THE CURSE OF KALI
Historical Drama set in India
by
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Helen saw that she was now in a sort of grotto, lit by kerosene torches and flickering clay oil lights. She could hear the faint sound of the waterfall in the background, but this vast cave was not the small, dank one she had visited earlier. Indians, men and women, were seated cross-legged in a semi circle around the ebony black idol and Helen, herself, was now lying on a raised stone dais in the centre of the circle. A low chanting was coming from the people and Helen heard the words, ‘Kunkali, Kunkali, our Dark Mother.’ Helen looked again at the terrible Kali, the flickering torches casting a shadow of the idol on the wall behind, and as she looked, the shadow seemed to grow and dominate the cave. Was she still hallucinating from the drug they had given her, but even though she found she was not bound, Helen could not move a muscle. Then the music stopped and a man dressed in a hooded white cloak stepped onto a cotton sheet, which one of the worshippers had spread before the idol. He raised his hands as if in benediction of those around him and said in English, in a voice which seemed strangely familiar to Helen. ‘Brothers, today I will speak to you in English and not Ramasi, our secret language, which some of you have yet to learn. Our Cult, which has been blessed by our Goddess Kali for centuries, has been brutally destroyed by the British and many of our brothers have betrayed us to save their own lives. Amongst these, I regret to say, was my own ancestor, Chandra Lal, who sold his soul to the Englishman called William French.’ There was a murmuring amongst the followers as the name ‘French’ was mentioned and the man in the white cloak continued, ‘Yes, you recognise the name, brothers. That man was the ancestor of the Resident at the Court of the Nawab of Mirapore, Sir Gavin French, and the husband of the English woman who is our captive to-day and who will be our instrument of vengeance in the name of our Dark Mother.’ Once again the voices of the crowd were raised in unison, ‘Kunkali, Kunkali. Let us do her will, Huzoor of Thuggees.’ The leader raised both arms for silence and continued,‘You all know how our cult came into being, but today I will repeat that wondrous saga so all our followers may know how blessed we are. ‘In the beginning the Creator created mankind but the Demon of Blood and Seed killed his creations as they were born. Then Kali, the wife of our Lord Shiva, took her sword and killed the demon and drank his blood which turned her skin blue black, but some of the demon’s blood was spilt on the earth and the demon’s seed sprouted and more demons sprang up to kill the Creator’s creations. ‘Kali worked hard, slashing with her sword, but as many demons as she killed so many more sprang up from their blood split on the earth, until Kali was tired and lay down to rest. Drops of sweat fell to the ground, as she wiped her blue black arms with her handkerchief and the Creator took pity on her and made helpers from her sweat. She gave these men her handkerchief and told them to strangle the demons so that their blood would not fall to the earth and multiply and when the men had done her will and returned her handkerchief, she said. ‘You have saved mankind and all men shall be yours. Keep the rumel and use it to kill and to live.’ Then taking a bag near the feet of the goddess, the leader emptied the contents of raw brown sugar lumps onto the sheet and said to the crowd, ‘This is the sweetness of Kali. Take and eat. You are hers and she is yours and from this day, we will be her servants again, and wield the sacred rumel to kill the British.’ The sugar was collected in the bag again and passed round to the seated followers who were chanting, ‘Kali, Kunkali, to-day you will be avenged!’ The music - the clash of cymbals, the beat of tablas and the clinking sound of brass anklets and bracelets worn by Indian dancing girls, started again. A glistening, naked woman appeared, her long black hair greased and hanging like snakes about her slender shoulders, her toes splayed, one leg lifted in imitation of the dancing stance of the goddess. Helen, with a start, recognised the dancer - she was Isabel de Silva. Isabel was obviously drugged, her eyes enormous in her small, dark face, her pupils mere pinpoints. Her foot stamped down in the movements of the temple dance and her hands, wrists and neck moved to the beat of tablas. It was not Isabel de Silva but Kali, herself, who danced, anklets clinking, the terrible head moving stiffly from side to side, backwards and forwards in time to the music. Then it was Isabel again, spinning wildly like a whirling dervish until she gasped and fell in front of the goddess, a violent tremor shaking her small body. Another figure jumped into the circle and knelt over Isabel, the man in the white cloak which he discarded to reveal that he, too, was stark naked, his hands reaching for the woman’s breasts, his lust displayed in his erect penis. The couple writhed on the floor and touched each other obscenely and Helen was shocked when she realised that the man was Vincent de Silva. So he was the man who had kidnapped her, his light eyes and the voice she remembered from that other temple. Suddenly, Helen recalled Maria’s painting of the lovers and she felt sick with disgust. Did Gavin’s first wife know of these siblings’ incestuous relationship, or was their unnatural behaviour just another part of the depraved Left Hand Path that these followers of Kali followed? Helen closed her eyes and heard herself praying loudly, trying to drown out the fanatical calls of the Kali worshippers, now roused to fever pitch, as they watched the incestuous gyrations of the couple on the floor. ‘Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee, Blessed art Thou amongst woman and Blessed is the Fruit of Thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for me, a sinner, now and at the hour of my death,’ intoned Helen, to the prayer she had learnt from her beloved Rosita. Then she heard herself almost shouting the Lord’s Prayer and as if in answer, the music stopped and the Kali worshippers were silent. The naked figure of Vincent de Silva approached her. His hands reached out and tore the white sari from her body, leaving her as naked as himself. He was salivating and even though he had coupled with his sister a few moments ago, Helen noticed, with a terrible dread, that he was quite capable of violating her. He was climbing onto the dais, his hands pulling her legs apart when a sudden commotion made him jump to his feet and turn around. A tall rider on horseback rode into the circle scattering the screaming worshippers. The horse reared on its hind legs and at the rider’s signal, brought them down on the body of Vincent de Silva, as he stood in open-mouthed terror. He fell backwards, his chest crushed by the iron hooves. Helen screamed as the Horseman of the Apocalypse, for so she believed this apparition was, dismounted and came towards her. With relief she saw that it was Gavin, who lifted her in his arms and cried, ‘Oh, my darling Helen, have they hurt you?’ Helen was sobbing, partly from relief, partly from the strain of her ordeal and Gavin held her closer in his arms whispering into her hair, ‘Hush, my little sweetheart, I am here now and you are safe. My God, if anything had happened to you, I don’t think I could have borne it.’ Then Gavin became aware of her nakedness and taking off his shirt, draped it around her. Formats Book Details Set in exotic mid-Nineteenth Century India, her diverse population ruled directly or indirectly by the powerful Honourable East India Company, THE CURSE OF KALI is a story of love, passion, intrigue and demonic possession. Beautiful Helen Forsythe marries into a family beset by a strange history. Her love for her handsome and charismatic husband, Sir Gavin French, is bedeviled by her suspicions of his liaison with an attractive Goanese woman and a growing presentiment that something evil is shadowing her family’s life. The splendours and barbarity of the Indian scene; the social whirl of the British, living in the splendid isolation of the Raj; the opulence and intrigue of the Nawab’s Court, to which her husband is appointed British Resident; and the machinations of a sinister Cult of Kali; are the rich tapestry against which the characters in this novel live their lives. Their often turbulent emotions are reflected in the simmering unrest of the Indian people, themselves; a discontent, which in 1857, erupts in the horrors of the Indian Mutiny. Torn by misunderstanding and despite their strong emotional chemistry, Helen and Gavin face many problems before, perhaps too late, they acknowledge their deep love for each other. Born in Calcutta, Audrey Blankenhagen’s ancestors had a long history of service in British India in the Civil Administration and the British Army. She, herself, was educated at a boarding school in the foothills of the Himalayas and returned with her family to England after India was granted Independence from British Rule in 1947. Audrey now lives in leafy Surrey near Epsom Downs, the home of the famous Derby, the blue riband of the English horseracing season.
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