Open Your Mouth Again Goddess D
The Common salt Mosquito's Seize with teeth: That Morning time
© 2022 D. Lobo, "Monk"
There was the faintest brushing against skin: the Common salt Musquito wheeling itself into position. And and then Dawa felt its seize with teeth.
He opened his eyes, held upward his hand, and saw the tiniest spot of blood in the fleshy fold between thumb and forefinger. Beyond his hand, the village stream slogged silently westward, equally if wearied by its steep mountainside descent. The stream had to be rife with Salt Musquito larvae. Why hadn't he remembered that before coming hither to meditate?
He examined the seize with teeth again. Dawa stood, iciness gripping his insides. If he had heard the older novices correctly, then only a twenty-four hour period remained before he'd suffer a horrible death.
He was wasting time. No ane out here could aid him. Dawa hitched up his saffron robe, and dashed toward the mountain path and the gompa.
The Medicine Buddha: Half an Hour Later
Bhuti Drupon Kunchen opened his eyes at the same moment his favourite novice burst into the cell, making the yak butter lamps sputter and smoke.
'What is information technology, Dawa?'
'I'yard going to die, Master.'
Kunchen nodded. 'We're all going to dice, Dawa. That is the nature of things.'
'No, you lot don't empathise,' said the novice, thrusting his mitt nether Kunchen'southward nose. 'Look. I've been bitten by a Salt Mosquito.'
Indeed, the lad had been bitten. He examined the small round weal on the novice'south hand. 'A Salt Musquito y'all say?' It took all his years of grooming non to smile when he saw Dawa's head bob. 'And considering of this bite, yous're going to die?' Again the earnest caput bobbing.
Vi years agone, Dawa had been brought to the gompa by his mother. She had idea her eighteen-month-old a reborn lama, because instead of talking he recited prayers. Later on spending two days with the boy, Kunchen constitute that indeed little Dawa knew some prayers, but he also knew his mother's recipe for gong'a momo and that she often chosen out to her dead husband, blasphemous him for leaving her all alone with a young child.
'Practise you talk in your slumber?' he'd asked the mother.
'Yeah,' the woman had said, broad-eyed. 'My late husband often complained about it.'
'Madam, your son is no reborn lama,' Kunchen told her, 'but he is indeed blessed with a abrupt mind, perhaps with the mind of a future lama. If you agree, I would be glad to acknowledge him and, when he's old enough, brand him a novice.'
Kunchen looked upward at Dawa. He had been right almost the boy. His mind was abrupt and inquisitive, his memory phenomenal. But he was also prone to flights of fantasy, his youthful mind often making connections that weren't in that location. He knew from his time teaching the other novices that as Dawa grew older and could meliorate distinguish between correct and incorrect, these misconnections would diminish. Until then, and to avoid dissuading the boy from practising a skill that would soon benefit him—and the monastery—Kunchen was non prepared to tell Dawa that in that location was no such thing as a Salt Musquito.
'Sit down down,' said Kunchen. 'Take hold of your breath and focus your total attention on your animate.' He got upwards and, with his dorsum to Dawa, grinned.
With just 4 steps, Kunchen reached the far finish of his cell and the columns of paper that he jokingly called his library. He lifted the upper tertiary of the 5th column and grunted his satisfaction after locating the strip of scripture he was searching for.
Most to tell Dawa to bring together him, Kunchen stopped himself.
The jail cell was still. The anxiety that had followed Dawa and made the air vibrate frenetically was gone. Kunchen shivered. Perhaps the male child's mother was right.
Seated contrary him, Kunchen whispered the boy'southward name. 'Hither,' he said, passing the strip of stiff, creased newspaper with its blue script to Dawa. 'Memorise the mantra, then echo it one-hundred-and-eight times so that the Medicine Buddha's energy will fill you. After the hundred-and-eighth recitation, you'll be cured.'
He returned the novice'south bow and watched him shuffle away, Dawa's attention already focused on the script. Just as he was closing the prison cell door, Kunchen called out, 'Walk the pilgrim passageways during your recitation. And when you're cured, bring back my scripture.'
Dusk: Ninety-Seven Recitations Subsequently
'What are you doing here?' Namdon Rinzen asked, when he saw the novice continuing on tiptoes to spin a prayer bicycle. 'Didn't you lot hear the bell for evening prayers?' Before the male child could answer, he snatched the strip of scripture from his hand. 'What's this?'
'It's a mantra that will fill me with the Medicine Buddha's energy,' replied the boy, seven years his inferior. 'I accept to repeat information technology one-hundred-and-eight times earlier I can be cured.'
'Cured of what?' said Rinzen, unsure nigh standing so close to the novice. A look of guilt crossed the boy's face. 'Well? I'm waiting.'
'I was bitten.'
'By what?'
'A Salt Musquito.'
Rinzen's starting time instinct was to accuse the boy of eavesdropping. Some of the older ones often complained about the tiny novice continuing just across the perimeter of their huddle, listening attentively to their conversations.
Rinzen had first heard the story about the Table salt Mosquito from his father. It told of how a terrorised village had prayed to Lord Buddha and asked him to rid them of a local bandit. Their prayer was answered when the bandit was bitten past a Table salt Mosquito, and was found the next day transformed into a statue of salt. Overjoyed, the villagers tossed the statue into the river, then danced on the riverbank as it dissolved.
There was just one thing for which Rinzen was grateful to his drunk of a father and that was his stories. Retelling them had made him pop with the other novices. Rinzen stared down at the boy whose confront was far too serious for someone so young.
Perhaps this was the perfect opportunity for him to develop a story that was of his ain making.
'What's your name?' asked Rinzen.
'Dawa.'
'Dawa, accept you lot felt the Medicine Buddha's energy yet?'
Dawa shook his head. 'I even so need to recite the mantra another xi times.'
'No, no, no. That's far too late!'
Thin lines creased the male child's forehead. 'What practice y'all mean?'
'Information technology's evening, dusk, Dawa. Your last recitation should've been before dusk. The Medicine Buddha tin can't aid yous now.'
Dawa's lower lip quivered. 'Really?'
'I'1000 sad, only yes.' He defenseless Dawa by the shoulder as the younger novice began to turn. 'Where are you going?'
'To encounter Master Bhuti. I have to tell him what's happened.'
'No,' said Rinzen. 'No y'all don't want to exercise that. There isn't enough time.' He pulled Dawa to his side and patted his shoulder reassuringly. 'In that location's little time, Dawa. If we're to cure yous, we accept to get out at present.'
The Goddess' Nigh Devoted Disciple: An Hour Later
Reshma was furious. The three of them had come up all the way from India, carried their dead sister dorsum home for her sky burying, and this was all the thank you they got: a few scraps of staff of life, a little rice, and a whole lot of abuse.
'They'll get their comeuppance at their next rebirth,' she muttered to herself, following the path downward to the hamlet that squatted below the gompa. She touched the silver brooch that fastened the gratuitous finish of her sari to the left shoulder of her choli. 'Bahuchara Mata,' she prayed, 'delight make sure those bastards come dorsum as dung beetles for beingness then disrespectful to one of your most devoted disciples.'
She sighed equally she plodded on, her manus moving from the brooch to her chest, the tightening beneath information technology making her wince.
'Y'all're right, Bahuchara Mata,' she said.
She stopped for a moment and waited for the pain to subside. Closing her eyes, she let the cool air and the night'due south insect chorus environment her. In that location was no indicate in losing her temper—it only sharpened the persistent anguish.
When Reshma opened her optics, she saw to her right the strangest affair. Away from the path, down the grassy slope, stood a small boy dressed in saffron robes. He stood behind a tethered beast that resembled a cross betwixt a cow and a yak, his arm held out equally if ready to take hold of i of its turds.
'Hey,' she called out. 'Come away from that animal. You'll become injure.' Co-ordinate to Roshan, her Tibetan was pretty skillful. But she wasn't so certain when the male child didn't budge. She let her bag slip from her shoulder and drop onto the grass. With both arms free, she left the path and sidled her way downwards the slope toward the idiot boy.
'Merely what exercise you think you're doing?' she asked when she reached him. 'Didn't you lot hear me calling to you?'
He couldn't have been more eight years old. Even in the flickering lite of the hamlet fires, she saw that he'd been crying. In his outstretched right hand, which was being supported by his left, was a dirt bowl.
'I demand her pee,' said the boy. 'Otherwise I'll dice.'
Reshma and her sisters had been on the receiving terminate of numerous pranks. But in that location was something about this male child, a something that over the years she'd lost. Information technology made her think twice about telling him that he'd been duped.
'Here,' she said, belongings out her mitt and waving. 'Give me the basin. I'll hold it while you explain what's going on.'
'Thank you,' said the male child, and handed her the bowl.
'Now, Little Monk,' Reshma said, her heart twisting at how pathetic he sounded, 'go and sit downward over in that location and tell me what'due south happened.'
What she heard confirmed her doubts about the gompa. That an older novice could bear so wickedly toward such a sweetness little male child didn't surprise her afterwards the reception she'd received.
Then what was she going to do now? She didn't actually want to go back upwardly there, and likewise, the others were waiting for her, nigh probable fraught with worry.
'I retrieve y'all'd improve come with me,' Reshma said.
'Only what about the cow's pee?'
What is it they teach those boys? she wondered. Beckoning him over with her gratuitous paw, she said, 'Come here so I tin show you something.'
The little monk did equally he was told.
'You shouldn't believe everything that Rinzen boy tells yous.'
The little monk looked upwards at her, his eyes black orbs in the firelight, the gap between his eyebrows creased. 'Why?'
She led him around to the side of the brute, which cast them a lazy glance.
'That,' Reshma said, pointing, 'is a pizzle. Cows don't have pizzles, they have udders between their legs. Your friend Rinzen can't tell a cow from a bull.'
The trivial monk regarded the bull for the longest time, making Reshma twitchy to get back to the others. Again he looked up at her with those mournful eyes.
'Does that mean I'm going to die?'
Reshma knelt and fifty-fifty and so had to lean forward then that her eyes were level with his. 'No, Piffling Monk, not yet. Not for the longest time.'
'But what about the Salt Mosquito's bite?'
To Reshma, this poor piddling boy sounded equally if he'd been cursed. She and her sisters knew a thing or two about a curse's power. Since it was believed that the presence of her kind at weddings and births brought skilful luck, so it followed that a Hijra's curse brought cataclysm. It was all that prevented others' insults from escalating into violence.
'What's your name?' she asked.
'Dawa.'
'Dawa, I'one thousand Reshma.' She stroked the top of his stubbled head. 'Come up with me. I know a way that will rid y'all of that terrible bite.'
The Jealous But Devoted Disciple: An Hr Later
'What were you thinking?' whispered Chaman. 'You lot said y'all were going to get some nutrient and yous come dorsum with another mouth to feed. At that place'due south hardly plenty here to feed the iv of united states of america, let alone that boy.'
'His proper name's Dawa.'
'I don't care if he'southward the Dalai Lama, Reshma. You shouldn't take brought him here.'
'But he's scared and he needs our help.'
Chaman sighed. Coming here had been a mistake. The toll of the gunkhole that took them along the Indus and w into Tibet had been exorbitant. And now they were down to their final paisa, and Reshma had gone and shoved them deeper into the mire.
No ane had loved Roshan more than than Chaman, just she would never have made such an unrealistic promise as a sky burial in Tibet. A cremation ghat in Dheli would have sufficed.
Just and so she wasn't their guru.
'Look, Chaman,' Reshma said, 'it's only for tonight. By at present they'll accept noticed he'southward missing, then we'll have to take him back showtime thing in the morning. Anyhow, he's a novice. Roshan in one case told me that monks don't eat subsequently midday.'
'And that makes it all right for you to bring him here?'
'I told you lot, Chaman, he needs our aid.'
Later on Reshma had described the boy's predicament, Chaman said, 'And how exactly are we supposed to cure him of this delusion?'
'How many bhang gholis do we have left?'
'Are y'all mad?' exclaimed Chaman. She glanced toward the far end of the cave. Rangui and Mina, who'd been fussing over the boy, stared at her. 'Are you suggesting nosotros drug him?' she whispered to Reshma. 'Accept you lost your mind?'
Reshma shook her head. 'Of course not. We give him no more than a quarter of a pill, enough to make him believe his seize with teeth has been cured.'
The idea didn't sit well with Chaman. She had seen Reshma shell three, sometimes four, of the strong pills and and so add the powder to her potable earlier they danced. And since it was nearly a year to the day that Reshma had suffered her first heart assault, Chaman had learned to recognise the thwarting in her guru's optics.
Reshma no longer saw Bahuchara Mata when she danced.
'Chaman.'
'What?'
'In that location's something most this male child,' Reshma said. 'I don't know what it is, simply I practise know he needs our aid.' She reached out and firmly squeezed Chaman's hand. 'He truly believes he's going to die. Nosotros have to convince him otherwise. Roshan'south death was my fault. I don't want some other on my hands.'
'Reshma, yous chutiya.' She placed her other hand on top of Reshma's. 'Roshan died of malaria. There was nothing yous could do to prevent information technology. It wasn't your fault.' She patted Reshma'due south hand. 'How long take you and I been friends?'
'Fifteen, sixteen years.'
'Seventeen, Reshma. Seventeen. And you lot've been my guru for twelve of them. Sometimes, to be honest, I think you're an idiot. But I've never doubted you, never doubted that I should be the one to follow and you lot the one to lead united states of america. I've always been jealous of you, Sis, of how piece of cake y'all make it seem to treat united states and protect us. Believe me, Reshma, delight believe me, my guru, when I tell you that it wasn't your fault.'
Reshma smiled equally she swallowed and blinked. She coughed before proverb, 'Then yous'll assistance me?'
'Of course I will, you, you double chutiya.'
Bahuchara Mata: Midnight
Dawa sat beside Rangui and watched how the lantern light acquired shadows to dart and jump beyond the ceiling of the cavern. Information technology wasn't hard to like her. She was pretty, like her greenish sari with its gold oleanders, and her smile was infectious, dissimilar the square-jawed Chaman, who seemed very unhappy and angry with Reshma. How was information technology possible to be and so angry with someone who looked then sad?
Dawa wasn't certain he liked Chaman, a woman with the hairiest shoulders he'd ever seen.
The woman dressed in a turquoise sari, Mina, said something terse to Rangui.
'Oh,' said Rangui. 'Most sorry, Reverend Sir. Mina tell, stop touching caput. You get pain in head.'
He looked up at Rangui and gave her his best smile. 'I don't mind,' he said.
'Aiyee,' said Mina, followed by something he couldn't understand. She reached out with her great slab of a hand and pinched his cheek, all the while grinning and waggling her head. 'Māmūlī ādamī, māmūlī ādamī,' she kept repeating in a vocalisation-breaking pitch that made Rangui giggle.
'Arae.'
Dawa looked by Mina to see Reshma and Chaman budgeted. To his relief, Chaman no longer looked aroused, but Reshma nonetheless looked deplorable.
'Trivial Monk,' said Reshma, kneeling before him. 'My sisters and I are going to dance and then that nosotros can summon the goddess Bahuchara Mata to help you.'
'A goddess?' Dawa said.
Reshma nodded. A thin, sad smile tugged the corners of her lips. She took off the brooch she wore and handed it to him.
It was a thin piece of silver, skilfully crafted, showing in relief a woman sitting sidesaddle upon a large rooster.
'Bahuchara Mata,' said Chaman, and tapped the silvery woman.
'The rooster is her vehicle,' said Reshma. 'It symbolises innocence.'
Dawa ran his finger effectually the outline of the brooch, unsure of how a rooster might represent such a quality.
'It's very beautiful,' said Reshma.
Dawa nodded. 'Why are you lot sad, Reshma?'
Reshma patted the side of his face, a thin waft of rosewater reaching Dawa'south nose.
'Roshan, our sister who died recently, fabricated that. She lived here in Tibet and worked for her male parent every bit a silversmith, until Chaman found her and helped her to become ane of us. She made that for me . . . for her guru.'
'Is that why you're sad, because Roshan died?'
'A little,' Reshma said.
Chaman leaned forward and held out a steel cup. 'Pēya,' she said, offering Dawa the cup.
'She wants you to drink, Dawa. Summoning the goddess will exist thirsty work.'
He exchanged the brooch for the cup, and and then drank the sickly-sugariness liquid.
'Very adept, Picayune Monk,' said Reshma, taking the cup from him. 'While Rangui and Chaman play, Mina and I will dance. And while we dance, you must recite the goddess' name. Tin can you lot do that?'
'Bahuchara Mata,' Dawa said, making sure to match Chaman's pronunciation. He said it again when he saw how Reshma smiled.
He watched while Mina and Reshma prepared themselves. Start they took a drink from their ain steel cups, and then they adjusted their hair and saris, while brushing the cave floor with their bare feet. Meanwhile, Chaman, who'd disappeared backside Dawa, returned conveying two drums, one of which she handed to Rangui.
Every bit he turned his head, Dawa felt a delightful giddiness.
'Set, Reverend Sir?' said Rangui.
Dawa nodded, the pleasant whirling making him smiling.
It was Chaman who started the chanting every bit she slowly drummed. Rangui then joined her, a drumbeat behind Chaman's. Both drummers nodded their blessing when Dawa joined them.
'Bahuchara Mata,' the 3 of them sang, as Mina and Reshma began to twirl to the rhythm of their drums, Mina in time with Rangui's drumming, Reshma with Chaman'southward.
As he sang the goddess' proper noun, Dawa felt his body rock forward and back in fourth dimension with the accelerating drumbeats, but as Reshma and Mina spun around and effectually, their wrists twisting from side to side, fingers opening and closing, closing and opening. Before long, their movements blurred so coalesced until their outlines were each replaced past a colour: Mina's turquoise and Reshma'southward sunflower yellowish.
Dawa connected to chant until, similar the pulsing colours before him, it became a continuous drone of 'Bhaamaaabhaamaabhaamaa.' The giddiness he'd initially felt had changed. Now it was as if his insides were a whirlpool, just like the ones he saw when he plunged a pes into the river before bathing.
Though they both shared the aforementioned axis, it took him a moment to determine whether it was he or the world that revolved and so swiftly.
In that exact moment Dawa made his determination, a brightness flooded his listen and a sublime stillness swaddled him.
. . .
'Dawa. Open your eyes.'
. . .
'Your optics, Dawa, open up them.'
'Bahuchara Mata.'
'Yep. Now open up your optics.'
'Bahuchara Mata, Bahuchara Mata.'
'Dawa.'
'Bahuchara Mata, Bahuchara Mata, Bahuchara Mata.'
'Open your eyes. Delight, Dawa.'
'Bahuchara Mata, Bahuchara Mata, OW!'
Dawa opened his eyes, raised his hand and saw a red dewdrop swelling in the space between pollex and forefinger. Beyond his mitt he saw a adult female. He reached out, hoping to affect the haloed face earlier him. She smiled beatifically, her eyes shining equally brightly as the holy light emanating from her head. She smelled faintly of rosewater.
'Dawa,' she said, leaning forward then that his fingers brushed her face up. 'Await at me, Dawa.'
'Did you take out the toxicant?' asked Dawa, a thick drowsiness making his hand experience heavy. 'Is that why I'm haemorrhage?'
'Aye,' said the woman. She smiled and nodded in one case.
'Thank you, Bahuchara Mata.'
Dawa yawned and airtight his eyes.
The Goddess' Sting: 19 Years Later
Dawa rubbed his stubbled chin. At the same fourth dimension, the canis familiaris settled onto its haunches and stared up at him, its ribbony tongue lolling over one side of its open mouth. It was the same mangy dog every bit the one that wandered the gompa's g and waited exterior the kitchen for scraps. What was it doing downward here in the village?
He felt something tumble against the side of his almsbowl.
'Thank you,' said Dawa and looked up.
She was not a villager, and unlike them, she smiled at him. He thought he recognised that smile, the pretty face, simply could identify neither.
'For you, Sayadaw,' she said, smiling mischievously before turning.
'Await,' he chosen, simply she had disappeared among a group of pilgrims that hurried through the village, all eager to start their long journey domicile.
Dawa reached into his bowl and pulled out a square package wrapped in dark-green silk. Turning the bundle over in his hand, he saw that the gold embroidered pattern was an oleander.
The woman had called him sayadaw, the championship used for a senior monk. Though he'd been ordained earlier than most, he was still too immature for such an august title, which probably explained her smiling. He pocketed the package and and then focused on his breath. It wouldn't do to render to the gompa just yet. There were more blessings to give and alms to collect.
With his almsbowl half full, Dawa immune himself a wider step as he trod the path dorsum up to the gompa, the mangy dog trotting close behind. When he was sure that he and the dog were lonely on the chalky path, he whispered, 'Rangui,' and so smiled. Slipping his hand into the pocket of his robe, he gave the box a single clasp.
They parted company subsequently Dawa reached the kitchen and delivered the day'southward alms. The dog, seated abreast the doorway, its tail sweeping the ground with anticipation, didn't give him a backward glance.
Sitting in his cell, earlier two yak butter lamps, Dawa unwrapped the box fabricated of fragrant sandalwood. Every bit soon every bit he opened it, he recognised the brooch. Though the silver seemed thinner, its edges smoother than when he'd get-go held it, he recognised the goddess and her rooster. Pressed into and against the hat of the box was a foursquare of paper, which he retrieved and unfolded. Written with a neat Devanagari script, its message read:
Petty Monk,
Our sister, your friend, Reshma, has passed on. Though it was her wish that I keep her brooch of our beloved Bahuchara Mata, I want you lot to accept it.
Reshma often talked about her Lilliputian Monk. At that place are twelve of us at present, and each new sister knows the story of how the Little Monk helped her to detect her way back to the goddess. She would hand them the brooch, The Goddess' Sting Reshma named it, earlier describing how she used it to waken you, and then how, later on y'all finally opened your eyes and looked into hers, you saw Bahuchara Mata.
Please understand, Dawa, that a Hijra's life is a hard i. Misunderstood often and despised by the bulk, our merely protection is our faith in one another and our goddess. In helping Reshma render to Bahuchara Mata, you returned my sister to me, and you lot strengthened her weakening center in more ways than you can know.
That is why I want you to take The Goddess' Sting.
I hope that we meet once again, if not in this life, and so perhaps in the adjacent.
Your friend always,
Guru Chaman.
Dawa held upwardly the brooch and examined its underside. He pressed a fingertip confronting the pin's e'er-so-slightly bent indicate, which protruded but beyond the hooked clasp.
He placed The Goddess' Sting back in its box, together with the letter of the alphabet, and so, using the cloth that once belonged to Rangui'south green and gold oleander sari, he rewrapped the sandalwood box.
Dawa bowed, silently mouthed a prayer for Reshma and then got up to exit his cell.
He must have been smiling throughout the five minutes it took to walk from his cell to the steward's office, because he establish that his cheeks ached when he tapped on the door.
'Come in,' said a voice on the other side of it.
Dawa entered to see a monk hunched over a low table, inbound numbers onto a canvas of paper divided into columns.
'Can I help you?' said the monk, without looking upwardly.
'I received a gift that I may not go along,' said Dawa. He held out the package. 'It is now the monastery's property.'
The monk looked upward. 'Dawa? Practiced morning.'
'Good morning, Rinzen.'
The monks shared a smiling.
'So what'southward that you've got there?'
'I think y'all'll find this of item interest,' said Dawa. 'And there's quite a story to it.'
'Really?' said Rinzen. He put down his stylus. 'Delight, Dawa, sit down.'
Dawa watched as Rinzen unwrapped the box, opened it and took out the brooch. The monastery'southward steward examined it and then regarded Dawa, an eyebrow cocked. 'What is it?'
'It's called The Goddess' Sting,' said Dawa, smiling. 'And it'south the only known cure for the Salt Mosquito's bite.'
Source: http://strangehorizons.com/fiction/the-salt-mosquitos-bite-and-the-goddess-sting/
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