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Authors: V S Khandekar
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transient appearances, why do I grieve so much at the inert form of King Nahusha? The body maybe perishable but it cannot be an illusion. The intense experiences of pleasure and pain may fade with time but they cannot be untrue. Hunger is not unreal and neither are its pangs. Tasty food cannot be unreal nor the pleasure it gives.
Madhav requested me to spend the afternoon at his house. His elder brother was a poet. Madhav said that on his wife’s death, his brother had tired of life and had gone on a pilgrimage. That the philosophy of our erudite scholar was at material variance with the facts of life was no longer in doubt.
On our way to his house, Madhav recalled the story of how his brother came to be a renowned poet. Once in the capital, there was a poetic competition. Poets from far and near had assembled to participate in it. The composition was to be extempore and the subject for the competition was The Spots on the Moon . His brother did not at first join in. A bee in the lotus, the black of a rock on the Himalayas, and many such similes were used in the poems composed. In the end, a poet from the Land of the Five Rivers spoke of the moon as the white breast of a beautiful young maiden and the spot as its nipple. That wayward and sensuous flight of imagination had enraptured and carried away the audience. Everyone felt that the prize must go to its poet. It was the triumph of the theme of Love.
The judges now called others, if any, wishing to take part. His brother got up. He put forward, in beautiful words, the idea that the speck on the moon was a fingermark deliberately put on the moon, her child, by mother Creation to ward off from her beautiful offspring the evil eye. His composition appealed even more to the audience. He got the prize. It was a triumph of motherly love over passion.
Madhav’s orphan niece was waiting for him on the doorstep. She made a picture. Her unruly hair, sparkling eyes, small lips, delicate mouth and her defiant stance! She looked like a charming butterfly, momentarily sitting quietly on a flower. On seeing Madhav’s chariot, the butterfly rose and ran to him. She put her arms round Madhav, looked gravely at me and asked, ‘Who is this, uncle?’
‘Taraka, you must first bow to him.’
‘He is no God that I should bow to him,’ she said.
‘He is the Prince.’
‘What is a prince?’
Madhav had to find words of explanation which would be intelligible to her. He explained. ‘This chariot, the horses and all this belongs to him. That is why he is called Prince.’ Looking steadily at me, she folded her hands and said, ‘Namaste , Prince.’
If I was a painter, I would have drawn her with that graceful figure of hers and the sweet innocent childish expression on her face.
‘Namaste, ’ I said.
She said, ‘Prince, will you give me one of your horses? A marriage is to be celebrated.’
‘Whose? Yours?’
‘Oh no, my doll is to be married!’
‘When?’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘Who is the bridegroom?’
‘Bridegroom!’ she exclaimed and with her hands made it clear that she did not know. That waving of her hands in uncertainty was very fascinating. It was like a sweet little fledgling moving its tiny wings to shake off a drop of water.
Taraka’s doll was to be married day after tomorrow but a bridegroom had yet to be found. I teased her with the words, ‘I shall give you my horse for the wedding but where would you find a bridegroom?’
‘Yes, indeed, where to find a bridegroom?’ said she and was engrossed in deep thought with her small chin cupped in her palm.
Madhav was inside. Taraka talked freely, smiling and playful. How enchanting was that little form absorbed in deep thought! I wanted to pick her up. But I was reluctant to interrupt her reverie.
In a little while she looked up gravely and said, ‘Prince, will you be the bridegroom?’
Just then Madhav returned. He had overheard that strange question. Another time he would have chastised
Madhav requested me to spend the afternoon at his house. His elder brother was a poet. Madhav said that on his wife’s death, his brother had tired of life and had gone on a pilgrimage. That the philosophy of our erudite scholar was at material variance with the facts of life was no longer in doubt.
On our way to his house, Madhav recalled the story of how his brother came to be a renowned poet. Once in the capital, there was a poetic competition. Poets from far and near had assembled to participate in it. The composition was to be extempore and the subject for the competition was The Spots on the Moon . His brother did not at first join in. A bee in the lotus, the black of a rock on the Himalayas, and many such similes were used in the poems composed. In the end, a poet from the Land of the Five Rivers spoke of the moon as the white breast of a beautiful young maiden and the spot as its nipple. That wayward and sensuous flight of imagination had enraptured and carried away the audience. Everyone felt that the prize must go to its poet. It was the triumph of the theme of Love.
The judges now called others, if any, wishing to take part. His brother got up. He put forward, in beautiful words, the idea that the speck on the moon was a fingermark deliberately put on the moon, her child, by mother Creation to ward off from her beautiful offspring the evil eye. His composition appealed even more to the audience. He got the prize. It was a triumph of motherly love over passion.
Madhav’s orphan niece was waiting for him on the doorstep. She made a picture. Her unruly hair, sparkling eyes, small lips, delicate mouth and her defiant stance! She looked like a charming butterfly, momentarily sitting quietly on a flower. On seeing Madhav’s chariot, the butterfly rose and ran to him. She put her arms round Madhav, looked gravely at me and asked, ‘Who is this, uncle?’
‘Taraka, you must first bow to him.’
‘He is no God that I should bow to him,’ she said.
‘He is the Prince.’
‘What is a prince?’
Madhav had to find words of explanation which would be intelligible to her. He explained. ‘This chariot, the horses and all this belongs to him. That is why he is called Prince.’ Looking steadily at me, she folded her hands and said, ‘Namaste , Prince.’
If I was a painter, I would have drawn her with that graceful figure of hers and the sweet innocent childish expression on her face.
‘Namaste, ’ I said.
She said, ‘Prince, will you give me one of your horses? A marriage is to be celebrated.’
‘Whose? Yours?’
‘Oh no, my doll is to be married!’
‘When?’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘Who is the bridegroom?’
‘Bridegroom!’ she exclaimed and with her hands made it clear that she did not know. That waving of her hands in uncertainty was very fascinating. It was like a sweet little fledgling moving its tiny wings to shake off a drop of water.
Taraka’s doll was to be married day after tomorrow but a bridegroom had yet to be found. I teased her with the words, ‘I shall give you my horse for the wedding but where would you find a bridegroom?’
‘Yes, indeed, where to find a bridegroom?’ said she and was engrossed in deep thought with her small chin cupped in her palm.
Madhav was inside. Taraka talked freely, smiling and playful. How enchanting was that little form absorbed in deep thought! I wanted to pick her up. But I was reluctant to interrupt her reverie.
In a little while she looked up gravely and said, ‘Prince, will you be the bridegroom?’
Just then Madhav returned. He had overheard that strange question. Another time he would have chastised
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