Women have been cursed by mythical legends, to never be able to hold secrets. And you will agree; no woman ever kept her mouth shut about anything she had been specifically told to keep quiet about. She promises to share it only with you and before you know it, it's an open secret.
But curses fade over time, jinxes and magic wear over time. Especially in the face of love. Especially so.
I have my own secrets. I stay in a village, off the coast of Narmada, the river that arouses lust even inside sages who have practiced penance for decades now. The Narmada courses and turns and twists and curls and unfurls, like a maiden waking up from her wedding bed, swathed in swirls of saree, her nakedness glimpsing at its first new un-virgin morning. In surprise. With a lazy glance at her lover from last night. The Narmada winds her way into crevices, deep enough to carve caves over millennia. But I am interested in only one cave.
The temple of the Lord. He, in his crowning glory of dark matted hair, who could not be tempted by the great god of love (and reduced him to ashes), in His tiger skin wrapped tight around His waist, His muscled legs crossed over, His trident dripping ashes and blood, His eyes half closed, His deep, dark eyes turned upward in glorious meditation, His arms flexed on His knees, His palms firm.
The Lord, who will not cast a single glance in my direction when I go up to Him with my plate of bel leaves and raw milk. Who I will bathe with milk, pouring it gently down His head as rivulets, like small Ganga rivers, will flow down His forehead. His skin will bristle from the cold milk. His lips will hold steady, stopping the milk from entering His otherwise gently parted lips.
And I will utter unto myself, that perhaps, one day, the day will come, when the Lord will claim me. Perhaps if I visit Him enough, perhaps one day, if He opens His eyes, if He so much as looks at me, just once. Just once, and He will be mine. Mine to keep. If He only sees these eyes, dream-like and almond-shaped, dark with desire to possess Him, these lips, full and blossoming, waiting for His. If only once, He sees this waist, slender and fair, waiting for His hands to wrap to wrap around them.
If only, He will see these breasts, tender and quivering in their eternal wait for His lips, these legs, swathed in fabric that want to be torn by His able fingers. The arms that are waiting to be grabbed, pinned down and crushed under His weight. And this flower, untouched and pining, waiting to receive His godhood, to feel The Destroyer bestow her with life.
Devotees throng His temple everyday, with their offerings and their pleas and I am sure they receive their desires in time. To them He is stone...centuries old, built several hundred years ago. And He grants their wishes. But He won't grant me mine. He won't grant me this although I see Him breathe, I see Him sigh, I see His eyes sway upwards, His muscles taught with the tension of the body responding to the miracles of His mind. If He lets me see Him, why won't He let me touch Him?
Why won't He let me run my hands over His chest, why won't He react to my silent protests, requests, pleadings even? Why won't He let me lead Him home, why won't He let me kiss His palms, why won't He let me show Him how much I need Him to become the woman I really am?
He won't grant me my need to have Him grab me, carry me over to His bed, His pedestal even, tear my clothes, knead and squeeze and kiss and fondle my breasts, my flesh, my thighs, my back, suck on the honey, the nectar I have been saving for Him, and tell me what it tastes like, hold up my waist to meet His thrusts, His push, His universes inside of me, His dance and His anger and His discipline and His creations pounded inside me until I am just like Her, the Narmada, who ran down His forehead one day, when He was making love to His wife? Just like Narmada, winding, glowing, twisting, turning, writhing, in pain, in pleasure, in agony, in ecstasy, the colors blurring my eyes, still a virgin and yet completely violated, because she was never touched but was born of the perspiration of the Lord in His heat for His wife?
He won't. If the god of love and lust did not succeed, what are the chances I will? What are the chances I will see Him collapse on me, spent and exhausted and finally content, His eons of penance bringing fruit inside of me, His juices creating their own rivers and seas inside the universe I hold within? What are the chances? Unless of course, I turn to stone too, over the years, over these centuries, and wait, wait, wait until He obliges?
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