An Invocation

Swayamsrestha Kar

I

Nothing begins from nothing. There has to be a first; a first line, first gesture, first step. So at the dance’s beginning, we call on the gods who were the first to stir awake in the universe’s dream. We call on them to bless our movements so they may be true to the shapes of the world.

Next, we propitiate the watching eye whose line of sight traces out our bodies, whose gaze is our first mirror.

And in the end we bow our heads to the ageless mother on whom we stomp and leap, so she may forgive our rough rhythms.

And thus began, this story must end. In a while.

In a small room somewhere near Ganjam, the man who played the role of divine Narsimha in the local Prahlada Nataka troupe had just died. By his deathbed stood his son, a lanky boy of thirteen, and a similarly scrawny, tall, hook-nosed man with a severe frown.

“What happened here?” the man asked.

“The doctor said his heart stopped,” the boy responded hoarsely, shivering like a tiny mouse.

“What was wrong with his heart?” The man looked impatient, as if he already knew the answers to his questions but was asking them to test the boy.

“I don’t… know.” Something gave in then; the boy began to cry softly, wretchedly.

“How do you not know? It was during the performance, just as he was killing Hiranyakashyap… you were there, weren’t you?” the man asked imperiously, and when the boy kept sobbing, he snapped, “Well?”

As this cruel interrogation progressed, the boy’s gentle whimpers washed up against robust sounds of big men wrestling outside, in a wide sand-filled arena.

“I didn’t see what happened. Hiranyakashyap was lying on his lap, and then he…”

“He what?”

“He tried to tear open the demon king’s stomach. For real.”   

While it had been happening, while his father had been trying to rip apart the belly of the Hiranyakashyap actor with such force that his own heart gave out, the trembling boy had stood directly before him, dressed as the dutiful Prahlada whose unwavering devotion to Vishnu summons the holy manlion himself.

“Why did he attack Girija?” the man continued. “Did something happen before that?”

“N-no. Baba did his usual routine. He got dressed in Narsimha’s costume and prayed over the holy mask.”

“How did he pray?” When the boy looked puzzled, the man continued, “What exactly did he do?”

“He—he put some sacred water, flowers and sandalwood paste on it, and then he did the mudra—”

“Can you show me?” The boy was talking about the scripted hand gestures of the manlion’s dance, but the man knew there would be more.

Haltingly, the boy moved his hands and arranged his fingers into a series of gestures—

“Stop, that’s enough!” the man snapped after mere seconds. Enough for him to know what he was up against.  

He went to the lone window in the room. Outside, a group of younger boys were practising gymnastics around a Mallakhamb, a wooden wrestling pole, in the middle of the arena.

“Does anyone else know these mudra?” the man asked in a much quieter voice.

“What do you mean? Anyone who plays Narasimha would know the mudra, wouldn’t they?” The boy had at least stopped crying to look puzzled.

The man kept looking out the window. It was some time before he turned back.

“All right, I will put you up with a dance troupe in Brahmapur for now. You have some gymnastic training, so they will accept you.” He spoke briskly, in a tone that could brook no dispute.   

“Why—why can’t I stay here?” the boy asked tearfully.

“Because your father’s dead, and there’s no one to look after you.”

“But my father didn’t look after me either!” the boy wailed out. “I cooked our meals and cleaned our clothes, and he—he just played cards and—and went out drinking.”

The man was back by the window, and he seemed unmoved by this pitiful tale. “Well, now you are free to do what you want, aren’t you?” he muttered, more softly than before.

“It will all be fine, you’ll see.” He turned to the boy again. “The teachers are decent, and so are the troupe members. You will fit in very fast; you’ll see.”

II

In another room in Brahmapur…

“Dance is nothing without emotion, without rasa,” another young boy cooed, swaying in front of a big, ornate mirror.  “Rasa is a light inside the dancer’s body.” He turned gently on the spot, moving his arms into the shape of Krishna’s flute. “When I am man, I am tandava.” Peering fiercely at his own reflection, he jumped in the air. “I leap and roar.” Then curving his hip to the side and delicately raising one eyebrow— “When I am woman, I am lasya, a soft wave at the shores of Puri.”

“And what about when you’re a donkey?” a sharp voice cried, piercing this rosy dream.

It was the old master. “All this drama you are doing, Titoon,” he said, twisting the boy’s arm absent-mindedly, as if he had tired of disciplining this particular student, “but you can’t recite even one part of the Chou-padi, forget all four stanzas.”

“I was just practising my expressions,” Titoon replied timidly while the old man slapped him across the back, again in such habitual manner that there was hardly any force behind the blows.

“Expressions, why do you need those? People pay to see us jump and shout, not act like girls.”

Then he looked around, picked up a broom and pushed it into the boy’s hands. “Go, sweep the akhada at least. Stop gawking at that mirror, how many times will I say…”

As Titoon stepped out, he could hear the old man muttering, “Expressions! That fool!”

The storeroom led out into the akhada—common grounds—where the two dance troupes practised every day. Presently, the Gotipua dancers were going through their acrobatics, or bandha nrutya, bending their bodies into impossibly supple poses with little to no effort.

How Titoon wanted to be that flexible, to be a string in the hands of the guru, so that at a moment’s notice, he could become a walking peacock—balanced on just his palms, his legs and hips curved overhead like the crown on the proud bird—or a rolling wheel, limbs locked together in that most sacred of forms, the circle.

“Faster,” the old man cried out behind him, “move your hands faster, you’ll be late to practice otherwise.”

As Titoon was finishing up, the Ghumura group came in. Unlike the Gotipua, this troupe had both boys and men.

“Sweeping again?” one of the men, the troupe’s drum player, asked Titoon.

“What to do, Kanha? Paika master got hold of me,” the boy replied mournfully as the Ghumura dancers started their warm-ups.

“Let it be, Titoon,” the master said. “Begin your exercises; let’s see how much you remember.”

Of course Titoon didn’t remember enough. He never did. The sun had dropped across the horizon before he managed to step through the first set of rhythms without faltering mid-jump.

“Kidgadi gidi din, kidgadi gidi din, kidgadi gidi din, Kid gadi dhe,” the old man sang, for what seemed to be the umpteenth time, “Kidgadi, KidGADI, KID—three steps, Titoon!” The boy had landed on another teammate’s feet this time.

After a few more minutes of this, the master cried out, “Stop! Leave it, we’ll start tomorrow.” Paika master might have been a ferocious war dancer before (the word “paika” meant “soldier” in their dialect), but he was getting on in age. The years had been adding up.

The Gotipua were still dancing, and Titoon couldn’t help but watch. They were practising a simple play about how Radha decides to forsake Mathura one day, all because of the blue lord’s antics. “For you, Krishna, I won’t go to Mathura,” she sings, “For you, I won’t go to Yamuna.”

One of the boys was singing her part as the others swivelled around like Krishna’s faithful, pining attendants, the gopika. “Every day you walk this road, my dark prince,” he sang, eyes brimming with some strange desire, “every day, this road you walk.”

And as the languid dancers circled each other, their shadows stretched across the field, holding hands, swaying, whirling, until in Titoon’s mind, they were like wind-swept feathers of the same peacock or crops sighing together in the breeze.

“Isn’t that the new boy, Ritu?” Kanha asked, pointing at the one around whom the others had formed a blossoming whorl.

“Yeah, he just started. But he isn’t even young enough to be a Gotipua,” Titoon replied with some bitterness, since he had been told that at almost twelve, he was too old to start training as a Gotipua—a “single boy” in the old language, or a “whole boy,” as Titoon imagined it, much like a pearl or an unblemished grain of rice.

But this not-so-young boy seemed to have already learnt a great deal in a short time. His hair wasn’t as long as other Gotipua, so he looked slightly out of place amidst the reedy boys with long ponytails.

And when he sang Radha’s part in a lilting timbre, he sounded as sad and miserable as she herself must have felt. And he moved with grace and precision, like an egret hunting in the dirt.

They had been told that Ritu had previously worked with a Prahlada Natak troupe, but he seemed to belong in this gliding tableau. He must have been trained well because the more expressive gestures bloomed easily on his limbs.

In a few more minutes, the Gotipua session ended and everyone headed back to the dormitories.

“Did you know Ritu’s an orphan, Titoon?” Kanha continued as they neared the smaller mess area between the two larger dormitory buildings. “His father died, and he was sent here.”

The older boy’s quiet tone sent a pang of regret through Titoon’s heart but before he could respond, he tripped over his own feet and almost fell into Ritu’s arms.

Kanha said, “Ritu! What news?”

“Is this boy new, too?” Ritu replied with a chuckle and a sidelong glance at Titoon.

“No, just wobbly!” Kanha bellowed and slapped the flustered boy on the back.

“Send him to us, we’ll teach him.” Ritu cast another pointed look at the blushing Titoon. Then he flashed a brief smile at Kanha and disappeared into the mess.

III

My friend, a jewelled beauty

gifted me this language

and then she went and hid

away from our prying gaze

Titoon tried to focus on the song’s intricate beats. The dancers stepped swiftly through a series of formations—now a cross, then a square, next an arrow pointed at the enemy’s heart. His path was through these weaving shapes, his weapons were two thick fans of peacock feathers, and his destination the centre of this pounding, rhythmic maelstrom.

“Go faster, you mule,” Paika master screamed as the boy narrowly avoided crashing into one of the cymbal players at the edge of a formation.

To compound Titoon’s distress, they had visitors. On Paika master’s side stood a tall, sunburnt man. Well in his sixties, going by his white stubble and the fuzz on his head, he was scowling mightily against the bright sun and perhaps also at the Ghumura troupe’s performance.

Earlier in the day, they had been informed that this was Fakir babu, a renowned gahaka, or lead singer, who had toured with several Prahlada Nataka troupes and had even bagged a Sangeet Natak Akademi award—the highest accolade a classical performer could hope for.

The dancers were suitably self-conscious in their movements as the man glared at them in what could only be described as foul spirits.

It was noon already and Titoon struggled to keep his place amidst this moving geometry of arms and legs. Obviously, this would be a lot easier if the Gotipua troupe hadn’t also been watching them. As he fell behind on the leaps again, Titoon saw Ritu following his movements with an impassive look on his face.

His heart sank; this wasn’t going well at all.

During a break, he overheard this new boy ask the Paika master, “How long has he been with you, master?”

“Oh not long, four… five years at most.”

“That’s a long time,” Ritu remarked.

“Mind you he wasn’t dancing at the beginning,” Paika master went on absent-mindedly. “Just carried stuff, swept floors, stitched costumes for the dancers—very neat and clean stitching, mind you—”

“Oh, that’s why he’s not very good.”

“He’ll learn,” Paika master replied sagely, with—to his credit—not a shade of irony.

Titoon felt his limbs go cold. It was confirmed then; he was not very good.

Maybe Paika master had found this summation of the boy’s abilities somewhat unfair, because after break, he told them to practise abhinaya, an acting-based Ghumura performance.

“Which one?” the troupe’s gahaka asked.

“Mala Shree,” replied the old man. “You know it, right Titoon?”

“Yes yes,” the boy replied gratefully; the piece relied on slow, deliberate movements and facial and vocal expressions of hymnal love.

And so they began.

It was a particularly bright noon, yet somewhat chilly. The ground beneath was warm, and the air smelt of dancing men.

But Titoon was unaware of it all. In his mind shone the goddess of the song:

Long live Sakti who has no beginning (hands drawing a bow and feet stomping triumphantly)

whose prasad is fearlessness (cupped palms and a solemn expression)

and who lives in all her devoted  (arms crossed over chest and a smile of utter surrender).

Maybe it was how the winter wind felt against his flushed skin, or the sense of ecstasy built over each perfect mudra…or maybe it was some other completeness of spirit—Titoon was engulfed.

As the boy moved, a veil of silence fell over the spectators. When the last beat had died down and the last bow made, everybody jolted out of a dream and there were scattered murmurs as the crowd dispersed and the Ghumura troupe began packing up.

“Your Paika master says you want to do Gotipua naach?” Ritu asked Titoon as he was putting away the fans. When a nervous Titoon didn’t say anything, the other boy said, “But you can’t do bandha nrutya?”

“No,” Titoon replied in a small voice.

“What about the basic Gotipua postures?” Ritu asked in a caramel, coaxing voice before posing with his knees bent and hands held perpendicular to his sides in imitation of Jagannath idols, which have stumps for limbs.

“Bent knees pose or Baithana,” said Titoon automatically, and as he spoke, Ritu moved to the “Standing pose or Thia.” Then, as the other boy started spinning swiftly on the spot, his body just a blur. “Bhaunri or the bumblebee pose!” Titoon cried out in a shriller voice.

“You want to learn bandha nrutya?” Ritu asked then, and he could only say, “Yes.”

“All right, meet me in the storeroom tonight. And don’t tell anyone!”

 IV

As if from a dream I wake up
And feel you within me, my dark lord
Your light glows in my heart

As he watched the Gotipua dancers swirl elegantly, even the tight-lipped Fakir babu had to admit that Ritu’s enactment of Radha’s helpless devotion was quite stirring.

“He’s learnt quite fast, as you can see,” the Gotipua trainer said in a tone of breathless admiration. “Very disciplined boy. Shame about his father.”

“Yes, yes,” Fakir babu replied impatiently. “Has he been settling in fine? Any problems with troupe members?”

“None at all, the boy mostly keeps to himself. Oh, and he’s made friends with that kid from the Ghumura troupe, Titoon.”

“Hmm, all right,” the much-revered Gahaka replied, as if he had already dismissed this two-bit teacher from his presence.

The performance ended shortly after, and the group began dispersing. Ritu came up to Fakir babu and asked, “When can I return to the Jaga ghar?”

“Why, don’t you like it here?”

“Not really,” the boy responded in a small voice, looking down and shuffling his feet. “I miss my friends back home—Kalu, Jata, Pritam, Tunu—”

“But you have friends here too? What about that boy, Titoon?” Fakir babu watched him carefully for his response.

“He’s not always around. And anyways, they will go touring soon for Durga Puja. Then I’ll be all alone.”

“Of course you won’t be alone. There are other boys in your troupe, why not make friends with them?”

“They’re not like Titoon,” the boy replied shakily before quickly adding, “plus, they think I am not good enough to be friends with them, because I am not Brahmin.”

“No need to run off just yet. They haven’t really gotten to know you; I’m sure they’ll come around.” The older man was still watching him carefully, as if looking for some sign or mark, or even a quirk, that wasn’t there before.

“How have you been sleeping? Any nightmares?” he asked.

“N-no, not really.” Ritu sounded evasive again, and Fakir babu knew why. He had heard the stories—the secret ones that only the really experienced Guru and Gahaka whispered amongst themselves.

Somehow, Ritu’s father had stumbled upon this particular story. God knows how, the man had always seemed quite dim to Fakir babu. But not only had he been more perceptive than the veteran theatre master had assumed, he had also been much more consumed with the desire for power.

Or maybe the drunkard had just messed up the mudra used to propitiate Narasimha’s mask and accidentally summoned a dance sprite. Fakir babu was more inclined to believe this explanation.

Nevertheless, the other masters at the Jaga ghar wanted this issue resolved at the earliest, so here he was—stranded amongst idiots, once again.

“Make sure you banish that sprite before you leave, Fakir,” he had been told by the oldest Guru to have survived a possession himself. “That one spreads madness wherever it goes, and we can’t have people dying again; they will shut the Jaga ghar for good. Then where will the children go?”

Huh, as if the old goat’s feeling for the young boys was even remotely paternal! Fakir babu thought cynically.

Still, growing up in the Jaga ghar was better than dying on the streets, which was what happened to the poor, even in the temple city of Puri.

The Jaga ghar had been first built as martial arts centres where men trained in various fighting styles and gymnastics to protect Hindu pilgrims in Puri from invaders and bandits. Should they have been surprised when these centres, set up as defence forts around the walls of the Great Jagannath Temple, had inevitably ended up as outlets for the intense mystical energy of the holiest place in all of Orissa? At least that’s what the Gurus had surmised in the aftermath of the first accidental invocation.

And now Fakir babu had to clear up the fallout from another of these “accidents.” Still, it was some consolation that the boy had managed to make a friend here. That might dampen his desire, more specifically his yearning, for home, for a place teeming with strong, muscular men whom a fiendish spirit could easily warm up to committing acts of abject violence and terror.

No, it was better that the boy stay here for a while, amidst the willowy Gotipua and gaunt Ghumura dancers.

Of course that didn’t mean there were no dangers in the immediate future, Fakir babu thought as he watched Ritu meet up with Titoon halfway through the field.

“A sprite is always drawn to desire, Fakir,” the old Guru back home had said. “So, always maintain your distance.”

But there was no such distance between the two young boys, the prodigy and the aspirant, who were already bonded by an inevitable sense of loneliness and perhaps a shade of desire as well.

V

“When are we going to learn actual bandha nrutya?” Titoon asked as they strolled towards the mess, away from Fakir babu’s piercing gaze.

“We are learning it already,” Ritu replied, but by now Titoon knew enough to not trust that soft undertone or that warm, beguiling expression.

“What do you mean? Mostly we just do stretches and grappling and play fighting—”

“All of which makes you stronger and more flexible. Aren’t you getting better at Ghumura naach?”

This was technically true. Titoon’s agility and rhythm had been steadily improving, much to Paika master’s delight. The old man hadn’t had to throw a shoe at the boy in a while now, as Titoon easily kept pace with the other dancers and leapt and landed at the right moments.

He still faltered at reciting the more intricate war hymns but had come far enough that the wizened master considered his work done, his duties fulfilled in a way, not seeing any point in questioning the sudden onset of this upward learning curve.

“Don’t fret, we will start today itself.” Ritu placed an assuring hand on Titoon’s shoulder. “It’s getting closer to the full moon anyway,” he muttered, glancing at the sky with a miserable look on his face.

“So? What’s going to happen on the full moon?”

“Nothing, just a performance we have been practising for.” At this point, Ritu noticed Fakir babu watching them from a distance. “And don’t tell anyone about our practice sessions, okay?”

“Why not? It’s not like we are doing anything wrong.”

“The master doesn’t want this routine to be public yet. He will have my skin for teaching it to you.”

“Oh, okay then.”

Out in the field, Fakir babu watched them till they stepped inside the mess. “A moment please, Kanha,” he said to the lanky drum player who had been trying to avoid the old master’s eye. By now, they had all learnt of the taciturn man’s temper.

“Namaskar, master,” Kanha replied politely, doing his best to look inoffensive.

“What about that boy, Titoon, huh? He has improved so much!” Fakir babu said jovially as they headed to the mess.

“Yes, yes, I was thinking the same thing,” the younger man replied quickly.

“How did you all manage it? I thought him really dim in the beginning.”

“He must be practising a lot, master,” Kanha replied uneasily. He knew that the Gurus in Puri’s Jaga ghar often took a personal interest in promising young performers, but speculating about the exact nature of this interest had not been his cup of tea.

“Hmm, maybe he’s learning from Ritu? They’ve become fast friends, I have heard.”

“Yes well, both are poor orphans with nowhere to go,” Kanha responded, immediately cursing himself for his familiar tone.

But the old master seemed to welcome the informality. “Ritu’s father, now that was a mean drunk if I ever saw one,” Fakir babu said while they joined the food queue at the canteen. Unsurprisingly, boys and men jumped out of their way to let the Gahaka and the drum player advance to the front.

“Oh, I didn’t know,” Kanha said, ears burning in embarrassment at the special treatment he was receiving just by being in the old boy’s company.

“That man, Ritu’s father I mean, would have been the perfect Hiranyakashyap, right?” the Gahaka continued as the mess workers quickly filled a plate for him, taking care to dole out more vegetables and rice.

“The only love he showed his son was when he didn’t beat him during his drunken rages…not much better than the demon king, what say?”

“I suppose.” Despite his nervousness, Kanha was hooked; obviously this Fakir babu knew how to attract an audience.

“You know I always wondered what that kind of a father could do to a boy, twist him in god knows how many ways…” Here the older man paused and gave Kanha a sidelong glance. “You understand, right?”

“I-I think so.” What else could he say?

“I would keep an eye on those two if I cared for Titoon,” Fakir babu said in a lowered voice, pulling Kanha into his confidence, such that the drum player felt oddly compelled to do what was being asked of him.

“I mean someone needs to look after boys like them, right?” the Gahaka finished with a flourish before returning to his plate.

VI

Come and see, my love
Here comes Krishna, flute player, Supreme Performer
Come and see, my love
How he turns from shape to shape
with the mardala’s beats

As they moved through the verses, Titoon felt like something had coiled around his heart and was squeezing it tight. Ritu danced with complete surrender to the complex interplay between his muscles and the elements; where there was air, he glided, on earth, he stomped and tapped with force and rhythm. Surely he would also knife through water, if it lay in his path, with the same ease. In the night’s spiralling reverie, the boy danced his way through a song extolling Krishna’s many incarnations:

Now a fish, now a turtle, next something in between
before he becomes the Holy Brahmin.
Come and see, my love
How he wears his many faces

They had met in the storeroom before the ornate mirror—a nightly routine now. After the mandatory stretches and grappling drills—Ritu always insisted beginning with those—they had rubbed coconut oil all over their arms, legs, and torso.

“Why are we doing this?” Titoon asked, wrinkling his nose at the smell of coconut.

“Massage softens the bones, makes you more flexible. What, you guys don’t do taila mardana (oil massage)?”

“No, of course not, we would just slip and fall!”

“Just rub it in steadily, like this, then you won’t slip.” Ritu had twisted and kneaded his muscles to demonstrate.

Next they had practised the basic Gotipua poses before moving into aarasa, staccato motions set to the beat. Here, Titoon had begun stumbling, while Ritu’s execution was devoid not only of flaw, but also of any discernible effort.

As Titoon paused and just watched Ritu for a while, he noticed waves of tiny changes wash over the dancing boy; how his stride seemed to lengthen, how his fingers clawed the air, how suddenly he jumped from pose to pose, how menacing his face looked.

Some metamorphosis seemed to be underway, as Ritu flailed his arms and turned his head side to side like a maddened animal. And in a moment, he was crouching on the floor, slinking forward in a manner most peculiar.

And at this point, a low growling crept into Titoon’s ears, a velvety sound right from the back of a predator’s throat. If he didn’t immediately attribute the sound to Ritu, it was because he couldn’t imagine this boy, whom he had come to idolise, as being capable of sounding so sinister.

“Wha-what’s this part called?” Titoon asked in a quivering voice. “Tell me!” he continued shrilly when Ritu kept advancing towards him with a savage expression.

Ritu paused mid-glissade, palms and knees pressed on the ground, back curved like a taut bow, and mouth widening at the corners into a grimace meant to mock or terrify or both.

Words, questions, a simple scream… Titoon’s mind emptied itself instantly, reverting to the prey’s age-old instinct to freeze.

Sensing perhaps this clouding terror, Ritu’s gaze caught and held Titoon’s panicked stare, drawing it to his right palm pressed against the dusty floor. Slowly, with a surreal, silken grace, Ritu turned his palm inward, such that his entire arm, then his shoulders, his torso, legs, everything twisted to the side; such that—and here Titoon had to blink and rub his eyes—his crouched body looked like it was neatly folded into half, much like a sheet of paper, like an object that only spanned two dimensions.

The whole time, Ritu’s head stayed put, as if it had been screwed on to his neck like a cap and was wholly unaffected by the contortions of the container it stoppered. But the body kept twisting inward, as if determined to swallow itself…

“Titoon, Titoon! Open your eyes!” At some point, the boy must have shut them tight to avoid looking at the nightmarish figure before him.

“What happened?” Ritu asked. He was standing upright again, and his face looked normal, half-bemused and half-teasing.

“What do you mean? You!” Titoon gasped. “Y-you were moving… twisting and turning, it was just too much!”

“But I was just showing you bandha nrutya. Don’t you want to learn anymore?”

“Tha-that wasn’t dance!” Titoon shot back, shivering despite the warm breeze.

“I told you it’s a new routine. Why, what do you think it was?”

Of course Titoon had no response to that.

“So what? Do you want to learn or not?” Ritu continued in a voice cooled with detachment.

“I- I-” Titoon stammered before his tone steadied. “Yes, I do. I want to move like that.”

VII

So you will not renounce Vishnu? asks Raja Hiranyakashyap,
I couldn’t even if I wanted to, says Prince Prahlada,
Insolent child! I will cleave you from life, warns the father.
There is no fear, I will wake up in the Lord himself, replies the son.

On full moon day, Ritu woke up with vivid memories of those last few moments with his father before he had performed the ritual on the Narasimha mask, before he had been replaced by…

… while Fakir babu also surfaced from a slumber tortured by nightmares about that fateful performance.

Today is the day, both of them thought at some point before venturing out to face it.

While Ritu joined the Gotipua out in the field, Fakir babu went to find Kanha in the Ghumura troupe’s dormitory.

“Listen young man, I need you to help me with something tonight,” he said as he entered the sleeping quarters, and before the drum player could open his mouth, “and bring some ropes, will you? I swear this place doesn’t have anything of use.”

And so muttering, he turned and strode away, seemingly in the same moment.

“… help with what?” Kanha could only mumble sheepishly as the Guru stormed off.

Soon it was night, and the skies astoundingly clear. The moon gleamed like a pearl nestled in wispy cotton clouds. But Kanha was too nervous to appreciate the silent playground and buildings bathed in white light. He had brought along some rope and met up with Fakir babu in front of the mess.

“Where are we going, master?” he asked with forced nonchalance, fighting to keep the quiver out of his voice.

“Hunting, of course!” the old Gahaka replied in a somewhat bitter tone.

That confused Kanha even more, so he cautiously asked, “Hunt what?”

They seemed to be heading towards the storeroom. Surprisingly, its windows were open, letting in the bright moonlight.

“You know, sometimes great desire leaves us open to dark influences,” Fakir babu replied grimly. “You want Titoon to be safe, right?”

“What? What happened to Titoon?”

“Not just him. Ritu as well. They’re bespelled by a sprite, I’m afraid.”

“A what?”

“Are you deaf or what? Both boys! Under the influence of a dance sprite!”

“A dance sprite? I thought those were just stories.”

“Listen to me,” Fakir babu spoke urgently, turning around and staring the drum player in the face. “We just need to bind the boys while we banish the sprite, okay? Use the rope.”

“Bind the…? Banish…” Kanha murmured in a daze.

“Get it together, man!” Fakir babu snapped, shaking him by the shoulders.

They turned and crept towards the door of the storeroom. And now they could hear faint thudding and jingling—familiar sounds in a dance academy, but usually not at this time. Kanha hesitated, but the old Gahaka paid him no heed and pushed the door lightly. What they saw inside would, in time, become another of those stories that everybody had heard of and nobody believed until it came true.  

Titoon and Ritu, dressed askance in Ghumura turbans, the former’s face painted with intricate Gotipua makeup and the latter in his Prahlada getup. Titoon and Ritu, whirling and leaping through the paces of an occult hymn, dropping to the floor and shooting up concordantly. Titoon and Ritu, moving like a sinuous stylus etching a dark hymn…

It was unlike any recital the two men had ever seen. Delirious footfalls matched sharp, slicing gestures, as if tearing at the fabric of reality.

“Wait, no!” Fakir babu shouted. “Hold them Kanha! They’re calling out to the sprite!”

“Bu-but they’re just dancing.”

Just then, as it often happens, several events unfolded at once.

Before the Gahaka could respond, Titoon paused and dropped into a deep bow in front of Ritu who had been positioned squarely in the middle of the moonbeams slanting in through the window. With a sudden glide, the boy slouched forward and snarled like an alert hound, jerking his head and torso with wild grace.

And now, with all his spectators rooted to their spots in one of the universe’s many secret pockets, the holy werelion crossed the boy’s body like the threshold it was and stood up tall, mane rippling in the light breeze, lips pulled back in a world-ending snarl, eyes red with righteous anger.

“Prabhu!” said Kanha, and dropped to his knees.

“Wha-what’s happening?” Fakir babu stammered before stepping forward uncertainly. “That’s not possible.”

He had been expecting a lowly demon or hellion, at worst a shapeshifter disguising himself as some great asura, but this…this…

The Man-Lion flexed his muscles and let out a mighty roar designed to break the fiercest of spirits, so even the old Gahaka tripped in his haste to back away…

… and fell down at the same time as the Divine Beast leapt—

—only to be grappled mid-lunge by Titoon, who locked his limbs around the thrashing werelion and brought him to the ground, fluidly re-enacting the grappling drills he had learnt from Ritu during all those secret meetings in the night.

The Narsimha flailed at the boy who nimbly dodged the attacks—like he had extensively practised with his Gotipua friend—before securing the gloriously maned face in a headlock.

All this happened in a couple of minutes, during which sheer shock almost made Fakir babu draw his last breath several times. Little by little though, the Narsimha started quieting down, and against the gentle sounds of Kanha sobbing and whimpering on the floor, Titoon held onto the figure in his arms until it had once again settled into the shape and soul of Ritu.

 VIII

Soon came the day of Fakir babu’s departure to Puri. Ritu came to meet him while he was by the gate, waiting for one rickshaw to pick up the luggage and another to take him and Kanha to the station. The night of the full moon had been a transformative experience for the drum player as well, and he had decided to become apprentice to the Gahaka who had tried hunting a god.

“So, do you still want to come to the Jaga ghar?” Fakir babu asked awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. “We can look after you there.” Or the other way around, he thought to himself with a shiver.

“It’s okay, I have someone to look after me here,” Ritu replied, smiling. At first, Fakir babu thought he was referring to the spirit that glowed within him, Vishnu the Preserver himself.

But the boy looked towards the playground and Fakir babu turned to see Titoon sweeping the akhada.

“And when he goes touring?” the Gahaka couldn’t help asking.

“Then I go with him,” Ritu said simply.