Some write for the sake of writing, some write for money and some because they like to write. I write to emote. So until and unless there is an emotion strong enough, and that too one that I can manage well to channelize, I can’t and don’t write. And I have one of those emoting frame of mind right now. After ages, I have been able to touch the “Child King” and able to invite him out of his exile.
Been reading like a obstinate carnivore for quite some time, and it was mostly psychohistory and fantasies of few men managing the galaxy full of humans and a godly robot controlling them all at the end – as dished out by Asimov. Somehow, I have always found most of today’s Indian writers pretty verbose. That’s completely my personal feeling and judgment, whether it was Shobha Dey, Chetan Bhagat or Arvind Adiga, but that’s how it was. So was quite skeptical picking up this one from Kunal Basu; but that was what the plan was; and I must say I floated. He held the key! It opened the door to child king’s exiled land.
Villages of Bangla, the little nuances, the squeaking of a rickshaw around the corners, talking to Matla, the mixed smell of fish and vegetable in the market, and the kites, all of them flooded the memories; and the Child King bolted! He ran and ran; through the mango groves, the unguarded backyard of silent homes, across the paddy field, to the banks of an obscure canal named Saraswati. There panting, standing on the banks, he argued with her for not meeting him for so many days. And then he ran back, to his hideout, searching for his courtiers, and found none. Picking up a few Babla and green Jamrul, climbed up to his favorite branch, covered in thick leaves of the oval Banyan leaves. This was the guy, who ruled!
He found his friend the Painter looking for his color and brushes. Both exchanged the nod, and they knew – its been a long time a painting got created. The sky is slowly gathering the colors – creation might bloom soon. Its been a long time of anarchy – thought the king; its time to bring it back to its glory. Someone is playing a flute; the spring might not get skipped this year. He told the Shoulder Bearer not to raise his head and declared the reign of Dream Breather is coming to an end; he has done his job, dreams
has been carefully sown and now ready to breathe life.
Times will not be the same. They not “meant” to be. Yet they go round and round. Not to get repeated, but to give them back life and opportunity to chart a new course, sing a new song. Someone singing – can hear the faint tunes of a “Rain Song”? The clouds waved at him, the rain seeds are being spread. It might rain again in this parched land – all hail the “Child King”, he has returned to his land.