Chapter - 2 An Offer

Since this book is supposed to be my chronicle, it should begin with a proper beginning. So let us delve deep into the heart of who I am. Let us sail down the river called time and journey years back before my triumphs and follies.

Contrary to the rumors, I do not belong to the fallen house of Yugakhadga. I am not an heir to a family of power-hungry fools cursed with hearts that burned with covetous fire. I was simply sired by an untouchable who lacked any aspirations other than whoring and gambling. I did not inherit his foolishness, but his caste holds great importance for me, as it is my inherited curse.

Those of my caste are restricted to the outskirts of villages and walled precincts in cities. This is done for a reason. The priests explain it to us all the time. They bemoan our betrayal of the revered godking, accusing us of siding with the danavas, which led to the destruction of five great nations. Despite our betreyal, the godking extolled his kindness in granting us a place in his paradise as servants.

His lap dogs often hail the supremacy of varna, condemning the evils of free will. They claim that each man should embrace his predestined role, for freewill can hinder the wheel of progress. I will be honest with you, for I have pledged veracity. If my words may offend you, I humbly request that you bear it with fortitude.

Never have I chanced upon a holy man lacking in falsehoods and untarnished by perversity. Most of them are a blight upon mankind, true hinderers of the wheel of progress, propagating lies in the name of utopia. I rejected their poisonous lies to embrace a world where truth prevails. I wanted to cultivate a society where every individual is treated with respect, regardless of their varna. But soon I grasped the lunacy of my ways. I have learned about the impossible odds of preserving the peace that comes after a revolution.

Compared to me, my mother and father endured harsh treatment willingly. They did not yearn for change, as the idea of change was unfamiliar and adapting to it would be arduous. My father harbored affection for his oppressors, and this is by no means an exaggeration. It may appear paradoxical and even absurd, but such is human nature. For some of us, it is easier to love our abusers than to acknowledge their true nature. My mother often lamented the mistreatment, yet held no reservations about keeping her head low and being pious. Such are the ways of the elders, and those ways are carried forth by people of my age as well. Self-preservation holds greater significance than dignity, and I cannot fault them for this. For I, too, walked that path until something dawned upon me: What meaning does life hold if joy is absent from its very essence? This was among several factors that kindled my desire to become a rebel.

Before my crusade, music ignited my heart, holding great significance in my life, offering solace in times of loneliness. I did not care about earning a coin or getting recognition for my talents, as that was reserved solely for individuals of the "Gaayakavarna" caste. Fame meant nothing to me and varna did not stop me from learning because music is an art that transcends man-made boundaries. It exists in every nook and cranny. One can hear it in the pitter-patter of raindrops, in the serenade of dawn singers, in the dancing greens beneath a starless canvas, and amidst the soft murmurs of the wind.

In retrospect, this dream would have never blossomed had it not been for a captivating woman. She was a teacher of sorts and also a heartbreaker. I like to think of myself as a skilled connoisseur in art of understanding women. Yet, I never truly grasped the enigma that she is. Beyond her visage, capturing the essence of her eludes description. So I'll limit my remarks to her physical features. Her eyes were brown, brown as honey, shaped like almonds, and set in a face with the coloring of burnt caramel. Her hair was dark, dark as the veil of midnight, smooth as silk, with each strand appearing as if spun by a master's hand. Flowing down to her waist, her obsidian tresses resembled graceful rivulets, tenderly caressing the sun-kissed coloring of her bare skin, which carried the sweet fragrance of berries. Her scent remained unchanged, enveloping her whenever she graced me with her presence.

I first met her fifteen years ago at the age of 14. In the heart of Mohanapur. This woman had taught me to dream, and if not for her, I would have never sought freedom or played the role of chaos in flesh. I do not hold it against her. She meant well. The fault lies within me, for I am an unquenchable fire.

Mohanapur is a city in a sea like canvas of sand, enveloped by massive sandstone walls adorned with intricate latticework and elaborate carvings. The sheer artistry of these walls could captivate a man for a lifetime. The entrance is at the north, where massive tall wooden doors display ornate patterns, welcoming you with wide streets lined with breathtaking havelis.

These havelis have facade of sandstone with delicate jhrokhas, supported by carved wooden brackets. Their courtyards are beautiful, with their gardens and fountains. To the east of the wide street that led to royal palace and temples in north, lies the bustling bazaar, where you can find an array of items, such as embroidered fabrics, handicrafts, pots, and weaponry. Men wearing colorful turbans and tunics skillfully weave their words to entice you into purchasing things you may not need. With the right words, they can make you consider selling them your own children in exchange for a nicely made pot.

To the west lay a dark spot, surrounded by towering sandstone walls. Within those walls, my people and I lived in rectangular homes with mud walls and thatched roofs. We are confined in there and are rarely allowed entry into the paradise of the uchhavarna. We are only allowed to leave for work that doesn't not pay enough. Those who dare to venture beyond the walls after sunset face severe consequences, lucky ones earn an execution unlucky are crippled. Any who dare to engage in love making outside their station are skinned alive.

We are never allowed to visit temples but priests often come to bleat about the glory of gods and how we should repent. As a child those massive spires of the Bhairava Temple, rising above the main sanctum, fascinated me. Later in my life, I got to venture inside those magnificent temples and got to see the murals and mandapas, even got to sit with several people in religious ceremonies in pillared halls. It is unfathomable to think that such exquisite beautiful structure could be crafted by the very hands capable of monstrous deeds. That is the thing with humanity. We are paradoxical. We are capable of both terrible and beautiful things. I do not know whose womb bore the woman that breathed life into me. Life into an ungrateful man who did not know her value. She was my safe haven from despair, and I allowed the devil inside me to besiege her. If only I had never met her, but no, the meeting unfortunately happened.

I met her at the merchant district when my father got sick and I had to go in his stead. Me and several others were hired to work as laborers, to do various manual labor duties, for a wealthy merchant who desired to host a grand wedding for his daughter.

“Bow your heads and remove your footwear before you go inside,” the guard said. “And stay that way until you come out. And do not cover the marking on your hand,” People from all varnas had a tattoo on their right hands. The untouchables had a tattoo that depicted a pair of hands, intricately inked and shackled together.

We passed through the ornate wooden doors, crafted to perfection, into the main hall. There, we diligently cleaned the polished stone floor to sparkling perfection, cleared the dust and cobwebs from the vibrant walls adorned with floral motifs, geometric patterns, and the ornate pillars cut from stone. As I lifted my head to gaze at the captivating murals on the ceiling, an elderly man promptly admonished me for doing so.

A guard followed us around to make sure that we do not steal anything from those antique wooden wardrobes and polished wooden chests. He breathed a sigh of relief as we entered the courtyard devoid of valuables. The sun’s gentle rays kissed our skin and the liquid silver in the fountain sparkled like diamonds. Before his hasty departure, presumably for a much-needed shit, he swiftly cautioned us, warning not to put our hands in the fountain’s water. As I went about my tasks, my heart, less restrained than my brain, made me to slip away to a lush garden beyond.

My heart raced with each step I took, hoping that no eyes would catch me lurking where I did not belong. I heard a melodious melody wafting through the air, the sound of a male voice resonating from one of the topmost floors of the haveli.

Oh, the valiant one in pale gold,
his hair basked in golden light.
He rode in darkest night,
His name brought forth strength.

Raghava Mahaveera, the emperor of the world,
With his valiant stead and shining sword.
He rides to the battle, to fearless fight,
Bringing light and joy to every distant land.

His eyes were like a dawn,
radiant and warm,
He wore a smile that shone brighter,
brighter than the shining stars.

Raghava Mahaveera, the embodiment of light,
his voice sweet like melody,
his voice serene like a windless night,
enchanting all with his presence

In golden tapestry of ambar,
his legend had began,
his name echoed to three realms,
becoming a symbol of courage.

Let us sing for his glory,
celebrate the sacrifice of raghava, ‘
embrace the colors of his banner,
praise his timeless heroism.

Caught in the spell of the song, my lips involuntarily began to hum along, my voice soon mimicking his. Lost in my singing, I forgot about all the troubles, as if I was transported to a realm where freedom to sing was within my reach.

"You have a lovely voice." someone exclaimed. It was a woman's voice.

Fear tightened its grip on my heart, and panic coursed through my veins. I quickly turned around, my eyes locked onto the nightingale tattoo on her hand, and I immediately dropped to my knees. Curses flooded my mind, berating myself for my foolishness. With joined hands, I pleaded, "This one made a terrible mistake, my lady. This unworthy one was ignorant of his place. I beg you, please find it in your heart to forgive this one." I said and my voice trembled with fear. She took a step, her hand outstretched towards me. Flinching, I braced myself, anticipating a slap. To my surprise, she gently ruffled my hair, dispelling my fears. I let my eyes meet hers and that was the first time, I met her. For a first impression, it was rather terrible.

"Do not be afraid. I am not going to hurt you." She assured me with gentle voice.

"You have a beautiful voice. Where did you learn to sing?" She asked curiously.

"Nowhere," I whispered in a voice only I could hear. "I am but a sullied one, I have no right to learn. Please find it in your heart to forgive me."

"Do not worry. I have no intention of hurting you." She said, smiling reassuringly. "You have a lovely voice. I can teach you to perfect it."

"I can't my lady. I am a sullied." I said.

"Your voice holds a beauty that should not be restrained."

“They will kill me, my lady. If they find out, they will. Forgive me, but you do not seem to know the world that much.” I said and immediately regretted my words. If she took any offence to my tone, she did not show.

She stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. “I understand the world little man. I know your fears and I give you my word that your secret will remain safe with me. Singing, you see is not solely for entertaining others. It is a personal passion that brings you joy as well. I know of your birth. I know the dangers teaching you would bring."

"Why do you offer such a thing so suddenly? I am a stranger and a sullied one at that. Why are you so willing to teach someone like me?" She mused for moment before answering my question.

“There was a time. I too feared to pursue this passion. Many do not know that I was adopted.” She said smiling with mild amusement and continued.

“Having heirs out of caste is not uncommon. As long as they come from virtuous mothers from respectable castes. What was uncommon was adopting the daughter of a prostitute.” She said, her voice laced with sadness.

"My father silenced the secret, preventing it from spreading like wildfire. His wife was displeased, but still accepted his plan as she was unable to give him any heirs. Fortunately for them, they resided at the edge of the empire, distanced from civilization, enabling them to expertly craft lies and deceive the world into believing that I was their own. My mother, on the other hand, constantly reminded me of my filthy blood. Her words instilled in me a self-loathing for my lineage, causing me lose my confidence. However, despite her efforts to instill self loathing, I persevered. Her words failed to deter me from pursuing my dreams."

"That was v-very honest of you," I stuttered, taken aback by the sudden, unexpected display of honesty. She was a remarkable and queer woman. I would wager that whatever she told me that day was horseshit. Later in my life, I did some digging and discovered, from a reliable source, that her entire family had gone missing in floods. I even found a portrait of hers from their old home, which now lay in ruins. It became evident to me that she was a con. Nevertheless, undeniable was her talent in music.

"Would you betray my secret?" She asked.

"I won't. But how can you teach me? Someone will eventually find out."

"Do not fear, my little apprentice. I have my ways."

She took out a paper from her satchel and took a seat at a nearby table to write a writ of employment.

"What is your name?" She asked.

"Indrasena." I said.

"With this you can leave your home without any trouble. You are officially my personal servant for next six months. If you are as talented as I assumed you will be able grasp what I teach you rather quickly." I hesitated for a moment before taking the writ. It was strange to me. I at the time had never met a person above me in social hierarchy show me kind attention. They always exerted force to create fear in our hearts. And she was different. A creature of love and passion that saw talent in me and wanted me to have a dream, risking her own life in process. She was, to me, a shining jewel in a sea of faces that pretends to be radiant.

"See? I saw it in your eyes that you wanted more in life."

She was right. Without her, I would have never had meaning to my life. I never would have had a desire to dream. Music became my everything. A beacon of joy in lightless sorrow. It made me see the beauty of the world and evoked within me a desire to capture them in words. Whenever I tried to do just that, the beauty slipped away from my fingers like sand. Leaving only tiny understandings. I carefully molded them into a song that either earned groans from the dissatisfied audience or weeping from a kinder souls. I never seen her weep except that one time I sang a song composed by her very hand.

"I do not know your name." I said

"Samira," She said with her sweeter than honey voice.

At the time, I did not know the meaning behind her name. I did not realize that I had been hearing the name of the wind, that was ever elusive.