CHORUS I – Aditi Enters.
Light.
The world widens. The sky gleams.
Look, spirits, look!
Look
what the humans have done now.
And the spirits unfurl
tired
curious
bored
peek through the curtain.
"Strange."
They whisper among themselves,
pushing and shoving and pouring out into the city.
Strange
but not unfamiliar.
A scratch of the head. Lowering eyebrows. Confusion.
"Is this Republic City?" "Who put that door there?"
"Look, there goes Raava!" "Where'd it come from?"
"Perhaps we should have been paying attention…"
"There's a door."
Aditi, Celestial Mother
who looks much like a warm hearth on a stormy night,
leans forward in Her chair,
peers over the rim of Her spectacles,
and watches.
She sees the truth of things.
Sees how small the humans,
how pointless,
inconsequential,
they are.
And somehow, despite it all,
She watches and dotes and tangles
Her fingers
in the webs of their lives until She cannot
-will not-
tear Herself free.
For every plant growing in the sun, every grain of sand caught in the wind,
every crying orphan in the dirt, every lurking spirit in the shadows,
every immortal soul, every stillborn child,
For all
warriors, mothers, healers,
good villains, bad heroes,
and for every action each of us take,
She watches,
and the needle moves in Her swift fingers.
Now watch as
Aditi inspects the futures of one soul down below,
t,
plucks a fine wire,
tilts Her head and listens to the thrum of the web.
"Ah yes, yes." She nods, "Yes, this will do nicely."
The soul limps on unawares.
Aditi leans back
with a 'hmm'
and picks up needle and thread.
A voice drawls from below:
"They never learn."
Yama, Imra, Dhararaja,
grim incarnate,
watches, bored.
He has never quite understood the banality of human existence.
And Raava has stolen a life from him tonight.
"You were mortal too, once."
The All-Mother reminds him.
And Yama,
the first soul to learn the meaning of mortality,
shifts uncomfortably, coughs.
"Once, yes, long ago."
Already he is tired of this scene.
He makes to leave,
due for a busy eternity, tasked as he is with the
upkeep,
control,
and paperwork of the dearly departed.
(And all of the other administrative duties that come with being Keeper of the Dead).
As he leaves, he yawns, languid,
looks back over his shoulder,
nods at the limping figure below:
"She belongs to Mother Earth. She is Her problem, not yours."
Aditi gives him a knowing smile.
"Ah, but they are all my children."