Week 10 Storytelling

Image of Christmas Lights from pexels.com

Eleven thirty on a Thursday evening, and the new year was almost upon the world. Tara was walking a lonely route home from the late shift at the library, lost in her own thoughts, her bag heavy with new books to read. A new year meant new books, and new books meant hours and hours of happiness. A few feet from the stairs to her apartment, she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Whipping around and trying to cover up the inevitably high pitched yelp she let out when she realized she was not in fact alone, she pulled her pepper spray out of her bag and pointed it at the attacker.

"Don't move! I'll spray!" Tara had the spray out far in front of her in a strong stance.

The man in front of her threw up his arms and shrunk away as words started spilling out of his mouth. "Tara! Tara it's--it's me, you know me, I'm sorry for surprising you, I just-"

"Wait, Danny? What the hell?" She lowered the spray as a whirlwind of emotions spun through her brain.

"You remember me? I--I wasn't sure if you would." He smiled sheepishly.

Of course she remembered him. The year she had spent with him had once been the greatest year of her life. They had met around this time several years ago, when she must have only been barely in her twenties. She was just out of college with no job to show for the four years she had spent working on her degree, and he was wealthy and exotic and new and someone that they definitely didn't have in her small hometown.

They had spent the next year flying to new places in charter jets, getting up early, staying out late, and having, in every definition of the word, an adventure. Tara considered herself lucky to have experienced it. It only lasted for so long--after not much longer than a year together, Danny had a family matter to attend to, and then he was gone. He vanished just as quickly as he had come into her life.

That was a heartbreak for sure. Not a call, no texts, emails nothing. Plenty of social media posts to prove that he was still alive, but nothing to prove he knew anything about Tara. It had taken her months to recover from that, almost as long as the time they had had together.

And now, here he was, exactly as he had appeared all that time ago. Had he even aged? She doubted it. People that rich didn't age.

In spite of herself, she dropped her bags and hugged him, hard. After what seemed like ages, Danny broke the embrace.

"So are you ready to go?" Danny had a gleam in his eye, an easy smile that anyone would be forgiven for falling for.

"Go? Go where?" Tara blurted out, blushing. She had intended to give him a piece of her mind, but that never had been her style.

"Anywhere. Your choice. Name it and we'll be there tomorrow."

Tara hesitated. She had built herself a life while Danny had been gone. She had a great job, a tight knit group of friends, and a truly wonderful cat. She had taught herself to be happy on her own, and that was an accomplishment to be proud of. Standing in front of her was her past, and she had been given the option to decide her future.

"Danny... I can't. I've got a life here, and... You left that life a long time ago."

Danny looked shocked. Then, he started to laugh.

"Ahh, I get it, you always were funny--but really, where do you want to go?"

"What? No, I wasn't--" Tara sighed. "Look, it's been years since I last even heard from you. I can't go back to that time all of a sudden whenever you have a moment for me. My answer's no. Happy New Year." Tara turned to walk up the steps and got halfway before Danny's voice rang out in response.

"I figured you would have changed since I saw you last, but I didn't realize it would be this much. What happened to you?" He was on the attack now, hoping to engage her in her own defense.

She shrugged. Tears weren't coming, she didn't feel that emptiness that had plagued her long after he left, and truth be told, she was just tired. "I grew up. It looks like you didn't."

Tara walked up the stairs, through the door, locked the door, and slumped down on the ground. Her cat, Rama, crawled into her lap, content with Tara's choice of seating.

Tara smiled, scratched the cat behind the ears, and gently placed him back on the ground so she could get a cat treat for him. The clock rang out midnight, and Tara smiled. Closure in the dying year, opportunity in the new. She took an old ring off her finger, smiled, and tossed it in the trash. As things were meant to be.

*****

Author's Note: After being fairly fed up with how Indian women are treated in the Epics, I wanted to write a story where a woman in a position similar to Sakuntala's position has the final say and chooses to be on her own, because that's where she needs to be right now. I'm a firm believer in the idea that only you are responsible for your own happiness, and I wanted to convey that through a story. Tara is Sakuntala's analog, while Danny mirrors Dushmanta. Tara's got an unglamorous life, but Danny is a rich jetsetter who sweeps her off her feet. In the original story, Sakuntala takes Dushmanta back after he not only leaves her and forgets to send someone back for her (albeit because of a curse) but also refuses her while she's with child in his court. Sakuntala also has a ring that Dushmanta gave her, which is hinted at in the last paragraph where Tara gets rid of a ring. As far as the image, I wanted something to give that warm fuzzy feeling that comes with New Years, but nothing too specific.

Devee, Sunity. Nine Ideal Indian Women. 1919

Week 9: Storytelling

Image from Wikimedia Commons

"You have one year. The subject is difficult, and you are our best. Do you accept?"

The slight figure of a woman took her time answering. 

"You say he is difficult, why is that?" She queried the men sitting at the desk across from her, both of them dressed in conservative but sleek suits. 

"He's flawless. A good man, wise, just, and kind. Wouldn't hurt a fly, but protective of his own," the man on the left answered. His voice was gruff and raspy. He had done much of the talking so far, leaving the man on the right to observe.

"I don't see the problem here. Why are you after him if he's such a saint?"

The man on the right finally replied, in a soft voice, that was somehow more menacing than the man on the left.

"He knows too much. That's all you need."

The woman nodded in tense agreement. "He'll be dead in twelve months."

*****

The woman, Savitri, was one of the world's best assassins, so, naturally, no one knew who she was. She had been trained from a young age in the arts, sciences, and literature, progressing from a child prodigy to a brilliant woman in her prime. Her task was to mitigate the threat posed by Satyavan's knowledge, and ultimately, this would result in his death.

On day one of her mission, she found him. He wasn't difficult to track and didn't seem to be hiding anything. She planted herself near a fountain in the park she had followed him to, and waited to make her move. She would flirt, he would fall for her, and then the rest would be easy, which is what she thought until Satyavan met her gaze across the fountain.

Unfortunately, Savitri hadn't planned on actually liking Satyavan. Usually, she had no problem emotionally ignoring the men that crossed her path--her ambitions let her ignore any delusions of romanticism she may have, but when she had seen his face... There was electricity. More than a spark, a lightning strike, as if Zeus himself had struck where the two had been standing.

*****

Three months in. Nine to go, and Savitri, for the first time in her life, was truly happy. She was taking a walk, reflecting on how things had changed. Satyavan and she had hit it off when they first met, started dating within the week. Books were fine and science was always there, but neither were very good conversational partners, and neither were able to give you their jacket during a cold New York afterno-

"Update, Savitri." A raspy voice buzzed in her ear, via a near invisible earpiece that she used to check in with headquarters--though it was usually the other way around.

"You can't seriously expect me to give you an update every time you ask. It's been two days, at the most. Things are the same. Still working."

"Are they? I have sources saying you're looking pretty cozy." The blood drained from Savitri's face. She couldn't trust anyone. 

"Yes," she hissed, "everything is fine!"

"It had best be, or we'll find someone who can carry out the job." A click signaled the end of the call.

Everything was not fine. 

*****

Six months. Halfway. Engagement. Love, tears, ecstasy, anguish, a ring. A lie.

As she was saying yes, Savitri knew what awaited her at the end of the next six months, and her blood ran cold at the thought of it. The agents were right when they said had given her a difficult case. Difficult indeed, and tangled now. 

*****

Four months later, they were wed. Savitri had cut her hair short, leaving the characteristic long raven hair behind her, opting for red color in a becoming bob. The slow process of changing an identity, making gradual alterations in order to make them seem normal. Married life was bliss, and yet every new day Savitri marched towards her deadline, and Satyavan's doom. 

The day after the knot was tied, Savitri almost let the cat out of the bag, but caught herself in time. She hadn't checked in with the agents in weeks now, and was sure there was someone almost as good as her coming after the both of them, someone who would make the smarter decision to not fall in love with either party.

She had an idea, and as long as she could stay three steps ahead of everyone else, the idea just might work.

"Satyavan, love, how do you feel about camping?"

*****

Twelve months to the day. Exactly a calendar year, and the sun was setting, and Savitri had never been more anxious or more exhilarated. She ran ahead on the trail, leading him back to camp. They had almost made it. They were so close, and they were finally going to make it, and she would leave her life of deciet and come clean to her wonderful husb-

There was the sound of a body crumpling to the ground behind her and she whirled around and sprinted to catch him. 

A voice in her ear cut through her silent sobs with the quiet, deadly seriousness that made her shiver. 

"Until next time, Savitri."

-----

Author's Note: I based my story on the story of Savitri, but gave it a twist. In the original, Savitri is well educated and a princess, and falls in love with Satyavan, who is given a year to live due to unforseen circumstances. They marry and are generally wonderful until the two of them go to gather firewood on Satyavan's foreseen death date, and he dies. When Death comes to take Satyavan, Savitri's devotion and intelligence tricks Death into letting Satyavan live. I wondered what it would be like if Savitri was given some secret mission to kill Satyavan, but fell in love with him instead. Not my best work, but pretty good for what a really rough week it's been. I wanted to save the outsmarting death part for my storybook, so this is what I went with instead! The song credit for the week is O Children by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

Devee, Sunity. Nine Ideal Indian Women. 1919

Storytelling Week 7: It's Only Fair

What Arjun probably looked like, or, Grumpy Cat, from Wikimedia

Twelve years.

Twelve years the brothers had waited in exile, and a thirteenth was before them, though they had the luxury of reentering civilized society, even though it had to be under false identities. The brothers were busy creating their new identities, sitting around a campfire in the woods on the last day of their exile, but Arjun was lost in thought. Sure, it would be fine to last one more year, they had already done twelve, but couldn't they just go to war now? Or at least go talk to family again? At least do something besides this wretched sitting around and waiting. And finding new identities, of course. Arjun thought the whole idea was rather unfortunate, but he went along with it, until...

"And Arjun, you'll have to dress as a woman. There's really no other way around it." Yudhisthira brought Arjun out of his deep thought, causing him to stammer.

"Wh- wait, no, hold on, I didn't hear what everyone else was going to be! I need a recap!" Arjun, being the great warrior that he was, would dress in something a little more relevant to his profession for a year than using his slight, wiry frame to pose as the fairer sex.

"If you had been listening, you wouldn't need one." Yudhisthira tutted and looked as to go on with the conversation, as if the matter were settled.

"No- but- okay, so I wasn't listening, fine, could you still tell me who's being what?" Arjun pleaded with his older brother, knowing Yudhisthira would have to give in eventually.

After a long pause, Yudhisthira agreed.

"Alright, but you have to listen this time, because I really don't feel like going over it again."

"I'm listening, I'm listening!" Arjun folded his hands in his lap and peered at his brother attentively.

"Alright. For obvious reasons, those being that I'm the oldest and smartest, I'm going to act as a Brahmin." Yudhisthira seemed particularly pleased with himself about this decision.

"Ah, yes, it seems only fair that you'd get first pick since you're the one that got us into this anyway," Arjun shot back at his brother.

"Hey! One moment of weakness!" Yudhisthira paused, regained his composure, and continued.

"Bhima will be a cook. He's the best of all of us, and the kitchen is a natural place for him to hear any secrets or whisperings of Duryodhana or if people have discovered us."

Arjun shrugged. Bhima looked particularly excited about his new profession as a cook, which was fair enough, as the rest of the brothers together couldn't put together a dinner if their life depended on it, which it rarely did.

"Nakula and Sahadeva will keep the horses and cattle, respectively. They're twins, and near indistinguishable from each other, so this is only fitting. We're running out of jobs and the twins need to mirror each other or they get fussy." Yudhisthira smiled forgivingly at the twins, who, to their character, were not paying any more attention then Arjun had been originally.

"So that leaves you, and as we're completely out of other jobs for you to do, you'll need to teach music and dancing and you'll be go much more unnoticed in that role if your gender is at least a little ambiguous."

"No but there are plenty of other jobs! I could train young princes, perhaps, or be Bhima's sous chef, even be a jester! There are at least twelve things I could do instead," Arjun argued. He was a little exasperated,  seeing as he was the middle brother and yet seemed to get job least suited to him.

"Heck, I could help Nakula with the cattle!" Arjun begged his brother. He didn't know the first thing about music, and had two left feet when it came to dancing.

"That would be impossible," Yudhisthira said sagely.

"Why, that's entirely possible!" Arjun was at the end of his rope. He barely even sang in the shower, much less in front of people, and he wasn't about to give lessons to anyone!

"No. Couldn't do it. Nakula has the horses, you see, so helping him with the cattle would be completely futile. Besides, I'm older, and you have to do what I say. So practice your scales and your twirls, because you'll be convincing someone you're excellent at these tomorrow morn. Remember, we must all make sacrifices."

Arjun complied, but only because Yudhisthira had played the ultimate trump card. As he went to sleep that night, he muttered, and eventually had dreams of the days to come... He could be heard even into the wee hours of the night, grumbling, "...sacrifices...I'll tell you about sacrifices...." until Yudhisthira threw a branch in his direction and told him to shut it.

*****

Alright, a shorter, lighthearted story about that time the princes chose their professions and Arjun wasn't thrilled about having to be a music teacher. In reality though, everyone gets something generally suited towards what they do, and I thought it would be amusing if Arjun pitched a fit about what he had to spend a year doing. If I'm feeling inspired, I might write a follow up when the story comes up again. Maybe I'll find a way to work it into my storybook... Though that would be the tiniest bit subversive. We'll see! Honestly, this was the first time a story I've written hasn't been paired with a specific song, and that's because the song I was writing to pertains in no way whatsoever to the subject matter at hand. It's a Christmas song, and that's all that matters. I think this was also the first story I tried to be a little more comedic than usual, and I hope that worked out all right! I hope you enjoyed, and that your week goes smoothly from here on out!


"The Five Tall Sons Of Pandu" by Richard Wilson, from The Indian Story Book (1914). Web Source: The Internet Archive

Week 6 Storytelling: Come Up For Air

Ocean stock photo from Pexels

Have you ever choked? Not on your food or anything, I mean like when you're presented with some big decision and it feels like everything is riding on that moment and all of a sudden your brain shuts down and of all the words you know, you can string together maybe five in a row to form a semi-coherent sentence?

"Uh- I- no, I- I can't do- no."

Yeah, that was a good one. You tell 'em, Yudhi. At least there were five different words there, even if they didn't make a real sentence.

What was I supposed to do? What does anyone do in that situation? You're asked to be king, to take the throne from the half of the family that your side just slaughtered, that's not a decision that anyone can take lightly. So I ran. I guess I decided before it all started, but I didn't get it. I didn't have blood on my hands. I ran further.

I honestly thought I could take half the kingdom back without spilling blood. I knew that wars had happened before, but there had to be something else that could be done. It was through a fault of one of the parties controlling the battlefield, controlling the assets, controlling something too large for them to deal with, that death ever came. They must have been quick to temper, or impatient, or unfair. It couldn't have been inevitable.

I came into this position and thought, 'yeah, I can handle this. I can rule better than those before me, and I can do it with one hand tied behind my back'. It's not a matter of how likeable or reasonable or fair someone is. Some people will refuse to see your way and that's it. It's time to fight. No such thing as talking it out, or compromising. It's all or nothing.

Then....then it's your kin on the line. It's your friends, your family, the people who have known you since you were a child but have wronged you in some way--but shouldn't there still be some provision? Shouldn't they, at least, listen to reason? Or have some respect for the boundaries between family and politics?

I'm telling you this because I need reassurance that it was reasonable for me to bolt. That when I tripped over myself to get out the door, it was expected. It shouldn't surprise anyone at my need to leave the room, to get somewhere that wasn't so confining, where the walls couldn't close in. When I stuttered words as their hands moved towards the crown, that everyone saw it coming.

I made it as far as the beach without stopping.

Breathing hard, as hard as I had in battle just a few days earlier, if not harder, the weight of what was happening hit me and my breaths got shorter, catching in my chest and sitting there, irregular beats on a drum with the mismatch pounding of my heart. I grasped fistfulls of sand, comforted by the silky-scratchy feel, letting myself form fists, then letting it sift through my fingers, then a fist again, then through my fingers.

I shuddered as my breaths drew more regular. I had no idea if I could be a good king. All my life had been a mess, leading from one place to another. I knew that I could be a pretty great nomad, but I wasn't sure about anything else. Getting a few members of your family to follow you around is one thing, but leading an entire country? That was the tough part. How do you get respect, how do you make decisions, or judgements, and how do you reconcile being a firm king, yet one who encourages creativity, a good natured king who is tough on criminals...

There wasn't ever a good answer, except that I almost knew I couldn't be the right choice.

I looked up at the night sky, past the clouds and into the stars.

I felt small. And feeling small--well, it felt good.

I think I'll stay a while.

********

Author's Note: This week, the accompanying song is Miracle Mile, by the Cold War Kids. Truly great song, and once again, was on repeat while I was writing. I wanted to explore further Yudhisthira's moment of insecurity after they win the battle, and expand on it, so that's what I did. I didn't change the setting or bring in many characters, because I really wanted to look at self doubt and what it does to a person. This brought up some interesting quandaries that I've been having with myself recently, and it was good to take a look at those in writing and make changes based on that.

The Mahabharata, by R. K. Narayan (1978). Web Source: Reading Guide.

Storytelling Week 5: Hell in High Heels

The Ordeal of Queen Draupadi, from Wikipedia

"What do you mean you bet me? Like, you bet on me?"

"Well, not--not exactly, but everyone else was gone and-"

"What? Everyone? You said everyone, not everything. Tell me you didn't gamble people."

"I didn't mean to, it happened so fast, they told me I could and-"

"You're kidding me. Who is they? You're telling me you literally gambled everything you had? And that after you did that, that you thought you'd put the boys and me up next?"

"No, I swear, it isn't that bad, I-"

"Save it. This isn't binding, right? It's a game. They can't actually do anything."

"I think I signed something, I don't know, I had a few drinks, it's just-"

"Drinks? You've been drinking? And you signed something?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so-"

Draupadi hung up the phone. Five husbands, and they were all idiots. The oldest brother, the one who was this big popular guy, with a good head on his shoulders, and he gambles everything away. She knew he had a problem, but did she know it was this bad? How could she have? Who thinks that their husband is going to gamble away his money, his family, and then his wife?

It's not like Yudhisthira wasn't smart, he just had weaknesses. Everything had been effortless for him in life to this point. Class president in high school, followed by prom king, then a star quarterback in college, and now quickly leading an underdog team to certain victory in the professional league. and his brothers were all the same. Leaders in their chosen fields, they were a brilliant band of brothers.

That didn't mean that they didn't occasionally make truly dumb decisions.

Yudhisthira had a gambling problem. Never really got to him until he got out of college, but once he landed a multi-million dollar contract, there it was. Couldn't resist the dice, or the cards, or the roulette wheel, or--frankly, there had yet to be a high stakes game that Yudhisthira hadn't fallen in love with. 

Draupadi was their rock--sensible, fiery, and sometimes said to be the true brains of the family. There was a reason she was married to the five most powerful men in the country, and it was only partly that she was easily the most beautiful woman of her time. While Yudhisthira was crowned for his physical achievements in school, Draupadi was sailing through dual math and business degrees. Thus, she managed the family finances, and only gave Yudhisthira what was needed to satisfy both parties--enough for him to lose a fair sum of money, but too little to make a dent in the family's wealth. 

It didn't take long for Draupadi to realize who had put Yudhisthira up to this. Yudhisthira's backwoods cousins, Duryodhana and company, were jealous of the Pandava's success, and had always wanted a piece of it for their own. Truly, it was Duryodhana leading the fight. He was similar in age to Yudhisthira, and having grown up together, Duryodhana was constantly in Yudhisthira's shadow. He too had a brilliant mind, but in a culture that values attractiveness and charm, he never had a chance. Duryodhana was too sharp, too grating for people to really get along with, and so he was always mediocre in comparison to the other side of the family.

A knock came at the door, and Draupadi, still fuming, shot a look at the door, and took her time walking to it. The bangs on the door were faster and louder now, and when she threw it open the two meatheads at the door were so surprised it had opened at all that they were briefly rendered speechless.

"Don't talk. I'm not in the mood and I really don't have the time." Draupadi paused for a moment, waiting to see if it would stick. Typical--it didn't.

"Ma'am, we're here to collect on-"

"Excuse me, I wasn't finished. I suspect that you're here to take me back to the run-down shack my husband has lost me at, and get paid for delivering me to whatever scumbag tricked him into the whole thing?"

"Uh-" Both men were unsure of what to do. They were told she'd put up a fight, but they weren't smart enough to realize it would be verbal. If either one had thought to they probably could have thrown her over a shoulder and been done with it, but they were too dumbfounded to act.

"Rhetorical question. I'd appreciate it if you didn't answer."

The two men were silent. Finally.

"So here's my problem. I don't really feel like leaving the house tonight. I've got a nice glass of wine waiting for me and a date with the last Harry Potter book, and truth be told I don't think I'm going to find that wherever you're planning on taking me. Instead, you're both going to go back to where you came from, put my drunk husbands in a car, and bring them back here. After that, you'll find yourselves a fine promotion at--well, I'll figure out what your day jobs are. Understood?"

Seeing that both men had started to realize there weren't any repercussions in the deal as it stood, she spoke again.

"Oh-- I suppose if the both of you decide against doing what I've told you... You'll be on the streets in a heartbeat. Penniless, nameless... Hopeless. Have my men home within the hour."

*****

Author's Note: Well this ended up longer than I expected. The background music for the story can be found here, a song called The Wire by Haim. The song inspired Draupadi's firey attitude and her resistance towards the men coming to take her away. The game of dice was my favorite story during this week's reading, but I wanted to retell it in an unexpected way. The past couple of my writings had been pretty sad/sappy, and I really wanted to write something that had more punch, so after an hour of writer's block, I thought a modern-day family of pretty, brilliant billionaires would fit pretty well. When I was reading, I thought that there was no way that Yudhisthira would be the real king--anyone who can be tricked into gambling their family away twice can't be smart enough to sit on the throne. That's when I decided that in my story, Draupadi would be the head of the family, in kind of a matriarch sort of way. Hope you enjoyed reading! 

The Mahabharata, by R. K. Narayan (1978). Web Source: Reading Guide.

Week 4 Storytelling

Forest Sunlight, courtesy Wikimedia

Sometimes, an instant is just that. A moment. A fleeting glimpse of time, a half a thought, one breath, a blink. It's gone before it's had time to even exist, and by the time it crosses your mind, you're fourteen thoughts ahead of yourself, wondering how time passes and being all too aware of yourself and your hands and the tips of your toes and wondering how, how is it that life stretches so long but right now you can almost feel it slipping through your fingers. Gone. Like sand.

Sometimes, though, an instant is a lifetime in itself. 

Maybe it's a tense moment, a decision you have to make, maybe it's fear, maybe it's the last night you'll be here for a long time and you want to remember every detail, maybe you don't want to remember a thing. Time doesn't usually ask what you want, it just... Does. 

I remember an occurance, standing in front of my love, my loves, my people, my kingdom, my palace, and how time ground to a stop. I remember the looks on all their faces. Anguish. Rama, my boys, realizing what I was going to do, starting to break their strong stances and run towards me. I had months, though, years inside these few seconds. 

I'm one of the few that can confirm--when you're about to go, your life flashes before your eyes. It's a highlight reel, a sort of 'best of' film. Memories flashed before my eyes. 

Ravana's palace. Constant teasing, torture. Ten faces, staring at my own. Words, tearing into my heart, leaving wounds that wouldn't ever heal completely.

The deaths of the good men that followed Rama. Jatayu, sacrificing himself in a failed attempt to save me. 

Leaving Ayodhya as a newlywed, anxious about the future, but hopeful in following my king. 

Being torn from Rama in Ravana's hands, not knowing if Rama was coming for me, or even alive.

Running to Rama after being freed, relief written on my face, love spoken with my arms, warmth in my heart, and seeing none of the same in his eyes.

Nights spent alone. 

Feeling every inch, every second of distance between us. 

Leaving Rama a second time, for good, for the good of the kingdom. The bitterness I fought to keep from my heart for the people who ensured my departure. 

It seemed like my mind was bent on making this a painful journey. Rama had made it about a step closer at this point, but as the physical distance waned, there might have been a thousand oceans between our minds. Yet, as always, we were one. I saw the love in his eyes, the heartbreak he would face. I saw the good. If my heart could break any more at that point, I know it did.

The woods, the ashram. Cleaning, cooking, raising my boys. Seeing them grow into young men, unaware of their lineage, but happy, and humble. Knowing they would grow to be great, and more importantly, good.

Rama's ring, delivered to me, hope contained in an object. 

Days after we were exiled. Rama, being utterly useless when setting up camp. Lakshmana making fun of Rama for never learning how to build himself a shelter. Laughter, swatting and chasing each other with bamboo, thinking, 'maybe this will be okay'. 

Seeing the warmth return to Rama's eyes as I stepped out of the fire. Watching him dash towards me, sweep me up, and whisper, 'I never could have doubted you.'

Late nights, spent talking, giggling, hushed in the palace, and later, in our hut.

A kiss on the cheek. 

Two kids, catching the other's eye and knowing right then, at that second, that there'd never be another that lit the world up the way it was right that moment. 

Coming back to the present, I knew my eyes were wet and that if I didn't go then, I never would. There were sounds all around me, but I couldn't hear over the roar in my ears.

I stretched my arms out, looked to the sky, and pleaded. "Ma... Take me home."

In that last second, I knew Rama understood. If I had anything to do over again, I'd take those seconds. I'd live every moment given to me with him, and beg for more. It was all I had not to let the sob building in my chest escape, and just as it did... I was with Bhudevi. Five seconds, maybe? A hard life, maybe, but such a good one, and it was gone in the blink of an eye. Moments, often, are just that.

I never really understood distance until I couldn't go back.

*****

Author's note: 

This was the 'alternate ending' to the Ramayana, that was mentioned by Narayan, I believe, but not the generally favored one. I much preferred Narayan's ending, but honestly, after Sita's life in Sita: Daughter of the Earth, I didn't know what to think. Rama consistently questions if she's pure, and sure, he has a duty as king, but I'd believe that a king should set the example for his citizens, and not the other way around. Granted, Sita's story is a little different because she's the human reincarnation of a divine goddess, so death really doesn't work the same way for her as it does for the rest of everyone. The soundtrack to this writing was Even The Darkness Has Arms by The Barr Brothers. Now go read something happy, or look at this gif of a cat comforting her kitten. I actually set out to write a cute, funny story about how Rama was completely incapable of doing things like washing his own clothes and helping build things once they got into exile even though he's so good at everything else. Whoops. 

Also, just keep in mind that you're not a divine reincarnation of a goddess who is eternal/immortal, and if life ever seems this bad... It'll get better. There are resources out there for you.

Sita: Daughter of the Earth, by Saraswati Nagpal (2011). Web Source: Reading Guide.

Week 3 Storytelling: Dearest Sarah

Infantryman by Henry Ellis Townsend 

     Dearest Sarah,
          
          I write with the anticipation I may see you soon--though surely not soon enough. Each day here it is cold, and wet, and where I am not soaked to the bone, I am covered in mud. It's tiresome, this rain, and the war, though I'm told we've only survived barely half of the rains, and even less of the fighting. I am more concerned with the strength of our men to survive this rainy trial than I am worried about the enemy. 

     Most of all, my concern is for you. It feels as if you've been taken from me, kidnapped by some wretched demon who thrives on our separation, and yet I know this is not true. It's I who have been taken from you, by the monster we fight each day. I send my steadfast love, and dream only-

"What's this? Writing letters again?"

Remy was jerked out of his letter by a close comrade's words, Lawrence. Rather, the letter was jerked from Remy, as Lawrence snatched it and made to read what Remy had been writing.

"Give it- stop- that's not yours to read!" Remy grasped for the letter, finally tearing it from Lawrence's hands. Smoothing it out, in a smaller voice, Remy followed, "it's private, and I'd ask you to stop interrupting me while I'm writing her. "

Lawrence smiled. His smile was easy, a bit crooked, and could warm an entire room. The man himself was strongly built, taller than Remy by several inches, though a touch younger. "I'm only teasing, you know. Someone has to do something to liven the atmosphere around here."

Remy knew in his heart Lawrence was right. Remy had been in a mood for days, and frankly, the rest of the troops had as well. They had been stuck in the trenches for weeks. When they weren't fighting the enemy, it was certain to be raining, and when it wasn't raining, they were fighting.

"Well lighten up elsewhere, if you please. I'm busy." Remy shot back his reply, surprised to hear his own words so sharp against someone he was so close to.

Lawrence and Remy were almost brothers, and often joked to be as much. In fact they were extremely similar in personality and look, but no familial ties bound them together. The ties they had formed were much stronger, weaved in the trenches during their first days together, and were brotherly of another nature, if that nature was being threatened within an inch of life on the daily.

Hearing Remy's reply, Lawrence was a bit deflated, but changed tactics nonetheless. "Remy, do you know what happens after the rain?"

Remy had been trying to pick up his train of thought in his letter, but Lawrence wasn't having any of it.

"Well, do you know?"

"Lawrence, I know what'll happen to you if you don't quit being a pest."

"Well, I know what happens after the rain. Most of the fellas here, they say that the rain is the cleansing part of the season. The rain comes and washes it all away, but the cleansing happens after you thaw out a bit."

Resigning, Remy nodded. "Sure. Just like mum washing clothes."

"Exactly," Lawrence affirmed. "Except the clothes aren't really clean until they're on the line and the afternoon sun dries them. That's the cleansing bit--peeking back out into the world and having the sun shine down on you."

Remy sighed. "Lawrence."

"I know. It's difficult for all of us."

"She's my wife. We only just married-"

"I know. You can't help her by dragging yourself further down in this mess. Keeping alive's what matters."

"I know."

"Finish your letter. I'll go pester the others for a while."

Remy gave a half smile, nodded once, started writing again.

...and dream only of you. You, my sun, my stars. I'm on my way, sweet Sarah, and I promise, I'll come back whole.

Yours,
Remy

*****

Author's Note:

     I've more or less decided I'm going to pair each story with a song, and so this week, my story was partially inspired and mostly written to Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade. I really liked the sweet moment between Lakshmana and Rama during the rainy season in the forest, where Rama is particularly plagued by his demons, and Lakshmana helps him out of it. Sometimes, it doesn't take a great act to turn someone's day, week, or month around. It's the small things that count, and I really wanted to spend time on that moment. I changed the names to make them sound a little more WWI authentic, but the characters and who they relate to should be fairly obvious.

I chose to reset the story during World War One because there needed to be something to take Rama away from Sita, and to have a brotherly bond between the two men. I had been thinking of the Christmas Truce earlier in the day, and how on Christmas Day German and English soldiers called an unofficial truce between themselves and spent the day playing football and singing carols. Usually for my stories I get inspired by something happening or thinking about something earlier in the week or the day, and want to use that as a basis for what I'll write.

Narayan, R. K. The Ramayana. New Delhi: Vision, 1987. Print.

Storytelling Week Two: Ends of the Earth

Étretat: Sunset, by Claude Monet

The first thing anyone has to understand about Rama? He's in love with his lady. Sita's a work of art, with eyes like dusk and wild hair the color of the night sky. She's been with him long as anyone can remember, if anyone remembers, and if there ever was a couple in love, they were it. The second thing? He's never stayed in the same place long. It's been said he had a home, once; a home in a breathtaking place, skies clear and blue like the good lord hadn't ever heard of a cloud to put there, waters crystal clear to match the sky, mountains tall and strong and proud--and weathered. It was a place where everyone knew there was history in every flurry of dust kicked up by their feet, knew the land would outlast them. Time passed slower there. So it's said, at least.

There wasn't ever a name to accompany the place. Just descriptions of beauty, simplicity, things anybody would describe when they thought about where they'd like to end up some day. Rama was lucky enough to start there. Broken homes don't account for perfection in setting, though, and sooner than later Rama got the boot from his stepmother. His father didn't have much to do with it; seeing as he wasn't around enough to help make a decision. It wasn't his fault, truly. Living a dream isn't cheap, never was. By the time he got home after working a couple, three, jobs, he barely had the energy to muster getting along with his second wife, much less fighting with her. 

Rama's a legend to many. Most of us haven't ever laid eyes on the boy (a man now, accounting for time), and those who have can only describe him as handsome, wonderful, kind, fair--and the same is always said of Sita. He comes quietly through towns, does a few odd jobs, and goes on his way. He's one of the last few gentlemen there are, and a jack of all trades too. There's a few who compare him to Robin Hood, preferring to live in the forest with his Maid Marion. The comparison isn't so far fetched, though he's a better hunter than Robin Hood could have ever hoped to be. Seems like every town who's been blessed by his presence is a little better off. If there's a bad apple in the ruling party, they're gone in a fortnight. An abusive family gets run out of town. When we get news like this, his name is never said... But we all know.

I remember when he came to our town. I was already an old man then, and had trouble sleeping nights. Up late one clear evening, I glanced outside and saw him. Tall, strong, proud... Weathered. He swept in on a whisper, left quieter than the rustle of leaves in the summer wind. His company followed, just two others, his lady and another young man. His brother? They listened to the cries of the town, heard our hurts, listened to how we were besieged constantly by a pack of thieves, scoundrels, who had lead in their hearts and steel in their hands. It didn't take so much as a week before an incident became altogether unheard of.

Thing is, there's a storm brewing. Rumors say the band of thieves aren't gone, just left for reinforcements. It's been years since anyone's seen Rama, though there are sightings of Sita. Nothing much, but here and there a child will tear out of the forest, yelling about strange men holding a woman captive. It's not long before the child will forget all about the men in favor of the woman's beauty. That's how we know it's Sita. That's how we know Rama's looking for her. 

We all worry for Rama. The people hear of his actions, his adventures, they know he's impossibly good at combat, strategy, persuasion, but is he good enough for those who stole Sita from under his nose?

I think so. 

I hope, someday, someday soon, that at the end of a long day, with his lady at his side, he'll get to go home.

Author's Note:

I'm really intrigued by the idea of pairing music and stories. This story in particular was inspired by a couple things, the first being a song by Lord Huron, from which the title is taken. I also really wanted to create a fuzzy picture of Rama, something that wasn't particularly attached to a time period or place. That's why I chose an impressionist painting for my image. Can you tell I like Monet? The story I worked from was more of the overarching story of the second reading diary. I thought it was important to try and evoke the good Rama's done so far, as well as Sita and Rama's passion for each other. His 'home' is Ayodhya, and I thought making him a Robin Hood-esque character would allow me to explore what Rama's interactions with others while in exile might be.

Narayan, R. K. The Ramayana. New Delhi: Vision, 1987. Print.

Week 1 Storytelling: The Good Doctor Foster

Doctor Foster went to Glo'ster

In a shower of rain;

He stepped in a puddle, up to his middle,

And never went there again.

*****

     The good doctor Foster was well known through the whole of London for being the best doctor in the whole of England. There was little that his intellect could not master, and the stories of his adventures were passed from child to child, each one embellishing more and more until the tales often became, well, quite like legends, instead.

     Foster himself was getting on in years; when he was young, he traveled the world with abandon, solving problems of people near and far, but now spent his time writing, drinking tea, and enjoying the company of his cat. He was quite the homebody in his old age, which made him even more mysterious to the local children.

     It wasn't uncommon to hear bits and pieces of his stories when walking the streets, and especially the alleys, of London.

     "You mean you haven't heard of Foster," one child would ask incredulously.

     "Foster the doctor! He's been everywhere, knows everyone! Not a corner of the earth that hasn't seen his face," said another.

     "I heard he once fought off a fleet pirates singlehandedly!"

     "My gran said he saved a whole litter of puppies from a burning building when he was only fourteen."

     "Father says he's the very smartest man in the whole of London-"

     "Of England, surel-"

     "He must be the smartest man in the whole world!"

     In fact, Doctor Foster was a very smart man, though probably only the sixth or seventh smartest in the world. Even in his growing age, he was still called away to help surrounding communities when he could.

Houses of Parliament, London, by Claude Monet, sourced from Wikipedia

     On a particular cloudy Tuesday morning, Doctor Foster received word from Gloucester. Their roads had been terrorized by an enormous pothole—cars, already not the safest contraptions to grace the 20th century, were careening off roads with three wheels instead of four, the rogue wheel at the bottom of the hole, the driver wondering what possibly could have gone so wrong. The city was at a loss as to how to fix it, as their attempts to fill in the hole had never lasted for more than a week, and it was truly becoming a menace.

     Never one to pass up a problem, Foster made his way to the train and began the ride to Gloucestershire. As the train ride progressed, the clouds turned to thunderheads, and the rain began to pour. As it happened, Gloucester had been in the middle of a rainstorm for the ages for the past twelve days. ‘None the matter,’ Foster thought. ‘I’ve braved worse, and will brave worse again!’

     When Foster finally arrived, the rain was pouring upon his head. He turned his collar up, pulled his coat tighter around himself, and ventured into the rain. It wasn’t a particularly long trek into the city center, where he was told that the pothole resided, but with the rain pouring down, visibility was continually decreasing. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come to Gloucester today… Seems a poor day for an adventure,’ the doctor thought to himself.

     The doctor walked on, allowing himself to get lost in thought to distract himself from the rain when—suddenly, the doctor found himself waist deep in water, as if the ground had suddenly gone away. In fact, the doctor himself had been thwarted by the pothole, as if the pothole knew its own demise was imminent, and was taking every step it could to ensure its existence.

     Well, the doctor clambered out of the pothole, no worse for wear and tear, made it to the town council, who was in charge of the pothole, and heard the solutions they had tried so far. They had attempted prayer, of course, they had blocked the hole off for some time, they had tried to tell citizens to avoid it, they stomped their feet and cursed and fumed, but the hole had not gone away. Foster, a reasonable Englishman, simply asked, "Have you tried to fill the hole, perhaps?" 

     Of course they had not, or the doctor's trip would have been entirely unnecessary. 

     With the problem solved and the Gloucesterians satisfied, the doctor, chilled to the bone, vowing never to return to the town with such rainy days and foolish people, came back to London and to the warmth of his own house and could be seen enjoying a cup of tea in the window.

     Already, the children could be heard whispering…

     “The doctor’s back from Gloucester!”

     “Did you hear, he found the Loch Ness Monster!”

     “I heard he sailed the seas, fell into the ocean, and was only saved when he found an underground tunnel that led him to the city…”

     The legends, of course, continued.

*****

Author's Note: My story is inspired by a short nursery rhyme, listed above the story. I wanted a bit of a challenge, so I took advantage of the shortness of the rhyme and tasked myself with answering the questions it raised. Why was the doctor in Gloucester? Why did he never return? Was he a medical doctor, or highly learned in something else? I left some of these ambiguous yet, since I think defining the type of doctor Foster was would strip him of more of his mystery. I hope Foster came across as a kind, if occasionally grumpy, Indiana-Jones type figure. I set it in England largely because it's one of my favorite places (should have listed that in the previous post!) and when referencing the city of Gloucester, it presented an opportunity I couldn't pass up.

Bibliography:

The Nursery Rhyme Book, edited by Andrew Lang and illustrated by L. Leslie Brooke (1897)