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Chronicles of the Lost

I have always been fascinated by the Ramayana and Mahabharata, and I always wanted to have my retelling of it. When I say retelling, it doesn't mean I would insert totally new characters, or rewrite the epic itself (maybe a bit). It would have something about perspective, and maybe not following a linear timeline. For instance, my Ramayana would begin with how it all began - with the advent of the Rakshasa. What would Ravana's story be like? I started this two years back, and easily gave it up when Asura - Tale of the Vanquished came out. Saying that I still wanted this to be read: the prologue to my aborted novel. 

1

O seeker of truth, hear and heed my words, for it disputes what naysayers and naïve poets have parroted for centuries. For their feeble minds could not comprehend what they saw and heard, and could not put into words what they did comprehend. Thence the histories of our races and kings were shrouded in lies and ignorant rants.

O scribe, mark down the first words of the chronicles, the beginning of time and history as it was.

In the beginning, there was the Void and the Veil. The Void is where the known universe sprouted, and everything we know came from there and remains here. Beyond the Veil is the greatest mystery of all; it is the realm where the world soul resides in its purest form, without attributes. God in its purest form has no shape, no voice and no emotion, and hence is unmanifest. Beyond the veil, everything is unmanifest, yet existing.

When the unmanifest chooses to manifest, it crosses over the veil, and it chose to.

That was the beginning of time.

Bards and philosophers see the pure white veil as an ocean of milk. Across the surface of the ocean it rippled, the first sound om resonated across the emptiness of the expanse. The Mahāvishṇu poured into our world. According to lore, it assumed the form of a child floating on the surface of the ocean – the manifest form, the Vishṇu. Besides the irrelevant imagery, what we know is that from the navel of the Vishṇu sprang a beam of light and exploded into a thousand lotus petals of white luminescence. And the Brahmā was born.

The Brahmā, the creator of everything since, was a creature of five heads and a powerful mind. For what it conceived in its mind through imagination and emotion, sprang into being. It is the father of all the races and tribes; all dynasties are born from it. The first of the firsts, the Siva, the lord of the roaring storms, was born from him. The priest-kings of yore, the prajāpatis came from him. In time, the Brahmā will be hailed as the ancestor of the Dēvas, Daityas, Dānavas, Nāgas, Uragas, and such unworthy weak beings. For now it filled the worlds with creatures of every kind. The Void was no longer void; it teemed with life.

That, my kin, was the birth of our worlds. In the ballads of our time, Vishṇu, Brahmā and Siva, manifestations of the world soul, rightfully became the preserver, the creator, and the destroyer. The tales of origin of different races were spread far and wide. But the birth of our kind was not intended by the creator. Our beginnings were not meant to be.

On the twilight of creation, the Brahmā grew tired and hungry. It simply tore away the feeling out of itself. The hunger floated away condensing into misshapen foul creatures with drooling mouths and growling bellies. The savages began feeding on other life-forms, consuming the other creatures. Their ravenousness endangered the Brahmā’s creations. They were a threat to the worlds’ existence.

The Brahmā on seeing this, went into a terrible rage. Then on understanding what was happening, wrested the rage out of itself. The righteous anger coagulated into fierce and vengeful creatures which hunted down their greedy cousins. They clawed and sunk their fangs into them, and fought and banished them to the fringes of existence. They were the saviours of creation.

O bard, this tale had been told oft and forgotten oft. The scrolls of our histories have often been burnt and its keepers slaughtered to hide the truth. The ravenous vermin which chanted bhaksha bhaksha! came to be known as the Yaksha. They are the greedy ones, for they are always attracted to treasures, be it gold or gems, water or woods. The unsophisticated think of them as guardians of resources, but in truth, they cling to them because of their greed.

The protectors chanted on, raksha raksha: they were here to protect. We are here to protect. In time, these glorious creatures born of righteous anger and war craft, will be known as the Rākshasa. The mighty and ruthless avengers rose to the top of the hierarchies, to their rightful places, as overlords and protectors of all. 

Alas the jealous Dēvas and their ilk crowned themselves as lords of the elements, and stole from us, our birth right! For long their unscrupulous chroniclers herded our conquests with the meagre brawls of the lowly Daityas and Dānavs. Woe to them! For we are no cowering Asura! Our lineage begins from the Brahmā itself – born from the purest rage, born into battle, born for the battle! Rise, my children! Scion of the Invincible! Lord of the Horde! Heir to the heavens! O Rākshasa, claim your birth right! Banish the vain Devas to the abyss of obscurity, and rise to rule over the worlds! It is ours and ours alone.

From the Chronicle of the Lost Rākshasa

***

Image courtesy: It is a babylonian lion sculpture which actually appears on another book cover. I happily plagiarised it and played around, because gold and lion are both symbolic of Lanka.

Note: The novel was supposed to have a linear story of Ravana with bits like the above posing as excerpts from an chronicle of an unknown Rakshasa bard which describes events from Rakshasa past (which usually is war-mongering in an archaic language). The account above is the actual origin story according to some of the Puranas.

On Borrowed Days

‘Life is beautiful.’ said the bartender when he poured me a drink. Perhaps he noticed me brooding and thought I was just another drunk in existential angst. I wasn’t.

‘Yes, it is, my friend.’ I raised my glass to him and smiled. He smiled back and went on to service his other customers drinking off their worries in the shadows.

I preferred to be closer to the lights. I wanted to be seen. Of course I am celebrating. Those sulking in the shadows are people just unsure of themselves, hiding, moody, grieving – not people you want to be around.

I took a sip of the ice cold whiskey and gently placed it on the blue napkin on the polished wooden surface of the bar, and absentmindedly gazed upon the many hued bottles of liquor upon the shelves. They gave an ethereal glow to this otherwise eternally-in-the-twilight netherworld of a hotel bar. Hardly ten people here. Very quiet. The ideal place to have your thoughts uninterrupted against the backdrop of the fading jazz, worth the premium they charge you on the drink.

She sat next to me, confidently and gracefully on the barstool. In striking brilliant red. Minimal jewellery on her self. Hair like glossy black torrents. Subtle hint of an expensive perfume. It seemed surreal that a shade of red would seem so brilliant in the dimly lit bar. My staring may have been obvious. She looked at me with a knowing smile.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ I asked. You know when you see one.

‘Irish Cream, Bailey’s’. There was an elegance in the way she spoke.

I signaled to the bartender. He served the drink on the rocks and placed it gently on a blue napkin. I introduced myself by my first name. She did the same. A few jokes and anecdotes passed. A few shadowy patrons groaned and left the bar.

‘A regular here?’ I asked her.

‘I come here sometimes.’ She took a sip. ‘Once every two or three months. I don’t usually venture out much.’

‘Job? Family Pressure?’ I raised my brow. ‘You know a bit of Bourbon would go fine with that.’ I pointed to her near done drink. I wanted her to have a way out if she didn’t want to answer my question.

‘Bit of both. For me, job and family kind of overlap.’ She finished her drink, and ignored completely my Bourbon advice. As if cue, the bartender filled her drink. I signaled him for another whiskey on the rocks.

‘Interesting. Married?’ A woman like her is always ‘taken’.

‘Yes.’ A subtle smile on her lips.

‘Happily?’

‘Yes, but like all marriages, always with a few regrets.’ Her smile becomes a hard-to-suppress dimpled up mischievous grin.

‘How old is he?’ I was becoming bolder.

‘Older than most guys you know.’ She measured me with her eyes, from my patent leather Oxfords to my immaculate hairline.

Trophy wife to a Sugar Daddy. I thought but didn’t say it. Those were derogatory terms to throw around aimlessly. But it was hard to imagine she was one.

‘So, you?’ she asked.

‘I, what?’ Train of thoughts derailed.

‘Happily married?’ She pointed to my ring finger. ‘I know you are married.’

I looked at my wedding ring. Twenty years of grease and grime, it screamed. I hardly take it off now. It doesn’t fool anyone, with the untanned skin beneath more radiant than the actual ring. Moreover the crow’s feet near my eyes and a few rogue grey strands shout out that I am no young playboy.

‘I think you are.’

‘Sorry, what?’ Train of thoughts derailed. Again.

‘I think you are happily married.’ She laughed.

‘Oh yes,’ I sipped my drink, ‘Happily married. Twins – a boy and a girl. Home. Car. Life secure and sound.’

‘So no regrets at all?’ She sipped hers.

‘Well, life is good. Can’t complain. What’s there to regret? Sunday brunches. Friday Barbeques. Adorable wife. Psychotic teenage kids – class-toppers but still psychotic. (She giggles). Beautiful House. Well-tended garden. Awesome neighbours. Foreign vacations. Foreign Cars. So.. What’s there to regret?’

‘There are no men without regrets in this watering hole.’ She leaned towards me. ‘I just confided in you – a total stranger – that I am married to a much much older guy.’

‘Yes, you did. But you too are happily married.’

‘Yes, but with regrets!’ She whispered, leaning in and caressing my fingers.

I decided to be honest. I finish my drink.

‘Alright, I had this eventful student life. Sent to a distant city for my higher studies, did everything except study. Made a ton of friends. Good friends. Partied hard. Made trouble for the local authorities. Gambled away a quarter of my inheritance. Did a lot of drugs. Girlfriends. Led an awesome hedonistic lifestyle.’ I beamed with faux pride.

‘So you lived the life.’ She feigned awe. ‘Then what happened.’

‘Then one day,’ I sighed ‘I overdosed on cocaine and was hospitalized. Could have died. I was sent to rehab. Said goodbye to the City.

‘When I was back, I vowed never to go back to that old life. Shortly after that I inherited my father’s business and built up the life I have now.’

‘That’s quite an inspirational tale.’ She spoke still holding my hand.

‘Well, it was okay for a while. But truth is, it is hard to conform to an etiquette and lifestyle you cannot mentally subscribe to. I missed that life. So I tried tracking my friends from that time, thinking we could have a reunion.’

‘So did you?’ She wasn’t feigning anything now.

‘Found out the hard way, that people change. My friends had changed. They had different memories of those. I visited the City but it was so unrecognizable after so many years. So I partied without them. Drank to the heart. Met beautiful women. Celebrated the whole night. Closest I could get to my past without getting burned.’ I emptied my drink.

She did not move an inch.

‘Every now and then, I do this.’ I continued. ‘Under the guise of a business trip, I travel to a faraway place. I have a small party, for myself to rebel against the part of me who wanted to conform to the lifestyle of a middle-aged suburban family guy.’

‘So, what do you do for the guilt?’

‘Guilt?’

‘Of cheating on your wife?’ She had dropped all pretense.

‘I don’t know. I just imagine those days were borrowed from that long lost life of mine, when I had no commitments to anyone. It’s like mentally plucking out the dates from the calendar and putting them in a diary from twenty years ago.’ I didn’t know how I came up with that analogy.

‘That’s clever.’ She smiled.

‘So what do you do?’ It was my turn.

‘For what?’

‘For guilt.’

‘Of what?’ She smiled again.

‘Of cheating on your husband,’ I said hoping it wouldn’t offend her.

‘Oh, he knows.’ She emptied her drink. ‘He knows everything, and I tell him the very next day. He is a good man, and was there for me, when I had lost all hope. But sometimes our relationship bores me, and I get adventurous. Then I confess to him, and he forgives me. Still the guilt tears me up knowing that I will do it again.’ For a moment her eyes focused on somewhere distant.

I said nothing. She asked the bartender to charge the drinks to her room. I reminded her I had offered to buy her drinks. I paid what I estimated to our bill and a generous percentage as a tip. We walked together outside the bar towards the rooms.

‘Which room is yours?’ She asked without looking at me.

‘214.’ I said.

‘Well, yours is nearer.’

When we reached the room, I swiped the access card to let ourselves in. Did not even turn the lights on. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me. We threw ourselves to the bed and tore off each other’s clothes. No Guilt. No Shame. Passion reigned.

*      *      *

I woke up at 7.00 in the morning. She had left by then. The bed sheets seemed like a turbulent sea frozen in time. Subtle hint of an expensive perfume. That was the only sign that she was ever there. I wanted to meet her again, but I knew that was impossible. We were both on borrowed days. I needed to be at the airport for the flight back home.

By 8.00, I was in a cab heading towards the airport. I was thinking what she said about guilt, when I saw a majestic church tucked away neatly in the city’s landscape. I instructed the driver to halt for thirty minutes. That way I could still make it for the flight.  I rushed towards the church’s confessional. When my turn came, I confessed everything to the priest across the lattice screen. Everything. Everything from my hedonistic past to my continual infidelity. How I hated myself for wanting to go back, wanting to run away.

I emerged from the confessional, tear-stained. That’s when I saw her, tears in her eyes, kneeling before the crucifix, oblivious to my presence, confessing, in her nun’s habit.

.

Monsoon

It's raining. Cats and dogs is an understatement. It always has been, for July monsoons. I like it this way, right here, smoking the odd cigarette, relaxing in the sit out, in the easy chair. There is no power in the house. But it doesn't bother you. Never did. Because on afternoons like these, you have the company of the downpour. She laughs like there's no tomorrow, cleanses everything she touches, and makes you feel it’s going to be the same forever. Time is put in to a stranglehold. The afternoon will never end. It seems...

Time to snuff out the dying cigarette and light another one. I looked inside the house. It is dark, but I could make out the bookshelf in there. There are books there, milestones in my life. Ones which planted ideas in my fertile mind, which grew and died, and became manure for others. Ones which disturbed my sleep for nights till their roots withered away in the daylight. Ones which let me shed a tear and brood over my own existence. Ones which said not now, not yet...

I lit the new cigarette from the fire of the crumpled dying figure of the former one. And extinguished the old one by pushing it face down into the ashtray. Coup de grace, I said to myself. The old bastard refused to die. It just laid there with its embers staring into my soul. As if to evoke some sympathy in me. Face it, you're a cigarette, you just served your purpose.. I blew some smoke into its face. I could imagine the smirk on the one I was having right now. You're next. Soon your filter will be dirty, your roll will be consumed and your tobacco will be burnt away, and you will join your comrade, I told him.

Yes, but I will have my time it said arrogantly.

Yes, you will. You have the right. And so do I. I puffed away on the cancer stick. Everyone have their time and place.

The book-shelf used to be my most favourite place. Still is. But right now someone else staked a claim. A big spider weaved its haunt over it, and waited all day. When I saw it I didn't want to approach it. I disliked it. I abhorred it. I loathed it. Every time I wanted to pick up something off the shelf, it squirmed uncomfortably in its lair. Don't!

Fine! I already read all of them! I didn't want its displeasure. I have my cigarettes. And my marijuana.

'You should save some for later', someone spoke from near the bookshelf. I am too lazy to turn back to see who it was. 'Make sure nobody else finds it,' he spoke with his gentle baritone.

'Who is it? How did you come in?' I shouted back in my coarse voice.

'It's me, your cousin George, you doubting Thomas! Who else can it be? and you left the back door open...!'

'My cousin?' The weed must be getting to my head. 'George?'

'Why are you giving me that puzzled look?' George spoke. He came towards me. His voice was really good. 'You are smoking weed, alle Thomasukutty? You're always like this, when you do.'

‘Pandaram! Am I?’ I flicked away the joint.

‘This should be fun. Tell me Thomas, what is the colour of my eyes?’ George is in front of me. ‘It shouldn’t be hard. After all I’m your cousin.’

He is right there in front of me. I couldn’t raise my head to look at him. It was a form of accentuated laziness. But I had developed a skill of seeing through the corners of my eyes, the peripheries of my vision. Yet this time I couldn’t. Maybe I am embarrassed? Am I? Should I be? I don’t know.

‘Black!’ It should be.

‘Right! But remember, last time it took you ten minutes to answer the same question.’ George said. I couldn’t help noticing his voice. He should be a radio anchor or something.

‘You have a great voice, George. You should be a radio anchor or something!’

‘You told me that the last time too, Thomas.’ George walked back towards the bookshelf. I could see the spider then, down to the last detail. I could see its eyes glistening with moisture, its fangs shivering with anticipation, and its finely crafted death-trap of a cobweb. Its interest was in a fruit fly trapped in the corner post of its empire. Its efforts to escape trapped it further. The arachnid closed in for the kill.

George picked up a photo-frame from the shelf, ‘Do you remember this picture, Thomas?’ I want to ask him to pick up a Kafka for me, but I am far too occupied in the spider’s hunt. It took each step carefully. The fly was strong but it was wrapped in the strong fabric by its own death-throes.

George brought the frame close to my face, ‘See we took it during an Onam five years ago. Look how young you looked.’ Happier times, I thought as I looked at my own smile from five years ago. Happier times, just that I couldn’t remember. Probably the best days ever.

The spider closed in on the kill..

My eyes grew tired.

***

‘Da Thoma, Are you sleeping?’

It wasn’t George. I kept my eyes closed. It seemed like a remnant of a distant memory. I could hear the sloppy sounds of wet slippers, and the rustling of a drenched umbrella being folded, and the metallic cling when it is made to rest in a corner. The wet footsteps approached me.

‘Da, Kanjave, I thought you will call me when you get the stuff, you dog!’ Definitely not George. I enjoyed the shade over my eyes – I wanted to go back to sleep.

‘Oh I see, you’re having one of your short-term memory losses, huh?’

I reluctantly opened my eyes. The first thing I glimpsed was the joint in between my fingers. Didn’t I throw it away? Did I pick it up again? I pictured the joint sharing the floor with geckos, cockroaches, and other vermin. ‘My turn!’ the new-comer grabbed it from my limp fingers and walked away. I tried to look at his face but he walked away smoking the weed. He looked tanned.

‘George was here.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

‘Hmm.’ He wasn’t interested. He busily puffed away on the cigarette.

I wondered what his name would be. Who he might be? Another cousin? Friend?

‘George was here.’ What if he hadn’t heard me the first time? ‘That guy should work in Radio Mango or something, right?’

‘What?’ he turned around. I had pulled the emergency brake on his train of thoughts. I caught a glimpse of his tobacco stained teeth when he spoke.

‘What what?’ I was fixated at his stained teeth. He might be a chain smoker. A huge fruit fly buzzed around the sit-out. It hit the tube light with a cling and buzzed into the house

‘No, you just keep talking about his George, as if I know him. Who is he?’ He had specks of something brown stuck between his teeth.

‘You know, my cousin George.’

‘Thoma, I knew you since your chaddi days. And all your cousins. I have never even heard of a George.’

‘Really? It’s hard to miss him. He has a great voice.’ I looked at my fingers. They were posed as if holding an invisible cigarette. I wanted a puff. The fly’s buzzing was irritating.

‘George? Are you certain he is real?’

‘What do you mean?’ I tried to look at his face. His teeth seemed dirtier each time he took a puff.

‘I mean you’re hallucinating. He’s a figment of your imagination. There is no George. You’re just on weed.’

‘Nope, there’s even a picture of us on the bookshelf. It’s over there.’

‘Really?’ A smug grin of yellow teeth. He turned towards the bookshelf. I was about to ask him to bring back a book as well. Then I saw the spider.

The fruit fly which was buzzing around was caught up in its net. Whoa, déjà vu.

‘This is the only photo frame over there’ he came back. ‘It’s just a picture of us.’

I imagined the eight eyes peering down on the fly. With haste but carefully it descended towards its prey.

‘Do you want to see how lame you looked, Thoma?’ he laughed at his own remark. ‘But, it is certainly an improvement over what you look today?’

‘Da, that’s me and George.’ The spider was closing in.

‘No you fool, that’s me and you.’ He thrust the frame to my face. I caught a glimpse of a clean brighter version of dirty grainy smile I have been seeing for the last five minutes. Then I saw myself. A brighter version of myself in vintage colours. A bit younger, more happier.

‘Wow.’ I said to myself. The spider reached the fly and started spinning it into a sticky ball. The fly was live and won’t give up without a fight.

I was looking into the photo again and my vision blurred.

‘See if you can find a Ge – Dude! Are you crying?!’

Happier times.. hmmm.. I wanted a puff. I felt the hot tears of nostalgia and forgotten times down my cheeks.

***

Damn.

A brilliant flash of light woke me up. Then the sky roared, and then the intensity of the rain went up.

Weird. I thought I heard a fruit fly buzzing away in the distance. Or maybe it was the rain.

I felt the gradual heat on my fingers and saw the marijuana cigarette. Then I remembered the dirty yellow teeth. I didn’t think twice. I flicked it away. It was almost finished anyway.

I just enjoyed the downpour. Maybe I will start to think straight and maybe remember something.

Then I saw a figure in white running towards me. The rain drenched her totally.

Someone I know?

She stepped into the sit-out. The water dripping from her white dress and black hair made a lavish pool around her feet...

‘.. like a halo.’ I smiled like an idiot.

‘Are you on drugs? Again?!!’ she was angry. Yep, someone I know.

‘Ichchaya, I just asked you something. Are you on drugs?’

My fixation was her feet. A single thread of gold ran across one ankle. The other was bare. The left one. Lost?

‘Oh my god, can you hear me? You are on drugs, aren’t you?’

‘Technically it’s safer than cigarettes and drinks. It’s just a herb.’ It’s true but she’s not going to believe it.

‘You’re on kanjavu again. You had promised me you wouldn’t.’

‘I know’. I didn’t.

‘Last time you placed your hand over my head and promised me – Lisa, I promise I will never touch this again. Do you even remember?’

Lisa! At least I have her name now. I was embarrassed. A fruit fly buzzed around. Wait, something’s not right! I noticed the tears running down her cheek.

‘I’m sorry. Look, if it’s any consolation, my friend had most of it. I smoked only a bit,’ I said. Liar, my conscience cried out.

‘Which friend?’ she was still angry.

‘What?’ I saw the fly hit the tube light with a cling and disappear into the house.

‘I asked which friend? And say it fast before you think of some excuse or lie.’ She’s smart too.

‘You wouldn’t know him. Have you ever seen the one with the really yellow teeth?’ I needed a scapegoat. Dirty grin would understand, if he ever finds out.

‘That’s very convenient, isn’t it? A friend I don’t know.’

‘There’s a photo of both of us together on the bookshelf.’

‘Really?’ Her voice was calm.

‘There’s only one photo frame there. You can check’ I stood my ground.

She walked past me inside to find out the truth. I tried to posture myself in the chāru kasēra. Then I saw the old cigarette crumpled up in the ashtray. There was a dull red glow somewhere inside it, but I quickly hid it in my hand. I didn’t want her to find out that I might have smoked too many. She might have already seen the one I threw away. I stood up to throw it far away but she was already back.

‘This is the only photo frame there, and tell me if that’s the one who shared your ‘herb’!’ She shove the frame into my hand. I held the cigarette butt carefully from her view and looked into the photograph.

There was no Dirty grin.

There was no George either.

It was a picture of us.

It was in colour but faded. I was in it. Handsome. Skinny . Thick hair with no sign of my receding hairline. Best of all, my smile – the happiest ever. Lisa was there clinging to my arm. Beautiful. There was pride in her eyes. Her eyes.

‘That was during the college fest. We just won the drama competition. Don’t you remember?’ She asked. And for the first time I remember I could see her eyes. They were moist – from the rain or the tears she shed, I didn’t know. The kanmashi had started to spread. They were the most beautiful eyes ever. Dark brown pupils. She was longing to see some kind of response from me. There was no anger.

Behind her, the spider sensed the fruit fly landing on to its domain. The fly wanted to escape but every attempt break free only pushed itself back its devilish quagmire. The spider caught hold of the fly and started to spin it in to a cocoon of its threads.

I looked at the frame. I looked at both of us. There was no George. There was no Dirty grin.

I looked at Lisa, and held her close to me. ‘You have the most beautiful eyes ever,’ I told her. She was confused.

‘Lisa, are you for real?’ She sank her face into my chest. I didn’t know if it was disappointment, or a yearning to be close to me. I held her close. ‘Lisa, I don’t know if you will fade away like George and my yellow teethed friend. I just don’t want to let you go. I might be losing my grip but I have to hold on to this,’ I whispered.

The spider prepared for its meal.

No, not this time. You had your time and place. I flicked the crumpled up cigarette right into its face. The web wobbled a bit. The spider backed up. The fly bounced up and down in its coil of silk, and then it broke free. It flew away from its predator.

You’re not taking her, not this time. I knew that it knew every word I meant. Lisa was still in my arms.

The spider gazed at me. For the first time I wasn’t afraid. Our silhouette was reflected in all eight of its glassy eyes. It had been disturbed. It was judging us. You cannot escape my punishment it spoke.

Not her. Not while I am here. I hugged her tight. I was angry. And it knew.

***

‘Aren’t these monsoons beautiful?’ Nilofer wasn’t speaking to herself but she knew she couldn’t expect an answer.

The rainy afternoons are a miracle. They don’t disturb the ones in a deep slumber and they don’t let the awake go to sleep.

Nilofer took the cup of tea to her lips and slurped it with some noise – the way she liked it. She stared endlessly in to the distance, lost in her own world.

A presence coiled up in the easy chair let out certain signs of life. Nilofer moved to the side of the chair and whispered, ‘Wake up, sleepy head.’ The figure was covered entirely in a blanket, sound asleep. Nilofer pulled at the blanket, ‘How do you even breath? Lisa! Lisa! Wake up!’

Lisa half asleep, opened her beautiful eyes and looked at her. ‘Where’s Thomas?’ she asked.

‘Thomas? There is no Thomas, sweetie. You were dreaming.’ Nilofer smiled as she took one more noisy sip of her tea.

‘Who are you?’ Lisa’s voice was feeble, longing to sleep. ‘Where’s Thomachchayan? Is he smoking again?’ She closed her eyes.

‘Silly girl,’ Nilofer was amused. She knew Lisa was in a lucid dream. Within a few minutes of waking up she wouldn’t remember it. Of course, if there ever was a Thomas, Nilofer – her best friend – would know, and there wasn’t. She strolled into the house with the cup in her hands. Her eyes went over the numerous titles in the book shelf. Her eyes lingered for a while on Khasākinte Itihāsam, then deciding against it. Not for a lazy afternoon, she thought. Maybe no reading. Just ruminate the remnants of your life’s secrets, she told herself. Her gaze fell on the photo frame beside the books. She took it in her hands.

The picture was in colour and was bright, slightly faded. Nilofer and Lisa were there, mocking at the camera in their school uniforms. Hmm... Happier times, she said to herself. There was a tinge of sadness.

Above her, in the corner above the bookshelf, a great arachnid was about to suck the life out of the fruit fly it captured. It smiled. It knew it wouldn’t be disturbed this time.

Indian Wallpapers

In Remembrance of a Hero

10 Things You Probably Never Knew About India

Happy Republic Day Everyone!

I hardly write anything 'factual' on my blog. So I put it in my New Year's resolutions to write one article every month. Anyway that will wither away soon and my next one will probably be along when I prepare the next year's New Year resolutions.

Ever got that e-mail about the wondrous facts of India? You know.. the one that starts with India never invaded any country in her last 10,000 years of history.. What? Patriotic goosebumps already? If you believe the above statement that means that you have never heard about the conquests of the Chola empire. If you proudly state that we have got over 20 languages in India, you are actually mentioning only a fraction of what we have actually got here. If you think only Gandhiji brought you freedom, you are putting away other equally important people and events.

The stuff I am going to mention here might be already known to you or you might have some vague idea about them. But probably, these are things you might have never heard about, at least some of them. Let me get my chilled monkey brain dessert before we start.

#1 Did India conquer other countries during her long history?

First of all, the Republic of India never existed prior to 1950 and its geographical boundaries have also changed since then. Parts of Afghanistan, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and Burma were once under British India. The territory that is today's India has never been entirely under one government. So as there is no fixed definition of India, it is quite difficult to say who invaded who. However its possible to provide a counter argument to the first argument of the email.

The Chozha empire under Rajaraja Chozha I and Rajendra Chozha I

conquered territories in Sri Lanka, Andaman & Nicobar Islands, Lakshadweepa Islands (including Maldives), Coastal Burma, and Sri Vijaya (Sumatra, Java and Malaya - today's Indonesia and Malaysia). The Tamil armies also received tribute from Thailand and the Khmer Kingdom (Cambodia). Read about them here.

The following excerpt is from the Sikh Times: Having first fought and then agreed to a truce with Vengi of the eastern Chalukyas, Rajaraja, according to his own inscription, conquered Lakshadweep and the Maldives. Buddhist literature from Sri Lanka says that the Indian king took advantage of an internal strife in Sri Lanka and invaded the island. The ruthless Chola conquest was apparently no different from the conduct of Mahmud of Ghazni at Somnath. The Kulavamsa says that the capital Anuradhapura, which sported many Buddhist viharas, was 'utterly destroyed in every way by the Chola army.' Not only were the viharas decimated, but the holy stupas in them were torn apart in search of treasure.

The Sikh Empire under Maharaja Ranjit Singh had conquered parts of what is now Tibet and Afghanistan (and of course Pakistan). The Commander-in-chief Hari Singh Nalwa annexed a large portion of the Afghan Kingdom. He was such a dreaded invader that Afghan mothers in Peshawar used to scare their kids into obedience by mentioning 'Haria'. Prior to that, Afghanistan used to be part of the Maurya and Gupta Empires.

The Dogra army of Maharaja Gulab Singh of Jammu & Kashmir invaded Tibet and advanced till Taklakot near Lake Mansarovar till they were defeated by the extreme cold (the army burned muskets for the heat) and the Tibetan resistance. The fall of Taklakot finds mention in the report of the Chinese Imperial Resident, Meng Pao, at Lhasa: "On my arrival at Taklakot a force of only about 1000 local troops could be mustered, which was divided and stationed as guards at different posts. A guard post was quickly established at a strategic pass near Taklakot to stop the invaders, but these local troops were not brave enough to fight off the Shen-Pa (Dogras) and fled at the approach of the invaders. The distance between Central Tibet and Taklakot is several thousand li…because of the cowardice of the local troops; our forces had to withdraw to the foot of the Tsa Mountain near the Mayum Pass. Reinforcements are essential in order to withstand these violent and unruly invaders." (For the full story please read Airavat Singh's blogs.)

Post-independence, the closest thing we have to an 'invasion' of another country will be probably Sikkim. Sikkim was an independent country till 1975. In 1973 riots against the Chogyal broke out and there was a formal request for Indian protection. In 1975 the elected Prime Minister (Kazi) requested to be merged into the Indian Union. The Indian Army took over Gangtok and disarmed the Palace Guard. So after a referendum (97.5% voted for the merger) it was made the 22nd state of India. Of course it was hardly an invasion. Another was perhaps the police action of 1948 to take over Hyderabad, which was always within the geographical boundaries of India. So that probably won't count.

#2 How many languages do we have in India? Is Hindi the national language?

Most of the people I know will say there are about 20 - 25 languages in India or will check a currency note to count them. Most would agree Hindi is India's national language. The truth is neither the Constitution nor any law has defined any national language. The official language of the Indian Union is Hindi with English as a secondary official language. As for the states, they can chose their own official languages.

When people mention us as having 22 languages, they actually mean the official scheduled languages. These are languages mentioned in the Eighth Schedule of the Constitution and enjoy special status and is spoken by 96.56% of the population. The real number of languages of India according to the Guinness Book of World Records is 849 languages and 1600 dialects, and India holds the world record for having most number of languages. However this number is also disputed. The 2001 Census mentions about 1635 mother tongues. 122 languages (234 mother tongues) are spoken by groups with 10,000 or more native speakers. The SIL Ethnologue mentions 452 languages with only 438 living ones.

The States can adopt their own official languages, and it is not necessary for them to choose from the scheduled languages. Kokborok in Tripura; Mizo in Mizoram; Khasi, Garo, and Pnar in Meghalaya; and French in Pondicherry do not belong to the scheduled languages. Also due to the huge number of languages, some states just adopt English as their official language. Arunachal Pradesh and Nagaland have English as their sole official language.

#3 Not all of India got freedom in August 1947

Yep, we can safely say not all of India got freedom on 1947. In 1947 the Dominion of India was formed from British-ruled India and 562 princely states. The princely states had the option of joining either India or Pakistan or remain independent. Most of the states eventually joined India or Pakistan. But even after India celebrated its independence on 15 August, three states refused to join it: Junagadh, Hyderabad, and Jammu & Kashmir.

Junagadh's Nawab Mohabat Khan was a great dog lover. He had about 2000 pedigree dogs and once declared a public holiday when two of his favorite airedale dogs mated. He spent 300,000 rupees on their wedding (the average annual income of one of his subjects was only Rs. 300). It had an 82% Hindu population and had the Somnath temple and the Gir forest (home of the Asiatic lions) within its boundaries. However his dewan Sir Shah Nawaz Bhutto (his son would become the Pakistani Prime minister later) decided to accede to Pakistan. The accession was accepted by Pakistan. However the popular agitation in favour of India forced the dewan to hand over the administration to the Indian government on 9 November 1947. A plebiscite was later held on 20 February 1948 where 91% voted to join India.

The State of Hyderabad was the largest princely state in India with 82,000 square miles of territory, 16 million population, and with three linguistic groups: Telugu, Kannada, and Marathi. Hyderabad State had its own army, as well as its own airline, telecommunication system, railway network, postal system, currency and radio broadcasting service, with a GDP larger than that of Belgium. The Nizam of Hyderabad, Lieut. General His Exalted Highness Sir Mir Osman Ali Khan was the world's richest man. And most likely he was also the most miserly. He used the world's seventh largest diamond as a paperweight (worth Rs. 400 crore now, it was found by him in the toe of his late father's shoe). He always wore faded clothes and drove around in a 1918 model car. His subjects had to pay to see him. To be fair he had also donated generously to various organisations, and contributed to Britain some $100,000,000 cash plus untold supplies and Hyderabad army units during the Second World War.

He declared his independence on 15 August 1947. Due to later nationalistic and communist uprisings against the Nizam, and the Razakars' (a communal organisation) atrocities against the population, India sent its army in September 1948. The Nizam's army was defeated and Hyderabad became part of India on 17 September 1948.

The next case is the famous one of Jammu & Kashmir. Even larger than Hyderabad, with a predominantly Muslim population it was desired by Pakistan. It was ruled by Maharaja Hari Singh who wished to remain independent. Its main political party was the National Conference under the guidance of the secular Sheikh Abdullah. In October 1947, Pathan tribals were encouraged to invade J&K by the Pakistani Army. About 13,000 armed tribals invaded, but were primarily interested in loot and rape. The invasion from the Pakistani side proved too bad for the Maharaja's forces, and he sought military assistance from India, agreeing to accede. When the Indian troops landed in Srinagar, the Maharaja, his administration, and the Police had already escaped. The National Conference volunteers substituted for the Police, and the Army started liberating parts of Kashmir from the invasion. Officially J&K had become part of India on 26 October 1947, but parts of the state is still under Pakistani occupation.

Besides the fuss created by these princely states (Pakistan also had issues like these with Balochistan), there was the French occupation of Pondicherry and the Portuguese occupation of Goa. The French territories like Pondichery, Chandernagore, Karaikal, Mahe, and Yanam were transferred to India in 1954 (officially only by 1962). India had to fight the Portuguese to liberate Goa and Daman & Diu in 1961. The Portuguese occupation of Dadra & Nager Haveli had ended in 1954 when few volunteers of the United Front of Goans (UFG), the National Movement Liberation Organisation (NMLO), the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh and the Azad Gomantak Dal began a liberation war. The region became legally an independent country from 1954 till 1961 when it merged with India. Also we have the example of Sikkim from earlier.

(Courtesy: India After Gandhi by Ramachandra Guha; Freedom at Midnight by Larry Collins and Dominique Lapierre; TIME articles, Wikipedia etc.)

To be continued