Loxahi was no ordinary mortal. Were she still around in the way she was earlier, she would be in her late seventies. Though it is difficult to say whether she was dark or fair, thin or plump, slow-moving or quick, she was certainly tall, very tall, so tall that at a glance she could see everybody around, woman or man, poor or rich, schooled or illiterate, green, white or saffron. When I was in school, my teachers used to say that she was as tall as the pole on which they used to hoist the Tricolour. One of them said that Loxahi could see all the people who dwell on the land spread between the tall mountains and the seas. The illiterate believed thus, the semi-literate repeated this often, and the educated had learnt so. All knew that the princes of old times were terrified of her and would never reappear in the land again. Priests, mullahs and pujaris said that she was loved by all because she let them be — to live in peace. When, and if, they quarrelled, she used to cast an equal eye upon them. Her eyes were enchanting, like those of the Greek character, Medea.
While Loxahi was in her early childhood, she noticed that the people around spoke in diverse tongues. She was happy that they did so. She understood every speech. “I just cannot continue to live unless they speak. Let them speak in their own tongues.” More diverse the people, the taller I grow, she thought to herself. Everyone, too, found that due to her all-pervading presence, their stature was increasing.
The illiterate started becoming literate, the literate started getting educated, the educated started going all over the world. The world was changing as well. Elsewhere too, Loxahis were born and growing. Some attained stature, some remained stunted, and some died in their early childhood. Many people tried small and big tricks to hoodwink her or do things that hurt her. But she remained herself. Once, though, she was put at great risk while she was in her late-twenties. This was when people had lifted Indrani high and placed her on the shoulders of Loxahi. Indrani tried to smother her by placing her palms on the nose and the mouth of Loxahi. Unable to breathe, Loxahi fainted. Somehow, she managed to clutch tight at the very edge of the cliff down which she was about to fall. The people were terrified. A year and a half passed before Indrani relented. As Loxahi was beginning to regain life, those who saw an opportunity to replace Indrani came together. Some were in kurtas, some were in red shirts, some wore white caps, some black caps, and some were in khaki shorts. They replaced Indrani for a while. Loxahi accepted all. Gradually, the reformed Indrani returned to her position. One day, she was suddenly gone.
Decades passed. The literate became educated, villages became city-like, life continued. People continued to do what they need to do: make money, noise, news, love, build homes, villages, towns, factories, roads, drive vehicles, watch movies and read books. They knew that if Loxahi was there, they could do what they wished to do.
Then a new millennium arrived. It started making the rich richer, the poor poorer. It came with a new technology, which started transforming substance to digits, the real to the virtual. It came with violent clashes between faiths. Knocking down shrines and temples of other gods came to be seen as an act of bravery. The educated and the uneducated alike participated in these attacks. The killing of unsuspecting innocents in god’s name became widespread. Private armies and non-State actors gathered courage and became increasingly audacious. Mottoes and slogans became shriller.
All this made Loxahi tremble in anxiety. Not once but twice, a united people’s group kept her standing on her feet. She saw the poor becoming poorer, the rich becoming richer, and workers and peasants being left unprotected. She accepted all, the ones who adored her and the ones who shunned her. A time came when people in large numbers thronged the streets, most of them wearing masks. They made the faces of different people look alike. Then the person whose face resembled the mask stepped forward. This one was not like any other person Loxahi had previously known. He was a self-styled avatar. He had limitless love for his own voice, his photographs, his images. He loved wearing clothes on which his name was inscribed. Yet, he was accused of spreading hatred. But Loxahi carried him on her shoulders too, because the people said she should.
Previously, she had carried others so that they could see everyone. But this one wanted to see only himself. And the times were strange. Morning and evening, images of this Supreme Leader would get bombarded on posters, in newspapers, on radio, television and the internet by his admirers — an army of bhakts. Soon Loxahi’s eyes were taken out, making her blind; there were whispers that it was feared that she could even make the Supreme Leader look at everyone equally. Every evening, TV anchors shouted the news of the day in the ears of the blinded Loxahi. The cacophony was so loud that slowly Loxahi became hard of hearing. Being very tall, she was in the habit of keeping her arms spread, to keep her balance. But the leader soon remoulded buildings displaying the insignia of Loxahi’s mythical balance. The structures bent, though uneasily, towards the leader.
Then the one atop Loxahi became sceptical of her. He said, “I must check the purity of your blood. There are so many infiltrator cells in your veins. I shall drive them out.” This was the proverbial straw that broke the back of the camel. Slowly, Loxahi started crumbling, limb by limb, and ounce by ounce. I have heard people say that as she disappeared during the last decade, she shed tears for the people who had upheld her for three quarters of a century.
Is Loxahi dead yet alive, alive yet dead? We shall know when it rains the next time, if there is a next time.
G.N. Devy is the author of Citizen Under Siege: Essays (2014-2025)