Picking up the Pieces

"Yaay!" Sudip pumped his fist in the air and jumped, thrilled with the goal he had scored. His team mates rushed to him and he opened his arms for the celebratory hug. He was still floating and gloating when he entered his house. His father was on the divan in the drawing room. He cursorily looked up at his son and then went back to tuning his tanpura. The silence carried loads of disapproval and Sudip felt it hitting him and sucking out all the jubilation he felt at his defining goal of the day.

Anger surged, matching his father's intense disapprobation, and he stormed into the house. Even in victory, he felt defeat. He could never do anything that his father would look on favorably at. Except one thing, and that didn't inspire him. Why couldn't the old man get that!

His mother was in the bedroom, getting ready for work. "There is breakfast on the table. How did the match go?" she asked.

He threw the bag down and plonked himself heavily on the bed. "We won! I scored the winning goal."

She smiled warmly and touched his head briefly. "Take a bath. You could have told your father that you had a match instead of letting him believe you were going to join him in sadhana?" she asked gently.

He grimaced. "Does he ever hear anything I say?" Sudip complained. "How many years now since I said I have no interest in classical!"

His mother sighed. "Can't you practice for his sake?"

Sudip got up and, taking his bag, he said, "I am not a good singer, ma, I never will be. And he knows that. Why flog a dead horse?" he said and walked out of the room. He felt his heart sinking, as it always did whenever the talk of his singing came up. Mercifully, such days had dwindled. When he was younger, it was every day, every hour. Nowadays, it was only once in a while. He should have been happy. But he dreaded and resented and awaited it. 

He felt empty as he showered and sat down for breakfast. Though his father was pottering about, he did not join Sudip. They rarely stayed in the same room ever, barely shared a word unless it was avoidable, and definitely slipped into silence after any conversation about music. Why did his father even bring it up? As if after having given his son the long rope, he still expected Sudip to willingly follow him.

Knowing his father would be hungry, he quickly finished breakfast and went up to his room. He was past crying about this wall between them, but he did wonder sometimes how it had come to this. His father and he had shared such a beautiful relationship. All his memories of his childhood were of his father more than his mother. His father was a career musician, coming from a rich lineage and much appreciated and sought after. His taans and thumris were talk of the town. He had also successfully launched several of his disciples into a music career. Though the world of musicians was more difficult today, many still were passionate about music and balanced their financial needs with an alternative career.

But where Sudip was concerned, his father had met an unbreakable wall. It was not that Sudip couldn't sing. He could hold a note and sing to beat. But he found no interest in exploring beyond. Slowly, this mismatch between musical interests and Sudip's increasing inclination towards sports drove a wedge and here they were - barely on talking terms. Occasionally his father would ask Sudip to do some sadhana in the hope that the gap was enough to make him long for it. But Sudip found no spark of interest and avoided such encounters.  

His four years of staying in the hostel to pursue an engineering degree had been a blessing. He had tried hard to find a job anywhere but in his hometown of Delhi. When he got placed in a company in Bangalore, he was relieved and thrilled. "So far away?" his mother had asked. "Just 2 hours as the plane flies," he had replied playfully. His father had asked him nothing.

He was going to leave in a fortnight. He desperately wanted to do something to bridge the gap, but if music was that only bridge, he will have to watch what was left of their relationship crumble and fall. This time, he really did feel like tearing up.

He moved to Bangalore, he grew in his job. He decided to pursue MBA to accelerate his growth and applied abroad after 2 years. Faring well there too, he joined a prestigious consultancy firm and felt proud that he had become a globe-trotter. He managed his conversations with his father from long-distance far better than he had been able to when at home. As he grew older, his family expanded and his parents aged, he felt a strange sense of responsibility towards them. But his attempts to keep them with him in the US failed. Though his mother had retired and father too was barely able to teach or perform due to a persistent cough, they found the life in the US too constricting. They returned to Delhi and preferred its burning summers and severe winters, meeting friends and relatives at whim.

For Sudip, football too had fallen by the wayside. He neither had the time, nor the health. As for music? He listened, mostly to Western pop, some classical, but mostly Bollywood. Only in the safety of his car, when driving long distances alone, he played Hindustani. He listened to his father's CDs. As he neared 40, in retrospection, he wondered if it was fear - fear of rejection, of mediocrity, of not meeting expectations - that had made him averse to singing. In the car, he felt safe to try his voice. He couldn't do the taans, of course, bit he could sing still. Maybe, he had thrown some good opportunity away, he thought with mild regret. But as he cruised through the broad freeways, he couldn't really say he had anything to complain about his current life either. 

However, his mind slowly churned questions - about what life would have been like had he but had the courage, if he had chosen a different path. And inevitably the only answer, what will be will be....

He received news of his mother's serious illness and rushed with his wife and 10-year-old son. His mother set eyes on him and then closed them forever. Baba took it stoically but Sudip sensed his helplessness. He knew his father was lost and craved to be there for him. He had abandoned his father once before, not anymore, he thought. 

"Come with me to the US," he begged. 

"What will I do there?" Came the inevitable reply. 

Sighing, Sudip went outside and saw his 10-year-old son playing football in the yard. "Let me show you," he said enthusiastically, glad his son liked sports. As dusk set and the two entered the house, the sound of the tanpura filled the house. 

And then, he heard his father start a taan. Despite the age, it rang clear and true. Sudip stood mesmerized, admitting finally that he could never have reached such zenith. 

"Is that grandpa?" His son whispered. Sudip nodded. 

His son slowly went to his grandfather's room and stood outside, still and as if charmed. When his grandfather finished, he asked, "Can I sing like you, grandpa?"

There was pin drop silence. Slowly Sudip watched his father place the tanpura in its place and turn towards his grandson. He opened his arms and the young boy ran and hugged the old man. His father looked up at him but Sudip's eyes were blurred by tears. 

That night, his father said, "Book my tickets. I will also come to the US."

Sudip closed his eyes and nodded, relieved and happy.

With his father at home, life seemed to take a different turn. In the evenings, his young son diligently sat for lessons and showed great promise. His father's health seemed to improve as he enthusiastically guided his young ward into the world of Hindustani music. 

But it was when Sudip too joined sometimes and picked up from where he had stopped decades ago that his father seemed to come alive and pull out gems that he seemed to have reserved for his son. 

Sudip felt his heartstrings loosen up and a new joy pervade his being. Was it the music or the reviving bond with his father, he could not say. But he felt everything was right with the world now. 

The Invisible and Anonymous

She was overwhelmed by the oncoming traffic that just wouldn't stop. It had been a quiet road till sometime back, with very little traffic. Though close to a main junction, it was rarely used. She lived in a slum, right across the hospital on this road. She had joined the hospital a decade ago, when her son was just 2 years old. She had never dreamed of working, but a drunkard of a husband who cared little about feeding his wife and child compelled her to seek ways of keeping her child and herself alive. How long could she depend on kindly neighbours?

But, having been brought up in a village, she was hesitant--ignorant, in fact--of ways of the city. A metro such as this. Luckily, a woman next door worked in the hospital and casually mentioned a job opening. To sweep and mop the floors. She was shocked at the lowly job she would be expected to do, but a steady income was not to be frowned upon. She went with the woman and got the job. 

In the 10 years, she had crossed the road every day and it was mostly a breeze. It was a quiet nook in an otherwise bustling city, with woods on either side and no houses.

Ever since the metro rail work on the main road, traffic had been diverted to this road and she dreaded the ever-flowing traffic of large and small vehicles. Once, one bike rider almost rode on her foot. Another time, a car turned fast into the lane just as she was about to cross! But the worst was when the bus knocked her down. It was a gentle nudge, really, but she almost came under the wheel! 

Since then, she trembled as she stood waiting to cross. She would catch someone trying to cross from her side to the other and tag along with them to safety.

Today, there was no one in sight. But luckily, a young, chirpy boy came with two flags in hand -- green and red. She had not seen him here before. There were other road marshals assigned to that crossing and they helped her cross safely to the other side every time. But she was nonexistent for them - 

Just a face among a million faces
Just another woman with no name 

Abba's lyrics would have been the right fit for the situation had she but known about it. She would know what they meant. Not just here, even in the hospital, even amongst patients who came often, she was invisible. Just the woman who swept and mopped. They wouldn't know her if she came with a cup of tea, or even a stethoscope, with the right dress on, of course! Not in the janitor uniform! Her uniform was her identity, not her face.

She felt her heart grow heavy when she noticed the new marshal wave the red flag. Even he was a nonentity for the drivers roaring past. They would know the flag, but not him. So when she had crossed, she turned back to look at his face. She was amused to see him bow to the paused vehicles and then wave the green flag with a flourish to let them go. As if thanking them for respecting him.

She couldn't get him out of her mind. She was glad to see him there the next evening - surprised that she remembered him. She wouldn't have recognized any of the other men holding the flags earlier. His cheerful demeanour and the bow before he flagged the waiting vehicles off endeared her to him. She started observing him for a few minutes before going on her way. He looked youthful but was older, she realised.

One day, she was returning from work and had some chocolates in hand. She was taking it for her son when she saw her favourite marshal waving the vehicles to stop with a flourish. She was about to cross but paused mid-stride. She held back. After he had bowed and shown the green flag, she went up to him and extended her hand with the chocolate in it.

"Here, have one," she said. He took one and saluted her with his inimitable smile. "How do you manage to remain smiling all the time?" she asked in Tamil. He blinked but continued to smile. "Don't know Tamil?" she asked slowly, shaking her head. He nodded. "Where from?" "Assam," he replied. She mimed his actions and clapped. "Nice," she said. He nodded and turned his attention to the traffic again.

She started stopping by every time she saw him there. In fact, now she even knew his timings. In their own broken way, they managed to communicate. He had a family back in Assam and farming lands and he worked here to supplement his income. She told him about her son and promised to bring him along one day. She brought him knick-knacks that she got at the hospital and he always made sure she had a safe crossing.

It was a friendship she cherished close to her heart. There was nothing to tell anyone, and yet, from morning till night, she thought of him. Meeting him was her brightest point of the day.

"Who is that man?" her husband growled at her one evening.

"Which man?" she tried to sound casual but her heart fluttered.

"Don't act, you are not good at it. I know you meet that man every day... That Hindi fellow who works at the signal..."

"I don't meet him, I see him. He is there and I cross that signal every day," she patiently corrected him though she knew he was right. 

"Useless buggers. They don't have jobs in there own cities and have to come all the way to down South to find work... And then they betray us," he muttered angrily.

She paused for a moment before replying, "They come all the way here to work, and we go all the way to the nearest bar."

He pounced on her, grabbed her hair and flung her across the room. She slid against the wall crying as he stormed out shouting, "Becoming too smart, are we? Is that man putting words into your head?"

When he returned late at night, he was drunk and gloating. "Let me see what ideas he plants in your head now," he slurred.

Fear clutched her stomach. She wondered what he meant and wanted to rush to the signal to find out if the man was ok. But he slept in fits and starts, addressing her with incoherent words. Next morning, she couldn't hold herself any longer. She ran to the signal a little earlier the next morning and couldn't find him there. She asked the man who was manning the signal but he didn't know anything. It wasn't unusual, not finding her friend, but in the light of her husband's comments, she felt something wasn't right. Thoughtfully, she walked to the hospital and picked up her broom and mop.

She saw him lying in the general ward, bruised and bandaged. She ran up to him. "What happened?" she asked in Hindi. He opened his eyes and smiled at her painfully. He shrugged but that effort hurt him too. "One man, suddenly dragged me into the woods and beat me up."

She felt her anger rising but she looked at him calmly and said, "God will take care of him... Anyone with you?"

He shook his head.  "I will take care of you," she said. Not only because he needed help, but she was duty-bound now, she owed it to him.

That evening, she lit the lamp in front of the deity and prayed, "Not for me, but for that innocent man, I beseech you... Don't let me down." When her son returned from school, she told him, "I am going to go to the temple festival. I want you to come with me." He made a face, but seeing her stern expression, he agreed. She dressed carefully after making dinner and serving her son and herself. She kept food aside for her husband. She told all her neighbours her plan to go to the temple. One or two ladies wanted to come along too and she welcomed them warmly.

She came back in and waited. Her husband came drunk as usual. He flopped on the floor, the mattress she had spread as usual for him. She and her son stepped out. She told him to wait and went back in. "I have kept your food in that vessel there," she said and gently pushed the lamp close to the mattress. She watched the flickering flame and prayed, "Amba, it is up to you now." 

When she returned the next morning, her son pointed out the crowd in front of her house. One woman came running. "Your husband! Oh poor man! God is merciful. He must not have known. We didn't even hear him scream, just saw the smoke. But by then... it was too late."

Her eyes welled over and tears flowed down her cheeks. "God is merciful," she whispered and let out a wail before running inside.  

The Proud Peacock

He walked out in the open, preening proudly, and swung his lustrous train of feathers up to display their bright colours and rich plumage. He turned this way and that, and heard the females oohing and aahing, devouring him with their eyes. He walked a little ahead and was gratified with the female fan following. What a variety to choose from, he chuckled to himself.

Amma, Where Are You?

"Papa, how are you?" Sonu asked her father, trying to sound cheerful.

Prabhas lay back on bed, his internal organs on fire. "Ma!" he cried out. "Take me away," he mumbled.

Sonu curbed the rush of emotions as she quickly instructed the attender to raise the bed so that her father could be in reclining position. "Has he completed his morning ablutions? Has he had anything to eat?"

The Debater

 "@Minnu" Mirnalini found herself tagged in a post by her friend Riddhi. She scrolled up and read the post, a little puzzled as to why she had been tagged. It was about a top actress who had recently been in the news for showing sympathy for some group of people and sitting in protest with them over some government policy. The actress was shooting a much hyped movie and boycott that movie hashtags were spreading through the Internet. Mrinalini gathered all this as she scrolled news channels, still puzzled about how it mattered to her. 

Just a House

Ritu returned from work and opened the door of her house. She felt the door of the opposite house open behind her. She turned back. There was no one there. The house had all the tell-tale signs of shifting - discarded papers, clothes, some small broken furniture pieces, some tapes... oh, this and that.

She turned around and memories flashed, of hopping over for a chit-chat once in a while. As she stared, it felt a little surrealistic--not seeing the lady of the house, Sneha, smile and welcome her in for a cup of tea. But Sneha's words rang in her ears, for it always circled back to the same things. The litany about her various ailments, the difficulty of managing her mother-in-law in the old age, how burdened her husband was... As if on cue, the husband joining them, complaining about the ineffective association, the problem with water or electricity or parking.

The View

Sundar unpacked his bags and looked out the window of the modest accommodation he had been allotted in the village. The fields spread out for miles around, intersected by roads carrying speeding cars. Very few commuters turned into the village itself but played touch-and-go with the cafe on the main road. A branch of a popular chain, this particular outlet was not very profitable but was sustainable and surviving because of some travelers who preferred its hygienic interiors to some of the more seedy messes nearby. But those messes, in fact, made more money because the local populace thronged there.

In Plain Sight

 "You draw, is it?" Madhukar asked Yamini, his eyes alight with interest.

Yamini smiled shyly and nodded. "A small indulgence... That's all."

"I am sure it's more than that. You seem very sensitive and aware," he said with an appreciative smile.

The Misfit

She just loved fashion designing. He had strayed into this field because he seemed a misfit everywhere else.

She was the class topper. He scraped through, bumbling about clumsily from semester to semester, helped by his friends and classmates.

The Bridge

The cars sped over the bridge on the canal, sparing neither the bridge nor the canal a thought. That's not true, there was just one thought, to cross it before the stink overwhelmed them.

And yet, there were a few who walked or cycled on it. They had learned to ignore the stink.

The Journey of Grit

It had grit. No, wait, it was grit. A tiny speck, one among a million, but only one in a million. 

It didn't know where it came from or where it will go. Nor did it care. It lived surrounded by family and friends and needed nothing else. When the breeze blew gently, it played with its friends, rising up, jumping high and then falling to the earth. It was thrilling, exciting and a break from routine.

The Shower of Blessings

Fragrance and tinkling of the anklets announced the entry of Kuyili as always into the sanctum sanctorum to offer her prayers that evening. The priests couldn't resist vying with each other to serve her, forgetting even the Goddess presiding there.

Other women watched with envy. The men with lust. 

Kuyili stood in front of the deity with her hands folded, aware very much that all eyes were on her. They burned her skin, they pricked stabbed and hurt. But she stood erect, a beatific smile adorning her lips. Her mind tried to find solace in the lit-up image of Devi, whose calm smile poured balm into Kuyili's wounds.

As she turned, people moved to let her go, shrinking as if her very shadow would taint them. The priests, who had a minute ago fallen over each other to offer her kumkum and arati, felt ashamed as if released from some enchantment and realising their fall from nobility.

She disciplined herself not to flinch. Her graceful gait drew many more glances as she went around the prahara and then she left the temple with a final prayer facing the temple tower.

She entered the waiting palanquin and was borne away to her palatial home. In the safety of her home, she was the undisputed queen. Her dasis surrounded her, removing the jewels, massaging her arms and legs and rubbing fragrant pastes to get her ready for her lover of that night.

The sun sank and lamps lit homes and streets. Soon even that light dimmed. She heard the horse enter the courtyard and soon heard the footsteps of her lover at her door.

She was ready for him, having dressed up again to welcome him and bestowed him with the smile that had bewitched him in the first place.

It was a union of bodies. When she tried to share with him her feelings, either her words fell short or his understanding. So she let her mind wander freely as her body gave him pleasure.

Before the sun rose, he rode away to be seen with his legally wedded wife.

Kuyili couldn't complain, could she? These travelers to her home had bestowed her with untold wealth. She owned two palaces and had gold, silver and diamonds showered on her. There was none equal to her in affluence in the city. What if people gossiped? They still were beneath her.

She tried to quell her craving heart with such delusions about her self-worth but always her thoughts wandered to how to turn lust to love, envy to worship. Often she visited the temple to seek Devi's guidance, wondering what drew people to Her. Kuyili didn't want to be a goddess, just to be accepted as a fellow human being would be good enough.

"Madam, there is someone to see you," one of her dasis announced one day.

"Am I expecting anyone?" she asked frowning.

"He has been coming often, madam, but today he will not be sent away. Says he has a gift for you."

Kuyili sighed. Another lover?

"He forbade me from revealing what, but you will like what you see," the maid said slyly.

Kuyili was intrigued. She asked for the man to be brought in. He came carrying what looked like a statue. He placed it on a table and said, "I have seen you in the temple often. My hands have carved it much against my wishes. I present this to you."

She was amused. "Against your wishes?"

"I carve only the statue of gods and goddesses. But since seeing you for the first time some days ago, all my idols seem to look like you. So I decided to give in to the compulsion once and for all. " He unveiled the statue. Kuyili was stunned. It was Devi in all her beauty but the face was carved like hers. 

She looked at him startled. He shrugged. "Some divinity shines through, I don't know how." He joined his hands in obeisance and left. 

She ran after him and, taking the gold chain from around her neck, thrust it into his hands. He recoiled and dropped it. "I didn't do this for money." And he was gone.

She couldn't believe it but she had to run back and see the idol again. She asked the dasi who had let the man in to take the chain as her gift. She sat in front of the idol and admired it, feeling fear and love at the same time.

She placed it in her bedroom, facing her mirror so that she could look at herself and the statue. When her lover came that night, he laughed, though jealousy laced the laugh. "Crazy man! Some nutcase, obviously. Don't let this go to your head."

Hurt to the quick, she asked him, "Don't you think someone could see something divine in me?"

"To carve a Devi in your image? I hope the priests don't hear of it."

Her breath quickened. "I  know you come only for my body. But do you think so less of me that you can't believe somebody else sees something more in me?"

 

He grabbed her and pulled her to him. "Who says I think less of you? I think of you all the time."

She pushed him away and pouted, "I am just a plaything for you."

"A very expensive one at that!" he said and laughed, showing her the new jewel he had bought for her. 

For once, she felt no excitement. He saw the disappointment in her eyes and his temper rose. "Don't expect me to idolise you. I am besotted, but I am not in my dotage."

Upset, she said, "I don't expect you to idolise me, but if I am nothing but the body, you will and can see only that."

"Philosophy! Oh god! I came in such a good mood today!"

"Sorry to spoil it for you! You have put me out too. You may leave tonight."

His hackles rose. "Are you asking me to leave this home that I helped you build?"

She got up flustered. "By tomorrow, you will find me gone."

"No!" he was apologetic immediately. I didn't mean quite mean that!" He tried to placate her and she allowed herself to be soothed. For both, it was best to let things be.

But in one day, she had been elevated and thrown down. Her discontentment only increased. What was she?

She pondered and pondered and often stood in the terrace looking down at the passersby. When she was noticed, she saw that no one saw her but only what she represented - a courtesan who sinned and who lured people to lead a life of sin.

As the heat of the days increased and rains failed, she found that the mood turned from one of contempt to anger. She had what she wanted while they struggled to get even the basic things. She frowned observing the hunger and fear in people's faces as the dry days turned to a draught. Food supply had reduced and the very poor went without even a meal some days.

When she sat down to eat her sumptuous meal, she found not a morsel went down her throat as images of young children begging on the streets, hitherto she hadn't seen, rising in front of her eyes. She called her dasi and told her to distribute the food among the poor.

 

In a few minutes, the food came back untouched. "No one wants food from this house."

Kuyili felt as if a knife had been driven into her heart. But she couldn't stand by watching the misery of the people around her. She had wanted their adulation. Now that they were in trouble, how could she be indifferent?

"Do our wells have enough water? Place water in pots with a glass and make sure it is refilled all the time. On another side, keep buttermilk and porridge. No one should go away without having their fill."

"But, madam, nobody wants it from this house," the dasi said boldly. 

"Nobody need know. Keep it on the opposite side."

"What when we run out of water?"

"We will cart it from other lands. Take what it takes. Go on, don't ask me silly questions. I just want everyone to be sated and their thirsts quenched."

The dasi ran. Initially they came in ones and twos. But when the throat was parched and the stomach caving in from hunger, of what good was moral rectitude? Every hour, there stood a long queue. 

Three years Gods tested the people, or her? She used up all her wealth, her jewels, precious stones, the adjacent house that belonged to her, keeping for herself only the house she lived in. "You will have nothing left for yourself."

She paused for a second and then asked, "What was mine in the first place? It was given to me and now I am passing that on to others. Maybe this was why I earned so much. Don't stop..."

She sold the furniture of the house she lived in and yet the rains wouldn't come. She decided to move to a smaller house by selling this. That morning when the buyer was to come, it poured, and it poured and poured.

She sold it still, for it will take some time for farmers to grow paddy and for it to reach the people.

Now when she walked on the streets, people hailed, "Devi, Devi."

Though her heart warmed, she realised it was not she who needed to be praised. She ran to the temple and tears poured down as her voice broke chanting, "Devi, Devi." The Goddess had heard her prayers.

The sculptor met her at the temple with hands joined in respect. She clasped it gratefully.

When she died, people installed the idol he had carved on the road leading to the temple. They first prayed to her, seeking her intervention with Devi to have their prayers heard.

 

Based on the story of Kunjaratthammal and recommended by my friend Natarajan Ganesan that I develop this into a story. My humble gratitude.

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Forward

The Puppets on a String

He looked at the palace, towering over the houses surrounding it. He could just about make out the silhouette of the king looking down on his subjects before turning back and returning to his quarters.

He could hear horses approaching and saw a young boy, about his age, riding one with a sense of entitlement, proud to be the prince, assured of his future. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up at his father, a man who had to work hard to make a living and keep body and soul together. "Did you see the king?" the father asked proudly. "And that was the prince who just crossed us. Our benefactors. It is because they rule well that we are able to live peacefully. Always be grateful to them," he continued. 

"We can never be them, can we, baba?" the young boy asked. He was 14 but he could see the life of luxury the prince lived while he worked hard with his father, helping him weave and sell garments to the richer families in the kingdom. Even when he was just a boy of 8 or 9 years, he had learnt to count the change. A little older, he helped with the dyeing. And now, he accompanied his father to the market to sell some garments in the market. They would stay in the local inn for the night and then go to the houses of the rich men, displaying their wares, luring the women with colourful saris they could drape on themselves.

They did earn well and his father told him they were doing well. but for the boy, it was nothing. He saw it all as a struggle. Every time he watched his father's fawning expression and the supercilious response of the rich buyers and it drove a knife through him. He couldn't forget the man atop the palace terrace, standing above everyone while they could only look up to him. And the boy atop the horse. He will one day stand there, not because he deserved it, but because his father had stood there.

Just like he would be standing on the ground with his son, showing him a mere shadow and calling it the king, the ruler.

The boy jerked his head away in anger. No. This has to change, he decided. "Baba, I want to learn to fight," he said.

His father looked at him in surprise and laughed his deep rumbling laugh. He tousled his son's hair, an action that the boy used to love as a child but now, as determination coursed through his blood, he resented. Moving away, he looked at his father and said, "I am serious."

"Our hands are meant to caress the yarn not grip the metal."

The boy was silent, knowing his father would never break the rules set by society. He silently followed his father to the market. Selling to the ordinary people was not so bad and some of his earlier irritation abated.

That night he even managed to enjoy the stay in the inn, the food, sneaking out after he was sent to bed to listen to adult talk. But the next morning, as they visited the house of the men who mattered, the ember lying dormant slowly seemed to come to life, burning higher and higher, consuming him.

And then, it was the turn to visit the king himself. A special bundle kept aside came out. He knew all about it. In fact, he had heard the discussion between his parents on the colours and weave to be spun for the king and his household. When he hefted it over his shoulder, it was as if he was lifting an opponent to throw him down and trample on him. His father, unaware of the volcano in his son's heart, walked gaily and greeted people on the way. With every step, the father seemed to feel as if he were going for his own crowning. With every step, the boy dreaded the humiliating obsequiousness that was going to be on display.

"Shall I wait outside, father?" he asked.

"No, no, you must come with me. Now you have to learn to take over responsibilities. In a few years, I may not be able to come, but you must continue to supply to the royalty. That is our bread and butter."

The boy looked at his father and then looked away. His father misunderstood that look for pride. It was anything but.

They bowed before the king and waited. The king beckoned and the two quickly put the bundle of garments down. The king observed the boy and asked, "Your son?"

"Yes, maharaja," the father answered, touching his son with a measure of pride.

"What's your name, son?" the king asked.

The boy, for the first time, felt his name to be weak as he replied, "Dinanath."

"Dinanath, after your father, Sarnath?" the king asked the father. Father nodded. "Is he showing promise?"

"Yes, my lord. He has an eye and his fingers are deft."

"Take good care of them Dinanath, for they add splendour to our person."

Dinanath raised his chin just a little, defiantly, but it again was misunderstood. "Good to see you proud of your skill. We must do what we are destined to and do it well," the king said and ordered for the women to come forward and examine the wares.

As the women selected and Sarnath displayed, Dinanath's eyes darted here and there. The prince walked in presently with an older man, and the king's attention turned to him as the two put in display swordplay. The women too turned to watch them and exclaimed and encouraged the young boy.

Once the display was over, the king called the boy over and patted him. He gave the older man his pearl chain.

Dinanath felt a strange longing, not for the jewel, not for the approbation, but to hold the sword and swing it around the way the prince had done. The clinking of the metals rang in his ears like music. After the purchases had been made and Sarnath richer by many gold coins, the two stepped out, thinking different thoughts.

"Baba, why can't I also wield the sword?"

"Because you have to handle the loom."

"Suppose I don't want to?" the boy asked in a small voice.

The father was silent for a moment and then he said. "It is not about what you want."

That didn't satisfy the boy. "It is about my life."

"Life," the father said and paused. "Our life is not our own, it is part of a larger picture. And just as each weave in itself is meaningless but together with the rest, it helps create something wholly different and new, so also our life in itself in nothing. Only by carrying out what is required of us makes our life meaningful."

The boy was not convinced. "Unless we try different things how can we know whether what we are doing is meaningful or not? Gold zari stands out on its own and also enhances the weave."

The father looked surprised at his son wisdom. "Yes, and not all can be that gold zari and even a single strand of gold zari needs to be ensconced in other threads to become something," he said.

The boy shook his head, not convinced, the gold glittering in his soul, urging him to strike a different path. Many times he tried to convince his father to learn the art of war, but every time, his father withheld permission. The boy hung around with men who trained for the war in his village. He spoke to them at length about warfare and using the weapons. But he realised that they too wanted to be one yarn making up the fabric, contributing only in their own small ways.

He made it sound like idle curiosity and found a willing teacher. He slowly mastered some of the weapons, but his quest was for something more - weapons were but a tool. The loom didn't make a weaver a master, his craft and his talent did. Knowing how to use a sword or a bow may protect him, but he was not looking for self-defense.  

Sarnath initially thought all this eagerness for learning to fight was just age. Though he was aware that Dinanath was learning things he didn't need, he put it down to young blood. So long as he was available to take care of their work, Sarnath was not about to curb his son's curiosity. Once it was sated, he will settle down. He had also fixed Dinu's marriage to a very eligible girl in their community. 

One day, he just vanished. Initially, though stunned, Sarnath still hoped to see his son in a few days. But as days ran into months, he was forced to seek help to look for his son. All in vain. There was no trace of Dinanath.

"You have still not found your son, Sarnath?" the king asked him when he went next. The king summoned his astrologer, now that his police had failed to track the missing boy. The astrologer took the details he needed and sat down to do the calculations. Sarnath's eyes kept darting to the man even as he answered the women about the price of his wares. The astrologer finally seemed to be done with his calculations and hastened to the king. He whispered in the king's ear respectfully and the king listened attentively. Then he nodded and looked at Sarnath. Sarnath rushed to the king.

"He is well and will return in glory. Be patient," the king said and bestowed the bereft man with extra gold coins.

Sarnath was mystified but could not ask the king more. He sought the astrologer out who said, "We cannot always predict the future accurately. But what I see is all good for your son."

The astrologer could not be persuaded to say a word more; not even the promise of rewards could make him budge an inch.

Every time the weaver returned to the city, he saw more soldiers on the streets and wondered why. Then he was summoned one day summarily by the king. He rushed, hoping to hear some news of his son. On the throne, instead of the king, he saw a handsome young man. Was this the prince? Where was the king?

He was appalled to see the king and the prince held prisoners by the guards in a corner of the room. There had been a coup and his son had headed it. It was he, "Dinu?" Sarnath asked, his voice trembling.

"Marthand, baba," the new king said. "I am now known by the name Marthand."

Sarnath couldn't believe his eyes or ears. "No, no, Di... Marthand. This, the king..."

"I am the king now, baba." He turned to the guards who started leading the king, who maintained his dignity despite the humility, away. Sarnath ran to him. "My lord, my son is being foolish! Please forgive him. He does not know what he is doing!"

The king laughed. "Sarnath, what will be, will be..."

"Can't you stop begging?" Marthand asked angrily. "I am changing our destiny and you want to cling to your past."

The king paused with twinkling eyes and said, "Son, you are simply fulfilling your destiny, I mine."

Marthand asked angrily, "What do you mean?"

"It was destined that I should be overthrown by a young man. But son, don't think this is the end of it. Time will yet reveal other..."

"Execute them!" Marthand ordered with barely concealed anger.

"No!" Sarnath intervened. "Imprison them, by all means, but don't kill them! They have done you no harm!"

The son protested but the father asserted and Marthand conceded. He had nothing personal against the king. He hated the prince, but to please his father, he gave orders for the prince to be exiled while secretly instructing his trusted guard to kill the young man.

Sarnath continued to weave, though his son ruled now, for weaving to him was his very breath, not just his duty. But he watched over his son, proud at his wisdom in ruling well but steadying him too when he was swayed by ambition. He often visited the king, for he felt grateful to the man for his benevolent rule.

Marthand found that ruling was not a matter of luxury. His innate sense of justice required him to weigh every situation many times before he decided on a course of action. Though his hands had stopped weaving yarns, his mind had to still interweave and imagine before he could arrive at a decision. Some days, he had no time to eat. Some nights, he couldn't go to bed for duty beckoned. Ruling, he realised, was no entitlement if you meant to make a difference.

He soon married and had sons and daughters who filled his life with joy. When he stood with his children on the terrace of the palace where he had observed the king the first time, he felt he had achieved what he had set out to do. He had made his destiny, regardless of what the old king had said. Who could have thought that an humble weaver's son would one day rule this kingdom?

When he looked down, he sought other boys looking up with awe and sent them gifts and messages of love.

And he received love. He was popular. Nothing could shake him.

Nothing did, till he found a sword against his neck, his family gathered together, surrounded by ruffians. His eyes swiveled back to the man holding the sword and widened in shock.

"Recognise me, Dinanath? Sorry, Marthand? Yes, I am the very prince you exiled, Prince Jayveer."

Before he could respond, the sword severed his jugular vein and he lay bleeding to death. "I will not make the same mistake you made, boy!" said Jayveer as he turned towards the family and had them all executed.

The old king emerged from the prison, freed by his son. They embraced each other joyously.

But when he saw at what cost, his eyes became wet. "I am sorry, Sarnath, I could not return you the favour." He bowed his head. "My son merely fulfilled his destiny as did yours..."

 

 

The Journey of the Bangle

It arrived just morning, after being moulded, the gems set and it burnished to be shiny and attractive.

It was a bracelet. Not precious. Just an ordinary 'junk jewellery', one among the millions that fill the shops and find their ways into homes, sometimes being cherished, sometimes forgotten. What would the fate of this one be? Did even its maker wonder? He just pocketed his wages and headed out to the nearby shop selling drinks.

The Way to the Stomach

Mishri placed all the dishes on the table and called her family to lunch. She went to her 80-year-old mother-in-law's Shantha's room and told her that lunch was served. Shantha was reclining, half asleep, listening to music. 

Since turning 80, Shantha's reflexes had slowed down but not her mind. She was still sharp and still made Mishri, who was herself on the verge of becoming a mother-in-law to a beautiful bride, nervous. Having lived in the village all her life, Shantha had only recently moved in with her son and the occasional anxiety of meeting her mother-in-law became a little more permanent now.

When a Thousand Words Say It Better

Mohita opened her balcony door and, as always, her eyes darted to the house across the lane. The curtains were drawn but Mohita could picturise the wall with the framed picture. 

She had just recently moved in from another locality. There, her house had overlooked the road, a boring, lethargic road with little traffic or view. She had loved this house because of its vibrant atmosphere. There were houses around and children played in the common areas. After a week of moving in, one evening she stood in the balcony looking down at the children when the light came on in the house across the narrow lane that separated them. A lady placed some bags on the sofa and sat down beside it, evidently tired.

The Journey

 "Mamma, can we go by train?" Rupa's elder one, Advika, asked. "We never travel by train," the 13-year-old pleaded.

"You will get bored," Rupa responded mechanically as she checked the flight cost and availability to Chennai from Delhi in December.

Rupa's younger son Vivek looked up from his book and said, "Mamma will get bored, she means."

Snipping a Relationship

It was the first thing she reached out for in the morning. No, that's not accurate. She did reach out for the health faucet, the toothbrush, the tap etc. first thing before she entered the kitchen. But on entering the kitchen... ok, that was the third thing. But it was part of the kitchen routine and the first set of things. The milk cooker, the milk packet and the scissors. It was such a silly thing to think about, but those scissors were always associated with the milk packet. Though she cut coriander with that and other grocery items that came packed in plastic covers, still, its primary and daily duty was to cut the milk packet.

The Lady of Light - Part XXI

The Story So Far: From not knowing what my power to knowing it was still not enough to win this battle against the Daits! What made them so strong and powerful? Why were we not able to get a decisive win?

Read from the beginning, click here
Read the previous chapter, click here

It was a draw and we couldn't continue like this. The war council sat glumly pondering on how to break out of this impasse. The king burst out with frustration, "If only we knew what rejuvenates them!"

I looked at him puzzled, only vaguely remembering that he had mentioned this before but not the details.

The Lady of Light - Part XX

The Story So Far: From not knowing what my power was to knowing the limitations of my powers, I had come on a long journey. And yet, there was no end in sight for I now embark on yet another new one, and hopefully, a conclusive one. How can I do that?

Read from the beginning, click here
Read the previous chapter, click here

Mother Earth, Shakti, made me sit in front of the Sacred Shell. She removed the platinum ring and placed it on my head with a chant under her breath. I felt transformed, energised. Something of the red aura of the Dait king the ring had absorbed in Mars started flowing through me, for I felt a sort of strength that I had never experienced before. Shakti continued without letting on whether she had noticed the change.