This is my attempt at FICTION that appeared in Tehelka Magazine short story series DEC 2010…theme was Pulp Fiction….Kaula Hai is Mumbai-Hindi meaning ‘is it fresh or tender?’ often used in vegetable markets

You cannot pee when a goddess stares at you. There she is, painted on the wall across the gutter, above a pile of garbage, glaring, her blood-soaked tongue sticking out, a string of human heads covering her nakedness. Mahesh looks at the sword in Kali’s hand. He finds it difficult to relieve himself. He zips up and moves back across the road, frustrated.

Where was Akshay?

They were supposed to meet here, near the pan-wala at the corner of Apollo apartments at half past midnight. Its almost one now. Unseasonal rains have made the road wet. Water in the perennial potholes reflects the streetlights. Cars whiz past impatiently. In some time, the city of Mumbai will go to sleep.

Shutters are being pulled down. People are hurrying to the station to catch the last train home.A giant banyan tree yawns behind the pan-wala and stretches its branches towards the sky. At the base of its tangled trunk is a tiny shrine made of white bathroom tiles housing a vermillion-smeared rock. An alert lamp sits beside it and dozens of lemons are piled around it.

As Mahesh bends down to get a better look at the deity inside, the pan-wala shouts from behind, “That’s our Devi. She protects this zopad-patti.” In his Marathi accent, he refers to the slum that stubbornly wedges itself between two swanky sea-facing apartments named Apollo and Dionysus. “Even the builders know that. That is why they leave us alone. They dare not make her angry.”

Yeah right, Mahesh wants to say. Everyone knows that as long as these shanties are vote banks to some politician, their survival is assured, goddess or no goddess. As this thought crosses Mahesh’s mind, Kali glares at him once again. This time, she sits in a golden photo frame between the spices and cigarette cartons of the pan shop.

“Her name is Rakta-vilasini,” says the pan-wala.

“What?”

“She who enjoys drinking blood. It is another name for Kali-mata.”

Mahesh shudders.

“So you are here to see her, right? You want to ask her a question, right?” Mahesh remains expressionless. How does this man know? “You don’t have to be shy, sir. I know what is going on. I have been living here for forty years. I see saabs like you coming here on nights like this, in the week before Navratri.” Mahesh feels exposed and vulnerable, but the pan-wala continues, “Don’t worry. She will give you what you want. Just give her what she wants.” Mahesh smiles. Suddenly the pan-wala grabs his hand and whispers, “This Tantrik stuff is very dangerous. Be careful. You look too fresh.”

Mahesh rushes back to his car, a bit shaken. He has parked in front of Dionysus apartments on the other end of this zopad-patti. Parking in front of an apartment block seems safer than parking in front of a slum. There are three other cars parked on the same road – a BMW amongst them. None have drivers. It must be safe to leave cars here unattended. Maybe the cars belong to those who have also come here for the ceremony. Akshay said that he should not be surprised if he bumps into a celebrity.

Mahesh met Akshay less than a year ago with friends in a pub. Soon they were drinking buddies, meeting almost every weekend. Akshay knew all the coolest places to hang out, lanes where spicy eggs were served with alcohol even after midnight, corners where to get the best quality grass. But Akshay never spoke much about himself. All Mahesh knew abut him is that he lived in the distant suburbs, alone, and was into exports. He did not own a car, rarely paid the bills but made up for it with his company. Mahesh held Akshay in awe, so different from his father and brother who were only interested in work and money. They were irritated when Mahesh had refused to join the furniture business. They had laughed when he said he wanted to be a DJ. Akshay had not laughed. In fact, he had introduced him to some club owners and event managers. Very quickly Akshay had become the father and brother and friend Mahesh never had.

Once when they driving to an after-party, they passed a strikingly well dressed hooker standing at a bus stop. “I can get her for you if you want,” Akshay had said when Mahesh kept turning his head to look at her. Mahesh did not know how to respond. “Its okay, you can take her to my place. Nobody needs to know.” Mahesh had blushed and Akshay had chuckled. “Still a virgin! A handsome guy like you? Not many like you today. If I had a sister, I would want you as my brother-in-law.” Mahesh had quickly changed the conversation.

That same night Akshay had told him about this place next to the sea, in the slums. “Twice a year, a week before Navaratri — you know there is a Navaratri in spring and in autumn, right? — a Tantrik from Tripura comes to Mumbai to invoke a goddess in the body of a young girl. She answers any question if you are willing to pay the price. She is approached by stars, industrialists, bankers, brokers, politicians, gamblers, anyone eager to peep into the future.”

“What crap! You don’t believe in this stuff, do you?”

“I do. I have seen it. Its real stuff. You can see it too, if you wish. Navaratri is round the corner. And if you get some money, maybe I will be able to get you to ask a question.”

So here he is. To check out the Tantrik of Tripura and meet the goddess in the zopad-patti. Rakta-vilasini! Mahesh feels the wad of notes in his pocket. One lakh cash. That is all he could arrange. Akshay had asked for five and had sounded disappointed on the phone the last time they spoke. Mahesh thinks this is all a joke, of course. But, no harm checking it out. And if it turns out to be true. If he makes some serious money, his father and brother will stop treating him like a loser.

Mahesh feels someone tapping his hand. It’s a street kid. “Uncle, uncle,” he says. Mahesh recoils. The boy is filthy. “This way. Come with me.” Mahesh ignores him. “Akshay sir has called you.” On the mention of Akshay’s name, Mahesh reluctantly follows the boy into a dark narrow lane that leads into the zopad-patti.

A tiny rivulet of sewage glints in the moonlight and marks their way. The stench of the dry fish, sea weed and the sewage fills the narrow corridor. Along the way, on either side, Mahesh finds open doorways of the rooms that make up the basti. They are tiny and surprisingly clean with polished utensils, and electricity. One even has a TV. And another has a small puja room – with fresh jasmine flowers and an image of Kali. She is still glaring at him. This is ridiculous. His mind is playing games.

“Hurry, this way,” the kid shouts. The path is getting narrower and it splits in every direction. It’s a maze. A really big maze. Mahesh realizes that the zopad-patti is not as small as it appears from the main road. The houses lean in from either side. Cable wires, plastic sheets, and dish antennaes block the view of the sky. Huge drums storing water block his way and he has to move around them. He steps on a soft patch. Is it shit? Muck? He scrapes the sole of his shoe on a rock. “Hurry, sir,” the kid urges. Mahesh feels sick and claustrophobic and anxious. A few meters from the main road and he is in an alien world, a world he does not know, a world he does not want to know.

What has he gotten himself into? Where is the kid taking him? And where is Akshay? What if this is an elaborate plan to rob him? Mahesh feels his heart racing. He feels the wad of notes in his pocket once more. It reassures him but his mouth still feels dry.

They stop before a curtained door. They enter. There is a dim bulb. A small bed with three gaudily painted girls on it. A Hijra sits on the floor chewing paan. This is a brothel, Mahesh realizes. He hesitates. The boy goes straight through and draws another curtain at the far end of the room. Mahesh follows. It is a dark room filled with the smell of alcohol and tobacco. Saris of every color hang from the ceiling. A gaunt man sits there. He has a scar on his face. He grins and shows a golden tooth. “Keep your boots here and go that way,” he says pointing to a third door with the curtain. From beyond come the smell of incense and the sound of chanting.

The kid does not cross the third curtain. He draws it aside for Mahesh. A huge man walks out and shouts, “Get more whisky. She will need it. Mahesh hears the Hijra yell instructions as he enters the room.

Oil lamps glow in every corner and clouds of incense hang from the ceiling and a tiny shriveled man with long white beard and a red headband sits in one corner with marigold garlands around his neck. Its the Tantrik from Tripura! Behind him is a huge laminated poster of yet another glaring Kali pinned to the wall. Next to the Tantrik sits Akshay in his jeans and trademark black T-shirt. Mahesh reads the words ‘Black Sabbath’ on it. He holds back a smile.

Akshay gestures Mahesh to come closer and nudges him to join his palm and bow to the Tantrik. The Tantrik speaks with a heavy Bengali accent, “You are sure about him?” Akshay nods and takes Mahesh to the side. Akshay puts his finger on his lips and then looks at the people around the room. Mahesh follows his gaze.

There are about a dozen people in the room. Mahesh recognizes a starlet amongst them, wearing a tight kurti and a dupatta over her head looking very pious. Next to her a prominent stock broker whose photos appear regularly in Page3. The curtain shifts once again. Two more people enter. A minister’s son? Seen in the party circuit. Known for his cocaine habit. He looks up and his eyes connect with Mahesh. He looks away. Everyone in the room looks very rich and powerful. Gold watches, diamond cuff links, pot-bellies, designer clothes, even an iPad. Everyone avoids looking at each other. Some look at the Tantrik. Others are busy texting on their mobiles. There is anxiety and anticipation in the air. No one speaks. Akshay was right. This is surreal. He is actually going to witness some bizarre Tantrik ritual in the heart of a Mumbai slum attended by crazy,rich and famous people. This will make a cool party conversation tomorrow.

The Tantrik moves back and forth and starts to chant. In a few minutes, his chanting gets louder and more intense. He picks up a bell and starts to ring. Mahesh feels movement behind him. There is a curtained door there. The curtain is drawn aside. Four figures walk in. Two Hijras clapping loudly. One large woman helps a girl walk. The girl is wearing a black kameez but no salwaar. Her gait is unsteady as if she is in a trance. Around her neck are dried hibiscus flowers. Her face is smeared with turmeric and there is vermillion on her forehead. In her hand is a bunch of neem leaves and she is waving it as if swatting flies. “Bow to the Devi,” the Tantrik shouts suddenly. Everyone bows. Mahesh bends down too. The room suddenly feels crowded and hot.

A man in the opposite corner sits up and starts to play the drum. The beat is steady for a minute and then the pace picks up. The Tantrik starts to sway. “I feel her coming in,” he shouts. The girl with neem leaves starts to sway hysterically. She is made to sit down. “I am thirsty,” she says. The whisky bottles are opened and given to her. She picks up one and empties the liquid in less than a minute. Then she drinks another bottle. Then a third. Mahesh realizes this is not an act. Something serious and genuine is happening here.

The clapping and the drumbeat become even more intense. Mahesh feels his heart beat rising. Akshay holds his hand to reassure him. Mahesh feels safe. Then everything stops. Silence. The girl drops her head and her hair extends to the floor. She convulses. Then she inhales. Then she spits.

“What do you want? Why do you call me?” the girl speaks in the voice of a hoarse old woman. The stockbroker jumps up and goes close to her and touches her feet. She turns her ear in his direction. He asks something. Akshay tells Mahesh, “He is surely asking about the next market crash before which he can rake in his millions.” The girl whispers something back in the stockbroker’s ear. He smiles, bows his head and touches her feet once again. He gestures to his assistant to bring a garland of jasmine. He puts it around the girl and applies turmeric on her head and gives her a red piece of cloth with golden tassels. “I am thirsty now. Give me something to drink,” she says. The stockbroker offers her a whisky bottle. “Don’t humor me,” she snarls, “Get me a real drink. I am thirsty. I am really thirsty.”

“Bring him in,” the stockbroker shouts. The outer curtain parts. A young boy, about fifteen years old, thin with an oversized dirty shirt and track pants, is brought in by the gaunt man with a scar and golden tooth, Mahesh had encountered earlier. The boy looks like he is high on drugs.

“Is he fresh?” the girl asks. The stockbroker nods. So does the tall man.

The gaunt man pushes the boy towards the girl. The boy resists, the drug seems to be wearing off. “What is this place? Where are the girls?” he shouts, looking confused and frightened. The gaunt man does not reply. The young man tries to wrestle out of the gaunt man’s grip in vain. He is shoved towards the girl. The stockbroker moves away, looking a bit excited, his eyes wide.

Everybody in the room freezes as the girl catches the boy by his neck. The boy shouts and then squeaks as the girl throttles him with a single hand. The boy struggles to push the girl away but fails. He tries to unclamp her hand but she is firm. He tries to strike her but she is unfazed. Her eyes are focused. She looks into the boy’s eyes with an uncanny kindness as she squeezes the life out of him.

The drummer in the corner beats his drum so that no one hears the sounds of struggle. Blood starts to spurt out as the girl’s nails cut into the boy’s flesh. The boy kicks and throws her a punch but fails to strike her. He finally gives up. The smell of urine fills the room. The spurt of blood in the neck turns into a gush. The blood looks bright red in the yellow light. The girl locks her lips around the stream and starts to drink. The boy crumples down like an empty tetra-pack. A trickle of blood flows down his arm, onto the floor. It rolls towards Mahesh. Mahesh is tempted to touch the blood. Maybe even taste it. The scene has got him excited. It is better than any reality show on TV.

A minute later, the girl, now goddess in Mahesh’s eyes, raises her head. Her lips are smeared with blood. She licks the boy’s face. Then with her two hands she twists his neck. Mahesh hears the bone crack and the skin rip. The goddess separates the head from the body. The body slumps to the floor. A few drops of blood drip from the severed end. He seems to have been drained of all blood. This goddess of the zopad-patti is indeed Rakta-vilasini. She holds the boy’s head in her lap, caresses it like a doll, and says, “Next question.”

The stockbroker steps back and then leaves the room. The startlet comes forward to ask the question. Mahesh is drawn to the sweat in her cleavage. The question is heard. Mahesh asks, “What do you think she is asking?”

“I think she wants to know if the producer who is doing her will finally give her a leading role in his next big budget film?”

The starlet starts to sob. The goddess says, “I am thirsty.” Another boy, similarly drugged, is brought in.

“Who are these poor kids?” wonders Mahesh.

Akshay replies, “Drug-addicts, runaways, street-kids, wannabe stars who come from small towns, who knows, who cares. The going rate is five lakh for a teenage boy. Nobody is looking for them. So nobody will miss them. The police will give up the search in a few weeks. The mafia watches over the boys, gives them drugs, a place to stay, and ensures they do not lose their virginity.”

“Is that what she meant by fresh?”

“Yes”

Mahesh is surprised that he really does not feel sick or disgusted. It’s just a body. It’s just blood. He is supposed to feel bad. That is the civilized reaction. But he does not feel that. In fact, he feels special, part of a secret society. It makes him feel powerful. He feels grateful to be part of this moment. He is so happy Akshay is his friend.

“Why only boys?” wonders Mahesh.

“Don’t you know that sacrificial animals are always male? The goddess will never accept a female sacrifice,” says Akshay.

“So girls are safe?”

“From her, yes. Not from the men,” Akshay chuckles, “They will end up in brothels such as these.”

“When is our turn?”

“Next.”

The conversation is interrupted by a yelp, the sound of snapping and slurping.

“But we don’t have a boy.”

“We don’t have five lakhs, but I managed a jugaad. Have you brought the money?” Mahesh gives Akshay the cash from his pocket.

The starlet wipes her tears, touches the feet of the goddess, withdraws and leaves the room. The goddess plays with two heads. Mahesh looks at her. He remembers the image of Kali in the street, in the pan-wala shop, in the room he peeped into on his way here and now behind the Tantrik. He realizes how deceptive calendar art is. The reality of a goddess with a string of heads around her neck is not cherubic at all.

“Next question,” the goddess yells. She sounds happy and satiated.

“Your turn,” says the Tantrik looking at Akshay.

Akshay asks the question. The goddess answers. He smiles. “I am thirsty,” she says. Akshay turns and points to Mahesh. Mahesh’s heart misses a beat.

“Sorry yaar, I was hoping you would get five lakhs,” says Akshay, unable to hide his glee.

Mahesh makes a dash to the door but the gaunt man trips him and Akshay drags him back by his foot towards the goddess. “No, no,” Mahesh shouts. He realizes no one cares in this heartless crowd. He is just an investment in exchange for a valuable piece of information.

“Kaula hai?” asks the goddess.

“Yes,” says Akshay.

The goddess grabs Mahesh by the neck and stares into his eyes. Her fingers feel hot and sharp. Mahesh cannot breathe. He looks into her eyes. She does not glare. She is kind, benign.

“No, he is not fresh,” she says and casts him away. Mahesh starts to breathe again.

“Trust me, he is fresh,” shouts Akshay.

“Trust you?” she sneers.

“He has never been with a woman. He is fresh. He told me so.”

“Not with a woman, yes. But not fresh. Not fresh at all. I want someone fresh.”

Akshay looks confused. Mahesh wants to laugh. He draws back. The goddess does not look at him. All her attention is on Akshay. She is angry. “I am thirsty. I am thirsty,” she says and grabs Akshay by his neck, “You will have to do.”

Mahesh gets up and leaps towards the door. No one stops him. He moves into the middle room, forgets his boots, and barefoot rushes out into the front room. The three gaudily painted girls are still seated on the bed, looking lost, and the Hijra is still seated on the floor chewing pan, indifferent to the crazy events taking place inside. The street kid who brought him here sits in the corner playing with a mobile. No sign of the gaunt man with the golden tooth. Mahesh runs into the narrow lane outside. He has to find his way out of this maze on his own.

He runs for his life. All the lights that spilled out of the rooms when he was coming in have been shut. There is no light except the moonlight. He runs, following the narrow rivulet of sewer water that he had seen on his way in. To his surprise and relief, in less than a minute he is out on the main road.

He wants to run but he stops. Everything seems so normal here. The street lights and their pothole reflections illuminates the canvas. Cars whiz past. The Kali image on the wall across the street is still glaring at everyone who tries to pee. The city is awakening. The pan-wala is shutting the shop. Mahesh sees the newspaper van throwing a bundle on the footpath. His is the only car parked on the road. The other cars, even the BMW, are gone. He sees the moon above, the sea lashing against the rocks behind the slum, the banyan tree in the corner, Apollo and Dionysus standing tall on either side. He looks back. No one is following him. He looks at his watch. He has been inside for over three hours.

He feels like laughing. It feels good to be alive. He looks at the zopad-patti. Everything looks so normal. No one can hear the drumbeats, the claps, the incantations, the bell, the drum, or the screams. Did he imagine it all? He looks at the rivulet of sewer making its way to the gutter that runs by the road. It gleams in the street light. It is red.

What is it about property that stirs our most primal emotions?

They are coming back from the funeral and the feelings are already beginning to shift.
Mixed with the grief at losing the patriach there is a sense of anticpation and tension. How did he leave his money and property? Who gets what?

Perhaps all will be well; but as evidenced by an increasing number of cases, it could also lead to conflict bitter court battles and sometimes family quarrels that go on for generations.

Belief shapes behavior which shapes business. Different beliefs is what makes Europeans different from Americans from Indians from Chinese….both Communists and Capitalists believe wealth will solve all of life’s problems….it never has, but they keep believing in it, destroying the world in the process first with the Cold War and now with the war against all countries who do not open up their markets to the West. 

First Published in Debonair, Annual issue, 2000

The answer in many respects depends on what we mean by homosexuality. Do we limit ourselves only to sexual acts between members of the same sex and leave out romantic affection? Do we distinguish between those men who occasionally have sex with other men but otherwise live heterosexual lives, and those for whom their sexual preference forms the core of their identity? Do we consider same-sex intercourse that occurs in the course of a subterfuge, or as a result of frustration or desperation? And do we include liaisons involving those who consider themselves neither male nor female (for example, hijras)? Definitions are important because ‘homosexuality’ does not connote the same thing to all people. Besides, the meaning has changed over time. As has the meaning of heterosexuality.

Until early 20th century, ‘heterosexuality’ was used to refer to ‘morbid sexual practices’ between men and women such as oral and anal intercourse, as opposed to ‘normal’ procreative sex. The term homosexuality – that is so casually used today and is almost an everyday vocabulary – came into being only in the late 19th century Europe when discussions on the varied expressions of sex and sexuality became acceptable in academic circles. The term was used to describe “morbid sexual passion between members of the same sex.” It was declared ‘unnatural’ by colonial laws, as unnatural as casual sex between men and women that was not aimed at conception.

The term homosexuality and the laws prohibiting ‘unnatural’ sex were imposed across the world through imperial might. Though they exerted a powerful influence on subsequent attitudes, they were neither universal nor timeless. They were – it must be kept in mind – products of minds that were deeply influenced by the ’sex is sin’ stance of the Christian Bible. With typical colonial condescension, European definitions, laws, theories and attitudes totally disregarded how similar sexual activity was perceived in other cultures.

There never has been across geography or history a standard expression of, or a common attitude towards sexual acts between members of the same sex. Love of a man for a boy was institutionalised in ancient Greece, amongst Samurais in Japan, in certain African as well as Polynesian tribes. Amongst some Native and South American tribes, erotic relationships between men was acceptable so long as one of the partners was ‘feminine’. For Arabs, so medieval travellers claim, ‘women were for home and hearth, while boys were for pleasure’. These cultures offer no synonym for same-sex intercourse. It was perhaps a practice that did not merit definition, categorization or even condemnation. So long as it did not threaten the dominant heterosexual social construct.

To find out if homosexuality or same-sex intercourse existed in India, and in what form, we have to turn to three sources: images on temple walls, sacred narratives and ancient law books.

What the walls show

Construction of Hindu temples in stone began around the sixth century of the Common Era. Construction reached climax between the twelfth and the fourteenth century when the grand pagodas of eastern and southern India such as Puri and Tanjore came into being. On the walls and gateways of these magnificent structures we find a variety of images: gods, goddesses, demons, nymphs, sages, warriors, lovers, priests, monsters, dragons, plants and animals. Amongst scenes from epics and legends, one invariably finds erotic images including those that modern law deems unnatural and society considers obscene. Curiously enough, similar images also embellish prayer halls and cave temples of monastic orders such as Buddhism and Jainism built around the same time.

The range of erotic sculptures is wide: from dignified couples exchanging romantic glances, to wild orgies involving warriors, sages and courtesans. Occasionally one finds images depicting bestiality coupled with friezes of animals in intercourse. All rules are broken: elephants are shown copulating with tigers, monkeys molest women while men mate with asses. And once in a while, hidden in niches as in Khajuraho, one does find images of either women erotically embracing other women or men displaying their genitals to each other, the former being more common (suggesting a tilt in favour of the male voyeur).

These images cannot be simply dismissed as perverted fantasies of an artist or his patron considering the profound ritual importance given to these shrines. There have been many explanations offered for these images – ranging from the apologetic to the ridiculous. Some scholars hold a rather puritanical view that devotees are being exhorted to leave these sexual thoughts aside before entering the sanctum sanctorum. Others believe that hidden in these images is a sacred Tantric geometry; the aspirant can either be deluded by the sexuality of the images or enlightened by deciphering the geometrical patterns therein. One school of thought considers these images to representations of either occult rites or fertility ceremonies. Another suggests that these were products of degenerate minds obsessed with sex in a corrupt phase of Indian history. According to ancient treatises on architecture, a religious structure is incomplete unless its walls depicts something erotic, for sensual pleasures (kama) are as much an expression of life as are righteous conduct (dharma), economic endeavours (artha) and spiritual pursuits (moksha).

Interpretations and judgements aside, these images tell us that the ‘idea’ of same-sex and what the colonial rulers termed ‘unnatural’ intercourse did exist in India. One can only speculate if the images represent the common or the exception.

What the stories suggest

In Indian epics and chronicles, there are occasional references to same-sex intercourse. For example, in the Valmiki Ramayana, Hanuman is said to have seen Rakshasa women kissing and embracing those women who have been kissed and embraced by Ravana. In the Padma Purana is the story of a king who dies before he can give his two queens the magic potion that will make them pregnant. Desperate to bear his child, the widows drink the potion, make love to each other (one behaving as a man, the other as a woman) and conceive a child. Unfortunately, as two women are involved in the rite of conception, the child is born without bones or brain (according to ancient belief, the mother gives the fetus flesh and blood, while the father gives the bone and brain). In these stories, the same-sex intercourse, born of frustration or desperation, is often a poor substitute of heterosexual sex.

More common are stories of women turning into men and men turning into women. In the Mahabharata, Drupada raises his daughter Shikhandini as a man and even gets ‘him’ a wife. When the wife discovers the truth on the wedding night, all hell breaks loose; her father threatens to destroy Drupada’s kingdom. The timely intervention of a Yaksha saves the day: he lets Shikhandini use his manhood for a night and perform his husbandly duties. In the Skanda Purana, two Brahmins desperate for money disguise themselves as a newly married couple and try to dupe a pious queen in the hope of securing rich gifts. But such is the queen’s piety that the gods decide to prevent her from being made a fool; they turn the Brahmin dressed as a bride into a real woman. The two Brahmins thus end up marrying each other and all ends well. According to a folk narrative from Koovagam in Tamil Nadu, the Pandavas were told to sacrifice Arjuna’s son Aravan if they wished to win the war at Kurukshetra. Aravan refused to die a virgin. As no woman was willing to marry a man doomed to die in a day, Krishna’s help was sought. Krishna turned into a woman, married Aravan, spent a night with him and when he was finally beheaded, mourned for him like a widow. These stories allow women to have sex with women and men to have sex with men on heterosexual terms. One may interpret these tales as repressed homosexual fantasies of a culture.

Perhaps the most popular stories revolving around gender metamorphoses are those related to Mohini, the female incarnation of Lord Vishnu. They are found in many Puranas. Vishnu becomes a woman to trick demons and tempt sages. When the gods and demons churn the elixir of immortality out of the ocean of milk, Mohini distracts the demons with her beauty and ensures that only the gods sip the divine drink. In another story, Mohini tricks a demon with the power to incinerate any creature by his mere touch to place his hand on his own head. Mohini is so beautiful that when Shiva looks upon her he sheds semen, out of which are born mighty heroes such as Hanuman (according to Shiva Purana) and Ayyappa (according to the Malayalee folk lore). One wonders why Vishnu himself transforms into a woman when he could have appointed a nymph or goddess to do the needful. However, devotees brush aside even the suggestion of a homosexual subtext; for them this sexual transformation is merely a necessary subterfuge to ensure cosmic stability. He who is enchanted by Mohini’s form remains trapped in the material world; he who realizes Mohini’s essence (Vishnu) attains liberation.

In the Brahmavaivarta Purana, Mohini tells Brahma, “Any man who refuses to satisfy a willing woman in her fertile period is a eunuch.” This idea is explicit in the Mahabharata when Arjuna is deprived of his manhood after he spurns the sexual attentions of the nymph Urvashi. Consequently, the mighty archer is forced to live as a ‘eunuch dance teacher’ called Brihanalla in the court of King Virata for a year. All this suggests that in ancient India, men who were ‘unlike men’, unwilling or incapable to have intercourse with women, were deprived of their manhood and expected to live as women in the fringes of mainstream society. Perhaps this explains the existence of the hijra community in India. Like Brihanalla of Mahabharata, hijras have served in the female quarters of royal households for centuries.

Hijras are organized communities comprising of males who express themselves socially as women. They are a mix of transsexuals (men who believe themselves to be women), transvestites (men who dress in women’s clothes), homosexual (men who are sexually and romantically attracted to men), hermaphrodites (men whose genitals are poorly defined due to genetic defect or hormonal imbalance) and eunuchs (castrated men). In one of the many folk stories associated with Bahucharaji (patron goddess of hijras worshipped in Gujarat), the goddess was once a princess who castrated her husband because he preferred going to the forest and ‘behaving as a woman’ instead of coming to her bridal bed. In another story, the man who attempted to molest Bahucharaji was cursed with impotency. He was forgiven only after he gave up his masculinity, dressed as a woman and worshipped the goddess.

The idea of men who are not quite male or female was known in India for a long time. Such beings were known as kliba. In the Brahmana texts, written eight centuries before Christ we learn that when the gods separated the three worlds, there was sorrow. The gods cast the sorrow of the heaven into a whore (socially improper woman), the sorrow of the nether regions into the rogue (socially improper man) and the sorrow of earth into the kliba (biologically imperfect human). In later Hindu texts such as Manusmriti, the kliba was forbidden for participating in rituals; he was not allowed to possess property. Scholars believe the kliba was an umbrella term not unlike present-day words like namard and napunsak, which could mean anything from sexually dysfunctional male to impotent man to homosexual. One text describes fourteen different types of klibas, one of whom is a man who uses his mouth as a vagina (mukhabhaga). Hijras believe that they are neither male nor female, making them the descendents of the ancient kliba (though there is no definite proof in this regard). According to hijra folklore, when Rama went to the forest in exile, he asked the men and women of Ayodhya who had followed him to return to the city. Since he said nothing to those who were neither male nor female, these waited outside the city until he returned. Touched by their devotion, Rama declared that the non-man would be king in the Kali Yuga.

What the scriptures reveal

The Kali Yuga marks the final phase in the cosmic lifespan, the era before the flood of doom. Hindu scriptures state that in this age all forms of sexual irregularities will occur. Men will deposit semen in apertures not meant for them (Mouth? Anus?). According to Narada Purana: “The great sinner who discharges semen in non-vagins, in those who are destitute of vulva, and uteruses of animals shall fall into the hell ‘reto-bhojana’ (where one has to subsist on semen). He then falls into ‘vasakupa’ (a deep and narrow well of fat). There he stays for seven divine years. That man has semen for his diet. He becomes the despicable man in the world when reborn.” Clearly an acknowledgement, but not acceptance, of homosexual conduct.

In the Kamasutra, there is a rather disdainful reference to male masseurs who indulge in oral sex (auparashtika). The author of this sex manual was not a fan of homosexual activities though he did refer to them in his book. Reference, but not approval, to homosexual conduct does occur in many Dharmashastras. These Hindu law books tell us what is considered by Brahmins to be acceptable and unacceptable social conduct. Since laws are not made on activities that don’t exist, a study of these scriptures does give an insight into behaviours in ancient India that merited a law.

The Manusmriti scorns female homosexuals. It states, “If a girl does it (has sex) to another girl, she should be fined two hundred (pennies), be made to pay double (the girl’s) bride-price, and receive ten whip (lashes). But if a (mature) woman does it to a girl, her head should be shaved immediately or two of her fingers should be cut off, and she should be made to ride on a donkey.” There are no kind words for a male homosexual either: “Causing an injury to a priest, smelling wine or things that are not to be smelled, crookedness, and sexual union with a man are traditionally said to cause loss of caste.” And: “If a man has shed his semen in non-human females, in a man, in a menstruating woman, in something other than a vagina, or in water, he should carry out the ‘Painful Heating’ vow.” Further: “If a twice-born man unites sexually with a man or a woman in a cart pulled by a cow, or in water, or by day, he should bathe with his clothes on.” The ‘Painful Heating’ vow is traditionally said to consist of cow’s urine, cow dung, milk, yogurt, melted butter, water infused with sacrificial grass, and a fast of one night. Compared to the treatment of female homosexuals, the treatment of male homosexuals is relatively mild. Note that there are no threats of ‘eternal’ damnation, unlike the dogmas of Judeo-Christian-Islamic scriptures. There is nothing permanent in the Hindu world. There is always another life, another chance.

An overview of temple imagery, sacred narratives and religious scriptures does suggest that homosexual activities – in some form – did exist in ancient India. Though not part of the mainstream, its existence was acknowledged but not approved. There was some degree of tolerance when the act expressed itself in heterosexual terms – when men ‘became women’ in their desire for other men, as the hijra legacy suggests. The question that remains now is: how does attitudes towards homosexuals in ancient India affect modern-day attitudes? Is our approval or disapproval of same-sex affection and intercourse dependent on ancient values? And while we ponder over the questions, we must remind ourselves that the ancient sources that censure homosexual conduct, also institutionalised the caste system and approved the subservience of women.

I am so excited. Theatre Nisha is presenting an adaption of my first book of fiction, the Pregnant King, at Alliance Francaise at Chennai on 23 (7pm), 24 (7pm), 25 (3pm) and 26 (3pm)…..do come if you can ….

This is a pointer to my talk in the conference on “Literature and Films” at the Film Institute, Pune, on 22 March 2009

CLICK TO OPEN/DOWNLOAD THE PDF PRESENTATION (1.0 Mb)

Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of The Christ” is a mythological film. But he will never call it that. For him, and his audiences, it is a historical film. Never mind the fact that it shows “resurrection” in the end. Never mind the fact that it adds visual elements to it that are not mentioned in the Gospel but does exist in the imagination of the screenplay writer and cinematographer. And so, the Jews looks cunning and their king looks gay. Mel Gibson’s anti-semitic and homophobic stance is known to all. This naturally makes his way into his ‘Audio Visual Storytelling’….yet one is told, this is not a mythological. It is history, hence true.

Compare and contrast this with a Bollywood film, “Jai Santoshi Maa” – which does not even attempt to be historical.It tells the story of a woman who is tortured by her sisters-in-law and who is delivered from it by praying to Santoshi…a simple story based on a complex belief in the Karma System. Karma is not explicitly mentioned in the story but is implicit and assumed by the audience who believes in it – the woman is suffering not becuase God hates her but because of her past karma; if she prays to Santoshi, that bad karma is wiped away and happiness will follow. This is not the same as deliverance by the Christ…Christ offers permanent solution to the Original Sin….Santoshi Maa offers temporary relief in a householder’s life….a bhakti pill to deal with karmic chaos.

The Bollywood film is loud and kitsch….a folk play full of bawdy lines and slapstick humor where even the gods are not spared. There are stories here about gods that are not found in any Purana – that the elephant headed god, Ganesha, had a daughter called Santoshi – and yet, no one, not even opportunist politicians, are/were upset with it. And until this film was released in 1975, most of India had not even heard of this goddess. The film, that was as successful as Sholay, was accepted as mythology. It was also accepted as the truth.

Mythology is truth. Subjective truth. Truth of a people, of a culture, of a community. Truth that is believed, regardless of evidence.

The Mythology of Christianity (as well as Judaism and Islam) is firmly placed within history – history is part of the mythological script, the fallout of what happened in Eden when God kicked Adam and Eve out for the Original Sin of Transgression. Had that event, described in the Genesis, not happened, there would be no role for Prophets, there would be no need for the idea of deliverance, no need for the Christ.

The Mythology of Hinduism is rather different. There are divine tales that are not bound by history or geography, time or space. They exist everywehre all the time. The story of Santoshi, for example. Then there is human history going through cycles, where events occur again and again, as if on a merry-go-round.

“The Passion of The Christ” deals with LINEAR mythology – where there is one life to repair damage done by the Original Sin. “Jai Santoshi Maa” deals with CYCLICAL mythology – where one has many lives to repair the damage done by past Karmas. Yet globally, the former is seen as religious history and the latter is seen as religious mythology….this reveals a poor understanding of religion and faith, where one’s faith is beleived to be true (read, History) and the other’s faith is false (read, Mythology)