A sigh needs a lifetime to assail,
Who lives long enough for your charms to prevail?
--Mirza Ghalib, Delhi, 1797 - 1869


THE FULL MOON hung in a cloudless sky, like a lantern held by an invisible force. We galloped over a treeless plateau that sloped down to the glittering waters of a wide river. The mighty Ganges, I thought, eyeing the numerous smouldering pyres visible along the ghats. The river flowed endlessly on, seeming to drain into the star-studded heavens to deposit the ashes of the departed. While I had gazed at the flickering stars countless times before, there seemed something strange about them that night, although I could not determine just what. Was it the weird pattern they had formed, or their unusual brightness? In the hot night-air, sweat poured down my face and body, drenching my light cotton tunic and riding breeches.
The rider charging ahead of me, clad simply in a white wrap, waved frantically at me to keep up. Were it not for the fact that the rider rode sidesaddle, and had long, blonde hair that shone in the moonlight, I would have taken her for a man. Her horsemanship was flawless; in the bright moon-glow, she jumped her mount over dry gullies and manoeuvred around large boulders without breaking stride.

Tall mountains loomed ahead, above the long shadows cast by clusters of leafy trees. Apart from the clatter of hooves, the unmistakable, albeit faint, sound of cannon fire reverberated like distant thunderclaps from the far side of the mountains. I leaned down to make sure my musket was still in its saddle holster, for I feared that the Godiva-like maiden, rushing headlong forward, was surely leading me into battle. While I knew a rebellion had broken out across the land, whether we would fight for the Indian revolutionaries or on the British side, I could not comprehend.
Suddenly, a silhouette, of another rider on a white charger, appeared along the crest of a small hill, moving briskly towards the heights. Something about the horse and rider looked odd, almost eerie. The rider sat slumped in the saddle, head on the horseÕs mane and arms wrapped around the creatureÕs neck. The animal ran hard, as if driven instinctively to a specific destination.
ÒHurry up. We have to save the Rani,Ó the blonde figure up ahead shouted to me, pointing towards the injured rider.

A Rani? It was only when we drew closer that I noted the other riderÕs colourful garb, resplendent as an Indian queen. She appeared injured, almost lifeless. Her long, dark hair flowed down the pale horseÕs neck, which looked streaked with blood. I continued my efforts to keep up with the two women ahead as they galloped across the now steeply rising land, dotted with increasing amounts of vegetation.

ÒWhy? Why do we have to assist her?Ó I hollered back.

ÒLook at the stars.Ó

I stared up at the sky again, and it was then I perceived the strange formations of the planets and the stars. The outer planets, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto and others, had formed themselves around the moon into a YodÑa major configurationÑalso referred to as an Eye-of-the-God or the Finger-of-Fate. I had heard that this configuration of planets in the form of sextiles and quincunxes was extremely rare. The formations occurred only once a millennium or so, and thought to have major dynamic influences on the persons they shone on. These people then became the chosen ones, who would go on to perform miraculous deeds.

I wondered if we were being followed. I stood up in the stirrups and glanced back. Sure enough, some distance away in the valley, a contingent of riders was visible. From their glinting helmets and their rigid riding formation, they were definitely British cavalry.

We galloped on, following the RaniÕs horse. Finally, it seemed that our mysterious destination loomed up ahead. On the remote mountain slope in a small dell, virtually hidden by the surrounding ridges and trees, moonbeams shone on some sandstone pyramid-like structures, likely those of a temple. It looked to be a perfectly secluded spot to hide from the enemy.

The blonde woman was getting far ahead of me again. I heard her shout once more, ÒCome along, before it is too late. The Rani of Jhansi is IndiaÕs last hope for freedom.Ó
ÒHow can we save her? There are only two of us. The whole British army is behind that mountain,Ó I yelled back.

ÒKali will assist us. DonÕt you see the goddess flying over the mountaintop?Ó

I peered intensely towards the peak. For a while, other than the treetops, I could not see much. Then suddenly, as if by magic, she appeared on the horizon. It was the four-armed lady, riding a tiger. She held a sword in one hand and in the others what looked to be a trident, a severed head, and a cup brimming with blood. She wore a skirt made of human arms and a garland of white human skulls that glowed white in the moonlight. She looked down at us with fiery red eyes that smouldered within her dark blue face. It was the mother-goddess. Kali.

My labouring steedÕs mouth foamed, yet in an attempt to get a last burst of energy out of him and to get closer to the two exotic women and Kali, I spurred hard. The creature neighed shrilly and stumbled to his knees. I was thrown from the saddle and tumbled onto the dusty ground, my ears ringing.

*****
The loud ringing in my ears, I realised at last, was from my bedside alarm clock. Once again, I had awakened in bed-sheets wet with perspiration. It was another of the recurring nightmares that had tormented me ever since I had arrived in Delhi from the United States. The mysterious blonde Godiva look-alike met me in my dreams, at different locales.

The clock read six a.m., which suggested it was time for me to roll out of bed, shower and get ready for another busy day at the hospital. Or so I had thought.