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www.the-criterion.com The Criterion: An International Journal in English ISSN 0976-8165 would be rid of the word before he arrived at the tents; then he would signal his people to follow him down to the river, and they would return with arms overflowing with clippings of the plant. These were the busy times, when the middle aged and elderly worked together to extract sap from the plant – to stir elixir in large batches before the sun crawled behind the mountains for the night. In the dirt, the youth used sticks to draw bulls and birds and rabbits, and they placed moonstones and opals where the eyes and nose would be. They were preparing for the ritual, and because this time it was Chandra’s own mother who would go, Chandra did not stay with the other middle-aged men to watch the elixir bubble and boil over the fire, but instead, he stood with the youth, drawing images in the earth. His depiction was of a disc-shaped chariot led by ten horses and an antelope, a chain of moonstones for reins. When Chandra finished, he knelt and kissed the dusty earth, and then he licked his thumb and pressed it to the antelope’s forehead, right between the two opal eyes. “Breathe and burn, my friend,” he said, allowing himself, finally, the use of language. “Breathe and burn.” “Breathe and burn!” said the children, dancing around Chandra’s drawing. “Breathe and burn!” chanted Chandra’s mother, stirring the elixir with a silver handled ladle. Night had begun to fall, and the sun winked one last time before dipping behind the mountain and turning guardianship of the earth over to his sister, the moon. The elixir ‘s sweet aroma began to dance and flirt on the wind, seducing everyone to the cauldron to sip from the ladle. After Chandra took his drink, he walked forward and started a new chant, and the others followed, in a wavy line that fluttered like a wing before rounding into a circle. Chandra’s mother sat in the middle, atop the disc Chandra had drawn, ladle to her lips, eyes pressed shut like two sleeping babies, the corners of her mouth turned up in that peaceful half smile so common to mystics. “I’m ready,” she said, taking her final sip and setting the ladle on the ground. The circle broke back into a wave as each person came forward and kissed Chandra’s mother on the forehead, between her two eyes. Chandra was both first and last, two kisses for his mother – a perfect circle. Chandra’s mother nodded her head, a half bow to Chandra, and Chandra made a full bow back, then took his place among the others. He looked up. The sky had begun its show. Pink, yellow and tangerine lights swerved and danced in streaks across the dark canvass of night. Stars transformed themselves into bulls and bunnies and birds, animated by the scent of divine elixir. Chandra’s mother stood and closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the moon, that big bright drop, had lowered and swooped her back up with it, and they rode like sisters into the distance, across the night, pulled by a team of horses with an antelope at the lead. Chandra’s Vol. II. Issue. III 292 September 2011
www.the-criterion.com The Criterion: An International Journal in English ISSN 0976-8165 mother’s silver hair glistened in the night like waves of tinsel or the slippery sides of fish. She was moving to the space between breaths, between thoughts, between lives. Going there to stay. “Sing eternity, Mother,” Chandra said, waving an arm up towards the sky, his voice filled with emotion. ”Sing eternity on bright lungs!” “Sing eternity,” the others called as they waved to the disappearing streak of hair. And soon Chandra’s mother was no more than a twinkling in the distance, and the moon had gone back to her proper place above the mountain, and Chandra gathered up the others to head back to the tents. Like always, they needed a good night’s rest. In the morning there was planting to be done. Vol. II. Issue. III 293 September 2011
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