Agastya : The War

8 : The Paramount Paradigms

A little distinction. A little different context. Read till the END for the actual plot-twist.

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His hand held the brushes, giving artistic varnishing strokes to complete the distant portrait of a young lady. Her dress and body features having amalgamated with the entire backdrop, emanated the reddish complexion of the canvas. She held a lotus in one hand, and in the other, some genre of leaves, hearted in shape. It could not be concluded whether the painter was too marvellous or the woman in the frame was too magnificent to the eyes, for the canvas emerged as the absolute paramount paradigm of emblazon and elegance. Perhaps, the lady simply did not reside in the canvas but she resides in the heart of the painter - The painter who himself was painted in deep hues of love. An unknown, unseen, unheard kind of love!

"Sir - " Turner was saying when he was entering the room. But he stopped at the sight infront of him. Who was this Enchantress in the frame in front of him? A Greek Enchantress or a Roman one. Perhaps, an Indian one.

Whether it was mid night or premature morning, could not be said for the outside darkness hadn't yet bid a good adieu to the people but a few trills of the aves could be heard. Perhaps, the aves were marking the advent of the morning, in the near future. The rains had ceased. Now there was this sweet smell of petrichor which had emanated from when the rains had sensuously caressed the formerly parched ground.

The sudden voice of Officer Turner had distracted the painter. He turned back to look at the British official, the paint brushes still held graciously in his hands, which were tinged in the colour of the lady in the canvas. 'My my' Officer Turner whispered, unknowingly.

"Who is this lady, Sir?" Turner questioned. "Mrs. Dankworth?"

Oscar Dankworth left out a dry chuckle, his heart aching at the latest question, 'Who is she?' Dankworth thought to himself.

"The Enchantress." Dankworth replied.

" An Enchantress from which mythology Greek, German, Roman or Indian?" Turner finally unveiled his prior thoughts to his senior. "I would love to read more about her."

"She's the Enchantress of my heart, Turner." Dankworth said. "You can't read her. She's not a mythology. She's the reality."
"And, one more thing, she's not 'an' Enchantress. She's 'the' Enchantress." Dankworth added, his signature firm professional smile still plastered onto his lips.

Turner hadn't replied. He just nodded his head, finding sense in the alter of articles, himself.

"Is she the lady you love?" Turner asked.

'Better said, she's the lady I left alone, for my own motives.' Dankworth thought. But, instead he replied, "I am not made for love Turner. I'm not made for it."

"Anyways, I would want to know the reason which brought you here at this odd time?" Dankworth said.

"Oh DAMN! YES!" Turner exclaimed, repenting his deed of irresponsibility. "Walker has lost his mi-."

"If you don't mind hearing the absolute truth against your friend, Officer, lemme tell you, he actually never had it. So there are possibly no chances of losing it, though." Dankworth interrupted, disinterested in talking about the person who was being referred.

"No Sir...No," Turner said in negation.
"After we left, Walker was there with that man -" He suddenly stopped. Again, repenting for his second deed of irresponsibility.

Dankworth had now gained the much needed hurry in his composure. "I was sure that Walker would definitely do something extremely offensive. I shouldn't have left that early." He said. "Take me to him. Hurry!"

Both the men had ascended the Jeep, with Turner driving and Dankworth in the passenger's seat. "What happened to him?" Dankworth asked.

"The massive deafening thunders, have probably, struck his brain, he has completely lost his senses. Like how, exactly the literal lunatic would behave. The doctors say that his brain might have been perplexed after hearing the huge sound of thunders that fell in the night."

Dankworth didn't reply. He just left out a deep sigh. "Lord! What more!"

When they reached the camp hospital, they saw the moonstruck Officer Walker trembling out of fear and trepidation. He was convulsing turbulently. Blood-shot eyes, excessive amounts of sweat so spread across his body that his white shirt had become transparent, his lips were shaking as if to say something. But what was heard, were simply mere lonely syllables. Not sentences. Not even words.

"The da- wo- wo-" Walker managed to say.

"Clearly, mate. Say it clearly." Turner had finally caught hold of the frame of his friend.

"Tha- Tha- T" Walker stammered.

"That?" Turner raised his eyebrows quizzically. His eyes emanating the most caring glances that a friend could seldom lend to another friend. Those were motherly glances. And, knowingly or unknowingly, Walker had found solace under his mates's wings. "Bravo, bruv! Say more."

"Wo - wo - ma - n" Walker again stammered.

"Wo ? Ma? -" Turner repeated, until he finally exclaimed "A woman?"

"Well done..Continue speaking, my boy." He insisted, until a look of gloom dawned upon Turner's face. "A woman?"

Turner's visage had lost expressions. He unmindfully whispered, "She again?"

"It would be really helpful for us Officer if you leave him to rest. It is better for him to rest. More pressure on the brain, would only worsen his condition." The doctor said referring to Officer Turner.

The latter didn't argue. He made Walker to lie down on the bed, under the sight of the doctors and left the room and entered the corridor where Officer Oscar Dankworth was standing.

"What did he say?" Dankworth questioned.

"He told 'That woman'" Turner replied, unmindfully.

"What?" Dankworth re-questioned, patting Turner's shoulder lightly.

"Officer," he called out.

"Yes Sir. Yes Yes!" Turner again repented his deed of irresponsibility.

"What did he say?" Dankworth asked again, softly yet the firmness in his voice overpowering the softness of his tone. "I want a proper answer."

"Perhaps, he had recalled his memories with his wife. Ex-wife," Turner answered, his head hung down.

"Ex-wife?" Oscar Dankworth repeated.

"Aye aye, Sir. My friend had married a young Indian girl from Bengal. And he saw her burn infront of his own eyes."

Oscar Dankworth was rendered reticent.

Turner continued, "Perhaps, she was influenced by the malefactor. That Agastya. But, she had denied any such offences against the malefactor in her death note." He stopped, inhaling a deep breath and spoke firmly again, "She had dressed as a human bomb.... she burnt the entire gathering of British officers a year ago. But, she had pushed aside Walker so as to save his life. She had proved Walker innocent in her death note. Such a good and considerate wife she was. But more, she was a more promised revolutionist."

"So is that why Walker holds that long standing grudge against Agastya?" Dankworth exclaimed, finally putting two and two together.

"My friend used to love his wife, dearly. His Durgavati, as he would refer to her....He," Turner couldn't say more. His voice choked.

Perhaps, Dankworth's eyes glistened for a moment. His heart melting at the lost Officer's dilemma and fate. Moreover, his heart hurting at the unusual contradiction between his own marriage and that of Walker's.

After a little pause, Dankworth asked in attempts of distracting the context, "Who - Who had brought Officer Walker here?'

"I had brought him here." A sharp voice was heard from the distant air. Professor Eklavya Bannerjee announced.