ONC 2022 Longlist / Top 25 The Historical Award 2022 & 2023 hosted by @HistoricalFiction / Featured by multiple profiles
In the tyrannical kingdom of Aratta, a young widowed mother returns alive from the den of a mysterious king where women go only...
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"Err, welcome."
They stand at the door, one with a smile and another with an apparent headache, as I conclude from seeing her gently massaging her forehead while glaring at me. Yama comes in without a care while Sitara waits with a stoic face.
"Both of you," I clarify.
"Why did you not come to the garden?" Yama asks.
I can't tell him about my own headaches and convulsions. I realise very well that Puramdara is returning, and maybe this time I will lose considerable control over my body.
Where would my soul go if he takes over my body? Will people think I am living even if the body is owned by a different entity?
I won't take blames for things I don't do.
"I had been busy. You came here to find me?"
This day is very special. He came to my room, on his own.
But someone as innocent as him doesn't really match the dark grim curtains or the bedsheets that end up getting soaked in tears and blood. He doesn't match the ultramarine shades of the walls, the black motifs of hunters embellishing the pillars. He matches the little buds flourishing in the garden, the sunshine that in vain tries to light up my onyx room.
"Remember the deal?"
Yama pulls a funny face, scrunching his nose. "I do. I am ready for writing the poem."
"So you agree that you lost?"
"He didn't lose. I did."
Sitara checks on the flowers, rearranging the stems and feeling the petals. Even the wilted ones seem to resurrect on her touch. "I never shared myself properly with him."
I don't know what to say. Her life must have been tough after coming here. To rear a fatherless child is equivalent to positioning oneself as a prostitute in this society. Sometimes I feel pity for her, sometimes I want to rescue her and once in a blue moon I wish to let her rot.
I prefer to not reply to her words. It's too surprising that she is here at the moment. In a way we are a family– we are parents to this child.
Yet, it's strained. We wait at infinity and never come closer.
I take out a papyrus, a raven's feather and a pot of ink. Handing them over to Yama, I say, "Write a poem."
"Tell me the word. Tell me three, one at a time. Even if I fail once– "
"Write three poems, with any theme you want. I just love to read what you pour out on that lifeless thing."
He blushes, patting himself on the shoulder with meek pride.
"Will your mother have some refreshments?"
"No. Thank you."
There was a pause, a very calculated one between her denial and her words of gratitude. I suppose she meant to thank me for something other than offering her a drink.
