I am the mother of the universe.
I am the planets and the years of darkness and light in between.
I am the oceans, the sky, the land, the airâthe four corners.
I am life itself, the spark that makes a heart pump, that keeps a tree alive for centuries, green and reaching.
I am Parvati.
Today, I need a shower. Life can be filthy.
I apply a paste made of crushed sandalwood and jasmine to my skin with a circular motion. Right-hand fingers slowly spread over left hand, over left wrist, around left elbow, up left arm, over left shoulder.
I sing, but no one can hear me. The notes are too high, the melody too beautiful. Not even my husband can hear meânot just because he is out hunting right now. Shiv, my beloved Shiv, is often buried deep within his own mind, seduced by the possibility of an even quieter silence, a firmer stillness, the kind that borders death. Sometimes I think he has more in common with the corpses in that graveyard he has been dancing in lately than he does with me.
The First Song was born from pure grief. It happened the instant I felt the heartbeat of the first life form, my first child, stop. I was at the foot of our mountain Kailash when my mouth opened inpain, and the first notes, too high to be a scream, too beautiful to be a howl, ran up from my diaphragm through my throat and into the dawn. Being married to Shiv, Lord of Destruction, I understood the necessity of death, but this did not make my loss any easier to endure. Days passed in song and mourning, and I vowed never to create life again.
But is there anything more consoling, more exhilarating, than creation itself?
I look down at my body, covered in brown paste that lightens as it hardens, and wait patiently. When the paste is firm and tan, I gently peel it off, this time starting at my right toe, over right ankle, up right calf, over right knee, up right leg. I sing a different song, my voice cascading like desert sands, each peak unique and transient. The tiny hairs along the newly exposed skin respond to my voice, standing at full attention. But itâs not just my own body that responds.
I notice that the crumbled paste in my hands is softening to my song, turning golden. Excited, I continue singing and removing the paste from my body, adding it to the other remnants in my hand. My song gets clearer and faster, the flow of air in my throat running effortlessly back and forth over the scale, stopping briefly at the mid-notes, creating the sound of wind gliding over rivers and eroding stone.
I am naked now. All the paste has been removed and formed into a radiant ball of clay that vibrates with the sound of my voice. My hands take over: they pull, ply, roll, mould, and stretch the clay.
I know whatâs happening in my hands. I know this feeling so well, but every time, I weep. With every sprout of grass, every bursting new star, I weep.
When I clear the water from my eyes, I see that I am standing face to face with a statue of a young boy. With my final note, he opens his eyes.
Without hesitation, I pull him into my arms and say: Your name is Ganesha. Ganesha, my son.
He says nothing, but I know he can hear me, his eyelids fluttering. I tell Ganesha to guard our home while I rinse off.
Let no one in. Under any circumstance.
It is not protection I seek, but a moment for myself, a moment undisturbed by the prayers and plights of my children. As I finish the final part of my cleanse, rinsing the oil and salt of creation off my body, I canât help but sing as I think of my new son. For a moment, I think I can even hear him humming along in the distance, and again I cry.
When I emerge, I find Ganeshaâs head on the doorstep, next to his headless body.
The first time she put her hand on his body, he winced.
And the second time.
The third time, he cried.
The fifty-seventh time.
Then, gradually, he began to lose count. He relaxed. Her touch was still painful, but now, instead of fearing it, fearing what her
I am the planets and the years of darkness and light in between.
I am the oceans, the sky, the land, the airâthe four corners.
I am life itself, the spark that makes a heart pump, that keeps a tree alive for centuries, green and reaching.
I am Parvati.
Today, I need a shower. Life can be filthy.
I apply a paste made of crushed sandalwood and jasmine to my skin with a circular motion. Right-hand fingers slowly spread over left hand, over left wrist, around left elbow, up left arm, over left shoulder.
I sing, but no one can hear me. The notes are too high, the melody too beautiful. Not even my husband can hear meânot just because he is out hunting right now. Shiv, my beloved Shiv, is often buried deep within his own mind, seduced by the possibility of an even quieter silence, a firmer stillness, the kind that borders death. Sometimes I think he has more in common with the corpses in that graveyard he has been dancing in lately than he does with me.
The First Song was born from pure grief. It happened the instant I felt the heartbeat of the first life form, my first child, stop. I was at the foot of our mountain Kailash when my mouth opened inpain, and the first notes, too high to be a scream, too beautiful to be a howl, ran up from my diaphragm through my throat and into the dawn. Being married to Shiv, Lord of Destruction, I understood the necessity of death, but this did not make my loss any easier to endure. Days passed in song and mourning, and I vowed never to create life again.
But is there anything more consoling, more exhilarating, than creation itself?
I look down at my body, covered in brown paste that lightens as it hardens, and wait patiently. When the paste is firm and tan, I gently peel it off, this time starting at my right toe, over right ankle, up right calf, over right knee, up right leg. I sing a different song, my voice cascading like desert sands, each peak unique and transient. The tiny hairs along the newly exposed skin respond to my voice, standing at full attention. But itâs not just my own body that responds.
I notice that the crumbled paste in my hands is softening to my song, turning golden. Excited, I continue singing and removing the paste from my body, adding it to the other remnants in my hand. My song gets clearer and faster, the flow of air in my throat running effortlessly back and forth over the scale, stopping briefly at the mid-notes, creating the sound of wind gliding over rivers and eroding stone.
I am naked now. All the paste has been removed and formed into a radiant ball of clay that vibrates with the sound of my voice. My hands take over: they pull, ply, roll, mould, and stretch the clay.
I know whatâs happening in my hands. I know this feeling so well, but every time, I weep. With every sprout of grass, every bursting new star, I weep.
When I clear the water from my eyes, I see that I am standing face to face with a statue of a young boy. With my final note, he opens his eyes.
Without hesitation, I pull him into my arms and say: Your name is Ganesha. Ganesha, my son.
He says nothing, but I know he can hear me, his eyelids fluttering. I tell Ganesha to guard our home while I rinse off.
Let no one in. Under any circumstance.
It is not protection I seek, but a moment for myself, a moment undisturbed by the prayers and plights of my children. As I finish the final part of my cleanse, rinsing the oil and salt of creation off my body, I canât help but sing as I think of my new son. For a moment, I think I can even hear him humming along in the distance, and again I cry.
When I emerge, I find Ganeshaâs head on the doorstep, next to his headless body.
The first time she put her hand on his body, he winced.
And the second time.
The third time, he cried.
The fifty-seventh time.
Then, gradually, he began to lose count. He relaxed. Her touch was still painful, but now, instead of fearing it, fearing what her
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