He is the Lord of Obstacles. He removes them. Stamping them into the ground. Or sometimes he creates them. Pushing over tree trunks to block the path. The world is not a smooth space over which we glide. It is a terrain we must cross. A terrain that cannot be trusted.
I have chosen to leave my country and my family and my friends. I was not happy. And I now am alone. I am still not happy. Was this a good idea? Was it home or was it me? Have I simply “pulled a geographic”? I am at the edge of the world.
Vyasa needs to write. But he cannot write. He can speak beguiling words but the signs on the page elude him. This is quite the obstacle. “Speak”, says the betrunked one. “I have broken off one of my tusks and dipped it in ink and I am ready to record your words. You have no excuses now. Speak or renounce your vocation as poet”. Vyasa swallows. A god has mutilated himself for Vyasa’s work. No pressure. He closes his eyes. He speaks. “Om! Having bowed down to Narayana and Nara, the most exalted male being, and also to the goddess Sarasvati, must the word Jaya be uttered…” Pleased, Ekadanta begins to write.
I leave once again. Temporarily this time. For the cafes and cloth shops of Ubud. This is before Eat Pray Love so there are no middle-aged American women seeking to find themselves. It is a year after the Bali bombing. People will do terrible things for their gods. There are few tourists here at all. Just me. Lost.
Siva has a cave (of course he does). There in the mountains, he meditates, contemplating the ultimate mysteries of existence. Or maybe just watching the footy. No one knows for sure. His wife Pavarti is lonely. She bakes some sponge cakes and watches that show where real people do stupid things on camera. It’s not enough. So she fashions a son from clay and ghee. He is slippery and impossible to hold but she is his.
Watching the school children file home through the paddy fields. Feeling the afternoon rain cool my skin. I do a Balinese cookery course all by myself. The lads running it take me to the market for galangal and ginger and garlic and tumeric. I refuse the glass of spirits they offer me. I can barely control myself now.
Pavarti bathes. The long, hot bath soothes her while she can hear her son singing in the distance as he stands guard. Goddesses value their privacy (just ask Artemis). The singing stops. There are two voices. One angry and shouting. One reasonable and resolute. There is the song of a blade being unsheathed and two thuds. A small object and a bigger one. Pavarti, thoroughly annoyed at her bath time being disrupted, calls for her son. There is no answer. She goes to find out what all the commotion is about.
I take an overnight train to Surabaya. Then Solo. Then Yogya. We cook pasta on Christmas Day. The Solo boys bring gifts of booze and weed to Yogya from the East. Afraid of myself, I leave it alone and lose myself in The Life of Pi, that I borrow from James with an allegorical lion who is not Aslan. There are some pirated DVDs and a mattress to sleep on. It rains all day.
In Tamil they call him Pillaiyar.
She finds her husband standing over her son, sword in hand. Her son’s head is nowhere to be seen. Dripping with water and rage, Pavarti asks Siva exactly what the f- he thinks he’s doing. “This insolent nobody got in my way”, blusters Siva. Pavarti pauses. The water in her hair has turned to ice. “That insolent nobody is my son and he was doing my bidding. Where is his head, Siva?” The colour drains from Siva’s face. He mumbles. Pavarti says, “I’m sorry, Siva, I didn’t hear that.” Siva avoids her gaze. “I threw it beyond the mountains.” Pavarti’s face is now a glacier. “He needs a head, you hot-tempered oaf. Go and don’t come back until you have found him a head”. Siva leaves in haste.
I see the trimurti at Prambanan and the Buddhas at Borobudur. In this Islamic country, you must have a god. The Indonesian government recognises six religions: Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism and Confucianism. I recognize that I might need a patron. I greet the dawn over the volcano at Bromo. I travel to Lombok to see the night joined to the day by a rainbow. And then back to Bali. I interview some candidates. In trains. In vans. In hostels and hotels. In churches and masjids and puras. In books. In dreams.
Siva looks all over the mountains and the valleys and the forests and the deserts. But he cannot find the boy’s head. He contemplates going back to his cave. Forever. While he is sitting on the grass, an elephant approaches him. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look sad, Lord. Why is that?” Siva looks at him. “I cannot find my wife’s son’s head. I am exiled until I do.” “Take my head, Lord,” says the elephant. “For what price?” “Worship and protection, Lord,” says the elephant, “Human beings must recognize our divinity if we are to survive here”. Siva nods and unsheathes his sword.
I sleep deeply.
“Why you?”
“I remove obstacles. I am the god of second chances. I am cunning and fun and people love me. You worry that you are slow and boring and no one loves you. I am not merely opportunistic. I am opportunity. Why wouldn’t you take me as your patron?”
“How do I worship you? Do I pray at your alter?”
“Don’t be stupid.” The laughter echoes through his trunk.
“You are not a Hindu. Render unto me what is mine. Remove obstacles. Create opportunities. Give second chances. Give me tribute.”
We bow before each othe-
I am awake. I look out of the window. The motorbikes are scattered like toys in a creche. There has been an earthquake.