There she approached,
her eyes wide with the eagerness of the first rushes of youth. The svelte waist
moved in wondrous arcs with each step, every oscillation eloquently speaking of
the blooming womanhood that peeped from underneath her girlish charms.
I was under
the jacaranda tree, having put on my best tiger-skin and slapped generous portions
of sandalwood on my arm-pits. The matted hair had been greased with oil, and I assumed
I looked pretty nifty.
And as she
turned on her way to the recreation gardens, I stepped forward – trying to make
it seem like a casual coincidence. She
had passed me so often in the past without being even aware of my existence. I
made sure she would see me this time – see the desire in my eyes, and the hint in my smile, as long as her eyes did not wander too far south towards that
tell-tale region of the tiger-skin.
I flashed
my most debonair smile, the secret longing revealed in a blinding dazzle ...
Blinding - what irony!
Was I too
abrupt? She shrunk like a delicate touch-me-not who had been all but manhandled
and closed her eyes tight shut. I stood there, my tender, juvenile heart
shattered, feeling myself go down in ways more than one. She had stopped
walking and kept her eyes resolutely shut. Was I that ghastly? Was my complexion so dark
that a slip of a girl would refuse to even look at me when I all but offered my
heart to her?
I felt like
grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing myself on her, then and there ... I,
a sage in the making, a leading intellectual ... I know I am no kshatriya prince
when it comes to looks, but am I so disgusting?
I could
stand it no more. I ran ... and I ran
... till the tears of the boy mingled with the heartbreak at the doorstep of
manhood and I myself could see no more. I plunged into the river, washing away
the ostentations of fancy – the sandalwood paste from my body and the fragrant
oil from the hair.
Now, after
all these years, when I think of her – and her beautiful sister who used to shudder
and turn deathly pale every time she looked at me – I laugh, soaking in the
delights of revenge.
One cannot
mess with the author of a timeless best seller, can one?
I imagine
the two of them, reading the epic over and over again, recognising themselves
in the poem – as they come to life in my imagination. Where I have romped about
with them on the floor, impregnated them, made my seeds live on in each – while
out of age old habit they had trembled, shut their eyes and turned pale.
I can see
them, helpless, the book falling from their shaking hands – as they are
scandalised at the poetic justice that
has been wrought. As I force myself on
them, into them, over and over – generation after generation – in the guise of a
favour to their households, to be read and remembered by millions forever.
Wonder what
their reactions were when they took up the epic written by the very adolescent rishi-boy
they had rejected as nubile young females. I bet they turned pale and shut
their eyes in horror.
Arunabhada, this is really cool. Never thought of Vyas this way. In my mind, Vyas has been sort of like Hitchcock who gives a cameo appearance in his own bestseller :)
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