Part 4 of 12 · 13 minThe Head That Was Promised

Parvati came to the door with her hair still wet.

She had heard the noise. She had heard shouting, and crashing, and a bull bellowing, and thunder where there should not have been thunder. But she had not come out. Because she had made a promise too. She had promised her son that she trusted him with the door. And a mother who says "I trust you" must not peep out every two minutes to check.

So she had waited, and hummed, and poured water over her shoulders, and told herself, he is doing well, he is my brave one.

When the noise stopped, she smiled. Whoever it was must have given up and gone away. She wrapped a silk sari around herself, pinned back her wet hair, and opened the door, already saying, "My clever boy, who was that making all that…"

She stopped.

He was lying across the threshold.

His staff had rolled to one side. His small hand was still curled, as though it were holding it. The red thread she had tied that morning was still on his wrist. There was a jalebi crumb stuck to his knee.

His head was not on his shoulders.

For a moment, Parvati did not understand what she was seeing. Then she saw her husband standing above the boy, with the trident still in his hand, and all the ganas standing frozen on the steps, and she understood.

It is said that in that moment, the whole world felt it.

In the valleys far below, the birds stopped singing in the middle of a song. The cows in the villages turned their heads toward the north and would not eat. The rivers held their breath and stopped flowing. The wind died on every mountain. And the sun, who sees everything, slid behind the peaks of the Himalaya, because he could not bear to look.

Parvati knelt down and gathered the small body into her lap.

She did not scream. Not at first. She rocked him, slowly, back and forth, back and forth, the way mothers rock babies to sleep. And she made a sound that none of the gods who heard it ever forgot. It was a soft, broken, humming sound. It was the sound of every mother in every age who has ever lost a child.

Jaya and Vijaya came running, and saw, and sank down on the floor, weeping. Vijaya did not drop anything. There was nothing left in her hands to drop.

"He was my son," Parvati said at last, very quietly. "I made him this morning with my own hands. I gave him my own breath. He asked me why the lamp burns. He asked me if he could eat the snow. He called me Amma." Her voice cracked. "He did nothing wrong. He did only what I asked him to do."

Shiva's face had gone grey beneath the ash.

"Devi," he began, "I did not know. I did not know he was yours."

"You did not ask!"

Parvati raised her head.

And her eyes were no longer the soft brown eyes of Gauri, the gentle one. They were red, red like a forest fire seen from far away. And something enormous was waking up behind them.

"You did not ask who he was," she said. "You did not wait even one minute. You! They call you Bholashankara, the easily pleased one, the kind one. You had patience for Gajasura. You stood in the snow and gave a demon anything he wanted. And for a little child who was guarding his mother's door, you had no patience at all."

The ground began to tremble.

A crack ran across the courtyard stones. Snow slid off the roof in great sheets and thundered down the mountain. The lamps along the corridor flared up tall and then went out, one by one, as though a great wind were blowing through them, though there was no wind. The air grew hot, so hot that the snow on the steps began to melt and hiss.

And on the palace wall behind Parvati, in the flickering light, her shadow began to change. It grew taller than the wall. It grew more arms: four, eight, ten, each one holding a shadow weapon. Its hair spread out like smoke.

The devas fell on their knees. Indra dropped his thunderbolt. They all knew what this was. When the Mother is truly angry, she does not argue. She becomes Kali, the dark one, and Kali does not stop until the worlds are ash.

On the steps, the ganas huddled together like frightened children. Kumbhodara was crying openly, big tears rolling down into his beard.

"It is our fault," he sobbed. "We ran at him. We tried to push him away. He shared his jalebis with me, and I ran to fetch Swami, and now…"

"I tried to trick him with dancing," whispered Bhringi, hanging his head.

Nandi said nothing at all. He lay down on the snow with his great chin on his hooves, and his big eyes were wet. He was remembering how the little boy had said, "Sorry, uncle."

Parvati stood up, still holding the body of her son. Her voice was no longer a whisper. It was the voice of the mountains themselves.

"Bring him back," she said. "Bring my son back to life. And make him honoured above every god in this hall. Or I will unmake everything that you have made."

Brahma trembled. His four faces went pale. Even Vishnu, who is never afraid of anything, stepped forward very slowly and spoke in his gentlest voice.

"Sister," he said, "it will be done. Mahadeva. It must be done. Now."

Shiva was already moving.

He knelt down beside Parvati and the child. He looked at the small golden neck. Then he looked down the steps, where the boy's head had rolled into the snow.

"Bring me the head," he said. "Quickly."

Bhringi ran down the steps and came back carrying it gently in both hands, the way you would carry a bird's nest. The red kumkum dot was still there on the little forehead.

But when Shiva took it, his face fell.

The trident of Shiva is not an ordinary weapon. It is made of the fire that ends the world. And where it had touched the boy, it had left the head scorched and changed, like a clay pot that has been cracked in a kiln. Shiva held it against the golden shoulders. He placed his hand over it. He breathed his power into it.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. Nothing.

"This head cannot return to this body," he said heavily. "My own fire has sealed it. No power in creation can put it back as it was. Not even mine."

Parvati's shadow on the wall rose higher. The mountain groaned.

"Then find another!" shouted Indra, in a panic. "Ganas! Go! Search the three worlds! Bring back a head, any head, quickly!"

The ganas scattered like sparrows. They ran north and south and east and west. Some came back dragging a lion's head from a painting. Some came back with a pumpkin. One, very confused, came back with a coconut and said hopefully, "It is round?"

Now, children, you may laugh a little, and so did Vijaya, through her tears, for just one second. But then everyone was quiet again. Because none of these would do. You cannot give a child just any head. It must be the right one.

Shiva sat very still, holding the scorched little head in his hands. He closed his eyes. He searched his heart for an answer.

And in the silence, he remembered a whisper.

He remembered a dark fortress. A great hall. A demon lying on the floor with a peaceful face. He remembered two wishes whispered so softly that not even Vishnu, standing a few steps away, had heard them.

Shiva opened his eyes.

"Kumbhodara," he said. "Bhringi. When we left Gajasura's fortress, I asked you to carry something and keep it safe, and not to ask me why. Bring it to me. Now."

The two ganas looked at each other. Then they ran, faster than they had ever run in their lives.

They came back with three other ganas helping, because what they carried was so large that it took five of them to lift it. They set it down on the melting snow of the palace steps, and Kumbhodara, with shaking hands, pulled away the cloth that covered it.

It was the head of an elephant.

It had great fanned ears, like winnowing baskets. It had a long, curling trunk. It had two tusks as white as the snows. Its eyes were closed, as though it were only sleeping peacefully. And its face, even in death, looked strangely happy.

It was the head of Gajasura.

The devas gasped. Brahma took a step back. Parvati stared.

Shiva stood up, and his voice filled the whole mountain.

"Hear me, all of you," he said. "When I stepped out of Gajasura's body, he asked me for two things before he died. You all saw the first. He said, 'Swami, let my skin never leave you. Wear it always, so that I will still be close to you.' That is why I carry it." He touched the elephant hide across his shoulders.

"The second thing he asked was this. He said, 'Swami, do not let my head rot in the dust. Let it be worshipped. Let it be honoured by the whole world, by gods and humans, before anything else is honoured, for as long as the worlds last.'"

He looked down at the child in Parvati's arms.

"And I said, 'So be it.' I did not know how I would keep that promise. I have been wondering all the way home. Now I know."

Parvati looked at the enormous grey head. Her many-armed shadow grew still on the wall.

"You would give my son," she whispered, "the head of an asura? Of a demon?"

"I would give your son the head of a devotee," said Shiva gently, "who loved me so much that he let me go. It is the only head in all the three worlds that has already been promised the first worship. Devi, whatever face he wears, he will still be your son. His heart is yours. His breath is yours. His stubbornness," and here, just for a moment, the corner of Shiva's mouth moved, "his stubbornness is certainly yours. Let his face be a promise kept."

Parvati looked down at the small body in her lap for a long, long time.

Then she looked up at the elephant's peaceful face. And slowly, she nodded.

The red light faded from her eyes. The shadow on the wall shrank back into the shape of one woman. And the hot air cooled, just a little.

Five ganas lifted the elephant's head. As they carried it close to the golden body, a wonderful thing happened. The head began to shrink. It grew smaller, and smaller, the great ears folding in, the long trunk curling up, until it was exactly the right size for a boy of eight.

Shiva took it in his hands and set it gently on the golden shoulders. He placed one palm over the place where the two met. Parvati placed her palm over his.

Brahma began to chant the oldest words there are. Vishnu raised his hand in blessing, and a soft blue light shone from it. And Shiva closed his eyes and breathed out.

It is said that the breath that left him then was the first breath of a new world.

For a moment, nothing happened. Everyone leaned forward. Kumbhodara was holding Bhringi's hand so tightly that Bhringi squeaked.

Then the round golden tummy moved. Up. Down.

The little trunk twitched. It curled. It uncurled, and patted the floor, as though looking for something.

The great ears flapped. Once. Twice. Flap, flap.

And the eyes opened. They were the very same eyes as before: bright, stubborn, delighted. Only now they looked out from the wise, gentle face of a baby elephant.

He blinked up at the sky. And the first thing he saw, leaning over him, was his mother.

"Amma," he said.

Parvati burst into tears and laughter at the same time and pulled him into her arms, trunk and ears and all, and his trunk wrapped around her neck and held on.

The sun came back out from behind the peaks. The rivers down in the valleys started flowing again with a great happy rush. The birds finished their songs. And the ganas cheered so loudly that avalanches went tumbling harmlessly down faraway slopes. Kumbhodara picked up Bhringi and spun him around. Nandi stood up and shook the snow off his coat and pretended he had something in his eye.

When Parvati finally let go, the boy sat up and looked around. He saw the ganas he had knocked down. He saw the bull he had pushed down the steps. He saw the devas. And then he saw the tall man with the ash on his skin and the trident in his hand, and his new ears went back flat, and he reached for his staff.

Shiva set the trident down on the stone, far away. Then he knelt in front of the boy, so that their eyes were level.

"I am your father," he said.

The boy's trunk went still.

"I did not know you," said Shiva. "I did not stop to ask. I was tired, and proud, and in a hurry, and I hurt you. I am sorry. You guarded your mother's door against the whole of heaven, and you did not step back, not even from me. There has never been a braver guard in all the worlds."

The boy looked at his father for a long moment, with his head tilted, the way elephants look at things they are deciding about.

Then he said, "You did not listen."

"No," said Shiva. "I did not."

"Amma says you should always listen before you do something."

"Your Amma," said Shiva, "is very wise. I will listen from now on. Especially to you."

The boy thought about this. Then, very solemnly, he put down his staff. He reached out his new trunk, and gently touched his father's feet.

Shiva's face broke into the biggest smile Kailasa had ever seen. He lifted his son up, high above his head, and the boy laughed and flapped his ears, and Shiva turned to face all the gods and all the ganas.

"This is my son," he said, "and Parvati's son. Now we will name him together."

Parvati came and stood beside them.

"His name," said Shiva, "is Gajanana, the elephant-faced one."

"And Vinayaka," said Parvati, "for there is no leader above him."

"From this day," said Shiva, and his voice rang across the three worlds, "before any worship, before any journey, before any wedding, or any new house, or any book, or any new work of any kind, he will be worshipped first. Whoever forgets him will find obstacles in their path. Whoever remembers him will find the path made clear."

All the gods bowed their heads to the little elephant-faced boy. And the boy, who did not quite understand what was happening, bowed back to all of them, very politely, and nearly fell over because his new head was heavier than he was used to.

Kumbhodara caught him. "Welcome back, friend," he whispered.

"Do you still have jalebis?" whispered Vinayaka.

And so the boy made of turmeric became the Lord Who Comes First. And somewhere, far away, it is said, the soul of Gajasura was finally at peace, because his promise had been kept.

But Kailasa was not going to stay peaceful for long. Because far below the mountain, in the fields and the storehouses of the world, something small and grey and terribly hungry had started to gnaw.