By Sharadhi Hegde
There’s something exhausting about this afternoon, but I can’t figure out if it’s because of the heat of the midsummer day, or the tiring fantasies of violently murdering the man before me.
I instead try to focus on my thoughts. On my emotions, who seem to be rushing past in torrents. I feel them, crawling down my veins, poisoning my blood.
Betrayal.
Bewilderment.
Disgust.
And beneath all of them, one that I'm ashamed to admit: Disappointment.
I should've known to handle this by now. I shouldn't react as I did the first time, or the second time, or the third, or every time since. And yet, I feel the pure injustice of it burning through me, reducing any semblance of self-control I had left to ashes.
"I never meant to do this, Ahalya. Trust me, I didn't." Of course, you didn't.
"But you were absolutely bewitching, and I... really couldn't help myself..." Of course, you couldn't.
Indra stands before me, fumbling over his words, stuttering as if he couldn’t finish speaking for dear life.
Had I been braver, I would've spat in his face the first time around. But I wasn't.
I’m not, even now. I realise that suddenly, as I’m fighting back tears.
Again, I feel the pangs of disappointment. I really ought to get a grip this time.
So, I imagine myself as a goddess. I fantasize ripping his eyes out and drinking his blood. I imagine a world where I have a thousand followers, who would rip him to shreds. I imagine having the powers to curse him away to wither in the depths of Hell.
The Ruler of the Gods, the Emperor of the Three Worlds, the King of Heaven, burning in Hell? The irony of it nearly makes me smile.
And now, right on cue, I hear his familiar footsteps down the pathway. My husband.
I know he won't believe me. I've tried, in a million other worlds, in a billion different words, to tell him what truly happened. To tell him that Indra impersonated him to fool me. I've begged, cried, and pleaded. He's never believed me - not once - and I don't see why he will, today.
I know what’ll happen when he enters, of course. I’ve seen it a million time already. his face turns pale with shock, he stops in his tracks, and then begins screeching.
And I feel them now; His disbelief, in the way he’s practically trembling. His rage, in the throbbing of his veins. His fury, in the rush of blood reddening his head.
And I know that I must bear the brunt, again.
I am barely listening as the familiar conversation breaks out.
"Indra.....sick bastard.......slept....my wife.....disguise......rot in hell...... vermin...filth.... blah blah blah...."
And all the while, I wonder if it's even worth presenting my case. Maybe I should focus on not bursting into tears, as I did last time, and the time before that, and every other time before that.
I remember the first time it happened, I was terrified of him. Terrified of what his wrath would bring, of what his curses could do. After all, good girl as I was, I knew my husband was the most powerful of the sages – and a most pious one, too.
"And you, you filthy wench".
Right. Pious sage, indeed.
Once again, I float through his haze of words, of his embittered epiphanies and crude collections of curses. Once again, I wonder what it would be like to defend myself, be my own attorney for once. Once again, I wish I were brave enough to find out.
"I should've known you were trouble when I got you, you witch... You, the child of Brahma, the consort of Rishi Gautama, dare to do something like this?"
Of course. Brahma’s beloved, blameless, devoted young girl, and the Maharshi’s beautiful, demure young bride. It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about me. After all, the devoted girl, the loving bride, died an eternity ago. She’d died a thousand deaths since then, drawing a final ragged breath every time her husband turned on er, every time she failed to convince him of her innocence. She’s died and withered away, little by little, until she was nothing more than a shell – a side character in a larger story, if you will. And I was what remained, I suppose.
I force myself back into his next words.
“For the sake of your honour, I'll have to curse you...."
"Mine or yours?"
"What?"
"My honour, or yours?"
I take a moment to savour the astonishment on his face. The greatest of the Maharshis, the sage who defeats Gods, is stumped by a question by his wife!
The irony makes me smile again.
As his bewilderment begins morphing into an uncomfortable silence, it’s my turn to ask the questions.
"What did you tell Indra?"
"Why should I be telling him anything? He's not my wife, you are!"
Wow, he's screaming now.
"Exactly. I'm the one you're supposed to defend. Not Indra. Not anyone else."
"ENOUGH, Ahalya! I curse you right here and now, to turn into a stone for eternity, until..”
"No can do, thank you."
Again, I take a moment to savour his reaction. His eyeballs seem to be popping out of his head, and his jaw hangs slack open.
"I've had enough of you, too Gautam."
His name feels funny in my mouth, like my tongue is tied in knots. It almost feels..wrong.
"I loved you. But you’ve lost the right to my love - that love I once had for you. Or that devotion, or that patience." My voice is cracking now, an amalgamation of all the emotion I'd tried to push back this time.
"You were my husband, and I trusted you. I trusted you enough to accept a stranger without question when he resembled you; and this is how you repay me?"
My husband - my wise, sagely Maharshi - seems to be speechless. He opens his mouth, goes quite, and opens it again, only to give up and shake his head.
I take a deep breath, and turn for the door. I wait a moment to see if he stops me.
He doesn't. Of course.
I walk away into the woods, among the trees. I find myself talking to them, and I am comforted by their calming rustles as they hush me to peace. I talk to the birds, and they cheer me up with song, as they fly over me - a fountain of feathers. And I realize, I am free.
For a moment, I'm filled with rage for the one who'd imprisoned me. For the one who took away the years of my youth I hadn't realized I'd lost. And it then hits me, how much I seem to be blaming myself today.
The thought makes me chuckle.
I’m standing here alone now, my thoughts and I, and the dark clouds above us are weeping.
Even as I'm drenched in the tears of the skies, I finally allow myself a smile.
By Sharadhi Hegde
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