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..."
Who lit the fire?
Why does the water
Boil forever?
Bubbling, effervescent
Never pausing
Or quiet.
A drop falls in
And it too
Ends up dancing.
