The coming unto...

He was born on the steps of a temple.

As his mother felt herself coming to labor, she scourged her way towards the shrine. The stack of flowers, garlands, and craps of food and leftovers garnished the surrounding of the temple. The odor of cattle dung mixed with the sweet smell of tobacco encrusted in tobacco leaves filled the night, a night in which the stars decided to dance in tune with the wind.

In a fist of despair, she sought the help of the divine. As she crept towards the temple entrance, she screamed for help, to find that the door of God had been shut. The Lord, along with the priests and his caretakers, had already retreated for the day. She fell upon the stairs and in an anguished effort to release herself from the pain she spread her legs and pushed. It didn’t take long. The child was ready for the world. He came out fast and his first contact with the world was the cold concrete of the cement step and the fresh remains of a spat out red stain of paan.

The beggar stood opposite. He had witnessed the woman approaching the temple, and in his drunkenness, wondered what he should do. Clad only in a small piece of rug sack around his waist, his skin had taken a beating from the piercing sun of the village; he was dark chocolate skinned with a touch of white foam like spots in various places of his body. He had been unshaven in years, and his long hair embraced the dust and dryness of the region. His left knee was bent towards the inside, his left arm was twice smaller in size than his right arm and was permanently rested in only one position very close to his body so that his left hand clutched on to the piece of cloth around his waist most of the time, and his head was always tilted towards the right. The people from the district called him Benaam – the nameless.

With the help of a broken branch which he held with his functioning arm, Benaam slowly made his way towards the woman and her new creation. As he reached them, he saw that the woman had moved on to another world. He looked at the child. The child seemed to embrace the silence of the night. It was hushed and it did not cry nor make a sound. The beggar snipped the umbilical chord, freeing the child for the first time. He withdrew his cloth from around his waist and covered the body of the boy with it. Looking towards the temple door, Benaam began to sing –

“You were born under a starlit sky
On the steps of a temple
Your coming unto has left your mother to die
Here you are wrapped in a cloth that is simple
You are as silent as this night beckons
And so shall you be named Khamoshi.”

The beggar picked up a black stone, and engraved gently on the boy’s chest “His name is Khamoshi, he is yours.” The naked man picked up the small boy with his right arm and placed him at the door of the temple, offering a prayer. As he climbed down the stairs, he had a last glance towards the mother that never would be, and strolled away into the night. He would never return to this temple or to this village again.