A lady dressed in a pristine white saree, the colour of truth and purity, writhes on the bed, the white long robe drenched in blood, as the poor lady gasps for breath.

"Call Achutya right now! I have not much time to live," screams the lady to the midwives and other ladies in the dark, dingy room.

One of the midwives looks at the screaming woman. "We can't let any males enter here with your condition, Ivati."

Ivati shakes her head, her eyes shut tight, as another painful scream erupts from her throat. "He is not a man. He is a young boy. He is like my son. Bring him to me now!"

Another lady pitifully looks at a woman seated beside Ivati's head, rubbing her wrists and arms as if trying to soothe the pain in her body.

The chief midwife turns to her attendant. "Go, fetch that boy then."

Another painful groan and a shuddering gasp cause the women in the room to watch Ivati with bated breath. A woman clad in a pink saree points out, "The baby is coming out!"

"It's the goddess. Our saviour." Ivati breathes deeply, her lips forming an O, as she desperately tries to keep her consciousness to watch her daughter, her goddess, for the first and last time.

The chief midwife washes off the blood around Ivati's thighs and gently repeats in her ear to keep pushing. Ivati nods, her face scrunched in agony, yet her eyes possess a determined look like that of a fierce warrior in its last battle. The attendants make her stand with her legs wide apart and her knees bent to enable the baby to come out easily.

Ivati bites her lips hard and pushes for one last time, letting out a scream that causes the attendants to wince as they keep trying to help her soothe the fatal pain. The chief midwife immediately catches the baby as it comes out of Ivati's womb.

The other women watched the blood pool around Ivati, their eyes tearfully looking at each other and at Ivati. Meanwhile, Ivati releases a tired but happy sigh, her body limp from the agonising effort to bring the baby, Ivati's goddess, to the world.

"Ivati amma!" cries a young boy standing at the door, his eyes unfazed at the sight of blood in the room.

Ivati, as if energised, reaches her arms out to the boy. "Achutya! Come here, my son." Achutya runs to her and hugs her, asking, "Where is my sister?"

As if the little one hears her brother's call, she starts crying loudly, causing Achutya to close his eyes, but still letting him walk to the older midwife, pulling her saree. "I want to see my sister."

"We will get her cleaned and show her to your Ivati amma first, and then to you, okay," says the midwife, as she fondly looks at him. Then her eyes travel to Ivati, who looks at the wall with a faraway gaze.

Achutya runs to Ivati again, who kisses him on the forehead. "I will have to meet Vishnu, okay, Achutya. Take your sister to the last house of the village, near the big Banyan tree."

Achutya, merely nine years old, blinks in confusion at Ivati. "Why there? Won't she live with us?"

Ivati smiles. "Your sister is a goddess, my child. Krishna too had to live under the care of Nanda and Yashoda, right?" She caresses Achutya's head with a tired smile as he nods. "Just like that, our little goddess too needs to be under the old grandma's care until she is of age. Then she will come here."

The chief midwife brings the cleaned-up little baby back and places her in her mother's arms. "Here is your goddess, Ivati."

"Our goddess."

Smiling wistfully at Ivati, she says, "I hope she is the saviour we all pray for."

Achutya peers over the face of the baby, serene and gentle, all red yet having a different divine gleam that makes the young boy look at her in awe. "Well, she looks different from other babies, but she also looks like a beautiful tomato."

Ivati laughs heartily before a sharp pain in her insides makes her groan. The other woman smiled while looking at the blood-drenched Ivati, still finding the time and moment to smile. She brings the baby to her bosom and kisses her tiny head, whispering, "Remember, soon, my little girl, that you are the goddess, our Nateshwari. You have a different battle."

The baby's tiny, fleshy fingers touch her mother's tear-drenched cheek. Ivati closes her eyes and pats the baby to sleep before turning her gaze at all the women in the room. "Our goddess shall be named Sharvani, after Devi Parvati."

"Sharvani." They all whisper, and so does Achutya.

Sending one last look to Sharvani who looks blissfully asleep and ignorant of her destiny and tale ahead, she hands the child to Achutya. "Run and go to the last house by the Banyan tree and you, Lilavati," she address the lady in the pink saree, "walk with him and ensure that Niradhara does not lay her hands on my child."

Lilavati nods, her eyes tearful, as she holds Achutya's hand, and makes a quick run outside.

"Farewell, my goddess..." Ivati whispers, her eyes falling to a state of eternal sleep, to a world where lies no enmity nor wounds of lust, where even the impure is divine.

***

Gazing at the fading moon, its golden light now hazy, as if it is soon going to depart from the skies of the earth, Niradhara taps her fingers in a rhythmic beat, her lips muttering a song about cutting the bonds on earth and merging with the divine.

"The Nateshwari is born, my lady."

"The supposed goddess took birth in our Nrityagram; how cliche," Niradhara tuts as an amused smile takes over her graceful but sharp features.

Nrityagram, the dancing village or the village of dancers, housed the devadasis, the temple dancers, who worked in the temples, dancing and singing for the deities, and once in their golden days, were a beacon for the performing arts of their land. But time and its wheels shall see to it that the powerful and noble taste the medicine of the humble folk, and let the humble see themselves rising to power and great heights.

It differentiates no one. Not even the gods.

It is strange how time is never considered an actual deity.

Niradhara's grey eyes carry a very light shade of blue when seen in light, reflecting like a storm in an ocean. A beautiful combination for a woman like her, whose profession now involves selling her beauty, often in the least dignified ways possible. The kohl outlining her eyes looks like the horizon over the ocean, and the slight redness in the corner of her eyes makes her appear like a beautiful idol of a goddess.

Wretched is her heart, and wretched is her fate to be a goddess.

"What happened to Ivati?" Niradhara asks.

The woman bearing the news of the child answers, "She had a lot of bleeding and thus succumbed to death."

The chief devadasi looks at the skies once again, her lips perhaps muttering a prayer, and then she turns back to the woman and asks, "Where is the baby now?"

"Ivati made sure to send her baby outside our abode, my lady. The baby is now on the outskirts of the village."

Niradhara's eyes gleamed. "Well, we can't step out now, can we? We are the wives of the gods; it would be a shame to take our foot outside the borders of our house." Nodding her head, her lips smiling, she continues, "We will wait for this goddess to come. We are no longer the respected ones; this supposed goddess must come to us wretched women, Damini."

Damini, the chief devadasi's messenger, carefully peers at the face of her mistress. The dark night surrounds the village, and the only light comes from the now-fading moon and from a few earthen lamps placed in and outside the room.

The tiny flickering flames dance over Niradhara's face, and when they fall upon her eyes, those stormy grey eyes show a storm within. Nobody knows Niradhara well. She stayed true to her name, the one without adhar and without any support is this lady, the chief temple dancer.

"They must be singing praises to the goddess for sending a saviour, right?" Niradhara asks as she twists the ends of her saree in her alta-dyed fingers.

"Yes."

"It won't be easy to vanquish a goddess."

Damini goes quiet. She bows her head down, her lips quivering to not let any incorrect words out.

No one crosses Niradhara.

Niradhara is aware of why Damini grew quiet. A wry smile adorns her lips, and she waves her hand to her in dismissal. "Have strong faith in this goddess."

She doesn't bother to watch the retreating steps of her messenger. Sharply spinning towards the window and the open skies, she sees the moon disappear into the darkness of the night. From a distance, a pack of dogs can be heard howling, and there is an owl hooting into the dead of the night. There is a gentle wind rustling in the village, but the trees are dead silent and stand still.

Only her voice, a soft, gentle one, laced with the urgent, desperate plea of a devotee, pierces through the eerie silence.

'The pot of my misdeeds, it overflows,

I call you slurs and drag your name to mud,

Come, claim this insolent devotee of yours,

For I know, you free the noble devoted hearts late

But for us vile souls, only shall you make haste.'

***

Word Count: 1569

I have never really written a character like Niradhara, and I am lowkey scared about how I am going to approach this, because as much as I am interested into the devadasis (I am a classical dancer, and these women form a huge part of our history, though are very shamed, which annoys me so much which also became my main purpose to write this book). Sure, I am ranting, but only because, I am in a hurry to get ready for class, and I badly want to write another chapter.

And naming Niradhara as Niradhara is for a reason!

But, both you and me are to tie our belts tight for this ride.

Oh, and do leave me a few thoughts for Niradhara here, i am interested, and maybe some for the first part that is the birth of the nateshwari.

I have 30 mins for college to begin, see you in the break.