A bouquet of steel flowers
Some people revered her as their ‘mother’ while some others worshipped her as a ‘goddess’. Millions drank from her. Many breathed her in. She had pleaded with them to stop but nobody listened. Which mother would want her children to swallow poison? It was not her fault. The only mistake was her love for travelling. In the snow mountains in the far north, where she had taken birth, everything had been pristine. She was pure and free like a spring bird. Having abandoned the protection offered by her home, she was on her own. Men had looted her to the very last drop. She would have given them everything they sought if they had let her live. Instead, they kept on feeding her poison, tearing down her womb gradually. Men often found ways to thrust steel into her wrinkled breasts. Limping and crawling, she somehow reached the gates of this famed city, where poets and kings had adored her once. The city had a multitude of celebrations, some of them even dedicated to her. She knew very well what awaited her, but fate was unstoppable. She took a deep breath and looked ahead for one last time. The forts and palaces of her beloved city were glittering in festive colours. As she crossed the gates, the dark poison of unbearable stench started gushing in from all sides. She closed her eyes, and cold darkness descended on her. She lay motionless even as fireworks painted the night sky. Her still waters reflected the shadows of a towering steel bridge and the fleeting motors. Powerful machines showered giant sparks on the metal poles rising from her breasts, giving a red glow to the surrounding night. She shed no tears, for she was dead by then.
In the graveyard of an empire
The desert wind was blowing across the evening sky, lifting dust and dead leaves from the parched ground. The emperor shut his eyes. He didn’t want to watch the specks of grass and worthless grains of sand flying freely in the saffron sky. Everything around him was on the move. He too dreamed of such freedom but had long since abandoned any hope of walking away. A century had been eclipsed since the majesty, who belonged to a castle thousands of miles away, arrived on this land of unheard languages and untasted spices. Summer winds, monsoon showers and Himalayan chill had worn out his stony face. Of late, he had become a jealous watcher of young couples passionately kissing under the shadow of his towering figure. He was tired of merely standing as a clown to the grandchildren of his erstwhile subjects. He hated it when kids made fun of his royal attire. They didn’t seem to realise that every soul from the east to west had bowed in front of him in his youthful days. Having gulped down the poison of power at a very young age, the majesty could never accept that he became a useless object. There was even a time when he had found solace in the belief that his empire might be thriving in other parts of the world. Eventually, he was disillusioned when no one from the empire paid him a visit for decades. Knowing well that he couldn’t even shake a bird off his head, the emperor had accepted his fate with a resigned look. Often, the majesty remembered the prophecy that whoever built fortresses on this land would be perished along with their empires. Left with no more desires, he probably contemplated the path of Buddha. As the parting sun painted the western sky in crimson, the emperor wished for an early night, so that he could open his eyes and stop seeing.
A corrupted memory
The looming tower stood amid the thick jungle, radiating its presence in all directions. The ground lay intoxicated by darkness. Ear-piercing cries of peafowls echoed from all corners when Memory-Maker stepped on the dew-laden grass. He watched the towering object with awe. A cigarette burned in his hand, venting plumes of white smoke into the icy air. The light from the tower reflected in the eyes of Memory-Maker. He dreamed of creating a new memory from that moment. Unmindful of the chill, his eyes, ears and nostrils started forming an image of the tower rising to the night sky. He had heard umpteen stories about it –imaginative tales. Memory-Maker always wondered how everyone made stories that fit their own beliefs. He wanted not a story but a memory of that night. He was about to complete the memory when the grass started moving. Awakened from the dream, Memory-Maker saw a snake crawling towards him. It hissed and started a story. Memory-Maker knew the problem with such stories; they poisoned even the most beautiful memories. But the snake was unstoppable, and its story was fearsome. It told about the predators that roamed the ground around the tower. It warned against making them a part of the memory. Memory-Maker stood helpless, for the ground belonged to the snake. His memory now corrupted, Memory-Maker walked out with a sunken head. He wished he could complete the memory without remembering the story.
A night with aliens
Sulaiman aged seeing most of the world. Birds of different hues perched on his countless hands every day. They used to tell him tales, of distant lands and distinct people. His flying friends would go away, leaving Sulaiman all alone for the rest of the night, when the sun disappeared in the horizon. Sulaiman spent hours recollecting the tales. He held a vivid imagination of the sea, mountains, palaces and creatures. That was how he became a lonely traveller. However, none of his fantasies was enough on that particular wintery night when an alien ship descended upon Earth. Sulaiman was under the spell of a chilling breeze and didn’t notice the two strange-looking creatures walking towards him. He was startled when they came closer and started watching him keenly. He had heard stories of two-legged creatures cutting down an entire forest in a matter of hours. Fear started flowing through his veins. There was no one to call for help at that odd hour. His fears soon ebbed. These two aliens seemed to be interested in something else. All of a sudden, a bunch of green flowers fell on him; the aliens were doing something. Sulaiman stood still, for the wind had gone resting. The flowers had no fragrance and were numerous. Sulaiman tried to feel the flowers, but they vanished as soon as his fingers touched them. The aliens sat under his shade and murmured in strange voices. Once in a while, they threw the green flowers at him. By then, Sulaiman was relaxed. These creatures didn’t mean any harm. When the wind returned with more chill, Sulaiman let his hands dance. The aliens seemed to have been waiting for that moment. They too started dancing with him. When the wind went away again, the aliens came closer and hugged Sulaiman one after another. He too hugged them back. He felt sad when they returned to their ship. Sulaiman waved all his hands when the ship ascended to the clouds. He didn’t feel lonely that night. From then on, he would wait every night for the ship to return.
The jungle of a lonely prince
An island of strangely shaped trees sprawled amid the city. No humans dared to venture into those woods. Minding their business, noisy monkeys and shy jackals shared the thicket. They didn’t care about the fools struggling to make a living outside. But the animals admired the sole human who chose to stay among them. He was a self-proclaimed prince who ruled from a ruined palace hidden in the expanse of cacti. Two hounds always accompanied the prince, instilling mortal fear in the monkeys and jackals alike. On the nights when his kingdom basked in moonlight, the prince would come out of his abode and search the bushes to show the intruders their place. He had a sacred pact with the trees to ensure invading humans lost their way. The trees would cast a magic spell on the unwanted guests, making them blind to the exit route. The wanderers would frantically roam in the woods until the prince and his hunting dogs carried them back to the palace. None would hear about the missing persons again. It had been years since the prince and his companions died in mysterious conditions but the prince still lived in the palace and closely watched his subjects. He hated others entering the empty mansion to disturb his solitude but wouldn’t harm them if the moon was not shining. On those fateful nights, he would walk to the graves of his beloved hounds to wake them up for a patrol.
Produced in collaboration with
Delhi-based artist Jagadeesh R
Digital publication in 2023
First print edition in 2023
by Albumen Books, New Delhi
©JOYEL K PIOUS & JAGADEESH R