The Last Rudra

Suta guided the last floating tome to its proper place and collapsed into his chair, panting. He could feel the invisible noose of time tightening around his neck slowly. His tale's end was coming closer. He closed his bloodshot eyes and sat there basking in the warm sun, foolishly hoping the bright light would somehow light up his darkening heart. The tales whispered to him with their thousands of mouths. The vivid scenes started dancing before him. His heroes turned powerless against the evil lords. They kneeled down before the very things they meant to vanquish. The pitch-black darkness corroded every bright thing in his woven tales. Suta could only sit and watch his villains laughing menacingly. 

He had failed in his mission utterly. No hero would rise from Minaak to defy the coming evil now. According to the ancient codes of Basar, he should have long informed the order. But Suta couldn't muster the courage. 

He knew It was not the cowardice that was holding him. It was something else. Something he was trained to put his guard against.

"Never fall in love with your characters. You're not their father. Your task is to push them to their final goals." 

The solemn words of his mentor, repeated to him again and again during their pilgrimage to Basar, resounded in his mind. How easy all it had sounded to him! But he now knew the gravity of it. His soul was getting crushed under the mountainous burden. The guilt was eating his heart away like pipilkas, invisible ants of Ahom. 

A boy's face, attentively listening to his tales, zoomed out in his mind. His curious eyes were watching the flickering scenes in the air. The boy grew up into a fine young man and fell in love with the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Eventually, they got married, and their love fruited a cute baby. How blissful they looked as if they were in Nyasa, the city of no grief.

Then came the call of duty. So like many others, the young father had to leave his sobbing wife and toddling son to vanquish the evil in the west. His forlorn wife waited for him holding the door at the threshold. She hurled doves after doves into the sky to bring the news of his love. Winter came, and with it came the despair and fear. The doves stopped returning as if too afraid to face their mistress with another gloomy news. 

That year, summer didn't bring sweating heat. Only howling loo, as dry as the eyes of the forlorn beauty, came from the west.

In such dusty wind, one day, the wife, whose rosy cheeks were now pale like butter, heard the soul-shuddering howl of his husband. 

Tears rolled down Suta's wrinkled face as he sobbed, covering his tear-doused face. What a cruel heart he got! He hadn't even spared Ayan's body. Had it not been the death-worshiper, none would have known how the lord of Minaak had died. A cruel but good plot to awaken Oman, the hero of his tale. Alas! Bhadra had ruined everything. Or to say he had changed everything. 

Suta had no idea when Bhadra, the last death worshiper, had slipped into his tale. Moreover, how the hooded man had survived the purge of Mora, the evil lord, or escaped the all-knowing eye. Besides his failure, this lone survivor of Kemet was another thing he had kept secret from the order.

He had breached the ancient codes by burying the soul book. Now the tale of Mazia had no weaver. No one was guiding its flow of events. The league of tale-weavers had ended with him. 

What surprised him, during these ten years, no one came from the order to check on him. Maybe they, too, had given up. But again, who wouldn't? Even after trying so long, they couldn't close even half loose threads of Nikumba's tale. Writing the ending was just a dream.

A gentle cough startled Suta from his stupor. He looked up. A bright face smiled at him. "Ah, you have come," he said in a choked voice as he fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his tear-soaked long silver beard. 

"Are you all right. Suta." Onish asked in a concerned tone. After taking a herbal bath, he had decided to head out for the library. However, he hadn't expected to walk in on the sobbing old man. 

"Yes...yes ... I'm fine. It's just that something got in my eyes." the librarian gave the classic excuse, forcing his wrinkles into a smile. 

Onish looked at the hunched figure, clumsily swabbing his baggy eyes, and accepted the old man's excuse with a nod. It was already rude of him barging in on him like this. Now he didn't want to worsen it by pressing the old man for his sad secret.

"So, now you've got the time to visit this old man," Suta said once he got over his embarrassment.

" Lord told me you needed my help with your amnesia. Boy, you'd better not have forgotten the tales I so painstakingly told you." 

Onish gave a bitter smile. Let alone his tales, he didn't even know the old man except for his name. Come to think of it, Suta shouldn't be his real name. It was just a professional title used by magsmen for themselves. 

"Ah, you forgot! " Seeing his rogue smile, the old man's bushy eyebrows arched in surprise. But he quickly hid it as he added, looking dejected. 

"Now, how this old man is supposed to teach you everything before Inna's feast." 

"Why before Inna's feast.?"Onish asked, giving the librarian a puzzling look. 

The Inna's feast was one of the biggest festivals of Guarana. The story behind the celebration was not known to him. However, from the chatting of the castle maids, Onish had found out the festival was just more than a week away. 

" Why? All the eyes in Minaak will be at you. As if it is wasn't the worst. Your maternal uncle is coming too." Suta said as he pointed his bony finger to a scroll case. It flew out and landed in his hand like a feather. So this was called talking to inanimate objects. Onish was amazed at the old man's mastery over the telekinesis. 

"His visit has never gone well." The librarian added as he traced the vine carved on the brown metal case. 

"Why so?" Onish asked, less intrigued by the talk than the copper tube. 

"I don't think I'm the right person to tell you this. " Suta added, and he whispered the divine tongue, the Sanskrit syllable. The scroll case clicked open, revealing a scroll inside. 

"Anyway, we'd better not delay any more. Tell me if you have mastered the memory diagram." 

"I'm afraid I haven't," Onish replied, feeling embarrassed. He had wanted to learn more than one path. However, his cleansing had gone too long and too violent. 

"Now that's the trouble, lad," said Suta as he took out the antique scroll. "Lord has requested to give you Medha Vati. But since you haven't mastered the memory diagram, you won't be able to assimilate the memory pill." 

Oman had told him about this miraculous pill concocted by sutas. Using Medha Vati, one could impart a vast amount of knowledge or memories to someone else. However, he hadn't mentioned the specifics. 

After checking the scroll, Suta put it aside as he spoke to Onish, "So you must awaken your memory path first. and if you want, I can help you." 

"But I have only mastered cleansing path so far." Both Bhadra and the instructions written in the scroll warned him not to skip any diagram. As each one of them was a prerequisite for the following chart. 

The old man looked disappointed. He told Onish to come back later, after mastering prerequisite paths. And as for the books, he refused to lend him any. The reason was simple he wouldn't need any books once he took the memory pill. 

So, Onish left the library empty-handed.

He had no intention to try another diagram so soon as his mind needed some rest. Therefore he decided to spend some time in the orchard. 

The alluring orchard was now empty as the gardener had left for their homes. Onish walked along the path lined with dazzling blooms. The fragrant breeze caressed his smooth cheeks and tousled his hair. For the first time after coming into this world, Onish felt relaxed. He kept sauntering, taking in the captivating sight- the trees laden with glowing fruits, the flowers laughing, the fountain dancing. Surprisingly he saw no bird fluttering or chirping. 

Onish halted after reaching under a giant shady tree covered in pink blossoms. Its tendril-like leaves were making myriads of designs. Onish sat down on the grassy carpet, leaning against the smooth trunk. 

He calmed down his racing thoughts and decided to enjoy the day. The breeze kissed him; its lullaby made him drowsy. 

It was then he heard hushed voices.