"How to Kill a Rakshasa" by Sudha Subramanian

Mar 29
4 min read

(TW - Sexual Misconduct)

Amma narrates the legend of Honamma for the millionth time as you make your way to the temple. Last week, a sharp ringing of a bicycle bell interrupted the tale as a man in a tattered turban ran his rusty vehicle into a mould of freshly laid dung.

“Chi!” Amma pointed to the slush on her feet.

The man flashed dirty dung between his legs.

Your hands froze, your heart sank to your pit, you even forgot the Sanskrit mantras.

You looked for gorges, rocks, waterfalls to disappear.

Cracks didn’t open, mountains, rocks, streams, weren’t in sight.

At home, you chastised Honamma, for not helping, for making you feel dirty even though there was no muck on your feet, and you practised swinging the three-pronged Trishul like Goddess Honamma. On sunny afternoons, when shadows moved on the floor, you turned into her, wearing a beautiful saree, and you used your pretend weapon to strike the Rakshasa, just as your mother told you. But on moonlit nights, when shadows on the windows looked like scary faces, you shrank under your pillow and repeated, “There’s no Rakshasa” over and over, like a prayer.

You continue to wield the Trishul, chant mantras in your head until you reach the market where Amma stops to buy flowers for the temple. No turbans or cycle bells have alarmed you so far, and you almost heave a sigh of relief when a bolt of lightning stings from down below and courses through your entire being. Dread catches at your throat, while the intense pain and overwhelming shame surge towards your eyes.

“Sorry.” A man in a well-ironed checked shirt stands next to a woman with a sparkling nose stud. She and Amma greet, smile, exchange words while the checked-shirt man smirks.

As you head into the temple, the hymns have jumbled in your thoughts, you seek comfort in Amma’s saree, unable to find the armament, unable to find the will to fight, unable to look the man in the eye and burn him into ashes.

A gigantic Rakshasa sculpture stares at the entrance. Its bushy moustache and sharp teeth stained in red send a chill down your spine. You drag Amma away from the Rakshasa, but her devotion to Goddess Honamma is beyond the grime. She mutters fervent prayers as bells chime in chorus, you see the checked shirt, menacing beyond the silhouette of the demon. Heat rises on your cheeks as you lace your fingers together, you pray to Honamma for a Trishul one final time, because the Rakshasas have escaped the temple.

You refuse to join Amma the following Friday on the pretext of exams. She waves, warns you to lock up, stay in, and marches ahead. You wait until she disappears around the corner when Srini, the boy next door, jumps in front.

You hold your chest, laugh.

His eyes graze the road as he takes a step forward.

“Did you watch the film on TV last night?” His lips twitch.

A familiar alarm spreads across your chest, but Srini is the one with whom you played hopscotch, shared comics.

“A great film,” Srini says as he places one foot in.

A voice urges you to force close the door, turn in the latch.

“Let me in.”

Srini’s hand pushes the door open. A sinister tinge of red spreads in his eyes. His dirt-encrusted nails dig into your shoulder, and his incisors glisten in the afternoon sun.

Is Srini a Rakshasa?

You open your mouth, but no sound escapes your throat. Your feet can’t move. The trident, the mantras, wither into grainy nothingness.

Tears pool, anger swells because Honamma has failed you. Again.

You look here, there, everywhere, for something. Anything.

And you see it.

A glint of light.

She is bright, in a brilliant green saree, holding a Trishul adorned with flowers.

Honamma.

Amma had pasted a picture on the door last week.

Srini’s shirt flutters in the wind, and his breath scorches your neck.

Your hands shake, images move, cycle bells ring, and through the haze, you feel the clasp of cold metal in your palm.

Honamma had pierced the Trishul through the Rakshasa’s chest, killing him and slurping every last drop of blood from the floor so there could never be a Rakshasa.

A volcano erupts in your pit. Rakshasas have to be tamed, beaten, and killed.

You tighten the grip, steel your knuckles, raise your arm, land it in his gut.

His eyes skitter, and he doubles over in pain.

You stand your ground. Gasping. Shaking.

Srini holds his stomach, droops his head.

You grit your teeth, shove him.

He bows, walks away.

You thank Honamma with a nod. She smiles. You unclench your fingers, and retire to your room.