Untitled - Katha

8 ◆
yagna fire. This is the land that her distraught lover walked, her
corpse slung across his shoulder, refusing to let her go. And this,
the exact spot where the great goddess’s vagina, her yoni fell, after
Vishnu in his great mercy decimated her body into fifty one pieces.
Fifty one places to worhip the goddess, fifty one shakti peeths,
Sarma would murmur, but this is the most holy. Because Sati’s
sacred yoni fell here.
Ratnadhar was an artist. He had a loyal following among the
disciples. Delicate hands. A trim figure. A finely chiselled nose.
The crown of thick black hair complemented his aristocratic
bearing. About a year ago, it was said, he had lost his mind. No
doctor, north or south, could cure him. None but Chinnamasta
Jatadhari. And Ratnadhar took up his brush again. He soon
became the ascetic’s most ardent disciple.
And now, as was his practice every morning, Chinnamasta
Jatadhari sat before the altar, his eyes closed, his fingers tracing
gestures in the air. Then, with a deep murmur of “Bhairav! Bhairav!”
invoking the fearful form of Shiva, he gathered his palms in the
turtle shape, the yoni mudra. Ratnadhar watched in awe.
Everyone knew that the secret yoni mudra must never be revealed.
It is the very absolute, representing consciousness, granting
liberation. At last, from somewhere deep within the jatadhari:
“Hram. Hreem. Hraum.” Each of these seed mantras corresponded
to an aspect of the great goddess. Together the sounds represented
all of divinity.
But to which deity had he offered his prayers? No one knew.
Not even his favourite disciple, Ratnadhar.
The jatadhari broke the early morning veneration with a loud
mouthful of water from the small pitcher at his side. He drew the
young disciple to him, fingers grazing his hair in blessing. Then,
The Man from Chinnamasta