The Tale of SAHABABAD

four

'You are beautiful!' The girl commented nonchalantly while bringing a pile of books from a nearby shelf. She carefully placed the books on the table and stepped back, carefully scrutinizing each inch of Yodhya, but Yodhya could careless of her appearance especially in the eyes of a stranger.

'But not as handsome as the queen or the princesses.' The girl added after a few moments of silence. 'Your manners are not agreeable as well. The queen was against this marriage since the beginning. If it wasn't for the tradition, as per the whispers in the corridors, she wouldn't have allowed you to breathe the same air as Iblis brother.' She continued without taking her eyes off of her whereas Yodhya continued to gaze at her lap.

'I think Chiara sister was right about you being non-compatible for Iblis brother. Iblis brother is so polite, well-mannered, compassionate, agreeable and helpful. We don't know how long he can handle your...Violent attitude.' The girl paused and smiled when she received no response from Yodhya. 'Anyways...Tomorrow is the Waleema ceremony and I am so excited to meet everyone. I am so glad Iblis Brother consummated his wedding or else...Finally, after all the stunts you have pulled to escape; we can have moments of joy. I was so thrilled about the Waleema. Iblis brother has instructed me to assist you in everything, only if you let me.' The girl whispered politely and smiled.

Yodhya raised her eyes at the mention of a 'ceremony' and consequently stole a glance of herself in the mirror placed exquisitely at the door-frame, opposite to the table, only to cringe back when a pair of horrifying red eyes stared back in the reflection. The image on the surface wasn't the one she was used to witnessing. The girl staring back at her was dull, plain and lifeless contradictory to the zealous spirit that she used to withhold before the mishappenings and she came to know about the exact 'incompatibility' the girl was talking about.

Her eyes darted towards her attire and lingered there for a moment. It took her seconds or perhaps minutes to recognize the image. She didn't look like...herself in the clothes. An outfit, Mr oh-so-polite-and-generous Sheikh had arranged for her.

Yodhya was dressed in a traditional Abaya. It was long-sleeved, floor-length, and traditionally black. Its looseness at the front was adequately hiding her curves and the upper body while the golden embroidery at the edge of the outskirts was complimenting her tall frame, cascading past her ankles and spreading over the titled floor, it was erupting a foreign feeling into her heart, she felt something peculiar, foreign aggression-like the soul had been snatched off of her body and was placed in a plastic case.

It wasn't her. She was not a Royal Highness and wife of some crown prince. The girl was right about her being incompatible-she was just an ordinary Indian girl, struggling to find the meaning of her life and she desperately wanted to get back on the track, the one that was meant for her-instead of caged in the arms of some royal Sheikh.

Hastily, she averted her eyes from the glass door to the contents scattered over the table.

For some time Yodhya sat gazing stupidly at the paper that she had found in the ages-old library located at the back of the Erga facing the direction of the Mecca-It was considered to be one of the most isolated corners of the palace that was seldom visited except on occasions but was adequately maintained, however, the tranquillity of the secluded corner was well known among the residents as were the treasures it contained.

The books were stacked neatly in the shelves arranged in rows spreading the essence of wisdom in the atmosphere by the mere presence. The books were ancient; one could tell by simply looking at its appearance and might have been a pride of the sultanate, an ancient Arabian-literature heritage, travelled through generations to create a foundation of history and embracing the lessons and secrets earned through rigorous experiences, a definite one, of the first Sheikh of the land.

It might be withholding the teachings of wisdom compiled by the ancestors for the future generations, the cultural prescriptions and appropriations of the Hierarchy from the others. It was something that, on any ordinary occasion, would have made Yodhya swirl in delight to get something that had helped her to discover the unknown, something she was fond of, but at the moment nothing fascinated her shattered soul and crumpled pride.

'You know, Her Royal Highness, this place was built in the fifteenth century by the then king, Sultan Omar Al-Said. It is said that the Sultan was a keen observer and an expert of Extra ordinaries; nothing could escape his sharp eyes. His lordship was the third in the hierarchy of the Al-said dynasty who had ruled the royal throne and increased the horizon of the sultanate. He has the pride to be known as the second most achieved ruler after the Sheikh of course.' The empty promise of something adventurous within the four walls had echoed in the melodious voice of Fatima who stood inches away from the table Yodhya was sitting on and was staring at her with suspicious eyes.

She neither looked up nor made any movement to budge from her place.

For then, the pages on the table made more sense than the talkative girl in her early twenties who was keen upon becoming her friend; at least it was silent and had let her drown in self-pity, unlike her companion who had been switching over the topics from past thirty minutes.

After the prayer, Iblis had immediately left the room, making her heave a long sigh of relief, but her joy was short-lived when after ten minutes the enthusiastic girl entered into the room and made it her business to take care of her basic needs. She was the one who had helped her get dressed and had served her the breakfast meanwhile she didn't forget to introduce herself as Fatima, a daughter like a figure for Iblis and her new companion who was instructed to be her shadow.

Past breakfast, the girl had offered to show Yodhya around which she reluctantly accepted or was it her silence that was deemed as implied approval, she couldn't decipher but they somehow ended up in the huge library with loads of books at every sight, stood with pride in Erga.

The telescreen at her left had changed over strident Arabic music, spreading a sense of enthusiasm in the surroundings whereas the large window at her right had permitted the gush of warm breeze brought straight from the Sahara desert to intrude within. The wind had awoken her sense and had broken the trance she was in as a pang of heavy air shushed through inside, out of nowhere, disturbing the neatly placed papers and scattering them over the floor.

The music was low, almost didn't exist but it was there to remind her of her presence in the foreign land. It wasn't something exclusively unfamiliar for her ears but it surely wasn't making her feeling home. She squeezed her eyes to prevent the dust particles to hurt her eyes and opened them again when the room again fell deadly silent after Fatima had closed the window shut.

'It often happens here. Sahababad is surrounded by desert.' Fatima smiled as she collected the papers from the floor. Meanwhile, Yodhya stared at the stack of books, the girl had brought for her. Suddenly a title among the many had caught her attention making her ears perk up in astonishment when she read the recognized letters engraved in a deep brown shade over the faded crimson cover.

Srimad Bhagvat Gita-As It is.

The words brought a sensation down her spine as she felt the hairs on her skin rise. There was a sudden shot of electricity that had passed through her body, raising goosebumps all over the places.

She hurriedly pushed the other books and picked it up.

Was she hallucinating? What was it doing here in the centuries-old Arabian library? She checked the mythological treasure from every dimension and was shocked to conclude that it was indeed the Bhagvat Gita.

With shaking hands; she untied the knot and opened the book. Flipping over the pages, she caught sight of the Madhusudan on a chariot, grasping the rein of five white horses, behind him stood Arjuna with his bow; clearly, it was a picture of Kurukshetra. She flipped through a few more pages and read the titles.

'The international institution of Krishna Consciousness-Edition 1419 AD.'

'Fatima-' she called out as a thousand questions thrashed her brain for an answer. She continued flipping over the pages and finally stopped at certain one as the printed text caught her sight. She took a deep breath and started reading.

'When all the paths seem shut when nothing in the world makes sense when everything comes down to ashes when your kiths and kin are at the target of your arrows when war seems to be the only peace-and the moment you feel that there is nothing left in your life anymore such that every explanation of your existence on the earth has banished, Just guard your horse and have faith. Oh! Partha because it's going to be the end of all your delusions in the world. Your days of mundane miseries are over and that your soul is ready for a transcendental miracle to happen. Your soul is ready to serve its purpose in the universe and it's a rise of a new journey, new destiny and a new battle.' It further read.

Jayas tu pāṇḍu-putrāṇām yesām Pakse jaṇārdanah (Victory is always with the persons like the sons of Pāṇdu because Lord Krsna is associated with them and the lord only associates with the one who fights with courage.)

'Yes, Your Highness' Fatima stood both alert and confused. 'Your Highness? Madam?' she called out when received no response from her.

'Yodhya.' She whispered. 'I am Yodhya...' Her voice was shivering, so was she and Fatima observed that. She hurriedly left to bring water for Yodhya, but it was too late. The mess had been created and the soul had arisen.

Was she ready for the battle? Does she have the courage to fight, to continue the war she had left in the middle? But who is her enemy? With whom she had to fight? Was it Iblis or the royal throne, or the people of Azazela or the natives of Sahababad? Who was her enemy that was keen upon destroying her?

The fight becomes all the more thrilling when the enemy is unknown.

Yodhya chuckled. A humourless, dark giggle. She felt all the more confused at her thoughts. She craved for the silence and blankness of the minutes before that had been snatched by her from the circumstances but the confusion felt leisure and the challenges felt tempting, tired she groaned in annoyance and then laughed as picked up an ink-pen from the nearby pot.

If that's what life wants from me then let's do this! She thought.

It was curious that she seemed not merely have lost the power of expressing herself, but even to have forgotten what it was that she had originally intended to say. For years past she had been making ready for this moment when she would pen down her experiences in the foreign land and compile the memories into a thesis or a biography for people to read it, and it had never crossed her mind that anything would be needed except courage.

The actual writing would be easy. All she had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside her head, literally for days. All this moment, however, the monologue had dried up. Moreover, her varicose v****a had begun itching unbearably. She dared not scratch it, because if she did so it would become inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. She was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of her, the itching of the skin on her v****a, the blaring music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin.

Suddenly she began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what she was setting down. Her small but childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops and moments later, she had penned down the title of the monologue-The Tale of SAHABABAD.

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ASR