Night
I stand a good forty feet closer to the skies than most men. The night is neither old nor young. The moon hides behind sprawling, fluffy cotton-clouds, bathing the earth in a faint, white light. The torches on my sentry tower shed light on a few hundred metres of the pathway that stretches into the forest. The forest is dark, fairly dense and looks dangerous, but anyone who has been there will tell you that even in the nights it’s almost as safe as anywhere else in the kingdom. On the eastern edge of the forest, lies the only village that borders our City—the capital of the greatest kingdom on the planet. The River runs thin splitting it into two near-equal halves, but provides enough water to sustain them villagers. On the backside of the last row of houses lay the fields: rectangles of different dimensions, some yellow, some green, but in the moonlight, a uniform grey.
Presently, the familiar rattle of a wooden cart and hooves disturbs the quiet. It is the washer-man, with a cartload of dirty clothes, generally the last man to leave the city for the village.
"Open the gates!" he bellows. His voice has a ringing clarity earned by years of shouting.
A few sleepy men, who literally work under me, stir and rise to do the needful. I call out to the washer-man as he leaves, the gates being shut behind him. He doesn't turn around, but merely waves. I don't know him too well, but I like the man. Like his voice, he has a certain unambiguous manner about himself.
The air is calm and humid, like a scorched, placid river in summer; Insects hum at different frequencies, the odd owl hoots; but it is the roar of the river-- rendered soft by the distance-- I have grown to love most. And then the first arrow flies, piercing the wind, hitting our favourite target—a huge boulder at the very edge of the forest, hardly any distance away. It is a poor shot, striking way off the centre, and a groan of agony is heard from somewhere on my right. Immediately two more follow, both better shots, but not good enough, one from my right the other from my left. Now, only I remain: I pick up my bow and one of my lighter arrows and take aim. With a silent prayer to our Lord and master, I shoot and hold my breath. The arrow rips across the air with a whoosh and much to my delight, hits right in the middle. Bull’s-eye! And I let out a soft whistle of joy, there’s all-round applause from my associate sentinel; I celebrate by letting a letting a couple of arrows soar and sail into the distance. I love my job: there’s nothing in the world I’d give it up for.
Day
I wake up to the calls of a carpet-seller on the street and a whiff of rain in the air. Judging by the colour of the light that seeps in through the windows—a pale yellow—I presume it is lunchtime. And sure enough, it is, for just then my wife enters to tell me that lunch is ready. At the table, I survey the array of dishes displayed, nodding approvingly.
“The king has a funny idea” my wife says, abruptly.
“The king has many deceptively funny ideas. But, he is the wisest man on Earth” I say
It is now her time to nod in approval and she continues—
“But this one is really strange. He wants US to choose the seven ministers in his court”
My wife is a courtier in the palace. She’s a scholar, well-trained in administrative affairs. Her father was her teacher: he was a very powerful man, one of the three Special Advisors to the King’s slippers. Yes, the King’s slippers. When the king, after a series of complicated occurrences, was banished for fourteen years to the forests, it was his brother who ruled us, though he never wanted the job. So, he placed the King’s slippers on the throne (another one of the King’s funny ideas?) and ruled.
“Aha! Something on the lines of what those foreign emissaries were talking about?
“Yes. They are called ‘elections’”
“Interesting idea”
“I think it is a whole lot of hogwash. It will only lead to factionalism in an already fractured court. Also, those who wield maximum political clout and can throw their weight around will probably get in: they might not necessarily be the most loved or best-suited candidates”
I had other problems with this process.
“Why do only you courtiers get to vote? What about us civilians?”
“That’s a great idea! Why don’t we all puncture more holes into a sinking boat?” she asked, with a sarcasm that was as biting as the chill in the winters.
Over the past few years, I thought she was beginning to sound increasingly like her father. The air of the court is cursed: it does funny things to people. Her father was a pompous man, God bless his departed soul, and it took a lot of convincing to get him to allow his daughter to marry a lowly archer like me. I heard from some insiders in the court that it was the King who finally managed to convince him. We got along as well as our King’s mothers and he used a peculiar condescending tone every time he addressed me. I thought I had heard a faint echo of him in what his daughter had just said to me. Keen to avoid a fight, I bit back my retort and took off on a tangent:
“I think we should have this ... what did you call it? ... ‘election’ for the King! Get all the potential candidates for the post of the King and let’s have an election!’
“Very funny” she said, took a quick swig and slammed her glass of wine onto the table with a bang. The conversation was over.
I think I still love her. I think.
Night
There’s a full-moon tonight; and a clear sky. I lie on my back and gaze at the few stars that, despite the moon’s all-encompassing radiance, shine bright. My mind wanders: I think longingly of my only son, now a handsome youth of eighteen, on a merchant-boat headed somewhere to the West; I then think of myself at eighteen, some dreamer I was then—madly in love with the ill-fated Queen from Mithila, loafing around palace gates hoping to get a glimpse of her, harbouring dreams of becoming the greatest archer in the Kingdom; almost wistfully, I think of my wife then: a bright, charming, aristocratic girl full of ideas, full of hope; and suddenly I think of the washer-man, who, as the rumour goes, is a special invitee of the King for the night; And then I hear the first arrow whiz by and agile as ever, I pick up my bow and quiver, and as I take aim, I am transported back to the magical land of my youth: I am the best in the kingdom, I tell myself, I am the best in the world.
Day
‘The demons are coming, the demons are coming’, someone screams. There’s a stampede, people fleeing in all directions. I stand in the heart of the city, my bow and arrow in hand and take aim. After all, I am the best archer in the world. A woman comes running to me and thuds into my chest, and refuses to let go. It is the Queen, my first love. ‘Save me’ she says. I shoot and it beheads the demon, blood splatters all around, the Demon backtracks.
‘Nice hit!’ says a voice and the sarcasm sounds very familiar, ‘Our king did that for days before he realised that there’s no point in doing so. Don’t you know anything at all? Aim for the stomach, you moron’ says my wife, who is what the Queen has transformed into.
“The demon is a cheat! And a bad influence!” One half of the crowd of onlookers goes.
“Let him go!” another half says.
Yes, No, Yes, No, Yes...
I wake up with a jerk, much earlier than I wanted to, for the shafts of sunlight through my window are more orange than yellow. And then I wake up to the roar: the roar of my dreams is manifest in an equally ear-piercing roar from outside my window. For a second, I grope, still half-asleep, for my bow and quiver, before I remember that the demons have long since vanished from the face of the Earth, our benevolent King himself having taken care of most of that. I peep through my window and momentarily wonder if it is still a dream.
It is a sight to behold. I live on a thin, slightly snaky and extremely long road, lined by luxurious houses of the members of the aristocracy on both sides. And at this moment, I would bet five gold coins against anyone finding even an inch of space on the road. Never since the return of our King after the Great War, have I seen a crowd so huge. Never have I ever seen one so boisterous and vociferous. I climb up to the top of my house, keen to get a better view. And the centre of attraction is what makes me clasp my mouth in amazement: squatting atop a pile of obviously lavish gifts and garments on a familiar wooden cart is the washer-man! He sits with his arms crossed against his chest, trying to appear calm; but it’s his eyes that give him away: they are laden with a fear so immense that I feel my heart go out for him. The crowd is noticeably split into two agitated groups—those that agree with him, and those that don’t. Though, it is impossible to say what the matter is: there are just too many voices.
And then, finally, the washer-man gathers his wits about him and raises his hands to address the crowd: “Silence” he roars.
And immediately, more calls for quiet are heard. He waits until the last voice falls silent.
“I have done what I thought was right” his voice sounds nervous. He continues,
“I only expressed to the King what I thought of the issue. Had he thought I was wrong, he was free to ignore what I had said and move on with his life. Why blame me?”
A murmur of voices, gradually rising in volume, follows. I seize the momentary hush to ask a young soldier, clad in silver shining armour, standing on the pavement below me:
“What is happening? What did the washer-man do?”
The soldier gives me an incredulous where-in-the-world-were-you-all-day stare and says, “The Queen has been asked to leave the City by the King because he feels her chastity is questionable”
Initially, I think he is lying or misinformed, or I have just heard him wrong. But, subsequently, I look around at the ever-bulging crowd, at the plethora of troubled men and women and then at him—his grave countenance tells me that this is no joke and conveys to me the gravity of the situation.
I do not know what I feel, I do not even know if I can feel anything. I can only mutely hear him go on, “After all” he is saying, “she was a captive of the Demon for so many years. Who knows what he might have done with her?”
I find my voice—it’s a whisper, and surprisingly audible. I ask, pointing in the direction of the wooden cart:
“And what did he do?”
“Who? The washer-man? He was the one who suggested to the king that she might be corrupted. Apparently, they talked all night. The king, for his part, continuously reiterates that the decision is his and his alone. And ...”
I turn my back to him and slump into the corner—my chin on my knees, my arms wrapped around my shins. It doesn’t make any sense, I think. How could the wisest man on Earth even think that she was impure? And what if she was? What does it matter? Why don’t people understand?
‘Ridiculous’ I mutter to myself, but feel neither pain nor rage, only emptiness.
The crowd was roaring yet again, but it all seems so distant now that it barely registers.
To continue ...
I stand a good forty feet closer to the skies than most men. The night is neither old nor young. The moon hides behind sprawling, fluffy cotton-clouds, bathing the earth in a faint, white light. The torches on my sentry tower shed light on a few hundred metres of the pathway that stretches into the forest. The forest is dark, fairly dense and looks dangerous, but anyone who has been there will tell you that even in the nights it’s almost as safe as anywhere else in the kingdom. On the eastern edge of the forest, lies the only village that borders our City—the capital of the greatest kingdom on the planet. The River runs thin splitting it into two near-equal halves, but provides enough water to sustain them villagers. On the backside of the last row of houses lay the fields: rectangles of different dimensions, some yellow, some green, but in the moonlight, a uniform grey.
Presently, the familiar rattle of a wooden cart and hooves disturbs the quiet. It is the washer-man, with a cartload of dirty clothes, generally the last man to leave the city for the village.
"Open the gates!" he bellows. His voice has a ringing clarity earned by years of shouting.
A few sleepy men, who literally work under me, stir and rise to do the needful. I call out to the washer-man as he leaves, the gates being shut behind him. He doesn't turn around, but merely waves. I don't know him too well, but I like the man. Like his voice, he has a certain unambiguous manner about himself.
The air is calm and humid, like a scorched, placid river in summer; Insects hum at different frequencies, the odd owl hoots; but it is the roar of the river-- rendered soft by the distance-- I have grown to love most. And then the first arrow flies, piercing the wind, hitting our favourite target—a huge boulder at the very edge of the forest, hardly any distance away. It is a poor shot, striking way off the centre, and a groan of agony is heard from somewhere on my right. Immediately two more follow, both better shots, but not good enough, one from my right the other from my left. Now, only I remain: I pick up my bow and one of my lighter arrows and take aim. With a silent prayer to our Lord and master, I shoot and hold my breath. The arrow rips across the air with a whoosh and much to my delight, hits right in the middle. Bull’s-eye! And I let out a soft whistle of joy, there’s all-round applause from my associate sentinel; I celebrate by letting a letting a couple of arrows soar and sail into the distance. I love my job: there’s nothing in the world I’d give it up for.
Day
I wake up to the calls of a carpet-seller on the street and a whiff of rain in the air. Judging by the colour of the light that seeps in through the windows—a pale yellow—I presume it is lunchtime. And sure enough, it is, for just then my wife enters to tell me that lunch is ready. At the table, I survey the array of dishes displayed, nodding approvingly.
“The king has a funny idea” my wife says, abruptly.
“The king has many deceptively funny ideas. But, he is the wisest man on Earth” I say
It is now her time to nod in approval and she continues—
“But this one is really strange. He wants US to choose the seven ministers in his court”
My wife is a courtier in the palace. She’s a scholar, well-trained in administrative affairs. Her father was her teacher: he was a very powerful man, one of the three Special Advisors to the King’s slippers. Yes, the King’s slippers. When the king, after a series of complicated occurrences, was banished for fourteen years to the forests, it was his brother who ruled us, though he never wanted the job. So, he placed the King’s slippers on the throne (another one of the King’s funny ideas?) and ruled.
“Aha! Something on the lines of what those foreign emissaries were talking about?
“Yes. They are called ‘elections’”
“Interesting idea”
“I think it is a whole lot of hogwash. It will only lead to factionalism in an already fractured court. Also, those who wield maximum political clout and can throw their weight around will probably get in: they might not necessarily be the most loved or best-suited candidates”
I had other problems with this process.
“Why do only you courtiers get to vote? What about us civilians?”
“That’s a great idea! Why don’t we all puncture more holes into a sinking boat?” she asked, with a sarcasm that was as biting as the chill in the winters.
Over the past few years, I thought she was beginning to sound increasingly like her father. The air of the court is cursed: it does funny things to people. Her father was a pompous man, God bless his departed soul, and it took a lot of convincing to get him to allow his daughter to marry a lowly archer like me. I heard from some insiders in the court that it was the King who finally managed to convince him. We got along as well as our King’s mothers and he used a peculiar condescending tone every time he addressed me. I thought I had heard a faint echo of him in what his daughter had just said to me. Keen to avoid a fight, I bit back my retort and took off on a tangent:
“I think we should have this ... what did you call it? ... ‘election’ for the King! Get all the potential candidates for the post of the King and let’s have an election!’
“Very funny” she said, took a quick swig and slammed her glass of wine onto the table with a bang. The conversation was over.
I think I still love her. I think.
Night
There’s a full-moon tonight; and a clear sky. I lie on my back and gaze at the few stars that, despite the moon’s all-encompassing radiance, shine bright. My mind wanders: I think longingly of my only son, now a handsome youth of eighteen, on a merchant-boat headed somewhere to the West; I then think of myself at eighteen, some dreamer I was then—madly in love with the ill-fated Queen from Mithila, loafing around palace gates hoping to get a glimpse of her, harbouring dreams of becoming the greatest archer in the Kingdom; almost wistfully, I think of my wife then: a bright, charming, aristocratic girl full of ideas, full of hope; and suddenly I think of the washer-man, who, as the rumour goes, is a special invitee of the King for the night; And then I hear the first arrow whiz by and agile as ever, I pick up my bow and quiver, and as I take aim, I am transported back to the magical land of my youth: I am the best in the kingdom, I tell myself, I am the best in the world.
Day
‘The demons are coming, the demons are coming’, someone screams. There’s a stampede, people fleeing in all directions. I stand in the heart of the city, my bow and arrow in hand and take aim. After all, I am the best archer in the world. A woman comes running to me and thuds into my chest, and refuses to let go. It is the Queen, my first love. ‘Save me’ she says. I shoot and it beheads the demon, blood splatters all around, the Demon backtracks.
‘Nice hit!’ says a voice and the sarcasm sounds very familiar, ‘Our king did that for days before he realised that there’s no point in doing so. Don’t you know anything at all? Aim for the stomach, you moron’ says my wife, who is what the Queen has transformed into.
“The demon is a cheat! And a bad influence!” One half of the crowd of onlookers goes.
“Let him go!” another half says.
Yes, No, Yes, No, Yes...
I wake up with a jerk, much earlier than I wanted to, for the shafts of sunlight through my window are more orange than yellow. And then I wake up to the roar: the roar of my dreams is manifest in an equally ear-piercing roar from outside my window. For a second, I grope, still half-asleep, for my bow and quiver, before I remember that the demons have long since vanished from the face of the Earth, our benevolent King himself having taken care of most of that. I peep through my window and momentarily wonder if it is still a dream.
It is a sight to behold. I live on a thin, slightly snaky and extremely long road, lined by luxurious houses of the members of the aristocracy on both sides. And at this moment, I would bet five gold coins against anyone finding even an inch of space on the road. Never since the return of our King after the Great War, have I seen a crowd so huge. Never have I ever seen one so boisterous and vociferous. I climb up to the top of my house, keen to get a better view. And the centre of attraction is what makes me clasp my mouth in amazement: squatting atop a pile of obviously lavish gifts and garments on a familiar wooden cart is the washer-man! He sits with his arms crossed against his chest, trying to appear calm; but it’s his eyes that give him away: they are laden with a fear so immense that I feel my heart go out for him. The crowd is noticeably split into two agitated groups—those that agree with him, and those that don’t. Though, it is impossible to say what the matter is: there are just too many voices.
And then, finally, the washer-man gathers his wits about him and raises his hands to address the crowd: “Silence” he roars.
And immediately, more calls for quiet are heard. He waits until the last voice falls silent.
“I have done what I thought was right” his voice sounds nervous. He continues,
“I only expressed to the King what I thought of the issue. Had he thought I was wrong, he was free to ignore what I had said and move on with his life. Why blame me?”
A murmur of voices, gradually rising in volume, follows. I seize the momentary hush to ask a young soldier, clad in silver shining armour, standing on the pavement below me:
“What is happening? What did the washer-man do?”
The soldier gives me an incredulous where-in-the-world-were-you-all-day stare and says, “The Queen has been asked to leave the City by the King because he feels her chastity is questionable”
Initially, I think he is lying or misinformed, or I have just heard him wrong. But, subsequently, I look around at the ever-bulging crowd, at the plethora of troubled men and women and then at him—his grave countenance tells me that this is no joke and conveys to me the gravity of the situation.
I do not know what I feel, I do not even know if I can feel anything. I can only mutely hear him go on, “After all” he is saying, “she was a captive of the Demon for so many years. Who knows what he might have done with her?”
I find my voice—it’s a whisper, and surprisingly audible. I ask, pointing in the direction of the wooden cart:
“And what did he do?”
“Who? The washer-man? He was the one who suggested to the king that she might be corrupted. Apparently, they talked all night. The king, for his part, continuously reiterates that the decision is his and his alone. And ...”
I turn my back to him and slump into the corner—my chin on my knees, my arms wrapped around my shins. It doesn’t make any sense, I think. How could the wisest man on Earth even think that she was impure? And what if she was? What does it matter? Why don’t people understand?
‘Ridiculous’ I mutter to myself, but feel neither pain nor rage, only emptiness.
The crowd was roaring yet again, but it all seems so distant now that it barely registers.
To continue ...
20 comments:
nice concept... but i dont like the plot of the uttara kaand in the first place, never thought rama would be that idiotic. but well written all the same. what happened to political science?
sharan, you have such immense talent. but i somehow feel that it is narrative non fiction, u master in. twilight(till now) didn't move me but Stuff like convert n political science among others are outstanding works. You, in a strange way, remind me of malgudi days.
@s
Political Science sort of got stalled. I dont quite know why.
@R
Thanks.
And R for?
is that important? if yes, why?
@R
Naah! It really isnt that important.
Go! Go away! :)
Oh,but,before you do that, tell me if you liked part-2 or not ...
:) :) :)
..i'm not going nowhere...
its just a name so unimportant.
well, twilight two is a fine piece of gr8 detailing.
.......
"the sky is transforming—it is a very dark blue now, but it won’t be long before it attains its confused yet exquisitely beautiful state: the sky at dawn sometimes makes me wonder whether God is a child, for only a child can produce such a disorderly mishmash of colours whose beauty and purity even the most talented of painters find impossible to capture."..
sharan i won't be exaggerating if i say that this phrase is an achievement!. when i read this phrase i got flashes... of my days as an insomniac...of the taare(ya zameen par) kid... of the last n only time i saw the dawn...
also i think that you have good clues about protagonist selection... an archer of ayodhya(or whatever u call it)is like...jack on the titanic...
i liked it.
@r
thanks again. praise helps.
i am in two minds now: though i hate to admit it, a part of me really wants to know who you are(or at least where your blog is, cos instinctively i am sure you have one. i know. i just do) and another part likes this game we are playing ...
i'll probably just let things be :)
do visit. feels good to know that at least someone hasnt given up on this blog!
let me tell you one thing, there are many out there who haven't given up on this space.
also, flattery disarms a guy.. kidding :) :)
About your instincts, I'm not too sure but i don't completely rule out the probability of them being correct. oh n by the way, what more do you know about me, instinctively?
PS : I like this game too!
Ok. As of now, I know:
You name begins with 'r' (but 'r' could also be short for anything--'random' perhaps?)
You are a girl ("flattery disarms a guy").
i did my research and figured (through my source) that the only person I know who reads my blog with that combination is NOT you. at least, she (you) claim(s) she's not you (her).
and as for "About your instincts, I'm not too sure but i don't completely rule out the probability of them being correct",
how closer to your chest can you hold your cards?
give me something. and then this game could, perhaps, get more interesting.
we'll probably be on a more equal music ... er... even footing (?)
we have met
not good enough ...
Ok. I met you today.
oh and by the way, the anagrammatic form of your name with the brand new 'v' is quite cool, amusing but cool...ha aha
Best of luck for (the rest of) your exams.
PS belated happy birthday!
Ok. I met you today.
oh and by the way, the anagrammatic form of your name with the brand new 'v' is quite cool, amusing but cool...ha aha
Best of luck for (the rest of) your exams.
PS happy birthday!
so stopped liking this game?
nope. i just won. how is it being back at DU?
oh, and come over to hansraj if you have the time. will be glad to entertain you anytime :)
won? really? hows tht? so u know who i am?
well, being back in du feels just so ryt...so much so that sometimes I feel how du-sick Im going to be once college is over...without "knags". the "ricks". the south del bling "boyz n galz".
and temme how was your CAT?
sigh
happy birthday!
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