Twilight 2

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.

Twilight 1

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 ...