Horses and Slaves
Pradoshapuram is the name of that village. The village has several stories to tell you, especially those praising the glory of traditions. Beautiful twilights blossomed there regularly. After the dusk, dark nights guarded the village. The nights were adorned with golden frontal ornaments with the magnificence of processional elephants. After the end of the night, there was a period that extended till the beginning of the dusk. That period was a rare experience. Was there light? Was there darkness? Or, was there a third state of existence other than light and darkness? Who knows?!!
But, nobody dared to call that period by the name ‘Day’. The reason behind it was a philosophical doctrine that traditionally existed in that village, which no one could deny. It was a village where so many philosophers were born and grown.
It was written in their Epic of Knowledge:
“….Who will dare to call the period between the closing moments of night and the beginning of dusk by the name ‘Day’? A Day happens only after sunrise and blooming of dawn. But, who has seen the rising sun in this village? We should deny that entity that has never happened. The sun has never risen here!!.........”
Nobody in the village had seen sunrise in their life. All people in the village woke up very late and that was another reality that substantiated the philosophical theory. There were few more questions. How could dusk happen without dawn? How twilights were blossomed without sunset?....
The answers were already inscribed in their Epic of Knowledge:
“……If there is no sunrise, there will not be any sunset. But twilight can bloom even without sunset. Twilight is the infancy of night; but not the senility of Day!!.....”
And yes; the secret of existence of any village is the presence of secure philosophical truths!
The story of the village, where sun has never risen, starts here……..
In the heart of the village, there lay an infertile pond, with its broken dreams. Near the pond was a ruined temple, in which it seemed nobody has lighted a lamp ever. In between the damaged walls of the temple, old spiders played spinning their webs over the accursed stone effigy. People in the village woke up very late. They quarreled themselves; separated and again united. They fostered horses and a number of slaves. The masters and slaves spent their entire life for those horses. Gradually, the number of horses increased in abundance. When the horses could not get sufficient food, they contended with their masters. The masters sacrificed their slaves to appease the horses. In the severe days of summer the horses drank human blood to quench their thirst. When they were mad with hunger, they ate human flesh. In the streets of the village, where the blood and sweat of the slaves were spilled, the unorganized horses wandered aimlessly.
The village was boisterous!
One night, somewhere from the darkest moments of time, a traveller reached the village. He was accompanied by a white horse. Behind the ruined walls of the temple, under the spider webs, the traveller took shelter. In the village streets, where poisonous funguses were flourished due to previous night’s heavy rain, the fostered horses of the village were seen fighting and quarreling.
The body of the white horse, designed out of silver clouds, sparkled under the brilliance of lightning. The powerful eyes of the white horse emitted psychological vibrations. Little stars dwelled in its mane.
The amazing animation of the white horse motivated the village. It dashed through the hearts of the village with the power of thunder. The grass fibers, scrunched in its mouth, screamed with the dream of rebirth. The powerful words of the traveller terrorized the people. The lords and leaders of the village presented batches and batches of their horses and slaves to the traveller. Drinking the blood of the slaves and tasting their flesh, the traveller reigned over the village. Nightmares camped in his eyes. His deeds were ferocious. His orders were like thunderstorm. He didn’t know that he was an uninvited traveller and should flee the village once. Though too late, people of the village realized the truth that they were being exploited. They united under some great masters and fought against injustice and tyranny.
……..And the doomsday arrived. In the depth of darkness, hit by the heavy blows of final judgement, the traveller and his white horse fell unconscious in front of the ruined temple.
New masters took charge of the village on their Black horse. Seated on the horseback, the new masters celebrated their triumph. They had strong thighs, heavy bottoms, poisonous arms spread with blue nerves, sharp eyes and long nose. Their past had a strong foundation. They claimed themselves as the successors of amazing traditions.
The new masters talked through their bridles and reins. Titanic lions guarded their forts. Well-built fostered horses roamed outside in search of human blood. The slaves in the village continued their tragic life, experiencing the fruits of their sins of previous lives. Suffering heavy blows with whips by their masters, red blood flew like torrent.
The village was boisterous!
Then, during some unusual moments of time, sitting around the fire light and being scared of a forthcoming deluge, the masters examined the disciplines of past. They deeply investigated the past philosophical history of the village.
Their Epic of Knowledge revealed another gem of truth:
“……Sun has never risen in this village. But, whenever sun rises here, then there will be no masters to rule this village…!!
(Remember; the secret of existence of any village is the presence of secure philosophical truths!)
Wild fire flared in their mind. And once it happened. They understood about the hidden motive of sun, who was dreaming about it’s ascending in the village. But, the masters were intelligent. They designed a bridle and rein, the hardest of its kind that would not melt in the first rays of sun light. Hopes of sun tumbled down. It was the victory of strength and intelligence. Dawn in the village remained as a dream; a dead dream!
Unable to relieve from the unending chains of causation, the number of horses outnumbered in the village. Under the guidance of new chevaliers, the horses roamed in search of new masters. The grown up and matured horses yearned and meditated for a new divine incarnation. Evening wick kindled in the temple for the first time. On the abode of Kailash, Shiva opened his third eye.
The new incarnation evoked in a Brown horse. Standing on its two legs and rising to the top of the sky, the brown horse blazed with energy. The masters on the black horse, having fireballs in their eyes fell down and shivered. They twitched with pain. But the paralysis in their thighs, the wart in their bottom, the arms spread with blue nerves and the nose that forgot to crush remain unnoticed by the new Demigod and the brown horse.
The lions guarding the forts lay with closed eyes.The fostered horses moaned silently.
The slaves, who were ready to commence their dance of merry to greet their new masters, lost their steps and fell down. The new masters were their hope, but they flew without wings. They built imaginary mansions, but, on weak foundations. They enjoyed luxury. They forgot the village and its people. They behaved heartlessly even with their brown horse. Discussing past stories, they quarreled. Their dreams were the well-being of the fostered horses. They were living for the fostered horses. But, the victims who were sacrificed were always the slaves.
Near the broken steps of the pond, the brown horse stood lifeless. The shining mane, where stars dwelled became shabby. Fly’s excreted on its tail. Eyelids became wet with sweat. Darkness hibernated in its eyes like a millipede.
After the recurrence of seasons, the old masters awoke. During rainy nights they planned, organized, and moved, stimulating their black horse, without the thought of hunger and thirst. With the power of rebirth, the black horse reappeared. In a dazzling fight, they conquered their foes and retrieved the lost throne. Seated on the horseback of the stronger black horse, the masters ruled the village. They renovated the old forts. The lions guarding the forts roared with the frenzy of power. Within the forts, the fostered horses wandered in search of blood and flesh of slaves.
Counting the projected ribs, and scratching shapeless figures on their bloodless bodies, the slaves of the village fell down tired after performing a dance of mistaken steps. They didn’t have tears to cry, or lips to smile. They fainted in a difficult state of apathy.
The village was boisterous!
It was inscribed in their Epic of Knowledge:
“………..Slaves are always ‘the slaves’, and masters ‘the masters’. Slave’s blood is master’s right. Sacrifice is their religion, and sacrifice is sacred. Horses go ahead with time; the clatter of hoofs is the footstep of time. It is a world of horses. They come and go in a kaleidoscope of colours. Transition is only in its kind; but not in its nature. A time without horses is impossible. But, a time will come, when there will be no masters or slaves. When slaves awake, wearing the habiliments of freedom, there will happen sunrise and sunset!!…………..”
Whenever new masters reincarnate in search of scepter and crown, whenever the slaves are victimized in altars, whenever the fostered horses reach to higher horizons of growth, new philosophers take birth. In the streets of the village spread with the blood of slaves, hundred thousand slaves reappear. Strength of revival rumbles in their folded fists. Wild fire flares in their hollow eyes. The beat of kettledrum reverberates in their words. Here, the fostered horses gasp, vomiting lather. The lions guarding the forts suffer a tragic end by shedding their manes. Undertaking the horrors of the masters, the thrones tremble.
Up above the village, in the cracked sky, arose torches of fire. Hunger and thirst twinkled in the eyes of the eagles flying in circles. The wind, as silent as death, flew without wings. Black smoke covered the entire sky like a huge umbrella. Tossing black stones that had tramped thousands of years, and singing the song of awakening, the slaves marched ahead in rhythmic steps.
When the golden eyed, golden tongued and golden bodied Sun arose in the Eastern horizon, and the tiny stars were relaxing under the gentle warmth of the first light, all beings in the nature welcomed the rising Sun, chanting the sacred hymns of Gayatri.
"Aum Bhoor Bhuwah Swaha
Tat Savitur Varenyam
Bhargo Devasya Dheemahi
Dhiyo Yo nah Prachodayat"
(We meditate upon the transcendental glory of the Supreme Splendor, who embodies the vital energies, eliminates the sufferings and embodies happiness. May thy radiant Self- luminous brilliance illuminate our intellects and guide us in the right direction).
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