Dreams of Fire and Flute

Underneath the banyan's sprawling branches, scattered across the ground, the grove lay silent, thick with the scent of jasmine and dusty earth. The weight of his body bore down on him; he felt exhausted by the encounter of the day at the river, but sleep took wings and eluded him. He held the locket to his chest, an anchor to the vague outer world. The thoughts of the wondrous woman with her radiant skin and eyes that looked like twin moons clung to him as tenaciously as the murmurs of the river. The unanswered question was, what remained unmerged within the horizon? The unstruck bell settled deep in him, thrumming. Eyes closed in contemplation, he tried to hush his mind, but the grove around him pulsed with secrets it refused to share.

Finally, sleep came—not softly, but with the deep surge of a tidal wave, dragging him under. As he drifted away, from some corner of his senses, he sensed himself standing in the middle of a vast twilight plain where the horizon burned with the brilliant saffron and the deep indigo hues. The warmth poured over him, thick with the aroma of sandalwood and smoke. A lullaby of a flute rang out through the stillness—the notes liquid and haunting, each threading into his soul. He recognized that sound even as he had never heard it. Krishna's flute, the sound of divine love, calls that awaken the hearts to dance or sorrow. 

He walked toward the sound, his bare feet sinking into soft earth that sparkled like crushed gems. The plain stretched forever, and though he felt no fatigue, a tremor of urgency rippled through him. The flute played louder, the melody accompanied now by a pulse of drumming: deep and primal, the heartbeat of the earth. Ahead of him, the fire blossomed—a pyre born of flames that danced but did not consume, whose light cast shadows that moved as though alive. Mannn's heart quickened; he felt her before he could see her, a divine woman, humming in the air, warming his skin.

She came forth from the fire, neither burned nor reborn, wholly formed yet always wavering. Clad in a crimson sari, the edges embroidered in gold, it clung to her form as if knitted from the flames themselves. Her hair flowed like a river of night, crowned with jasmine glowing with faint light, a light seemingly emanating from within. She danced, so fluid yet so precise, each step offering a prayer with each gesture telling a story. Her eyes locked on his—Mannn felt the world tilt. Those eyes held joy, grief, eternity—reflections of his own desire. He wanted to talk, to say her name, but what name could contain her? She was Radha, Parvati, the unnamed goddess of his heart.

The flute notes soared, and Krishna appeared beside her, his skin the blue of a monsoon sky, a peacock feather atop his head. He played the flute with a smile that was both playful and grave. The beat grew in strength, announcing the approach of another presence, that of Shiva, his body smeared with ash, adorned with serpents and eyes alive with fire for the creation and destruction of the world. Mannn understood that the trio of Shiva and Krishna could never be complete without her—Shakti, the divine feminine, the bond that unified them, that unified him.

She turned back to him, the dance slowing, extended her hand to him, and said, "Come"—not with words but in the vibration of the air, a felt thrum through that burning fire. Mannn stepped into it, irresistibly drawn by a power exerted upon him that existed before time. The flames parted for him as a caress, permitting him to approach her, a thousand kisses at once. The heat made his fingers tremble; when the touch of their hands went on to meet, a jolt translated into him through lightning, life, and love. Fire and ice, earth and sky, her embrace swept him whole yet shattered all at once. He wanted to cry, laugh, and lose himself in her.

Suddenly they found themselves in a forest of sandalwood trees, their branches heavy with stars. The flute and drums faded away, replaced by the soft chanting of Sanskrit verses that rose like incense. Krishna's presence was gone; Shiva had departed too, but she remained, her presence sharper, more real. They stood in the clearing, lotus flowers glowing in the moonlight, so large and bright, at their feet. She stepped closer, her breath warm against his cheek, Mannn's heart faltered. Her lips parted, and he felt the weight of her gaze penetrating him—not seeing him, but knowing every scar, every hope, every sin.

"Why me?" he whispered, his voice harsh with the burden of silence in the dream. She said nothing, just smiled, and the pain in those eyes stabbed his heart. She leaned in, sorely kissing his forehead; this was a blessing, a wounding, a promise. The world spun, and images flashed into Mannn's eyes: Lila's face, her hands weaving jasmine, her body lying still in death; the river, the unstruck bell, the silently watching shadows of the grove. The vision became a haze, and he fell—not into darkness but into light, her light, her essence, wrapping around him like a second skin.

He woke with a gasp, his body slick with sweat, the mat beneath him damp and slick. The grove was dark with its banyan leaves whispering with the breeze he could not feel. His chest heaved; his heart raced as if he had just run across that twilight plain. The dream was vivid and heavy, as if her touch were still burned on his forehead. He sat up, shaking hands pressed the locket to his lips. Lila. Her name was a prayer, a plea, but it felt far away now, shadowed by the presence of that divine woman. Guilt tore at him all the while. Is he betraying her memory by allowing this vision to consume his last mind?

He stood up, pacing the clearing with bare feet touching the cool earth beneath it. The grove seemed to be silently judging him; it watched. "What do you want?" he demanded, voice sharp, piercing through the night. He turned, to include the trees and stars and that invisible goddess. "Why are you doing this to me?" There was no reply to his shout, and the futility of it only increased the fuming within him. "Answer me!" he shouted, voice cracking. "I loved her! I lost her! Isn't that enough?" He kicked at the dirt, his fists clenched, his breath ragged.

The grove remained silent, and Mannn's anger collapsed into despair. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face, burning bright. He cried for Lila, for the life they would never have, for the man he had been before grief hollowed him. He cried for the divine woman, for the longing she stirred, a desire sacred yet illicit. Raw and unyielding sobs shook him until he was empty, his face against the ground, the locket digging into his chest.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that, but when he sat up at last, dawn was creeping through the canopy in its first light, touching the grove with hues of gold and rose. Eyes swelled; throat raw-throat, but a strange calm fell over him. He fixed a look on his mat, intended to roll it up when he froze. Scattered across the woven fibers were lotus petals, pink and perfect, their edges curling delicately. Mannn's breath caught. The nearest lotus pond is by the river, too far for petals to drift here naturally. He reached out, hovering his fingers over them, afraid to touch, afraid they'll vanish like her.

He picked one up, its texture soft and almost warm. It was real, impossibly real. His heart pounded, awe and fear warring within him. She had been here or her essence had, leaving this sign. The dream flooded back - her dance, her touch, the flute's call. Krishna and Shiva - gods of love and destruction - had framed her but she was the center; the force that bound his soul to hers. Mannn pressed the petal to his lips; faint sweetness grounded him. "Who are you?" he whispered, not expecting an answer but needing to ask. 

The grove offered no reply, but the air felt different now, charged with a presence he couldn't deny. He plucked petals and stuffed them into the folds of his cloth, gathering himself to stand, his legs shaky. The locket swung against his chest, a reminder of Lila, but for the first time, its burden felt less like a yoke. He did not understand the divine woman, nor did he know if she was salvation or ruin; but he could not turn away. Proof, the petals-a bridge between dream and reality, calling out to him to be followed.

He walked to the river while the grove woke around him-birds calling, leaves rustling, and the air buzzing with life. The path now felt welcome with old ferns and wildflowers that greeted him like friends. He walked past the lotus pond, whose blooms were still in the dawn light, and hesitated as if looking for her. Clearing his throat, he bent low to dip his fingers into the river and murmured his prayer, not to any god but to her, whoever she was. 

The stretch was all too long, and Mannn was sure he had to move out. The grove was busy changing him, unmaking the man he was into weaving something new. Lila laughed and loved and guilt lanced his heart, but that presence of the divine woman would not erase Lila; it deepened her as if love could expand and not replace. He held the locket tightly but then let go because his fingers brushed the petals in his cloth. The dream had been a door, and he had stepped through. There was no going back. 

He returned to the village, hiding his petals, bearing the weight of the locket but it became tolerable now. The villagers looked at him curiously or warily, but he hardly noticed. His mind was caught elsewhere presently, severed from the fire of her dance, the flute's deep call, and the impossible grace of lotus petals. What he would demand the grove next to do was unknown, but he sat ready, or as ready as he could be, to have the divine woman call him. He would answer, although he was a man of fear, of grief, and of anger.