As I was leaving for college this morning, almost every other apartment had piles of boxes stacked up outside their doors. Looks like Santa's big jolly laugh is more like a smile with an arrow at the end. And so, here's a slightly updated version of Clement Moore's famous A Visit from St. Nicholas
'Twas the month before Christmas, when all through the city
Not a creature was stirring (well just bear with me for this ditty)
The packages were tracked in the browser with care
In hopes that the UPS guy soon would be there
People in offices or going to school
"Out on delivery" making them drool
Suddenly, silently - the man'd come about
Magically synchronized to the time when you're out
In a big bulky truck, packed to the brim
Catering to all - every fancy and whim
Between 9 and 7 - he's mostly on time
Especially so if you're a member of Prime
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the apartments, his assistants they flew,
With a load of big boxes (and small ones too).
And then in a twinkling, I heard a slight knock
So I ran to the door, and I undid the lock
There he stood, with a package of mine,
Clicked open a pen, "Can I please have your sign?"
Then spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Between Thanksgiving and Xmas, there's no time to shirk
Leaving his mark, as I stood there to watch
"Collect from the office" or "Left on the porch"
Then he sprang to his truck, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
Happy holidays everyone!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Using MATLAB to print a matrix in Latex
I came across a life-changing page a couple of days ago, while writing a report for my Visual Recognition class.
People who have tried reporting confusion matrices or comparative accuracy tables will understand that I am not exaggerating.
Assume you have a matrix M.
Then all you need to type is:
MATLAB will print out the array in Latex!
If you want a tabular output of a matrix of values, here's a short python script I had written tired of trudging through endless &'s and \hline's. It can't handle missing data, so you need to give it a full matrix. The matrix is space-delimited and stored in a file (This is because I would just copy-paste the matrix from MATLAB into a txt file).
People who have tried reporting confusion matrices or comparative accuracy tables will understand that I am not exaggerating.
Assume you have a matrix M.
Then all you need to type is:
s = sym(M);
latex(vpa(s,3)); %Sets precision of elements to 3
MATLAB will print out the array in Latex!
If you want a tabular output of a matrix of values, here's a short python script I had written tired of trudging through endless &'s and \hline's. It can't handle missing data, so you need to give it a full matrix. The matrix is space-delimited and stored in a file (This is because I would just copy-paste the matrix from MATLAB into a txt file).
def createLatexTable(inputFile, rowHeaders=[], colHeaders=[], scale=0.8):
f = open(inputFile)
fLines = f.readlines()
#To figure out number of columns
dummyline = fLines[0].strip()
numColumns = len(dummyline.split())
print '\\scalebox{'+str(scale)+'}{'
print '\\begin{tabular}{|',
if len(rowHeaders) > 0:
for i in range(numColumns+1): print 'c|',
else:
for i in range(numColumns): print 'c|',
print '}'
print '\\hline'
if(len(colHeaders) > 0):
if len(rowHeaders) > 0:
print ' & ',
print ' & '.join(colHeaders),
print '\\\\ \\hline'
rowCount = -1
for line in fLines:
line = line.strip()
nums = line.split()
if len(nums)==0:
continue
rowCount = rowCount+1
if len(rowHeaders) > 0: print rowHeaders[rowCount],' & ',
print ' & '.join(nums),
print '\\\\ \\hline'
print '\\end{tabular}'
print '}'
f.close()
Friday, October 28, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The Sheep with the Golden Fleece
Today was like any other day from the past 12 months or so. I was yet again making my way to the 6th floor of Perry Castaneda Library with a mocha in my hand, hoping my favorite niche at the very end of the right section wasn't occupied. My head (chronic scheduler that I am) was buzzing with which of the innumerable tasks at hand I should tackle first - there were 2 papers to review, a data set of videos to process, and a mammoth project whose innards had to be dissected before the coding could even begin.
And so I exited the lift, turned right and started going past the scores of undergrads in their respective cubicles. I have walked down this side hundreds of times now - and it always takes me past the Youth section. Colorful covers in different languages, all intended for an audience that obviously does not have to worry about the reams of theses that would start in the next few rows. Today, for some reason, I couldn't resist - I went to a random shelf on a random row and picked out a big yellow book. And then I made my way to my niche.
I've always loved libraries. Whether it was our school library with its huge windows and circular tables and a collection of the most fascinating books, or Ramakrishna Mission Library close to our home, with its stern custodians in their saffron robes and stacks of books stretching into the horizon (I would go there ever since I could walk and it would always seem that there was another section round the corner). They were oases of peace, shielded from the crazy hubub of the outside world, yet transporting you to even crazier worlds - the skull-lined fence of Baba Yaga and her hut spinning on one chicken leg, the wondrous slide of the Magic Faraway Tree, the childrens' room where the magic Wishing Chair sat silently before flying off to some bizarre world, the millions of adventures of the Famous Five, Secret Seven, Hardy Boys, Three Investigators and so many more, the nonsensical stories of Bimbo and Topsy, the schoolboy pranks of William, the bumbling mistakes of Billy Bunter....the list could probably go on. As I grew, so did my choice in books, but the reason the ones I've mentioned strike a chord is because your imagination is most vivid when you're small - every detail is bursting with color and possibility and that amazement stays with you.
But I think I'm now losing that unbridled joy I used to have for reading. Don't get me wrong - I still love reading, but the joy has been tempered. The books I read are no longer fanciful tales to magic lands, and even if they are (LotR etc), I know it's not real. And of course, reading and analyzing a million technical papers is not the best way to endear someone to the written word.
I guess it was a sudden burst from the past - that excitement of getting your hands on a new book and the untold possibility that lay within. I guess that's why I picked up that book even though I knew I had to actually read "Poselets: Body Part Detectors Trained Using 3D Human Pose Annotations". So I ran a script I had written the previous night, checked to make sure it was gobbling up the videos correctly, and then for 15 beautiful minutes read "Tales from Arabia".
And in case you're wondering, the title of this post is actually one of the stories in that book - about 3 men who find a sheep with golden fleece. All 3 claim it and they go to the caliph to help them settle the issue. He asks each of them to tell a story, and the one with the best story wins. All 3 men tell tales which enrapture the audience, so the caliph says he can't decide and will take the sheep and give them compensation which they can then split. Before he does that, he asks each of them what they'll do with what they get. One says he will become a merchant, the other says he will open up a shop and the third says he will become an accountant. They all want to be rich, but need the capital, so they agree to give the sheep to the caliph. He takes the sheep but gives them sturdy sandals, coats and walking sticks. When they protest, he says they have a knack for telling beautiful tales and that they should travel Persia telling their stories rather than becoming merchants. It ends with the line "...and their lives were rich and content".
And so I exited the lift, turned right and started going past the scores of undergrads in their respective cubicles. I have walked down this side hundreds of times now - and it always takes me past the Youth section. Colorful covers in different languages, all intended for an audience that obviously does not have to worry about the reams of theses that would start in the next few rows. Today, for some reason, I couldn't resist - I went to a random shelf on a random row and picked out a big yellow book. And then I made my way to my niche.
I've always loved libraries. Whether it was our school library with its huge windows and circular tables and a collection of the most fascinating books, or Ramakrishna Mission Library close to our home, with its stern custodians in their saffron robes and stacks of books stretching into the horizon (I would go there ever since I could walk and it would always seem that there was another section round the corner). They were oases of peace, shielded from the crazy hubub of the outside world, yet transporting you to even crazier worlds - the skull-lined fence of Baba Yaga and her hut spinning on one chicken leg, the wondrous slide of the Magic Faraway Tree, the childrens' room where the magic Wishing Chair sat silently before flying off to some bizarre world, the millions of adventures of the Famous Five, Secret Seven, Hardy Boys, Three Investigators and so many more, the nonsensical stories of Bimbo and Topsy, the schoolboy pranks of William, the bumbling mistakes of Billy Bunter....the list could probably go on. As I grew, so did my choice in books, but the reason the ones I've mentioned strike a chord is because your imagination is most vivid when you're small - every detail is bursting with color and possibility and that amazement stays with you.
But I think I'm now losing that unbridled joy I used to have for reading. Don't get me wrong - I still love reading, but the joy has been tempered. The books I read are no longer fanciful tales to magic lands, and even if they are (LotR etc), I know it's not real. And of course, reading and analyzing a million technical papers is not the best way to endear someone to the written word.
I guess it was a sudden burst from the past - that excitement of getting your hands on a new book and the untold possibility that lay within. I guess that's why I picked up that book even though I knew I had to actually read "Poselets: Body Part Detectors Trained Using 3D Human Pose Annotations". So I ran a script I had written the previous night, checked to make sure it was gobbling up the videos correctly, and then for 15 beautiful minutes read "Tales from Arabia".
And in case you're wondering, the title of this post is actually one of the stories in that book - about 3 men who find a sheep with golden fleece. All 3 claim it and they go to the caliph to help them settle the issue. He asks each of them to tell a story, and the one with the best story wins. All 3 men tell tales which enrapture the audience, so the caliph says he can't decide and will take the sheep and give them compensation which they can then split. Before he does that, he asks each of them what they'll do with what they get. One says he will become a merchant, the other says he will open up a shop and the third says he will become an accountant. They all want to be rich, but need the capital, so they agree to give the sheep to the caliph. He takes the sheep but gives them sturdy sandals, coats and walking sticks. When they protest, he says they have a knack for telling beautiful tales and that they should travel Persia telling their stories rather than becoming merchants. It ends with the line "...and their lives were rich and content".
Monday, October 3, 2011
Auguries of Innocence and more
A long long time ago, I was introduced to some pretty damn good poetry. Of course, I never really appreciated the lines then. Not that I've had any great epiphany since then, but I'll be sitting pondering over something when out of nowhere, a couplet floats back into my memory from the past.
Here are some of my favorites - snatches of brilliance in my (very humble, untrained) opinion:
Blake - Auguries of Innocence
...
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
...
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.
Keats
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne’er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne’er remember
Apollo’s summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.
Ah! would ’t were so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense to steal it,
Was never said in rhyme.
Frost
Here are some of my favorites - snatches of brilliance in my (very humble, untrained) opinion:
Blake - Auguries of Innocence
...
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
...
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.
Keats
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne’er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne’er remember
Apollo’s summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.
Ah! would ’t were so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense to steal it,
Was never said in rhyme.
Frost
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
Seed of Sarothen - Part 4
Previosly on SoS: The second task at the statue of Zeus garnered the strength of the Gods for the Seed and Satronus, the current bearer, left Olympia for the third task.
The members of the caravan coming from Athens were just waking to the first beckoning rays of the sun when they saw him stumbling over the dusty terrain. His haggard, weather-beaten face made him look much older than his 41 years. To the merchants’ surprise, he was heading towards them with astonishing rapidity. Instinctively suspicious, their hands went towards their scabbards – they had silks from India and Persian rugs which they had no intention of being robbed of.
But as the man came closer, it was starkly apparent that he couldn’t even rob a child. His face and arms were covered with dust, his clothes were shredded to bits and there were painful abrasions all over his body as though he’d been dragged around. He was walking with a limp and his eyes were lustreless, sunk deep into their sockets.
“Water!” he cried as he almost collapsed onto one of them, who backed away as quickly as he could.
An earthen cup was brought, the contents of which the stranger drank like a dying fish. The merchants herded him into their tent and gave him some more water and some food. Their duties of hospitality fulfilled, one of them spoke –
“My name is Kaizad. I’m a merchant from Arabia. Who are you, stranger?”
The man struggled to speak. He just kept shaking his head.
“What happened to you? Were you attacked?”
Satronus nodded.
“Filthy thieves! My gold – all my gold!”
“You were carrying gold! What for?”
“I have to finish my job, my task. It's very important. I need to...” His voice wavered.
“What kind of task, man?”
Satronus was silent for what seemed an endless moment.
“I – I’ve forgotten! Oh my God! I’ve forgotten!” he screamed with a note of hysteria in his voice.
The merchants forced him to sit as he frantically tried to get up, turning his face away from them.
“Relax my friend, calm down. You won’t be able to remember if you think too much about it. Surely you can recall some little detail.”
“No!” screamed Satronus, his voice cracking.
“Where you were coming from – um – maybe where you were going. Come on, something!”
Satronus paused and his eyes widened. The merchants held their breath. In a barely audible whisper Satronus said- “Halicarnassus. I have to go to Halicarnassus.”
“There!” beamed one of the merchants, slapping Satronus on his back. “It’s coming back to you! Do not despair, my friend, for good always follows bad. There is light after every darkness. We are headed to Marmaris; we can drop you at Halicarnassus on the way. Perhaps you’ll remember the rest when you get there.”
“Speaking of light after darkness” said another “do you realize the sun is high above the horizon? We have to start moving on!”
Satronus soon found himself facing a monstrosity better known as a camel, ironically named ‘Jamil’ which was Arabic for beauty. Jamil deigned to bare its teeth and grunt at him; and a few minutes later Satronus was gripping its hump in sheer terror as he felt mountains heaving under him; the camel turning its head back occassionally and snorting at him to remind him who was boss.
***
THE WISDOM
Halicarnassus, 348 B.C. – The Mausoleum
Satronus waved goodbye to the merchants and gave the nastiest look he could contort his face into at his camel which was at that moment baring its yellowed teeth at him again. He stood watching them grow smaller and smaller till the landscape swallowed them up.
He turned his eyes to the towering and strikingly beautiful structure that rose in front of him, then to the Seed which he held in his hand – the Seed the robbers had thought was useless. His face creased into a smile. That act of amnesia had come in handy. He had been robbed once and he wasn’t ready to trust anyone, however trustworthy they may seem. It saved him from having to explain about the Seed and besides, faking memory-loss appeared so genuine considering the state he was in.
Satronus walked up to the Mausoleum, gaping at the rows of sculptures that greeted him. He gasped as he stared into the eyes of a crouching lion, amazed at the life-size statues of people and horses, wild beasts and creatures surrounding the Mausoleum. He looked up, gazing at the columns that rose into the sky supporting a massive pyramid-shaped roof crowned by a chariot pulled by four horses, their manes sculpted to appear waving wildly in the wind.
He unfolded a tattered piece of parchment and read the verse that had brought him to Halicarnassus.
“The third is a splendid tomb
Beautiful and white
With wisdom of the perished
Their power and their might
Take it to the ashes
The symbol of the dead
Take it Bearer-the time has come
What’s needed has been said”
“The time has come indeed” said Satronus, folding back the parchment.
He stepped inside and looked around for somebody he could approach. But there was nobody except a few others who’d come to pay their respects to King Maussollos. Not knowing how exactly to proceed, Satronus walked towards the white and gold sarcophagus and was bending down over it when a commanding voice startled him –
“Who do you think you are!”
Satronus jumped and looked around for the source of those forceful words but he saw no one.
“I’m waiting for an ANSWER!”
Slightly nervous, Satronus spoke –
“Where are you?” Then ashamed by his own meekness, he added, “Or are you too afraid to show yourself?” The moment the words had left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. But the damage had been done!
“Why you miserable creature!” roared an obviously raging voice and Satronus took a couple of steps back as he saw the man who spoke. He was the biggest and at that moment, angriest man Satronus had set his eyes upon.
“I am the guard of the Mausoleum. Do you even think I’ll be scared of you?!”
Satronus had ceased to think in his nervousness.
“No-no. I didn’t mean that. You see I had –”
“I don’t care what you mean or don’t mean. You are forbidden to approach the sarcophagus – EVER! Now get out!”
“But you don’t understand. I have the Seed. It must – ”
“I’m not going to repeat this again – get OUT!”
Satronus opened his mouth to protest but the guard put his hand on the hilt protruding from the scabbard at his waist. Considering he would prefer an intact Bearer to a decapitated one, especially since it was his own neck in question, Satronus turned and walked out.
Out on Halicarnassus’ streets, Satronus was at a complete loss. He had no place to stay, no one he could go to and no gold he could pawn for local currency. His only thin ray of luck was in that the merchants had given him a silk kerchief as a sign of goodwill – which at that time Satronus had found highly ridiculous – but now thanked his stars for. Having sold it, he paid for a decent meal, then asked the owner of the place for directions to the nearest temple.
The owner was only too happy to oblige after realizing that the customer making the queries had eaten quite a substantial meal and given an equally substantial tip in spite of looking more like a beggar.
Satronus thanked him and left with a full belly but an anxious mind, hoping the temple could offer him shelter and assistance.
As the owner watched him go, he called out to one of the boys serving tea –
“Find out what that man is doing here. He is not as poor as he appears.”
So while Satronus carefully navigated the meandering streets of Halicarnassus, he remained oblivious to the small shadow that crept after him. When Satronus finally reached the temple, he was somewhat disappointed by its appearance. It was small and made entirely of stone. Besides, having seen the temple of Zeus, he probably would never find any other temple that would match the standards set by it.
He turned around and saw a faintly familiar face looking at him. He walked up to him, conscious of the fact that the boy’s nervousness seemed to increase with every step Satronus took towards him.
“Er – excuse me, but can you tell me if this is the only temple in this area?”
The boy’s face broke into a smile and he gave a small chuckle of relief.
“Oh yes! This is the only one. But you can go see the Mausoleum – it’s much grander!”
“No-no, I’ve been there. Thank you.”
Satronus was about to turn away but he asked –
“Have I seen you somewhere?”
The smile on the boy’s face fell abruptly.
“No. No, that’s impossible, sir” he replied in a slow and cold voice. Then, just as abruptly, as though a sudden idea had caused a wave of friendliness to rise in him, his face creased into a smile again.
“I can help you, sir. Just tell me what you have to do.”
“How can you help me?” asked Satronus in equal parts good humour and incredulity.
“Trust me, sir!”
“You don’t even know who I am!”
“You appear to be a good man. I’ll help you. You’re a stranger in this city and you will need help getting around!”
“That’s true…but surely there are others who need help as well. Why suddenly do you pick me?”
“You came to me, sir”
“Hmmm…listen, it’s very kind of you; but you have no idea what I’ve come here for. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
Satronus turned and began walking away but the boy ran up beside him –
“Sir – sir, listen to me. Do you even know the priests in that temple?”
“No, why?”
“Do you think they’d welcome in a stranger, looking, beg your pardon, completely like a rag-picker, into their temple. And whatever your reason is for coming here, they will never help you once they make up their mind that you are not a decent man. The people here stick to their first impressions, you know!”
“Do I!” Satronus exclaimed ruefully. “But, again, how can you help me?”
“Look, the priests know me well. I come to this temple often and they -er- like me. You see, my grandfather was a priest too, not here but, well, I know the customs. So, if I introduced you as a friend or uncle or something of mine, they won’t object to whatever it is you’re doing!”
Satronus pondered over this proposition. He didn’t see any cons, except…
“What will you get out of this?”
The boy put on the most innocent face he could.
“Do not doubt my intentions, sir. I only wish to help!”
“Oh well” thought Satronus, “What harm can a boy possibly do?”
Aloud he said, “Alright. I need to think this over. Meet me here this evening.”
“I’m glad I could help you, sir. I only mean good!”
***
“So, what did you find out?” the owner of the small eatery whispered to the boy.
“Not much yet. But he has already taken me into his confidence. He’ll be telling me everything in a few hours!”
“Good. Very good. You report directly to me”
“Of course! What are you going to do with him?”
“You mean ‘to’ him!” and the owner laughed at his own joke. “Anyway, that’ll depend on how much he has with him. But I was thinking of the usual.”
“Oh come on, he’s alone!”
“All the more easier!”
“There’s no need to kill him! You can just send your two favourites to deal with him”
“Maybe. I’ll see what has to be done”
“What do I get?”
“You’ll get as per what you deliver”
“Oh don’t you worry about that, sir, don’t you worry about that!”
***
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
302
I guess I'm having Dexter withdrawal symptoms. Anyway, here's today's story:
His eyes flickered, and his final thought before lapsing into unconsciousness was that he hoped he would die soon.
The whole thing was so out of the blue. It was like any other lazy May evening in Mumbai. The air shimmered in the heat, the cars honked, the crows fought over scraps of food and the children were playing cricket. Raj turned, laughing, as the cricket ball flew past him into the alley across the road and his 8-year old brother clumsily sprinted after it. He stood there smiling, then impatient and finally concerned. Even in the fading light, it shouldn’t have taken Anil so long.
He waited for a car to pass and then crossed the street. The alley reeked of garbage and the high walls on both sides, succumbing to the harsh climate and the constant flow of sewage from broken pipes, were covered with a thick layer of dark green sludge. Raj held his breath and scanned the dim alley, but he couldn’t spot his brother. He finally exhaled and shouted out, “Anil!” A cat wailed and disappeared into the dark. He tentatively went a few steps further, glancing back to assure himself of an exit. His foot hit something soft and instinctively he felt his gut churn. He looked down and when his eyes finally adjusted to the dark, he convulsed and vomited uncontrollably.
Pankaj Kamble, aka Pintu, was breathing heavily as he traced his steps back to the sleepy village of Kherda. He wanted to scream or shout or something but he controlled himself as a mixture of passion, excitement and disgust coursed through his body. He knew he couldn’t stay in the village for too long. The Nipani’s waters had silently accepted the crumpled figure, but the people of Kherda wouldn’t - they would eventually figure out who he really was, how he gave in to his urges. No. He couldn’t wait for that to happen, they would kill him. He wanted a taste of the big city, where he would be just another nameless animal in the concrete jungle.
When Pintu woke up, the first thing that struck him was the smell. He went to the window of his dingy room and shut the window. The smell persisted. He cursed. The days were blurring into each other now and his past was barely more than a vague memory. The city was nothing like he had imagined it would be. It had already swallowed him alive and he now felt like he was slowly being digested.
It was still night outside and surprisingly quiet. The building was under construction in some god-forsaken hinterland hoping to be included in the ever-growing city. He had managed to find a part-time job as a laborer and he was allowed to sleep in a tiny tin-shed on the construction site. Usually there was the dull chatter of other migrant laborers, but tonight there was no sound except for the wind. Pintu wasn’t surprised - all the others had gone back to their villages for the Puja. He didn’t have a home to go back to.
He checked his watch. It was 3:30am and he thought it would be futile to try and sleep again. He went outside to have a bath. The January cold bit into his flesh - he decided it would have to be a quick dip in the pond and then back to a hot cup of tea.
As he made his way past the heaps of rubble towards the stagnating pool a few hundred metres from the site, there was a sudden sharp noise. It sounded like a tin bucket had fallen. He stopped, but when there was no other noise he carried on. He had almost reached the pond when he heard the sound of a child crying. He froze in his steps - all the laborers had gone home, there were no children in that area for miles. He listened intently - it sounded like a young boy whimpering. He peered into the distance but he could see no one. Then a tiny hand tugged his shirt from behind. Pintu started and had to stop himself from letting out a scream. He whirled around and a small boy was standing there looking at him. His hands were filthy and his clothes were torn and smeared with brown stains. His cheeks were streaked with tears.
Pintu took a few steps back, not knowing what to do.
The child’s face creased into a smile.
“Did I scare you, Dada?”
Pintu’s eyes bulged. He had never met this child.
“How do you know my name? Who are you?”
“How can you forget me, Dada?”. He took a step closer to Pintu.
He started crying again and his cries grew louder and louder.
“Stop! Stop!” Pintu cried
The child stopped crying but kept walking towards him.
Pintu started backing away, startled by the boy’s behavior.
“Go away! I don’t know who you are”
But the boy kept walking towards him, scratching his own arms and his face slowly but so viciously that they started bleeding.
“Why won’t you play with me, Dada?”
Pintu turned and started walking away as quickly as he could. He didn’t hear the boy following him. He looked behind his shoulder and the child was gone. This frightened him even more and he quickly turned to go back to the shed, which was now, in his mind, a bastion of safety. He was half-running past the pond when there was a ear-splitting shriek and he felt a hand grip his arm. Pain seared through his body. The boy was now bleeding profusely and he started dragging Pintu towards the pond with surprising ease. Pintu was screaming now and and sores were opening up on his skin. He clawed the dirt but the child dragged him into the water. He struggled but the boy seemed to have an iron grip. The water started turning a dull shade of crimson. Then just as suddenly as it had started, he was alone again - screaming out into the emptiness. He ran back to his shed, straining every muscle in his body. The mutilated corpse of the boy was hanging outside his window.
And then he woke up.
The fan creaked noisily but provided little comfort in the stifling courthouse. The judge arrived and the courtroom went silent.
“Will the defendant please rise.”
A visibly nervous Pintu got to his feet.
“Pankaj Vitthal Kamble, this court finds you guilty under sections 300 and 377 of the Indian Penal Code. In addition, according to the amended section 302 of the IPC, you are hereby sentenced to brain-imprisonment until dead.”
The sound of the gavel punctuated the silence.
The constables dragged a shrieking Pintu out of the court to the innocuous white van waiting to take him to the Arthur Road neuroscience facility.
Pintu woke up feeling vaguely sick. The first thing that struck him was the smell coming from his window.
His eyes flickered, and his final thought before lapsing into unconsciousness was that he hoped he would die soon.
The whole thing was so out of the blue. It was like any other lazy May evening in Mumbai. The air shimmered in the heat, the cars honked, the crows fought over scraps of food and the children were playing cricket. Raj turned, laughing, as the cricket ball flew past him into the alley across the road and his 8-year old brother clumsily sprinted after it. He stood there smiling, then impatient and finally concerned. Even in the fading light, it shouldn’t have taken Anil so long.
He waited for a car to pass and then crossed the street. The alley reeked of garbage and the high walls on both sides, succumbing to the harsh climate and the constant flow of sewage from broken pipes, were covered with a thick layer of dark green sludge. Raj held his breath and scanned the dim alley, but he couldn’t spot his brother. He finally exhaled and shouted out, “Anil!” A cat wailed and disappeared into the dark. He tentatively went a few steps further, glancing back to assure himself of an exit. His foot hit something soft and instinctively he felt his gut churn. He looked down and when his eyes finally adjusted to the dark, he convulsed and vomited uncontrollably.
Pankaj Kamble, aka Pintu, was breathing heavily as he traced his steps back to the sleepy village of Kherda. He wanted to scream or shout or something but he controlled himself as a mixture of passion, excitement and disgust coursed through his body. He knew he couldn’t stay in the village for too long. The Nipani’s waters had silently accepted the crumpled figure, but the people of Kherda wouldn’t - they would eventually figure out who he really was, how he gave in to his urges. No. He couldn’t wait for that to happen, they would kill him. He wanted a taste of the big city, where he would be just another nameless animal in the concrete jungle.
When Pintu woke up, the first thing that struck him was the smell. He went to the window of his dingy room and shut the window. The smell persisted. He cursed. The days were blurring into each other now and his past was barely more than a vague memory. The city was nothing like he had imagined it would be. It had already swallowed him alive and he now felt like he was slowly being digested.
It was still night outside and surprisingly quiet. The building was under construction in some god-forsaken hinterland hoping to be included in the ever-growing city. He had managed to find a part-time job as a laborer and he was allowed to sleep in a tiny tin-shed on the construction site. Usually there was the dull chatter of other migrant laborers, but tonight there was no sound except for the wind. Pintu wasn’t surprised - all the others had gone back to their villages for the Puja. He didn’t have a home to go back to.
He checked his watch. It was 3:30am and he thought it would be futile to try and sleep again. He went outside to have a bath. The January cold bit into his flesh - he decided it would have to be a quick dip in the pond and then back to a hot cup of tea.
As he made his way past the heaps of rubble towards the stagnating pool a few hundred metres from the site, there was a sudden sharp noise. It sounded like a tin bucket had fallen. He stopped, but when there was no other noise he carried on. He had almost reached the pond when he heard the sound of a child crying. He froze in his steps - all the laborers had gone home, there were no children in that area for miles. He listened intently - it sounded like a young boy whimpering. He peered into the distance but he could see no one. Then a tiny hand tugged his shirt from behind. Pintu started and had to stop himself from letting out a scream. He whirled around and a small boy was standing there looking at him. His hands were filthy and his clothes were torn and smeared with brown stains. His cheeks were streaked with tears.
Pintu took a few steps back, not knowing what to do.
The child’s face creased into a smile.
“Did I scare you, Dada?”
Pintu’s eyes bulged. He had never met this child.
“How do you know my name? Who are you?”
“How can you forget me, Dada?”. He took a step closer to Pintu.
He started crying again and his cries grew louder and louder.
“Stop! Stop!” Pintu cried
The child stopped crying but kept walking towards him.
Pintu started backing away, startled by the boy’s behavior.
“Go away! I don’t know who you are”
But the boy kept walking towards him, scratching his own arms and his face slowly but so viciously that they started bleeding.
“Why won’t you play with me, Dada?”
Pintu turned and started walking away as quickly as he could. He didn’t hear the boy following him. He looked behind his shoulder and the child was gone. This frightened him even more and he quickly turned to go back to the shed, which was now, in his mind, a bastion of safety. He was half-running past the pond when there was a ear-splitting shriek and he felt a hand grip his arm. Pain seared through his body. The boy was now bleeding profusely and he started dragging Pintu towards the pond with surprising ease. Pintu was screaming now and and sores were opening up on his skin. He clawed the dirt but the child dragged him into the water. He struggled but the boy seemed to have an iron grip. The water started turning a dull shade of crimson. Then just as suddenly as it had started, he was alone again - screaming out into the emptiness. He ran back to his shed, straining every muscle in his body. The mutilated corpse of the boy was hanging outside his window.
And then he woke up.
The fan creaked noisily but provided little comfort in the stifling courthouse. The judge arrived and the courtroom went silent.
“Will the defendant please rise.”
A visibly nervous Pintu got to his feet.
“Pankaj Vitthal Kamble, this court finds you guilty under sections 300 and 377 of the Indian Penal Code. In addition, according to the amended section 302 of the IPC, you are hereby sentenced to brain-imprisonment until dead.”
The sound of the gavel punctuated the silence.
The constables dragged a shrieking Pintu out of the court to the innocuous white van waiting to take him to the Arthur Road neuroscience facility.
Pintu woke up feeling vaguely sick. The first thing that struck him was the smell coming from his window.
***
Thursday, March 24, 2011
BBC and the Whims of Time
Hello! It's time for another rant on the illusion of time, but this time it's the British Broadcasting Corporation that's exploring the concept!
Visit this link(sorry if it's dead by the time you read this. Time is known to be a bit vengeful!)
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-12849630
Visit this link(sorry if it's dead by the time you read this. Time is known to be a bit vengeful!)
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-12849630
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Seed of Sarothen - Part 3
Previously on SoS:
Saralledh had traveled to the Temple of Artemis for the first task and after more than a hundred years since the Day of Light as the Ephesians called it, the jets had finally stopped.
Saralledh had died, passing on his knowledge to Minnaeus who in turn had entrusted Pallanthus with the responsibility of getting on with the task. It was time for the second task.
THE POWER
Olympia, 428 B.C.
Pallanthus had slipped away before the Ephesians had awoken to the fact that their miracle was missing. The priests had urged him to escape before he was killed by angry mobs. Hours later, while the priests tried their best to pacify an initially shocked, and then raging public with stories of the Gods having taken the Seed, Pallanthus had accepted a merchant’s offer to take him to Cronion hill and at that moment he was standing under the towering shadow of Mt. Olympia, the gushing of the Alpheius playing softly in his ears.
He trudged on, the sun beating down on his bare neck as he asked incredulous people for directions to the Statue of Zeus. He ignored their skeptical stares – it was incomprehensible to them that one did not know where Zeus sat!
Inwardly Pallanthus smiled to himself. He was going to be the first Bearer to witness two miracles! For years he had wondered as to what the second verse of the prophecy had meant, finally, he had heard of a statue – Zeus, Head of the Greek Pantheon – a statue so incredible that its fame was unparalleled in the world!
Pallanthus looked up in awe at the magnificent structure before him. With slow, admiring steps, he entered the temple and stood with his mouth gaping in wonder. Splendid columns rose heavenwards arching into an enormous roof. Carvings, sculptures, reliefs and friezes so exquisite that for one eternal moment Pallanthus forgot he carried Sarothen’s Young.
Bearing down upon him, striking in gold and ivory on a throne made only for the God of Gods, sat Zeus – titanic in proportions, frightful in power – appearing to unroof the mighty structure if by chance He stood up.
Pallanthus walked closer, admiring the beauty of the throne, for that was mostly all he could see. Craning his neck as far up as it could go, Pallanthus smiled as he saw what he was looking for. On Zeus’ right hand, proudly stood a figure of victory while the other gripped a mighty sceptre with the most beautifully sculpted eagle perched on top.
He made his way to one of the priests and had just started explaining when the priest stopped him.
“We have contacts with Ephesus, you know. People do talk about the Miracle. Just tell me what has to be done.”
Surprised at how easy it was to explain himself, Pallanthus was silent for a few moments and then he said -
“A ladder! I need a ladder!”
“What?”
“I need a ladder!”
Somewhat puzzled, the priest hurried off; then whispered something lengthily to another man, who kept occasionally glancing at Pallanthus, finally leaving the temple.
The priest walked back to Pallanthus – he’ll get a ladder in the evening, after the people have gone. It’ll be easier without the sensationalism. I assume you’ll be climbing Zeus.” He said this in a cold tone and Pallanthus realized how disrespectful it seemed to be clawing up the God of Gods.
“If you find it dis….” He began saying.
“It must be done” the priest cut him short. “Where is this Seed, by the way?” he asked, his eyes searching an uncomfortable Pallanthus’ body for it.
Faintly disturbed, Pallanthus replied-
“In a safe place”
“Is it with you right now?”
“Why does it matter?”
The priest gave a small jerk with his head.
With lots of time before sunset and uneasy doubts stirring in his mind, Pallanthus walked out, unconsciously patting the small bag he had tied to his neck and worn under his clothes.
When Pallanthus returned some time after darkness had fallen, he was not only struck by the immensity of Zeus as he glittered in the brilliance of the lamps but far more by the total emptiness of the place. Whereas Artemis’ temple had been full of priests, Zeus, it seemed, sat alone.
Not totally alone though. Pallanthus felt the silence press down on him as he watched the priest he had met earlier that day stand quietly at the base of Zeus’ mighty throne, the shadows flickering across his face.
“The ladder is ready”
“As I am”
“You know what to do?”
“Yes it’s all given in…” Pallanthus paused awkwardly.
“You were saying something?”
“I’m ready. That’s all.”
A moment of silence passed. One of the lamps creaked.
“Where are the other priests?”
“We thought it best not to disturb you.”
Silence again.
“Would you like me to do whatever it is that is to be done?”
“No, no, I can manage.”
Pallanthus turned his back to the priest and put his foot on the ladder. In the blink of an eye, the priest cried out, “For Zeus!”, clenched Pallanthus’ hair, jerked back his head and slit his throat open.
Pallanthus made a gasping, gurgling noise and dropped dead on the floor, the glistening tiles slowly turning scarlet.
Groping in the blood, the priest frantically began searching for the Seed.
“You alone do not hold the secret, fool! That Seed is mine and mine alone!”
Suddenly, a voice spoke out –
“That Seed you are looking for – you won’t get it there – that Seed is mine!”
The priest recoiled in horror as two men quietly stepped out from the shadows – one of them clearly the chief cleric. The man who was speaking was young, in his early twenties, and in his hand was a small black pouch.
The priest eyed it hungrily but the cleric spoke-
“Step away, murderer! How could you, Aristopheles? In the sanctity of Zeus’ chamber!”
“It was a sacrifice to Zeus, your Greatness!”
“Sacrifice, my foot!” yelled the young man. “You wanted the Seed”
“Quiet, Perellius”
“Your Greatness, forgive me!”
“You shall die Aristopheles. You have committed murder as a priest."
“The man is lying, believe me, your Greatness, he’s lying! He does not even know this man on the floor. He’s framing me!”
“There’s not much to frame, Aristopheles, when you commit a murder and then grope in your victim’s own blood. Pallanthus met Perellius soon after leaving you. He already had grave doubts about your intentions and he decided to entrust the Seed and its legacy to Perellius."
“Yes” continued Perellius “he gave me the Seed and a parchment along with the g... some other things. I am sworn to secrecy and can only show you the Seed. It is my responsibility and I know what to do.”
“Fanciful stories do not keep the priests away Aristopheles! I was wondering why you’d told the priests to stay away this evening when Pallanthus and Perellius came to me for my assistance. My doubts about you were confirmed.”
With that, the chief cleric clapped twice and a number of men sprang out of the shadows. Aristopheles’ eyes bulged with fear. The men caught hold of him and dragged the screaming man away, the temple walls echoing the anguished, terrorized cries for mercy. Slowly the calls faded away and Perellius, slightly shaken, turned to face the resolute chief cleric.
“Once again, thank you. My gratitude knows no bounds. If there is anything at all I could do for you-”
“Oh there is. That Seed-”
Perellius’ face turned hard-
“If you want the Seed, I’m afraid I cannot give it to you. I-”
“I do not want the Seed. All I ask of you is that when the Seed does get its power, do not use it. No good can come from one man holding the world to his whims and fancies.”
For a moment, Perellius seemed hesitant then-
“You do realize I shall be long gone when the Seed’s power is unlocked.”
“But you can pass my message on, can’t you?”
Perellius nodded, inwardly glad that he would not have to be the one to decide. Power corrupts after all.
“Well” said the cleric, abruptly changing the subject, “I think you should start with what you need to do.”
Perellius nodded. “Yes, of course”
He made his way to towards the ladder, grimacing at the body that lay beside him in a pool of blood. Slowly, cautiously, he climbed upwards till he faced Zeus’ massive right hand. With great agility, Perellius dropped down on the palm and walked towards the figure of Victory standing proudly ahead of him.
He gripped the figure as well as he could and turned it once clockwise, twice anti-clockwise and five times clockwise again. Simultaneously, the eagle on Zeus’ immense sceptre moved once anti-clockwise, twice clockwise and five times anti-clockwise. When the final turn clicked into place, the eagle rose into the air on a thin golden shaft revealing a crucible-shaped cavity on top of the sceptre.
Perellius climbed down, then pushed the ladder over to the left and exhaustedly crept up again.
When he reached the top, though, all his exhaustion vapourised. He stood beside the open sceptre – entranced by the maddening aroma coming from the cavity, hypnotised by the glittering liquid which shimmered with the brilliance of liquid gold.
“Ambrosia!” he whispered “The divine nourishment!”
Gingerly, he brought out the Seed and with trembling fingers dropped it in the liquid. For a second or two it floated, glistening, and then ever-so-slowly vanished into the liquid.
“Well?” came a voice from below, breaking Perellius’ trance. “Have you finished the task, son?”
“Yes – yes I have.”
Perellius unwillingly began climbing down the ladder. Having finally reached the floor again –
“Well, I did it!”
“Good, good. Now….?” The cleric’s voice trailed off.
“Now” said Perellius with emphasis “we wait for the moon!”
The cleric looked at him, puzzled.
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
“You see that tiny slit in the roof above Zeus’ crown?”
“Yes”
“Well then tell me – why isn’t the moonlight entering?”
“Why it must be – I – I don’t know”
“You see” explained Perellius “the slit is in such a position in the ceiling that the figures sculpted on top of the roof almost always block any light from reaching the slit. In the rare cases where the light does manage to enter through the slot, it is blocked by Zeus’ crown and head – it never manages to get beyond that.”
“Never?”
“Well – almost!”
“Go on”
“Every 125 years there comes a night – one night – when the moon is just slightly above the horizon. That one night, a beam of moonlight will fall on the sceptre.”
“And then…?”
Perellius shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. That’s all the prophecy tells me.”
“You have a prophecy?”
“Why yes!”
“Written down perhaps”
“Yes, but why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Well you’ve done what was to be done. Now get a good night’s sleep”
Perellius nodded and walked to the entrance of the temple, looking up in the sky where the moon floated serenely – cloaking itself in passing clouds.
“I’ll wait for you” Perellius whispered.
Perellius did wait. That month, that year, his entire life; but the slit remained dark – the moon happy to tease Perellius in its incompliance.
Satronus was still finishing supper, enjoying the last morsels while sipping his wine, when he saw it flash through. He choked, gulping down wine in huge quantities amidst fits of cough.
A thin, silver beam of moonlight was sparkling down from the ceiling, filtering through Zeus’ immense crown, past his huge shoulders and hitting the open sceptre in a brilliant halo of blinding light.
Satronus rushed outside and saw the full moon – just above the horizon, winking through the clouds. He rushed back inside and called out to one of the priests to bring a ladder.
“It’s on its way – we’ve seen it too!”
“Quick!”
“We’re getting it as fast as we can Satronus!”
“Well get it faster!”
When the ladder finally did come though, Satronus took a long pause and then thrust it against Zeus’ left shoulder and sprang on it like a cat. He was panting by the time he reached the sceptre’s open cavity but the sight he looked upon took all his breath away.
The edges of the shimmering ambrosia had risen from the cavity to form a liquid dome, penetrated by a single sliver of moonlight. Hovering a few inches above the ambrosia itself was the Seed of Sarothen – caught at a point where gold met silver, not very different from the gold and ivory statue of Zeus.
Satronus turned his eyes away from the blinding brilliance. He blinked for a moment or two and called down to the gathered priests –
“I think it’s ready. Should I touch it?”
“You should know, Satronus!”
Satronus took a deep breath and turned towards the light. With a quivering hand and a pounding heart he approached the silently rising ambrosia dome, expecting the ceiling to collapse or something equally disastrous to happen the moment he touched the ambrosia.
But nothing did happen. To his immense relief, his fingers passed through the dome, the cool ambrosia licking the sides of his hand. Satronus closed his fist around the Seed and slowly withdrew his hand, giving a fleeting glance at Zeus’ face who appeared as unperturbed as ever. The ambrosia dome gave a sighing gurgle and fell back into the cavity; and the shaft began to withdraw into the sceptre till the eagle once again closed out the cavity.
Satronus climbed down the ladder and spoke to the priests waiting below –
“I must leave now!”
“May the Gods help you in your task, Satronus. But remember what we’ve always said – what Perellius told you – do not use the Seed. Remember Satronus. Do not ever forget our words!”
Satronus nodded, putting the Seed into the small brown bag hung under his apparel around his neck. He patted it and said –
“Do not fear. I myself shall die long before the Seed is unlocked but I shall note your words; as will my successor.”
With that, he turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Saralledh had traveled to the Temple of Artemis for the first task and after more than a hundred years since the Day of Light as the Ephesians called it, the jets had finally stopped.
Saralledh had died, passing on his knowledge to Minnaeus who in turn had entrusted Pallanthus with the responsibility of getting on with the task. It was time for the second task.
“The second is a statue
The greatest that exists
Take it to the God of Gods
For divinity’s kiss
There it shall be empowered
With the strength of Gods
Take it Bearer, take it now
Take it against all odds.”
THE POWER
Olympia, 428 B.C.
Pallanthus had slipped away before the Ephesians had awoken to the fact that their miracle was missing. The priests had urged him to escape before he was killed by angry mobs. Hours later, while the priests tried their best to pacify an initially shocked, and then raging public with stories of the Gods having taken the Seed, Pallanthus had accepted a merchant’s offer to take him to Cronion hill and at that moment he was standing under the towering shadow of Mt. Olympia, the gushing of the Alpheius playing softly in his ears.
He trudged on, the sun beating down on his bare neck as he asked incredulous people for directions to the Statue of Zeus. He ignored their skeptical stares – it was incomprehensible to them that one did not know where Zeus sat!
Inwardly Pallanthus smiled to himself. He was going to be the first Bearer to witness two miracles! For years he had wondered as to what the second verse of the prophecy had meant, finally, he had heard of a statue – Zeus, Head of the Greek Pantheon – a statue so incredible that its fame was unparalleled in the world!
Pallanthus looked up in awe at the magnificent structure before him. With slow, admiring steps, he entered the temple and stood with his mouth gaping in wonder. Splendid columns rose heavenwards arching into an enormous roof. Carvings, sculptures, reliefs and friezes so exquisite that for one eternal moment Pallanthus forgot he carried Sarothen’s Young.
Bearing down upon him, striking in gold and ivory on a throne made only for the God of Gods, sat Zeus – titanic in proportions, frightful in power – appearing to unroof the mighty structure if by chance He stood up.
Pallanthus walked closer, admiring the beauty of the throne, for that was mostly all he could see. Craning his neck as far up as it could go, Pallanthus smiled as he saw what he was looking for. On Zeus’ right hand, proudly stood a figure of victory while the other gripped a mighty sceptre with the most beautifully sculpted eagle perched on top.
He made his way to one of the priests and had just started explaining when the priest stopped him.
“We have contacts with Ephesus, you know. People do talk about the Miracle. Just tell me what has to be done.”
Surprised at how easy it was to explain himself, Pallanthus was silent for a few moments and then he said -
“A ladder! I need a ladder!”
“What?”
“I need a ladder!”
Somewhat puzzled, the priest hurried off; then whispered something lengthily to another man, who kept occasionally glancing at Pallanthus, finally leaving the temple.
The priest walked back to Pallanthus – he’ll get a ladder in the evening, after the people have gone. It’ll be easier without the sensationalism. I assume you’ll be climbing Zeus.” He said this in a cold tone and Pallanthus realized how disrespectful it seemed to be clawing up the God of Gods.
“If you find it dis….” He began saying.
“It must be done” the priest cut him short. “Where is this Seed, by the way?” he asked, his eyes searching an uncomfortable Pallanthus’ body for it.
Faintly disturbed, Pallanthus replied-
“In a safe place”
“Is it with you right now?”
“Why does it matter?”
The priest gave a small jerk with his head.
With lots of time before sunset and uneasy doubts stirring in his mind, Pallanthus walked out, unconsciously patting the small bag he had tied to his neck and worn under his clothes.
***
When Pallanthus returned some time after darkness had fallen, he was not only struck by the immensity of Zeus as he glittered in the brilliance of the lamps but far more by the total emptiness of the place. Whereas Artemis’ temple had been full of priests, Zeus, it seemed, sat alone.
Not totally alone though. Pallanthus felt the silence press down on him as he watched the priest he had met earlier that day stand quietly at the base of Zeus’ mighty throne, the shadows flickering across his face.
“The ladder is ready”
“As I am”
“You know what to do?”
“Yes it’s all given in…” Pallanthus paused awkwardly.
“You were saying something?”
“I’m ready. That’s all.”
A moment of silence passed. One of the lamps creaked.
“Where are the other priests?”
“We thought it best not to disturb you.”
Silence again.
“Would you like me to do whatever it is that is to be done?”
“No, no, I can manage.”
Pallanthus turned his back to the priest and put his foot on the ladder. In the blink of an eye, the priest cried out, “For Zeus!”, clenched Pallanthus’ hair, jerked back his head and slit his throat open.
Pallanthus made a gasping, gurgling noise and dropped dead on the floor, the glistening tiles slowly turning scarlet.
Groping in the blood, the priest frantically began searching for the Seed.
“You alone do not hold the secret, fool! That Seed is mine and mine alone!”
Suddenly, a voice spoke out –
“That Seed you are looking for – you won’t get it there – that Seed is mine!”
The priest recoiled in horror as two men quietly stepped out from the shadows – one of them clearly the chief cleric. The man who was speaking was young, in his early twenties, and in his hand was a small black pouch.
The priest eyed it hungrily but the cleric spoke-
“Step away, murderer! How could you, Aristopheles? In the sanctity of Zeus’ chamber!”
“It was a sacrifice to Zeus, your Greatness!”
“Sacrifice, my foot!” yelled the young man. “You wanted the Seed”
“Quiet, Perellius”
“Your Greatness, forgive me!”
“You shall die Aristopheles. You have committed murder as a priest."
“The man is lying, believe me, your Greatness, he’s lying! He does not even know this man on the floor. He’s framing me!”
“There’s not much to frame, Aristopheles, when you commit a murder and then grope in your victim’s own blood. Pallanthus met Perellius soon after leaving you. He already had grave doubts about your intentions and he decided to entrust the Seed and its legacy to Perellius."
“Yes” continued Perellius “he gave me the Seed and a parchment along with the g... some other things. I am sworn to secrecy and can only show you the Seed. It is my responsibility and I know what to do.”
“Fanciful stories do not keep the priests away Aristopheles! I was wondering why you’d told the priests to stay away this evening when Pallanthus and Perellius came to me for my assistance. My doubts about you were confirmed.”
With that, the chief cleric clapped twice and a number of men sprang out of the shadows. Aristopheles’ eyes bulged with fear. The men caught hold of him and dragged the screaming man away, the temple walls echoing the anguished, terrorized cries for mercy. Slowly the calls faded away and Perellius, slightly shaken, turned to face the resolute chief cleric.
“Once again, thank you. My gratitude knows no bounds. If there is anything at all I could do for you-”
“Oh there is. That Seed-”
Perellius’ face turned hard-
“If you want the Seed, I’m afraid I cannot give it to you. I-”
“I do not want the Seed. All I ask of you is that when the Seed does get its power, do not use it. No good can come from one man holding the world to his whims and fancies.”
For a moment, Perellius seemed hesitant then-
“You do realize I shall be long gone when the Seed’s power is unlocked.”
“But you can pass my message on, can’t you?”
Perellius nodded, inwardly glad that he would not have to be the one to decide. Power corrupts after all.
“Well” said the cleric, abruptly changing the subject, “I think you should start with what you need to do.”
Perellius nodded. “Yes, of course”
He made his way to towards the ladder, grimacing at the body that lay beside him in a pool of blood. Slowly, cautiously, he climbed upwards till he faced Zeus’ massive right hand. With great agility, Perellius dropped down on the palm and walked towards the figure of Victory standing proudly ahead of him.
He gripped the figure as well as he could and turned it once clockwise, twice anti-clockwise and five times clockwise again. Simultaneously, the eagle on Zeus’ immense sceptre moved once anti-clockwise, twice clockwise and five times anti-clockwise. When the final turn clicked into place, the eagle rose into the air on a thin golden shaft revealing a crucible-shaped cavity on top of the sceptre.
Perellius climbed down, then pushed the ladder over to the left and exhaustedly crept up again.
When he reached the top, though, all his exhaustion vapourised. He stood beside the open sceptre – entranced by the maddening aroma coming from the cavity, hypnotised by the glittering liquid which shimmered with the brilliance of liquid gold.
“Ambrosia!” he whispered “The divine nourishment!”
Gingerly, he brought out the Seed and with trembling fingers dropped it in the liquid. For a second or two it floated, glistening, and then ever-so-slowly vanished into the liquid.
“Well?” came a voice from below, breaking Perellius’ trance. “Have you finished the task, son?”
“Yes – yes I have.”
Perellius unwillingly began climbing down the ladder. Having finally reached the floor again –
“Well, I did it!”
“Good, good. Now….?” The cleric’s voice trailed off.
“Now” said Perellius with emphasis “we wait for the moon!”
The cleric looked at him, puzzled.
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
“You see that tiny slit in the roof above Zeus’ crown?”
“Yes”
“Well then tell me – why isn’t the moonlight entering?”
“Why it must be – I – I don’t know”
“You see” explained Perellius “the slit is in such a position in the ceiling that the figures sculpted on top of the roof almost always block any light from reaching the slit. In the rare cases where the light does manage to enter through the slot, it is blocked by Zeus’ crown and head – it never manages to get beyond that.”
“Never?”
“Well – almost!”
“Go on”
“Every 125 years there comes a night – one night – when the moon is just slightly above the horizon. That one night, a beam of moonlight will fall on the sceptre.”
“And then…?”
Perellius shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. That’s all the prophecy tells me.”
“You have a prophecy?”
“Why yes!”
“Written down perhaps”
“Yes, but why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Well you’ve done what was to be done. Now get a good night’s sleep”
Perellius nodded and walked to the entrance of the temple, looking up in the sky where the moon floated serenely – cloaking itself in passing clouds.
“I’ll wait for you” Perellius whispered.
Perellius did wait. That month, that year, his entire life; but the slit remained dark – the moon happy to tease Perellius in its incompliance.
***
Satronus was still finishing supper, enjoying the last morsels while sipping his wine, when he saw it flash through. He choked, gulping down wine in huge quantities amidst fits of cough.
A thin, silver beam of moonlight was sparkling down from the ceiling, filtering through Zeus’ immense crown, past his huge shoulders and hitting the open sceptre in a brilliant halo of blinding light.
Satronus rushed outside and saw the full moon – just above the horizon, winking through the clouds. He rushed back inside and called out to one of the priests to bring a ladder.
“It’s on its way – we’ve seen it too!”
“Quick!”
“We’re getting it as fast as we can Satronus!”
“Well get it faster!”
When the ladder finally did come though, Satronus took a long pause and then thrust it against Zeus’ left shoulder and sprang on it like a cat. He was panting by the time he reached the sceptre’s open cavity but the sight he looked upon took all his breath away.
The edges of the shimmering ambrosia had risen from the cavity to form a liquid dome, penetrated by a single sliver of moonlight. Hovering a few inches above the ambrosia itself was the Seed of Sarothen – caught at a point where gold met silver, not very different from the gold and ivory statue of Zeus.
Satronus turned his eyes away from the blinding brilliance. He blinked for a moment or two and called down to the gathered priests –
“I think it’s ready. Should I touch it?”
“You should know, Satronus!”
Satronus took a deep breath and turned towards the light. With a quivering hand and a pounding heart he approached the silently rising ambrosia dome, expecting the ceiling to collapse or something equally disastrous to happen the moment he touched the ambrosia.
But nothing did happen. To his immense relief, his fingers passed through the dome, the cool ambrosia licking the sides of his hand. Satronus closed his fist around the Seed and slowly withdrew his hand, giving a fleeting glance at Zeus’ face who appeared as unperturbed as ever. The ambrosia dome gave a sighing gurgle and fell back into the cavity; and the shaft began to withdraw into the sceptre till the eagle once again closed out the cavity.
Satronus climbed down the ladder and spoke to the priests waiting below –
“I must leave now!”
“May the Gods help you in your task, Satronus. But remember what we’ve always said – what Perellius told you – do not use the Seed. Remember Satronus. Do not ever forget our words!”
Satronus nodded, putting the Seed into the small brown bag hung under his apparel around his neck. He patted it and said –
“Do not fear. I myself shall die long before the Seed is unlocked but I shall note your words; as will my successor.”
With that, he turned and disappeared into the darkness.
***
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The Seed of Sarothen - Part 2
Previously on SoS:
Cloaked in the darkness of the night Arrazesh left the city with a stunned Saralledh – still unable to grasp the information presented to him, amazed to hear the clink of the gold pieces given to him which bound him to Arrazesh and knowing fully well that he would die before the task was over.
41-year old Saralledh looked across the sand to the coloured specks approaching his way. The specks slowly materialized into a caravan of grumpy-looking camels with heaps of silks and perfumes on their backs.
The man atop the first camel greeted Saralledh jovially. He knew the man very well – as did any person who travelled through the town of Hilla.
“Well?” asked Saralledh.
“You will be so pleased, my friend! Oh yes!”
“You have news then?”
“Better. We have actually seen it!”
“Artemis!”
“We were passing through Ephesus – never before had we gone that way – and do you know, my friend-”
“What?”
“They have the most beautiful temple there! The temple of the Goddess Artemis!”
Finally!
THE BLESSING
Ephesus, 540 B.C. – The Temple Of Artemis
Saralledh was not much of a sight when he arrived in Ephesus – his only possessions were what he stood in and a worn-out satchel. The journey had been long, treacherous and far from pleasant. But Saralledh had managed to protect his gold, the brown parchment Arrazesh had given to him before dying, and most important of all - the Seed.
He patted the satchel just to comfort himself that it was there. He sat down and read the parchment again. He knew what he had to do.
In the horizon the massive temple loomed large and awe-inspiring, against the blazing sky as the sun dipped into the distant sands.
He plodded on till the towering pillars of the temple sternly bore down upon him at the entrance. Ephesus was asleep; the night’s darkness heavy and black.
A few lamps flickered inside the temple, dispelling the darkness just enough for Saralledh to make his way through a maze of pillars towards the temple priests.
Saralledh told the priests as much as he thought necessary – about the sacrifice of Babylon and the Seed of Sarothen, but he didn’t mention the power it could yield. His journey had taught him that it was best not to give the reasons for blessing the Seed. If there was no reason, he thought, there would be no greed-and with that no harm could come to him. The priests listened to him, the silence broken only by the melancholy song of the breeze as it raced past the temple. Saralledh finished his narrative and then waited for their reaction.
The head priest said nothing for some time, absorbing the news that this ragged stranger brought to him in the darkness of night. Saralledh stood watching the lines of his face- highlighted in the lamp’s faint glow as the shadows danced silently across the pillars.
When the priest finally spoke, his words were astonishing.
“It is the oracle – come true!”
He brought out a slab of marble on which there was a scripture. This is what it says, the priest explained, correctly comprehending Saralledh’s blank look. “The sin has been committed but it brings with it the greatest force the world has seen. He who controls it, controls the destinies of mortals of all lands. For he is the Bearer of the Seed of Sarothen.”
The temple was quiet again – the lamps exposing the grave faces as the men pondered over the immensity of the situation. A soft shiver went down Saralledh’s back as he realized that he held the future of the world in a dirty satchel hung by his side.
“Well”, he spoke finally, breaking the silence pressing down on them. “I know what to do.”
The priests moved aside and waited.
“There are 127 columns in this temple, if I am not mistaken”
The priests nodded.
“All the pillars will have to be turned towards the cella – the divine central chamber.”
Saralledh looked purposefully at them, but received no response. Finally, a young priest spoke –
“Are you out of your mind? These pillars cannot be shifted – and even if by Artemis’ grace they could – how on earth would you know that the pillars were facing the cella.” The priest added sarcastically – “In case you haven’t noticed, these columns are round!”
Saralledh listened patiently and then spoke-“I agree – the entire thing does seem fantastic”
The priest attempted a snort.
“But” Saralledh continued “it can be done. The cella should have a sculpted bird to the right of Artemis. Go there and lift its right wing. The cores of all the pillars will shift to form smaller cores and the pillars will all be ready to be turned.”
One of the priests went off towards the cella.
Saralledh continued – “Once we are able to-”
He was interrupted by an exclamtion – “In the name of Artemis – it lifts!”
Saralledh smiled and went on-“As I was saying, once we are able to turn the pillars around in their bases, comes the problem of knowing which face of the pillar should be turned towards the cella. Call it coincidence or call it Fate, you will notice a certain form sculpted right at the top of all the pillars, where they join the ceiling. That form is the sign of the Seed of Sarothen.
All the priests immediately looked up and after a few seconds of intense appraisal, they saw the symbol, minute as it was:
All of them gasped instinctively.
“But…but that looks so obvious! How did we never notice it before?”
“Quite simple really…these pillars are huge, and the symbol is so very, very small – one cannot spot it unless one is looking for it.”
“But how was it carved? Or why -”
“I told you – coincidence…Fate…Destiny – take your pick”
“Let’s get back to the task - Saralledh - what will happen once all the pillars are turned towards the cella?”
“I have no idea!”
The quiet Ephesus night watched as the men groaned and pushed, turning each column till the symbol etched on each pillar faced the divine cella.
Saralledh was still grunting with the last pillar when the sky gleamed silver, interspersed with bands of gold and the sun peeped in to see what the men were doing.
It was still too early and Ephesus was still happily ignorant of the miracle about to happen.
With the 127th mark turned to face the cella, Saralledh backed away to where the priests were standing and waited.
Nothing!
They waited and waited – but nothing happened.
“But I’ve done what the parchment says!” cried Saralledh frantically. “All the pillars are perfectly aligned to –”
He stopped midway – then slapped his forehead, softly cursing himself, much to the embarrasment of all the priests around him.
“The Seed!” he cried “I haven’t placed the Seed. It’s still with me!”
“What are you supposed to do with it?” asked one of the priests.
“Well, the prophecy doesn’t say anything but that’s the only thing missing I can think of!” Saralledh shrugged, his face questioning the priests.
Receiving no reaction against his idea, he slowly removed the glistening Seed – pure and uncorrupted out of his satchel and walked towards the cella, gingerly placing it right at the centre, then hurried back.
For a moment the temple was still. Then with astonishing speed, as the priests fell back in shock, the Seed shot into the air as 127 jets of blazing light simultaneously converged to strike it! The Seed whirled around, trapped at a point blinding to the naked eye – spinning, spinning and spinning!
Pallanthus reluctantly opened his eyes. It was the middle of the night and he was quite irritated at being shaken awake.
The priests were speaking in hushed whispers and Pallanthus gasped as he realized what had happened. After more than a hundred years since the Day of Light as the Ephesians called it, the jets had finally stopped and the Seed of Sarothen hovered gently in the air – its pale glow enchanting in the utter darkness.
“My time has come” thought Pallanthus as strange pangs of excitement and dread clenched his stomach.
Saralledh had died, passing on his knowledge to Minnaeus who in turn had entrusted Pallanthus with the responsibility of getting on with the task. It was time for the second task.
He unfolded the disintegrating parchment and read:
The first shall be a temple
The sacrilege, to forgive
Blessings of a Goddess
And the lives of those who live
The Seed shall have their power
Roused from its dormant bliss
So Bearer hurry and take it fast
To the abode of Artemis.
Arrazesh rolled back the parchment and put it back into the bag. He cursed for he knew not of any temple dedicated to Artemis grand enough to be fit for the Seed of Sarothen.
“Not even in my lifetime!” he repeated and cursed again. “But Babylon will not have gone in vain! The Seed must be harnessed!”
Cloaked in the darkness of the night Arrazesh left the city with a stunned Saralledh – still unable to grasp the information presented to him, amazed to hear the clink of the gold pieces given to him which bound him to Arrazesh and knowing fully well that he would die before the task was over.
Hilla, 541 B.C.
41-year old Saralledh looked across the sand to the coloured specks approaching his way. The specks slowly materialized into a caravan of grumpy-looking camels with heaps of silks and perfumes on their backs.
The man atop the first camel greeted Saralledh jovially. He knew the man very well – as did any person who travelled through the town of Hilla.
“Well?” asked Saralledh.
“You will be so pleased, my friend! Oh yes!”
“You have news then?”
“Better. We have actually seen it!”
“Artemis!”
“We were passing through Ephesus – never before had we gone that way – and do you know, my friend-”
“What?”
“They have the most beautiful temple there! The temple of the Goddess Artemis!”
Finally!
THE BLESSING
Ephesus, 540 B.C. – The Temple Of Artemis
Saralledh was not much of a sight when he arrived in Ephesus – his only possessions were what he stood in and a worn-out satchel. The journey had been long, treacherous and far from pleasant. But Saralledh had managed to protect his gold, the brown parchment Arrazesh had given to him before dying, and most important of all - the Seed.
He patted the satchel just to comfort himself that it was there. He sat down and read the parchment again. He knew what he had to do.
In the horizon the massive temple loomed large and awe-inspiring, against the blazing sky as the sun dipped into the distant sands.
He plodded on till the towering pillars of the temple sternly bore down upon him at the entrance. Ephesus was asleep; the night’s darkness heavy and black.
A few lamps flickered inside the temple, dispelling the darkness just enough for Saralledh to make his way through a maze of pillars towards the temple priests.
Saralledh told the priests as much as he thought necessary – about the sacrifice of Babylon and the Seed of Sarothen, but he didn’t mention the power it could yield. His journey had taught him that it was best not to give the reasons for blessing the Seed. If there was no reason, he thought, there would be no greed-and with that no harm could come to him. The priests listened to him, the silence broken only by the melancholy song of the breeze as it raced past the temple. Saralledh finished his narrative and then waited for their reaction.
The head priest said nothing for some time, absorbing the news that this ragged stranger brought to him in the darkness of night. Saralledh stood watching the lines of his face- highlighted in the lamp’s faint glow as the shadows danced silently across the pillars.
When the priest finally spoke, his words were astonishing.
“It is the oracle – come true!”
He brought out a slab of marble on which there was a scripture. This is what it says, the priest explained, correctly comprehending Saralledh’s blank look. “The sin has been committed but it brings with it the greatest force the world has seen. He who controls it, controls the destinies of mortals of all lands. For he is the Bearer of the Seed of Sarothen.”
The temple was quiet again – the lamps exposing the grave faces as the men pondered over the immensity of the situation. A soft shiver went down Saralledh’s back as he realized that he held the future of the world in a dirty satchel hung by his side.
“Well”, he spoke finally, breaking the silence pressing down on them. “I know what to do.”
The priests moved aside and waited.
“There are 127 columns in this temple, if I am not mistaken”
The priests nodded.
“All the pillars will have to be turned towards the cella – the divine central chamber.”
Saralledh looked purposefully at them, but received no response. Finally, a young priest spoke –
“Are you out of your mind? These pillars cannot be shifted – and even if by Artemis’ grace they could – how on earth would you know that the pillars were facing the cella.” The priest added sarcastically – “In case you haven’t noticed, these columns are round!”
Saralledh listened patiently and then spoke-“I agree – the entire thing does seem fantastic”
The priest attempted a snort.
“But” Saralledh continued “it can be done. The cella should have a sculpted bird to the right of Artemis. Go there and lift its right wing. The cores of all the pillars will shift to form smaller cores and the pillars will all be ready to be turned.”
One of the priests went off towards the cella.
Saralledh continued – “Once we are able to-”
He was interrupted by an exclamtion – “In the name of Artemis – it lifts!”
Saralledh smiled and went on-“As I was saying, once we are able to turn the pillars around in their bases, comes the problem of knowing which face of the pillar should be turned towards the cella. Call it coincidence or call it Fate, you will notice a certain form sculpted right at the top of all the pillars, where they join the ceiling. That form is the sign of the Seed of Sarothen.
All the priests immediately looked up and after a few seconds of intense appraisal, they saw the symbol, minute as it was:
All of them gasped instinctively.
“But…but that looks so obvious! How did we never notice it before?”
“Quite simple really…these pillars are huge, and the symbol is so very, very small – one cannot spot it unless one is looking for it.”
“But how was it carved? Or why -”
“I told you – coincidence…Fate…Destiny – take your pick”
“Let’s get back to the task - Saralledh - what will happen once all the pillars are turned towards the cella?”
“I have no idea!”
The quiet Ephesus night watched as the men groaned and pushed, turning each column till the symbol etched on each pillar faced the divine cella.
Saralledh was still grunting with the last pillar when the sky gleamed silver, interspersed with bands of gold and the sun peeped in to see what the men were doing.
It was still too early and Ephesus was still happily ignorant of the miracle about to happen.
With the 127th mark turned to face the cella, Saralledh backed away to where the priests were standing and waited.
Nothing!
They waited and waited – but nothing happened.
“But I’ve done what the parchment says!” cried Saralledh frantically. “All the pillars are perfectly aligned to –”
He stopped midway – then slapped his forehead, softly cursing himself, much to the embarrasment of all the priests around him.
“The Seed!” he cried “I haven’t placed the Seed. It’s still with me!”
“What are you supposed to do with it?” asked one of the priests.
“Well, the prophecy doesn’t say anything but that’s the only thing missing I can think of!” Saralledh shrugged, his face questioning the priests.
Receiving no reaction against his idea, he slowly removed the glistening Seed – pure and uncorrupted out of his satchel and walked towards the cella, gingerly placing it right at the centre, then hurried back.
For a moment the temple was still. Then with astonishing speed, as the priests fell back in shock, the Seed shot into the air as 127 jets of blazing light simultaneously converged to strike it! The Seed whirled around, trapped at a point blinding to the naked eye – spinning, spinning and spinning!
***
Pallanthus reluctantly opened his eyes. It was the middle of the night and he was quite irritated at being shaken awake.
The priests were speaking in hushed whispers and Pallanthus gasped as he realized what had happened. After more than a hundred years since the Day of Light as the Ephesians called it, the jets had finally stopped and the Seed of Sarothen hovered gently in the air – its pale glow enchanting in the utter darkness.
“My time has come” thought Pallanthus as strange pangs of excitement and dread clenched his stomach.
Saralledh had died, passing on his knowledge to Minnaeus who in turn had entrusted Pallanthus with the responsibility of getting on with the task. It was time for the second task.
He unfolded the disintegrating parchment and read:
“The second is a statue
The greatest that exists
Take it to the God of Gods
For divinity’s kiss
There it shall be empowered
With the strength of Gods
Take it Bearer, take it now
Take it against all odds.”
***
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Seed of Sarothen - Part 1
A lot has happened over the last couple of months, and I've had little time to update the blog. A recent discussion over tea about story-writing brought back memories of an attempt I had made years ago, when I was still in school, at writing (what seemed to me then) a brilliant novel. So take the cheesy plot with a pinch of salt and you will hopefully find what I have to offer somewhat palatable. The novel was never finished, partly because I tired of it and also because Matthew Reilly came up with a shockingly similar story while I was midway through writing it. Well, this introduction is going on for too long, so here it is:
THE BIRTH
Babylon, 562 B.C. – The Hanging Gardens
The rain lashed the parched, dusty kingdom of Nebuchadnezzar II as he sat by his wife Amytis, looking out at the splendid gardens through a small window in the palace.
“Tonight is the night, my dear!” he whispered and then left the room.
Out in the distance, Sarothen gleamed white.
A maid slipped out of the room and caught hold of Razaish-one of the kitchen servants-and whispered “Tell the others. The priests will gather tonight. Sarothen shall bloom!”
Razaish hurried out of the palace and scuttled towards the stables. When Mirazzudar saw him, he called out “Have you heard?”
“Yes! Yes! After 125 years!”
Within moments the palace was buzzing with excitement and by the time the sun sent out its last desperate rays of light, the entire city knew that it was the night of Sarothen.
The full moon bathed the most famous gardens in all the known world in a milky white as King Nebuchadnezzar II followed the priests solemnly marching towards Sarothen. Upwards they climbed till they had reached the highest platform of the gardens; and they gazed in awe at the magnificent tree that stood before them.
Its trunk was as smooth as marble and exuded a soft white glow. Its leaves were ivory white and they rustled quietly in the cool breeze. And topmost, bathing in the moonlight, was a single snow-white bud.
The priests started a deep prayer which reverberated through Babylon as each peasant, each fruit-seller, each beggar offered their respect to Sarothen – the Bearer of Life.
The prayers over, the chief priest brought out a tablet and read out:
“Every 125 years, Sarothen shall bloom. The seed it bears carries the Force of Life. Beware-those who try to make it their own.”
At the stroke of midnight, with the moon straight above the tree, the priests watched as the bud burst into life and threw out five brilliant petals and a glittering cloud of pollen which hovered in the air before starting to fall back into the flower.
The last grain of pollen drifted slowly into the flower. There was a moment’s pause and then the petals cringed outwards, turning jet black before bursting into flames!
The dazed priests watched as Sarothen’s Child blazed before their very eyes. Slowly, the fire engulfed the entire flower till it burnt itself out.
And there was the Seed of Sarothen.
“I’m going to do it” he muttered.
“You can’t – you’re a priest Arrazesh!”
“So what! Do you even know what power I can yeild with Sarothen’s Child? Nebuchadnezzar will kneel before me! Can you even grasp the idea of such power?”
“Remember the inscription Arrazesh – Beware – those who try to make it their own”
“You have not read the Scripts, my friend. Centuries back Sarothen was planted at the spot which now is the very centre of the king’s gardens. Sarothen forms the core around which these gardens were constructed. But that is beside the point. When Sarothen was planted, a prophecy was made which was eventually lost in the annals of time – by a man who was ostracized from society for his words. But those words were not lost to me!”
“A prophecy!”
“Yes – a prophecy: The sands of time will shift until eternity but Sarothen shall stand immortal. After 1500 moons have blessed the land Sarothen shall offer a seed – key to the Force of Life. It shall stay with Sarothen for 7 days and then fall as ashes, blessing the ground it touches. But if it is plucked and the Force is called upon, Sarothen shall whither – and with its death, kill the land to which it belongs. The Force however can be saved. The Bearer must immediately escape if his life is to be spared. He shall not know it, for they will not exist, perhaps not even in his lifetime but……”
Arrazesh stopped abruptly and his eyes narrowed. “Tell me friend, why should I tell you all of this?”
“Perhaps because you call me a friend or am I not trustworthy enough? But tell me – what is it that will not exist?”
“Later” –and Arrazesh left.
The moon was the only witness to what happened that night. As it floated silently above the clouds, its light fell on the worried priest hurriedly shuffling as silently as possible towards the gardens.
The beads of perspiration clinging to Arrazesh’s face gleamed in Sarothen’s soft glow.
The leaves seemed to laugh as he brushed them away, climbing upwards. He reached the top where the Seed of Sarothen sat beautifully, white and tempting.
Arrazesh stretched out his arm, his fingers trembling. The leaves fell dead silent. The breeze stopped.
Then, Arrazesh plucked it.
The small tea-shop in Hilla was already packed but its gossiping inmates welcomed in the stranger drenched in sweat, clinging to a small brown bag and panting as though he were about to collapse.
“Friend, have you been running all night! Sit down, sit down. Some tea will do you good!”
“Have you heard” said another “what’s happened to Babylon?”
The stranger whirled around with terrified eyes, managing to shake his head.
“They say it’s ruined! The desert just opened up and swallowed the entire city!”
“The gardens? The people-they escaped?” the stranger whispered in a hoarse voice.
“Gone, all gone. There’s nothing there but the sand.”
Arrazesh ran out screaming.
By the next day, Arrazesh had composed himself. He had known that this would happen and it had. He had to get on with the prophecy or else the Seed would remain unharnessed.
He brought out a yellowed and torn parchment and started reading:
“……perhaps not even in his lifetime; but Destiny shall create 6 places for the Seed’s power to be unlocked.
Arrazesh rolled back the parchment and put it back into the bag. He cursed for he knew not of any temple dedicated to Artemis grand enough to be fit for the Seed of Sarothen.
“Not even in my lifetime!” he repeated and cursed again. “But Babylon will not have gone in vain! The Seed will be harnessed!”
The tea-shop was more frenzied than usual. News had spread that a stranger was in town and there were rumours going around that he was insane. But the excitement centred around the fact that he had made an announcement seeking two young men whose services he would buy for a handsome amount if they were prepared to renounce all contact with family, friends and people in general. They would have to dedicate their lives to him and him alone. The money had attracted quite a few men but the stranger’s manic emphasis on the latter part of his announcement discouraged most of them.
Finally only one man was found to be fit for the job and the tea-sippers were beside themselves with curiosity as to what 19-year old Saralledh – poor orphan that he was- had got himself into.
They never got to know. Cloaked in the darkness of the night Arrazesh left the city with a stunned Saralledh – still unable to grasp the information presented to him, amazed to hear the clink of the gold pieces which bound him to Arrazesh and knowing fully well that he would die before the task was over.
To be continued....when another lean blogging season arrives and I have to fall back on this!
THE BIRTH
Babylon, 562 B.C. – The Hanging Gardens
The rain lashed the parched, dusty kingdom of Nebuchadnezzar II as he sat by his wife Amytis, looking out at the splendid gardens through a small window in the palace.
“Tonight is the night, my dear!” he whispered and then left the room.
Out in the distance, Sarothen gleamed white.
A maid slipped out of the room and caught hold of Razaish-one of the kitchen servants-and whispered “Tell the others. The priests will gather tonight. Sarothen shall bloom!”
Razaish hurried out of the palace and scuttled towards the stables. When Mirazzudar saw him, he called out “Have you heard?”
“Yes! Yes! After 125 years!”
Within moments the palace was buzzing with excitement and by the time the sun sent out its last desperate rays of light, the entire city knew that it was the night of Sarothen.
The full moon bathed the most famous gardens in all the known world in a milky white as King Nebuchadnezzar II followed the priests solemnly marching towards Sarothen. Upwards they climbed till they had reached the highest platform of the gardens; and they gazed in awe at the magnificent tree that stood before them.
Its trunk was as smooth as marble and exuded a soft white glow. Its leaves were ivory white and they rustled quietly in the cool breeze. And topmost, bathing in the moonlight, was a single snow-white bud.
The priests started a deep prayer which reverberated through Babylon as each peasant, each fruit-seller, each beggar offered their respect to Sarothen – the Bearer of Life.
The prayers over, the chief priest brought out a tablet and read out:
“Every 125 years, Sarothen shall bloom. The seed it bears carries the Force of Life. Beware-those who try to make it their own.”
At the stroke of midnight, with the moon straight above the tree, the priests watched as the bud burst into life and threw out five brilliant petals and a glittering cloud of pollen which hovered in the air before starting to fall back into the flower.
The last grain of pollen drifted slowly into the flower. There was a moment’s pause and then the petals cringed outwards, turning jet black before bursting into flames!
The dazed priests watched as Sarothen’s Child blazed before their very eyes. Slowly, the fire engulfed the entire flower till it burnt itself out.
And there was the Seed of Sarothen.
***
“I’m going to do it” he muttered.
“You can’t – you’re a priest Arrazesh!”
“So what! Do you even know what power I can yeild with Sarothen’s Child? Nebuchadnezzar will kneel before me! Can you even grasp the idea of such power?”
“Remember the inscription Arrazesh – Beware – those who try to make it their own”
“You have not read the Scripts, my friend. Centuries back Sarothen was planted at the spot which now is the very centre of the king’s gardens. Sarothen forms the core around which these gardens were constructed. But that is beside the point. When Sarothen was planted, a prophecy was made which was eventually lost in the annals of time – by a man who was ostracized from society for his words. But those words were not lost to me!”
“A prophecy!”
“Yes – a prophecy: The sands of time will shift until eternity but Sarothen shall stand immortal. After 1500 moons have blessed the land Sarothen shall offer a seed – key to the Force of Life. It shall stay with Sarothen for 7 days and then fall as ashes, blessing the ground it touches. But if it is plucked and the Force is called upon, Sarothen shall whither – and with its death, kill the land to which it belongs. The Force however can be saved. The Bearer must immediately escape if his life is to be spared. He shall not know it, for they will not exist, perhaps not even in his lifetime but……”
Arrazesh stopped abruptly and his eyes narrowed. “Tell me friend, why should I tell you all of this?”
“Perhaps because you call me a friend or am I not trustworthy enough? But tell me – what is it that will not exist?”
“Later” –and Arrazesh left.
***
The moon was the only witness to what happened that night. As it floated silently above the clouds, its light fell on the worried priest hurriedly shuffling as silently as possible towards the gardens.
The beads of perspiration clinging to Arrazesh’s face gleamed in Sarothen’s soft glow.
The leaves seemed to laugh as he brushed them away, climbing upwards. He reached the top where the Seed of Sarothen sat beautifully, white and tempting.
Arrazesh stretched out his arm, his fingers trembling. The leaves fell dead silent. The breeze stopped.
Then, Arrazesh plucked it.
***
The small tea-shop in Hilla was already packed but its gossiping inmates welcomed in the stranger drenched in sweat, clinging to a small brown bag and panting as though he were about to collapse.
“Friend, have you been running all night! Sit down, sit down. Some tea will do you good!”
“Have you heard” said another “what’s happened to Babylon?”
The stranger whirled around with terrified eyes, managing to shake his head.
“They say it’s ruined! The desert just opened up and swallowed the entire city!”
“The gardens? The people-they escaped?” the stranger whispered in a hoarse voice.
“Gone, all gone. There’s nothing there but the sand.”
Arrazesh ran out screaming.
***
By the next day, Arrazesh had composed himself. He had known that this would happen and it had. He had to get on with the prophecy or else the Seed would remain unharnessed.
He brought out a yellowed and torn parchment and started reading:
“……perhaps not even in his lifetime; but Destiny shall create 6 places for the Seed’s power to be unlocked.
The first shall be a temple
The sacrilege, to forgive
Blessings of a Goddess
And the lives of those who live
The Seed shall have their power
Roused from its dormant bliss
So Bearer hurry and take it fast
To the abode of Artemis.
The sacrilege, to forgive
Blessings of a Goddess
And the lives of those who live
The Seed shall have their power
Roused from its dormant bliss
So Bearer hurry and take it fast
To the abode of Artemis.
Arrazesh rolled back the parchment and put it back into the bag. He cursed for he knew not of any temple dedicated to Artemis grand enough to be fit for the Seed of Sarothen.
“Not even in my lifetime!” he repeated and cursed again. “But Babylon will not have gone in vain! The Seed will be harnessed!”
***
The tea-shop was more frenzied than usual. News had spread that a stranger was in town and there were rumours going around that he was insane. But the excitement centred around the fact that he had made an announcement seeking two young men whose services he would buy for a handsome amount if they were prepared to renounce all contact with family, friends and people in general. They would have to dedicate their lives to him and him alone. The money had attracted quite a few men but the stranger’s manic emphasis on the latter part of his announcement discouraged most of them.
Finally only one man was found to be fit for the job and the tea-sippers were beside themselves with curiosity as to what 19-year old Saralledh – poor orphan that he was- had got himself into.
They never got to know. Cloaked in the darkness of the night Arrazesh left the city with a stunned Saralledh – still unable to grasp the information presented to him, amazed to hear the clink of the gold pieces which bound him to Arrazesh and knowing fully well that he would die before the task was over.
***
To be continued....when another lean blogging season arrives and I have to fall back on this!
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