A Day in the Life: The Rakshasa
The Brahmin
The temple courtyard is busy. Devotees chant, and incense burns, filling the air with heavy sandalwood smoke. Under the Banyan tree sits a holy man with a long white beard, wearing saffron robes. He recites the Vedas with a perfect, melodious voice, blessing the people who bow and leave offerings of fruit and milk. "Peace," he says. "Peace be upon your house."
The holy man is lying. He is a Rakshasa. He looks normal—almost. If you look very closely at his hands, you might notice something wrong: his palms are backwards. But no one looks closely. They see what they want to see. They see piety. He uses Maya—illusion. He projects a glamour so strong it bends the light around him. He watches a plump merchant drop a bag of coins. He does not want the coins. He wants the merchant. He smells the greed on the man's sweat. It is a delicious spice.
The Nap
The sun is hot, so the Rakshasa retreats to a cave in the jungle behind the temple and drops the illusion. His skin turns green, and his eyes bulge and burn like coals. Two curved tusks protrude from his lower jaw as he grows to seven feet tall. He stretches his tiger claws, hungry. The fruit offerings were dry and boring. He picks his teeth with a bone from yesterday's meal and hisses, frightening the monkeys in the canopy above. He hates the daylight. It itches. It restricts his power. He waits for the Sandhya—the twilight, the time when the demons are strongest.
The Hunt
The sun sets, shadows lengthening and merging. The Rakshasa stands up and roars—a sound that vibrates in the chest of every animal within a mile. He changes shape.
He is no longer a Brahmin. He is a beautiful woman standing by the roadside, crying. A cart driver approaches. "Help me," she sobs. "I have lost my way." The driver stops. He is kind. "Climb up," he says. She climbs up and sits close to him, smelling of wild jasmine and musk. He looks at her beautiful face, then glances down at her hands resting on her lap. He sees the palms facing upwards, but the thumbs are on the wrong side. He freezes. She smiles, her mouth opening too wide as the tusks appear. "You noticed," she growls.
The Feast
The cart is empty. The bullock stands shivering by the road. In the jungle, the Rakshasa is in his true form now, feasting. He crushes bones to get to the marrow and drinks the blood before it clots. He feels powerful; the man's fear gave the meat a sweet, copper taste.
He howls at the moon. He is the King of the Night. He is the challenge that tests the heroes. Without him, there would be no need for gods.
The Return
Dawn approaches. He wipes his mouth and washes his hands in the stream. Reciting a mantra, the green skin fades, the tusks retract, and the saffron robes appear. He walks back to the temple and resumes his seat under the Banyan tree. The first devotee arrives. "Bless me, holy one," the man says. The Rakshasa raises his hand in a blessing. "Peace," he says. "Peace."
