A soft breeze filled with the sweet scent of an unknown forest flower caresses the reddish black long flowing curly hair of the princess of the plains. The big doe like eyes take in the beauty of sunrise over the pristine forests from the plains in the foothills of the mighty Barmuras. The light fog lifts like a veil slowly to uncover the beauty of the forests. The sound of the water of the fast flowing hilly river which demarcates the boundary of the king’s kingdom seems to form an accompaniment to the beautiful morning rag and the sitar of Sreelekha. Wearing a simple green colored sari, Sreelekha is as beautiful as a goddess. Her bright smooth skin glows in the first rays of the morning sun like an amber. Her petite figurine is the envy of any artist’s creation. The revered fearless merciful rajah Bhim Sen would always take her along wherever he went.
He would always look at her mango like beautiful face and say “My darling daughter you are my lucky charm. Tell me what you want”. She would say
“I want nothing father, you have given me everything. Just give me your blessings.” He would laugh, take her in his arms and say “That, my little angel, you have always”.
Everyone would say that Sreelekha was the reincarnation of her mother who passed away while giving birth to her. Bhim Sen had never married again as his love for Sreelekha’s mother was too great. He could never love any other woman like that. When Bhim Sen’s mother asked him to remarry, he disagreed. “How do we know that Sreelekha’s step mother would love her as if she was her own daughter? I do not want to leave that to chance. So for her sake, I am never going to marry again”. He was determined to give Sreelekha all the love, care, attention and happiness in the world so that she would never feel the absence of her mother.
Sreelekha had grown up to be a renowned painter. Her voice was so sweet that when she sang the devotional songs, tears would come in the eyes of anybody who would listen. She was also a very pious devotee of Lord Shiva. She would do puja three times everyday. When she would sew clothes for her father and cook food, the palace servants would be ashamed and ask her repeatedly to let them do it. She would be open hearted to help the needy and helpless, of her father’s kingdom. Everyone loved and respected her. When she danced, even the most renowned dancers of the kingdom would admire her skill. The king was very proud of her.
When the king proposed to go for hunting in the forest, she asked him to take her along.
“But my dear, this time, I intend to go to the forest near the hills. A fierce tribe rules those lands. It is very dangerous for you to come along.”
“But baba, you cannot leave me alone in this big palace”
“Very well my child. You know, I can not deny you anything. But promise me that you will never leave far from the tent”.
“You have my word for it.”
So here they were and she would never regret coming there. Just looking at the forests and sitting on the banks of the river would inspire her to start painting with her brush on the canvas. Especially today, when the rain is threatening to pour its weight on the foothills .Suddenly her brush stops as she intently listens to a sound. Anyone would say that it was the sound of a flute but to her it seemed as if someone was calling her. And the flautist was as lonely as her. It seemed to her that lord Krishna had himself come to these hinterlands from the heavens to play such a lovely tune. She wanted the music never to stop. But then the rains came with all its anger down upon the earth and the music fainted away.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Chapter 1 - Tamluk
Dancing with a sword and shield along with the tune of war drums is seen the figure of a lonely warrior in the traditional short white dhoti. It is seldom that a Tripuri grows up to a height of six feet two and the stunning physique – one that even Hercules might have envied. Flowing locks of his shoulder length black mane dance along with the muscles of his shoulder, hands and feet. A pair of charcoal black eyes is fixed on the practice mannequin in front of him. Beads of sweat fall relentlessly off his shiny skin burned to a reddish tone which once in his mother’s arms used to be pinkish white. The exertion brings out red blood to his cheeks. The strong muscular jaw line is typical of his noble lineage that dates back to early settlers of this hilly region who called themselves Tripuri after the goddess Tripureshwari. His family has been ruling the nearby range of hills covered with lush tropical forests for centuries. So says the village elders to Tamluk, a name chosen by his grandfather. When a little boy, his friends would ask the meaning of his name and he would come running into the laps of his loving grandfather. After running his hand through his now milky white beard,”Son-it was the name of a place that was the capital of the mighty rajas who ruled all of the plains that you can see if you climb up the great Banyan at the top of the hill yonder”, his grand father- Tijil, would raise his trishul in the direction of the great Mighty Barmura –the mightiest of the hilly ranges under their control.
The mystic clouds shroud the old banyan. A flock of song birds and colourful parrots raise the alarm of the great rains. The dark castles in the sky are being built by the powerful south western winds that threaten to further give a twist to the already centuries old banyan’s trunk. Even then he mightily gives resistance to the gusty winds by fluttering his leaves in a loud war cry. The birds take to flight as the first of the rain hit like arrows on the leaves. He may be a small boy, but a born warrior, admires the fearless banyan and takes shelter under it.”These words, my little warrior, hold in your heart, always respect the fearless and equally be aware of the coward. As the coward, may hurt you, even if he is your friend. But the strong and fearless should be respected, even if he is your enemy”, Tijil would hold his hand and tell. But Tijil has gone on a pilgrimage today to the 14 God’s temple. He had left his throne to his now able son , after Tamluk was born .He took diksha from the priest Chantai and became a sanyasi. So when Tamluk was missing his grandfather, he tried to get comfort by sitting in the lap of the banyan’s big branches. His grandfather had gifted him a bamboo flute on his 12th birthday.”Whenever you feel lost or sad or happy, play this.”Tamluk was so happy that he had hugged his grandfather tightly”Will you teach me how to play this gampa?”and his grandfather would lovingly take Tamluk in his arms and say”Of course my little wizard”. Now he is 16 and grandfather has left home to be a sanyasi. These four years he has been tirelessly training to be a warrior. Slowly, he started to beat the great warriors in his clan, in every skill. He would run to the top of mighty barmura a 12 mile winding road without stopping for breath even a single time. He could throw the javelin accurately at a target half a mile away. His arrow would hit the jackfruit 1 mile away. He would wrestle the wild buffalo with its horn. He would uproot the big bamboo trees with a single lurch of his bare hands. His muscles were as strong as the sand stone itself. He would fight 5 warriors at a time with the sword and shield and defeat them all in five minutes. Then came the day when his grandfather taught him to hunt deer at the dead of night by listening to its sound only. He could catch the forest fowl with his bare hands. In wrestling even the heaviest of his clan would decline to fight. They were embarrassed to fight with him as to get defeated by only a 16 year old was not good for their honor. His father was now very proud of him.
He had learnt the language of the people of the plains. He had been studying under the Chantai on the holy Vedic scriptures.
But his heart lay somewhere else. When in the evening he would come home tired, he would sit at his grandfather’s feet and learn to play the flute. He would spend hours on end sitting under the banyan, learning to play the flute from his grandfather. In the scorching heat of the summer afternoons when everyone in the village was asleep, he would practice his flute. Even the birds would forget their chirping, and listen.
But today his beloved flute hums a lonely – lonely tune like the skylark flying alone in the blue summer skies.
The mystic clouds shroud the old banyan. A flock of song birds and colourful parrots raise the alarm of the great rains. The dark castles in the sky are being built by the powerful south western winds that threaten to further give a twist to the already centuries old banyan’s trunk. Even then he mightily gives resistance to the gusty winds by fluttering his leaves in a loud war cry. The birds take to flight as the first of the rain hit like arrows on the leaves. He may be a small boy, but a born warrior, admires the fearless banyan and takes shelter under it.”These words, my little warrior, hold in your heart, always respect the fearless and equally be aware of the coward. As the coward, may hurt you, even if he is your friend. But the strong and fearless should be respected, even if he is your enemy”, Tijil would hold his hand and tell. But Tijil has gone on a pilgrimage today to the 14 God’s temple. He had left his throne to his now able son , after Tamluk was born .He took diksha from the priest Chantai and became a sanyasi. So when Tamluk was missing his grandfather, he tried to get comfort by sitting in the lap of the banyan’s big branches. His grandfather had gifted him a bamboo flute on his 12th birthday.”Whenever you feel lost or sad or happy, play this.”Tamluk was so happy that he had hugged his grandfather tightly”Will you teach me how to play this gampa?”and his grandfather would lovingly take Tamluk in his arms and say”Of course my little wizard”. Now he is 16 and grandfather has left home to be a sanyasi. These four years he has been tirelessly training to be a warrior. Slowly, he started to beat the great warriors in his clan, in every skill. He would run to the top of mighty barmura a 12 mile winding road without stopping for breath even a single time. He could throw the javelin accurately at a target half a mile away. His arrow would hit the jackfruit 1 mile away. He would wrestle the wild buffalo with its horn. He would uproot the big bamboo trees with a single lurch of his bare hands. His muscles were as strong as the sand stone itself. He would fight 5 warriors at a time with the sword and shield and defeat them all in five minutes. Then came the day when his grandfather taught him to hunt deer at the dead of night by listening to its sound only. He could catch the forest fowl with his bare hands. In wrestling even the heaviest of his clan would decline to fight. They were embarrassed to fight with him as to get defeated by only a 16 year old was not good for their honor. His father was now very proud of him.
He had learnt the language of the people of the plains. He had been studying under the Chantai on the holy Vedic scriptures.
But his heart lay somewhere else. When in the evening he would come home tired, he would sit at his grandfather’s feet and learn to play the flute. He would spend hours on end sitting under the banyan, learning to play the flute from his grandfather. In the scorching heat of the summer afternoons when everyone in the village was asleep, he would practice his flute. Even the birds would forget their chirping, and listen.
But today his beloved flute hums a lonely – lonely tune like the skylark flying alone in the blue summer skies.
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