a windy night

A night made so clearly for strolling.. With a dazzling moon in the skies, blasting its light as if that was the instrument with which it has dispelled all clouds to keep at bay. Seeing that none of them dare to venture close, the wind, after days of inactivity, is up for some mischief- edging them ever so little.

It is a night made so clearly for talking to no end; overheard only by those clouds above, and without a care that they might laugh, or spill with the rains the contents of your heart.

[13th June] 

rains

How to put it?

The clouds vent their frustration of days and it rains with a mad and almost terrifying frenzy.

Or do I call it a Konkani downpour?

These clouds finally drop all pretence of dignity and dance like a kid as they make it rain in leaps and bounds, as they hear the rains pattering on rooftops, trees and a jolly earth, lashing on them with a violent passion of their own make..

Oh to write.. to write..

11 Oct.

such red!

It must be one of those birds gliding up above who broke apart the clouds and diffused such mellow red in the skies, painting earnestly with their outstretched wings as they watch over a forgetful people..

09 Oct.

a setting sun

Clouds devour a very crimson sun at a distance,

cutting onto it one moment, giving it rings another..

and with a muffled plup! it drowns..

03 Oct.

the Banarasi babu..

"Banaras is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together"

-Mark Twain

In Banaras, you're probably likely to see men with shaved heads and a pony more often than in any other city; more likely to hear the reverberance of a temple bell ever so often, and more likely to find a shop selling religious artefacts at almost every corner.

Although quite forgotten in the new world, Banaras still boasts of deepest roots- of a civilization that prospered along the banks of the holy Ganga, of being the oldest settlement in India. With most of its narrow ancient streets climbing only to later slope down to the Ganga, Banaras is a story completely different from the other ancient cities. Much like Mathura, parts of the city display memoirs of impressive craftsmanship on its ageing buildings which you start to notice when you are travelling in a rickety auto. The true colours of a city are really seen on its streets. The city remains in much mediocrity and neglect, with haphazardly hanging electric wires ruining most street corners, broken roads, and the increasingly popular need to 'westernise'. Large parts of it seem to be in a limbo, indecisive on whether to worship its gods or sell their idols. Not surprisingly, the city wakes up and gets buzzing quite early for Sunday standards. Deciding which of over 20000 temples to visit must be a tough early morning decision! It is probably unfortunate that most of what one sees in Banaras now is what Ghauri* decided was unimportant in his plundering feat.

The Kaashi Vishwanath Temple has been an attraction for devotees from all across the country for so many centuries that the labyrinth of narrow streets surrounding it would only surprise you a little. There are shops, hundreds of them, selling the same items in every street, with the price decided by the distance from the temple (and hence 'the degree of holiness'). All of these streets, and the shops alongside, seem to have a random slope upwards and downwards, and definitely make the walk to the temple an effort for some. Kashi Vishwanath also has a disappointing 'official' website that has features like Live Darshan, Online Donation and e-Pooja!

The Banaras Hindu University is one of the proudest possessions of this city. The land donated by Kashi Naresh has now evolved into one of the largest universities in Asia itself. But it is not as much the size of the campus that inspires awe as the immaculate naturalness with which a horde of flora and fauna houses itself there. It also has a Vishwanath Temple, located in the centre of the campus with a spread complex for seven temples, a trip to which in the morning is impressive enough, but costly if you choose to eat at one of the restaurants just outside it (pretty reminiscent of south Indian temple complexes, except for the cost thing.. sometimes!).

The ghats of the river Ganga are given names, some very grand, others much local. These are the places where evening prayers are offered. A visit during the Navrata period at dusk would give you captivating glimpses of the strength of devotion- with hundreds of people chanting in union, priests holding elaborate large oil lamps, a lifelong tradition reflected in the black waters of the river. There are even brightly illuminated processions on boats at the same time. To just sit on the stony steps and watch all of this is one overwhelming experience. And to not have a camera to store proofs is one overplus of genius!

In the evenings, on one of these ghats you're very likely to find an old babu along with this little grandchild, just sitting on the steps talking to others, retelling some old story, or letting on the evening activities of the ghats to a visitor while the little one plays around aimlessly. He, and those boatmen across must have seen so many sunsets over the river, so many celebrations on these banks, so many forms of the mighty river from so many other ghats.. he must also have been a fan of the famous Banarasi paan some time.. :)

It would take a lot more time to get to know this city. From the busy market that has sprung around the Kashi Vishwanath temple, to the stony banks of the sacred even if unbelievably polluted river; from its repute as the textile and fabrics land, to the evening prayers of the masses, Banaras takes on various colours along every direction.

Banaras has survived through time.. the city of temples must even be favoured by the gods.

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*Sultan Muhammad Ghauri was a ruler of Ghurid dynasty, who invaded large parts of what is now Northern India. One of his men, Qutubuddin Aibak was the first sultan of Delhi.

Mathura ke pethe..

Just once awhile I get the chance to travel places, and I try to make sure there's always something new I learn, something I bring back.. hardly ever something palpable!

Mathura lied en route a recent trip. It isn't a very attractive tourist spot, but there was something about that part that caught my attention..

the Idgah mosque next to the Krishna Janma-bhoomi mandir- the latter is what Mathura is renowned for, the place where our beloved maakhan-chor was born..

not that scenic..

Mathura, no matter how important a place it may be in Hindu religious history, is still one of the many dishearteningly unkempt places in Uttar Pradesh. Brushed up roads and ad-hoc shops alongside, with little children tagging along, trying to make some sales of beads and idols- the place is torn between classic India and frequent visits from firangs. I believe ISKCON has to be thanked for its contribution in the form of a growing number of devotees, both at home and abroad. Outside the area of the janma-bhoomi, the lofty buildings still carry remnants from the times of the kings- intricately carved windows and balconies with stone jaali, red sandstone walls with domed tops and what not.. it seems insignificant, but we may (and would) never find out the stories of the people who once inhabited these..

But moving towards the main area, shops and vendors cover up the street sides to an extent that one wouldn't imagine that at some point in history, this formed an important trade center, and a proud Yadava king might have taken his colorfully ornate tableau along that very street, with trumpets and drums announcing him, and his subjects bowing courteously at the sight of the Majesty.. *long thought*

another antiquity is a grand lake with elaborate steps on four sides- which must have formed the city center at some time. It was surprising to see that people hardly cared about the lake. It just sat there and spoke of history. I couldn't take a pic of it, the camera had to be left up in the bus. There were drain pipes at some depth down, wonder what time they belong to.. should've photographed it.

Inside the temple, the scene has lost its sanctity in most part, for people who visit look more like, and are, tourists. An incredible part was some old ladies sitting around a khol being played and singing devotional songs.. the strength and effectiveness of untrained vocals! One finds an ill-beseeming number of daan petis (donation/offering boxes) placed strategically around the temple. The main temple complex is admittedly very beautifully and grandly kept. And as has been the Hindu way of holy places, a large number of other gods find their shrines and associated daan petis around the temple. A falsely crafted gufa charges a mere 3 Rupees for a person to explore scenes from Krishna's childhood. Then there's always the quaintly co-existing and separated-by-barbed-wires mosque nearby.

Mathura ke pethe are undeniably the best (and something palpable to bring back) :) 

I bet there's a lot I have missed- the banks of the river Yamuna, Vrindavan and Gokul, the stories that still find themselves scattered in the little villages.. but that's another trip!

The Fisherman

Like all of us, who dream of having something that would cease our endless quest, only to eventually find ourselves looking for more, there once was a fisherman who went about trying to catch fishes every other day of his life.

This was a profession he inherited from his father, who had had a special knack for catching the best fishes from the river that snaked lazily across the village. But unlike his father, he wasn’t too skilled. He could only manage to catch as many fishes as to keep his family- a wife and a kid, alive. There would be days, occasionally, when he’d get a bit luckier, and would sell the excess fish. He also did some farm work to earn money, and that was what his life had always been about. Fishing was an unsaid profession in the village for most of its population. He was a happy man; for where there are no expectations, there can be but any disappointment. There just wasn’t anything more, or less to his life.

Every morning, he’d set out to the banks of the river, with a basket and a fishing rod he’d made himself from the branch of a tree, on a path amid the dense vegetation, singing to himself. He would usually meet someone else from the village to give him company, sometimes only to cross the forest, and sometimes for the whole day. A lot of men and women could be found at the banks of the wide river, their fishing rods bent onto the river. There he spent most part of the day, talking to people, exchanging news and other goods, while the bait popped in and out of the waters. Towards the evening, he’d return home with the basket just sufficiently full, and they’d pray, eat and go to bed.

Some days were different, others weren’t. When farm work was to be done, he’d wind up quickly at the river. It was never wise to go fishing later in the day. He sometimes took his son along with him to the river, so that he could also learn. And he could also use the kid’s company at times when there were no villagers nearby. This was a regular life of an ordinary man, and he could see no reason it should change, or be any different.

One fine day, he returned from the river with a distant look on his face.

“How many did you catch today?” his wife asked the moment he entered.

“Not much, see for yourself” he said, just as his son came running and hugged him around his waist.

“Daddy! I made a picture today, you want to see it?” he asked happily.

“That’s great, but not now son… Dad’s a bit tired now. I’m going to have some sleep now” he replied. Ignoring the deflated look on his son’s face, he went straight to bed. His wife came right after him.

“What’s the matter? You don’t look fine to me… what happened?”

He looked at her. He thought for a moment if he should tell her or not… would she believe it? He finally he decided to try his luck.

“I was fishing as usual today, by the river bank, at that turn away from the forest, you know…” he began.

“And?”

“And I saw a golden fish”, he finished quickly.

As he had expected, his wife looked at him disbelievingly. There was also a look of mild concern on her face, even as his heart was leaping with excitement.

“You… you know… it’s not possible, dear…”, she said.

“I did not imagine it! I swear I saw it!”

“But you know what it means… don’t you…?” his wife asked uncertainly.

True, he knew what that meant, and that was the thing that had been bothering him. It was believed that the river had one golden fish, and having it caught once in his bait was every fisherman’s dream. It had not been spotted for over two decades. Last time, his father was the one who had seen it, but he had not bothered to catch it. He was too young then to understand anything about dreams or to ask his father why he did not go after it. He thought it was simply because it was too hard to catch.

“You are not going after it, are you?” his wife asked tentatively.

“Why not?”, he asked sharply.

“Because it is merely a waste of time! You know it is too hard to catch the Golden Fish. You go about trying to catch it, and we could all starve to death here!”

He knew, as his wife stared at him angrily, that she was right. It would cost him a lot of effort to catch it, and in doing so, he will have to compromise on the daily catch he made. So he pushed the idea to the back of his mind… but not entirely out of it.

In the following few days, the story of the sighting of the Golden Fish spread very quickly. Everywhere he went, he was getting more attention than he was used to. Unknown people waved at him from their doorsteps as he passed the houses on his way to the local tea shop, which had, over the years, become a kind of center of the village. Men from different working sectors would assemble here on the evenings for a glass of tea, and a lot of local gossip. It was, in effect, a regular gathering place for the village folks to exchange news from different parts of the village.

He reached the crowded shop one evening to find everyone talking about him and the Golden Fish. He was greeted happily by the people as he entered. Everyone wanted to know how and where he had spotted the Golden Fish, and after recollecting the sighting innumerous times, over many glasses of tea, he found himself tired and sleepy. And it seemed that the other people also had had enough of the story, and now were turning to its consequences.

“Of course he is going to try to catch it!”, said an old man loudly.

The existing sounds of the people died away, and a new and more energetic chatter started taking shape. Now everyone was voicing their opinion about what they thought he ought to do afterwards.

“No no… it’s a waste of time”, said the lazy voice of a tall man who’d been sitting there all along.

There was a loud murmur of assent.

“I agree. One can only spend as much time going after ludicrous dreams. You’d only end up wasting your time.”

“And what all will you achieve if you even manage to catch it, eh? A few moments of fleeting exult?”

“Yes, correctly said. I’d say it is a fool’s choice. But if you feel you must go after it, then be poised to face its consequences.”

But then another challenging voice rang clearly in the shop.

“Excuse me, what kind of consequences are you talking about?”

“He’ll have to compromise on his regular lifestyle, for one. We all know what kind of effort it is going to cost him.”

“But do you not know what we are talking about? It is the Golden Fish! How many of us have seen it?”

It seemed that it could possibly have no end, as more and more loud people joined in, voicing their opinion.

“How could he ever think of missing a chance as this?”

“This is an opportunity one would die for!”

“The Golden Fish is every fisherman’s dream!”

He returned home late that night with his mind heavily laden with all these thoughts. He wondered if he could ever make up a decision regarding this. Half the people in the tea-shop seemed to think it was a foolish choice for him to go after the Golden Fish, while the other half considered the first half foolish and envious. He went to sleep thinking this all over again. As he slowly drifted into sleep, he wondered whether it was his imagination, or really the first half of people seemed to be actually less than half…

The following few days seemed to pass away in a blur. People talked about him, wondering aloud what he was going to do next. He went to the river banks, trying to catch fishes as usual, but his mind seemed to have stuck on the Golden Fish. He tried to look for it in the river, in the same places again, but in vain. He told himself, half-heartedly, that he’d definitely go after it, only if he sighted it again. But deep down, he knew he was only fooling himself.

As he now spent more time on keeping an eye open for a chance to sight the Golden Fish again, he brought less fish home each day. His wife told him angrily that this was the consequence people were talking about. Even though he knew it was true, he refused to admit that he was obsessed with this idea, or even overly so.

His son was very curious to know about this whole affair. But he thought it better to just let him know about a special fish that he wanted to catch, and leave it at that.

“Then catch it dad!” his son said excitedly. “I want to see how it looks like.”

“I wish it were that simple, son,” he thought silently.

A week had passed and now he had made his mind up. He was going to catch the fish. He told his wife and son confidently, as he sat and unnecessarily repaired his fishing kit, that they were soon going to see the Golden Fish in his hands. He hadn’t told this to anyone else, but somehow, it seemed inessential since the whole village was talking about it.

He walked the long way towards the river alone this time. He’d had enough of people trailing him, so he had taken an obscure path that would take a longer time, but was bound to give him peace… and some more time to think. He didn’t have a proper plan regarding what he was going to do, but as he walked on, he realized that it will probably work out eventually.

Was it his imagination or actually a lot more than usual number of people seemed to be present there? And what were they expecting? That he’d somehow cast the bait in a different fashion and then pull it out a few moments later with the Golden Fish clinging spectacularly at its end? Of course not, he thought… that wasn’t how one caught the Golden Fish. But then again, no one really knew how it was caught.

He sat on a rock by the edge of the river and took the fresh bait out from the small bag he carried. Praying inwardly, he threw it into the river and sat there. He caught many fishes that day, although none of them was golden. He steadily kept an eye on the river water for the slightest hint of a golden shimmer. Hours and hours passed uneventfully, and people kept throwing glances in his direction.

Disappointment and unwariness were starting to crawl upon him. He half thought he’d just come back next day to try again. But how could he just leave, with everyone around so expectant!

It isn’t for me, he said to his reflection in the river water.

How can you be so sure? said his reflection, and winked.

In that small instant of a wink, he saw, for the second time in his life, the faint shape of the Golden Fish, swimming many feet deep, almost effortlessly against the flow of the river. His heart leapt as he looked around- but nobody else had noticed anything at all. He threw a fresh bait in the water, trying to pretend he was acting just normal. But the Golden Fish was drifting away slowly; apparently the bait didn’t interest it. But no, he couldn’t let it go like that! He pulled the bait out and threw it again, but to no avail. It just wouldn’t take the bait.

He looked around frantically. People were starting to notice his weird actions as he pointed mutely to the river depths.

They understand now!

It was perhaps recklessness and stupidity beyond measure, for no one has ever managed to catch fish by jumping himself into the water; but he didn’t bother to think. He took a breath, and with all the people looking expectantly, he dived into the water, his hands outstretched in the direction of the Golden Fish.

He was known as the Fisherman’s son. Even though all that the vast majority of the population in the village did was fishing; he was known so, because it was easier than saying “son of the fisherman who could never catch the golden fish”. He walked silently towards the river, along the path he had walked with his father once, thinking how life had changed in the last week. It had been over a week, but his father had not returned.

He found a nice spot to sit, and threw the bait into the river.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. He thought he could fall asleep there; it seemed to be quite an unlucky day- he hadn’t managed to catch a single fish. And just when he thought about leaving, something caught his bait, something heavy. Hardly daring to believe his luck, he pulled at the string. When he saw what was struck at the bait, he almost slipped his footing. Aghast, and with a terrible sense of nausea, he heaved up a decaying body of a man.

It had a golden fish in one of its hands.

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©I.N.C.O.G.N.I.T.O.

Where is the Love

I found this poem resurfacing quite too often to me… which I wrote some two years ago, with irrevocable help from a very (very) old friend of mine, Anurag Atri, who gave the admirable rhetoric “Beginning of the End”.

And today, on his birthday, I thank him yet again…

Here it goes…

Once again the softest gush of dry wind blew,

Along with it, here and there the dead leaves flew

And it made its way rustling through those yellow trees,

Amongst all tyranny, making its detour to the seas.

Invincible it flew days and nights even without wings

Looking for a melody in the song that hatred sings.

With waters of revenge the flames of love were doused,

Hopelessly the doors to heaven were tightly closed.

All that roamed the surface of earth were dirty bloodhounds,

With an attraction to war and deathlike ghastly sounds.

And the devastating dolour they made, they couldn't see.

Since the last thing that ever occurred to them was mercy,

The river that strode freely once now carried crimson blood,

Along with it, all the corpses, filth and impotent mud.

Neither could it see any two lovers sitting on its banks,

Nor any men crossing, singing joyously on wooden planks.

Nothing now is like it used to be, when the sun used to shine,

Over the lands of fiesta, songs, dances and wine.

Love was long lost; friendships and friends did but rarely last

No one seemed to notice, but time was running out fast.

Tricks, treachery, treason and threats were temptatively thrust,

Triumph of truth was torn apart, lost was the trust.

Life was lost to the light from the white angelic dove;

Everything else is all around, but where is the love?

Humans are ditching humans, even faith is being doubted,

Not the god is spared by the deadly masks now surmounted.

The black water is fought for, the cannons yield fires;

Even at the time of dread, man hasn't come off his desires.

It might have been easier to call it just a narrow bend,

But isn't it rightly called the beginning of the end?

Monsters rising from concrete trees have poisoned the air.

With steel the earth is being drilled, but none gives a care.

Iron birds crashed into concrete, innocents killed with ease;

Wars are here for heaven on earth, these bullets will bring peace.

Yet of being innocent these destroyers shamelessly pretend,

With dark masks over them who knows what they intend.

The earth has, for long, paid for her motherly silence,

The broken parts of the puzzle would now make sense.

Now they await her fury, 'cause nature's love too is lost

And her rage surrounds them all like a cold night's frost.

No more absolution would be there from her part,

And now soon enough, a cataclysmic event would start.

Even though they are the owners of all this blame,

They haven't bowed yet, their hearts are still the same.

Still daggers are dug deep into bare chests of men,

Still they wish the other would die off when.

With weapons, the guiltless mankind they'll surely defend.

So isn't it rightly called the beginning of the end?

The terror-stricken eyes of the homeless, orphaned children

Entangled in the eerie eccentricity of all the heartless men.

Tears from the eyes of them, deprived of love and compassion,

And the eyes of battered women, which have lost all passion,

The cry of the oppressed, the agonizing pain in their look:

All glorify the heinous crimes due to which their lives shook.

What a shame: seeing the people fight like born foes,

What a shame: Seeing the billions crying their woes.

Why is there ignorance, poverty, anger, blitz and defeat?

Why can't you be anything other than a hypocrite?

As the clock ticks away, and stars shine brilliantly above,

You'll find that,

Everything else is all around, but where is the love?

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©I.N.C.O.G.N.I.T.O.

The Sparrow

[In continuation with the post "The Fox" in May, 2010]

The moon was beautiful in the night sky.. and it might always have been so, but the sparrow could never see it. 

Born with defects, the sparrow lived the early days of her childhood in the cozy nest wondering if she could ever spread her wings out to fly. The deformed left wing she had, which looked almost like fractured, was a birth defect, she was told, and it was enough to put her out of the league forever. To add to that, many of her feathers had been missing at the time of her birth, because the birth had not been natural. The egg had to be cracked open by the parents. They suspected till their death that the force they had applied to bring her out of that shell might have caused a permanent injury to the brain. But death takes all the suspicions along, and leaves life at a blank.

Rest apart, there was a problem that could possibly have no solution. The sparrow had another disability that her parents never could notice their whole life. The sparrow was born blind.

The little sparrow had been contentedly lying in her nest, singing to herself on a cloudy day, too young to fetch food herself. The parents had left early in the morning, leaving her alone in her dark, black world. It was then, that a contained slithering sound to her left made her jump, for she knew her parents could not have been back yet, and they made a different sound: she thought.

“Now here’s my meal!” came the high pitched voice, which startled the sparrow even more.

“Who are you?”

“Well, they call me a snake…”

“A snake..?”, said the sparrow, a note of interest in her voice.

“Yes. And I eat sparrows”, hissed the snake with greed in his voice.

“You… eat…”, the sparrow stammered, shaking her head madly, as if that would scare it away. The snake moved closer and looked at the poor sparrow, and realized in an instant that not only was she ugly and physically a wreck, she was blind too.

“You are blind!”, the snake hissed in surprise.

“I’m what?”

“Blind… you can’t see can you?”

“See? I don’t know what you are talking about…”

There was a long and distressing pause before the snake spoke again.

“Oh… I’ll have to look for some other animal now… I can’t kill you… I won’t!”

And the snake slithered away. The sparrow was surprised by this lucky escape, but she was still confused about what the snake had said. She thought she would ask her parents when they got back what “blind” meant.

But they never returned.

Terribly hungry and the thirst nearly killing her, she lay in her nest wondering what happened to her parents. It rained heavily in the night, and she was relieved of thirst, but hunger was still haunting her. She could feel heavy droplets painfully smashing on her head. She was witnessing the worst torment she’d ever felt. She screamed in agony as heavier droplets attacked her fragile and weak body, but no one heard her amongst the thunder. And just as she thought that nothing could have been worse, she felt her nest falling apart. The fall from the topmost branch had never seemed to end as more and more leaves and branches whipped against her, till she finally landed heavily upon the muddy ground.

She lay there motionless, and any living being would have pitied the state she was in. She had no idea how much time had passed when she woke up. But after that, it had been a completely new life for her.

She would still feel proud of herself whenever she recalled all the things she had to endure to keep her alive in a world she could not see. She would often cry, recalling the struggle she had made to comprehend the world and its workings, to understand the meaning of “blind”, to learn to fly with a broken wing, and most importantly, to find food for herself without the use of sight.

She would remember how at times she had nearly given up all hope. Though she had learnt to find food with the other senses she had, and though she managed to fly nearly well even with a broken wing, and that too, much better than other sparrows who called themselves “normal”, she was haunted by a constant feeling of emptiness within her. She would often think how life would have been if she hadn’t been blind or deformed.

But that was till she once flew to a new place. It was a small house with a family of foxes living in it, she could easily tell by their sounds. She started to spend her time on the branches of an oak tree in front of their house and would listen to them intently. As the days passed by, she identified one of them to be half-blind and with a disabled limb. Though at first she had felt pity for poor creatures like herself and the fox, she soon realized how different they both were.

She learned that when compared to the fox, she was still way ahead and better in all respects. The poor fox seemed to hate his life more than he ought to. But she did feel pity for the fox when his parents died and his brothers left him… and for a moment a memory from her past tormented her again. But now she was strong; stronger than she ever had been. She had now realized how beautiful and blessed her life was.

And when she knew for sure that the nature of the poor fox will cause him to perish uselessly, she had decided to help him out. She had resolved that by any means, she would teach the poor fox before he died, a lesson she had learnt long ago. She knew that it would not be an easy job, but then, she rarely found anything quite easy… she was very much used to it.

And so, the sparrow started to spend her time and energy to feed the fox. And it was weeks before she finally faced the fox.

“The one who deserves to see the moon is the one who has done his labour for the day, and has earned his own food, the one who has worked hard and tried his best to make his living, irrespective of his success.” The fox had been very fascinated by these words she had spoken. And the tone in the fox’s voice told the sparrow that she had managed to do what she had decided.

So, while the fox had gone about to hunt, the sparrow sat simply, pondering over her actions. There had been countless times when she had felt surprised at her own strengths. The desire to live is itself an impetus beyond par, and she knew it very well by now. And though she had given the fox the strength he needed, she wondered if the moon she never had seen was really of as much splendid beauty that she had described. She wondered if the fox could ever glimpse it.

Surprisingly, the fox had managed to catch a prey by completely ignoring the stabbing pain in his entire body. And happily, she had told the fox to wait till the moon showed up in the dark skies above.

And now as the sparrow sat high atop the dark and august trees, singing praises for Lord, she could feel the full moon that she could not see. And equally well, several feet below her, she could feel a life departing the forest grounds.

A tear slipped off her lifeless eyes as she flapped her broken wings and took off into the night.

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©I.N.C.O.G.N.I.T.O.

The Hero

The lure of power has never touched humility. And the weasel very well knew it. 

If the wonderful forest of this story had anything to boast of, it was its four special creatures. Unlike the other animals of their own species, they were quite extraordinary, not by their own efforts, but by the gift of gods, or so the legend has it.

The tribe of hyenas that lived in the northern part of the forest took unnerving pride in their brother. The older ones in the tribe still vividly recollect the thrilling tale of a baby hyena born in the midst of a thunderstorm. While even the elder ones had stayed under the shades, the little kid had ventured out into the open grounds and incidentally got struck by a lightning bolt so powerful that it could have brought down the strongest of trees. As the members of the tribes watched in horror, and the thunder competed with the parents’ terrified screams, the little hyena, set ablaze, ran wildly about in circles. And each one of them had watched in awe, as the flames subsided and the kid had walked over to them, unscathed! “That was great!”, the kid had said without a slightest quiver in its voice or even a trace of fear in its eyes. The place where this unbelievable incident took place was still worshipped by the tribe.

Since then, the legendary Hyena has had the power of the lightning with him.

No lesser was the pride that the lynx had for their proclaimed leader whose story of rebirth was no rumour. It had been prophesised that the birth of a child would make their tribe remembered forever, and they were overjoyed for this baby lynx. Never had they suspected that their happiness would be so short-lived. The baby had not been breathing! The birth of a dead child, although not unheard of, had been new to their tribe. “This is something we will remember forever. Perhaps this was what the prophecy meant”, they had thought. Upon the insist of the tribe, with a heavy heart, the parents had left the new born kid outside the village bounds in an open windy field. The eastern winds would soon have taken the smell of the body to some scavenger lurking for flesh. The surprise the tribe three days later had when they saw the same kid walking back to its home, and say “I’m back”, was so much that one of the tribe’s elderly had died of shock. It was as if the eastern winds had blown life back into his lungs. The place where the newborn had been left would remain sacred to the tribe till time lasted.

Since then, the legendary Lynx has had the power of the winds with him.

Birds of prey had never been known to be able to swim in anything other than air, much less in water. And that would have remained the case, had the nasty incident in a southern part of the forest not taken place. A usual quarrel had been raging at a very unfortunate time for the baby hawk which was still unborn. In the scuffle that ensued, the egg had unceremoniously fallen out of the nest, and had rolled all the way down to the river. The shell had cracked open on a rocky landing, and the group’s squabbling had been halted by a heart-wrenching cry that lasted no more than a few seconds, as the baby hawk was pulled into the water stream. The hawks had remained motionless as the parents let out a scream at the top of their voices, which, it was rumoured, had not been unheard by any creature of the forest. The hawks fervently believed that this scream had been heard even by the gods, or how else could they have believed their eyes to not have ditched them just five minutes later! They had gasped in unison as, from the very spot that the newborn had fallen, bubbles emanated in the otherwise smooth but strong current of the river. And then the newborn had launched itself out from the surface of the water to fly back to its nest. The hawks still held that place in the river as holy and untouched by any other.

Since then, the legendary Hawk has had the power of the waters with him.

The small tribe of hartebeests residing peacefully in the western part of the forest had never imagined in their wildest dreams that they’d live to see this day. Although indignant, they knew it well that power and fame was not something that fate had for them. Their physical build was not such that allowed them to be of any other use than for finding food for themselves. They were already quite small in number, and hence were saddened by grief over the death of the newborn kid in their tribe. And the cause of the death was something they would have been glad to forget, had the aftermath gone unseen. Even today they winced at the thought of a newborn baby being crushed under the weight of a huge boulder, larger than the largest elephant in the neighbouring tribe. The parents wailed, and the tribe, knowing that they could never stand the sight of their broken child, had not made any effort to move the rock. The next day had seen the entire tribe wondering in lamenting tones what could have brought such tragedy on to the parents. But the day after, the tribe saw to their amazement a slight movement in the rock, and within no time, the newborn had moved it apart, and walked up as if nothing had happened. Since even the strongest males in the tribe could move the rock with great effort and only as a group, the tribe of hartebeests revered it even to this day.

Since then, the legendary Hartebeest has had the power of the rocks with him.

The king of the forest held these four creatures in the highest esteem. So much so, that if it were not for the fear of having his kingdom divided, he’d certainly have given it to them. He had not the slightest doubt over their unfathomable power and capability to turn all odds in their favour.

And that was precisely the reason that they all had been summoned in the grand courtroom this fine day.

“You can do this, can you not?” the king asked, almost pleadingly.

With the presence of all the ministers and most part of the forest, the environment had become tense. Time seemed to have stopped moving from the moment a weasel had announced a startling piece of information to all of them. According to it, in the untouched depths of the river that flowed through the forest, lay a chest of treasure of immense value. There was no direct means of extracting the box, since not only was the river extremely deep, but the box, heavier than one could expect, was buried under mounds of sand and rock. The king was extremely pleased with this information, and promised one fiftieth of whatever that treasure was to the weasel.
He knew pretty well that nothing could be called impossible as long as those four special creatures lived. And so he had invited them to his court and given them the task.

“We certainly can do this, my Lord. We will be needy of some time to figure out how exactly we are going to do this”, the Hawk said.

“Certainly... You can use the royal guest-house for as long as you want.”

The Hawk, the Hyena, the Lynx and the Hartebeest gathered in the luxurious guest-house, where they were sure not to be overheard.

“So…”

It was the Lynx who broke the long silence as they sat around the fireplace.

“The plan is obvious, isn’t it? We just need to work out the other thing”, said the Hyena.

“Yes. It is very easy to do this. But this might also be the opportunity to seize the kingdom. We need to work out how”, said the Hawk.

“Indeed! We have so much power, why can’t we just use this time to overthrow the king? The problem is that we must not make it look like we seized the kingdom by force”, said the Lynx.

They all fell silent again.

“I say,” said the Hartebeest, “let us do this task and see what happens. I’m personally tired of calling that fool “your Majesty” every time. We will just have to make the opportunity on our way.”

They all agreed to this, because none of them could seem to have a better idea. And so they approached the king, but not before they had enjoyed all the royal luxuries. The happiness on the king’s face was reflected in each of the faces present in the courtroom when they entered.

“Have you reached a solution already?”, the king asked expectantly.

“Yes, your Majesty”, said the Hartebeest.

“We think thus,” started the Hawk, “I, with the power of the waters, can control the flow of the river. I will swim and make a whirlpool in the river water, thus making the buried spot visible.”

“When the vortex is at the exact spot,” said the Hyena, “I’ll use my power of the lightning to crack apart the rocks that bury the treasure with a single powerful bolt.”

The excitement of the king seemed to increase with every word. But he could not imagine any further than this.

“When the box is visible,” said the Lynx, “I’ll use my power of the winds to lift my friend here, and guide him down to it.”

“And I,” said the Hartebeest, even though he knew it was not important for him to speak when the Lynx had made it clear enough, “with my strength, will lift the box up and present it to you.”

Two days later, the entire forest had gathered to witness the grand event presented by their four heroes. The king stood with his ministers on the banks of the river, as the Hawk dived into it. Slowly and steadily, the Hawk changed the course of the water. Within no time, the currents were swirling about the point that the weasel had indicated. The Hawk used all its might to deepen the vortex further down. The mighty applause the crowd gave just when the vortex touched the rocky base of the river was silenced by the thunder of the most powerful lightning bolt they had ever witnessed. The crowd realized that the Hyena had done his job well, as small pieces of rock were thrown about. They again held a mighty applause as the unmistakable glint of gold became visible at the depths of river.

Now the Lynx stood with his eyes shut tight, and called the winds. Soon, everybody was in the need to hide for cover as powerful gusts of wind hurried past them. Again a mighty applause, as the Hartebeest was lifted off the ground and lowered into the river.

It took time for the dust and the storm to subside. But when it did, a tumult of applause broke the eerie silence that had settled upon them. Every pair of eyes seemed to be fixed on the four heroes. Every pair of hands was clapping violently. The animals were screaming wildly; some were bowing. Nobody seemed to notice the little weasel that did nothing but smile.

After what seemed to be long endless minutes, the crowd finally began to lower their voices.

The weasel, knowing this opportunity, shouted, “Hartebeest is the hero!”, and silently slipped away. The rest will be taken care of, he knew.

In the enormous crowd, that single voice went unidentified. But the words were clear. And the crowd fought.

When the king had managed to get the crowd silenced a bit, each of the four heroes claimed himself to be the real hero before him.

“The box would have remained unreachable under the water had I not used my power to control the river. So I am the hero!”

The king nodded.

“But it would have remained buried had I not used my power of lighting. I was the one who made it accessible, so I alone am the hero!”

The king nodded again.

“And you all could have remained satisfied just by looking at the box lying there had I not used my strength to pull it up. There is no question that I am the real hero!”

The king nodded fervently again.

“And you think you could have reached the box to pull it up if I had not used the power of winds to guide you through? Indeed, I’m the real hero!”

The king nodded, even more confused.

The king was asked to pronounce justice on this matter, which, naturally, he couldn’t. The fight that resumed in the crowd was nothing as compared to the historic fight that raged between the four legendary creatures. Tremors shook the earth while the wind seemed to be in such fury that it could uproot all the trees of the forest. The wrath of thunder and lightning threatened to charr one and all to death; and the treacherous waters of the river splashed violently everywhere, potent enough to dilute everything in itself. Fire blazed over the flooded banks of the river, where the ground powerfully split open and the wind-storm raked the cauldron of what seemed to be hell.

When all seemed to have ended, and the ashes and dust subsided, a gasp seemed to travel among the few of the crowd that remained. The four legendary creatures of the forest lay dead upon the forest floor, just a pile of mass, broken and powerless, defeated by each others’ powers.

History has had not, but disgraced place for heroes who knew only vanity.

Then a laugh stunned each one present at the site of disaster. It was harshly laced with irony and was almost challenging. Every head turned in the direction of the sound, and each one of them was dumbfounded to see the weasel walking towards the king, apparently unaffected by the tragedy.

He bowed gently before the king, who stood transfixed in his place even though his clothes were torn and dirty. The king’s eyes widened in a sudden revelation, and for some time it seemed that he could not blink.

“Your Majesty, didn’t I tell you that each one of them was useless?” He moved towards the ornate golden box and, to the surprise of all, picked it up with one hand and opened the lid effortlessly. The crowd gasped as one upon seeing the contents of the box that had caused so much trouble. It was empty.

“And if you still need to proclaim someone as the hero, then it is me, for if it weren’t for me, then all you could have done is worship them till you lived, while they took the kingdom and played with their powers”, the weasel said. “I was the one who placed this box there.”

Almost every face showed nothing but anger and loathing for this creature whose existence seemed to be an increasing burden with every word he spoke. The king’s eyes showed only revulsion and his face too was contorted with anger.

“I pronounce murder on you”, were the five words the king said.

The weasel’s face didn’t change at all. He merely said, “Killing me will not serve any purpose. But even if I’m killed, it won’t be the first time that the eyes of justice are blinded by the clouds of hatred.”

And the weasel was killed.

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