Part 2 of 12 · 15 minThe Dancing Bull

If you have ever been to a Telugu village at Sankranti, you know the sound.

First, far away, the thin sweet wail of the sannayi, the long wooden pipe that sounds like a bird singing through its nose. Then the dhum, dhum, dhum of the dolu drum. Then the jingle of bells, jhan-jhan-jhan, coming down the lane. And around the corner comes a bull, dressed up like a bridegroom, with painted horns and a coat of shining cloth sewn with tiny mirrors. Beside the bull walks the Gangireddu man. He talks to the bull, and the bull nods. He tells it to bow, and the bull kneels. He says, "Bless this house," and the bull lowers its great head at the doorstep, and all the children squeal.

The old people say this is where it all began. With Vishnu, and Nandi, and the strangest rehearsal in the history of the three worlds.

"I will not wear that," said Nandi.

They were gathered in a quiet valley at the foot of the mountains, far from any asura's eyes. Vishnu was holding up a coat of red and gold silk, sewn all over with little round mirrors, with a fringe of bells along the bottom and two bunches of peacock feathers for the horns.

"I am the vahana of Mahadeva," said Nandi, which means the one who carries Shiva. "I have carried him across the stars. I have stood guard at the gates of Kailasa since before the mountains were old. I am not a wedding decoration."

"You look lovely," said Vishnu.

"I will look ridiculous."

"You will look," said Vishnu, "exactly like a bull that nobody would ever suspect of being Nandi. Do you want him back or not?"

Nandi stood there breathing hard through his nose for a long moment. Then he lowered his head. Vishnu slipped the coat over him, tied the bells around his ankles, and fixed the peacock feathers to his horns. When Nandi took a step, he went jingle-jingle-jingle. He took another step. Jangle-jangle-jingle.

Behind a rock, Kumbhodara the pot-bellied gana made a noise like a kettle trying not to boil.

"If you laugh," said Nandi, without turning around, "I will sit on you."

Kumbhodara stopped laughing very fast.

Vishnu himself had changed completely. The Lord of Vaikuntha, who wears yellow silk and a crown of jewels and carries a spinning golden disc, was now wearing a patched brown coat, a rough red turban wound crooked on his head, a string of cowrie shells around his neck, and a big, cheerful, slightly silly moustache. He carried a thin bamboo stick for guiding the bull. He looked like a skinny wandering performer from nowhere in particular who had not had a good meal in a week.

The band was having a harder time.

Brahma, the Creator, who had sung the Vedas into existence at the very beginning of time, had been given the sannayi. He had never played one. And Brahma has four faces.

"Which mouth do I blow with?" he asked.

"Any one," said Vishnu.

Brahma put the sannayi to his front mouth and blew. It went PWEEEEEP. His left face winced. He tried his left mouth. The sannayi went PWAAARP. His right face said, "That was worse." All four faces began to argue with each other about whose turn it was, until Vishnu gently suggested that the front face play and the other three hum.

After that, it was beautiful. Brahma closed all eight eyes, and the music that came out of the sannayi was so sweet that the grass in the valley stood up to listen.

Indra, king of heaven, was on the dolu drum, and he played it the way he throws thunderbolts. BOOM! BOOM! BADA-BOOM! The rocks rattled.

"Softer," said Vishnu.

"This is soft," said Indra.

"Softer than thunder," said Vishnu.

Vayu the wind god had the little brass cymbals and kept blowing everyone's turbans off by accident whenever he got excited. Agni the fire god carried the lamp and had to be reminded, several times, not to set the drums on fire. Bhringi, the thin gana with stick legs, was the dancer who would leap and twirl beside the bull. And Kumbhodara was in charge of the food bag, which turned out to be a mistake, because by the second day of rehearsal the food bag was empty and Kumbhodara was not.

Then Vishnu began to rehearse the act with Nandi.

"Basavanna," he said. That is the name village people use for a Gangireddu bull, a loving name. "Greet the king."

Nandi went down on his front knees and touched his forehead to the ground, very gracefully. Jingle.

"Basavanna, is this a generous king?"

Nandi nodded his head up and down. Jangle-jangle.

"Basavanna, is this king the greatest king in all the three worlds?"

Nandi stopped nodding.

"Nandi," said Vishnu patiently. "Nod."

"He is not the greatest king in all the three worlds," said Nandi through his teeth. "He swallowed my master."

"He is the greatest king in the three worlds for about one hour," said Vishnu. "After that, you may say whatever you like."

Nandi nodded. It was the grumpiest nod anyone had ever seen. But he nodded.

On the third morning, they set out.

The road to Gajasura's fortress went through forests and farmland, past little villages with mud walls and haystacks. And the funny thing is, the music was so good that people could not stay indoors, even though everyone knew the road led to the asura's fortress. Farmers leaned on their ploughs. Women came out with water pots on their hips. Children came running, and then followed the band, clapping and dancing, until there was a long tail of giggling children behind the bull, all the way to the edge of the dark forest where the fortress began.

There, the children stopped. Even they would not go further. A little boy called out, "Basavanna! Come back safe!" and Nandi, who was being very dignified, flicked one ear at him. The boy remembered it for the rest of his life.

Gajasura's fortress was made of black rock, piled up like a thundercloud, with a gate so tall that the top of it was lost in mist. Asura guards with spears walked along the walls. The sparrows from Gajasura's ear were sitting on the gatepost.

At the gate stood the gatekeeper, an old, lumpy asura with one broken horn and one eye that squinted.

"Stop," he growled. "What is this noise?"

"Only a Gangireddu troupe, great sir," said Vishnu, bowing and bowing. "Poor performers. We have heard the Maharaja is in a good mood, and we hoped to earn a few grains of rice."

The gatekeeper walked slowly around the band. He poked Indra's drum. He sniffed Agni's lamp. He looked at Brahma very suspiciously, and Brahma pulled his turban low so that only one face showed.

Then the gatekeeper came to Nandi, and stopped.

He looked at the bull for a long, long time with his one squinting eye. He looked at the huge white shoulders under the silk. At the calm dark eyes. At the curve of the horns under the peacock feathers.

"I have seen a bull like this before," he said slowly. "Up on the mountain. The day the Maharaja came home glowing. A big white bull standing in the snow…"

Everyone in the band stopped breathing. Indra's hand crept toward where his thunderbolt would have been. Bhringi froze in the middle of a twirl, on one leg.

Vishnu laughed, a big, silly, cheerful laugh. "Oh, great sir, every white bull in the world thinks he is Nandi. This one is the worst of all. He puts on airs. He refuses to nod. And do you know what he eats? Jaggery. A whole pot of jaggery every morning, or he sulks all day."

Nandi turned his head and gave Vishnu a look that could have melted iron.

The gatekeeper saw the look and burst out laughing. "Ha! That is no god's bull! That is a spoilt village bull if ever I saw one." And he slapped Nandi on the rump and swung open the gate. "Go on in. The Maharaja loves a show."

Nandi walked through the gate very stiffly. And as he passed Vishnu, he muttered, "Jaggery?"

"You were wonderful," whispered Vishnu.

The great hall of Gajasura was as big as a valley, and dark, lit by torches in iron rings. At the far end, on a throne carved out of one enormous rock, lay Gajasura, on his back, patting his belly. His belly glowed, soft and golden, lighting up his chin from below. He was humming.

"Maharaja," said a guard, "a Gangireddu troupe, with a dancing bull."

Gajasura sat up and flapped his ears. "A show? Bring them in! I am in a good mood. I am always in a good mood these days."

The band walked into the middle of the hall. The court gathered around, hundreds of asuras with tusks and horns and curious eyes. Vishnu bowed so low that his silly moustache touched the floor.

And the show began.

"Basavanna," called Vishnu. "This is a mighty king. Greet the king!"

Nandi went down on his front knees and touched his forehead to the black stone floor. The court gasped. Jingle.

"Basavanna, is this king generous?"

Nandi nodded. Up, down, up, down. Jangle-jangle.

"Basavanna," said Vishnu, and here he paused, and gave Nandi the smallest look, "is this the greatest king in all the three worlds?"

There was a tiny moment. Then Nandi nodded so hard that his peacock feathers flew in circles, and Gajasura roared with laughter and slapped his knee so hard the throne cracked.

Then Brahma lifted the sannayi. Indra, very softly, began the drum. Dhum. Dhum. Dhum-dhum.

And Nandi danced.

Now you must understand something. Nandi is not only Shiva's bull. When Shiva dances the Tandava, the great dance that keeps the whole universe spinning, it is Nandi who keeps the rhythm. Nandi knows every beat that has ever been beaten.

So he danced. First slowly, swaying, his bells ringing in time with the drum. Then faster. He rose up on his hind legs and spun. He stepped from side to side, left and right, jhan-jhan, jhan-jhan, his hooves landing exactly on the beat. Vishnu laid a brass plate on the floor, and Nandi stood on it with all four hooves, a whole huge bull balanced on one little plate, and turned around on it in a circle while the asuras shouted in amazement. Bhringi leapt over Nandi's back, and Nandi leapt over Bhringi, and they went back and forth like two birds. Vayu's cymbals flashed. Indra's drum grew louder, DHUM, DHUM, DHUM, and the torches on the walls flickered in time.

The asuras began to clap. Then stamp. Then dance themselves, big clumsy tusked asuras hopping about with their spears in the air. Even the grumpy gatekeeper was jigging in the doorway with his one eye closed.

And then Gajasura felt something very strange.

His belly was glowing brighter. And brighter. Pulsing, in time with the drum. Warm, and happy, and dancing.

Gajasura put his hands on his belly and his eyes went wide.

"He is dancing!" he whispered. "The one inside me. He loves this music. He is dancing!"

Deep inside the asura, Shiva had heard the bells of his own bull, keeping the rhythm of his own dance. And the Lord of the Universe was smiling.

When at last the music stopped, Nandi was standing in the middle of the hall, breathing hard, his feathers crooked and his coat sparkling. There was a moment of complete silence. Then the whole court burst into cheers so loud that the sparrows fell off the gatepost.

Gajasura was wiping tears from his eyes with the end of his trunk. "Enough, enough!" he cried. "I have not been so happy in a thousand years. Performer, you have pleased me. Ask for anything. Gold! Cattle! Land! A palace! Whatever you want, I will give it to you. I give you my word."

Vishnu bowed very low, so that nobody could see his face.

"Maharaja," he said, "I am a simple man. I have no use for gold. But this bull of mine has been sad. He lost his master, you see. His master went away, and the bull has not eaten properly since. Not even jaggery."

"Then I will find his master for him!" said Gajasura grandly. "Tell me who he is, and my armies will search the whole world."

"There is no need to search the world, Maharaja," said Vishnu softly. "His master is inside you."

The hall went so quiet you could hear a torch crackle.

Gajasura looked at the thin performer. Then he looked at the bull, really looked, the way the gatekeeper had. The white hide under the silk. The deep calm eyes. The moonlike curve of the horns. He looked at the sannayi player and saw, under the turban, four faces. He looked at the drummer and saw a flicker of lightning in his fingers. And he looked at the thin performer again, and just for a moment, where the patched coat had been, he saw blue skin, and yellow silk, and the gleam of a golden disc spinning.

He understood everything.

The guards lifted their spears. Hundreds of spears, all pointing at the band. Bhringi stood in front of Nandi with his skinny arms out. Kumbhodara stood in front of Bhringi. Indra's hands crackled.

But Gajasura raised one hand, and every spear stopped.

He sat down heavily on his cracked throne. He did not roar. He did not rage. For a long time he did not say anything at all. And when he spoke, his voice was very quiet, so quiet that only the band could hear.

"You are Hari," he said to Vishnu. "And that is Nandi. And you have come to take him away from me."

"You gave your word, Maharaja," said Vishnu gently. "Anything I asked."

"I did." Gajasura closed his eyes. "I asked him to stay with me forever, and he said yes, because he cannot say no to anyone who loves him. And now I have said yes to you, and I cannot say no either." A strange little laugh came out of him. "Maybe that is what it means to be close to God. You become just as helpless as he is."

He put both hands on his glowing belly and bowed his great head.

"Swami," he said, "I am going to let you go. But I am an asura, and I know what happens next. When you leave, the one who carried you cannot go on living. Before I die, let me speak to you one more time."

A voice answered from inside him, gentle and very near. "Speak, Gajasura. I am listening."

Gajasura bent his head right down, as if he were talking to his own heart, and he whispered. He whispered two wishes, so softly that not even Vishnu, standing three steps away, could hear the words. Only Shiva heard them. And only Shiva answered.

"Tathastu."

Then Gajasura looked up at Nandi, and nodded.

Nandi stepped forward. For a moment the proud bull did not move. He looked at the great asura who had taken his master, and he found, to his surprise, that he was not angry anymore.

"Thank you," Nandi said quietly, "for keeping him warm."

Then he lowered his horns.

There was a flash of light brighter than a hundred suns, and a sound like a mountain opening, and when everyone could see again, Shiva was standing in the middle of the hall, whole and shining, with the crescent moon in his hair and the snake at his throat and his trident in his hand.

Gajasura lay still on the floor of his hall. His eyes were closed, and his face was peaceful, as if he had fallen asleep somewhere warm.

Nobody cheered. Even Indra bowed his head.

Shiva knelt beside the great asura and laid his hand on his forehead for a long moment. Then he did something none of the devas expected. He took Gajasura's thick grey hide and wrapped it around his own shoulders like a shawl. And he turned to Bhringi and Kumbhodara.

"Take his head," he said. "Wrap it in clean cloth. Carry it home to Kailasa as carefully as you would carry me, and keep it safe until I ask for it. Do not ask me why."

The two ganas bowed, and for once, Kumbhodara did not say a single word about food.

Nandi came and pressed his big white forehead against his master's chest, and stayed there. Shiva put his arms around the bull's neck, feathers and bells and all.

"You danced well, old friend," Shiva said.

"I nodded," said Nandi, muffled. "I nodded at everything. It was terrible."

Shiva laughed, and it was the first time the band had heard him laugh in weeks.

"Come," said Vishnu, pulling off his silly moustache. "Your wife has been waiting a very long time."

So Shiva climbed onto Nandi's back, and the band put away its drums, and the strangest troupe of performers the world has ever seen began the long walk home to Kailasa, carrying a god who had been set free by the love of his enemy.

The sparrows went with them. They sat on Shiva's new elephant-hide shawl, as if it were an ear.

Nobody thought, that night, to wonder what Gajasura had whispered. It would be some time before they found out.

And nobody knew that at the very top of Kailasa, while they had been away, Parvati had grown tired of waiting alone. At the door of her rooms, where there had never been a guard of her own, something new was about to stand.