Dreams are the windows to the beauty and horror of my soul - By Indrasena Taraka, Chronicle of Hopekiller
Since this book is meant to be my chronicle, it should begin with a proper beginning. To do that, we must sail down the river of time, journeying to the years before my triumphs and follies—to the days of capricious safety.
Contrary to the rumors, I do not belong to the fallen house of Yugakhadga. I am not an heir to a family of power-hungry fools cursed with hearts that burned with covetous fire. I was simply sired by a man who had no aspirations other than whoring and gambling.
I may not have inherited his vices, but I inherited something far worse—his caste. Those who bear this curse find themselves relegated to the outskirts of villages and walled precincts in cities. According to the priests, this practice exists to separate the pure from the impure. And lest we, the impure beasts, forget our place, they constantly remind us of our forefathers’ sins to justify their unfair treatment.
They say that centuries ago, we betrayed the revered God-King. They say our ancestors sided with the Danavas and helped them destroy the world so that the antithesis of Svayambu could remake it in its own vision. However, righteousness prevailed, leading to the defeat of the Danavas at the hands of the God-King's armies. After such a devastating defeat, we, the traitors of mankind, sought forgiveness. To our surprise, the God-King was very compassionate, offering us a place in His paradise—as servants.
Given that the only alternative was death, we accepted His offer, resigning ourselves to the reality that servitude was our only means of survival. To ensure that we, along with the rest of mankind, live in accordance with their god’s intentions, His lapdogs constantly remind us of the supremacy of Varna—condemning the evils of free will, which, in their view, would hinder the wheel of progress.
Now I shall be honest with you, for I have pledged veracity. If my words offend you, I humbly request that you bear it with fortitude. Never have I chanced upon a holy man lacking in falsehoods and untarnished by perversity. Most of them are a blight upon mankind, true hinderers of the wheel of progress, propagating lies in the name of utopia.
I rejected their poisonous lies and embraced a dream where every individual is treated with respect. But over the years, I came to understand the lunacy of my ways. I realized the impossibility of preserving the peace that follows a revolution. Compared to me, my parents were more willing to be mistreated. They did not desire change, as the concept of change was unfamiliar, and adapting to something unfamiliar seemed arduous.
Still, it was one thing to endure it willingly in order to survive, and another to love them. My father loved them and was even willing to kiss their feet to prove it. It may sound paradoxical and even absurd for someone so oppressed to behave this way, but such is the way of humanity. For some of us, it's easier to love our abusers than to confront the truth.
While my mother was not blind to the mistreatment, she had no reservations about keeping her head down and tolerating the abuse. People like my mother, you see, do not seek revolution, for they know that revolutions lead in only one direction—toward chaos.
A father blinded by adoration and a mother who chooses to ignore reality—these are the roles men and women play in this empire. These roles are inherited, passed down from one generation to the next: from mother to daughter, from father to son. And thus, self-preservation, without dignity, became our way of life.
I cannot fault people for being subservient, for I was no different. I had thought of nothing beyond survival—until a realization struck me: What purpose does life hold if joy is absent from its very essence? This question became the spark that ignited a hidden passion within me—the desire to be free. And the only path to freedom, for any man or woman, is the pursuit of their dream. And mine was to become a musician, even if it meant gaining no coin or recognition for my talents
To pursue such a beautiful dream would never have been possible had a certain woman not entered my life. To me, she was a benevolent master who revealed my vocation—and also a heartbreaker. Even now, as a man with a passing understanding of the fairer sex, my heart fails to grasp the secret behind her enigmatic allure. Capturing her essence beyond her physical features eludes me.
Her eyes were brown—brown as honey—shaped like almonds, set in a heart-shaped face with the warm coloring of burnt caramel. Her hair was dark—dark as a midnight veil, smooth as silk, with each strand appearing as if spun by the goddess of beauty herself.
This woman had taught me how to dream, and if not for her, I never would have sought freedom or played the role of chaos in flesh. Do not hold it against her. She meant well. The fault lies within me, for I am, as my enemies say, an unquenchable fire that burns everything it touches.
Before you meet her, let us talk about my birthplace—a dark spot in the heart of Mohanpur, a city sculpted upon a sea of sand. Massive sandstone walls, adorned with intricate latticework and carvings, protected this city. One could spend an entire lifetime studying the sheer artistry of these walls, which depicted the city's history from the days before the war that ended all wars.
The entrance is to the north, where massive iron doors proudly display ornate patterns, inviting you into wide streets lined with breathtaking havelis. These havelis feature facades of sandstone with delicate oriel windows adorned with intricate designs and carvings, supported by wooden brackets. These havelis also have stunning courtyards, with lush gardens and elegant fountains and many other extravagances.
To the east of the wide street of northern entrance that led to the royal palace, cutting through the temple district, lies the bustling bazaar, where an array of items can be found. Men wearing colorful turbans and tunics skillfully weave their words to entice you into purchasing things you do not need. With the right words, they can even convince you to sell them your own children for a good pot.
To the west of the bazaar lies a dark spot in the city, surrounded by towering sandstone walls designed to confine the sullied to their 'rightful' habitat. Within these walls, my community resides in rectangular homes made of mud and topped with thatched roofs, which a vigorous wind could tear off with ease.
Now, pay attention! The following information is very important, for these are the rules that sullied individuals must follow—unless, of course, they have a masochistic or suicidal desire to face harsh punishment.
- Sullied individuals are allowed beyond the walls only to perform work-related tasks.
- The compensation for this work will be just enough to barely survive.
- If you venture beyond the walls after sunset, you will lose your life—or, worse, be crippled for life.
- If you engage in lovemaking beyond your designated station, be ready to be skinned alive.
- Never fail to heed the words of priests who deign to come to your impure habitat.
- The sullied have no business tainting our sacred temples. Stay out!
The last one is truly hurtful. I love temples. As a child, I used to climb the tallest building within the walls to catch a glimpse of the massive spires of the Bhairava Temple. It's architecture fascinated me, and I wanted to understand how such magnificent structures were crafted. Later in life, I had the opportunity to visit these awe-inspiring temples, admire their exquisite murals and mandapas, and participate in the religious ceremonies held in the grand pillared halls.
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It is unfathomable to think that such exquisite structures could be commissioned by hands capable of monstrous deeds. But that is the beauty and horror of humanity. We are paradoxical creatures with the capacity to both sculpt and ruin. To me, the only person that never epitomized this contradiction was she.
She was simply magnificent and in my eyes, she has no fault; hell, even if you point out her flaws it will only make her more charming to me. She breathed life into me. Life into an ungrateful man who failed to protect her. She was my safe haven from despair, and I let the devil inside me besiege her. If only I had never met her or consented to her proposal, none of these tragedies would have never happened.
The unfortunate encounter occurred in the heart of the merchant district. At that time, my father had fallen ill, and I became the breadwinner of the family. I took on dreadful jobs with terrible pay, and in one of those jobs—one of the least dreadful—I, along with several others, was hired to clean the manor of a wealthy merchant who was preparing to host a grand wedding for his beloved daughter.
"Bow your heads and remove your footwear before stepping inside," said a fair-faced merchant guard in well-fitted leather armor reinforced with brass studs. "Stay that way until you leave, and don't you dare cover the marking on your hand."
He smiled lecherously, as if he were a villain in a theatrical play, showing all his teeth. "Or you will have to lose it."
To those of you dwelling in the cave and not know the ways of this world, remember this valuable piece of information: people from all castes bear tattoos on their right hands. For sullied, such as myself, the tattoo depicts a pair of shackled hands. We are called neechajatis, the lowest of low.
The guard took the lead, and we followed his trail. He led us through the grand entrance and into the main hall. There, we diligently cleaned the polished flooring to sparkling perfection. We also cleared the dusty cobwebs from the walls, which were embellished with vibrant floral motifs and geometric patterns. I lifted my head to gaze at the captivating murals on the ceiling, but was admonished by an elderly sullied man for doing so.
"A sullied eye—the higher it looks, the quicker it shuts," the elderly man hissed. "The murals are for gods, not us. Never us."
We moved, cleaning our way from one area to another, while the guard followed us to ensure we didn’t steal anything from the antique wardrobes and polished chests. Once we entered the courtyard, a space devoid of any valuables, he sighed with relief.
As we worked on, the sun's gentle rays kissed our sweat-covered skin, making it and the liquid silver in the fountain sparkle like diamonds. The guard made haste—presumably to relieve himself—but before leaving, he warned us not to put our hands in the fountain water or stray into places we do not belong.
As he rushed off, workers proceeded with their tasks, but not me. My heart, the ever vindictive, urged me to slip away to the lush garden. I listened to my heart, and with each step I took, it raced. I hoped no eyes should catch me lurking where I did not belong. As I delved deep into the garden, I heard a melodious song wafting through the air—a male voice resonating from one of the topmost floors of the haveli.
In pale gold, the valiant one appeared,
His hair basking in the golden light.
Through the darkest nights, he rode with might,
Raghava Mahaveer, a divine emperor,
His name, a symbol of strength shining bright.
Let’s sing for his glory,
With each verse, his sacrifice, we hail,
Caught in the spell, my lips involuntarily moved, finding myself lost in singing, I forgot about all my troubles, as if I were transported to a realm where the freedom to sing was within my reach.
"You have a lovely voice," someone said with delight her tone warm and lilting like a gentle melody—a woman's voice.
Fear gripped my heart as panic surged through me. I turned and saw the nightingale tattoo on the woman’s hand. I cursed my foolishness.
I dropped to my knees, and with joined hands, pleaded, "This one has made a terrible mistake, my lady. This unworthy one was ignorant of his place. I beg you, please forgive this creature. I beg you! I beg you."
When her hand reached out to me, I instinctively flinched, expecting a slap. To my surprise, she tenderly caressed my cheeks, easing my fears. As she slowly lifted my head with a finger under my chin, our eyes met. She had lovely eyes.
It was the first time I truly saw her, and as far as first impressions go, it was undeniably terrible.
“Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you,” she said in a gentle tone. “You have a beautiful voice. Where did you learn to sing?”
“Nowhere,” I said, my voice a mere whisper. “I am sullied. I have no right to learn, and I shouldn’t try to. I am sorry, truly”
“Do not worry. There is nothing to forgive,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “You indeed have a gift. I can teach you to perfect it.”
“ I am a sullied.”
“Your voice holds a beauty that should not be restrained.”
“They will kill me, my lady. If they find out, they will. Forgive me, but you do not seem to know about my kind much.” I instantly regretted my words. If she took any offence in my words, she did not show.
She stepped closer, her voice gentle yet firm. "I understand your world. I know your fears, and I promise you, your secret will remain safe with me. Do not be ashamed of your talent; singing isn't just about entertaining others. It's a personal passion that brings you joy."
She took my hand. “ I know of your birth. I know the danger in teaching you would bring, but I am willing to risk it.”
I pulled my hand away from her grasp and took a step back. “Then why do you offer such a thing so easily? I am a stranger, and a sullied one at that. Why are you so willing to teach someone like me?”
She contemplated for a moment before answering my question. “There was a time when I, too, feared pursuing this passion. Many do not know that I was adopted.”
She smiled with mild amusement. "Having heirs out of caste is not uncommon, as long as they come from mothers of respectable castes. What was uncommon was adopting the daughter of a prostitute. My father did everything in his power to keep that secret hidden.His wife was displeased but still agreed to his plan, as she couldn’t bear him any children. While my father took pride in my accomplishments, she, consumed by jealousy toward a woman I don't even know, looked down on me because of my vaishyavarna blood."
“That was v-very honest of you,” I said, taken aback.
“Would you betray my secret?”
“I won’t! But how can you teach me? Someone will eventually find out.”
“Do not fear, my friend. I have my ways.”
She took a seat at a nearby table and pulled out a paper from her satchel to write a writ of employment.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Indrasena,”
"With this, you can leave your home without trouble. You will serve as my personal attendant for the next six months. If you are as talented as I assume, you will grasp what I teach you quickly."
I hesitated for a moment before taking the writ. It felt strange to me. She knew it meant risking her own life, but she did not care.
"See? I saw it in your eyes that you wanted more in life. With this," she said, staring at me with unsettling passion, "you are mine now."
She was right. I wanted more in life, and without her, I never would have desired beyond what life had offered. Music became my everything. It made me see the beauty of the world and evoked within me a desire to capture it in words. Which was not an easy task, for whenever I tried to do it, the beauty slipped away from my fingers like sand, leaving only fragments of understandings. I shaped these fragments into songs that either earned groans from the dissatisfied audience or moved gentle ones to tears.
“My lady, I do not know your name. It only has your surname viratma” I asked after staring at the writ with disbelief for more than a minute. It
"Samira," she said with her sweeter-than-honey voice while her dark strands danced in the wind. At the time, I did not understand the meaning behind her name. I did not realize that I had been hearing the name of the wind, which was ever elusive.