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Authors: Aashish Kaul
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murder without a thought.Fables, the same ones I had learnt with such care and patience, and whose real meaning not one among us could fully elucidate. Noble words which were sublime portents on a sageâs lips, here in the depths of night were only quick, supple bearers of stories and myths that softened the terrifying possibilities of unbounded time and gave the half-lit faces of these rogues the vulnerable look of babes in cribs. Here as elsewhere, words, narratives, and consciousness were inextricably bound together so that speech seemed the prime refuge of souls loosed upon the impenetrable face of without.
Night after night, I heard them from the shadows of a sal tree, beyond whose sprawling branches curled the flames that lit up their faces from below as they squatted about the burning logs, constantly sputtering crimson rinds into the grey pillar of air, and passed clay pitchers around, telling stories by turn, till their eyes lost the fire in them and turned smoky and stood open for the night and whatever lay in its wake.
It was then, on one of my routine wanderings, that I came upon resting on a rock the exiled prince, who, along with his brother, was slowly making his way to the demon kingâs capital to rescue his wife. But how? Two warriors, no matter how able, were helpless against the vast strength of the enemy and his forces. And for a start they were not even certain of their way. I took them along to my friendâs shelter, where the exiles met and exchanged their sad tales in sympathy and agreement, conferred at length, and finally sealed the historic pact, a solemn oath of exiles that would see wrongs done to each punished, iniquities put right, honour restored, virtue re-established.
The plan then was for my friend to go and challenge his brother to a duel and while they were assaulting and tearing each other apart, for the prince to shoot an arrow from behind a tree and kill the arrogant fool. Thus, not only his rightful position and his wife, but the entire kingdom would be restored to him, in return for which he would forthwith align his men and, with himself at the head of the troops, help the princes lay siege to the enemyâs citadel and rescuethe woman in captivity.
It was not much different from a coup dâétat, though none of us saw it as such in our simple inflamed hearts bent solely upon avenging the wrongs done to each. The plan was both quick and effective. None saw anything but victory in it, none saw anything near abominable. Now there was little need of the irregulars we had been recruiting, and we left them sitting on their haunches girdling the burning logs, regaling one another with tales and drinks and laughter, to pick up on the morrow their violent lives from where they had left them, without once thinking of the lost opportunity. Nothing was unusual in this. Life was one such long chain of unful- filled plans and discarded choices, and where one gate closed, ten others came open.
Surprising though it seemed, things went scrupulously to plan, even if there were delays and misunderstandings along the way. For when the exile had won back his wife and the kingdom besides after what seemed to him a cruel and extended period of hardship, he, as was only natural, wished to delay further travails and enjoy a little the pleasures of throne and community, until he was rudely pulled out from a night of carousing and squarely threatened by the younger prince. Very soon the tribal army was on the march through the forest, snaking its course toward the southern tip of the peninsula, having received along the way crucial guidance regarding the route it was to take.
More than a millennium had passed since then, and all the actors in that horripilating drama had long since turned to dust or something finer than dust. Past that epic war, past many great wars, only he remained, the child in the tree. Not a few hundred years, and already the events were being recounted as
Night after night, I heard them from the shadows of a sal tree, beyond whose sprawling branches curled the flames that lit up their faces from below as they squatted about the burning logs, constantly sputtering crimson rinds into the grey pillar of air, and passed clay pitchers around, telling stories by turn, till their eyes lost the fire in them and turned smoky and stood open for the night and whatever lay in its wake.
It was then, on one of my routine wanderings, that I came upon resting on a rock the exiled prince, who, along with his brother, was slowly making his way to the demon kingâs capital to rescue his wife. But how? Two warriors, no matter how able, were helpless against the vast strength of the enemy and his forces. And for a start they were not even certain of their way. I took them along to my friendâs shelter, where the exiles met and exchanged their sad tales in sympathy and agreement, conferred at length, and finally sealed the historic pact, a solemn oath of exiles that would see wrongs done to each punished, iniquities put right, honour restored, virtue re-established.
The plan then was for my friend to go and challenge his brother to a duel and while they were assaulting and tearing each other apart, for the prince to shoot an arrow from behind a tree and kill the arrogant fool. Thus, not only his rightful position and his wife, but the entire kingdom would be restored to him, in return for which he would forthwith align his men and, with himself at the head of the troops, help the princes lay siege to the enemyâs citadel and rescuethe woman in captivity.
It was not much different from a coup dâétat, though none of us saw it as such in our simple inflamed hearts bent solely upon avenging the wrongs done to each. The plan was both quick and effective. None saw anything but victory in it, none saw anything near abominable. Now there was little need of the irregulars we had been recruiting, and we left them sitting on their haunches girdling the burning logs, regaling one another with tales and drinks and laughter, to pick up on the morrow their violent lives from where they had left them, without once thinking of the lost opportunity. Nothing was unusual in this. Life was one such long chain of unful- filled plans and discarded choices, and where one gate closed, ten others came open.
Surprising though it seemed, things went scrupulously to plan, even if there were delays and misunderstandings along the way. For when the exile had won back his wife and the kingdom besides after what seemed to him a cruel and extended period of hardship, he, as was only natural, wished to delay further travails and enjoy a little the pleasures of throne and community, until he was rudely pulled out from a night of carousing and squarely threatened by the younger prince. Very soon the tribal army was on the march through the forest, snaking its course toward the southern tip of the peninsula, having received along the way crucial guidance regarding the route it was to take.
More than a millennium had passed since then, and all the actors in that horripilating drama had long since turned to dust or something finer than dust. Past that epic war, past many great wars, only he remained, the child in the tree. Not a few hundred years, and already the events were being recounted as
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