Mostly I meet fools and idiots. Mostly my proximity to Dizzy - ah my muse, my nightmare, the bane of my existence! - brings, like flies to a lump of decaying fruit, hordes of dysfunctional and unhappy people. Mostly they come in need and greed. Sometimes I stumble upon a rare character.
When Dizzy was researching, just for the heck of it, her thesis on the horsepower of a mosquito at some obscure University, I met a gem. An old man who tells stories.
In the early mornings and the late evenings an old man sits on the bench by the Margosa tree, drinking his cup of tea at Venkaiah's tea shop. And he tells stories.
The bench he sits on looks as old, and perhaps is, as him. Smoothened by years of butts slithering over it, polished like it has just been varnished, sagging in the middle from the weight it has carried.
If you mention the bench, he will tell you a story about it too. "This bench..." he will stroke it lovingly and pause as he always does to bring a sort of poignancy to the moment. "It belonged to Tan Sri So-and-so's gatekeeper. There was a huge tamarind tree by the gate to the mansion, planted they say, by the Tan Sri himself when he was a child. One day his son drove his car against the tree, Tan Sri loved his son very much and so did not tell the son anything, he had the tree cut for standing in the way. The gatekeeper cut the tree, kept a little wood for himself and made this bench out of it."
He would go on, if I let him and recount yet another tale. He is a natural teller of tales, he has the knack of keeping the interest alive, he begins them well, has a good middle and nearly always endeswith a punch line. Most of his stories begin with 'Once upon a time'. And not all are believable, some sounded too absurd, many are about ghosts.
One Sunday, having nothing else to do, I spent listening to the old man enthrall his audience. True or not, it was an interesting story.
Once upon a time, (that's how he began, and so will I) when the beasts in the forest roamed without fear in the jungles and the birds ruled the skies, a small kingdom prospered. That was the time of kings and kingdoms, and this kingdom, surrounded by a giant forest on one side and a tossing and turning sea on the other prospered because the king was just. He was good and he cared for his people.
Such was the peace and prosperity in the land that people could venture out at any time of the night without fear and when they slept they did not bother to lock their doors. Every evening the king walked around to talk to his people and they told him of their problems knowing that they would be taken care of. Every night he walked the streets in disguise, checking on his guards and land. It was no wonder then, if he found a house lamenting the death of a breadwinner, it promptly found itself before the king who would order that the kingdom take good care of the family till the children had grown big enough to work.
Such was the peace and prosperity of the kingdom that Pandit Purneshacharya left his abode in the Himalayas and made the kingdom his home. Such was his renown that people came from and near for his blessings and envied the king for being the host to this great soul. They say he was the direct decedent of Maharishi Vyas. He was an expert in astrology too, and here too they said that he never made a mistake.
Such was his brilliance that Lord Indra had promised him should he ever make a mistake, he would change the fate so his words would come true. Lord Indra never got the opportunity though, Pandit never spoke without deliberation. His word had saved the kingdom many times, chief among them was when he had predicted that a neighboring kingdom would attack them and thus had the king ready to ambush the enemy. He once had foretold three years of famine, and avoided a catastrophe. The king had stacked up enough grain and water to tide the hard times for his kingdom.
There was however, in this happy and peaceful kingdom, a reason for sadness. The king was getting old and he had no heir. He had married many times, found himself young and beautiful queens and yet remained childless. The sad fact pricked every citizen's heart. It weighed down on the king.
One day a messenger brought a new proposal to the king. A kingdom from the north had offered his daughter hand in marriage to the king. He had brought with him, among precious stones and jewels, the birth chart of the princess. Pandit checked the horoscope and made the joyous proclamation that indeed she would beget a handsome and healthy child. The kingdom erupted in joy. The messenger was returned with even more precious stones and jewels with news that the king gladly accepted the proposal.
The new queen soon arrived and was housed in a special palace the king had built. He appointed his own personal bodyguard in charge of security of the palace. He spent most of his time with her. She was indeed beautiful. Her eyes sparkled like two suns, her forehead like the full moon on earth. She brought a host of good fortune; the rain was plenty that season, the crops swayed in the breeze, lush and green. And the day soon arrived when the news that the queen was pregnant reverberated through the kingdom. The king was delighted. He visited his ancestral temple at the edge of the forest to offer his thanks. A strange thing happened there.
As the king placed his basket of flowers before the goddess, a swarm of bees swooped down on it and then swooped up to the roof where a small hive was. The king ordered that fresh flowers be placed before the goddess every day. And he ordered the hive be protected, it would be the honey from this hive that the prince would taste first upon his birth.
It was a long nine months, a long and joyous nine months for the kingdom. And when the imminent day arrived, the king paced in his private chambers, his courtiers waited outside. Priests and holy men were asked to gather at the palace to bless the child. Pundit Purneshacharya too waited nearby. He was sitting with his charts unfolded before him, waiting for the news of the birth to calculate the horoscope.
And when the midwife came running and announced breathlessly that the queen had given birth to a beautiful, the king beamed. The kingdom erupted in joy, he turned to his able bodyguard, the one whom he had entrusted with the queens palace and told him to hurry to the ancestral temple and get the honey. It was the time of celebration, time to thank the heaven for the blessing, time to offer sweets to every passerby.
The courtiers waited with bated breath as the Pandit worked and waited with bated breath as he got up and approached the king, who now was in his chair, beaming at every courtier that came to him to offer his congratulations. The Pandit joined his palms and said in a somber voice.
"The time of birth foretells a misfortune, my king. The fate foretells he will be orphaned before sunset on the day he was born."
"Pandit!" the king cried out in anguish. The court emitted a collective gasp. "Pandit. What have you said? Will I not live to hear my child call me father? Will fate deprive me watching him grow?" Then rage seized the king. "Pandit if you are wrong I will have you beheaded."
The Pandit's voice held as much anguish as the king's. "My king, I hope I am wrong."
The sun was teetering on the edge of the horizon. The news traveled throughout the kingdom. Every eye looked skyward, every eye pleaded the sun to stop its descent. The king slouched on his throne, bead of sweat formed on his brow. The courtier fidgeted, the priests changed their prayers; they now prayed for the king's health.
The sun teased the kingdom, it turned a red soulful eye on it and turned the earth and life on it into a fiery red. It hung there as hearts beat in erratic frenzy, it seemed it was reluctant to set. Then with a almost a sigh it bobbed behind a cloud and given that little reprieve from the haunting eyes, it slunk away.
It was a sad and doleful darkness that crept into the kingdom. The stars began to twinkle like last embers of a distant funeral pyre, the lamp men forgot to light the street lamps, the palace lay in a blanket of gloom.
The courtier looked here, then there to distract away the tears that began to mist theirs eyes. There was no joy tonight, if the Pandit was right then they would lose a king they loved, if he wasn't then a revered sage. The king rose from his throne, walked to a window and looked out, even the wind seemed to have been lost in its thoughts, the cool evening breeze that came from across the sea was there no more. The trees that usually swayed and danced to its music stood still and muted.
He looked up at the sky, from his vantage point he could a few stars. He turned around and order the servants to light the lamps.
The king returned to his throne, his elbow resting on its arm he leaned forward. His voice was sad and hoarse. "Pandit," he said, "this kingdom owes you many debts, your wisdom has guided us many times. I said I would behead you, but I can't kill a Brahmin. You are ordered to leave this kingdom and never return again. Sad as it is, I can't let a man who made the most beautiful day in my life into a horrible one. Now go."
The Pandit slowly uncrossed his legs and stood up. He gave one last look around, rested them at the king a while longer and turned to go. He had hardly walked two steps towards the door when a soldier came and bowed before the king. "My Lord," the soldier said, "there is a villager outside who says he has the honey from the temple."
"Villager?" the king asked, "I sent my personal guard, what happened to him?"
"My Lord, he says that guard died of a snake bite on his way here, so he took the honey and hurried here as fast he could. He knows the honey was meant for the prince."
The Pandit, his books clutched to his chest, had paused at the doorstep, his back to the court. As he heard the soldier, his lips creased into a faint smile, his eyes lifted towards the heavens and sighed. For once, he did not take any pleasure in being right. He stepped out into the darkness.
SHAKEEL ABEDI works with stained glass. He writes wherever and whenever. You may contact him at [email protected] .
