Indian, and Oedipal

"O thousand-limbed goddess, slayer of a thousand demons, worshipped by a thousand gods, O divine mother of the lotus eyes, swan's neck, elephant hips, and jasmine-scented breasts, who is garlanded by mighty rivers, She that is blessed by all the elements, that creates all, that vanquishes all, that subsumes all, Arise! your time has come, on this day, the first new moon of Kārtika  , arise, and bless us all!"

This is not just an epigraph for my story.  I actually remember the Brahmin priest  of our village incanting these words in badly pronounced Sanskrit, that night. We were huddled around the idol of the Goddess Kali, in the courtyard of the village zamindar's house. The men and women were gathered on opposite sides, the more important and upper caste men seated near the center. Some younger men, stirred by the drum beats and country liquor, were working themselves into a frenzied ritual dance.  My father was one of them. My eyes were however fixed on the big water buffalo tied to a post in a corner, that watched the proceedings ruefully with its bloodshot eyes, flicking its tail around to drive away the mosquitoes. It could have been the big black buffalo that went around with Yama , the god of death. In fact I thought it could guess that it was soon about to be dispatched to the kingdom of Yama.  The villages around us sacrificed goats to Ma Kali.  Our zamindar, the fiercest and proudest of all the feudal lords of the district, would have nothing short of a young buffalo bull. 

Suddenly there was some sort of commotion. The priest had reached the climax of his mantras and was now quiet. So were the drums. The zamindar and his associates looked fidgety. The man who was supposed to carry out the sacrifice, the buffalo executioner, a powerful well-built chandal, a member of the Untouchable caste whose regular business was the burning of dead bodies, was lying flat on the ground, passed out from too much country liquor. His brother cowered in a corner, afraid of the punishment this travesty would bring their family. All eyes now turned on him, and the khnara, the curved sword that glistened in the torchlight.  The brother was a nervous, slightly built young man,  and there was terror in his eyes.  He had never even killed a chicken in his life. Although his family occupation was dealing with death, he could never bring himself to cause it. 

My father with eyes more bloodshot than the buffalo's quickly stepped into the center of the clearing, picked up the khnara, bowed in the direction of the zamindar who nodded his assent, and signalled at the drummers to start pounding for their lives.  The other younger men crowded around on cue. Two of them dragged the buffalo to the center and lassoed it firmly in place. Shock and disgust showed in the faces of some of the older upper caste men.  Performing such a lowly task would make father lose his high caste. But he was a wily man and knew what he was doing. He was the zamindar's right hand man, a trusted lieutenant, and a few ritual incantations from the senile village priest, would absolve him of this little defilement, performed after all, for the common good.  My father was now stripped to the waist, the sweat glistened on his back, his skin was lighter than that of his comrades (a feature that was celebrated in our clan), his muscles more ripped.  He ran his fingers over the blade to test for its sharpness, and swung it a couple of times around in the air to loosen up his muscles.  Then with one swift blow, he decapitated the buffalo. The blood spurted out. The beast's shriek was drowned by the drum roll, the frenzied shouts of the young men, and the horrified gasps of the women. 

I hugged my spindly eight year old legs closer to my body, and felt very inadequate. I who was bullied by my bigger schoolmates, I who cowered at the sight of chicken blood, I who the women made fun of because of my thin limbs and darker skin,  felt like decapitating my father then and there with the bloodied khnara, and holding up his head to show to the crowd.