At the Heaven’s Gate

The boy’s eyes turned red as much in rage as in sorrow. What he felt could not be expressed in words, nor could a river of tears be cried to compensate the grief. He sat by his father’s side, holding his hand, hoping they will reach out to hold his firmly. But they did not. Instead, they rested in the boy’s hands, cold, numb and departed.

How could you do this to him? Why God, why? He cursed the Almighty.

“Tell me Lord,” the boy cried, “a fine man, my father was. He hurt none, he harmed none. He helped with a smile and rightly guided everyone. Why would you take away a man of such ideals?”

The irony of life and death made no sense to the boy. All he had learnt was that there existed two things, the Good and the Bad. The good always prevailed over the bad. The good always supported the right. And the good always served the justice.

His father was a man of all the good qualities. And yet, here he lay in his son’s lap, inert. The Good had been sucked out of him and all that remained was a body that could not move on its own.

“Why such injustice upon my father?” asked the boy. The answer did not come. The boy decided to question God’s judgement.

He stood at the heaven’s door and knocked hard upon it. God answered the door.

“Oh dear child, did you not know that a living being cannot enter the heavens.”

To which the boy pleaded, “My father was taken away from me. I loved him much, as did so many others. We find no reason for your decree to take him away from us. Is it not fair that you answer for this grief you put us through?”

God could not overlook the boy’s pain. His heart melted and he decided to admit the boy in to the heaven.

“Your courage has much impressed me, boy. I shall answer three of your question. Ask wisely.”

The boy agreed to the terms instantly. “My father was a good man.”

“Of course he was.”

“Then why did you take him away?”

“My boy,” God answered, “Good cannot be created. It can be born again though. It can be spread around. But it cannot be created from nothing. Humanity has strived heedlessly to spread the evil. An evil that only a good can destroy. When good prevails over this evil, it has served its purpose. Hence it must die and resurrect in a place where evil spreads like a wildfire. Only thus can good reign over the evil. Your father was a good man. He taught you well, as he did to others. He injected good among others and touched several lives. And when someone touches lives, he leaves a part of him in their heart. There is a little part of him in you and many others.

There was no evil around him. He had served his purpose.”

“What of those who loved him dear?” The boy asked his second question. “Such heart wrenching grief hovers over them.”

To this, God said, “An undying object gives one a limitless power. And limitless power gives birth to evil. Everything, living or not, that exist at one point must destroy itself at another. If your father lived the earth forever, you would have learnt nothing from his absence. And learning from the absence of one is called realization. It is this realization that brought you to the Heaven’s doorsteps. People who loved your father must realize that his purpose was well-served and he was needed somewhere else, a place where people are praying for the good to come. Much like your father, you too are a good man. You must use his teachings and pass them to others. Good things are contagious, my boy. Spread his teachings as far as you can. One who loved your father must serve this purpose towards him as an act of gratitude.”

The boy thought long and hard about his third question. Not a polar question, he decided. But he ultimately gave in to the temptation of it and said, “I miss my father. I wish to see him one more time. Could you?”

God smiled as if he was glad at the question, “My boy, how I have wished you did ask me to.” He moved his hand over the clouds and cleared them apart. Thousands of miles below them, on the earth, a couple sat happily with a newly born child. The mother held her child close to her heart and kissed him several times. The child reminded him of someone familiar. Those eyes he had seen before.

The boy dropped to his knees and looked closely. The irony of life and death made sense to him now. “Father,” he whispered in a gleeful voice.

“He might not be with you,” God placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said reassuringly, “But he will be around somewhere, with a different name, a different face, a different voice. He will walk the earth again. He will serve his new guardians and siblings. He will teach others what he taught you. One day, he will have a son just like you. And he will take the same pride in his son that he once took in you. He will spread the same good around him until the evil is beaten. And when his purpose is served, he will move on to serve the next good part. This is life.”

In Loving Memory of Abhisek Kisla.

YOU WALK THE GARDEN OF HEAVEN,

BUT YOU DWELL IN THE HEART OF A MILLION.

The Lost Princess

Note: This blog is a guest post by Neelam Mirchandani. My sincere thanks to her for the time and efforts.

I could feel the soft skin on my arms. There was a warm rush in my heart, as warm as the blood running in her veins. My joy knew no bounds. I had waited so eagerly for her, and now, she was finally here, right here in my arms. I couldn’t stop smiling. She smiled too. I couldn’t take my eyes off her beautiful face. Her looks … mesmerizing! Beady eyes, small red nose, cotton-like chubby cheeks, silky smooth thick hair. Wow!

She was fresh, smelling good; I didn’t want to put her down. I didn’t want to hurt her skin. She was mine, all mine. There was one and only one person I wanted to share her with. Her father. She had my looks and his eyes. He took her from my arms, carefully; smiled an eternal smile. His face flushed, eyes watered. The tears  in his eyes were of joy. His blood, skin, bones. A form of life he helped me get into this world. He gazed at her, as if endlessly. It was the most beautiful moment of our lives.

Her first birthday. A red dress, net. With satin flowers. She looked nothing less than a princess. A tiny diamond crown gave a perfect finishing touch to the look. She was loved and admired by the whole neighborhood. She was the reason for most of the smiles around her. She was a gift, not only for us, but everyone who came across her, even for a short while. This love for her brought many a people to wish her on her birthday. They got her gifts, presents. To everyone’s astonishment, she accepted only flowers. Such beautiful was she, even from within, at such a tender age.

Her teachers never complained about her misbehaving in the school. No one even dared to trouble her. Such was her nature and aura.

One day she returned home late from college. There was a sudden feeling of unhappiness in me; as if someone suddenly hit me hard in the chest. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. She didn’t seem as happy as she usually did. I could feel a certain fear creep into me. My better half, my only support, held my hand tight. His touch consoled me, usually, however not this time. I wanted to speak to her, but words didn’t seem to leave my lips. Did I go mute? What was wrong with me? I started to hear voices around me. What was the commotion all about? I could sense panic in the air.

A warm drop of water fell on my cheek. And another. Yet another. Someone was crying. Who was it? My eyes seemed heavy to open. They felt as if they had cried before. I tried my best to open them. My vision was blurred. He was crying, bitterly. I tried to get my head off the pillow to hug him and ask him what was wrong. I felt severe pain in my stomach, as if someone had cut through it and taken away a part of me. It was strange feeling of emptiness and pain.

Before he could reach out to me to calm me down, I had figured it all out. I had lost her. We had lost her. Lost her much before she could come into the world, much before she could fulfill our dreams, much before she could spread smiles. It hurt. Hurt more than my womb did. My heart was pierced, soul was lifeless. My dreams were shattered, my princess was lost.

By: Neelam Mirchandani

Author’s Personal Blog: Lost World Found

The Joker

“Oh father,” little Johnny said elatedly and jumped in delight, “Oh father, I want to be what you are.”

Little Johnny had watched his father perform an act in the town’s festival. His father had everyone cracking at his wits. Not for a moment, he had stopped entertaining the crowd with his humour. They laughed till they rolled on the floor. Some elite gentlemen were very impressed with the act and had rewarded him handsomely.

“I have never laughed so much all my life.” One gentleman had expressed and it had made his father so ecstatic that he walked with his head high and his chest puffed-up in pride.

Little Johnny was so touched by this gesture that he had taken it to his heart; he would be what his father was. He would be a Joker.

His father tried to convince little Johnny against it. He said, “Now son, you could be all you want. You could be the Emperor’s lead man in his army. Or you could be a physician and help save lives. You could be an artist, a singer, musician, painter or a writer if you want.”

“But father,” little Johnny resisted. “None of those make people laugh, can they? None of those spread a smile across their face, can they? None of those make them laugh and cry at the same time like you did today, can they?”

“Oh little Johnny,” smiled father, “you are too young to understand now. You will come along.” He said.

As they walked their way home, little Johnny spoke how he had never seen so many happy, smiling faces at the same time. How he had never imagined that people would beg his father to stop making them laugh. How he wished that one day, he would follow his father’s footsteps and become the best jester in the Kingdom. And then little Johnny stopped short and wondered, as if something had struck him sharp. He stared at his father with an inquiring look.

“What is it, Johnny?” asked his father.

“I have it in me, don’t I father? To be as good as you are.”

His father smiled at his child’s innocence and nodded in acceptance.

Little Johnny grew up to become a handsome young man. He lived his days with the hope of realizing his dreams. And when the day came, he donned his distinctive and eccentric motley pattern hat with floppy three points, a jingle bell at the end of each. He colored himself white across his face and neck. He applied a faint smudge of black tint around his eyes and scattered a trail down his cheeks as if to look like he was crying. He put on a fake long nose and colored his lips red, drawing a smiling pattern that stretched all the way to his ears. He wore a brightly colored suit with ruffled collar and a loose, baggy, polka dotted pants to go with it. Finally, he stepped into a pair of shoes that were three times bigger to fit him.

 

He turned to his father and asked, “How do I look?”

“You look like a fool,” his father replied.

“Perfect,” Johnny said looking at his reflection in the mirror, twisting and turning to adore from different directions. “I am ready now. This is my face, father. From here on.”

He performed his first act on a busy street in the market. It was a rage among the by-passers. Some were generous to drop coins as an act of appreciation. Some clapped and moved along their own business. The children stayed back till the end of the act. He did not ask for money from anyone but happily collected all that was offered. He went home and narrated his success story to his father, who only smiled with concerned eyes.

 

When his acts became popular in the town, Johnny decided to travel places and entertain people. His father tried to talk him down, to give up the occupation, but Johnny stayed unyielded. He simply loved being a Joker. He was destined to be one.

Finally, his father gave in to Johnny’s persistence. On the day Johnny was to leave, his father encouraged, “Make them laugh as if you sacrificed your own laughter for them.”

Johnny went places. He entertained many. Soon his antics fell on the Emperor’s ears, who immediately summoned him to  perform in his crowded court. Much to the Emperor’s expectations, Johnny managed to impress him. When the court had showered Johnny for his frolics with applause, the Emperor demanded to see him in person.

“Impressed, I am with your act Joker,” he said, “very impressed indeed.”

“My lord,” Johnny bowed in gratitude.

“My son, he is 11 year old,” the Emperor continued. “He cannot speak. He cannot hear. He spends all his time in his room. He has no friends. The maids try to entertain him to no avail. I provide him every luxury this kingdom can afford, only if it would bring him a smile. What must a father do to see his son smile and laugh when the days are his? I have failed at it. I do not demand from you, neither do I force you to. As a father, I request you to perform an act for my son. Give your best, make him laugh. That is all I plead.”

“My lord, do not embarrass me further,” Johnny requested graciously. “It will be an honour to perform for the prince.”

And so, Johnny the Joker performed his best act for the prince. He juggled several balls in the air and deliberately made a mistake. Each ball hit him in the head one after the other making a vacant noise every time. Johnny pretended to fall unconscious, only to suddenly jump in air and bow to the audience. He made faces, some funny and most stupid. He bent low and let a spectator kick him in the rear. He fell on his face hard; he balanced his body on the hands and danced along the court. He played the lute with his feet. He humiliated himself in every possible way, not leaving any stone unturned. Every single soul in the court laughed heartily. And it was not long before the Prince, for the first time, broke into a laughter. At the sight of this, the entire court went numb and quiet. An awkward silence fell in the room. But Johnny did not stop. He continued to perform and the Prince continued to laugh.

The Emperor had tears in his eyes. The laughter of his son fell on his ears in such acceptance as the morning dews on the meadow. The tears did not stop, neither did the Prince’s laughing and nor did Johnny the Joker’s act.

The Emperor requested Johnny to stay in the capital and work for him. Johnny gladly accepted. Years passed by as Johnny continued with his antics for the Prince. But those were not the same years he had experienced in the beginning anymore.

One day, Johnny received a letter from his father, who was on his death bed. Johnny rushed to his father’s side.

“How are you Johnny?” asked his father.

“Father, underneath this mask, I am unhappy.” He confessed.

“Why, but you have realized your dreams, haven’t you? What is the matter son?”

“Being a joker gives me satisfaction. It’s a different feeling to crack people.”

His father saw the same inquiring look in Johnny’s eyes that he had seen several years ago.

“Father,” Johnny continued, “a joker makes others laugh, but who makes a joker laugh? I visit a pantry and people look at me, hoping I will perform to entertain them. No one takes a joker seriously. No woman will love me for my white smeared face and long fake nose. I cry underneath the mask, father.”

“You chose your destiny,” said his father sympathetically. “And when you did, you chose to sacrifice your own laughter for others. That is a Joker’s life my son, and you are living it. Remember son, it is easy to laugh at others, but one who laughs at himself, laughs the most. You have made many a hearts joyful with your frolics. There is no bigger act of sacrifice than to make others snigger at your own expense. People will know you for this face son.”

“But I feel lonely, father. I feel so lonely.”

“Johnny, a joker’s life is all about giving and not asking for in return.”

Johnny’s father died a week later and he returned to the capital. Few more years passed by until one day a war broke out in the Kingdom. The Emperor lost and the Kingdom faced the toughest downfall in its history. There was no immediate ruler. The once rich capital plummeted financially in no time.

Johnny no longer worked for the Emperor. His conditions worsened. He had no one to look for and neither anyone to look after him. Every day, he wore his jester guise and performed in the streets. If for once, he could lift someone’s spirit in such hard times, it would give him immense satisfaction.

Whatever he earned for his acts, he accepted with open arms. It was never enough to meet his needs but enough to get him through the day with 2 meals. He never complained. His father’s dying words kept him going through the tough days.

Years passed by in this fashion. Little Johnny had grown old, but his spirit had not been tampered. He continued to crack people.

The days soon turned around for the good and the capital was blessed with an able Emperor. Johnny’s age had caught up with him. He decided to honor the Emperor with a final act.

When Johnny took to the stage, a familiar crowd roared in a numbing applause. The best joker in the town was about to perform his act. Once again he did not disappoint. Once again, he cracked every single soul in the court. Once again, he laughed at himself, made a fool of himself, all this to bring joy to the hearts of his people.

When the act ended, old Johnny ran out of breath and fell to the ground. The court physician declared him departed. The Emperor was surprised at the event that had succeeded such beautiful, unforgettable laughing event. He refused to believe what had chronicled. He had fallen for the Joker. He said to his maid,

“Clean the Jester’s face. I wish to see the face behind the mask that made so many laugh for ages.”

A maid rushed forth to carefully cleanse the white paint off Johnny’s face. But the black tint around his eyes refused to clear, no matter how much she tried. The physician walked close, his fingers ran over the black tint.

“What is the matter?” the Emperor asked curiously.

“My lord,” the physician concluded, “this is no paint. The joker cried so much over the years that it left a permanent mark on his face.”

The Sacred Tree of Khamur

The King’s court was filled in settled air. The herald, the steward, the chancellor, the usher, twenty one Knights of the Kingdom and other courtiers sat peacefully on either side of the courtyard. The King gallantly occupied his golden throne. A courtesan aired the King with flabellum the size of a goat.

Two villagers, a fruit vendor and a carpenter from different parts of the Kingdom stood in the centre of the court. Bowing in respect, thrice they offered their salaam to the King, as was the tradition in the Kingdom of Khamur.

The King raised his hand and nodded in acceptance.

To this gesture of his majesty, a crier stepped out of his position and stood overlooking the audience of the court.

“Today, we gather,” he said, “to witness our King, the great lord of Khamur, bestow justice to the one who is loyal and truthful to the King. Amen.”

“Amen,” repeated the crowd in unison.

The crier then turned to the King, “My Lord, if you may permit, may I introduce these gentlemen who seek justice from the wise King?”

“Proceed,” said the King.

“To the left,” said the Crier standing between the two villagers “is Hussain; a fruit vendor from the northern part of the Kingdom. To the right, my lord, is Hasan; a carpenter from the western part of the Kingdom. With your permission, Hussain will step forward to put forth his part of the narration followed by Hasan.”

The King raised his hand in consent.

“My Lord,” said Hussain stepping forward, “I am a poor man from North. An old father who nears his death, a wife who demands no riches and two sons deprived of proper childhood, complete my family. My family’s requirements are minimal and satisfied by the amount of fruits I sell every day. Unfortunately, with my income we barely manage to scrape through each day. To better my situation, I travel long to the capital city of Khamur every 7th and 21st day of the month. The capital city is generous my Lord. The fruits sell more than any other place in the Kingdom.

Few years back, when I was on my way to the capital city, somewhere near the sacred lake of Khamur, I decided to rest for a while. The sun was raging heat like none other summer day. Under my own tattered cloth I took shelter and sat on a stone to rest my legs. The sacred water did its bit to keep me relaxed and occupied. That is when I spotted a plant in the most secluded area.

Its leaves were of the kind I had never seen before, and so was its structure, but I could not tell for I hold no expertise in trees. There was something unique about this little one, but wonder is all I could do. Its roots were too young to reach for the lake water. In that blazing summer noon, the plant stood battling for its own existence. I wondered who could have been so unkind to this immovable soul. My heart melted at the poor life who could not share its pain. Instantly, I ran towards the lake and fetched some water for the plant.

I decided to bring some fertilizers for the plant from the capital city when on my way back. I only intended the good for it. And so I did. Every 7th and 21st of the month and while on my way back home, I stop by the lake to water and soil my plant. I look after it with utmost love, as if it were my own son, a part of my family. For two years now, I have looked after the plant every time I travel to and fro.

Today it has bosomed into a full grown tree. This man here, the carpenter from the west, claims my tree as his own. And that is why I come to you my lord, for in your justice I believe and pray. I rest my case here and surrender my rights to you.”

Hussain retreated back to his position besides the Crier. Hasan stepped forward and bowed to the King again. Clearing his throat he said,

“My lord, my father was a skilled and respected carpenter from the west. And so was his father and his father before that. Over the generations, none has questioned our reputation. It is indeed a shame that I have been dragged to this court by a fellow from the North. My family comprises of my mother in law, my wife, a son and a daughter. As if being poor is not a curse enough, my grievances are further aggrieved by my son’s disability. The doctor demands a hefty sum to heal my son of his misery. A man of my stature, a carpenter by occupation, holds no grip on such amount of money. But a father’s only wish is to see his son grow tall and healthy.

I work hard to earn and save money for my son’s treatment. Every 14th and 30th of the month, I travel to the capital city of Khamur. Only the rich and wealthy populate the capital city. My skills are handsomely rewarded in the capital by the merchants and knights alike.

While traveling once to the capital, I decided to rest by the sacred lake. That is when my eyes fell on this one of its kind,

beautiful and gracious looking plant. I wondered who could be so stupid as to plant a tree in the middle of nowhere. I could only pity the state of this plant. For miles to and fro, there was not a soul to look after it. Moreover, I feared its safety for if any animal lingered around this side, it would not think twice before devouring it. My actions were heartfelt though intuitive. I built a barricade around the plant to protect it from the wandering animals.

Before leaving for the capital, I watered the plant and promised to get quality soil on my way back. And so I did. From that day, two years back, to this day that I stand in your court for justice, I have cared for the plant as I have for my son. Today the plant stands tall, a full-bosomed tree covered in leaves and bore fruits. Fruits of my labor and not that of this fruit vendor from the North.

Today I stand in your court pleading for what belongs to me. In your justice, I believe and pray. With this I rest my case.”

The King signaled for the crier to step forward.

“I have patiently listened to the two sides of the story,” he said. “However, before I deliver any justice, I wish to see this tree myself that has managed to stir a controversy as such, without uttering a single word. We shall leave for the sacred lake now.”

By dusk, the King and his men arrived at the sacred lake accompanied by the Hussain and Hasan. Indeed in the most secluded region, there stood the most beautiful tree the King had seen in his realm. It was three times taller than the tallest tree in his Kingdom. With the sun setting against its back drop, the tree’s shade spread serenely over the surface of the lake water. But it was not the tree’s beauty, nor its gigantic feature that surprised him the most. It was the moment of pure awe and wonder, when his eyes settled on the branches and fruits that the tree bore. And that, he realized, had been the main reason for the altercation between the fruit vendor and the carpenter.

Every branch looked as if it was a work of art by God himself. Smooth, and polished in a color of mahogany, the King admired. If this tree belonged to the carpenter, he would make the finest piece of furniture in all of Kingdom.

Next his eyes fell on the fruits that nearly covered the enitre tree. Never had the King in his life time seen a tree that bore all kinds of fruits on the same branch. There were several mangoes, bananas, watermelons and others, each a size of a Knight’s shield and as heavy as the King’s armor. The King asked one of his men to climb the tree and pluck one for him. Ripe and juicy, the fruit left such a taste on the King tongue that he wished for it to never fade.

A fruit such as this can only grow in the gardens of God, thought the King. If the fruit vendor owned this tree, he did become the richest and finest vendor in all of the Kingdom, maybe even beyond the borders.

When he had fully inspected the tree, he turned to the two contestants and said, “I am a King of great repute. Justice must be served and that is exactly what I will do. You have both done your part in making the tree as it stands today. It would not be wise for either one of you to have complete share of this tree. Neither would it be wise for you two to share the tree for ages to come. Hence, in all interest of peace, I order this tree to be cut down by dawn tomorrow. The fruit vendor shall be the sole owner of all the fruits. Sell the fruits and make the most of it while you can. The carpenter will have the branches for himself. It should give you enough material to showcase your skills and earn a fortune for your next generation.”

And so the King concluded the case of the tree.

“Justice has been served,” shouted the Crier “Long live the King.”

“Long live the King,” all hailed the King.

When everyone had left, the tree stood once again in the presence of the sacred lake. At that precise moment, when the moon was at its peak, a man stopped by to rest under the tree.

“Oh my my,” he said admiring the tree’s features. “What did you eat little friend? And how did you manage to grow in a place of nowhere.”

The tree did not answer.

“Sigh!!! How I wish you could speak.” The man whispered to himself.

At that moment a fruit fell from the lowest branch and rolled near the man’s feet. The man, tired and hungry from his travel thanked the tree a million and ate the fruit. The size and taste of the fruit impressed the man so much that all he wanted was to praise endlessly.

“You are ingenious, one of its kind, a godly miracle if I must say,” extolled  the man. “You gave me shelter under your shade. You gave me food and sated my hunger. What does a small time magician like me has to offer you in return?” The magician spoke but all he heard was the breeze.

“Yesssss,” he said after a brief pause. “I know what I can offer you.” Saying so, he pulled out a chalk from his bag and carved two eyes and a mouth on the tree’s bark. Closing his eyes, he danced around the tree and chanted several times,

“In the crowded world, a tree stands alone.

Yet so kind, so gracious and so bold.

For a day, the nature shall abide,

In the dawn, a tree shall speak and open eyes wide.”

The magician prepared to leave towards his destination. For the last time, he turned to the tree, “Thank you, oh gracious unspeakable. For a day tomorrow, you shall see the beauty of nature and admire it. Enjoy it while you can.” And so he left.

Next morning, the crier ran into the King’s court where his majesty attended to other matters.

“My Lord,” interrupted the crier, “the unspeakable has happened.”

“What unspeakable could happen in a peaceful Kingdom as mine?”

“It has spoken my lord,” the crier answered still panting. “The tree has spoken.”

His majesty could not reason with his own wits. Within hours the King stood before the tree. To his amazement, not only the tree could talk but also see him.

“What sorcery is this?” asked the King.

“None, my lord,” answered the tree. “A kind hearted magician blessed me with the ability to see and speak for a day.

And what time for him to do so.”

“My orders are still clear. You are to be cut and served as justice.” The King stood firm on his decision.

“Indeed,” the tree agreed. “A King of your stature has repute at stake. But oh my wise King; is it not the rule of the Kingdom to fulfill the last wish as a gratifying act for death?”

The King thought for a moment and said, “The rule applies for humans. But I will make an exception as long as the wish is within my command.”

“Well then, I only wish to spend a day in your presence my Lord. And by sunset, you can have your justice served.”

“So be it,” affirmed the King.

The King’s men left the tree and the King alone for the day. The tree was kind enough to offer the King a place on the topmost branch.

“Tell me,” said the King. “If you were to choose your master, who would it be?”

“Hmm,” grunted the tree. “Your question needs not only an apt answer but to be witnessed by your own eyes too. Let the forthcoming events be the judge for your concern.”

The next few hours passed in silence. The King sitting at the top saw a boy with a stick in his hand walking towards the tree. Carefully, the boy used the stick as if it showed him the way towards the tree.

“An occasional visitor,” informed the tree. The King began to watch patiently.

“Anyone here?” the boy shouted as he neared the tree. “Will someone be kind enough to help a blind boy?”

When there was no reply for help, the boy dropped his stick and began searching for the most overgrown root. When his hands touched the root, he looked up and shouted yet again, “Anyone here?”

No reply.

Standing closely by the root, he walked ten steps away from the tree, counting each one. At the tenth step, for the third time he shouted even louder, “Anyone here to help a blind boy?”

For seconds when he observed no answer, he dropped down to his knees, and began digging in to the ground. Merely a minute later, his hands grabbed a small bag hidden underground and pulled it out. Quickly, he added some money from his pocket in the bag and buried it again. Covering the hole with soil, he took ten steps back towards the tree.

“Thank you, great one,” the boy said. “As long as your roots stand still, my hard earned money will be safe from bandits and looters.”

And so he walked away as fast as he had come.

When the boy was out of sight, the tree said, “Poor boy, my lord. He has no family, neither friends. The almighty helps him through the day. Occasionally, he finds his way by the banks of the lake. A lonely sole is more afraid of humans than of demons. He saves his hard earned sum here, at my foot, to ensure safety from the evil eyes. I ensure the safety of his money in my own way.”

Another hour passed by in silence. This time the King saw an elderly man walk towards the tree. “Ah, a shade is the finest thing I have come across in my journey,” said the old man. “Your fruits look ripe and delicious. For once, I wish I was not so off age.” Saying thus, he pulled out a piece of bread from his bag and began nibbling on it.

The King remarked on every night that he spent devouring the delicacies. And here he was, witnessing a poor old man nibbling on poor man’s food. He could only pity the situation.

But the tree did not think for too long. It shook the lowest branch as if a strong breeze had caught upon it and thus dropped a couple of fruits at the old man’s feet.

The old man could not believe his luck. “It is as though you can hear me,” said he. “Thank you gracious one. It has been so long that I have tasted a ripe fruit. Thank you so much.” Having eaten the fruit, the old man rested while the tree aired him for long.

Another several hours passed by, visitors came and went. The tree did its bit to help the travelers make their journey easy. In return, it asked for nothing.

The King realized that the tree’s purpose in the secluded area was to help the passer by. It was not a coincidence that it had been planted there. If the tree was cut down to nothing, what good could it do the numerous travelers?

“Everything in this world,” said the King to his courtiers the next morning, “happens for a reason. So we say, and so I have seen and realized. The presence of each being is predetermined by the Almighty. More so often, we question the origin and nature of a being. And when we do, we are questioning the God’s creativity.

The tree has taught me a lesson of great value. Peace cannot be brought upon by serving justice only. Peace can be brought upon by giving and not asking, by helping and not expecting. The tree will stay in its position, unharmed. From this day on, I declare the tree besides the sacred lake to be a sacred tree.

As for the carpenter and fruit vendor, they shall be offered a gracious sum from my treasury for their bit in helping an orphan plant. Justice has been truly served.”

All the courtiers busted into a loud applause for the King’s just and wise decision.

Unaware of the King’s verdict, the tree stood alone, and continued to fulfill its reason of existence, its destiny by helping every passer by.

Story of a Valentine

Emperor Claudius held his royal staff in his left hand. His body leaned towards the right, his elbow on the arm chair bearing the burden of his weight. The Emperor wore his ceremonial “trabea” entirely covered in purple. What was it that he was celebrating with a wide smile across his face?

His eyes had settled on a man who kneeled before him. The man bowed before the Emperor not out of respect, but forcefully. He had no fear in his heart, no regret on his mind or guilt on his soul. In the silence of the court, the only sound that echoed the corners of the court was that of the King’s staff tapping against the royal floor. Courtesans looked in curiosity for the Emperor to deliver his verdict. Most were not in his favor. But then, who were they to judge the King who ruled several realms of Rome?

The man who kneeled before the Emperor was known to one and all. He was the most beloved man of Rome, the man who touched a million hearts and summoned words that spoke only the language of love. His name was St. Valentine.

And his guilt was to only have spread love without the Emperor’s consent.

“Do you confess to your guilt?” the Emperor questioned pointing the staff at Valentine.

To this, Valentine only nodded in denial. Nothing could more aggrieve the Emperor than a foul criminal’s ego. No one could stand challenge to the might of the Emperor.

“So be it,” said Emperor Claudius. “Your debauchery has cost me gravely. You decimated my army with a single word, love. I, Emperor Claudius, banish you from any freedom Gods can offer. May you rot and die in the dungeons of my prison when the time be right. From thus forth, Rome will never see a marriage.”

And so it was decided. Valentine was thrown in a remote cell where not a speck of sun’s light could touch the walls. Not a soul wandered or a whisper lingered. The man of love spent his days in a corner, only wishing the Emperor could understand the essence of love. So he believed that God’s angel will send a cupid and the Emperor will be diagnosed of his hatred and filled with love and only love. He pondered over those he had secretly married off against the Emperor’s will.

Days turned to months and months to years. He was reduced from muscles to bones. Soon his time would be due, he knew for sure. And one day, what had not happened in years, was about to ensue. An echo fell on his ears, one that he had not heard in a long time. The footsteps were soft, gentle, like a breeze touching a leaf. His eyes searched in the dark until they found a figure standing outside a cell.

She had long hair. Her eyes did not look into his but he could tell the color of them.

What game the mind plays in my dying days? He thought.

He closed his eyes wondering if this was a dream, and opening the eyes would make the figure in front of him vanish. Not that he wanted her to go. No man in his right sense would want to stop looking at a beauty as such. For a brief moment he pushed his mind to focus, to relieve himself of this beautiful dream.

When he opened them again, the beautiful lady was still standing in her place.

“She is my daughter,” said the guard approaching the cell.

Valentine had not spoken in years. But the love inside him was still afresh. He smiled at the new face. For a day, he had seen too many good faces. He could only ask for more.

“You may not remember me,” the guard continued. “Long time back, you had secretly married me to a girl, against the will of the Emperor.”

Valentine had married off thousands of couples. In fact, more men than there were in the Emperor’s army. This was the reason he was where he is. Not once he regretted having married off those lovely couples. The love in the eyes of the groom, the bride in white shinning gown and the blessing he showered in whispers. The secrecy he never revealed to anyone, the promises he kept for the couple, and he never regretted any of those. His years in this cell were worth each of those moments.

“It is because of you that I am blessed with a beautiful daughter as such,” the guard was in tears now. “You do not deserve this for the blessings you bestowed upon us. When I narrated your story to my daughter, she insisted on meeting you. I could not keep her away. How could I deny her from meeting a man so full of love?” He turned to the entrance and back to the cell. “I must leave you two alone here. I will stay guard by the door.” Saying so he left for the door.

When Valentine turned to the guard’s daughter, he looked directly in her eyes. She had dreamy eyes, a strand of hair fell across her face. It was as though he was rewarded with a second life. It was not until she spoke her first word, that St Valentine’s heart was overwhelmed with such happiness that his weak body could bear no further. Streams of tears began to roll down his cheeks. Not since his birth had he cried like a baby.

“My love,” she said reaching through the cell rods, “what injustice the Emperor does to a man who knows no hatred?” She reached for his hands and held them firmly in hers. Valentine was coming back to life again.

As days passed on, the guard’s daughter frequented her visits to Valentine. For hours they would talk. She would describe to him the happenings outside the cell. She would cook for him healthy food. She would stay by his cell till he had had his food and drifted off to sleep holding her hand. She would then leave for her place, only to look forward for her next meeting with Valentine.

Daily and slowly, her presence lifted Valentine’s spirit. When he felt retrieved in his prime, with the help of the good guard, he started secretly marrying more couples. This he did with the help of his lady love. He taught her the rites which she performed secretly outside.

But as fate had it, the Emperor was relieved of the treachery one day. His heart was filled in such rage and hatred that he decided to finish the tale of Valentine on the same day. The day was the fourteenth morning of February, 269 AD.

In a public gathering, the Emperor held captive the guard, St Valentine and his love. Not a moment he spent in beheading the guard with his own sword for his treachery. He turned to the St. Valentine, “You dare defy the words of your Emperor. No more shall I let your love prevail. Your last wish?” he asked.

To this, Valentine produced a piece of paper. Turning to his lady, he read through it,

The rose is red, the violet’s blue,

The honey’s sweet, and so are you.

Thou art my love and I am thine;

I drew thee to my Valentine:

The lot was cast and then I drew,

And Fortune said it shou’d be you.

That day, St Valentine and his love was sacrificed on the altar of hatred. Years later, we still continue to celebrate this day, to spread the love that originated in the heart of St Valentine.

Note: This is my version of the story of Valentine. The story may defer as per the source I read from.

Poem Courtesy: St Valentine.