Since this book is supposed to be my chronicle, it should have a proper beginning. So let us delve deep into the heart of who I am by sailing down the river called time. Let us journey years back before my triumphs and follies.
Contrary to the rumors, I do not belong to the fallen house of Yugakhadga. I am not an heir to a family of power-hungry fools cursed with hearts that burned with covetous fire. I was simply sired by a man who had no aspirations other than whoring and gambling.
I may not have inherited his vices, but I inherited something far worse: his caste.
Those who inherit this curse find themselves relegated to the outskirts of villages and walled precincts in cities. According to the priests, this practice is done to separate men from beasts.
The priests, lest we beasts forget our place, constantly remind us of our forefathers’ sins to give reason to their unfair treatment. Centuries ago, we had betrayed the revered god king. Our ancestors sided with the danavas and helped them destroy the world so the antithesis of svayambu could remake it in its own vision and reward their loyalty. However, as often happens in stories, righteousness prevailed, leading to the defeat of danvas in the hands of the righteous armies.
After facing such a devastating defeat at their hands, we, the traitors of mankind, sought forgiveness. To our surprise, the god king extolled his compassion, offering us a place in his paradise, as servants.
Given the alternative of death, we accepted his gracious offer, recognizing the grim reality that servitude is the only way to survive.
To ensure that we, along with the rest of mankind, live in accordance with their god's intentions, his lapdogs often remind us about the supremacy of Varna—condemning the perceived evils of free will that, according to them, hinder the wheel of progress.
I shall be honest with you, for I have pledged veracity. If my words offend you, I humbly request that you bear them with fortitude. Never have I chanced upon a holy man lacking in falsehoods and untarnished by perversity. Most of them are a blight upon mankind, true hinderers of the wheel of progress, propagating lies in the name of utopia.
I rejected their poisonous lies to embrace a world where truth prevails, and wanted to cultivate a society where every individual is treated with respect. But soon I grasped the lunacy of my ways as I learned about the impossibility of preserving the peace that comes after a revolution.
Compared to me, my parents willingly endured harsh treatment. They did not desire change, as the concept of change was unfamiliar and adapting to something unfamiliar seemed arduous.
They possessed a strong sense of stubbornness about these things, particularly my father, who was as obstinate as a mule. He held affection for his oppressors, and I assure you that this is by no means an exaggeration. It may sound paradoxical and even absurd, but such is the way of humanity. For some of us, it's easier to love our abusers than to confront the truth of their character.
Meanwhile, my mother deplored the mistreatment yet held no reservations about keeping her head down and acting pious. People like my mother, you see, do not desire a revolution because they possess wisdom that I sorely lack—a sight to see and a heart to feel that all this anger would inevitably lead in one direction and one direction only: towards chaos.
My father was blinded by adoration, while my mother was willfully blind.
These ways are inherited, passed down from one generation to another: from a mother to her daughter, from a father to his son. The lesson passed on is that self-preservation carries greater significance than dignity.
I cannot fault them for believing in it. For I too was no different, until something dawned upon me: What purpose does life hold if joy is absent from its very essence? This one question was a spark that ignited the concealed passion that wanted me to be more. The more to me was music, and it became an essential part of me, and as long as it remained so, I did not care about earning a coin or gaining recognition for my talents.
To have such a beautiful dream would never have been possible had it not for a captivating woman. To me, she was a teacher of sorts and also a heartbreaker. Even now, as a man with more experience in understanding the fairer sex, my heart still fails to grasp the secret behind her enigmatic allure. '
Which is why beyond her visage, capturing her essence eludes description. So, I’ll limit my remarks to her physical features. Her eyes were brown—brown as honey—shaped like almonds, set in a face with the colouring of burnt caramel. Her hair was dark—dark like a veil of midnight and smooth as silk, with each strand appearing as if spun by a master’s hand.
This woman had taught me how to dream, and if not for her, I would have never sought freedom or played the role of chaos in flesh. Do not hold it against her. She meant well. The fault lies within me, for I am an unquenchable fire that burns everything it touches.
Before we talk about her, let us talk about my birthplace, a dark spot in the heart of Mohanpur—a city painted on a canvas of sand. Massive sandstone walls adorned with intricate latticework and carvings enveloped this city. One could spend their entire life to study the sheer artistry of these walls.
The entrance is in the north, where massive wooden doors proudly display ornate patterns, inviting you into wide streets lined with breathtaking havelis. These havelis feature facades of sandstone with delicate jhrokhas, supported by intricately carved wooden brackets. They also have stunning courtyards, with lush gardens and elegant fountains.
To the east of the wide street that leads to the royal palace and cuts through the temples district, lies the bustling bazaar, where an array of items can be found—such as embroidered fabrics, handicrafts, pottery, and weaponry.
Men wearing colourful turbans and tunics skillfully weave their words to entice you into purchasing things you may not need. With the right words, they can even convince you to sell them your own children for a good pot.
To the west of the bazaar lies a dark spot in the city. It is surrounded by towering sandstone walls designed to confine the untouchables. Within those walls, my kind lives in rectangular homes with mud walls and thatched roofs.
Now, pay attention! The following information is very important. These are the rules sullied individuals should follow, unless, of course, they have a masochistic desire to face punishment.
- Sullied individuals are allowed beyond the walls only to perform work-related tasks.
- The compensation for the work will be just enough to eat once a day.
- If you venture beyond the walls after sunset, you will lose your life or worse be crippled for life.
- If you engage in lovemaking beyond your designated station, get ready to be skinned alive.
- Never fail to heed the words of priests who deign to come to your shithole to explain failures of free will
- The sullied have no business tainting our sacred temples. Stay out!
The last one is truly hurtful. I loved temples. As a child, I used to climb the tallest building within the walls to catch a glimpse of the massive spires of the Bhairava Temple. It's architecture fascinated me, and I yearned to understand how such magnificent structures were crafted.
Luckily, later in life, I got the opportunity to visit these awe-inspiring temples, admire their exquisite murals and mandapas, and participate in religious ceremonies held in the grand pillared halls.
It was unfathomable to think that such exquisite structures could be commissioned by hands capable of monstrous deeds. Well, I guess that is the beauty and horror of humanity—a paradoxical creation with the capacity to embody creation and destruction. To me, the only person that never epitomized this contradiction was she.
She was simply magnificent and in my eyes, she has no fault; hell, even her lies are a charm to me. I do not know whose womb bore the one who breathed life into me. Life into an ungrateful man who failed to protect the one`whose value was unfathomable.
She was my safe haven from despair, and I let the devil inside me besiege her. If only I had never met her, or agreed to her proposal. None of these tragedies would have ever happened.
That unfortunate encounter happened in the heart of the merchant district. At that time, my father became ill, and I, along with my mother, became the breadwinners of the family. I did terrible jobs with terrible pay and in one of those jobs, well, one of the least dreadful ones, I and several others were hired to clean the haveli of a wealthy merchant who wanted to host a grand wedding for his lovely daughter.
"Bow your heads and remove your footwear before you step inside," ordered the fair-faced merchant guard. "And stay that way until you leave, and do not cover the marking on your hand."
He glared at us with a menacing glare. "Or you will have to lose it."
To those of you who dwell in the cave, remember this valuable piece of information: people from all varnas bear a tattoo on their right hands. For untouchables, such as yours truly, the tattoo depicts a pair of shackled hands.
The guard took the lead, and we followed his trail. He led us through the ornate wooden door of the entrance and into the main hall. There, we diligently cleaned the polished flooring to sparkling perfection. We also cleared the dusty cobwebs from the walls, which were adorned with vibrant floral motifs and geometric patterns. I lifted my head to gaze at the captivating murals on the ceiling, and was promptly admonished by an elderly sullied man for doing so.
We moved from one area to another, and the guard followed us to make that we did not pilfer from those expensive antique wardrobes and polished chests. He breathed a sigh of relief when we entered the courtyard, which was devoid of valuables. As we worked, the sun's gentle rays kissed our skin, and the liquid silver in the fountain sparkled like diamonds.
The guard suddenly made a hasty departure—presumably to relieve himself—but before leaving, he warned us not to put our hands in the fountain's water.
As he rushed off, workers proceeded with their tasks, but not me, for my heart, less restrained than my brain, urged me to slip away to a lush garden beyond. And so I did, and with each step I took, my heart raced.
I hoped no eyes would catch me lurking where I did not belong and as I dwelled deep into the garden, I heard a melodious song wafting through the air—a male voice resonating from one of the topmost floors of the haveli.
In pale gold, the valiant one appears,
His hair basks in the golden light’s cheers.
Through the darkest nights, he rides with might,
His name, a symbol of strength shining bright.
Raghava Mahaveer, world’s emperor bold,
With horse and sword, a story to be told.
In battles fierce, fear never finds a place,
Bringing joy and light to every distant space.
Eyes like dawn, radiant and warm,
A smile that outshines stars’ swarm.
The embodiment of light and grace,
His voice, a melody, serenity’s embrace.
In golden tapestry, his legend’s art,
His name echoes across realms, a work of heart.
A symbol of courage, forever it shall stand,
Let’s sing his glory, a hero grand.
With each verse, his sacrifice, we hail,
Embrace his banner’s colours, we set sail.
In timeless heroism, his legacy is strong,
A song of Raghava’s might, we’ll sing along.
Caught in the spell, my lips involuntarily hummed along, and my voice soon mimicked his. Lost in my singing, I forgot about all my troubles, as if I were transported to a realm where the freedom to sing is within my reach.
"You have a lovely voice," someone exclaimed—a woman's voice.
Fear tightened its grip on my heart, and panic coursed through my veins. I turned around, and my eyes locked onto the nightingale tattoo on her hand. I berated myself for foolishness.
I dropped to my knees, and with joined hands, I pleaded, "This one has made a terrible mistake, my lady. This unworthy one was ignorant of his place. I beg you, please find it in your heart to forgive."
As she took a step, her hand reached out to me, and instinctively, I tensed, expecting a slap. However, to my surprise, she tenderly ruffled my hair, alleviating my fears. I slowly lifted my head, and our eyes met. It was at this moment that I saw her for the first time, and as far as first impressions go, it was undeniably terrible.
“Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you,” she assured me with a gentle voice. “You have a beautiful voice. Where did you learn to sing?”
“Nowhere,” I whispered in a voice only I could hear. “I am but a sullied. I have no right to learn, and I shouldn’t try to.”
“Do not worry. There is nothing to forgive,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “You have a lovely voice. I can teach you to perfect it.”
“I can’t, my lady. I am a sullied.”
“Your voice holds a beauty that should not be restrained.”
“They will kill me, my lady. If they find out, they will. Forgive me, but you do not seem to know the world that well.” I instantly regretted my words. If she took any offence in my tone, she did not show.
She stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. “I understand the world. I know your fears, and I give you my word that your secret will remain safe with me. Singing, you see, is not solely for entertaining others. It is a personal passion that brings you joy.”
She took my hand. “ I know of your birth. I know the dangers teaching you would bring, but I am willing to risk that.”
I pulled my hand away from her grasp and took a step back. “Then why do you offer such a thing so easily? I am a stranger, and a sullied one at that. Why are you so willing to teach someone like me?”
She mused for a moment before answering my question. “There was a time when I, too, feared pursuing this passion. Many do not know that I was adopted.”
She smiled with mild amusement. "Having heirs out of caste is not uncommon, as long as they come from mothers of respectable castes. What was uncommon was adopting the daughter of a prostitute. My father kept the secret hidden, preventing it from spreading. "
She paused, as if contemplating, but only for a moment. "His wife was displeased but still agreed to his plan, as she couldn’t bear him any children. My father was proud of me, but his wife only saw the lowly blood of my mother. She said harsh words, all because she was jealous of a woman I do not even know. However, I did not let her words deter me. I persevered through her abuse and pursued my dreams."
“That was v-very honest of you,”
“Would you betray my secret?”
“I won’t. But how can you teach me? Someone will eventually find out.”
“Do not fear, my friend. I have my ways.”
She took a seat at a nearby table and pulled out a paper from her satchel to write a writ of employment.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Indrasena,” I said.
“With this, you can leave your home without trouble. You are my personal servant for the next six months. If you are as talented as I assume, you will grasp what I teach you quickly.”
I hesitated for a moment before taking the writ. It felt strange to me. She knew it meant risking her own life, but she did not care. She was different. For that reason alone, she was a shining jewel in a sea of faces that pretended but could never be radiant.
“See? I saw it in your eyes that you wanted more in life.”
She was right. I wanted more in life, and without her, I never would have desired beyond what life had offered. Music became my everything. It made me see the beauty of the world and evoked within me a longing to capture it in words. But whenever I tried to do just that, the beauty slipped away from my fingers like sand, leaving only tiny understandings. I shaped these tiny understandings into songs that either earned groans from the dissatisfied audience or moved kinder souls to tears.
“My lady, I do not know your name.”
“Samira,” she said with her sweeter than honey voice as her dark tresses swayed in the wind. At the time, I did not understand the meaning behind her name. I did not realize that I had been hearing the name of the wind, that was ever elusive.
