The Stormbringer
It never rained in the fields, or so he heard. Bad harvest after bad harvest, the crops were dry and wilted. India starved, and her people began to die. Everyone feared the gods were angry, praying fervently to them for forgiveness. His mother often told stories of Father kneeling at the altar, consumed in prayer. He neglected the fields, choosing to wait for some divine intervention that would make his crops whole again.
Legend has it that on the day Sumbhajee was born, it rained. His father considered him a blessing by the gods, and kissed the ground for it. People all around came to worship this being sent by Vishnu himself; the baby who brought rain with him. It was a joyous occasion that day, where his father presented multiple offerings to the gods, and thus began his fanatical devotion to his son. His father worked the fields without his heir, grooming Sumbhajee for priesthood.
Sumbhajee was confined to prayer, and his delicate hands never once touched the earth he gave life to.
What everyone considered the next unequivocal sign of his divinity was his voice. It was unlike any other man's; completely abnormal for a boy of seventeen. His ascent into priesthood was swift, having been blessed with both the power of rain and a voice that spoke the will of the gods. Sumbhajee was humble and modest, and chose not to speak for fear of sending men into convulsions. Never did he doubt that he was truly one of the divines. He was the only living man that was close to the gods.
He was a Vaishnava, a devotee of Vishnu. Sumbhajee brought balance back to the land by creating rain, and it was only fitting that he should serve the god that was the maintainer of the universe. He practiced asceticism, constantly seeking spiritual enlightenment. He became a wanderer - a sadhu - walking from village to village, and was greatly admired by the people. He was a living embodiment of divinity.
Religion taught Sumbhajee everything he knew and respected. The people taught him his destiny.
"There are men with white faces."
Whispers of such demons were now a common occurrence among the locals. There were stories of women kidnapped by these monsters, and these beings held an instrument that emitted a powerful and deadly sound when pointed. No one had heard of dying by sound before... were these the voices of evil? People talked of looming ships anchored by the rivers, larger than any ship they had seen before. They were said to have been so massive as to block the rising sun in the east.
The men spoke in tongues that no one could understand.
Many begged Sumbhajee to drive the sounds away. The gods would surely show their might in the face of destruction.
He spoke-
And they laughed.
Trees, houses, the British flag. Carriages, horses, corsets. Women laughing daintily, and men with eyeglasses.
The ships by the river were no evil beings. They brought miracles with them. What exciting flavors and smells! English tea, silk, gunpowder... and all these odd looking men wanted in exchange were some of the local spices. Many farmers readily agreed. These spices grew readily and in abundant numbers. It was only fair to trade for such exotic substances with some of their own. New farming techniques were introduced by these people, and crops grew at an incredible rate. India would be hungry no longer.
A British man in uniform was shouting at Sumbhajee. The other soldiers guffawed.
Sumbhajee had resisted learning the new tongue, still firmly believing that it was a mark of the devil, but there was no mistaking what they were laughing about. For ten years he was subjected to this abuse. These men would push and kick him until he fell to the ground, forcing him to speak, as the villages idly stood by and watched. Everyone began to abandon the Hindu priest, their belief in him lost ever since he failed them that day.
The legend of the baby who brought rain with him was forgotten. All that was left was a man of thirty with a voice that was ridiculed by all.
His father stopped praying to the gods.
His years in priesthood taught him detachment and perseverance. Sumbhajee trained under the freezing waters of the mountains, and he would sit and meditate, the force of the world sitting upon his shoulders.
"Get up, you little weak imp!"
The numbness in his limbs was of no consequence. His spirit lived beyond the physical confines of his body.
"C'mon, say something! It's no fun if we can't hear you talk!"
In that sliver of a moment, he knew he was dead.
"Hey, let's shoot him. He'll say something then."
But who can say if we are alive or dead?
Just as the British soldier jammed the bayonet into his arm, Sumbhajee reached for the man's legs and pulled them out from under him. The soldier tripped, and Sumbhajee wordlessly pulled the blade out, stabbing it into the soldier's boot. Sumbhajee scrambled to his feet as the soldier's screams filled the background, pulled the blade out from the soldier's foot and planted it into the man's chest.
The soldier stopped screaming, and Sumbhajee felt a sharp pain pierce through his abdomen and thigh. The two soldiers had roused themselves from the shock of rebellion and had attacked Sumbhajee. With their hands shaking as they pulled the trigger, they missed to inflict the fatal blow.
Sumbhajee lunged forward.
Gasping, panting, naked, a trail of blood behind him. The herds of soldiers were advancing.
He jumped into the Ganges River.
He sank, and did not fight. This was where he was, so many years ago, meditating under the Gerusoppe falls. Sunk, underwater, numb, surrendering to the vast pull of the sea.
He watched as streams of blood clawed their way through the murky brown water, disappearing into the light. He heard the silent call, dragging him deeper and deeper... and he was helpless against it.
And for the first time, he felt his soul anchored to his body. If he died, his soul died with him. Lost forever to the sea, disappeared... forgotten.
Who can say if we are alive or dead?
He closed his eyes and clawed his way blindly with the current, gun shots ringing in the distance.
Sumbhajee's eyes opened to lightning and sky.
"Sarkhel, he's awakened."
"Fantastic," a deeper voice grumbled. "We won't have dead weight anymore."
Sumbhajee shook himself out of his stupor and groaned into his hands. His body ached and burned; every single gesture was difficult, and his head throbbed.
"You've been asleep for the good part of six days," the younger voice continued. "We fished you out of the water, and you had bullet wounds all over your body. We stitched you up. Amazing how you survived this long."
Sumbhajee gave no answer.
"It's common courtesy to say thank you to your rescuers, you know," the captain spoke again. "Got your tongue cut out, Sumbhajee?"
Sumbhajee's eyelids could only blink briefly in response. His eyes burned in the intensity of the light. "How did you know-"
The captain chuckled. "We may have been away for a long time, Hindu priest, but not long enough to know the gossip that goes on in our motherland."
"You're the baby that brought rain with him," the younger man continued eagerly. "That's what the legends have told us. You were the child, weren't you?"
Sumbhajee rolled over to get a better look. The boy was not more than twenty years of age, clothed in a simple orange and yellow robe, his eyes wide open and full of curiosity. Sumbhajee smiled at his naiveté.
"I'm not that person anymore."
"Good, rain won't do us any bit of good on a ship," the captain snapped back. Sumbhajee's eyes flicked to the stern, where the captain was manning the helm. He was covered in white and gold, wearing an intricately designed turban on his head. There was no denying this man's charisma, and Sumbhajee guessed his age at forty. The man had a face that had seen many battles.
"My name is Bhandari," the young man introduced himself. "I am a warrior for our sarkhel - our captain - Sri Kanhoji. We are enemies of the East India Trading Company."
"The East India Trading Company?" Sumbhajee dully repeated.
"British men!" Kanhoji shouted from the helm. "White faced, weak little dogs! Bastards think they can sweep into my ocean and take everything they want from it? Filthy mongrels, dirtying our land with their guns and tobacco..."
"He gets carried away sometimes," Bhandari muttered as Kanhoji continued to ramble in the background. "Rest, Sumbhajee, and I will be honored to show you the ship when you are well."
Grey clouds loomed overhead. Rain was coming.
"English tea doesn't even taste that great anyway!" Kanhoji bellowed.
"Tell me, Sumbhajee, do you pray?"
"Not any more, sarkhel."
Kanhoji stopped abruptly, just as the captain was about to enter his quarters. "Not any more?" He repeated. "Why?"
Sumbhajee noticed the curiosity in his voice. "You have shown me the world. The world has shown me that our gods do not exist. I have seen that gods do not exist. There is war and conflict, diseases and death, ambition and anger... there is too much that I have seen."
The captain shook his head. "You underestimate the power of the gods."
Sumbhajee laughed bitterly. "Underestimate? My lord, I do not believe in their existence. Had they been watching, I would not have been attacked!" He found his voice rising, and attempted to choke back his anger. "With all respect, sarkhel, I find it difficult to believe that you have kept your faith after all that you've seen. What is it that makes you still believe in the gods?"
"Destiny," Kanhoji answered simply. "A little crab told me."
"Crabs do not speak."
"Your practicality will be your downfall," Kanhoji sighed. "Do not think that the material misfortunes in this world are simply misfortunes. It was destiny that brought you to me."
"The priest is dead," Sumbhajee spat. "The priest has been dead for a very long time."
Kanhoji leaned on his staff, and placed a hand on Sumbhajee's chest. "No one can say if we are alive or dead."
"Thirty years of sailing the seas, Sumbhajee. Never caught by the British navy. Not even once. I have an empire, a fleet of loyal warriors, bases in India where I can safely dock. I have bases which were surrendered by the British to me. Thirty years. How long have you been with me?"
"Fifteen, Sri Kanhoji."
"Fuck me, that's long."
The captain's quarters smelt of a mix of coriander leaves and stale medication. Kanhoji's figure lay prone on the bed, his staff leaning against the cabin wall. He was now a frail man of seventy, the hairs on his beard and scalp turned shockingly white with age. In Kanhoji's palm sat a small and dirtied ivory tusk, offered to Sumbhajee.
"I would've given this to Bhandari, you know," Kanhoji murmured, as if he was on the brink of falling asleep. "But he likes to talk more than he fights. He would kill the British with monologue."
Sumbhajee chuckled at the captain's wry humor.
"They say this," Kanhoji gestured back to the little trinket in his palm, "was removed from the very tusk of Ganesha himself. It was the only priceless piece of eight that was offered up at the table."
Sumbhajee's hand did not reach to grasp the tusk. Kanhoji instantly recognized the doubts in his second-in-command.
"All I ask you..." he continued quietly, "is to give it a chance. The gods are listening. They always have."
The former Hindu priest looked down at his red robes, contemplating the words that Kanhoji uttered to him all these years. He had abandoned his faith for so long, and Kanhoji had slowly guided it back to him. He had seen the feats that Kanhoji had performed against the British. A fleet of thirty against an armada was not achieved by mere charisma alone.
"'Sri' was one of the names of Ganesha," Sumbhajee finally muttered. "Did you adopt it because of your faith?"
Kanhoji managed to choke out a feeble laugh. "No. I adopted it because everyone kept calling me that."
Sumbhajee paused for a considerable amount of time. He had no respect to command, not as a new captain. He would have to carve his own legend on the walls. Kanhoji was known as the man who ruled the entire Indian Ocean... what of him?
"Then I shall take it in honor of the gods."
Kanhoji exhaled, content with the answer by his heir, and seemed to sink deeper into his bed. "Everything's so different now... Look how you've changed." His tone, once brash and authoritative, was now reduced to a weak observation of circumstances. "...Look how I've changed. I look absolutely awful."
Sumbhajee's hand reached out and closed over Kanhoji's open palm. He felt the touch of ivory upon his skin, and the wrinkled, coarse hand of his captain.
"You still dislike English tea."
Kanhoji's tired face crinkled into a smile, the corners of his eyes glistening with tears.
Durga, Bhadrakali, Bhavani, Sati, Rudrani, Parvati, Chinnamasta, Chamunda, Kamakshi, Uma, Meenakshi, Himavanti, Kumari, Tara.
There are legends that Sri Sumbhajee, the fallen priest, has taken up worship again. But it is not Vishnu that he prays to.
People have said that the many names he mutters in battle give him supernatural powers. There are stories of a ten-armed, black-skinned goddess that resides on his ship. Her eyes are bloodied and rolled into her head, her mouth open, jaws unhinged and long tongue lolling. Her body is smeared with blood from the garland of human heads that she wears around her neck; or perhaps it stems from her skirt made of human arms. Her ten wrists are adorned with gold bangles, and it is said that even Lord Shiva cowers in her presence.
The few sailors that have escaped the destruction of Sri Sumbhajee's fleet have described horrific scenes of the goddess devouring the heads of enemies. She loses herself in a frantic dance of rage, crushing the bodies of men that fall under her feet. The wood breaks with the force of the dance, and the ship splits into two, trapping any last survivors under the debris, pulling them into the sea.
They call her Kali.
Durga, Bhadrakali, Bhavani, Sati, Rudrani, Parvati, Chinnamasta, Chamunda, Kamakshi, Uma, Meenakshi, Himavanti, Kumari, Tara.
Only one man knows what Sri Sumbhajee's voice sounds like. His name is Bhandari, and he is the sarkhel's mouthpiece. Only he is brave enough to hear the voice of a god, for when Sri Sumbhajee speaks, Kali appears and smites all men with her sword and trident.
It is said that a storm precedes the advent of Sri Sumbhajee.
He is the man that brings the rain with him.
Notes: I'm positive that despite all my research, there will be inaccuracies regarding the Hindu faith. Some of these facts were also purposely altered to suit the dramatization of the story, particularly the aspects of Kali. I ask – as always – for some suspension of disbelief. Thank you!
Much thanks and love to pearlydreams and p0wdermonkey as my betas on LJ; they provided invaluable insight and comments which I wouldn't be able to do without.