My loose black robe merges with the blackness around with only its gentle rustling betraying my presence. A steady stream of floating clouds that fill the sky stop the diffusion. They flash some light into the interiors of this graveyard, where the restless dead are known to roam, but not enough.
I see a group of stars huddled in a circle and the moon at a distance away, struggling with her loneliness. So I walk on towards my revelation gateway, looking skyward from time to time. I, however, have no escape from such shadows who come to life.Īs the one person in the village with an ability to receive signals from spirits, see them and the visions they show and communicate it to whomever it is intended for, it is my obligation to arrive at the spot they have summoned me to. Worse still, for a long time, I could feel the weight of presences on my body, day, midday, dusk and night.” I felt a real visceral fear of harm and a grisly nearness to evil.
His version, recounted each time with beading perspiration, is this: “I had a feeling in my muscles and in my gut, I will be physically injured. The one time a villager Nagamuttu did, he said, he was inexorably bound to ill fate. Yet it is a walk no villager from Venthila will undertake. It is a long walk from the flat grounds of the cremation area to the mini-grove in the middle, one that eventually twines its way into a thick forest. I walk alone in the cool damp of midnight from the rim of the cremation ground where I live to its midpoint, or the place closest to its middle. It is November, an odd time for rains, perhaps, yet it is when the north-east monsoon wavers over our region, sometimes generous but mostly not.
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