Bhima at the end of things

The Rakshasha woman cast her eyes aside from her lifeless Rakshasha husband. His slayer lifted himself from his knees, paid his obesciences to a lowly tulasi plant that gently shifted her heart shaped petals in the breeze, and met the gaze of the mournful creature who had lost her lover. Bhima had killed again; the man whose limits of strength were unknown to even his creator, Sri Krsna, had spilled the blood of an enemy of man, had bested him in a yogic battle which had lasted several years during the exile in the great forests. The foothills of the Himalayas released a long, aching breath – a gasp and rattle that had been held in a cavernous plexus for millenia, and all the creatures that may be called jiva shuddered in tiny ecstasies as the exhalation reached their souls, each hair standing on end, each root curling slightly beneath the soil.

Bhima contorted the muscles in his neck, and rubbed the dusty soles of his feet. The Rakshasha woman could not hate him, despite his crime against her blood. She just watched him with eyes that betrayed her pity, and felt something akin to love beneath her parched skin. Bhima sat beneath the bhodi tree that had witnessed the battle for so long, too long, and he contemplated his pride, his vengeance.

Somewhere, a flute was playing. Young girls were singing, laughing. ” Such things can happen, even before an age of darkness, even before this great Kaliyuga begins”, thought Bhima. “I must walk in the forest for a while”.

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About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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