NightThe City has acquired a gossipy feel to it. I can see whispers and rumours everywhere—on the outer walls of the city, atop sentry towers where my colleagues and I stand guard; in houses, both unpretentious and lavish; on roads a buzzing noise persists even though some time has elapsed since the Sun has set; in temples, where even the clangs of the bells or the chants of the priests aren’t able to sway one’s minds or mouths for too long; in theatres, where the poor actors are at their wits end as the crowds seem restless and distracted; even the forests seem twitchy, with more owls hooting and insects screeching.
Gradually, the last lanterns in the houses are put out—darkness engulfs homes but not the City. The street lamps are ablaze—they tend to burn out only just about the time when the moon is three-fourths done with his journey. A couple of rooms in the western wing of the palace—the section frequented most by me as a love-stricken lad in my teens—have lights burning. The Queen is preparing for her journey. I know it is madness, but my legs want to sprint at full-throttle towards the palace, to get one final glimpse of my Queen.
We play the Aim-Game again. I lose horribly—my first two shots don’t even hit the boulder.
I hear the familiar call of the conch and make my way down to the all-night open-air canteen on the city-side of my tower. The soup-maker is a nice man: one of those rotund, jovial sorts. More importantly, he is brilliant at his job. Nearly every sentinel or gate-keeper is here. With soups to refresh sleepy heads and sagging minds, the topic of discussion invariably veers towards the expulsion of the Queen. I enter in the middle of a discussion:
“... And the King has decided to ask the washer-man to stay for longer in his palace away from the angry eyes of protesters who think he has deprived them of their Queen”
“Is he hurt? Did the mob get to him?” I ask.
“Where were you? I heard it was all happening in your lane?” asks Narendra.
“He must have slept through it” someone else says and everyone laughs. My sleeping abilities are legendary in this circle, most of us having gone to the same school of archery. I never sleep on duty though. I wait for the laughter to die down and ask again—
‘Well, what did happen to him?”
“Nothing happened to him. He is capable of taking care of himself. The two mobs clashed and he got away. Not many were injured seriously though”
“Why did he say such an atrocious thing?” asks a soldier who I only know by face and continues, “And look at his audacity: he approached the King directly!”
“The King is easily accessible” chips in Jayendra, famed for his kindness, and continues, “Even you can approach him directly. As for your first question, as you can well see, opinion is divided. I personally feel that it was right of him to suggest to the king that she might be impure. The demon was the epitome of evil. He could have done anything with her”
“The Demon loved her with all his heart” says Siddhartha, as calm as Varuna when appeased. “He would never have harmed her. I hear, from no less that the Monkey-God who visited the demon’s gardens where she was held captive, that she was never even laid a finger upon by the Demon”
“Rubbish! What about during the war when he was losing? Wasn’t he getting increasingly frustrated with the goings-on? Couldn’t he have just taken out his frustration on her?”
“No he couldn’t! He loved her and even his wildest of urges could never have been able to break the shackles of his tormented Love. He wanted to win her, you see. He never wanted to steal her. Most, importantly, he wanted Her to accept Him as her husband, as her Lord. He needn’t have died—he could have just run away from the battlefield with her in tow. But, he fought, naively hoping that if he did beat our King, she might just accept him as her beloved. It was foolish, but that’s how love is. If our King loved her half as much, he wouldn’t really be sending her away. Why should he care if half the city sees her as a fallen woman?”
“How dare you say such stupid things about our King?”
“Now, my friends, don’t have a fight here” says Anantha, looking skyward, “I think its time we got back to our posts”
“I have one last question” I say, picking up my courage, “What if the Queen is impure? Why can’t the King take her back? What is wrong with a man being married to a woman whose chastity is disputed, but whose love is true?”
For a moment they are taken aback, I can see it in their faces. I see a flicker of hope, maybe I am right, and maybe what I think is actually a valid argument. And then they look at one another and begin to laugh—unfortunately, I was a bit too hasty with my assessment—and in a few moments, they are all roaring with mirth, some holding their stomachs, some even having tears in their eyes; even Siddhartha has a smile on face.Day
Mid-way through lunch, I ask my wife:
“What is your take on the Queen-issue?”
“I think its unfortunate, especially for the King and the Queen”
Uncomprehending, I ask, expecting a slew of belittling comments—
“Why is it unfortunate for the King?”
She smiles a smile I haven’t seen for long and says softly,
“If you had crossed mountains and forests and oceans and then fought a bloody battle with a Demon King all for one person, only to realise that she is not going to be with you for more than a short period, how would you feel?”
It hits me like a fire-arrow from the heavens—I have never really seen it from the King’s point of view. He must be distraught, as though a part of him that just sprang back to life is again being stolen away, but—
“But, isn’t it all his own doing? Why did he have to send her away? Doesn’t he know she is pure? He must, she is!”
“He knows. I am certain. But, how could he keep her? Especially since there is growing discontent against Him for accepting Her”
“What does he care about what some of us may think? And he’s led such a blemish-free life that it is impossible for his name to be tarnished by something as trivial as this”
“Impractical and completely out of touch with ground realities—that’s what you are. A peaceful and content Kingdom is not a reflection of the King’s state of mind, but the people’s. If the people are unhappy, or angry, then how can any progress ever be made?”
“But, doesn’t this decision leave many of us unhappy too?”
“No! You are too small a minority. And many of you will find it impossible to hate a man who has sacrificed his most prized possession with no great hesitation. It takes a brave man to do that”
She must be speaking sense for this is exactly what many in the city and the washer-man are saying. But, I am unconvinced and I think it is more my fault than anybody else’s: I am blinded by a skewed viewpoint stemming from my liking for the Queen; I have developed an impenetrable wall around my own reasoning, nothing anyone says will make any difference. I ask,
“Do you believe she is pure and chaste?
“Yes”
“And you still think the King is right?”
“Yes”
“Then who is to blame?”
“ Fate”
I shake my head in disagreement. The brave man is the one who is able to rise above circumstances. And the King could have easily been the brave man.Night
The Moon is in protest. It rose late, almost reluctantly, and now refuses to emerge from behind the clouds. I take heart from the fact that someone shares my sentiments. I have declined to play our Aim-game today and now haven’t even gone down to the soup-maker. The City is asleep, but will awake in some time. The street-lamps are long extinguished; 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.
“Open the gates” says a voice whose calmness seems like it is the result of several emotions, like the colours of the rainbow converging to give a pure white.
I look down. Forty feet below and clad in white is purity personified—our Queen, my Queen.
Most of the sentinels are away at the soup-maker and those who remain are just too sleepy to notice who it actually is, having stayed up for hours at a stretch now. They go about their job mechanically, opening the gates without much of a fuss. I strain my neck to catch a glimpse of the most beautiful face on the Earth.
And the moon surprisingly surfaces in silent obeisance.
And the Queen walks out, neither hurriedly nor patiently, not even without the slightest of jerks, not stooping, not looking back even once; her expressive face is stiff, perhaps the only untoward sign in an otherwise perfect performance. But when she walked, she walked like a Queen—with divine grace and dignity until she is swallowed by the shadows of the trees and her footsteps are lost in the mellifluous songs of the birds of twilight. And it is neither night nor day.
Gradually, the last lanterns in the houses are put out—darkness engulfs homes but not the City. The street lamps are ablaze—they tend to burn out only just about the time when the moon is three-fourths done with his journey. A couple of rooms in the western wing of the palace—the section frequented most by me as a love-stricken lad in my teens—have lights burning. The Queen is preparing for her journey. I know it is madness, but my legs want to sprint at full-throttle towards the palace, to get one final glimpse of my Queen.
We play the Aim-Game again. I lose horribly—my first two shots don’t even hit the boulder.
I hear the familiar call of the conch and make my way down to the all-night open-air canteen on the city-side of my tower. The soup-maker is a nice man: one of those rotund, jovial sorts. More importantly, he is brilliant at his job. Nearly every sentinel or gate-keeper is here. With soups to refresh sleepy heads and sagging minds, the topic of discussion invariably veers towards the expulsion of the Queen. I enter in the middle of a discussion:
“... And the King has decided to ask the washer-man to stay for longer in his palace away from the angry eyes of protesters who think he has deprived them of their Queen”
“Is he hurt? Did the mob get to him?” I ask.
“Where were you? I heard it was all happening in your lane?” asks Narendra.
“He must have slept through it” someone else says and everyone laughs. My sleeping abilities are legendary in this circle, most of us having gone to the same school of archery. I never sleep on duty though. I wait for the laughter to die down and ask again—
‘Well, what did happen to him?”
“Nothing happened to him. He is capable of taking care of himself. The two mobs clashed and he got away. Not many were injured seriously though”
“Why did he say such an atrocious thing?” asks a soldier who I only know by face and continues, “And look at his audacity: he approached the King directly!”
“The King is easily accessible” chips in Jayendra, famed for his kindness, and continues, “Even you can approach him directly. As for your first question, as you can well see, opinion is divided. I personally feel that it was right of him to suggest to the king that she might be impure. The demon was the epitome of evil. He could have done anything with her”
“The Demon loved her with all his heart” says Siddhartha, as calm as Varuna when appeased. “He would never have harmed her. I hear, from no less that the Monkey-God who visited the demon’s gardens where she was held captive, that she was never even laid a finger upon by the Demon”
“Rubbish! What about during the war when he was losing? Wasn’t he getting increasingly frustrated with the goings-on? Couldn’t he have just taken out his frustration on her?”
“No he couldn’t! He loved her and even his wildest of urges could never have been able to break the shackles of his tormented Love. He wanted to win her, you see. He never wanted to steal her. Most, importantly, he wanted Her to accept Him as her husband, as her Lord. He needn’t have died—he could have just run away from the battlefield with her in tow. But, he fought, naively hoping that if he did beat our King, she might just accept him as her beloved. It was foolish, but that’s how love is. If our King loved her half as much, he wouldn’t really be sending her away. Why should he care if half the city sees her as a fallen woman?”
“How dare you say such stupid things about our King?”
“Now, my friends, don’t have a fight here” says Anantha, looking skyward, “I think its time we got back to our posts”
“I have one last question” I say, picking up my courage, “What if the Queen is impure? Why can’t the King take her back? What is wrong with a man being married to a woman whose chastity is disputed, but whose love is true?”
For a moment they are taken aback, I can see it in their faces. I see a flicker of hope, maybe I am right, and maybe what I think is actually a valid argument. And then they look at one another and begin to laugh—unfortunately, I was a bit too hasty with my assessment—and in a few moments, they are all roaring with mirth, some holding their stomachs, some even having tears in their eyes; even Siddhartha has a smile on face.Day
Mid-way through lunch, I ask my wife:
“What is your take on the Queen-issue?”
“I think its unfortunate, especially for the King and the Queen”
Uncomprehending, I ask, expecting a slew of belittling comments—
“Why is it unfortunate for the King?”
She smiles a smile I haven’t seen for long and says softly,
“If you had crossed mountains and forests and oceans and then fought a bloody battle with a Demon King all for one person, only to realise that she is not going to be with you for more than a short period, how would you feel?”
It hits me like a fire-arrow from the heavens—I have never really seen it from the King’s point of view. He must be distraught, as though a part of him that just sprang back to life is again being stolen away, but—
“But, isn’t it all his own doing? Why did he have to send her away? Doesn’t he know she is pure? He must, she is!”
“He knows. I am certain. But, how could he keep her? Especially since there is growing discontent against Him for accepting Her”
“What does he care about what some of us may think? And he’s led such a blemish-free life that it is impossible for his name to be tarnished by something as trivial as this”
“Impractical and completely out of touch with ground realities—that’s what you are. A peaceful and content Kingdom is not a reflection of the King’s state of mind, but the people’s. If the people are unhappy, or angry, then how can any progress ever be made?”
“But, doesn’t this decision leave many of us unhappy too?”
“No! You are too small a minority. And many of you will find it impossible to hate a man who has sacrificed his most prized possession with no great hesitation. It takes a brave man to do that”
She must be speaking sense for this is exactly what many in the city and the washer-man are saying. But, I am unconvinced and I think it is more my fault than anybody else’s: I am blinded by a skewed viewpoint stemming from my liking for the Queen; I have developed an impenetrable wall around my own reasoning, nothing anyone says will make any difference. I ask,
“Do you believe she is pure and chaste?
“Yes”
“And you still think the King is right?”
“Yes”
“Then who is to blame?”
“ Fate”
I shake my head in disagreement. The brave man is the one who is able to rise above circumstances. And the King could have easily been the brave man.Night
The Moon is in protest. It rose late, almost reluctantly, and now refuses to emerge from behind the clouds. I take heart from the fact that someone shares my sentiments. I have declined to play our Aim-game today and now haven’t even gone down to the soup-maker. The City is asleep, but will awake in some time. The street-lamps are long extinguished; 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.
“Open the gates” says a voice whose calmness seems like it is the result of several emotions, like the colours of the rainbow converging to give a pure white.
I look down. Forty feet below and clad in white is purity personified—our Queen, my Queen.
Most of the sentinels are away at the soup-maker and those who remain are just too sleepy to notice who it actually is, having stayed up for hours at a stretch now. They go about their job mechanically, opening the gates without much of a fuss. I strain my neck to catch a glimpse of the most beautiful face on the Earth.
And the moon surprisingly surfaces in silent obeisance.
And the Queen walks out, neither hurriedly nor patiently, not even without the slightest of jerks, not stooping, not looking back even once; her expressive face is stiff, perhaps the only untoward sign in an otherwise perfect performance. But when she walked, she walked like a Queen—with divine grace and dignity until she is swallowed by the shadows of the trees and her footsteps are lost in the mellifluous songs of the birds of twilight. And it is neither night nor day.
2 comments:
brilliant...
A really beautiful and perceptive take on the Ramayana. No one ever really gives a thought to the feelings of the characters, but these have been brought alive in this story. Amazing stuff!
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