The essence of life is going to be released soon, and the growing anticipation in the stands overlooking the field can not go any higher.
It is a dark blessing, to feel the essence travelling back to the universe. I don’t think the blessing works yet I stand in this restless quiet with people who crave this dark blessing like a lion a deer. My eyes fix on the equally dark Masters, working the fields in their peculiar long cylinderical hats. They look like chefs but only for the death eminent in the sky.
I can tell it’s going to be a great meal, even though the vessels are empty. So generous, this body of ours, these people I’ve decided to call mine.
The balcony stands are still filling up, the jostles are increasing as everyone gathered here struggles to get a front row experience of bathing in the dark essence. It’s just a load of rubbish, the Towers of Silence have always managed to make money out of soul release. I would never support this but I swore to one of the souls down below to watch her go free. So here I am, no complaints, only this quiet burning rage beneath my eyes I can’t get rid of.
Some of it is tears, because this anger has no release here and I can’t help look to the sky that is still waking up. And I feel a deep sense of serenity, washing over me, a wave clashing on a cliff.
The vultures have finally started arriving, huge and black in the dawn sky. Hunger and death ride under thier wings as they, just like us, quietly announce their presence. Waiting. Watching. Working up an appetite. The Masters are now working on the edges of the stony field. There are stone torches yet to be lit and the drop of blood yet to be donated.
This time, there are no crystals. No dried flower petals. Only hard stark slate-grey surrounding the bodies. Seven bodies. And they are arranged in a star-shaped flower; their heads side by side, feet out in seven directions. It is afterall a salad spread out.
The Masters are now sliding off the field, a chant under their breath and soon, crackling fires burst up burning in the stone torches. One by one, small enough not to scare the death but big enough to support the soul find its way back. Just as the last torch is lit, the Master of the Masters cuts his palm and gently touches the ground. A word rises up from the stands, a lover’s sigh.
In next minutes, I see what I promised myself never to see. The vultures are now screeching and howling and descending in a languid fashion. Wings spread out wide, each flap they make echoes a majestic sound. Still, they don’t pounce. And why would they? The dead don’t move, anyway. In a slow spiralling manner, they roam the sky low, as if they too are saying their last words. They are indeed putting up a show.
But then it ends. One of the Masters whistles and the vultures screech the last time as they swoop. Their claws hit the rocky mountain with an audible clink and their beaks are finally tearing up skin. I told you, it’s a trash scam. Nothing like a release of dark essence we all yearn for. It’s just birds with human-flesh addiction having early breakfast. And a quick one, if those spots of white I can make out from below is bones.
It won’t take them long; whole lives, whole bodies devoured in minutes. All they are leaving behind is bones and, memories and secrets that will fade away with time.
My guru lies down there. For almost twenty long years, she told me everyday after she ate the first morsel of food.
We are just living in miniscule points that a circle has. Could be a big one, could be a small one. But it is a circle. And I’d like to think my circle is fairly big.
Sure, Rujima, I don’t think how I’m supposed to measure the diameter but I’m here to watch it come to a circle.
~ s ~