Mythic Muse
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Issue 16
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The computer screen taunted him. A blue-white canvas, unchanging and defiantly blank.
He typed a few words. Hit delete. More typing. Delete. Kavya had engaged in such futile exercises for hours, for days, and, truth be told—in spite of the claims he made to his agent and publisher—for months. At present, he found himself far from his Hollywood home, on the beachy outskirts of Gokarna, Karnataka, a little-known town on India’s southwestern coast, rife with rich mythology, and home to a towering statue of Lord Shiva rising a hundred and twenty-three feet into the sky. His cabin overlooked one of the most isolated and breathtaking coastal landscapes of the Indian subcontinent. A stunning private beach. A secret lair for top-tier writers and artists. The two-week retreat was his publisher’s lavish outlay, a desperate ploy to birth Kavya Shaw’s follow-up bestseller from the gestative confines of his brilliant mind. But now, as he sat at his writing desk with a view of the water, his delete button remained disconcertingly overused. When his agent had pleaded for a first draft, or even an outline, Kavya had insisted, smacking fingertips against greying temples, “I have the story, up here! I just need peace and quiet to write it down.” As the sun set on his first night in Gokarna, with nothing but “peace and quiet,” and a dazzling half-moon rising through a cloud-soaked sky, Kavya’s finger hovered over the keyboard for a long moment. On a whim, he typed “Once upon a time…” He laughed hysterically into the still cabin air and smashed his finger against the delete button until the cursor could move no more and all he could do was keep silent vigil for words that never came. A thick sigh—the perpetual soundtrack of his empty screen—harmonized with the ebb and flow of ocean waves outside. He stared through the window at an expanse of foam-tipped azure as far as the eye could see. A head bobbed in the moonlit water and he sucked in his breath. A porpoise? Or perhaps, a dolphin? There it was again. The hairs on his arm rose and he stood up to peer at the choppy waters. Someone was unmistakably swimming, and yet the illuminated sand was pristine and footprint-free. The figure rose through the water and waded onto sand. It was dressed in white and moved like a woman’s body. A black cloud slipped over the moon, and the beach blackened momentarily. When moon rays lit the vista seconds later, there was only empty water and sand. He blinked, disbelieving. Had he imagined her? That night he fought his bed clothes in a fitful, and ultimately unsuccessful, effort at sleep. The next morning, he made his way down to the water. He was alone and swam until his feet no longer treaded sand. Tall cliffs rose up protecting a bay verdant with coconut palms. The afternoon turned into evening and he ate a meal, and still, the blank screen stared back defiantly. By sunset he stared through the window, half expecting the buoyant apparition to reappear in the water, but there was nothing. * * *
Kavya had desperately hoped the painstakingly-crafted prose of his first book would make a splash somewhere in the obscure annals of the literary world. But unexpectedly, it snagged the Booker Prize and blew up and now it was everywhere.
He was bombarded by interviews, appearances, book club endorsements, blurb requests, guest lecture invitations, and book signings, living every writer’s dream. The book sales rendered him so wealthy he no longer needed to work his 9-to-5 job at the Los Angeles Times. So, he quit, purchased a brand-new home in the Hollywood Hills, and hired an Instagram-famous decorator to curate the perfect writing studio so he could work on his follow-up bestseller. But no words came forth. Kavya Shaw, breakout literary star and erudite intellectual had no idea what to write next. The frenzied waterfall of ideas he had distilled into the first book during late-night writing sessions, while working a full-time job, had dried into nothingness. His peers, jealous of his unlikely success, had slapped him on the back with pronouncements of I can’t wait to see what you’ll do next. But next was nothing. And now, on this haunted beach, a ghost lurked in the waters, taunting the hollowness in his head. * * *
A week passed and, still, Kavya had nothing to show for the expensive writing retreat other than five empty bottles of wine and a cluttered sink, brimful of debris from prepared foods delivered every few days.
He felt a pull, not to the story he couldn’t write, but toward the window, and the distant collage of alabaster cream, piped artfully over a sapphire spread and the mysterious figure that haunted his dreams. The sun marched evening-ward and Kavya stood and kicked his stiff legs, urging blood to flow down limbs. A dozen jumping jacks pumped his body and mind. “Tonight, will be the night,” he said out loud, panting and sweaty. A new night, a new pledge. The story will come. I can feel it. He ate silently, watching darkness plunge the valley below into secret shadows. The moon only the previous week had been half-full and bright as a spotlight, its fractured shards reflected in the churn of violent waves as though inaugurating his retreat. Now, it was new and hidden from view. A subdued tide revealed itself by the dim glow of starlight. An impulse possessed Kavya. He would write by the water’s edge, ensconced in warm sand. The words would flow out of him like the relentless roil of the sea upon land. He pulled on sneakers, shoved a notebook and pen into his back pocket and snapped the emergency headlamp onto his forehead. His foot slipped for an instant on the smooth rock steps outside his cabin and he cursed, grabbing the wooden railing to steady himself. In the dark of night, the familiar beach was an upside-down echo of its sun-drenched cousin. As his feet hit sand, bite-sized albino crustaceans scurried into pencil hole homes by the beam of his headlamp. The sand was smoothed by an even drenching and Kavya’s footprints were the only indentations visible alongside minuscule crab holes. He breathed in salted wind sloughing off the surface of softly lapping water and walked further out, toward the retreating skin of low tide. This would do. Legs crossed and notebook illuminated, his nib hovered over a page as blank as the untouched beach. Minutes passed and no great thread of story emerged, no pithy first line, no kernel of craft or story seed. He was doomed to flail under the weight of grand expectations, to burn out like a fiery supernova. He sighed, switched off the headlamp and closed his eyes to meditate. An unmistakable echo of breath reached him—not from his own chest but from the water. Every hair on his body stood on end, magnetized by fear. There was someone in the water, in the dark heft of night, inside the sinking swirl of water, there was, assuredly, another person. A scream caught in his throat as the breathing, regular and pulsing, came nearer. The sharp exhales of a swimmer. Kavya’s body was paralyzed, but his eyes danced in a frenzy, this way and that, into the darkness. Too terrified to inhale lest he alert the monstrous breather, he began to tremble. Then, adrenaline surged and he snapped the headlamp on, flooding the scene before him into blinding brightness. Skin illuminated, dark hair slapped and flapped, a white sail whipped his face and he went berserk with panic, falling onto his back, his notebook flying through the air before it landed with a thwack somewhere out of reach. Kavya’s throat stuck and then unstuck and he shrieked a high-pitched ragged tear of a scream. His limbs flailed against sand, and distinct footsteps pattered close by, sending grit sprinkling into his eyes and mouth. He coughed and spat and swirled his head in wild panic. The light swung this way and that as he turned away from the water. Shafts of light cast sand and rocks into relief. A swish of white in the distance disappeared into a large rocky outcropping at the base of the hills that ringed the private beach. “Who’s there?” he yelled, the bellow of his own voice anchoring him to the desolate black beach. He stood, readjusted the headlamp, and planted his legs into a fighting stance, ready to tackle the ghost. For it had to have been a ghost. The sandscape, moments earlier, had shown no markings, no bi-pedal indentations, but his own. Now, there was a second set of prints. Kavya steadied his breathing to slow his racing heart and surveyed the snow-angel mark of his tumble in the sand. The wraith’s prints had come within five feet of him and he shivered in the humid ocean air. He picked up his notebook, dusted sand off, and briskly clambered back up the stone steps to his cabin, glancing back to ensure there was no pursuer, and locked himself inside, panting and doubled over against the door. Something, someone, was out there. An icy chill crept up his skin and he scratched his forearms and thighs as though the hairy legs of phantom insects scrabbled across them. * * *
An uneasy sleep marred by nightmarish glimpses of skin against white gauze left him sluggish in the morning. He shivered, and sipped hot coffee as the sun rose outside his window. Below, the sand beckoned examination.
By midmorning he descended to the banks of the Arabian Sea. The sand-angel lay innocuous and fading as wind blunted it beyond recognition. Had it been a dream? No, last night’s footsteps of a barefoot wraith led to the rocks ringing the bay. He had indeed encountered another. He followed, mesmerized. The tide was high now. Waves crashed onto shore, rising ten feet into the air, compensating for the calm of the previous night. Into the intermittent battering-ram sounds of salt water, a reedy melody pierced. Kavya faltered, but continued walking, slower this time, ready to bolt in spite of the bright inoculation of sunlight against nightmares. The melody filled the air, a woman singing on the wind, her voice plaintive, heart-rending. He did not understand the words for they were likely sung in one of the myriad local dialects common to the Karnataka coastline. The voice was sandpapery but tuneful. A husky ode to… what? Within the outcroppings, folds of layered black rock insulated the air. Here, it was warmer, quieter, protected from the walls of slamming water. The song filled his ears, the magic of a minor key weaving its way through his pores, slipping under his skin. There she was, a specter dressed in layers of white wrapped against dark skin, a lilting tune scraping out of a lithe throat. Her eyes were averted and her head leaned to one side as she sat against a smooth rock, braiding a basket of palm leaves with quick-moving fingers, a slight frown of concentration grooved into her forehead. He could have sworn he heard the air crackle. She shunted her gaze sharply upward at him, but continued singing. Fingers stilled and dark eyes squarely bore into his, voice still ringing, still scraping against his heart. Kavya gasped in horror. One side of her nose was badly mutilated, roughly chopped off and grotesquely healed. Her nails were long and sharp, blackened like the talons of an eagle. The ascending notes needed reconciliation. To stop midway would have left the song uncomfortably unfinished. He recognized her need to finish, to balance the scale, and he paused, indulging the ghost its song. And then she was silent. Her face was striking, even with a maimed nose. A luxuriant black braid draped down her back and thick eyelashes girded deep-set eyes. Dark hollows against her cheekbones suggested recent anguish. Their gazes locked. A writer and a ghost. “Hello,” said Kavya. “Do you speak English?” She said nothing but stooped, then raised herself up, half-finished-basket in one hand and a clutch of dried leaves in the other. She sighed, stared at him and turned on her heels to walk further toward the rocks, glancing back to see if he would follow. Kavya hesitated, then trailed, keeping his distance. A cave within the rocks was transformed into a living space, a shaded, snug abode with a ring of stones sporting remnants of a fire. Next to it lay a jute-rope cot, a terracotta pot covered with palm fronds that presumably held fresh water, and a small store of food: baskets of coconuts, bananas, and salted fish, a few jars and spoons. The phantom in white squatted and lit a fire, expertly wielding a matchbook to light newsprint—the only evidence of outside influence within the wild hermitage—and stoke wood. She placed a battered saucepan over the fire, poured several cups of water from the pot, and added a handful of dark leaves as the water began crackling up the edges of the pan. Tea. She was making tea. Kavya sat on the sand awaiting her attentions. She hummed an abrasive tune, an echo of her earlier song, and poured hot, dark liquid into two chipped clay cups. She approached him and his heart thudded wildly as he wondered if she would walk right through him. But she bent close, handed him a cup and sat across from him with her own cup in hand, sharp fingernails tapping against the clay. “Sorry I don’t have milk,” she said, eyes locked onto his, as she sipped. She spoke English. The rough voice was slightly nasal, likely the result of her disfigurement, he realized. “It… it’s okay,” he stammered. “I’m Kavya Shaw. And, you are?” The dark-skinned woman wrapped in white stared at him as though scouring his face for traces of familiarity. “Minakshi,” she said, offering nothing more. “I see. I’m a writer. I’ve been staying at the cabin and I thought there was no one else here.” Silence. “That was you last night, swimming in the dark?” he asked. “And before that, a week ago.” She said nothing but lowered her chin in acknowledgement. Then, she asked, “What are you writing?” The question was heavy. She likely knew nothing of world-renowned Kavya Shaw, the wild popularity of his debut novel, the accolades and awards, record-breaking sales, or the high-stakes follow-up book everyone expected him to write. The weight of What are you writing? lay upon his chest like an anvil. The tea was strong and burned bitterly down his throat. “I’m still working out the story,” he lied. “Tell me about you, Minakshi? Who are you and why do you live in this cave?” “I am sister of Ravana, King of Lanka,” she said, her voice like the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. King, who? Karnataka had no modern-day kings as far as he knew. There were some royal families in northern states like Rajasthan, but this far south? Minakshi smiled and a face that was clearly once-beautiful, transformed into a macabre relic of a skull, ancient and terrifying. Kavya flinched. “A long time ago,” she continued, “I fell in love. But Rama was already betrothed. I begged my brother to release my lover from his promise to another, but he remained beholden to the greater good.” Her dark eyes pierced his perplexed face. “Let me start at the beginning,” she added. She was named Shurpanakha at birth, and when she came of age, a man who was mortal enemy to her brother Ravana, raped her. Forced into marrying her rapist to hide the stain on her family’s honor, a great war was fought over the illicit union. Ravana’s wife, her kind sister-in-law, saved her from certain death at her brother’s hands and she lived her days as an ascetic, vowing to wear not a single stitch of clothing other than the gauzy cotton sari she was currently wrapped in. “It was then that I met Rama,” she whispered, tears filling the corners of her eyes. Hours passed and she spoke and spoke. The diffuse sunlight illuminating the cave waned. Still, Minakshi shared her story, a mesmerizing, scratchy account of love and tragedy. Kavya’s mind slipped into her tale with ease. He hung onto every word, saw the world through her eyes. A jungle’s tangled vines and riotous flora. Wild monkeys wielding arrows and swinging tails on tree branches. Shurpanakha’s lover, Rama, a bright-eyed, smooth-faced man, God incarnate, with whom she consummated her vows in a cave not unlike this one. Her lover’s brother, Lakshman, who conspired with her own brother Ravana to punish her permanently. When Ravana held her down as Lakshman cut off her nose to ruin her, she swore she would not shed a single tear. When she hid in these caves, turning to the healing waters of the sea to repair her wounds, she renamed herself Minakshi. Her tale touched Kayva so deeply, he wept. “And your lover, Rama? What did he do?” asked Kavya, his voice cracking from disuse. “Were there no sympathetic people to help you?” “It is late,” she said. “You must go.” Kavya blinked and looked around. The small fire had continued to burn, seemingly powered by the oxygen of Minakshi’s story. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. His thoughts. His head was full. Full of threads, tangled and begging for clarity and expression. Stories, dozens, hundreds, bursting through every seam in his skull. “I have to go,” he agreed. Minakshi stood. “They will be here soon,” she said, as he trotted into the dark, with only the thinnest moon sliver to guide him back toward the beach and the steps leading to the cabin. Who will be here soon? He hadn’t thought to bring the headlamp for there had been bright daylight when he left the cabin that morning. Now, he foundered through sand and felt around for the stone steps in the pitch darkness and stubbed his toe. A curse escaped his lips just as a low hum became audible. Kavya looked around, and in the distance, on the opposite bank, an orange glow moved through the cliffs. Not one, but several pinpoints of light, flaming torches held aloft by many hands. They were rapidly making their way down. He stumbled up the stairs, grabbing a hold of the wooden railing for balance and guidance. Up, up, up, panting with effort and fear. The hum of chants and shouts echoed loud. A clear, high-pitched voice emerged from the rocks, cutting through the throng’s buzz. Minakshi was singing her song. It was bolder now, a siren warning, a signal to the mob that she was alive and unafraid. Kavya’s heart rammed into his chest, alarms ringing inside his head as the mob grew deafening. They were on the beach now, feet slapping on sand. He struggled to open his cabin door and slipped inside and slammed the door shut. The sounds of the mob and one woman’s song of power dampened through the walls encasing him. He sat at his desk and opened his laptop. It powered to life, its blue-white light illuminating fingers hovering over keys in the dark. He hesitated. Minakshi’s song was louder now, more urgent and defiant. The mob would surely be upon her. He ought to help. Perhaps call the authorities. But there were words now, appearing as though by magic, flowing from his fingers and into the blankness, filling it with a story, an epic of great significance, a tale to rival any he had ever written. Minakshi’s words had broken the dam, and now a relentless torrent flowed so fast, he had to swim for his life or risk drowning. He wrote and wrote. Shouts and song tapered into the thrum of ocean. Night faded into pink dawn. And still, Kavya wrote, his fingers aching, wrists crying out for rest. But the spark burned feverishly bright. Nothing would diminish it now. Not even an abrupt end to the rasping song of his muse. |
Sonali Kolhatkar won 3rd Place of the Fiction Writing Contest. is an award-winning journalist, broadcaster, essayist, and author. She is also the founder, host, and executive producer of the long-running program, Rising Up With Sonali which airs as a radio show on 30+ radio stations around the U.S., as a TV show on Free Speech TV (DirecTV, Dish Network, Sling TV), and a podcast.
Her nonfiction books include Bleeding Afghanistan: Washington, Warlords and the Propaganda of Silence (2006, Seven Stories), Rising Up: The Power of Narrative in Pursuing Racial Justice (City Lights, 2023) and Talking About Abolition: A Police-Free World is Possible (2025, Seven Stories). Sonali's debut novel, Queen of Aarohi, is forthcoming in 2027 by Red Hen Press. |