Psyche

By Madhav Menon

What's the most evil? The lares that haunt the living or the existence of love? The answer is very simple, it is love by a long shot. For Psyche, however, was the curse of her beauty. An unattainable, uncanny beauty that could not be possessed by mere mortals. That could not be contained by mere mortals. Her golden hair, seemed like it always needed an anchor to stay in this realm. Her blue eyes seemed to look into a world so lonely, so alone that she'd project the very idea of the sky without any celestial object. She'd project the very concept of death by the pitiful sight of loneliness. The fair skin she (never) flaunted was cancerous, as if the rays that felt upon her cursed her, reminding her of her pitiful existence, meagerly meandering in the castle walls, only having the winds to carry her whispers. It was as if everything envied her beauty, the stars dimmed upon her sight, the moon got covered with clouds, and even the sky wept at the beauty it could never possess. But it was never hers to want.

She'd have happily given up her beauty, she'd have happily given up her suitors, she'd have happily given up her life. And that's what she did.

The tallest cliff in her vicinity was not the one she jumped from but the rift she'd created from her reality and herself. She'd wished to plummet to her death, but even death's not easy to those who life doesn't love. It didn't bode well for her that what she saw after opening her eyes, was a castle, albeit much larger than hers rather than the gates to hell. That she saw wind spirits ferrying food and riches to her than Charon ferrying across the dead. It felt home. She was worried, but for the first time in her life had she felt peace. She felt worried but for the first time in her life there was not the burden of beauty on her shoulders. It was almost as if she could feel the spirit of love in the air. It was something she'd never felt in her life. She never loved her parents; she knew they pitied her. She never loved her sisters; she knew they envied her. She never loved herself, she couldn't. Yet when she felt love, she fell in love with the feeling of love. It is as if we, as humans have something inside of us that helps us recognize it. Her surprise didn't end there though. She was escorted by a spirit, no, a deity, so handsome that despite the wind spirits around her, it took her breath away. She knew it wasn't the Olympians but it wasn't a minor god either. She knew it was her love. Yet, she couldn't see his face. In retrospect, the fact that even love shies away seeing the face of their love is quite hilarious.

He claimed to be her husband, and she, for some reason, willingly complied. For the first time ever, she'd found safety in someone's arms, for the first time in her life, she'd felt safe.

They were bound by peculiar promises, their vows of marriage. They were bound by peculiar promises, the promise to not look at his face. He was the gentlest of souls, one with so much love. He was one of the kindest of souls, beautiful, sparkling in a form of beauty she'd never seen before. She felt a sense of self, free of all envy, free of the unnecessary beauty. It was him that showed her what a beating heart felt like. A beating heart that could not, however, look at the face of its love when it needed it the most. Yet, she felt the most complete since she'd been born. Alas, a Greek story isn't complete till tragedy befalls and sadly Psyche's was no exception. Isn't it odd, that us humans always seek to return to our past once we have finally grasped our present. As if the follies of our past could be corrected now. As if all the regret would vanish to see the remnants of a burnt house we once called home. As if you could light fire to your suffering to end all that caused it. Yet we're mere mortals, nay, not even the Gods could turn back time to correct their follies. Psyche, homesick, wanted to go home to her parents. Psyche, relieved, wanted to see her sisters. Her sisters now married off to wealthy families, now flaunting their charm and wealth. Alas, the moment Psyche descended onto land, she resembled a goddess, her beauty always did match one, but now, her charm and grace matched her status. And so, the envy of her sisters followed suit.

He had warned her of this. He had warned her of the things they'd tell her, of the doubts they'd put in her mind. But poor Psyche was naïve. Her sisters asked her about the palace in the sky, about the wind spirits who were her royal servants. And poor Psyche was naïve. She told them everything, just adding fuel to the fire. The fire that was once an ember, now sought out to destroy everything Psyche held dear, to destroy her psyche. They asked her of she'd ever seen his face, they asked whether she'd ever felt his gaze, they asked if he were a monster. Psyche, speechless, felt the seeds of doubt seeping through her conscience. She was once again whisked away to her palace. Poor Psyche, in her naivety started asking herself questions. Who was he? Just like her sanity, just like her sincerity, she held a candle which had started melting. It was with a heavy heart for the first time after they'd met, she touched his face. And in the night when no one could see, in such a night where the moon was absent, under the abstinent candlelight was his face revealed. And Psyche gasped. It was for the first time in her life she'd regretted not being more beautiful. It was for the first time in her life she'd felt love at its finest. For it was Cupid, the mighty god of love, who lay beside her, defenseless. For it was Cupid that loved her, for it was Cupid whose heart she'd broken. Just like her melting sanity the wax melted over his heart and his eyes opened.

It was his turn to gasp. Ironically, his was of regret too. Ironically, he was feeling a myriad of emotions too. It was a storm that ensued, not just one of Cupid's rage but of his love too. He couldn't have let her see his face; his mother (Aphrodite) would eviscerate his godhood. He felt love, but he felt fear. He felt pain in his heart, where the wax singed his chest. For the first time, Cupid felt the pain he dished out to others. Not even the ichor that flowed in him could suppress the pain of love, the pain of parting. He flew back to his mother, out of fear, out of pain. His mother was furious, not only did he fail her task, but fell in love with Psyche, the woman said to rival her beauty, just setting in stone the same. At the same time, Psyche was sent back to her dreary old palace. She was brought back to reality, the curse that was her beauty. Her sisters, thinking they were Cupid's next muses, jumped off of the cliff, just to plummet to their sweet deaths. Psyche, could not be sad at that, they'd ruined her imperfect life with him.

Yet his scars were incurable. Love does that to anyone; it gives you scars that (sometimes) feel good but are incurable to a degree where only the touch of your beloved can cure them.

The follies, the envy that got Psyche to the miserable state she was in, now needed her to cure Eros (Cupid). She was his as was the love that flowed through her. She was his as were the scars that lined his chest. She was his soul, the feelings that he'd lost to her. She was his malady, his cure, she was Psyche, she was Cupid to him. And the goddess of love, unable to cure him, yet unable to accept the (young) lovers put Psyche to test. Every time Cupid would see her, the burns would heal a bit more. Yet Aphrodite's heart was filled with malice, still. She'd seen her naivety, her innocence, and that just made her more envious. Poor Psyche, her life had been tormented by the envy of others. Poor Psyche, had been blighted by the obligations of a beautiful maiden. Poor Psyche, she didn't have an inch of malice, and that was her downfall. Even to the end, when curiosity got the better of her and she fell to love's, beauty's malice, she cursed no one. And to Eros' dismay, his mother was behind it all. And Psyche was turned into a goddess. In the end, the cruelty of love even defeated the goddess of love.

Eros' Perspective

To him, Psyche was THE ONLY GODDESS. She was so imperfectly beautiful; her beauty was full dismay. Her fate was cruel, just like love, it's no wonder that the cruelty engulfed even the spirit of love. To him, being invisible, not being able to show her his face was the cruelest experiences. To him, when the wax melted on his chest, he was relieved, that she'd seen his face, although she could never see it again. To him the wax was torturous, but what burnt his heart was her absence. Ironically, the cruelty inflicted on him completed him, just like his victims, just like Psyche

By Madhav Menon