He patted his shrunken left thigh. “Mahadevi knows I endured years of kneading and massaging, with rancid tiger fat, bison semen, goats’ dung, and what-have-you. Nothing worked. Yet, when I began to sculpt in earnest, my spirit grew. Now I view my imperfection as a tool for growth, and, often, I actually find myself grateful for it.”

“Acceptance I can understand,” she said, “but you say you are grateful?”            

Skanda nodded. “An odd thing to say, I know, but nevertheless true. Let me explain…I’ve an apprentice with a unique talent for molding clay in just the right proportions. Unfortunately he’s also an expert at rousing my demons. When I long to call him a festering sore on my bum, I loo...

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