Legend of the Sunset Cat

Once, long ago, when the seas had finally calmed after an eternity of uproar and the gods had returned from their exile, there lived a simple farmer without a wife and without children. Although he was not the lowest of castes, he chose to live his life alone and without the burden of a family to provide for. His neighbors called him selfish and spiteful toward mankind and what the gods had given him. The farmer cared little for this, however, for he was quite content to tend only to his cattle and enjoy the warm breezes of evening.

On a day not so different from any other, the farmer was pulling shoots from his crops when a small and thin man came to him and asked if he could borrow a blanket and a bucket of fresh water, for his son was sick and his family was poor and without the means to heal him. The farmer paused to consider the request, for he was in no debt to this poor beggar and did not look kindly upon those who could not repay favors. The poor man begged and begged until at last the farmer grew tired of the nuisance and bid him to take a blanket from his house and bucket of water from the cattle pens. With many thanks, the poor man left to find his tokens, but not before giving the farmer a tall, red feather. For your kindness, you will be rewarded, reassured the poor man.

That night, after sunset - which the farmer always paused to watch - he returned to his house to find his best silk cloth taken. He grew angry at the thought of the poor man stealing it from him and spat curses upon their son, wishing painful death upon him. The feather was cast to the fire.

The next day the farmer was out again under the heat of the sun, working in his garden. Again came to poor man, holding an empty bucket and the farmer's good silk cloth. The poor man was crying and between moans of remorse explained the death of his son after much suffering. Without pity, the farmer accused the man of taking his silks and blamed the beggar's ignorance and disrespect to be the cause of his own son's death. The poor man protested this, saying he took the first blanket he saw in his haste to be back by his son's side. But the farmer would hear none of it, and felt only the joys of revenge when the poor man accepted the accusation. Without another word, the farmer chased the poor man from his lands, cursing the man's family and cursing the silks he had touched with his impoverished fingers.

The rest of the day passed and the farmer felt quite proud of himself for ridding the world of another beggar. He ignored the stabs of guilt he felt toward the deceased boy, though, for the farmer truly believed it was himself who had cursed the beggar’s son with his own evil words.

That evening, the horizon burned like flames, reds and oranges streaking across and reaching straight into the pale blues of the dying day. Far over the trees, an eagle flew toward the farmer's land. Ignoring this as well, the farmer convinced himself to let go of his rising concern and put his cattle away before retiring to his house.

Deep in the night there came a knock on the farmer's door. Angry it would be another beggar, the farmer threw the door open only to be faced with a beast he had never seen the likes of before. It was a man, but with the white head of an eagle, his beak curved to a cruel edge that scowled at the farmer. Two great wings stretched wide and the farmer could see and empty space in the perfect plumage where a feather had been plucked.

Who are you? asked the farmer.

I am Garuda, said the eagle-man in a fierce voice that caused the farmer's house to shake like a leaf in the wind.

The farmer fell to his knees in fright. I did not mean to kill the boy! he cried desperately, for he knew why this creature had come to him.

You did not kill the boy, replied Garuda with little patience. I am that boy and I witnessed the cruelty of your heart. Not only did you hesitate to help the beggar when you considered his wealth, not only did you wish death upon his son, and not only did you rebuke him for taking your better wares - you burned his gift to you! Garuda roared. My own feather sits at the bottom of your hearth!

What are you going to do to me? asked the farmer, believing the eagle head would swallow him in one gulp.

Me? laughed Garuda in a shrill voice. I will do nothing to you. I am only a messenger for the gods and I will report your ill actions of late to those greater than all. And with that Garuda beat his great wings furiously and was gone into the black sky.

For many days and weeks the farmer anticipated his own punishment, but none came. He heard and saw no more from either the eagle-messenger nor the beggar. He spent his days once again in quiet solitude in his gardens with his cattle roaming by the road. One evening, like every evening, the farmer paused on his way indoors to admire the sunset. Colors danced and mingled above the sinking orb of the sun, and just as the last bits of its bright flames inched away behind the distant horizon, a great and ominous figure appeared before the farmer.

It was even larger and more frightening than Garuda. The figure was a man and beyond all at once, his many faces glowing in the ebbing light of the sun. He was larger and more powerful than anything the farmer had ever seen, making him to drop to the ground and cast his eyes away from the beauty of the god before him. He accepted his fate and looked at his cruel actions in the new light that fell from the faces above. He felt nothing but regret and sorrow.

Do you know me, farmer? said the voice from all around and the very earth trembled in submission. The farmer could only shake his head. No? boomed the voice. I am of the trinity; I am Brahma, creator of this world and creator of you.

Garuda has told me of the unfavorable actions you have committed and I would not see it fit for one so ungrateful to share his woes upon those around him. Look at me! Brahma howled and boulders sank into the earth. The farmer looked up, but could not see past his own tears of guilt. Brahma seemed satisfied, for he continued. It is only luck that I have received the message before it reached the ears of Shiva. You would not be so lucky then should he have.

But I am creator and I can create you anew. For what reasons, though, you have not proved in this lifetime…

Please, begged the farmer, for he feared even more the wrath of Shiva. He could not breath when a second figure suddenly arose next to Brahma, not as great, but imposing nonetheless. His skin was dark, but crested with gold bangles and jewels and blossoms and feathers. He was beautiful and looked upon the farmer with clear, kind eyes. The farmer's heart was lifted at the mere sight of such a being.

The gaze of the new deity left the farmer and turned to Brahma. Create him anew, persuaded the dark-skinned god. I have taken his sins and he has been kind to his cattle.

Brahma seemed to consider this, then said, You cannot take all his wrongdoings, Krishna. It will reflect upon and mar his new life.

I will live a life to repay that debt! shouted the farmer from his kneeling position. He was stuck between his fear of Brahma and his love for Krishna. I will live a life to serve the gods! I will be messenger, just as Garuda!

Very well, said Brahma and he lifted his arms and encircled the darkening sky. Farmer, how you love my sunsets - you will have this gift from me!

And the farmer was turned into a beast as beautiful as the sun's deathbed - fur as orange as glowing embers, red as flowing blood, white as searing as the core of flames.

You will always look to the sun and remember what I have given you and how cruel you have been!

And the farmer's eyes turned to amber jewels, glistening dangerously.

You are the perfection of my intents, not your terrible self any longer, but you are tainted by the blackness of your past soul.

And dark stripes fell upon the farmer, wrapping him in his past sins; a reminder of the night escaped and the night to come.

You are now messenger of the gods! Never forget your place, for a creation of mine makes no mistake twice! I shall tell Shiva of what has transpired and he will be watchful. Should you again act with malice, it will be he who comes in my place! And oh, he shall be far less merciful than Krishna and even more cruel than myself! And when he does away with you, he will keep that sunset skin so that he may never forget how you have abused a gift twice; may never forget to keep a watchful eye upon your kind and those that come after you!

Morning came and the farmer was left alone, but he was a farmer no more. He was fierce and strong, beautiful and dangerous, honest and ever-watching, for now he was messenger of the gods. His life would be spent in servitude - a great sunset cat to bow before every request, every bidding. And that was how he lived until he grew tired of his labors and tasted the blood of an innocent man in his blind anger and trapped frustration. Just as Brahma had said, Shiva was first to find and obliterate him, setting the tiger skin upon his shoulders in remembrance - and curse - to all the kin of the sunset cat.