Anamorphosis
Fiction: ‘Have you ever considered what it takes to make a goddess appear from wood and stone? My uli does not make a single false stroke.’
Perum thachan. Perunthachan. Master carpenter.
That’s what they call me when they want me to build them something epic.
Karinkallu. Dark fire. Flawless granite, nothing quite like it. Holds saptasvaram, seven musical notes, sa-re-ga-ma-pa-dha-ni... you see? Vettukallu. Red-yellow laterite. For mundane structures. Too soft, too perforated to be taken seriously. Limestone and slate, flaky, brittle. Ah, teak heartwood, honeyed and warm, promising under my hand. Have you ever considered what it takes to make a goddess appear from wood and stone? My uli does not make a single false stroke.
But once the vigraham is consecrated, it’s a different story. I will no longer be allowed to touch it because I could pollute it. I’ve heard it said that my father was a brahmanan but my mother was a parayi. The Twelve Clans of Mother Parayi, twelve of us siblings, all fostered in different homes.
Take this garbhagrham here. To raise the circular roof of the sanctum sanctorum, 68 kazhukkols, teak rafters, had to be joined to the central kudam disc and pushed up to a precise degree. All at the exact same time, 68 men holding as one. It brought the whole village together. Vrtta vimanam. From the root ma-, you know, for measure. This open namaskara mandapam, too. And that compound wall over there, just handcut laterite, no binders.
Pankulam. A pond that must be a circle, a rectangle, and a square at the same time. This is the task at hand. One thing that looks like many things. Many things that are just the one. There’s nothing magical about this. Just precise mathematical calculations. I’ve performed my vrkshapuja, asked for forgiveness from the vegetation I must cut so this pond may be dug. I’ve requested the animals, birds, and insects to find refuge elsewhere. I’ve fed the cows. I’ve had a glass of sambharam myself.
The year is 1826 by Gregorian—Malayalam kollavarsham 1001, month Kanni, nakshatram Visakham. The sun is streaming through the thatch, falling upon the first auspicious sheaf of rice I hung up at Onam. Gold upon gold. I finish my calculations. I begin.
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Kanya Kanchana is a poet. Her work has appeared in POETRY, The Common, Asymptote, Anmly, and elsewhere. Her micro fiction has appeared in Paper Darts, Litro, and The Conium Review. Kanya is engaged in practice, teaching, nonprofit work, and Sanskrit philological research at the intersection of tantra and yoga. She is also a lapsed architectural engineer.
