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A student tagged on to Somanath when news of his whereabouts became known. The region, dotted with ancient temples had kept alive many of the traditional rituals known only to those who were involved in them, and that stood the test of time only because of their secret worshippers. In France there was a great curiosity about these rituals. The student, whose name was Jyoti, had sought a fellowship from her French stepfather’s trust, and managed to come to the village to work on the spirit worship. The reason for her visit, however, was to be in the company of Somanath; she had trained in Art in France and was a passionate admirer of Somanath’s work.
Many well-known spirits lived in the base of the tree that was in the rear courtyard of the temples of Rama, Shiva, Krishna, Narayana and the rest of the gods. But in addition to these there were the malevolent, thieving spirits. For the laughing spirit, the screaming spirit, the gleeful spirit, the dacoits’ spirit, the prostitutes’ spirit, the liars’ spirit … the offering could only be arrack. Those who made the offering had to bite into the flesh of a fowl and suck hot blood. They had to be fanned with the areca flower. In case the spirit was not propitiated properly, it would whistle and hypnotise them when they walked in the dark forests, and ensure that they lost their way.
Somanath helped Jyoti video record many of the spirit worship rituals and the mystical stories around them. Jyoti, in turn, bought a number of Somanath’s paintings. She paid him phenomenal sums, four to five lakhs per piece. She was buying them for her stepfather. He was not a great connoisseur of art. Rather, he was a crook, a crook from a multinational organisation. He was after the ore that could be mined in the region, hugely profitable ore, and had sent his daughter ahead to win over the people. Jyoti was sly too. She had her own agenda – she was using her stepfather to gain proximity to Somanath.
’But you are a crook too; you gave away all the secret rituals of this region to a multinational company’s anthropology project.’
Somanath was not angered by Krishnaswamy’s accusation. He continued laughing. But, he said, he had not shown this secret place to anyone, not to Jyoti, not to his wife. He had only told Jyoti that a picture such as this one was the inspiration for his work, he had not divulged its location. Because the girl, he realised, was wicked enough to tell her stepfather about it and was capable of converting it into a pilgrimage spot by getting him to construct a flight of steps to take people up the rock. Like the mythical Gowri, Jyoti too sat in penance before the blazing holy fire, striving to unravel the inspiration behind Somanath’s works. By looking at a picture she could sense the source of its creation. But she, who was so adept at reading the masters, could not herself create. Somanath, however, had faith that one day, she too would find her sacred spot. He saw in her the throbbing vitality that he saw in the picture.
Krishnaswamy stretched himself on the rock, and tried to look at the picture with the eyes of a worshipper. The manner in which the hunter had infused the energy of his entire body into the tip of his spear and had thrown himself in a forward motion, the tearing rush of his mighty leap … now, Krishnaswamy perceived all this very differently. He felt that the beginnings of modern man were in the tip of the spear of the primitive man who was technically skilled and was greedy. Here was the hunter who yearned for the deer’s meat, Somanath who yearned for the picture and Jyoti who yearned to know the secret inspiration of Somanath’s art. The thing that would destroy this chain of yearning, devour it, was the desire of the French man to mine the land. And Krishnaswamy’s own burning desire to understand them all. There was one thing, however, that surpassed all desires – the patient chameleon.
Krishnaswamy felt the surreptitious laughter within him.
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