From The Pages Of HALF SCROLL

 

CHAPTER 2

WALLS OF MEMORIES

Last thing Rakka saw was Asuman jumping down from wagon and crouching under it in time. Then the herd flooded over it. Trees shuddered.

In midst of thudding, honking; he could clearly make out the cracking sound of wood. The wagon had smashed.

Hundreds of antelopes headed south leaving a great cloud of dust behind their trail.

“I can’t bear it more,” said the old-hunter. The rope slipped from his grip rupturing flesh of his hand. The cage swayed, Neytri grunted and everyone’s grip loosened. With a great thud, iron cage collapsed and vanished in dusty cloud.

“Bloody hell!”

Rakka studied the thick blanket of suspending dust below. Somewhere under the wreckage of wagon his chief was fighting to remain alive or he might have already lost the gamble of life. Rakka looked at his companions with worried eyes, seeking guidance for next move. All he received back was their scared stares.

“No,” warned the old-one, “don’t you dare to think about it.”

But it was too late. Rakka had descended to aid his chief.

Rakka heard coughs of his companions as dust chocked their throats. This relieved Rakka that they were with him on ground. His eyes burned and turned watery as flying sand irritated them, blinding the world details for a while. Particles sting the gashes of his palm.

Curtains of sand slowly faded and the broken iron-cage came into their sight. Horror struck them. Tigress was missing.

“Fool of the wood!” said his elder, “We are without weapons.” Game had changed, tide had turned. Hunters were now the hunted ones.

They stood immobile in the haze of dust with no clue to deal with tigress. But still in their hearts under the shadows of fear, a hope was flickering. A hope that assured them that they could save their chief. Now with a massive predator roaming freely, their lives were too at risk.

“Don’t get panic,” Rakka comforted himself, “Everything will be fine.” He closed his eyes.

Far from his past a memory surfaced in his uneasy mind. His grandfather’s hunting lessons echoed in his ears. A good hunter is one who sees through his ears too. Your eyes can easily be fooled. Feel the energy that flows in nature. Sense its every motion. If you are able to do it then no can save your prey from your spear, son. Your reflexes are the only life-saving tools in wilderness. The memory sank in his sub-conscious.

Rakka concentrated on his hearing, trying to perceive every possible sound he could. Chirping of the little-birds in the nests above, squeaking of squirrels in the nearby tree-holes and even the subsiding honking of antelopes entered his ears. And then he heard a soft thump on a wooden plank.

“She is just right behind us,” Rakka warned others, opening his eyes. Dust had diminished in atmosphere.

Seven hunters turned around.

A silhouette of Neytri materialised near the wooden shards of wagon. Though covered in sand she still held her majestic charm.

Rakka didn’t know whether it was his courage or his foolishness that drew his steps towards the white cat. The only thing he cared was to see his chief alive.

Others followed him; their eyes locked on the beast.

To their amazement Neytri didn’t attack them. She simply motioned her head towards the heap of wooden shards. She groaned.

Rakka felt his fear vanishing from his heart. She is not a marauder, he thought. “Be quick with this wreck.”

Without losing any further moment, under the watch of Neytri, the hunters winched up the wooden shards. Splinters pierced their hands but they didn’t care. At last, Asuman’s body emerged blanketed with dust and fragments of woods. Blood oozed out from numerous wounds. But that didn’t worried hunters. Their chief’s eyes were closed.  He was motionless.

Rakka embraced his chief. “Say something.”

There was no reply.

He slapped lightly on Asuman’s bearded cheek, hoping to get him back to his sense. But his hope withered.

“Open your damn eyes! Talk to me! You can’t....” His words receded into sobs. His vision blurred as tears clouded his eyes.

“Rakka,” said the elder. He wanted to say more but he could not hide his grief.  He only shook his head.

“No! He can’t die! He can’t...” stammered Rakka. He shook his chief again.

Reality quaked everyone’s hope as still there was no movement from Asuman’s side. A heavy sadness enveloped them. They had lost their saviour. They had lost their chief. For Rakka, he had lost someone who he used to consider as elder brother. He hugged his dead-chief and wept.

There rested on the trampled red soil of Baarahmas, the chief of Samudh, Asuman.

•••••

“Butcher them!” King Aakshraj, the emperor of flourishing Malhar, thundered in the royal throne room. His ministers and advisors remained silent. They were draped in white with no hint of jewellery same like their king. Malharians were lamenting for their loss.

“My Lord, you are in no condition to make such decision,” advised Amodh, the chief-advisor and the second-powerful person of Malhar. “You must reconsider your thoughts.”

“Age has affected your assessment,” rumbled the king, waving his hand. Ale from his golden goblet escaped and damped his throne. He gave a furious look to a nearby servant who immediately filled his highness’s empty glass. “They murdered my son and my men!”

“I understand your grief but it must not cloud your reasoning.” Amodh’s white brows frowned. His long nose, brown-eyes on his proud face was bordered by long flowing silver beard. “And for heaven’s sake stop drinking! Wine won’t fill the abyss of your loss.”

“No it doesn’t,” said Aakshraj examining the brim of his glass. The red liquid’s surface playfully stirred as he stirred the goblet within his grip. “But it helps in lessening the pain.” With three gulps he emptied the glass.

“Call back your soldiers. You can’t lunge on mere hunches.”

“Mere hunches? I may be shattered right now, but, I am not a fool.” He turned to his servant. “Bring that damn things!”

A servant appeared from a room with a plate roofed with black cloth and offered it to Amodh.

“What’s this?”

“You had demanded evidence. Here are they.”

Amodh removed the cloth-cover. Twenty darts and a knife with wooden handle lied on the bronze plate – all stained with dry blood of dead.

“Even a child knows who uses such darts,” said Aakshraj. “Those savages must repay!”

Amodh stared at the plate with incredulity. Prakrats had never interfered with outer world. Those forest people were content in their natural abode. But their darts were narrating a different tale. Could it be a Prakrat who killed the prince? If yes, who trained him so well? But why they wanted to murder the heir of Malhar? And how did that bloody assassin enter the royal chamber?

“So you still doubt my decision, uncle,” said the king.

“Just one question. If they could easily breach our security, kill our twenty men, finds the royal room and snatch the life out from your son, then why would they leave their weapons behind? It’s a trap. Someone wants you to wipe away those Prakrats. Send a messenger and withdraw your troops. Hundreds of innocent lives are at risk.”

The throne room filled with murmurs of ministers as they consulted one another views.  Aakshraj found himself lost in thoughts.

“Wasn’t our prince blameless?” A man’s voice defied them all like a cold knife.

All eyes turned to see the speaker while Amodh’s were fixed on king. He was familiar with that cold voice – Vanshtej, one of the advisor and brother-in-law of King Aakshraj.

“Wasn’t he too young to die?” Vanshtej’s voice demanded. He was a skinny man with no clue of hair on his features, his deep set eyes rolling from Amodh to his king. The fabric of his black dhoti outlined with golden threads, slapped his stick-like legs as he paced towards them. “An empire has lost his future king; people hopes for an action from the king, an immediate decision must be made.”

“A decision without considering its consequences will only result in bizarre, Vanshtej. Those Prakrats are guiltless.” Amodh turned towards his king. “Not as an advisor but as your uncle listen to me. You must stop them.”

“My king, as per your command our troops had stationed themselves in the plains of south. Our scouts are exploring Baarahmaas,” Vanshtej informed. “Once their location is found, I promise that I’ll present you your culprit.”

Amodh had anticipated this would happen. Words of Vanshtej were dominating Aakshraj’s mind. He knew he couldn’t win this debate against Vanshtej, the master of words. “Prakrats are scattered among seven villages in Baarahmaas. You can’t raid on every village.”

“No we won’t. Our criminal hides in one of those and I know which one,” said Vanshtej. “And as far as innocence is concerned, there’s no place of it in a war. A war only ends with a victory or death. This, they have triggered and now it’ll conclude with their lives.”

“You know who killed my son?” asked grief-shaken Aakshraj. “Tell me his name. I’ll behead him by myself.”

“I don’t know his name but I am certain who the murderer is.”

“How can you possibly be so sure about t it?” interrupted Amodh.

“Answer lies in front of you,” said Vanshtej, pointing his thin hand towards the plate. “The knife.”

•••••

Asuman felt his body weightless. His wounds were gone and the pain that weakened him had vanished. A new freshness filled his spirit until random questions about his surroundings started haunting his mind. He was definitely sure that the place he was standing wasn’t a part of Baarahmaas.

He found himself alone in the field of wheat that covered the earth till he could see. His eyes didn’t blink for few moments while he examined the sky above him. The black canopy was filled with millions of twinkling diamonds. He even caught a glimpse of a falling star before its long tail faded in oblivion. “Wow!” As his eyes descended, the sky turned into pinkish-orange above horizon. A brilliant golden light shimmered and obscured the separation line of land and the heavens. That golden glare produced an irresistible urge of belongingness in his soul. Pain, sufferings and grief became a distant memory for him. Such blissful was the warmth of light. He moved towards the horizon. Swaying crops didn’t get trampled under his feet but he was astounded to watch them pass through his body. Then he understood the reason of being so light. His body was no more a bulk of flesh. Instead his features were now turned into hazy white.

He suspected some motion in his sides while a light gust of breeze stirred the crops. Innumerable colourful sparkles sprinkled away from every grain that thrived on stems. These glitters slowly rose and progressed towards him. He waited to watch the miraculous phenomenon as countless glistering particles walled themselves around him, fashioning an enchanting alley towards the golden glow.

Asuman narrowed his eyes and was amazed to witness his happiest moments on the shimmering walls. Dancing particles were arranging themselves in such patterns that they depicted motion-images of his life; memories he had treasured in his heart. He saw himself as a child enjoying a horse ride on his uncle’s back whilst his parents were relishing those moments. He immediately bent to touch his guardians’ feet. When his milky translucent fingers came in contact with the moving images, it sent a ripple of waves to the whole depiction which disturbed the entire moment. He instantly withdrew his hand. After a while, glitters again organised by them but the memory had changed. A teen-aged Asuman was getting trained in swordsmanship in his Gurukul under the inspection of an aged man. “Guruji,” whispered the spectator Asuman. He closed his eyes and bowed down his head to offer his respect. When his head rose and eyes opened, the image again altered. He watched himself as a young man wandering on the bank of a river Neytri in Barrahmaas. Then came one of the most precious moments of his life. He saw her, a beauty that stole his heart, the love of his life. He lost the track of time while his romantic reminiscences flashed before his eyes. As air stirred the breeze, the entire fascinating walls fluttered like flags and the memories woven on it modified. He saw himself with his beloved wife on the bank of Neytri, caressing theirs infant cute son in his muscular arm.

A bead of tear escaped his eyes and rolled down his cheek. He never felt the wetness of that precious liquid pearl which amassed the happiness of his whole life. He kept staring at the images.

A woman’s voice reverberated around the field. “Come back.”

He looked around but failed to find her.

“Listen to me,” said woman’s voice. “For a promise you assured me, you have to return. You cannot elude. You are bounded with words you gave me. For sake of your son, for sake of the truth that is kept secret from him, you need to come back.”

   Her words brought a storm in the field. Strong blasts of air swayed the crops violently and scattered the shining particles of his memories. He felt nothing. He stood still unaffected by the power of wild wind. He looked up; the twinkles had disappeared leaving the black void over him. The golden light of horizon dimmed and finally extinguished.

He stood all alone in the nerving blackness.

•••••

“Who on earth identified that bloody knife?” asked troubled Amodh. He was in his regal room’s balcony, watching the silent capital city of Malhar, Ratanore. To show their grief for the loss that empire had suffered past night citizens chose to remain in their house for a day. Ever crowded streets now remained empty in mid-day and only movements on it could be spotted were of patrolling-guards. The heart of Malhar forgot to beat that day.

“He is a Prakrat, my lord,” said Vrat.

Amodh turned to see Vrat. He was a youth of twenty with black hairs and sharp eyes with colour of coffee. Though young he out-smarted the knowledge of economics and politics to any royal advisors. He chose to serve Amodh as an assistant for his own reasons.

“What does a Prakrat have a business in Ratanore?”

“That’s exactly an answer of your question,” replied Vrat. “He was here for his business. He is a merchant.”

“And how did they get their hands on him?”

“Those darts were enough for Vanshtej to send his men to west. Few Prakrat resides in our city too. It was an easy task for them to find one who knows something about knife,” said Vrat.

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know who he is or his whereabouts. I fear if he is alive or not. Only thing I got from my whisperers is that last night they stepped inside an inn and came out with a man. It was impossible to recognise that person, they covered his face. But when my men asked the manager he could only provide bit of information about him. He is a merchant Prakrat,” answered Vrat.

Amodh remained quiet.

“Our soldiers had never left their homes at night but yesterday they did. They were under the orders of king,” continued Vrat. “I am shocked to know that you were unaware about such movements.”

“I was interrogating the guards of night-watch that time,” Amodh told him, “They hadn’t seen anyone.”

“Didn’t Vanshtejji mention the place?”

“He bears a mind of fox. He knew if the location of attack leaks out then I’ll surely develop some hindrance in his plan.”

“Can’t you extract it from king?” asked Vrat.

“Vanshtej knows well his game. He promised the king his son murderer,” said Amodh. Vrat felt trace of frustration in his words. Amodh continued, “He only needed the permission that he easily received. Even the king does not have any idea about it.”

“There’s one thing I forgot to share,” Vrat admitted. “Soldiers also accompanied something like cages.”

Amodh frowned. “Cages? Were they empty?” He considered a reason for it and only thing that came up in his mind was to pen Prakrats.

Vrat shook his head. “No they weren’t. My men heard howls of beasts from it.”

Amodh pondered over it and soon answer dawned in his mind. “War-hounds!”

“What are they hatching up to do?” asked Vrat.

“Only one person can answer us now,” Amodh responded.

Vrat met his eyes. “Do you think he’ll share? I doubt it.”

Amodh crossed his room and opened the sandal-wood door. “He has to open his mouth or I’ll make sure he won’t speak again.”

•••••

The forgotten pain returned from every wound that had eroded his flesh. Asuman moaned in agony. The first thing he saw was Neytri’s hairy face looming over him. Warm breaths exhaling from her charcoal nostrils succoured his sufferings a little. She licked him almost cleansing his full face. “Argh! That’s disgusting!” He growled.

Neytri pawed back, allowing hunters to welcome back their chief to his consciousness.

There’s no bound of happiness to Rakka when he heard Asuman’s comment. He silently prayed and thanked every gods and goddess, known and unknown to him. He embraced his cheif.

“That hurts, Rakka,” complained Asuman.

“Sorry....I mean....how can...I thought you are...no but you are alive!”

“He won’t be anymore if you don’t leave him, you fool!” grunted the old man.

Rakka realised his mistake and loosened his cuddle, helping Asuman to sit comfortably.

“There’s one thing we need to do,” said the elder. He examined his comrades. “Aren’t we?”

All nodded in agreement.

Asuman was dumbfounded to watch his hunter-brothers surrounding Neytri in a wide circle. She remained still. They knelt-down before her, their right fist pressing the earth while their heads down. Asuman was aware about this ritual. It was only performed to show Prakrat’s new acquainted respect to anyone. And with this ritual they were now bounded to protect that person with their lives. What Neytri did was an unsolved mystery to him. Neytri’s thunderous roar revealed her razor-sharp teeth. Asuman considered it as an acceptance of her honour offered by his men.

Finally they all rose.

Rakka with the help of Simha assisted their cheif to stand and carried him. The party were again on their path leaded by a free tigress to their home, Samudh.

“So she finally roared, eh?” asked Asuman, his eyes locked on the graceful walk of Neyti.

“No,” replied Rakka. “She introduced her roar the first time when you were dead – I mean unconscious. When we lost hope she came near to you and roared. It was terrifying at the same moment it was relieving. After few moments you stirred and opened your eyes. You were correct, chief. She is more than an animal.”

“And that’s the reason why we bowed before her,” added Simha. “She brought you back.”

Asuman remained silent. He remembered everything. The everlasting wheat-field, the sky of stars, the golden light and even every memory on the shimmering walls. He was positive about the fact that he had heard a woman’s voice not a tigress’s roar. “Did anyone hear a woman’s voice?”

“Cheif, you need to rest,” advised Rakka, “there was no woman around. You are exhausted.”

 “And he won’t rest until you two fools shut your mouths,” scolded the old-man from ahead.

“Why he always scolds us?” asked Simha, getting irritated of being treated like a child from the aged man.

“Because he is cracked,” replied Rakka.

“And I heard that Rakka!”

May be I was imagining things and hearing voices, Asuman thought. He was not certain about one thing - Was I really dead or was it only a dream? If it was a dream then it was one of the most wonderful dreams he had ever visited and desired to re-visit it. But what if it wasn’t a dream? If he was dead, though for few moments, then death is just a next beautiful journey to endure.

•••••

The doors of Vanshtej’s room opened with fast swing, capturing the attention of occupants as its wooden elements hit the nearby stone walls.

The moment Ravika, Vanshtej’s wife, saw Amodh she at once adjusted her veil of pearl-white saree over her head and bowed.

“Saubhagyavati bhava,” Amodh blessed her. “May I have few moments of private talk with your husband?”

Ravika understood it wasn’t a request, it was an order. She looked at her husband who was busy with parchments strewn over the central table. As she expected there was no response from her life-partner. She nodded and left the two political masters alone.

“I prefer a knock on the door from my visitors,” mocked Vanshtej. “Such behaviour doesn’t suit to a person like you, a portrait of wisdom for Malhar.”

“Don’t try to provoke me, Vanshtej.”

“Aggravating you will only result in wastage of my time,” said Vanshtej. His words stung like needles in Amodh’s ears. Somehow Amodh kept his rage at bay.

“What brings you here?” asked Vanshtej. A mocking grin stretched his lips while he moved towards Amodh. “Let me guess, you wanted to know the location, and you think you’ll get by threatening me, isn’t it?”

Temper had stretched Amodh’s veins. His fists tightened.

“I am so apologetic to tell you that it won’t work like you want. Instead let’s play a game, a kind of challenge to you,” Vanshtej told him. “I give you the name. My messengers will leave the city after an hour. If you think that low-lives Prakarts are guiltless then stop them before they depart.”

“Give the damn name!”

“One who preaches lessons of patience to everyone is how impatient today,” teased Vanshtej. “Tell me what your subject of interest in those Prakrats is?”

“They are not matter of concern to you. I had, I am and I will always protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

“Ah, I see. From when did such kindness have emerged in your heart? Everyone knows what you did to your wife, a woman you loved the most. Tell me Amodhji, didn’t you even hesitate before killing her.”

“Enough!” roared Amodh. He grabbed Vanshtej’s neck and squeezed it with his strong hands that once wielded a sword and a shield in many ferocious battles. “Enough with your tricks and schemes. Provide me the location or I’ll turn this palace into your tomb.”

“If I die....” Vanshtej struggled but it was impossible to get away from him, “the name.....goes....with me.”

Amodh released him realising the fact.

Vanshtej’s skeleton body dropped on the floor. He coughed and rolled for few moments. Finally massaging his neck with his bony fingers, he stood up.

“I am the chief-advisor of Malhar. The commader-in-chief of army follows my orders,” announced Amodh. “I’ll send my messenger and withdraw our soldiers.”

“So you didn’t get the letter?” asked Vanshtej. His voice had now lost the ridicules.

“What letter?”

The devilish grin emblazoned again on Vanshtej’s face. He went back to his table, picked up an hourglass and offered a parchment that lied under its weight to Amodh.

“What is it?” Amodh demanded.

“A decree from our King Aakshraj that clearly proclaims that you are unfit for your position now and must be replaced,” stated Vanshtej. “Under your inspection the empire has suffered its greatest loss.”

Amodh grabbed the parchment and scanned for any kind of forgery. The broken wax seal of Malhar was genuine and the sign of king was real. He rolled the parchment and asked, “Who’s the new one?”

Vanshtej curtsied and said, “At your service.” He inverted the hourglass that he was holding, the grains of sand started flowing into the empty bottom vertical bulb. “You are left with no choice. Time is running out, Amodhji and the hounds are already out of their cages.”

•••••

Vrat was comparing notes with one of his men when Amodh entered his room. “My lord, you will be amazed to hear about the recent discovery in one of our quarries in north.”

“To hell with stones and rubbish,” blasted Amodh. “Bar every gates of the city. Gather our men who we can trust and place them on the main gates. Allow no to escape until I say.”

“But what’s the matter, my lord?”

“We’ll talk about it later. Do as I command. We are in shortage of time.”

“Do you know where they are going to attack?”

Amodh’s gaze fell on his brilliant assistant. He nodded.

Samudh!