Mihai took a seat. The merchant stepped onto the stage to introduce the famed Mantravid storyteller, Nalini, who had arrived on stage as a last-minute addition when the merchant learned of her presence. She was a woman from the south with a willowy figure, smooth dark skin, and twin embers nestled in an almond frame. When her sun gaze fell upon us, it caused men to think about renouncing their sacred vows and women cautious.
"Why is everyone so beautiful here?" I asked.
"Didn't your master tell you anything?" Mihai asked, doubt in his eyes "Has your master not taught you about the ways of the world? It's often expected that women performers be beautiful. I've heard that some surgeons can help achieve that, for the right price, of course."
"Does that mean her beauty isn't natural?" I asked.
"Why does that matter? These women already have a hard time, let's not judge them for trying to survive."
"I am not judging: I am learning."
"Learning!" he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Where do you come from?"
I paused to gather my thoughts. "A place where all these lights," I gestured at the opulence around us, "could never reach."
"Ah, you are from the tribal region. That's an answer, I can accept."
"Shut up, Mihai." Ismene hushed in a quiet tone
The storyteller waited until pin-drop silence filled the air. Then she built up anticipation by standing still as a river stone.
She broke the stillness by producing a flute seemingly out of nowhere, and the audience oohed and aahed. Then she brought the flute to her lips and the melody wafted through the air.
Her music was pleasing to the ear, like the melody of a magpie. Each note struck our hearts precisely, filling us with a sense of longing for a bygone era, a forgotten age, a time of naivety.
"Sahebs and Sahebas. My name is nalini, your humble storyteller." She said pacing from left to the right side of the stage. "You want to hear a story?" She asked expecting no answers.
"I will give it you!" She exclaimed. "I will tell you tale of three men who succumbed to human flaws. I will give you the tale of their guide who resisted temptation. I'll tell you all of it. All that I know,"
She stopped pacing and walked to the edge of the stage.
"That is what you want, isn't it?" She wasn't asking anymore. Her voice had ensnared us into her web and made us believe that the story was the most important thing at the moment.
"Listen and Listen well, for we shall journey back thousands of years before our time, to an age of moral degradation when righteousness began to decline and moral values started to diminish."
Her assistant took two rectangular blocks from the trolley and placed them parallel to each other at the each end of the stage. She turned around, and the two blocks transformed into two equal-sized monoliths, so big that they were only a few inches away from touching the ceiling. Her assistant tossed a block to her, and the storyteller caught it and hurled it between the monoliths. The block increased in size and floated in the air.
Each side had markings on them that made the block stick to each other. Even if the block changes its shape, the markings stay the same, ensuring it remains in place.
Back then, I did not know the fundamentals of magic arts and considered them otherworldly. However, it isn't complicated; what's truly complicated is to pull off such a remarkable performance without losing focus.
"At that time, there existed a man called Balaveera." The block floating in the air morphed into a board depicting the figure of a tall, muscular man with a glorious beard and long hair.
His body had a rough dark shade that made him more visible than plain surface of the wood.
"This is amazing." I whispered quietly.
"Indeed it is. These magic arts are otherworldly, aren't they?" Ismene replied in a hushed tone.
"He was one of the few who were allowed into the garden of Jalesvara, which had been abandoned since of the end of Age of Righteousness when the gods had decided to leave humanity to their own devices."
"He was a man of untarnished honor, unaffected by the sins of the moths that sought to entice him with false promises."
The board depicted Balveera surrounded by moth-like creatures resembling humans, whispering into his ears. Yet, these creatures, no larger than a finger nail, had nothing on the devotee.
"But they do not know that Balaveera was a rose above the thorns; their lies and promises are fleeting mists, never reaching his soul without being cleansed by truth. He is a man who was considered to be incorruptible, but every human being has a defining moment that tests their devotion. For Balaveera, it came in the form of three men from three walks of life: a man who sings song and writes poetry, a man who kills and desires to be an animal, and a man who heals lost in his way. All three wielded the knife over Balaveera's family to persuasde."
The three were depicted as handsome, conspicuously lacking cruelty—an artistic choice uncommon in stories involving deplorable men, like myself, of course
"Balveera prayed silently to the god, and got instructed by him to fully cooperate. Doubt crept into his mind, but as a man of faith, he did what his god asked of him and led them to a secret door to the divine gardens and spoke certain words that won't be uttered here in this moment, for they are not meant for the ears of men living in the age of decay."
The four stood in front of a gate sitting in the middle of a dense grouping of trees. It was plane, devoid of mystic allure.
"Balveera uttered the words and the doors heeded to his command."
All elements on the board remained unchanged, with the exception of the door. Ajar, it unveiled a path to a forest untouched by corrupt mortal hands.
****
The three men followed the guide to attain the unattainable. As they traversed through the jungle, Balveera remembered the words of Jalesvara: "To these men, you are not a an obstacle, you are a river that guides them to their destiny, the harbinger of their true form. Guide them, my child and you'll be blessed."
The guide followed his god's instructions and lead them through the forest and after walking for six hours, they decided to rest. The day was clear, and the wind was warm and refreshing. The four of them gathered under a mango tree and ate a meagre lunch before setting off. They followed the track of cloud reaching trees and were welcomed by the darkness. To find the light, the guide sang a poem to call his own guides in the lightless road.
Oh, guides of souls, Oh, guides of souls,
So mystic so rare,
Oh, guides of dead, guides of those yet no more,
Come forth to help the living,
Come forth to help your friend, with no delay,
Listen to your friend and guide his way.
They came one by one, with a golden glow, drawn to the guide like stars with wings. They flashed and flickered as they guided the guide trapped in dark.
"What are they?" The poet, one of the three men, asked. The guide eyed with solemn gaze and answered with words braided with nectar. "They are the guides of dead. They lead the mortal creatures that lived here to stairway of heaven and occasionally guide the lost ones towards the light."
"Fascinating! Tell me more."
"That is all I know."
"I've heard rumors," the healer said, "that they can heal wounds. Can we take them away from here and breed them in captivity?"
The guide shook his head. "No, they are not capable of such things."
"How can we be certain you're not lying?" the warrior asked. "You might be withholding information for all we know."
"I am telling the truth." He said. "I am a man of my word, even if that word is given in great distress by men that sully themselves by threatening to harm women and children."
The warrior drew his sword and pointed it at the guide's throat.
The poet stepped between the warrior and the guide to de-escalate the situation. "Stop it! This is not what we discussed. Calm down and let the guide go."
The warrior stepped back, sheathed his sword. He brushed aside the strands of his golden hair, and smiled wickedly
"Sure, I'll leave him alone," he said. "But remember, guide, if you see me again with those judgmental eyes and show that holier than thou attitude, remember that I will slice your neck and do terrible things to your family. Because I, too, am a man of my word."
The audience gasped at that and called him many terrible things. If only they saw the reflection of themselves in that man.
The poet began to hum softly as they walked along. He hummed a love song that is as old as the Age of Virtue.
O my love, come to me, come with time, O distant light,
O blessed one, O beautiful one,
Within my heart lie many battles,
Tears fall without your solace,
In my life, a loved one is absent.
In my dreams, the sea is swelling,
Tears have flowed and flowed,
In my life, there is no one.
If I don't see them, dreams fade away;
if they fade away, breath leaves me too.
O my love, come to me, come with time, O distant light,
O blessed one, O beautiful one,
Within my heart lie many battles,
Tears fall without your solace,
In my life, a loved one is absent.
In my dreams, the sea is swelling,
Tears have flowed and flowed,
In my life, there is no one.
If I don't see them, dreams fade away;
if they fade away, breath leaves me too.
When no one complained, the poet thought it appropriate to sing another one, so he came up with one on the spot.
Upon the road, the flies on flight,
Beneath the canopy, we do tread,
Hard the road, weary our feet,
Roads were lone, alone we're not.
Fruit and water, wine and cheese
We have tasted! We have tasted!
Trees and fireflies in the dark,
Followed them! We followed them!
What may pass in unseen dark,
all is lost, all is lost,
Fireflies may light our path,
but all that rages lost in dark.
Still we hope and lay await,
a red reindeer may pass our away,
a golden deer may shine our way,
one can truly hope.
The song ended as they heard the sound of water and saw the distant red of dawn. "And to the light! And to the light, off we go," the poet sang. The guide bid farewell to the fireflies and led the four of them to the pond in quiet repose.
"The three of you threatened my life. You came together and promised malice for a favor. Yet no words are spoken here, you act like strangers. Why?"
"Because we are strangers guided by a common friend who gave us all we need to know about the wish-fulfilling deity," the warrior answered.
"Who is this man, and what do you wish for?"
"If you let your mouth run again, you'll taste iron."
The guide chose not to press further.
The four of them sat by the crackling flame, sheltered under the dappled shade of a jackfruit tree, resembling a perforated pot spilling milk as the stars twinkled in dismay watching the blessed unworthy.
Four of them curled up in their cloaks and blankets, getting welcomed by the world of dreams.
The guide dreamed of his family; the warrior, of the man who held his woman's heart; the poet, of the one who had taken away his voice; and the healer, of a day to touch the sun and remain unburnt.
The following morning came with haze and chill. Their blankets and cloaks did them no favors in cold's wild embrace. They reluctantly got up and after having breakfast with their packs on their shoulders they began their journey. They walked along the pond to the pathway at the other side of the pond.
Their once pleasant journey took a swift turn for the worse as they navigated through a labyrinth of constant twists and turns, wading through muck-laden swamps. The roads, like rolling hills, undulated in a relentless pattern of ups and downs, imparting an air of curses with their faces marked by a patchwork of holes and filth. Each step became a struggle, an arduous dance with the unforgiving terrain, as if nature itself conspired against their progress.
The poet, impatient and talkative of all struck a conversation with the healer, a man of no appreciation for arts.
"Healer! We did not introduce ourselves properly. I will go first, let me introduce myself. My name is.."
"Your name is poet. That is what you are. And I am the healer."
"You are not much a friendly guy."
"Listen, poet, I do not have patience for your buffoonery. There are no maidens to impress, so hold your tongue lest you desire to be parted from it."
"I have been parted from my soul for a long time. If all it takes is a tongue, I would gladly give it. So what would you give, healer? What is the price you are willing to pay."
"Why do you desire my answer so much?"
"I want to know what makes a man who gives life threaten to take it away."
The healer did not answer.
After a few hours of pleasant walking through the unforgiving heat, they reached a white bridge. Black crows, carrying red apples, flew around, and the guide stopped in his tracks. He cleared his throat and recited a short poem
Desire, fouls the true love's name,
Strong as earthly grip, it came,
Nobility driven from body and soul,
Pure hearts consumed by a carrion's role.
The three of them gave the guide perplexed gazes, and in the warrior's case, a perplexed glare. The guide cast his over the four of them.
"You still have the chance to turn back. The desires you pursue won't bring you the happiness you so desperately seek. Letting them go and finding gratitude and forgiveness within yourself might be the path to true contentment."
The warrior shook his head in dismay. "Oh, I am growing tired of your prattling, Balveera!"
"Guide, we made up our mind and you do as you promised." The healer said
The guide let out a tired sigh. "Eat those apples with me."
"Why do we have to eat apples?" The guide did not have an answer; his lord had whispered it to him, and he had followed.
The crows served each of them an apple, their beady eyes capturing their faces in a wicked light. None but the warrior noticed this, but he didn't care about it much as it faded away like an image from an old dream.
They crossed the bridge and walked along a dirt path, sensing vague shapes shifting from here to there among the trees. The guide urged them to ignore them and focus on the path ahead.
After hours of walking, night arrived, bringing with it an icy chill that sought to breach their garments and annihilate its antithesis and usher them into a dreamless slumber.
The guide lit a fire to bat away that searching hand that refuses to adjourn its cold invasion.
"The road to your prize is getting nearer and nearer. I know you crave the gifts, but listen to this word of advice. I am skeptical about the nymph's ability to fulfill your wish. I do not believe your happiness can be obtained externally."
"I thought I was clear about you not running your damn mouth."
"If you choose not to heed my words, then so be it, but I will not remain silent. I will persist in my efforts to prevent you people from abandoning wisdom in favor of vice."
"Why do you believe that it won't bring us happiness?" The poet asked, curious.
"I am a simple man, and to me, no amount of gold has ever bought me anything that I did not genuinely need," he began, his tone contemplative. "True happiness, you see, emerges from within, rooted in our thoughts, actions, and relationships."
"Pious horseshit," the Warrior muttered under his breath. The healer was distracted, staring at the shapes moving among the trees.
"Guide, what are those shapes? You did not answer before." The guide followed the healer's gaze. Four shapes moved about in the shadows.
"I do not have the slightest idea. I advise you not to engage with any of them. In these forests, there are many temptations that protect the forest and its treasures through entrapment."
"You don't know? I thought you knew everything about this place," the poet said.
"I only know what I know. I never sought the prize like you people, so I never came to this part of the forest but I know it exists," the guide replied.
"How do you even know about the entrance?" the healer asked.
"When my mother fell ill, the guidance of a deity led me to this place. The herbs I found here saved her," the guide said and then turned to face the healer. "If you let go of your wish, I can convince the forest spirits to allow you to take some of the medicinal herbs. Isn't that what healers want? To save people," he suggested.
The healer's sudden burst of laughter shattered the solemnity of the moment. He laughed so hard that tears streamed down his face. The three men exchanged bewildered glances, uncertain how to react. Eventually, the healer's laughter subsided, and he regained his composure.
"I am sorry," he said. "I just couldn't help but laugh at this stupidity," he uttered with a malicious grin.
"You thought too low of me, guide. My goals transcend your comprehension," He said shaking his head
"You can't persuade us with your religious nonsense. I spit on your gods and this bhakti nonsense so shut up and do your job," he declared, his tone harsh and stubborn.
This elicited a strong reaction from the audience, who called for divine judgment on the healer and the warrior.
As night settled and heads found their pillows, the creatures in the trees approached the camp and placed their dark-as-coal hands on each of the four. As they drowned in sleep they ushered into the depths of their darkest desires and wishes.
In his dream, the healer fancied himself a puppeteer. The poet imagined himself as a man drowning in words, waving his hand like a charlatan, pretending to be a mantravid, bending the words to his will as they morphed into figure of a maiden who leapt onto him with desire. The warrior dreamt of a young lass no older than sixteen. He was bloody and savage, and she was pure and fair, and kissed him with passionate desire. The guide dreamt of nothing, for all he needed was within his grasp.
No words about their dreams were exchanged in the morning. The four of them had a quiet breakfast and exchanged a few words about the weather before resuming their journey.
They followed a path that led through thick woods and narrow trails, coated by fallen leaves. Eventually, at midday, they emerged from the dense forest into a small clearing where lied a small hut.
Upon seeing it, the guide took a step forward and declared: "This is your destination."
The three exchanged skeptical glances. "Is this the place?" the poet asked, and the guide nodded. "Yes, this is your destination. Who will take the first step?"
The poet took it, and soon after a voice that earned the envy of the nightingale beckoned the others one by one inside. The guide waited for hours. He was on the verge of turning to leave, when the same voice called to him.
A woman of fair coloring stepped out of the hut. The wind gently caressed her red hair, and the sun rubbed its sleepy eyes, allowing its golden threads to accentuate the red strands of destiny that ran like veins of blood. To the guide, it was as though her hair could set everything ablaze and in lieu of pain gives a bliss never felt before.
"I have never seen a man such as you before. In every thread woven by kalachakra, you remain unchanged. How can this be possible? How can a man be so incapable of follies?"
"I am but a simple man and I do not have answers to your questions."
"You may have an answer to these two questions: Why have you never sought me out? And why are you content with so little?"
"The little you see is my entire world, and I am content with it."
The woman was satisfied with his answer. "Do you wish to know what happen to those men?"
"They got what they came for." she said, nodding to herself. "What do they got? Aren't you curious to see?"
"I have seen enough for one life."
"Not yet, my conduit; you have to see this,"
She snapped her fingers, and the depictions of three individuals in a new life, in a new world, imprinted on his memory. The poet woke up in a world where the inspiration of his poetic quill evaded death, and in joyous inebriation, he confessed to her about her fate and his role in averting it. The maiden was not happy. She questioned her existence and cried about how her unnatural existence sullied the world made pure by God. She took the hand of death, and soon the poet followed her trail.
The healer, who aspired to wield control over life to create a perfect utopia, found himself shackled by mortality. All his power as a god controlling all life did not subdue the fear of losing it.
So, he burned everything he built and took his own life.
The guilt-ridden warrior, burdened by his violent breach, did not revel in the fact that the maiden did not kick or wail, but instead sighed and squealed with joy. A complete reversal of what occurred in his previous life.
She gave birth to their son and he witnessed the striking resemblance between the child and himself. He, frenzied by madness, took the life of the boy and hanged himself from a tree.
"These men have been given what they wanted, and yet there is no gratification. They sought things beyond their means, and their own follies burned them more than their ambition."
"If you would allow me to inquire, my lady, who exactly are you? I understand you are like an apsara, yet your abilities resemble those of a deity. Could it be that you are concealing your true identity as a god?"
The apsara gave him a tender smile. "You harbor curiosity, an admirable trait when channeled for the pursuit of knowledge. However, remember that curiosity frequently exacts a toll. If you're willing to pay, you must sever your familial bonds and take my hand to attain the knowledge."
"I am sorry, my lady."
"May I ask why you reject my offer?"
"What I need is already present. My simple curiosity doesn't mirror my desires. I am merely a devotee. All I need to do is pray and not dissect the miracles of God. Men have no part in the affairs of gods, for we are unworthy."
The apsara nodded in satisfaction and called the Vishalagaruda, a giant vulture who carried him out of the forest and reunited him with his family
***
The audience applauded as the storyteller joined her hands and thanked them for their appreciation. Ismene and her brother had a lot to say about the story. Samira was silent, and Mihai was in love and I wondered who the apsara wanted to be the recipient of her message.
