by Austin Jacques
Shanra wheezed as she stumbled onto the temple grounds, pain flaring in her chest. The illness worsened every day, a bone-deep exhaustion she lacked the youth to overcome. The trek almost proved too much, but she had to look after her family. She hoped this would be enough.
The mists of the mountains had descended, shrouding the courtyard in a murky haze and creating ghostly shadows out of the betel palms that loomed along the edge of the jungle. Her host hadn’t arrived, so Shanra adjusted her sari—her finest, lush with patterns of vermillion and gold—and sat in front of the temple.
The motifs carved into its walls and tapering roof had worn smooth after generations withstanding monsoons and humid winds. Mold crept from cracks in the limestone and along the pillars that flanked the entrance. The village didn’t have the resources to repair it. Everyone still struggled to fill their bellies after so many poor harvests. They had nothing to spare.
The darkness of the garbh griha held Shanra’s gaze; a darkness not quite empty, not quite still. What was that flicker of movement within it, that whispered mantra resonating? She couldn’t trust her senses anymore; they’d revealed strange things to her these last few days.
Silence draped heavy over the temple grounds, so she was glad that the distant din of drums, chimes, and chanting voices echoed softly; the sounds of the evening puja. She wondered if her son and daughter-in-law were making offerings for her. She hoped they didn’t. Even a little food could go a long way, and they shouldn’t sacrifice any more for her sake.
They’d likely return soon and her granddaughter—so cheerful and glowing despite all the hardship—would run through the house calling ‘Amma, Amma!’, only to find Shanra missing. She tensed, emotions welling up. The little girl was half the reason she decided to come to the temple. She was growing quickly, but not quick enough. She needed more food and nourishment; they all did.
If Shanra went without and relieved them of one less mouth to feed, then there’d be enough for the family.
She wished she could endure this famine with them and see the return of brighter, happier days. She wished she could watch her granddaughter grow, listen to her giggle as they ate sweet mangoes in the shade of the orchard, teach her how to make roti and weave baskets from sarpat grass. But she wanted more for them to thrive, to ease their suffering so they could live in comfort. The pain of her weakening body would not dissuade her from that; rather, its searing heat hardened her resolve. She was ready.
The wind stirred, fragrant with charred sandalwood and wilted marigold.
“I have kept you waiting,” her host said, his voice rolling like low thunder, as he emerged from the garbh griha. His skin was smeared white with the ashes of the dead, and his eyes…they were just as the stories told; black like midnight, flecked with the light of dying embers, the remnants of purifying flames kindled to release the suffering from their flesh.
“I will grant you one boon as recompense,” he said, drawing close. He leeched the air of warmth, but Shanra found him less menacing than she’d feared. Something about the cold, quiet power of his presence invited her, like a night prayer after a storm.
She thought of her family and how happy she’d be to rejoin them, to be rid of illness and frailty and cherish their company for years to come. That, indeed, would be a boon. But a selfish one, she believed. No, that is not why she came here.
She stood with effort, careful to smooth out her sari and brush the dirt from its shimmering fabric so she could stand tall and proud in these last moments.
“My family,” she said softly. “I ask that you protect them.”
The Lord of the Cremation Ground dipped his head. “I will do what is in my power.” He extended a hand towards her. “Now come. A new journey awaits.”
Shanra hesitated for a single, labored breath before taking his hand and following him into the darkness of the garbh griha.
The End