Wednesday, December 29, 2010
The Legacy Of Beluda Hill
Jacques held in his hand, a golden ornament, glittering in the sun. It was the Crown of the Duke Of Ilbur. It was, until that afternoon, when a group of peasant-turned-revolutionaries ambushed him and his bodyguards in the woods. Now it was Jacques'. The leader of the rebels, now had a crown. Jacques, brimming with pride of the day's events, wore the ornament and looked at his wife. "And you, Jillan, are my queen", said he. She smiled again - that mysterious smile that she had come to possess for the last two weeks. The smile which somehow, seemed to convey sorrow.
"I'm thirsty, we have to find water elsewhere. This well is dry" said Jacques, his mind drifting back to the current issues that parched his throat. "We have to talk" said Jillian slowly, as her left hand moved towards her hips. "Well, tell me" said Jacques, a bit surprised.
"Do you love me, Jacques?" she asked, without expression.
"What is this for now? You know I love you" he said, with a tinge of irritation, arising from both the question and his thirst. Jillian remained silent. Jacques sighed. He had been told that women, at this time, would have changing moods, and had to be cared for like children. He laid his palm on her bulging stomach. "On our child, I promise, I love you more than anything else in the world".
His pregnant wife though, at his utterance of those words, broke a tear and turned around, hiding her face from her husband, showing her tears to the horizon. She looked down, the side she faced was steep downhill. She brushed off her tears. Jacques, sensing her pain, "What is it, my love?".
My love. The words had meant so much to her before. Now, it was a shadow of a love that had once been true. Their romance was one that was celebrated by the villagers. They were considered the most perfect couple by the villagers - she was considered the most perfect match for their hero. And when Jacques had proposed to her, she, by saying yes, had not only become his woman, but had also been adopted by the villagers. And the villagers had grown to love her more than Jacques. She, in a way, had become the queen, the mistress, the mother of the village. The love from the villagers still remained. Her love for Jacques still remained. But Jacques...
"Where do you go at nights, Jacques?" she asked solemnly.
"What?"
"I know I have not been able to satisy you, my love. But it is only because of our piece-of-the-moon growing inside me. I never wanted to deprive you" she said. Her voice was flat, without expression. But the words were strong enough. Strong enough to plunge into the heart of the hero. The hero, whose heart could not be touched by the sword of The Duke Of Ilbur, was now hurt with guilt. He did love his wife, more than everything else. But certain other emotions, he possessed. Ones that originated not from heart, but from hormones. He had succumbed to them. And now, he stood, without an answer, embarassed. She had found out.
As he stood, staring, impaired of speech, she continued in her flat tone "Remember, when we were lovers" she paused "you said once, that you would kill me, and then kill yourself if I would cheat on you. You made a joke, ofcourse. But I know you meant it" The colour had drained off Jacques' face. "What are you going to do now, my love?" she asked, staring down again, at the steep fall below again. Silence. And then, as she watched down, Jacques flung himself, off the steep side of the hill, she saw him fall through trees, and bounce off rocks, breaking his new-found ornament as he fell to his death. She did not yell. She did not scream. She knew he would do it. It was not suicide. She had killed him. She had killed him for adultery. Like he said he would. And now, she had the second part of the deal to complete. She took a deep breath, and flung herself and her piece-of-the-moon, behind the man she loved.
What remained was the legacy of their love. The villagers sung ballads in praise of them. The ballads reached far and wide. And even time, though it has been able to change the names and forms, has not been able to erase their legacy. And even today, the children say,
Jack & Jill Went Up The Hill,
To Fetch A Pail Of Water,
Jack Fell Down And Broke His Crown
And Jill Came Tumbling After
The Exodus
A small boy with a rope in his left hand walks on. He is wearing a shirt which is torn in a few places, a shirt that is soiled ruddy from the mud of his land. He wears the shirt without buttoning it, so it can glide along with the wind as he walks. He is wearing his brother's trousers, they are a bit big for him, and he frequently has to bring his right hand down and tug at them to keep them from going below his hips. His hair is uncombed, mucus lies waiting at the end of his nostril, tickling him, threatening to ooze down. His right hand will attend to his nose in a few seconds, after it has pulled the trousers up to a comfortable height. The trousers, will again, start it's inevitable descent. His left hand, in the meantime holds the rope. On the other end of the rope is a dog. Thin, shabby and famished, it is an image of what it's master would look like if he were a mongrel.
"Brother" he calls "Are we there yet?". His brother, lean but muscular, carrying a burden, is a newly turned man. The hostilities around had helped the boy grow into one. Son to a dead mother And guardian to her other child, he strangely does not feel alone at this time. As when he looks around and sees the multitudes treading along with him, what he sees are brothers to whom god has bequeathed the same fate. An unfortunate faction which other men could take the liberty to banish. Loneliness is not something he feels. Fear though, is very much present. Moving away from a place so familiar (and hence secure) is not a very easy thing to do. And it is even more daunting when you do not know where you are going.
And there also lies the burden. On the cart that he is pulling, along with a few possessions and rations, lies the burden of the soceital morals, domestic upbringing and humanity,in the form of his grandfather. A babbling idiot who had become too old use his body or be in his senses and was better off dead. A dead weight which he unwillingly chose to carry owing to the respect that had been inculcated into him.
"Brother, Are we there yet?"
The Story Of Gopu Alias S.GopalakrishnanMan
At home, they called him Gopu. At office, they called him Gopal, Krishna or Soda-Buddi. His ID card read S.Gopalakrishnan. But the Soda-Buddi wearing, Monitor Screen staring, Coffee drinking, Not-So-Smart looking Infoscion also had another name - A name that spelled doom to all the wrong doers and the mischief mongers and good-citizen troublers and the shady dealers and the moody weeders. For he was the champion of the weak, the saviour of the humble, the resurrector of justice and the guardian of peace. Like SuperMan, Like BatMan, Like Rajnikanth, he was also a class apart, a super hero. And his name was S.GopalakrishnanMan. He could fly, he could swim, he could see the future, he could see the past, bullets would not touch him, bombs would not move him, Kryptonite would not cripple him, A misplaced sense of justice would not trouble him, he was the old-style superhero who could shoot lasers from eyes and palm, he was the new superhero who used gadgets and had a lab. He was, is and will be the Ultimate SuperheroMan. But Global Warming can kill him. And if it can kill someone like him, your butt is too easy. So Stop Warming The Global and Prevent Global Warming. Please shutdown your computers before you leave office. I don't care if there is a paper on it that says "Server Machine, Don't Switch Off", the planet is more important. This public service announcement was brought to you by Ozone, whatever is left of it after the CFCs finished having lunch.
