GOLIATH

We never give up on our traditional methods. My mother practiced them, and I watched silently, but it lingered in my memory as her ritual, which I now follow every day. No matter how educated you get, things in life never really change. Even if the word “superstition” is used incessantly, you won’t mind dutifully adhering to your habits, no matter how unworthy they may seem. Sometimes I feel like… ‘As long as it doesn’t hurt you, following is acceptable.’

In a similar vein, I glumly read that women weren’t permitted in a particular shrine while holding the newspaper. Pictures of female protestors particularly caught my attention. “What now?” Once more, I pondered. “What difference does it make if we don’t go? Certain prophesies are harmless and I reminded myself to follow them.”

“Alas! Women empowerment.”
I wondered again; “Gods must be laughing.”
My quote reminded me of the sequence in the movie ‘Gods Must Be Crazy’ where a Coca-Cola bottle crashes into an African village, completely baffling them. The remainder of the story is told by what they do with it. I must admit that despite being incredibly humorous, the film highlights several facets of civilizations. A fusion of contemporary culture and the Kalahari. But here we are demonstrating about matters over which we should really care very little. Concurrently with turning off my milk cooker, I set down the paper. The world’s thoughts were less important than the filter coffee in the morning.
When I removed the little bowl from the kitchen granite’s corner, I realized it was empty.
I developed the routine of setting a little serving of cooked rice on the kitchen granite corner every night. Mother thought that at night the lower celestials would wander the earth. And they would be thrilled to have food placed for them, which would keep us safe and content.

Despite my inability to come up with a logical reason, it was harmless, and even after I got married, I kept doing it as a ritual. My husband would keep it while I was away. In the chaos of the following morning, I would just grab the bowl and put it in the sink to clean. I had never once seen what was inside. However, I observed that the bowl was empty today, which was different. I figured I may have neglected to store the rice.

This was overlooked in the shuffle of my hectic functioning. For several days, I hosted guests at my house, and as the days went by, I forgot about the little things. A tiny bowl of leftover rice was part of that. I had completely forgotten about it. Finally, a week went by.

That morning, the milk cooker took longer than I had anticipated, so I turned the burner knob to finish things more quickly. I adjusted it to nearly all the acute, obtuse, and right angle degrees that I had remembered from school.
Up until I heard someone call ‘GOLIATH,’ the dull wait obsessed me!
I disregarded… and returned to my job when the milk cooker whistled. ‘Goliath…’ a moment of silence, and once more, ‘Goliath!’ I quickly opened the window next to the granite tabletop and took a peek outside.
“Goliath, Here I am.”
It wasn’t an outside sound. Feeling exhausted and disturbed, I looked everywhere. Everything looked clear. The decoction was ready in my brass filter; all I needed to do was pour it into a cup and top it with white milk. The brown of the decoction and the richness of the milk created a vibrant scent perfect for starting the day. I filled my cup with the eternal richness of the Kumbakonam degree coffee – decoction, thinking, “The Goliath can wait.”
I leaned back on the tabletop and began reading the news about the elephant attack… “mock charges… and other stories…” Mmm, delicious coffee flavor in between… “the mahout passed away…..animals in the modern world…”
Goliath!
The unexpected eruption of this nonexistent something that kept beckoning me—or someone else— nearly made me burn the tip of my tongue with the hot coffee. When I looked out the window again, I saw the sparrows contentedly sipping water from the terracotta pot I had set outside for them. She swiftly fluttered away, thinking me a terror, and I liked her chirping. I chuckled to myself as I looked at the poor little creature.

Goliath!
I disregarded. However, I thought that I lived with a ghost. Someone or something invisible that believed me to be “the Goliath,’ a.k.a. his relative or friend.” I felt anxious because of the silence that gave way to sound. I wanted to cling to anything, but what? I was shaky enough to barely shift from my position. What would happen if I saw a ghost? I might be smitten if the ghost appeared attractive, but I had never heard of attractive ghosts—always a burnt face. I pondered why they had come to see me from a parallel dimension.

I grasped the edge of the kitchen top firmly until I noticed that a pin had been purposefully inserted into my finger.

‘Ouch,’ I winced and turned around.
What caught my attention next zapped me out of my reality. “A miniature,” I whispered.
“Miniature king,” I repeated. “No King,” he interrupted. “I am a celestial, a Gandharva if I can say.”
“What? A Gandharva? I said, frowning slightly on my forehead, with a hint of inquiry.
“I protect you every day, don’t I,” he said.
He seemed very small, around the size of my tiny finger. He had a small crown on his head, a bare chest fastened with gold thread, a long white Dhothi, and gold jewelry. My first impression was a “small, chubby face,” but I was unable to identify any other features. I bowed as I turned to face him. “My rice is missing. Where is it?” He asked.

“Well, so that isn’t a myth after all?” I said.
And in answer, he said, “What myth?”
“The superstitions of my mother!”
“I am staring at you right now, don’t you see? Have I not been watching out for you all along? You frequently lose your keys and your pouch. You are constantly racing to find it in the end. How do you believe your incessant arguing gets you back? I have been defending everything in your immediate vicinity, and now you have decided to starve me.”

I laughed at his cuteness. “A baby Gandharva,” I remarked.
“The ungrateful human being,” he said.
Ouch, I winced at that remark. “I never thought such small beings even existed,” I said.
“You humans naturally believe that the cosmos revolves around you and your fellow beings. Nothing more can fit in there. You always seem to forget the little things in life, even the modest joys. Your clan doesn’t react well to anything minor. You believe we are worthless. Since God made ants, you may be sure that he gives them attention. However, your clan destroys it without even considering that you have just ended someone’s life. That, as you know, also adds up to the total number in the universe. It seems to you that we work for no pay at the manufacturing company in heaven, making things out of thin air.

Do you realize how challenging it is to even artistically design a little person’s microvein and artery? What then do you do?”

He said, “Wicked being standing tall in front of me,” and I gazed in shock.

I meekly remarked, “Well, all this for a cup of boiled rice.”

He let out a disbelieving sigh.
“What is your name?”

He meekly replied, “I’m Bhagadatta,” when I inquired. I continued by persuading him to remain with me. He possessed magical abilities, and I reasoned that by using these, I could improve my dire financial situation. Sadly, he read my mind and stated, “Enough. You cannot control us because we are heavenly beings. One night, I crept into your kitchen and discovered food. I was ecstatic to hear you on the phone informing your mother that you were abiding by her rules. I had the thought that you would do this every single day. Afterward, I decided to come and give it my all while guarding your disorganized amnesia and sporadic possessions.”

“Have you seen God?” I asked him.
“Yes of course…”
“And how…” and before I could finish my statement.
‘Ah..Ah..Ah.. Don’t discuss “The Management matters” with me.’ And he was gone in an instant.

I said in a whisper, “Cute baby, Bhagadatta, this one is for you. Ask for more if you need,” as I set a cup of rice in the corner that evening.

Dr ANITHA CHAKRAVARTHY SRIRAM