Sunanda & Sadananda

Under a freezing early morning sky, well before any of the hibernating animals would awake. A poet woke up from what seemed to be a very intense dream. Visibly shaken. Unaware that he was about to foretell a future unthought, he sprang out of his bed with his eyes transfixed. Covered himself in a rag from the floor, and rushed out into the frigid landscape.

“Doldol! Cover yourself you fool! I am not going to nurse you if you fall sick.” Roared his wife from the precipice of their ancient house.

He walked on in a sacred rush. With only the lilting words upon his mumbling lips keeping him warm all the way until he reached the great hall. Partially blind and limping from the intense cold. Obviously. Cold will do that you.

The person Doldol had dragged himself to see, sat at the far end of the Great Hall on an ill fitted wooden chair with his back to a warm fire. The only warm fire in the village. This Great Hall was a small room about the size that would fit five or six people at best. Made of wood, mud and stone with a low ceiling. And connected to other rooms, also made of wood, mud and stone with a low ceiling. But it was the notion of the village to call it a Great Hall mostly because it was the house of their Great Chief. Who, it should be mentioned, was also not Great by any stretch. Not yet at least. To be honest, perched above the Himalayas in the cold, there was nothing great about this village. Until today. It seems.

The Chief was biting into dried and salted meat, deep in contemplation, when he was caught off guard by the poet’s sudden entry and words.

“A pair of hearts will merge at a basketball court. Suddenly. And absolutely.” Doldol said with a possessed loudness. Manifesting sounds that would echo through the corridors of time all the way to you and I.

The Chief, once again ripping the horse meat between his teeth waited with intrigue for what was to come. Salt brushing on to his beard like stars in the night sky. Guards stationed around the room shuffled nervously. A maid poured yak milk into a wooden container as the sun glimmered lightly far beyond the fog.

It should not take much imagination to guess that neither the game of ‘basketball’ nor the ‘court’ necessary to play the game, was to be thought of for centuries to come. But since Doldol’s eccentricities were well recognised it was also assumed that he would elaborate.

He did not. He just stood there, gazing emptily.

Unbeknownst to Doldol, the Chief showered patience against his will because Doldol’s wife was his sister. And with many things on his mind right now (like the marching horde toward their village), he had no patience to consider her bickering or his eccentricities. Not today. She had whined enough about his erratic behaviours over the years. ‘He locks himself in his dark chamber’, ‘he does not eat or drink for days’, ‘he is always thinking in his head’ et cetera, et cetera. Most other days, the Chief was glad that Doldol had retreated to his dingy chamber. Knowing that when he would emerge, Doldol would hand them the most beautiful of songs the world had ever heard. These songs kindled an uncertain gentleness in the Chief.

But today was cold. Cold as the truth. The Chief, before Doldol entered, had been preoccupied with the news of an army marching toward; horses, swords and all. Had Doldol been less dazed, he would have noticed that all was not right. A poets perception and all. But miscalculating the situation, and not clarifying the measure and meaning of his intrusion; or the words ‘basketball’ and ‘court’. He stood there.

The chief moved his eyes to the side.

A command. Only noticed by one of the guards. Who without moving, swung his over-sharpened sword. Swift. Cold. Frosted.

Doldol fell to the ground. Very dead. Very, very dead.

No more songs nor lyre.

His body was swiftly removed from the hall, while the absurd words continued to hang among them. Piercing their curiosities until the cold winds swept it away. Like parrots upon time.

When she found out, Doldol’s wife; raged. Putting seven curses upon her brother. Sealing their fate with her wrath. The Chief and his beloved poet merged were to be born over and over, one as incarnations, the other as incantations.

And so it happened, the people of the village moved on. Carrying their songs as they roamed. Hiding from threats. Some toward India, some to other places. Far and wide, in search of safety and sustenance. Forever circumambulating the glorious cold. Celebrating the poems each year with their dance and drums.

Today is one such anniversary in this small village seated in the midst of the Himalayas. The smell of Mutton Thukpa, Thenthuk and Shabhaley fills every nose on the street. The dogs chase their tails. Young children zoom past hurrying monks on their rusted cycles. The morning sun, even this early, feels warm and forgiving. The bells of the monasteries ring in union. Stone buddhas are being washed on the streets, in the houses, and in meditation chambers. A multitude of incense, mix with the shouting of every mothers’ last minute instructions to their eldest child. What a glorious day to be alive!

A rumour hides in the commotion. A secret too eager to be revealed.

As the morning progresses everyone rushes to the Great Hall. His Holiness, the Thirty Second, Dahi Lama is to address the village with his guest.

‘Hurry! Hurry!’ The mothers, fathers and children tell each other. ‘Hurry! Quickly!’

The hall is packed. A list of monks saunter from the side of the stage, light incense and wave everyone to sit. The crowd tries to sit but only manages to rub against each other for lack of space. Uncomfortably. His holiness and his long time friend, the chief guest, Ravi Raghav, a highly decorated war veteran and archaeologist, enter the stage.

There is a hush. A delight. Every one bows, bumping into each other. Again.

Ravi Ji, the archaeologist, walks straight to the microphone. Not wasting anyone’s time. Giggling he says, “My friends, I have visited you many, many times over my life, but never have I received such a welcome…”

Fleeting whistles mute ear drums.

“…Having consulted my exalted friend. His Holiness. And to liberate you from your anticipation. Let me get straight to the point…”

The halls roars again.

“…it is my pleasure to present to you…”

“Just say it already!” Some one screams. Other laugh

Ravi Ji brings out a laminated parchment from his pocket and holds it above him. It folds back behind his head. He tries again and holds it in front of his chest. Clutching the piece from the top and bottom this time.

The crowd laments. He giggles. No one can read. Continuing on the slow reveal he starts again. “…this is. This is a letter from your history. Ummm. This was found in the village of your ancestors. Far from here. Hidden in the cold wintery landscapes where it never rains. I am very sure of that. Almost two thousand years old. This is…”

He pauses for the final reveal.

“And I am certain that this was written by the poet. Doldol…”

The room erupts. ‘What is even going on.’ People scream. Some try to fall to the floor to pray. Others bow. Yet more start crying. Someone shouts, ‘What does it say?’.

His Holiness steps forward. “Children. Patience. Let our friend finish.”

“Why don’t you read it to them.” Ravi Ji hands His Holiness the parchment.

“It says.” His Holiness stops. Staring at the piece of ancient paper. “It says…”

All breaths unify into one single anticipating being. Here. In the now.

“It says…A pair of hearts will merge…” His Holiness, steps backward, turns and rushes off stage. Out the back door.

The shock of the people is felt all the way to the heavens.

“Will you tell me what it means?” Ravi Ji catches up to His Holiness.

“No.” The wise man lies through his teeth and saunters into the prayer chamber. After centuries of meditation he has a genuine doubt.

Outside the window, people gather, gossiping. Older monks take charge and thank the water, the sun and the Buddha. And continue with their prayers. Others slowly go about their day. The Dahi Lama, distracted, can not stop thinking about the words. Once again, after centuries, Doldol has managed to perturb the lake of his thoughts. He is irritated. The same kind of irritation he felt all those centuries ago.

Anger crushed through the calm of his attained states. This irritating prophecy, this piece of paper, had come to itch him in the proverbial ‘behind’. The ripples of his annoyance were felt in the celestial realms. His sister’s curses reframing themselves inside him. Gnawing at him. His lips started speaking.

“I have meditated under the light of the Buddha himself. Have found peace here on this mountain. But for the stupid words of Doldol!” He remembered the first time he heard those words. Doldol’s voice repeating in his mind. The hoard at his border. The salt on his beard. The rage. The anger. The frustration.

He remembered the cold wind outside the window. He suddenly felt, his sister’s anger and Doldol’s excitement. Tears flow. He bows. Powerless. And repeats the words, finally. “On a basketball court two heart will merge. Suddenly and finally.”

His feet take him to the balcony. The sun feels different today. Forgiving almost.

Decorations are under way below him. Flowers bathe his eyes. His breath enters with the knowledge of the buddha and the ignorance of the verses. ‘If only I had not beheaded him.’ Dancers from different schools stand beside the ground below. Practicing. Excited for the competition, later. Caterers swim around with large trays. The feast of the year. His Holiness can feel the grass move. The spine of each dancer speaks to him over the Bollywood music that is blaring on the speakers. Modern chants.

No one notices him. His eyes lead him to a group of dancers.

The ones with the shiny clothes with lightbulbs stitched in their seams, pushes a young boy to the centre. His lights blinking. He has a small nose and even smaller eyes. But his jaws are wide. He looked like the most nimble of them all. The captain. A group on the other side, dressed in their traditional dress pushes a girl to the centre.

Both shy.

Something is afoot. His Holiness skips a few breaths. Feels something strange. Doldol’s words continue to echo in his mind.

The young girl, moves her hand, never looking up. Swings it over herself and turns it like the wind. Swirling. The tassels on her float like meditation. The boy, looking at her, leads forward from the side of his hip, as if pulled toward her by an invisible string. Lights blinking. They circle each other, rotating their bodies around the centre.

His Holiness notices the lines on the ground. A horizontal one at the centre, cutting a circle, within which these two bodies are dancing. He finds himself gasping. His aged body leans forward for a better view.

Sunanada, the young girl, in the embrace of the dance lifts her eyes. Sadananda, the young boy, in the beat of the moment meets her eyes.

“On a basketball court two heart have merged. Suddenly and finally.” His Holiness proclaims.

Everyone, and Time, stops. The dancers look at him. Stretched against the stupa and sky. Sunanda’s right hand reach for her mouth while the left is holding Sadananda’s. Firmly. He can not take his eyes away from her. His heart beating to the drum.

The END.