Nine Lives by William Dalrymple Page A

deity was quite distinct from that of Chamundi – as benign and reassuring as the latter was disturbing and potentially dangerous, even psychotic.
    The deity now returned to the shrine, and taking a throne, looked on as the various priests and attendants prostrated themselves before him, each offering a drink of toddy. Like Chamundi, Vishnumurti drank the offering in a single gulp. This was the signal for the spiritual surgery to begin and the devotees to queue up and approach the deities for individual advice and blessing. Vishnumurti’s queue was noticeably longer than that of the goddess; only the brave – mostly elderly women – approached Chamundi.
    One by one the petitions were presented. Old women asked for grandchildren, unemployed men for jobs, young women for husbands and farmers for good harvests. To each, Vishnumurti offered reassuring advice: ‘Your family will be showered with blessings,’ he said to one woman. ‘The evil times are over. Peace and calm will return to your family home. You will be like Saraswati, illuminating the darkness.’ ‘I will look after you,’ he said to an old man, ‘and I will take care of your sons. Both your kids are going to be fine. Don’t take the path towards evil and you will always be able to lift your head in public! Never worry.’ To a little boy: ‘Listen to your parents and you will do well in your exams and have a bright future.’
    After an hour or so of this, the queues began to dwindle, and the drums struck up again. Such was the reassuring calm of the gods’ surgery that nothing prepared me for what followed. As the tempo rose, the attendants handed both deities coconuts which they took over to a sacrificial altar and threw down with such force that they exploded.
    Then the gods were handed huge cleavers. From one side a pair of squawking chickens was produced, each held by the feet and flapping and crowing frantically. Another attendant appeared, holding an offering of rice on a palm leaf plate. Seconds later, the cleaver descended and the chickens were beheaded. The head of each was thrown away and blood gushed out in a great jet on to the rice. Then, as the drums reached a climax, both deities lifted the flapping carcasses up to their faces, blood haemorrhaging over their costumes and headdresses. Together Chamundi and Vishnumurti placed the severed neck of a chicken in their mouths, each drinking deeply of the blood for a full minute. Only then did they put the carcass down, on to its feet, so that the headless chicken ran off, scrabbling and flapping as if still alive. Only after another full minute had passed did the chickens finally pitch over and come to rest at the edge of the crowd.
    One last triumphal lap of the shrine followed before the deities bowed to their devotees and headed back to the green room. There, as they stood with their hands raised in namaskar , their headdresses were removed by the attendants. By the time I had made it through the surging crowd, Vishnumurti had gone and Hari Das was back again. The make-up boy removed his busk and breastplate and he lay down on his back on a palm mat. He was spent, breathing heavily with his eyes closed. Finally he opened his eyes, and seeing me, smiled. I asked if he felt any of the spirit of the deity remaining in him.
    ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s all over – gone. Now there is no relationship with that state of being. All you feel is exhaustion, and lightness, and sometimes hunger too. But mostly, just deep exhaustion.’
    ‘When is your next theyyam ?’ I asked.
    ‘Tonight. The kavu is about three hours away by bus.’
    ‘It’s another all-nighter?’
    ‘Of course.’ Hari Das shrugged. ‘I’m not complaining,’ he said. ‘The season may be hard work, but it’s what I live for, what I look forward to for the rest of the year.’
    The boy who had played Chamundi had his costume off now, and was heading down to the stream below the clearing to bathe. He looked at Hari Das to