cacophonix
04-29-2015, 01:04 PM
Busy market
Scorching
Sand of the desert
It was busy in the bazaar. Vendors clamored to show you the best radishes and the freshest cut of mutton. Each shouted over the other’s voice. Each had a small space covered with an improvised awning – cloth stretched over a bamboo frame – this was their “shop”. The awnings were typically too big for the narrow street, to where they would touch each other from the two sides of the street and created a continuous canopy. Buyers had to stoop forwards to walk, but they were not complaining – anything to get away from the desert sun. In the afternoon heat, the buyers dragged their feet and swayed from one vendor to another, bargaining, heckling, comparing, and avoiding meat and vegetables thrust in their faces. Children, with bruises from playing on the rough sand, jumped around and swatted at flies who were trying to sit on their wounds, and begged their parents for sweetmeats. Everyone was behaving just the way they were supposed to. Like an oiled machine. Chaos had found its rhythm.
The narrow street broadened eventually, and ended in a central courtyard, with 4 more streets leading out of it. Once a place for spirituality and intellect, this meeting place was now claimed by beggars. You could take two of the other streets to get to the castle, and most rich people took those, because all of them had lands near the castle. So the beggars divided themselves into two groups and sat near the entrance to the two streets, praising the Gods lyrically (when they got alms) and cursing loudly (when they did not).
I am not rich
Remorseful
I’m not a beggar
I don’t live among the rich people. Then again, I am not a beggar. So I take one of the other two streets to get to my home. As had happened in the last few days, I was remorseful. The heavens had created a small window of opportunity that could have ensured financial security for the next few years at least, and a house only 5000 merlonps from the castle, which, you would readily agree, is close enough. At the last moment, however, I had made a complete mess of it. The remorse was weighing heavily on my mind.
In my disturbed state, I failed to see one beggar sitting along the street. I would not have noticed him at all but for his singing. Just as I was passing by he started to hum. Then, he picked up his ekantri, the one-stringed instrument, and started playing it. He was singing imperfectly, missing notes, fudging his way through the words. It was a very sad tune, composed in the old tongue, which I had no knowledge of (you had to live closer to the castle to be able to learn it).
It was, however, a tune that made me stop and listen. For a moment, the harsh sun of remorse was covered with a cloud. One that had no silver linings. We desert dwellers don’t wait for the sun to peep through the clouds. We just enjoy the shade. I was waiting for the cloud to get darker and darker and for it to rain. But then the beggar saw me listening to him. He stopped humming and instead, started playing a happy tune, promising riches and happiness (and shade) if I parted with a few alms. It was a perfectly happy song. And yet, I could feel the harsh rays of the sun back on me. The gloom of brightness was back.
I stopped him from playing. Please, please, please play the other tune, I said, handing out whatever change I could find. The beggar, utterly startled, and definitely scared, started singing the old tune. It was the same song, but definitely the words were different – maybe it was a different stanza. And suddenly, my brother was talking to me. The last time I saw him alive, we fought over something, I don’t even remember what. Being irritated, I had cursed him and asked him to leave. He’d been killed on the way to his house, falling from his camel and hitting his head on the rock. Everyday, my unfortunate last words to my brother haunted me. I had no chance to make up, never will, I thought. But today he was telling me it was all right, he knew I loved him, knew I never meant any of those words. Uncontrolled tears of gratitude rolled down my eyes as I collapsed on the scorching sand below, clutching my hands in prayer.
Beggar stopped, amused, and stared at the crying man in front of him. As soon as the music stopped, reality came back to me. But the conversation stuck with me. I was happier. I was relieved. My brother had spoken. I stood up, wiped my tears, dusted the sand off my clothes. Then, I locked my fingers in his leprous fingers, and part dragged, part coaxed him to my house. MY wife tells me there was a big din in the house at the sight of me walking home with a beggar-in-hand, but I have no recollection of it. What I remember is the silence – that ensued after I urged Beggar to play again. And I remember the smiles outlined by tears on everyone’s faces. I know not of what grief they remembered then – but I knew it was real pain, agony, worry and guilt being washed away with those tears.
****
Part 2
*****
Business of fun
Difficult
Where is my space?
Mirishka was drunk. He wasn’t the official court jester today. He was himself – well, he wanted to, at least. Just the other day, he had heard the saint tell him about the future where you could be you. What was that like, he imagined and tried doing it. He created, as he sat listening to the other drunks around him shout and sing and cry, two mental places. In one he put everything related to his life as the official jester. In the other, anything that was left over.
He was disappointed with the result. His friends asked him for more jokes. His drinks were bought with official jester money. He had no moves, no spaces, no places, no people, not even funerals, that would define him. That would not expect him to make fun of someone or, better (for the audience), to make a fool of himself. Why, even his friends once told him they would always want to be in his company (lest he bash them behind their back?). But did they get any sense of warmth, any sense of trust from / toward them?
“Given enough time, I can spoil every relationship”, he said out loud.
With enough madira in his system, self-pity was slowly but surely merging with self-deprecation. Why, even “official jester” was an oxymoron, he decided. Oxymoron for the moron, he punned. And then he felt like he was on-the-job all the time. I want a break, I need a break, I really need a break.
Someone put their arm around him. “Don’t be sad”, he said. “Go meet beggar. He’ll make you happy…. No, but wait, you are the jester….”
******
Part 3
******
The magic of magic
spreads
far and wide
In my courtyard is a gathering of people. They sit, talking to each other in hushed tones. The dull, drawn out notes from the ekantri mingled with the sharp and pungent notes from the burning incense stick – creating harmony and / or turmoil in your senses. I sit under the shade, it is slightly cooler. Others sit in the sunlight, and pine for some shade.
But that only a minor distraction, for their ears are trained on the man on the pedestal. It is Beggar, and he speaks in a soft voice, and has none of the powers of effective speech. And yet they listen to him. For few can keep his prowess to themselves, and my wife is nowhere close to getting there. And so Beggar speaks. And they listen.
The boy who’s turn it is approaches the Beggar. And he starts talking. He speaks of that night, he has in his arms his best friend. He understood that she was there because she felt safe, she felt he was different. And he was, but his body, his desires did not know that. And at some point during the night, the acute pain in his body won the contest. The night was over. And life continued. He married her. But her health suffered and suffered and to the point that she was on her deathbed. And as he held her in her arms, she looked at him, life was slowly seeping out of her. In gasps and wheezes, she asked him for the last favour, “Please give me my friend back”.
They were back to that night, and he was holding her again, and there was no fear, and for a brief second he could see the spark back in her eyes, just before she closed them forever.
“I killed her.”, he sobbed. “I was supposed to be her friend”, the one safe haven for the doe in a world of hunters, and I baited her. Beggar, make me her friend again.”
“God writes the names of the unfortunate on a few grains of rice, and a few cuts of meat”
“Oh, I understand”, boy said with tears of happiness in his eyes.
“That will be all for today”, I said, and signaled Beggar to come into the house.
******
Part 4
******
In the courtyard of the magistrate of the land, a man in chains awaited his destiny. The magistrate, the law-enforcers, the soldiers, the witnesses, and most of all the man-in-chains looked exhausted. They had been at it since dawn, and it was getting closer to dusk. Yet, there was no way to judge one way or the other.
For there was something very fishy about all of this. It had started as a simple charge of robbery. A rich man had been robbed. He said, man-in-chains did it. Man-in-chains said that he had not. Rather, rich-man had handed over the wealth to him on his own. “Why would I do that?”, rich-man asked, “For even the grass in my courtyard does not grow without serving some profitable purpose for me!”
“But he wanted me to kill his wife, magistrate!”, man-in-chains implored.
“Well, did you?” the Magistrate growled
“No sir. For she looked like my wife”
“Well, but did you take his money?”
“No sir, he gave it to me.”
“Why did you give him the money?”
“Because he went into my house and came out. Then I went in, and my wife was dead.”
“So what is the problem?”
“But sir, after he took my money he told me he did not kill her! – so he had no claim on that money!”
“But how did she die?”
“Let’s ask Beggar”
*******
Part 5
*******
In my courtyard was a similar scene. You know about it already. I sit in my spot. I see Beggar with his ekantri. I see official jester. I see the magistrate. I see the others. The air is pensive.
Magistrate walks up to Beggar. He sits down at his feet, a little awkwardly. He is not used to being subservient. “Err… Uhmm.. I wanted to know.. How did rich-man’s wife die?”
And just then the official jester walked up and interrupted them. ‘Why, I was here first. I will ask the first question!”
Now the magistrate, a lower official, suddenly remembered how to be subservient in the presence of a court official and moved to the side.
And then, Beggar spoke.
And the magistrate was satisfied. And the others in the crowd were happy. And the jester looked around. And he saw no unhappiness. And in that brief moment, he could be himself. Where no one needed him to laugh.
And precisely one moment after that, he took out his official sword and cut Beggar’s head off. For a while, Beggar’s body stayed erect and his head swayed on the floor.
And henceforth, official jester was official again. There was unhappiness again. And so, there was hope. And there was courage. And there was fight. And there were jesters.
Scorching
Sand of the desert
It was busy in the bazaar. Vendors clamored to show you the best radishes and the freshest cut of mutton. Each shouted over the other’s voice. Each had a small space covered with an improvised awning – cloth stretched over a bamboo frame – this was their “shop”. The awnings were typically too big for the narrow street, to where they would touch each other from the two sides of the street and created a continuous canopy. Buyers had to stoop forwards to walk, but they were not complaining – anything to get away from the desert sun. In the afternoon heat, the buyers dragged their feet and swayed from one vendor to another, bargaining, heckling, comparing, and avoiding meat and vegetables thrust in their faces. Children, with bruises from playing on the rough sand, jumped around and swatted at flies who were trying to sit on their wounds, and begged their parents for sweetmeats. Everyone was behaving just the way they were supposed to. Like an oiled machine. Chaos had found its rhythm.
The narrow street broadened eventually, and ended in a central courtyard, with 4 more streets leading out of it. Once a place for spirituality and intellect, this meeting place was now claimed by beggars. You could take two of the other streets to get to the castle, and most rich people took those, because all of them had lands near the castle. So the beggars divided themselves into two groups and sat near the entrance to the two streets, praising the Gods lyrically (when they got alms) and cursing loudly (when they did not).
I am not rich
Remorseful
I’m not a beggar
I don’t live among the rich people. Then again, I am not a beggar. So I take one of the other two streets to get to my home. As had happened in the last few days, I was remorseful. The heavens had created a small window of opportunity that could have ensured financial security for the next few years at least, and a house only 5000 merlonps from the castle, which, you would readily agree, is close enough. At the last moment, however, I had made a complete mess of it. The remorse was weighing heavily on my mind.
In my disturbed state, I failed to see one beggar sitting along the street. I would not have noticed him at all but for his singing. Just as I was passing by he started to hum. Then, he picked up his ekantri, the one-stringed instrument, and started playing it. He was singing imperfectly, missing notes, fudging his way through the words. It was a very sad tune, composed in the old tongue, which I had no knowledge of (you had to live closer to the castle to be able to learn it).
It was, however, a tune that made me stop and listen. For a moment, the harsh sun of remorse was covered with a cloud. One that had no silver linings. We desert dwellers don’t wait for the sun to peep through the clouds. We just enjoy the shade. I was waiting for the cloud to get darker and darker and for it to rain. But then the beggar saw me listening to him. He stopped humming and instead, started playing a happy tune, promising riches and happiness (and shade) if I parted with a few alms. It was a perfectly happy song. And yet, I could feel the harsh rays of the sun back on me. The gloom of brightness was back.
I stopped him from playing. Please, please, please play the other tune, I said, handing out whatever change I could find. The beggar, utterly startled, and definitely scared, started singing the old tune. It was the same song, but definitely the words were different – maybe it was a different stanza. And suddenly, my brother was talking to me. The last time I saw him alive, we fought over something, I don’t even remember what. Being irritated, I had cursed him and asked him to leave. He’d been killed on the way to his house, falling from his camel and hitting his head on the rock. Everyday, my unfortunate last words to my brother haunted me. I had no chance to make up, never will, I thought. But today he was telling me it was all right, he knew I loved him, knew I never meant any of those words. Uncontrolled tears of gratitude rolled down my eyes as I collapsed on the scorching sand below, clutching my hands in prayer.
Beggar stopped, amused, and stared at the crying man in front of him. As soon as the music stopped, reality came back to me. But the conversation stuck with me. I was happier. I was relieved. My brother had spoken. I stood up, wiped my tears, dusted the sand off my clothes. Then, I locked my fingers in his leprous fingers, and part dragged, part coaxed him to my house. MY wife tells me there was a big din in the house at the sight of me walking home with a beggar-in-hand, but I have no recollection of it. What I remember is the silence – that ensued after I urged Beggar to play again. And I remember the smiles outlined by tears on everyone’s faces. I know not of what grief they remembered then – but I knew it was real pain, agony, worry and guilt being washed away with those tears.
****
Part 2
*****
Business of fun
Difficult
Where is my space?
Mirishka was drunk. He wasn’t the official court jester today. He was himself – well, he wanted to, at least. Just the other day, he had heard the saint tell him about the future where you could be you. What was that like, he imagined and tried doing it. He created, as he sat listening to the other drunks around him shout and sing and cry, two mental places. In one he put everything related to his life as the official jester. In the other, anything that was left over.
He was disappointed with the result. His friends asked him for more jokes. His drinks were bought with official jester money. He had no moves, no spaces, no places, no people, not even funerals, that would define him. That would not expect him to make fun of someone or, better (for the audience), to make a fool of himself. Why, even his friends once told him they would always want to be in his company (lest he bash them behind their back?). But did they get any sense of warmth, any sense of trust from / toward them?
“Given enough time, I can spoil every relationship”, he said out loud.
With enough madira in his system, self-pity was slowly but surely merging with self-deprecation. Why, even “official jester” was an oxymoron, he decided. Oxymoron for the moron, he punned. And then he felt like he was on-the-job all the time. I want a break, I need a break, I really need a break.
Someone put their arm around him. “Don’t be sad”, he said. “Go meet beggar. He’ll make you happy…. No, but wait, you are the jester….”
******
Part 3
******
The magic of magic
spreads
far and wide
In my courtyard is a gathering of people. They sit, talking to each other in hushed tones. The dull, drawn out notes from the ekantri mingled with the sharp and pungent notes from the burning incense stick – creating harmony and / or turmoil in your senses. I sit under the shade, it is slightly cooler. Others sit in the sunlight, and pine for some shade.
But that only a minor distraction, for their ears are trained on the man on the pedestal. It is Beggar, and he speaks in a soft voice, and has none of the powers of effective speech. And yet they listen to him. For few can keep his prowess to themselves, and my wife is nowhere close to getting there. And so Beggar speaks. And they listen.
The boy who’s turn it is approaches the Beggar. And he starts talking. He speaks of that night, he has in his arms his best friend. He understood that she was there because she felt safe, she felt he was different. And he was, but his body, his desires did not know that. And at some point during the night, the acute pain in his body won the contest. The night was over. And life continued. He married her. But her health suffered and suffered and to the point that she was on her deathbed. And as he held her in her arms, she looked at him, life was slowly seeping out of her. In gasps and wheezes, she asked him for the last favour, “Please give me my friend back”.
They were back to that night, and he was holding her again, and there was no fear, and for a brief second he could see the spark back in her eyes, just before she closed them forever.
“I killed her.”, he sobbed. “I was supposed to be her friend”, the one safe haven for the doe in a world of hunters, and I baited her. Beggar, make me her friend again.”
“God writes the names of the unfortunate on a few grains of rice, and a few cuts of meat”
“Oh, I understand”, boy said with tears of happiness in his eyes.
“That will be all for today”, I said, and signaled Beggar to come into the house.
******
Part 4
******
In the courtyard of the magistrate of the land, a man in chains awaited his destiny. The magistrate, the law-enforcers, the soldiers, the witnesses, and most of all the man-in-chains looked exhausted. They had been at it since dawn, and it was getting closer to dusk. Yet, there was no way to judge one way or the other.
For there was something very fishy about all of this. It had started as a simple charge of robbery. A rich man had been robbed. He said, man-in-chains did it. Man-in-chains said that he had not. Rather, rich-man had handed over the wealth to him on his own. “Why would I do that?”, rich-man asked, “For even the grass in my courtyard does not grow without serving some profitable purpose for me!”
“But he wanted me to kill his wife, magistrate!”, man-in-chains implored.
“Well, did you?” the Magistrate growled
“No sir. For she looked like my wife”
“Well, but did you take his money?”
“No sir, he gave it to me.”
“Why did you give him the money?”
“Because he went into my house and came out. Then I went in, and my wife was dead.”
“So what is the problem?”
“But sir, after he took my money he told me he did not kill her! – so he had no claim on that money!”
“But how did she die?”
“Let’s ask Beggar”
*******
Part 5
*******
In my courtyard was a similar scene. You know about it already. I sit in my spot. I see Beggar with his ekantri. I see official jester. I see the magistrate. I see the others. The air is pensive.
Magistrate walks up to Beggar. He sits down at his feet, a little awkwardly. He is not used to being subservient. “Err… Uhmm.. I wanted to know.. How did rich-man’s wife die?”
And just then the official jester walked up and interrupted them. ‘Why, I was here first. I will ask the first question!”
Now the magistrate, a lower official, suddenly remembered how to be subservient in the presence of a court official and moved to the side.
And then, Beggar spoke.
And the magistrate was satisfied. And the others in the crowd were happy. And the jester looked around. And he saw no unhappiness. And in that brief moment, he could be himself. Where no one needed him to laugh.
And precisely one moment after that, he took out his official sword and cut Beggar’s head off. For a while, Beggar’s body stayed erect and his head swayed on the floor.
And henceforth, official jester was official again. There was unhappiness again. And so, there was hope. And there was courage. And there was fight. And there were jesters.