Happy Holi! – another point of view

Even though it was coming to spring, the palace was shrouded in gloom. The large windows that normally allowed the sun to stream in unimpeded, today somehow seemed to be veiled. The central atrium that boasted the land’s only glass domed ceiling, which was normally so bright as to hurt one’s eyes, was cast with shadows. Corridors stretched into the distance like unlit tunnels, anterooms formed caves. The darkness that lay like a thick blanket slowly seeped into limbs, minds and hearts.

The man stood at the balustrade, looking down at the courtyard. He was a big man, standing more than six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. His bare upper body glistened with the unguents applied, defining the muscles in his upper arms and back. His hair was lustrous, and cascaded loosely on his shoulders. He held his arms behind him, his fingers laced lightly together.

His gray-green eyes, normally gloriously bright and mesmerizing, looked into the distance. His high cheekbones cast shadows on the planes of his face, but could not hide the aquiline nose and firm jaw.

He turned, and unclasping his hands, began to walk towards the door. His eyes were still unseeing, as if he were far away, or deep inside himself.

What went wrong, he asked himself, for the thousandth time. What did we do wrong? How did things come to this pass?

Memories of that momentous day eleven years ago flooded his mind. He may have been lord of all the land, but that did not stop him from pacing the corridor like any plebian prospective father. The screams of his wife tore at him, rendering him all the more conscious that the man who had the power of life and death over any being that moved in his kingdom, could do little to assuage the pain of the woman he loved most in all the world. He paced faster, and the palace staff took care to veer widely around him, in performing their tasks. And then, the miracle. The midwife coming out, wreathed in smiles, her sweaty face glowing with pleasure. And placing in his arms, a piece of his heart.

What a lovely baby Prahalad was! Black hair wisped around his head. His eyes were scrunched shut, and his little red face was mottled. His father looked down upon him, realizing that not all his conquests of the three worlds, not all the subservience of his vassals, be they human or deva, not all the power that he wielded, had any real meaning any more. His life was here, in his arms, in this plump, wrinkled, vulnerable creature, and nothing else really mattered any more…

His firm mouth twitched in an involuntary smile, and his face softened. He turned the corner and walked down the stairs to his study. He had a meeting with his ministers at 11 o’clock, and he was already running late. He took the stairs two at a time.

The meeting was a disaster. There was no other word for it. That the devas were amassing in the south, planning another incursion, he expected and shrugged off. His generals would handle this new pinprick with ease. That his vassal, Bratikasura, was caught embezzling, was a minor matter. He had ordered his secretary of state to arrange for a battalion to march on Bratikasura’s castle, and take hostage his chief wife and eldest son, and escort them to that hellhole, the country of Pataal, which was rife with mayhem and disease. That Brihaspati, that accursed deva-guru, had approached Lord Shiva with another proposal to destroy him, was worrying, but not overly so. He had faith in his Lord, and knew that he was protected from both man and deva. The new proposal would be an irritant however, disrupting his kingdom, hurting his people, orphaning many and widowing others. He hated that! Why could they not allow his people and him to live in peace? He had so many plans – he wanted to complete the Narmada dam, which would provide water and livelihoods for more than ten thousand people, and had yet to finalise the plans for the Jamila Gardens, which would be the finest in all creation. But, if he had to constantly worry about protecting his kingdom and people, how was he to make any progress?

But this was not which made the meeting a disaster. It was Prahalad again. The king sat alone, after his ministers had left, relieved to escape from his glowering presence. He smote his forehead, in frustration and anger. What is with that boy! Why could he not be like Kharicha, his Chief Minister’s son? So well mannered and respectful. Excelling in all his studies, and now the youngest in all the land to obtain the Sacred Thread for mastery of the Dark Arts. Kharicha was scarcely older than Prahalad. And here was this boy, who had everything and more handed to him on a golden platter, destroying his life.

The bile rose in his throat. It is all that mendicant’s fault, he swore, the heat of his breath nearly singeing the air. That unclean, emaciated kafir with his matted locks and tanpura. He should have never permitted that bastard to come near his family. But then, everyone said that his stories were so touching and funny and real. And that it was a wonder sitting under the Asoka tree in the dusk, listening to the bard weave his tales and infuse life into the abstract. I disliked him on first sight, he thought. I should have listened to my first instinct. But then, his queen made her plea, and he could not refuse her anything, especially as she asked for ever so little.

He stood up, jerkily. I am going to destroy him, he thought. He walked to the door. As he reached it, it opened, and his secretary stood there, bowing.

“Yes, sire?”

“Call the Chief of the Palace Guard,” the king ordered. “Now.”

“Yes, sire. Right away.”

The door closed. He turned back, and walked to his recliner. He lowered himself and laid his head back on the velvet cushions. He stared up at the dark rosewood beams crossing the ceiling.

What a sweet child Prahalad was. The king was amazed and delighted, when the little child first opened his eyes, to see his own eyes looking at him. His throat had closed, and it was all he could do to hold back even the hint of a tear. What a spectacle that would have been, for a king to cry like a mere woman! And then, when the baby smiled, he was so happy that he had ordered the distribution of silk saris to all the matrons, and imported cotton dhotis to all the men of his kingdom, in his son’s name. Oh, the nation had celebrated that day!

I remember his first step, he thought. It was when his mother and I kept him down on the carpet to show him the tiger cub. And what a shock we got when he rose and started walking towards this new curiosity! The queen almost fainted in fright, he thought, a chuckle escaping his throat. And then turned on me, he remembered, scolding me for putting our son in harm’s way. Harm’s way! I am not sure who was the more surprised that day, Prahalad or the cub. And now, Datura, the very sight of whom turns most people into gibbering wrecks, was Prahalad’s favourite pet.

His first word had been “papa”. How that had irritated his queen! I am the one who takes care of him, and feeds him, and wakes up in the middle of the night, and changes him, and then he calls you first! This is just not fair, she had said petulantly, and it had taken a lot to appease her. That was when he had brought back the Airavat ruby that Lord Indra had surrendered to him, he remembered, and how her face had lit up in pleasure and joy!

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in”, he said, sitting up on the recliner. His secretary entered, followed by Colonel Shramik. The colonel stepped into the room, and went down on his knees and touched his head to the floor.

“I return your salutation, Colonel,” the king said, “please rise.” The colonel rose and stood at attention.

“It is about this bard Narada,” began the king. “I need you to…what?”

“Forgive me, sire, but the bard has left the kingdom,” said Colonel Shramik.

“When? When did this happen?”

“Yesterday night, sire. After he was found with the Prince, chanting the name of our accursed Enemy, the Chief Minister ordered him deported at once. He is on his way to the Kanchenjunga border.”

“Hmmm. Well. Actually, I had a much worse fate planned for him, but then…” the king stopped. Better this way actually, he thought. Why create a martyr? “Thank you, colonel. You may leave.”

The colonel bowed again, and walked backwards to the door, where the secretary was holding the door open.

“Leave me alone, please,” the king instructed his secretary. “I do not want to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sire.” The door closed.

He lay back again. A montage of memories filled his mind. Prahalad running to him on his stubby legs, when he returned from the conquest of Swargalok. And himself picking up the little boy, and clasping him to his chest, knowing that in all creation, there would always be one being who would always look at him with unqualified love. Of Prahalad attending his first day of gurukul, wrinkling his nose at the shrunken heads impaled on spears lining the driveway. How sweet he had looked, in his black loincloth, with pure ash smeared on his chubby arms and pale chest. Of Prahalad practicing his first astra, trying to hit the large mango tree and almost decapitating the gardener! Of Prahalad’s first defeat, to a much older student, no doubt, and his woebegone face and manful attempts at holding back tears. I am not feeling sad for myself, papa, he had said, I am feeling sad that I disappointed you.

A tear rolled down the king’s cheek, unheeded. Those were the days, he thought. When nothing could ever go wrong. What happened? How did life take this terrible turn?

He could still remember the worst day in his life. When his eight year old son came to him and jumped into his lap. “I have learnt something new, papa,” he said, “something no one else in this kingdom knows! It is a new spell!”

The king had swelled in pride. “That’s my boy,” he said, looking around at his ministers and courtiers. “What is this new spell? Can we hear it?”

“Of course,” said the prince, and looked at his father with more love than the king thought existed in the world. He took a deep breath, and spoke.

“Om Namoh Narayanayah!”

The court had gone eerily still. Even the breeze, that till that moment, had gently flapped the wall hangings, died. The king was aghast. His mouth had fallen open in shock.

The prince looked at his father. His proud smile faded. “What is it, papa?” he asked, “Did I say something wrong?”

It had taken a while for the king’s voice to emerge. “It’s okay, my son, don’t worry,” he croaked, his throat dry and scratchy, “Go ahead and play now, and I will speak to you later.” The prince, still looking worried, had scampered away.

That had been a day of bloodletting. Even now, three years later, the king winced when he remembered the effect of his anger. Six ministers had died, their throats torn out; more than a fifty courtiers and harem girls and servants had been fed to the crocodiles, alive. The kingdom had rung with their screams. It was not their fault, he thought to himself; I should not have reacted like that…

Since then, things had only gotten worse. Prahalad, the light of his life, his very reason for existence, was now a devotee of his worst enemy. A devotee! His mouth tasted bitter even saying the word. What did Prahalad see in that simpering god? What hold did Vishnu have over this innocent mind, that he is rejecting his own father? What did he offer, this false god, to his “devotees”? It is I who have given Prahalad everything – his life, his childhood, his comfort, everything! What has Vishnu ever given him? Nothing!

No longer did Prahalad come running to him, and hug him as he had done every evening not so long ago. No longer did his son sit on his lap, and gaze at him as if he were the Creator himself. No longer…

The king rose. I have to do something soon, he thought. The matter was going out of hand. Just this morning, the home secretary had reluctantly informed the meeting that more and more prayer meetings were being held in the name of the imposter. If the prince can do it, why can’t we, was the general feeling. What wretches! Did they have no loyalty? After all he had done for them?

What should I do? How do I lift a hand against my only son, whom I love more than life itself? What can I do?

He walked to the door. I have to resolve this issue before the next full moon day, he thought. The matter has been delayed long enough. He stepped out of his room, and looked left and right, still undecided.

Then, he turned left, and started walking towards the women’s quarters. Let me speak to Holika, he thought. Ever since I was young, she has always guided me. She will know what to do. She will know how to bring our family together again.

King Hiranyakashyap walked confidently towards his elder sister’s room…

Venkatraman Sheshashayee
15 March 2006.