The Child Who was King

It was a lazy summer afternoon. The village was quite, most residents were trying to catch a siesta, in their bedroom; pulling all the curtains to make it as dark as possible. All asleep barring the stray dog named Lalu, he was walking happily behind the child of eight; he is the leader, soon joined by his fellow kinsmen, in their adventure to raid another garden full of mangoes, guavas, berries and date juice. Winning all their booty, they trek back to their castle. The king proudly shared the spoils with all him follwers. They cheered for the king.

 

The lazy afternoon, the dark shades of the Amrul tree, the still green water of the pond, and the woodpecker in the coconut tree watched in awe. The king enjoyed his life while the pond washed his feet. The king wished let there be no tomorrow, and the summer sun was the witness. He smiled!

 

The busy footpath of the metro, didn’t notice the little traveler. The new teen, was trudging ahead, with the bag on his shoulder, made heavy by the pile of schoolbooks. He was lost, wondering about the place he has reached. He searched for the dark shadows of the Amrul tree; the winter breeze was cool, but the breeze beside the dark pond smelled like mother. All his followers pleaded the king not to go; yet he left. He didn’t have any option, but to move, to become the traveler he is now. He tries to remember, is this the promised land? Is this where he was supposed to find all that he dreamt for? Where is the green field where he used to flung his body when he felt tired?

 

No friends, no sign of life around. Surrounded by strangers in a even stranger world. A world where the wall you lean to gives way, where the "friends" you trust most, leaves you faster than they came. The world even Gulliver or Sindbad would be proud to visit. The traveler moves along. He remembers he was a king, and a king can’t lose. He looks up, and smiles; he knew he would win finally! He has to win!

 

The tinkle of the falling raindrops on the windowsill awakens the artiste. It was dark out side; is it night, he thought! The damp waft revealed the truth; it was raining. The world was celebrating life, the green earth lit the fire of inspiration, and the artiste was lost in his creations. He kept on creating them, unmindful of what happened to them afterwards. The king has arrived in the kingdom of Romanticism. He is the artiste now. He found her; or did SHE find him? Does it matter? He is king, he doesn’t think while giving. He is an artiste, who never stops while creating. He kept on painting the life, decorating it with the colors of love, affection and care. Lots of them were also left on his palate;  he didn’t waste them; he used them to paint the smaller frames that were around him. So what if they were not masterpieces, at least they have color!

 

When the rain stopped – why did it stop? The artiste was standing alone. His masterpiece came to life. Consuming all his colors, all his efforts and all his dreams, it came to life. And it didn’t care for its creator. Why should it? I t had its own life. The artiste stood alone, under the scorching sun, with empty palate and brush in his hand, tired, lost. He looked around, searched for those smaller canvases. Even they were gone. Some might have fallen by the road, some picked by the passers by. Has the king lost his battle? Has the traveler lost his will to walk? Has the Artiste lost his colors? Why did the ‘tomorrow’ come? Why did the rain stop?

 

 

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