Week 11 Story The Four Vices

Mango from Wikipedia

A priest sits in a shallow stream, admiring the gleam in his own eyes. Surrounding him is a glen, apricots dripping off trees in the new Spring, hanging on low-bent limbs, soft honey-skin aching to kiss the ground but tied to a different fate.

From the sky Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, and Ganesha bring down their holy forms. The four gods carry wreaths of divine flowers, lotus blooms harvested from the navel of Indra. In each wreath, a divine gift does bloom, weaved between the pink lotus petals. These flower-laden crowns curl into the hands of the Gods, infiltrated by the prowess of the beholder. To be crowned by the gods with such gifts would transfer authority and respect onto that head.  The Priest claims to be more than a false idol, offering his empty brow.

First, the holy man turns to Brahma. The Creator begets humility, a slender smile that asks not too much but understands one’s own boundaries. Only those who get not stars in their eyes at becoming such glistening objects hold worthiness in their hearts. He places the wreath on the Priest’s head.

Second, the holy man turns to Ganesha. The Remover of Obstacles sheaths his sphere, offers up drops of fine wine and long grains of gold. Only through honesty, the God proclaims, shall these awards be given. He places the wreath on the Priest’s head.

Third, the holy man turns to Vishnu. The Preserver unwraps silver leaves, painting the buds to match the grass’s tongue. In his hands perfume the mangos, rounded in his palms and heavy with juice. He places the wreath on the Priest’s head.

Fourth, the holy man turns to Shiva. The Destroyer holds a patch of thorns, comforted by roses red and open as the lover’s mouth. He places the wreath on the Priest’s head.

Brahma looks not with envy. His brow is firm, there is no slack as they draw together. He is not green to the world. He understands its heartache as inherent.

Ganesha now wears a bruising purple, the slick skin of the sweet grape shriveled with sickness. The harvest falls, dust filling the priest’s mouth and coating his teeth. There is no wheat or vines to carry, stalk by stalk, to the hill. He sees, then, the power of famine.

Vishnu sighs as the mangos begin to rot, orange fuzz browning. Even the God’s cheeks pale, turning yellow as his body aligns itself with the color of the midnight sky.

Shiva holds an unknown sadness in his bleeding eyes.

Author's Note: I choose The Man Who Told a Lie from Eastern Stories and Legends by Marie Shedlock. So I want to use this poetic format to give a description of these four sins, as well as their opposing virtues, by telling the story of the man who lied and was punished.  The topics will follow the original in order, just to keep it authentic to the original in a honorific way.  I will start with pride and then describe humility.  Next is gluttony and abstinence. Sloth follows up with diligence right behind it.  Then it is wrath/anger and patience taking the stage.