Matangi
This is the story of a girl, who, in her naivete, gained fame and glory incomparable to any other being in the universe.
*Cue the haunting music*
Matangi was a true wild child. She played pranks, roamed around in filthy clothes and hurled the vilest of curses at anyone who dared stared at her. Dark and beautiful, her sultry curves and luscious hair were hidden by her love for untidiness.
One day, on her way back from one of her usual adventures, her eyes fell on a tall, dark, handsome hunk of a man making his way to the river. His skin was a brilliant blue and he only wore a tiger skin around his waist. Piqued, she followed him. On reaching the banks of the river, the man disrobed, revealing deep scars of past battles. Hiding behind a bush, she devoured the masculine form with her eyes. watching rock-hard muscles ripple across a sinewy, tapering back, right down to a tight, ripped waist and….
She suddenly cried out aloud in pain as a bee stung her in the eye. Hearing the shriek, the alarmed man turned, and their eyes met. Her light, sparkling eyes met the man’s thousand-yard stare. He seemed to look right through the unkempt, filthy woman. As if held in a trance, Matangi stood up, and slowly walked towards him, seemingly floating towards the magnetic presence.
By the time she realized it, she had entered the water. She slipped yet again when an arm as thick as a tree trunk grabbed her by the waist. And they were lost forever. As if enraged, she tore into his lips, gripping his lips in hers, gasping for air, her tongue searching for something. The man, surprised by Matangi’s ferocity, found himself melting in her vice-like grip. Then something happened.
There were a blinding flash and a fireball. The shock waves were felt for miles around. The sky was rent apart with the sudden outburst of energy. Everything suddenly turned blood-red. It was as if the Earth had suddenly turned into Mars. The wind blew angrily and chasing itself into a tornado. The two were lifted clean off, as the tornado picked up speed. The wind, now howling, blew ever-harder. started super-heating itself, boiling the river and creating a tongue of fire. The Third Eye was open. That was the might of Matangi’s lust.
That was when Parvati was gripped by a sudden dread. Her mountain shook. She cried. And cried and cried. From anger and frustration to pain.
The tongue of fire released by the Destroyer consumed trees, birds, animals and all life in that land was extinguished.
Matangi had found her Shiva. And Parvati had come to know. The pure had met the polluted, and there was a union unlike any other.
The heat, the pressure and the crushing force of the Destroyer had been unleashed. But it was nothing compared to the raging, universe-shattering pain Parvati was going through.
She cursed Matangi, and hurled a billion-watt thunderbolt, tearing apart the two locked adulterers. Shiva was stunned and immediately let go of her, falling on the now-dry and steaming river bed, and Matangi disintegrated into strands of golden fleece.
Shiva, the eternal Simpleton, for the first time, felt guilty, and immediately closed his now-open Eye. With a soft wave of his hand, he blew away the remnant perverse energy threatening to destroy the universe. He picked up the fleece, and, slit open his wrist and moistened the strands of his explosive muse. He made this filigree on a rock. And he burned it, creating a permanent reminder of the day. His eyes, once again losing their sheen, he looked upwards. Parvati was broken. He looked down once again at his work. It would serve as a warning and an inspiration. And then disappeared in a shower of sparks.
This remained as a warning for those who never gave in to their innermost desires. And an inspiration to those who did.
The tortures Parvati inflicted on Shiva can be left to one’s imagination. Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned. And this was a Goddess. Shiva was in for some serious pain. Parvati created her own black hole And vanished forever. Shiva followed her, but to no avail.
Matangi, in the meanwhile, remained eternally tombed in the filigree, finally having found her place on a wall.
Never forget the power of passion. It can bring Gods to their knees.
Note — This is a nearly 100-year-old plaque passed down over many generations. It lost its sheen and has been given a new lease of life by our very own Bineeta. All it took was some chikki, a brush, and some gold paint. Amazing, right?
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