The failing light of the western horizon was being outshone by the razing hurricane lamps of the central courtyard. I was adjusting his ankle bells as father’s words kept repeating in my mind. “A wink of carelessness in the battlefield or a word of truth on the theatre is enough to get your throat slit without an after-thought”, I could still hear them whispering from the depths of my heart.
As I checked the strength of the thread, the ankle bells sang in rhythm to my inner thoughts. “A Sutha is not only a chariot-rider but also a chronicler of the King’s life. If the prince cries in pain, you say the tears are a manifestation of the royalty’s concern for the poor. If he exclaims it is for the good of the downtrodden and if he indulges in malpractices then it is to know the inner circles for better administrative strategies. We the so called Bards (Sutha) are the gatekeepers of a King’s role of divinity”, as I entered the stage I was almost repeating the words in low whispers.
It has been five years since father uttered those words from his deathbed. Standing at the centre of the stage with the Tumbura hanging around my neck and the Chidatha itching against my fingers, my mind began contemplating on the depth of the phrases. I couldn’t understand how I could so clearly remembered the words. It felt as if I was hearing them for the first time in my life but still they had that faint smell of oldness in them. May be they were meant for that exact moment and so as their time approached, they carefully found their way to my mind. Anyways, I had to concentrate on the show ahead. So pushing aside the rules dictionary of what made a Sutha a worthy bard and what helped him survive in the society, I began narrating the story.
The story was of the youngest prince of the kingdom. The prince whose age was not more than eighteen but who had already achieved wonders in his life. It was the story of the prince who slit the throat of the spy who trespassed into the royal garrison at the age of five. The magnificent story of the prince who could caress a mad elephant when he was not more than ten and the prince who recently went on a hunting expedition and killed a tiger with his bare hands to save the life of his lowly Sutha.
“Thandana Thana Thana Thandanana”, the Vantha (Chorus) was going in full roar in line with the story of the Pradhanakathak (Me). Amidst the uproar and the jubilation, my mind absentmindedly began wandering into the depths of my memory lane. The journey was short. It was just one month ago when the prince called for a hunting expedition. Being the son of the royal charioteer who died in the battlefield, I enjoyed the privilege of becoming a charioteer to the young prince at such a tender age. I still remember the weather of the day, the clouds that formed impressive shapes, hiding and revealing the sun at their own will. The prince looked divine in his royal attire and it took a decent amount of time for me to recompose my pose. As I narrated the day and its weather, I could almost smell the countryside, moments before the thunder approached its doorsteps.
Startled by the sudden downpour that hit the forest, the hunting troop stayed firm by the prince. The security chief was yelling instructions over the roaring showers. It was amidst the stinging rain drops that someone first noticed a volley of hailing arrows. “Reckon!!!” the security chief’s voice was so shrill and alert that it could pierce through the thunder and the lightening and reach the other end of the flying arrows.
In no time there was a fierce battle going on in the middle of the forest between the hunting troop and a decent gang of bandicoots itching for loot. Our chariot was in the centre of the battle, the prince cowering under the canopy like a lost kid. I looked behind and found him signalling me to move out of the arena. I tried advising him against the thought but he was adamant. Finally I had to give in and soon we were riding on a deserted track tracing our way back to the palace. The royal track was in visible distance when the horses suddenly came to a standstill. Any amateur horse-rider could guess what it meant when a horse stops short in its race. It meant Danger. The prince was shouting orders from beneath the canopy to make the horse move. I was busy racing thoughts through my mind to guess the most obvious reason for the standstill. No sooner did I confirm my doubts that I heard the growl.
Hunger for man meant many things. But for nature, hunger meant just one thing and it was life. Nature knew no royalty, no divine theories. It followed the rule of the law and when in the midst of a forest the laws always support the survival of the fittest. I was busy contemplating my stand while the prince coyly adjusted an arrow across his bow. The moment I saw him aim into nothingness, I knew I had to break the rules of the civilized. “A Sutha shouldn’t take up weapons even in the face of danger”, I knew the sentence framed in the hall of my memory.
As I checked the strength of the thread, the ankle bells sang in rhythm to my inner thoughts. “A Sutha is not only a chariot-rider but also a chronicler of the King’s life. If the prince cries in pain, you say the tears are a manifestation of the royalty’s concern for the poor. If he exclaims it is for the good of the downtrodden and if he indulges in malpractices then it is to know the inner circles for better administrative strategies. We the so called Bards (Sutha) are the gatekeepers of a King’s role of divinity”, as I entered the stage I was almost repeating the words in low whispers.
It has been five years since father uttered those words from his deathbed. Standing at the centre of the stage with the Tumbura hanging around my neck and the Chidatha itching against my fingers, my mind began contemplating on the depth of the phrases. I couldn’t understand how I could so clearly remembered the words. It felt as if I was hearing them for the first time in my life but still they had that faint smell of oldness in them. May be they were meant for that exact moment and so as their time approached, they carefully found their way to my mind. Anyways, I had to concentrate on the show ahead. So pushing aside the rules dictionary of what made a Sutha a worthy bard and what helped him survive in the society, I began narrating the story.
The story was of the youngest prince of the kingdom. The prince whose age was not more than eighteen but who had already achieved wonders in his life. It was the story of the prince who slit the throat of the spy who trespassed into the royal garrison at the age of five. The magnificent story of the prince who could caress a mad elephant when he was not more than ten and the prince who recently went on a hunting expedition and killed a tiger with his bare hands to save the life of his lowly Sutha.
“Thandana Thana Thana Thandanana”, the Vantha (Chorus) was going in full roar in line with the story of the Pradhanakathak (Me). Amidst the uproar and the jubilation, my mind absentmindedly began wandering into the depths of my memory lane. The journey was short. It was just one month ago when the prince called for a hunting expedition. Being the son of the royal charioteer who died in the battlefield, I enjoyed the privilege of becoming a charioteer to the young prince at such a tender age. I still remember the weather of the day, the clouds that formed impressive shapes, hiding and revealing the sun at their own will. The prince looked divine in his royal attire and it took a decent amount of time for me to recompose my pose. As I narrated the day and its weather, I could almost smell the countryside, moments before the thunder approached its doorsteps.
Startled by the sudden downpour that hit the forest, the hunting troop stayed firm by the prince. The security chief was yelling instructions over the roaring showers. It was amidst the stinging rain drops that someone first noticed a volley of hailing arrows. “Reckon!!!” the security chief’s voice was so shrill and alert that it could pierce through the thunder and the lightening and reach the other end of the flying arrows.
In no time there was a fierce battle going on in the middle of the forest between the hunting troop and a decent gang of bandicoots itching for loot. Our chariot was in the centre of the battle, the prince cowering under the canopy like a lost kid. I looked behind and found him signalling me to move out of the arena. I tried advising him against the thought but he was adamant. Finally I had to give in and soon we were riding on a deserted track tracing our way back to the palace. The royal track was in visible distance when the horses suddenly came to a standstill. Any amateur horse-rider could guess what it meant when a horse stops short in its race. It meant Danger. The prince was shouting orders from beneath the canopy to make the horse move. I was busy racing thoughts through my mind to guess the most obvious reason for the standstill. No sooner did I confirm my doubts that I heard the growl.
Hunger for man meant many things. But for nature, hunger meant just one thing and it was life. Nature knew no royalty, no divine theories. It followed the rule of the law and when in the midst of a forest the laws always support the survival of the fittest. I was busy contemplating my stand while the prince coyly adjusted an arrow across his bow. The moment I saw him aim into nothingness, I knew I had to break the rules of the civilized. “A Sutha shouldn’t take up weapons even in the face of danger”, I knew the sentence framed in the hall of my memory.
However, it was no time for debate between civilized rules and jungle rules. It was just a conflict between life and death and being a man of young blood, I carelessly chose life over death.
The show has come to its climax. The audience were straining their ears to hear what happened next. Though the main reason for the prince moving out was highlighted to be a noble cause, something like, “to attack the bandicoots from the rare side”, the remaining story was similar. That was what differentiates a good bard from a better one. Good bards weave wonderful stories which hadn’t happened. Better bards retell real incidents but edit them accordingly to show the extraordinary courage and wit of the ruler in ordinary times amidst ordinary people. That moment, as I narrated the story I knew I bagged a place in the club of the better bards may be even surpassing my father in the ranking order.
So the story that was followed by ‘thandana thana’ was one of the Sutha running away from the chariot to save his life and the prince pouncing on the tiger as it came out of its camouflage running behind the thoughtless Sutha. What actually happened that day was the Sutha taking the bow and the arrows from the prince, actually snatching the bow and the arrows from the prince, and shooting at the tiger right into its chest much before the prince or the beast could protest.
I could still feel the shiver of the prince’s hands as he embraced me from behind on seeing the beast die. After a few moments he recomposed his posture under the canopy and I rode His Highness to the palace sitting in my lowly position behind the relieved horses. That night I couldn’t sleep well. Since childhood I grew up on the stories narrated by my father about the greatness of the King and his sons. That afternoon after hearing all that had happened from the prince, the King asked me to narrate the story in the central courtyard for the public to know the magnitude of the youngest prince of the kingdom. My confused looked didn’t deter him from his stance. He was clear. He wanted the story to be sung in public spheres. There was neither sarcasm nor wit in his words. “It was a mere test to assess my loyalty towards the royalty”, I thought to myself and took leave.
Sitting in the room behind the stage, I knew I did a great job. The announcer has just announced the arrival of the prince “in disguise”. That meant nothing but a giant leap from being a charioteer to the prince to that of a friend with a locked secret between their cunning smiles. I quickly untied the ankle bells and the ornaments when I heard a soft knock on the door.
The prince entered with no royal entourage following him. Disguised as the son of a noble Lord, he looked no more than an ordinary youngster. May be the divinity lies only in the clothes. But there was something else that pulled his status below royalty. His gait and his gaze were different. His eyes had a hidden grief and I knew it the moment I saw him. I tried to break the ice and asked him what it was that was so grieving him. He looked straight into my eyes and asked, “Why did you lie?”
I could feel the pang of guilt that hung in the air even after the words dissolved into it. Trying not to be prudent, I replied, “That is my duty My Lord”.
“But how long can you hold this secret?” his voice was shivering from within.
“As long as I can hold my breath on this soil My Lord”, the shiver seemed to reflect in my voice. I knew a royal secret was being sealed forever and a twinge of realisation that I was a part of it made me shiver in excitement.
“What if you rebel?” the Royalty was back in him. Once again he was the divine prince whose presence could leave me gaping for an hour as a child.
“Slit my throat My Lord”, no sooner did the words leave my mouth that my life left my body.
Silence; Silence was all that could trespass the arena as a royal secret was locked forever. That moment I knew I couldn’t make a better bard. I was the Best.
The show has come to its climax. The audience were straining their ears to hear what happened next. Though the main reason for the prince moving out was highlighted to be a noble cause, something like, “to attack the bandicoots from the rare side”, the remaining story was similar. That was what differentiates a good bard from a better one. Good bards weave wonderful stories which hadn’t happened. Better bards retell real incidents but edit them accordingly to show the extraordinary courage and wit of the ruler in ordinary times amidst ordinary people. That moment, as I narrated the story I knew I bagged a place in the club of the better bards may be even surpassing my father in the ranking order.
So the story that was followed by ‘thandana thana’ was one of the Sutha running away from the chariot to save his life and the prince pouncing on the tiger as it came out of its camouflage running behind the thoughtless Sutha. What actually happened that day was the Sutha taking the bow and the arrows from the prince, actually snatching the bow and the arrows from the prince, and shooting at the tiger right into its chest much before the prince or the beast could protest.
I could still feel the shiver of the prince’s hands as he embraced me from behind on seeing the beast die. After a few moments he recomposed his posture under the canopy and I rode His Highness to the palace sitting in my lowly position behind the relieved horses. That night I couldn’t sleep well. Since childhood I grew up on the stories narrated by my father about the greatness of the King and his sons. That afternoon after hearing all that had happened from the prince, the King asked me to narrate the story in the central courtyard for the public to know the magnitude of the youngest prince of the kingdom. My confused looked didn’t deter him from his stance. He was clear. He wanted the story to be sung in public spheres. There was neither sarcasm nor wit in his words. “It was a mere test to assess my loyalty towards the royalty”, I thought to myself and took leave.
Sitting in the room behind the stage, I knew I did a great job. The announcer has just announced the arrival of the prince “in disguise”. That meant nothing but a giant leap from being a charioteer to the prince to that of a friend with a locked secret between their cunning smiles. I quickly untied the ankle bells and the ornaments when I heard a soft knock on the door.
The prince entered with no royal entourage following him. Disguised as the son of a noble Lord, he looked no more than an ordinary youngster. May be the divinity lies only in the clothes. But there was something else that pulled his status below royalty. His gait and his gaze were different. His eyes had a hidden grief and I knew it the moment I saw him. I tried to break the ice and asked him what it was that was so grieving him. He looked straight into my eyes and asked, “Why did you lie?”
I could feel the pang of guilt that hung in the air even after the words dissolved into it. Trying not to be prudent, I replied, “That is my duty My Lord”.
“But how long can you hold this secret?” his voice was shivering from within.
“As long as I can hold my breath on this soil My Lord”, the shiver seemed to reflect in my voice. I knew a royal secret was being sealed forever and a twinge of realisation that I was a part of it made me shiver in excitement.
“What if you rebel?” the Royalty was back in him. Once again he was the divine prince whose presence could leave me gaping for an hour as a child.
“Slit my throat My Lord”, no sooner did the words leave my mouth that my life left my body.
Silence; Silence was all that could trespass the arena as a royal secret was locked forever. That moment I knew I couldn’t make a better bard. I was the Best.
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