Note: This original piece was done by Kirthiga Ravindaran and submitted to The Arts House Limited (Singapore) for the Golden Point Awards 2021. This is a participation piece, not the winning entry and has not been published on any other platforms, physical or digital.
A painful grunt, a push and an impatient sigh. Deep pants, another elongated groan and another push as she slumped back on the soft cushions wearing a smile of victory. The room was punctured with my shrill, piercing cries that overpowered the silent ones that were emanating from my mother as I was, for the first time, placed against her warm, bare chest, devoid of blood and birthing fluids. She touched me, mouth slightly agape at her gift of her miraculous feat, tear tracks staining her dark, tired face. While she nursed me against her chest, my mother gently ran her finger against my cheek and crooned.
My Raja.
My prince.
Her only Raja.
She draped me in her finest sarees when my limbs straightened and were ready to play dress-up. I paraded in her faded simple cotton silks, her tatty wedding embroidery, expensive Kanchivaram weaves, sultry georgettes, ink-bled Kalamkaris that had a subtle whiff of cow-dung, her thread-bare dance sarees and Kerala kasavus that smelt like her ancestral soil. Each hugged me warmly just like they hugged her, begging me to draw the munthanai close to my chest as my eyes accentuated with her dark kohl and forehead adorned with saffron. Some days she lent me her silver anklets and gold bangles, as I tapped my feet to her animated claps until a sweat broke out on my forehead. With a final twirl, I’d then dramatically fall on her lap as she plants a wet kiss on my forehead, enveloping me with her hugs and laughter that tinkled just like her anklets.
Look here, my prince.
My Raja.
My prince.
Her only Raja.
“Lotus-eyed, four-armed and the handsome Vishnu, propagator of the universe alongside the creator Brahma and destroyer Shiva, had one less-known avatar that he undertook to restore balance in the world, a female avatar – Mohini was her name.
The enchantress that she was, she first appeared in Hindu texts during the churning of the milk ocean to retrieve the stolen pot of the nectar of immortality from the vile Asuras, by besotting them with her beauty.
Mischievous Krishna, another avatar of Vishnu and playmaker of the biggest holy war that the texts have ever seen, transformed into Mohini to marry Aravan, a man who was set to die the following day for no woman wanted to bed a man whose death was imminent.
Mohini appeared again, years after the cessation of the war, to entice Shiva the third-eyed yogi to beget a son with him.
Vishnu the preserver, as Mohini, the enchantress. The masculine and the feminine.”
Sitting at the foot of her bed, I listened to her narrate the tale of Vishnu as Mohini, the femme fatale. Her revelation of Krishna transforming into the breathtaking Mohini to marry Aravan; Vishnu as the enchantress Mohini, she said, who even enthralled the fierce Shiva. A chill ran down my spine at each utterance of the name, oblivious to my mother.
Mohini.
What happened, my prince?
My Raja.
My prince.
Her only Raja.
I scrubbed as hard as I could, stifling a sob over the din of the pouring shower. I scrubbed and scrubbed, wishing my skin would fall off along with the vile touch of the boys from my class. They wanted to know if I wore underwear or panties. They assumed that I had a chronic disease because I walked with a different gait. They knew I wasn’t a swashbuckling hero that my physical form, the body I was born into and the gender that my privates divulged, was supposed to identify with. They assuaged themselves that I carried an unbearable sin of effemination, oblivious to the secret burden that I had propped up on my shoulders no matter how hard I tried to square my shoulders, balled my fists, raised my voice, unwillingly teased the girls in my class or touched myself under my blanket at night. Their taunts were ringing loudly in my ears.
Why didn’t you wear a saree today?
What’s in between your legs?
My mother knocked softly.
Why so long, my prince?
Her only prince.
Her only Raja.
While handing a crisp dollar note to the cashier, my eyes snapped up to the Ardhanarishwarar frame that hung above the counter, three incense sticks propped up on a stand and smoking tenderly, filling the shop with a sickly sandalwood scent.
For every Adi Shakti who represents the feminine energy surge, there is an Adi Yogi who provides the masculine support – for neither is greater than the other but an equal, as a whole.
Half of the masculine Shiva and another half of the feminine Shakti, his consort, stared out of a dusty glass frame, their half-shut eyes boring on to me, their composite form having an invisible line running down the middle. It was as if they knew. I couldn’t run under their gaze, but to know that they acknowledged my similarity felt like a warm blanket around me. It felt like home.
Come, our prince.
Our Raja.
My mother walked in on me one rainy night and trembled when she finally saw the truth standing in front of her, draped in an exquisite turmeric Kanchipuram silk saree, eyes lined with dark kohl and a bright saffron circle beaming down on her. Her frail hands gripped my wrists, my bangles clashing uncomfortably against each other while she tried to search for a reason in that empty noise.
Why, my prince?
Oh, my Raja.
Oh, my prince.
After a long period of mourning the loss of her only beloved son and the cold war she fought with me, she one day pressed a box in my hands. I opened it to find a blood orange cotton saree as I looked up at my mother, unregistered shock dancing on my face and tears threatening to spill. My smile was not lost through my tight lips, as she took my face in her palms, running a finger down my dark cheeks to brush the stray tears away.
This colour would suit you.
Shall I tie it for you?
My Raani.
My princess.
