Part 3 of 12 · 14 minThe Boy Made of Turmeric

On Kailasa, Parvati did not know that her husband was already free.

No messenger had come running up the mountain. No conch had blown. The ganas, Shiva's wild and noisy attendants, were scattered across the slopes with nothing to do. One was trying to teach a mountain goat to dance, and the goat was not interested.

Inside the palace it was very quiet. It was the kind of quiet a house has when the most important person in it has been gone too long. The big drum, the damaru, hung silent on its peg. Nobody sang in the courtyard.

Parvati walked from room to room. She stood at the window and looked down at the clouds, where the road came up from the valley, and there was nobody on it.

Now, you might think that a goddess, the Mother of the whole world, would never feel lonely. But Parvati had been brave for many, many weeks, and being brave for a long time is tiring, even for a goddess.

"That is enough," she said at last, to nobody. "Today I will at least have a proper bath."

Her two maids, Jaya and Vijaya, came hurrying. They were sisters, and they were very different. Jaya was tall and serious and never dropped anything. Vijaya was small and quick and dropped everything, and laughed about it.

They brought warm water scented with vetiver roots, which smell like rain on dry earth. They brought soft cloths and a comb of sandalwood. And Vijaya brought, without dropping it, a silver bowl of nalugu.

If you have ever been scrubbed before a festival, you know nalugu. It is the soft yellow paste of turmeric and gram flour, with a little sandal and a little milk, that mothers and grandmothers rub onto children before an auspicious bath. It is the same paste that makes a bride glow gold on her wedding morning.

"Go and rest," Parvati told the sisters kindly. "I want to be alone a little while."

When they had gone, she sat down beside the bath and began to rub the nalugu over her arms.

As she rubbed, the paste dried and rolled away from her skin in soft golden crumbs, the way it always does. And without really noticing, she gathered the crumbs into her palm.

She was thinking. She was thinking that this great palace had hundreds of guards and not one of them was truly hers. Every gana on the mountain, however loyal, belonged first to Shiva. If Nandi wanted to walk into her rooms, not one gana would stop him just because she said so.

"I have nobody of my own," she whispered.

She looked down. The golden crumbs had pressed together into a warm little lump in her hand.

Almost without thinking, she began to shape it.

A round head. Two little arms. Two sturdy little legs. And a tummy that came out much rounder than she meant, so round that she laughed out loud for the first time in weeks, and decided to leave it that way. She pressed two tiny dents for eyes. She pinched a small nose. With the tip of her fingernail she drew a curving smile.

It was a little boy.

Parvati held him in her palm and looked at him for a long, long time. And then, because she was not only a wife waiting for her husband, but Shakti herself, the power that makes the stars turn and the seeds sprout, she lifted the golden figure close to her lips and breathed on it, very gently, the way you blow on a spark to make it a flame.

The little figure grew warm.

It grew heavy.

It wriggled.

And then it sneezed. "Achhoo!"

A puff of turmeric flew up into the air, and Parvati gasped and laughed at the same time. She set him down on the floor, and in the space of one breath he grew, and grew, until he was not the size of a palm but the size of a real boy of about eight years. He was sturdy and bright-eyed, the colour of turmeric and morning sun, with a round belly, bare feet, and a grin that reached all the way up to his eyes.

He looked around the room. He looked at the bath. He looked at the lamp. Then he looked up at Parvati, and his whole face lit up.

"Amma," he said.

Just like that. As if he had always known.

Parvati knelt and held him so tightly that he squeaked. When she finally let go, her eyes were wet, and she was laughing, and he was laughing too, though he was not sure why.

"Amma," he said again, because he liked the word. "Amma, what is that?"

"That is a lamp."

"Why is it burning?"

"So that we can see."

"What is that white stuff outside the window?"

"That is snow."

"Can I eat it?"

"No," said Parvati, and then, "well, a little."

"Why is my tummy making a noise?"

Parvati stopped. She listened. It was true. From somewhere inside that round golden belly came a long, low rumble, like far-off thunder.

"Oh," she said, delighted. "You are hungry."

She clapped her hands, and Jaya and Vijaya came running back, and stopped in the doorway with their mouths wide open.

"Devi," said Jaya, who never dropped anything, "who is that?"

Vijaya dropped the tray she was carrying.

"This is my son," said Parvati proudly. "I made him just now. Bring him something to eat. Bring him the best thing in the kitchen."

Vijaya came back with a single laddu, round and golden and shining with ghee. The boy took it in both hands. He sniffed it. He turned it over. He took one tiny, careful bite.

His eyes went very wide.

Then the whole laddu disappeared.

"More?" he asked hopefully, with crumbs on his chin.

Jaya brought a plate. The plate disappeared. Vijaya brought a basket. The basket, too, somehow became empty. The sisters looked at each other and began to giggle.

"Devi," said Vijaya, "he eats like a whole family."

"Then he will be strong," said Parvati. "Now, what shall we call him?"

That began a game. Jaya suggested grand names from the old stories. The boy thought about each one, very seriously, and shook his head. Vijaya suggested funny names, like Little Laddu and Round Tummy, and the boy laughed so hard he fell over. At last Parvati held up her hand.

"We will keep his name a secret for now," she said, "until his father comes home. A son should be named by both his parents."

"Who is my father?" asked the boy.

"The greatest one of all," said Parvati softly. "You will meet him soon."

Then she dressed him. She tied a little silk dhoti around his waist. She tied a red thread around his wrist for protection. She pressed a dot of kumkum, the red powder of blessing, onto his forehead. And she gave him a staff of polished wood, taller than he was, with brass rings at each end.

"Now listen carefully," she said, kneeling in front of him. "I am going to take my bath. I want you to stand at this door and guard it. Whoever comes, whatever they say, however important they are, do not let anybody inside until I call you. Can you do that for me?"

The boy stood up very straight. He planted his staff on the ground, thump. He puffed out his round chest, which also puffed out his round tummy.

"Nobody will get past me, Amma," he said.

Parvati kissed the top of his head, and went in to her bath, and closed the door.

The boy stood at the door.

He took his job very, very seriously.

A butterfly came fluttering down the corridor towards the door. The boy pointed his staff at it. "My mother is bathing," he said sternly. "Go around." The butterfly, astonished, went around.

Then came the first real challenge.

Bhringi, one of Shiva's most devoted ganas, came wandering by. Bhringi was so thin you could almost see through him, and he loved nothing in the world except Shiva and dancing. He stopped in front of the door and stared at this strange golden boy.

"Who are you, little yellow one?" he asked. "Move aside. I always sit by this door when I am bored."

"Not today," said the boy.

Bhringi grinned. He began to dance. He spun on one toe. He bent backwards like a bow. He leapt and twirled, all knees and elbows, and every time he twirled, he came a little closer to the door, hoping the boy would be so busy watching that he would forget his job.

The boy watched. The boy clapped. The boy said, "That is very good dancing." And when Bhringi twirled right up to the door handle, the boy stuck out his staff, and Bhringi twirled straight over it and landed in a heap on the floor.

"Very good dancing," the boy repeated politely. "But still no."

Bhringi ran off to tell the others.

Next came Kumbhodara. Kumbhodara was a gana with a belly like a big clay pot, and he was the most cheerful and the most hungry person on the whole mountain. He had heard there was a new boy who liked laddus, and he had a plan.

He came around the corner carrying a plate piled high with sweets. Laddus. Jalebis. Sticky golden things dripping with jaggery. He waved the plate under the boy's nose.

"Hello, friend," he said. "I think you must be very hungry, standing here all alone. Why don't you go and sit over there in the sun and eat these, and I will guard the door for you?"

If the boy had had a trunk, it would have twitched. He did not have one yet. But his nose twitched. His tummy rumbled loudly. His eyes followed the plate as it moved left, and right, and left again.

Kumbhodara smiled. He was sure he had won.

The boy thought about it. Then he held out his hand, took exactly one laddu from the plate, and put it in his mouth.

"Thank you," he said, chewing. "Now, if I leave the door, you will go inside. But if you give me the whole plate, and I stay here, then we both get sweets, and my mother stays happy. That is better for everyone."

Kumbhodara opened his mouth. He closed it. He looked down at the plate. He could not find anything wrong with this argument. Slowly he handed over the plate, sat down on the step beside the boy, and the two round tummies ate jalebis together in friendly silence.

"You are clever," Kumbhodara said at last, licking his fingers. "I like you. But I must warn you, little one. Nobody on this mountain says no to our lord."

"Who is your lord?" asked the boy.

Before Kumbhodara could answer, the conches began to blow.

Boooom. Boooom. Boooom.

The sound came rolling up the mountain like a wave. Then drums, dhum-dhum-dhum, and cymbals, jhan-jhan-jhan, and hundreds of voices shouting for joy. Kumbhodara leapt to his feet and scattered jalebis everywhere.

"He's back!" he cried. "Swami is back!" And he ran off down the corridor as fast as his big belly would let him.

Up the long road came a great procession. Ganas were running ahead, shouting and turning cartwheels in the snow. Behind them came a troupe of musicians, still dressed as village performers. And in the middle of it all walked a huge white bull, still wearing silk and bells, and on his back sat a tall man with ash on his skin, a snake around his neck, an elephant hide across his shoulders, and matted hair piled high on his head, with a silver crescent moon shining in it.

Shiva had come home.

He did not wait to be announced. He had been trapped for weeks inside a demon's belly, in the dark, and all he wanted in the whole world was to see his wife's face. He jumped down from Nandi's back and strode up the palace steps, three at a time, straight toward Parvati's rooms.

A small golden boy with a big staff stepped into his path.

"Stop," said the boy. "You cannot go in."

Shiva looked down at him, puzzled. "And who are you?"

"I am the guard. My mother is bathing. Nobody goes in."

"Your mother?" Shiva almost laughed. "Child, this is my house. That is my wife. Step aside."

"I do not know you," said the boy firmly. "Amma said nobody. So you are a nobody. Please go away."

Behind Shiva, every single gana gasped at once. Nobody had ever, ever spoken to their lord like that. Kumbhodara covered his eyes. Bhringi fainted.

Shiva's smile faded a little. He was tired. He had had a very long month. And he was not used to being argued with at his own front door by somebody the size of a water pot.

"Ganas," he said, "please remove this child."

A dozen ganas rushed forward.

The boy did not panic. He watched them come, the way a good cricketer watches the ball. At the last moment he stepped sideways, and the first two ganas crashed into each other. He spun his staff low, and three more went tumbling over it like skittles.

More ganas came. More ganas went rolling down the steps holding their heads and saying, "Ow."

Then Nandi lowered his great horns. His hooves struck sparks on the stone. "Enough of this," the bull snorted. "I carried Swami out of a demon's belly. I am not going to be stopped by a sweet-shop boy." And he charged.

The ground shook. The bells on his coat jangled. Everyone expected the boy to be flattened like a chapati.

Instead, the boy dropped his staff, planted his bare feet, and grabbed Nandi by both horns.

For one long moment, the mighty bull and the little golden boy pushed against each other, forehead to forehead. Nandi's eyes bulged. The boy's cheeks puffed out. His round belly wobbled. And then, very slowly, inch by inch, the boy pushed the great bull of Kailasa backwards, down one step, down two steps, down three, until Nandi sat down on his tail in astonishment and stayed there.

"Sorry, uncle," said the boy, a little out of breath. "Amma said nobody."

Now the devas who had come up with the procession stepped forward, frowning. Indra lifted his thunderbolt, and it crackled. Vayu, the wind god, sent a howling storm down the corridor. Agni, the fire god, raised a wall of flame.

The boy looked at the thunderbolt. He looked at the fire. Then he did something very clever. He stood exactly in the middle of the doorway, so that the storm wind blew the flames straight back toward Agni, and Agni had to leap out of his own fire. And when Indra's thunderbolt came flashing down, the boy lifted his brass-ringed staff high, and the lightning ran down the staff, into the stone floor, and fizzled out harmlessly, leaving only a smell of burnt dust.

"Amma said nobody," he panted.

Even Vishnu stepped forward then, still dressed in his performer's coat, looking at the boy with narrowed eyes, as though he could see something in the child that nobody else could. He opened his mouth to speak.

But something had risen in Shiva.

It was not quite anger. It was the old, wild thing in him, the part that dances at the end of the world. His eyes grew dark as storm clouds. The drum at his waist began to beat all by itself, dum, dum, dum. He did not stop to ask again who the boy's mother was. He did not stop to wonder why a child made of turmeric would fight all of heaven to guard a door.

He raised his trident.

The boy saw it coming. And he did not run.

He looked straight up at Shiva with his bright, stubborn eyes. And the only word he said was, "Amma."

There was a flash of light, quick as a blink.

And then the little golden boy lay still across the doorway he had promised to guard, and his head, with the red kumkum dot still on it, was no longer on his shoulders.

The drum stopped.

The ganas froze. Kumbhodara's hands fell from his face. Nandi stood up from the steps with his ears flat against his head. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

Shiva lowered his trident. The wildness drained out of his eyes, and he looked down at the small body at his feet, at the red thread on its wrist, at the jalebi crumbs still scattered on the step, and something cold went through the Lord of the Universe.

On the step, Kumbhodara whispered, "He shared his sweets with me."

And behind the closed door, the sound of splashing water suddenly stopped.