatar of the god Vishnu; created in order to overtake the demons who had stolen the god's amrita. Her beauty was such that the demons were distracted by her, and she was able to take back the nectar and return it to the gods.

Naga - Snake.

Puranas - Holy writings detailing the lives, spouses, and incarnations of the Trimurti consisting of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva.

Ramachandra - Seventh incarnation of Vishnu, whose life is detailed in the epic Ramayana. Held as the role model for warriors, sons, and husbands; the perfect man.

Sadhhu - Literally, “good man”; ascetic holy man.

-sahib - Honorific; sir, master, lord.

Sari - Unstitched length of cloth worn by woman; may be draped over the body in many different styles.

Sherwani - Formal, coat-like garment worn by men.

Suryavanshi - Sun Dynasty; wealthy and prominent era during which it is said that Rama himself ruled.

Sutra - Aphorism or piece of scripture.

Suttee - Practice in which a widow burns herself on her husband's funeral pyre.

Tilak - Decorative mark often worn on the forehead.

Vedas - Literally, “knowledge”; oldest sacred writings of India.

Zenana - Harem; women's quarters.