The eagle was waiting perched on the coconut frond. The sky behind him was slowly shifting from orange to yellow to blue. He could also see the dove against the roof top, still against the sky. And she, she sat in the balcony watching them both. Who stood behind her urging her to watch, she wasn’t aware. And who was behind him? The tapestry was woven with birds, animals and bees. Mountains, rivers and trees. By the tendril and the ant that disappeared under it. The lamppost and the grass that grew beneath it. People conversed and parrots screeched. The squirrels chattered through the stable hum of a table fan. No one could see the pattern the shoefly sprinkled in the air. No one knew why the rooftops glowed when the sky was grey. No one knew why she saw what she saw and thought what she thought. The eagle dipped his head into the safe havens of his wing and preened them. The woman heard the eagle and listened to him. She also heard other women calling out from the tapestry. Another weave, thought, touch, a sigh. Finally a curse that grew from her lips completed the design. The eagle left leaving yet another drop of light.
The multihued web, the tapestry of life suspended in the skies, woven by the mercurial hum and the rhythmic beat of gaseous mountains, unfurling, devouring and dying. Its chant endless, breath ceaseless, no beginning, no end. The web pulsing, as above, so below. Layered worlds and channels weaving in and out. And down below man looks up at the sky. Not knowing why, not knowing how. Inviting the dance of death to drum in his veins. Go ahead, said a masters voice, this world, that world, what’s the difference when I am there? And doubts pour in as the multi headed Kalia. Shadows and lights conspire in the middle of the night and the dance begins. Soaring in your veins, a timeless churning in your brain. Eyes closed, eyes open, the great serpent continues its mission. A valley appears, a mountain disappears. A wind blows here as a breeze lingers there. A glow of light struts around only to be swallowed by a passing cloud. A touch and a gaze here and a clap of thunder. A whirl and it’s raining, a step and its unleashed the sun. All for you, all in a breath. In your gaze, sigh, in your being.
The wolves will pray for you when the world is asleep. And you will know that your son is blessed. You will pray, and you are the prayer and you are the blessing and the blessed. The lone bird will speak and you will hear. You will walk and walk and not know why or where to. Because it’s his dance, he’s the juggler. Juggling the stars and the moons. Juggling minutes and seconds into oblivion. You are a nail perhaps, a earlobe, a scar, a tooth. You will go where it goes, into boisterous rain clouds, you will fall in a heap as water and quench the earth or you will rise in blistering flames. This is the thandava. Not of Siva the unknown. But of a man in flesh and blood. Of compassion. They call him Buddha, they call him Christ. Names, names, forms, forms.
The web is sparkling now, the balance maintained. Shadowy pathways replaced by illuminated strands. Ardhanaresshwara. Guru.