Naming Maya by Uma Krishnaswami Read Free Book Online Page A

couldn’t bear the force of her rushing water. Enormous slabs of rock bearing images like this stand scattered among the groups of temples. Unlike the old temples in the city that are still used for worship, these lie deserted. It feels as if something’s missing—incense, chants, and people circling the shrines. Ashwin wanders in awe around the massive feet of a carved stone elephant. Next to it he looks tiny.
    And then I come face-to-face with a panel that takes my breath away. “Mahishasuramardhini,” says our guide proudly. “Goddess Durga defeats evil.” The pinkish stone of the giant carved wall gleams in the sunlight. Was it once the wall of yet another temple now in ruins? No one knows. The goddess is slender, almost a girl. One of her many arms pulls back the
string of a bow, training the arrow upon her victim. She rides a curly-maned lion. Each of her hands holds part of an armory—knives, clubs, spears, a trident, a whirling discus. A massive demon rises to confront her. His heavy club is raised in readiness. Horns spring from his water-buffalo head.
    â€œFifty paise for your thoughts,” says Sumati.
    I shake my head. “That’s powerful stuff.”
    She nods. “Take a picture of it.”
    I do. The slight stone figure holds me spellbound. Every fold of her robe is delicately sculpted. A tassel dangles from a necklace, swinging away from her graceful body as she aims her arrow. Other figures in the panel shrink back from the two in the middle, making way for the final scene. You know the demon doesn’t stand a chance.
    â€œMami told me this story,” I say.
    â€œYou’re named for a goddess too,” says Sumati.
    â€œMe? No, I’m named for Buddha’s mother. Can’t imagine why.”
    â€œSilly,” says Sumati patiently, “who do you think Buddha’s mother was named for?” Oh. That’s a new one. She explains it to slow American me. “One of Devi’s names is Mahamaya. Maha means great, yeah? Well, she’s supposed to have come down to earth and put the army of this wicked king, Kamsa, to sleep.
Then she takes the form of a baby girl, because he’s looking for another baby—the infant Krishna. So Kamsa finds her, and then the goddess goes back to her true form.” Sumati slams a fist dramatically into the palm of her other hand. “Just like that,” she says. “No more Kamsa.”
    I know about Krishna, of course, from Culture Camp—blue—skinned, naughty Krishna, who was really the god Vishnu, who stole butter from the milkmaids. I’d heard of the wicked king. But I didn’t know the goddess played a part. And no one’s given me this quick-time version before.
    â€œSee?” Sumati smiles. “Maya is not just any old name.” She likes it better than her own name. “Sumati is so ordinary,” she says.
    I tell her about the Great Name War when I was born. How Thatha called me Maya and Dad’s parents called me Preeta. “They came to visit us once a year,” I say. “Well, until my parents split up. And every single time Dad shouted and Mom cried. But they brought me lots of presents, and we always went out to dinner and the zoo and movies when they came.”
    â€œAnd they called you Preeta? What did you want to be called?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say. “Sometimes I liked Preeta. Sometimes I didn’t.”

    â€œMaybe the name thing wasn’t about you at all,” Sumati points out. “Maybe it was your mom they didn’t like? You know what I mean? So whatever she liked, they’d make sure they liked something else.”
    I have never thought about it that way before. Sumati goes on, “But that’s their problem, right? Not yours. Maybe it’s not so bad having two names. That way you get to choose.”
    What would the goddess say? She has thousands of names, and thousands of