It’s never a nice feeling to be kicked by everyone, but am sort of used to it.
I looked around once and then walked off towards the country bar. Once in, I ordered a GM quarter with a lemon and sat down on a rickety bench. I pulled out my pouch from inside of my pants and spilled out my today’s earnings on the table, under the lone moth infested bulb over my head, which was trying halfheartedly to illuminate the miserable gloom of the den of vices, I counted.
I was lucky. ₹475? In my euphoria, I smiled toothlessly to the blind drunk sitting opposite me and said, “Shubh Deepavali!”
He cursed his wife and toppled over. I laughed and squeezed my lemon in my glass, followed by the bitter alcohol. I emptied the entire glass at a go.
I’ve always believed that those so called wine connoisseurs are simply a collective huge bag of wind, who claim to open taste buds and to allow wine to breathe. My friends I’ve spent my 44 years in this world and have seen your own brethren trying to stop human beings from breathing and here we have a specialist, who’s talking about breathing wines! All are loony I think!
I stood with a difficulty. No. Thank you for your concern, O reader, but am neither drunk nor hurt. It’s just my character. One cannot be an expert actor, unless one doesn’t enact the role. I’m a lame beggar, who can run faster than you, but if I tell you the truth will you drop a ₹10 note in my bowl?
I limped out on my crutches and went to my beloved footpath, which is better than your master bedroom. Can you wake up at three am, look up and see the canopy of stars with that silly Opal Moon trying to flirt with them?
I was surprised. My usual place was occupied by a 9 years old girl, who was leaning at something I couldn’t see. I stomped my crutches and coughed violently. Nothing subtle for yours truly. She was startled and looked around. She smiled like a million moons and asked, “Oh, Great Evening, sir! Do you have a matchbox?”
I turned around cautiously to see many kids lighting crackers afar. I’ve always hated kids all my life. They are the vermin! They were creating a cacophony, which is an abomination in itself and polluting the atmosphere to boot! I turned back at my little inquisitor and asked, “Why do you want a matchbox, girl?”
She pulled out her tiny fists and presented a collection of crackers. “Want to burst them.” She declared happily. “I won’t use all of your box, I promise. Please, sir!”
I swear! In my entire 44 years, no one has ever considered me a living thing. I’ve always been an abomination. A blot on society and culture. I have been hounded by people and police alike. Now here was a nymph, who was not only acknowledging me, but even accorded me a knighthood! My dead eyes were wet and I sat down. “Yes. I do have. All you can use. But, don’t you think that they are dangerous? Aren’t you afraid of burning yourself?”
“My dad says that life is more dangerous than snakes, whatever he means.” she replied with an inherent gravity, and suddenly was apprehensive, “I’m scared of the red ones because they go with a bang. Can you please help?”
I immediately threw away my crutches and picked those crackers up. Anything to oblige Her Royal Highness, who bestowed knighthood on me! I ran around to the corner and bought an assortment of fireworks.
When the police van arrived, the inspector saw a Middle aged beggar jumping around with a 9 years old child, while shooting rockets. Two constables jumped out before the van screeched to a halt and grabbed me.
One peered at my face and called out, “Saheb, this is that guy who lacked his right leg.” again smiling at me toothily, while whacking his stick at my buttock, He exclaimed, “Diwali suits you, sale bhikhari! You suddenly got a new leg!”
I looked around at the weeping girl and waved her a goodbye. I mouthed Shubh Deepavali to her and sat comfortably in the police van. Well aware that now I’ll have to practice being blind.
All professions have a professional hazard. Getting arrested is mine.
10 years old Nyatlana Kosnokova stared at her elder brother incredulously. “How’s that even possible, Andu?” her tiny mouth opened in a pink O, “Aren’t red foxes conniving and evil?”
13 years old Andropov Mikhailovich, the seasoned hunter who was considered the Scourge of the forests abutting the northern banks of Volga, smiled condescendingly at his doll like sister whom he adored. “Yes, Precious! These foxes are agile and mischievous, although once you come to know them they turn out to be very friendly. Remember those nights, when the ground is white and hard like a merchant’s heart, when I couldn’t even find a root to boil? I was distraught and have slept many a times at the frozen banks of Volga, anticipating death, and suddenly have found a warm nose nudging my frozen cheeks gently.
“That’s when I felt him for the first time. The Fox King. He’s very powerful and gentle. Unlike all those vile foxes. He’s a king.” Andu’s voice gently dropped an octave below as he narrated this oft repeated tale to his goggle-eyed Doll, who never was tired about his tales of adventure.
They were orphaned when Andu was 8 years old and Nyet a tender 5. Their father was a hunter like Andu in the inhospitable lands of heartless Slavic gods, who literally love stealing the happiness of their wards. Why would a god cover and freeze his dependants, unless in a sadist pleasure? After his death, their mother decided to be loyal to their father and joined him. The kids were tended by their unwilling relatives for few years and then were exposed to griefs and tortures hitherto unknown to them.
One spring morning, 10 years old Andu returned from his foray in forest where he spent all his night trying to snare hatch of rabbits and failing, to find his little sister sleeping on a log. She looked like a sorry frog on the log, just a prettier one, who’s changed her mind halfway while turning into a princess. Her fair face was framed in wavy curls surrounding it like those clouds teasing the Glorious Moon. Her dried and chafed lips reminded Andu of those scars of the ugly Moon. He gently kissed her and she squealed in surprise. When she saw Andu, she hugged him and wept.
Andu touched her cheeks with his calloused fingers and they mutely left those grounds, never to return. They decided to run away to escape a life of slavery. They landed near a glade abutting the tiny forest close to Volga, the mother of all rivers.
Conforming to the adage that necessity is the mother of inventions, Andropov Mikhailovich groomed himself into a cunning hunter. He built a tiny hut where both kids huddled into each other to stay warm in freezing winters and fished and hunted all through summer and spring. Andu was blessed with a hugely imaginative mind, where he could think a step ahead of those primeval minds of animals. They were blessed by the benevolent spirit of forest, Katerina, who always loved tiny animals and left the larger ones to fend off for themselves. Blessed by her, rabbits and tiny forest animals came by themselves to Andu. He was able to find fruits where the birds couldn’t. His tall tales of expertise made the dark and beautiful Katerina smile gently. A smile, which was crooked while forming a dimple on her right cheek. Whenever Katerina smiled, spring was born.
“Then? Was he angry at you, Andu?” Nyet whispered in wonder, knowing well the answer, but she loved that grave child’s answer nonetheless.
“Yes. He was very angry at first.” Andu said gravely, “But then I took out my whip and knife. He was scared then. He bowed down while I sharpened a long piece of stick staring at him. The King was worried that I’ll slay him like I do all animals. He slowly backed away and brought me a couple of rabbits. I cut off the ears of them and threw at him. He snapped them out of air and loped off in the dense foliage.” Nyet clapped and hugged the puffed up chest of Andu.
Dark Night fell across the hut, embracing the kids in her ample bosom. Loony Moon laughed.
The harsh winters of Russia have a beauty of their own. And, as it happens, it’s always the most beautiful who have the hardest hearts. The beautiful Winter had a slab of impenetrable ice as heart. It froze everything, from the vast Volga to the warm blood in veins. She even froze the benevolent Spirit Katerina. The forest froze. Trees died standing on their feet. Moon had a frozen smile. Warm and sensuous Night stared vacantly at the white landscape desolately.
15 years old Andu was staring at the hopeless grounds and left as soon as the gloomy sun rose out of east, casting a palling sunshine around. 12 years old Nyet didn’t want her brother to go and cried. He, befitting a man on mission, stared her down and left. He couldn’t get anything to eat yesterday too and although his little sister didn’t whimper even once, he knew the hunger gnawing at her tiny intestines. He tramped off into the blinding white landscape, hoping to surprise some hibernating beast.
The sun decided to go home early today. What was there to illuminate anyway! Life was frozen. Katerina opened one of her lazy eye and then slept again. Nyet stood at the door of her hut, staring at the frozen path.
Night brought her narcotics and was surprised to see a little girl sitting under falling snow, her hair turned white. She beckoned the sad Moon, who selfish that he was, didn’t bother about a tiny girl and brooded on his own ugliness.
Sun rose again at the sleeping child. Nyet woke up with a jolt. Her brother was still absent. She knew that he couldn’t let her sleep in open, still she ran inside the hut to double-check if he had come in silently at night while she slept. The little hut was empty.
She desperately looked around then walked out towards the frozen path. Fresh snow had fallen and obliterated all the footprints. She was afraid to enter the forest as she knew how dangerous animals were there. Without any other option, hungry and cold, she kept walking on. She shouted her brother’s name. Tentatively initially, with fear, then desperately.
Fear works on a hyperbolic curve. We are scared initially and begin with a whisper. Later on, we through caution to winds and scream lustily. Nyet screamed herself hoarse. The wild wolves kept away from her for their own safety. They knew what we didn’t. They knew that extreme fear overcomes fear.
Sun was agitated. I mean, it’s cold and one has to work but can one expect some peace? Here’s this kid who doesn’t have any business here anyway, screaming her heart out! He suddenly remembered another one who was trapped here somewhere yesterday! He tried to think and decided to let go. He signaled at the rising flirtatious Moon in resignation while miming at the sleeping child at the root of a gnarled oak. Moon stared inquisitively and shrugged his pockmarked shoulders. He was in love with the Spirit Katerina, who was not to be seen since yesterday. He looked for her in despondency.
Nyatlana woke up. It was dark. It seemed that a hand is pressed on her eyes. Has she turned blind? She whimpered, “Andu!” and wept. A soundless agony rose around her like a fume of fragrance, invisible, but noticeable nonetheless. The leafless oak wept his few leaves in empathy. Moon stared back in agitation. Isn’t this all wrong? This wasn’t his job!
Nyet’s whimperings were suddenly cut short. She heard a rustling around. Her eyes had adjusted to the blinding darkness alleviated by a milky moon, still she couldn’t understand what’s going on. Suddenly she screamed when something warm and moist touched her cheek. “Andu! I’ve been searching you for so long!” She howled piteously while she hugged the kisser. “You found such a nice fur for me!” she touched his face in dark and screamed in terror. “Who are you?”
The tiny red fox collapsed. As terrified as her. “What the hell are you? Is this a way to repay for kindness?” he admonished. “When they made me a king, they never warned me that I’ll have to babysit kids.” the little fox walked away in disdain. He stopped a few feet away and barked, “Leave this forest, girl. This is not for you.” His red eyes burned like amber in the darkness.
“Who are you?” Nyet was curious. “My name is Nyatlana Kosnokova and I live at the end of this glade.”
“My name is Ronan. I’m the Fox King. And, I object to your presence here.”
Nyet clapped happily! “Ooo! I know everything about you! You are the one who brings rabbits to my brother? The Red Fox King?”
The fox returned and sat on his haunches. No one in the world is immune to praises. He stared at this slip of a female and said, “Look girl, I never did fall to those depths. Your brother stole my food for you. I forgive him now as I see you today. Though, it’s because of him that we are hated. Good that he’s missing.” He laughed a vile laughter. “You are next.”
He pointed ominously and with a whisk of tail, he disappeared in now impenetrable darkness. Moon was the only witness to this dialogue. Nyet stood rooted for few seconds and then panicked.
“Wait!” the distraught child screamed and ran after the vanishing apparition. She tripped and fell. Weeping, she punched the rock hard ground, thus awaking the forest spirit Katerina.
It’s always difficult for a mom to cater for everything. Katerina, being the forest fairy, was always at her wits end. She was always tormented by little animals who were in danger of being devored by the forest devil Berstuk.
Being lazy and being born of a wildcat and a wolf, She was daring and deadly, being lazy at the same time. She stared at the tiny girl in tattered frock and checked the location of Berstuk. She looked at the Moon, imploring him to help.
One of the trees shed its leaves over this crying nymph. Moon was genuinely worried. He would have helped anyway, without being coaxed by his muse, Katerina. He came to a lake and shone brightly as he had never did before. He turned orange in efforts.
That was the first Blood Moon the world saw.
The lake unfroze and reflected the orb of beaten silver.
Nyatlana was suddenly distracted by a shining spectacle. In the center of the glade, something was shining. She went there. The area was bright as a day. Frogs, who were expected to hibernate, were standing in a line. Hundreds of foxes lined the edge of the pond. White lillies suddenly bloomed. Nyet stood at the edge of the glade, staring at this unexpected vision.
It was then that she saw Ronan. He was standing. Tall and majestic amongst his brood. He bowed to Nyatlana. She could see a dark shadow behind him who bowed. In utter silence Katerina pointed towards the lillies. The tired Moon glowed. Nyatlana moved as in a dream and stepped on one of the leaves. She could see the smiling Moon and couldn’t resit touching him. Suddenly, before her fingers touched water, the lake split and the body of her brother floated up.
A scream broke in the utter silence. The Moon dimmed. The body floated at the bank and one of the branches of merciful oak picked it out. Nyatlana was suddenly silent.
Grief isn’t all about screaming. It’s about acceptance. She accepted it. It was nothing new. When we are used to death, everything seems mundane. Suddenly she felt a muzzle touch her cheek.
She screamed in grief and hugged the shaggy fur, finding empathy in that warm body. She kissed the warm body and was suddenly astonished to find Ronan going limp in her arms. The westerly wind blew an essence of fermenting happiness borrowed from South Russian Slopes.
Her brother opened her eyes…
She wasn’t sure if she should be happy for a brother or cry for a King!
The Moon again was its pale self, but happy, because he had won Katerina. The kids were blessed by both divine couple. Katerina decided to love the Ugly Moon.
The Unwept Fox King became immortal in Russian mythology.
Maharana Bhanupratap Sisodia screamed in a panicked voice when his replacement horse ran away after throwing him off!
Ali-ud-daula Siddiqui came down from his elephant which had terrified the puny horse and smiled triumphantly.
Maharana pulled out his double edged sword and fenced off, while screaming for his beloved horse. He knew that only Chetak can win this battle with his battle honed senses…
The anguished cry echoed amongst the tumult of a thousand swords and a million shields. It echoed off of the dusty walls of the brooding and ancient castles. The haunt wafted above the desert of Mewar and reached to the camps of Ali-ud-daula Siddiqui, where Chetak was locked away.
Chetak was standing despondently in his prison, when the war cry acted on him like a stimulant. His fertile brain conjured up grotesque and horrid images of the battle.
The mind has an exaggeratedly morbid sense of reality. Whenever we are confined to a static place while our loved ones are in a mortal peril, our mind conjures up the worst scenarios, which may be totally different and harsher than the reality. Chetak’s heart went out for his brave master!
“Chetak!”
His right ear flicked then his left twitched. He rolled his eyes, showing its whites and snorted in frustrated anger. He pawed the ground while looking around, looking for a weak point in his armored prison or in earth itself!
“Chetak… ” This wild call, which interrupted his frustrated recce, had a desperate haunt. Chetak’s trained ears detected that the screamer is hurt by an arrow, which has pierced his lungs. The bubbling scream meant that blood is boiling out of his lungs and will boil out of his mouth soon.
Chetak threw caution to winds and reared up on his hind legs. There are times, when even the most prudent of warriors grows reckless. Chetak looked at the shackles, which tethered him to the ground and pawed at it gently to test its strength. Once assured of its frailty, Chetak tossed his beautiful mane away from his handsome chestnut face and charged! The strong shackles were no match for the roaring dynamo in the form of the agitated and proud Andalusian stallion, and they gave way to the iron will of Chetak, who roared through the stable as an express train. He lowered his head like an angry bull and rammed into the tall fortified gate, which shattered into a million fragments with a deafening clap…
The potter in the adjacent hut turned over on his thin mattress restlessly and grumbled at the horrible racket going on till he was unable to stand it. “That goddamned ass!” He rose from his bed in anger and picked up the stout stick. “I will teach him a lesson today!”
His 7 years old daughter sleeping near her mother woke up groggily and followed him in the hope of some adventure in her grey life. Her eccentric father was usually up to something, which provided her with material to giggle while playing with her crude cloth dolls. The other day his beloved parent was trying to beat her mother while being drunk and ended up in the nearest pigsty because of the quick footwork and a cleverly administered jab in his head from her mother’s part. She expected something as hilarious tonight. She casted a last hopeful glance at her sleeping mommy and hastened behind his receding father.
Her mother briefly looked at the commotion, turned and slept again, cursing all the donkeys and men in general and her own ones in particular. She belonged to that glorious creed of ladies, who strongly believed that men and asses were similar psychologically and that their brains were interchangeable. ‘Hope he comes early tonight!’ She thought drowsily before smoothly sliding into a dream of something or another which happy women tend to dream.
The potter staggered out of his hut and moved towards the stable, when the ramshackle gate of the stable disintegrated before his disbelieving eyes and a small ass trotted out, braying its head off.
Chetak saw the iron clad Knight Commander of The Royal Stables barring his way with a small armed elite troop. He lowered his head like an enraged bull and charged fearlessly at the ensemble. The terrified cowards scattered like tiny pebbles knocked off by a petulent child. Chetak struck the Knight Commander in his armored chest and was gratified to see him toppling in a gutter, paralyzed by his blazing speed. He didn’t stop to gloat at his victory. Victory and defeat are always a major event for only people with an ego. Like all the strong and focused heroes of the world, Chetak was beyond such puny human emotions. His victory was as immaterial to him as was his defeat. What mattered was the loyalty for his master and his duty. He galloped off in the darkness, with the wild wind running her gentle fingers through his flowing mane and whispering sweet nothings in his alert ears. The wind, like Lady Luck, is a mischievous nymph, which loves riders and steeds. She accelerated the rush of adrenaline which pumped in his great heart.
The groggy potter stood paralyzed at the scene, while the ass romped up towards him and butted him hard in his protruding belly, knocking him down in the gutter, before trotting off in the darkness. The winded potter climbed out of the gutter cursing, while spitting gravel out of his teeth. Then he peered in the darkness and jogged off behind the hookey ass. He was followed by his laughing daughter, clapping her tiny hands happily and skipping behind him in hope of further entertainment.
Chetak ran for 20 km. He was shackled by the barbarian Ali-ud-daula Siddiqui for a long time in the Royal Stables and had spent weeks without a proper nourishment. Everyone knows that the minimum requirement for the survival of a youth is a regular feed and a continued access to their Instagram account! He saw a mound of green grass thrown carelessly by some rich farmer. His alert ears twitched ones. He couldn’t hear the anguished cry of Maharana. Chetak was a born philosopher. He knew that either the king was dead or was still going tongs and hammer with that infidel barbarian. In either situations, he knew that the king wouldn’t begrudge the life giving nourishment to his loyal steed. Well, even Napoleon’s army refused to march on empty stomach! Chetak decided to restore his tissues.
Suddenly he was attacked by a hundred guards, who, treacherous that they were, sneaked from behind at the unaware noble animal. Chetak tried to fight and was overpowered by the mighty army of Ali-ud-daula Siddiqui. His flanks were bloodied by the arrows and swords of the villains.
The middle aged potter was not used to any exercise as befitting any middle aged person in the world and the half kilometer trot taxed his heart, soul and spirit to the breaking point. Exercise is the duty and prerogative of the youth. Why should anyone on the wrong side of 30s should bother? We have worked for luxury and we have the right to enjoy the fruits of our labour, my friend! And, whoever objects is a communist! God knows why so many honest middle aged people die of heart attack! May be, God is a communist too! Anyway, our potter was bending double and spewed steam and wind through his nostrils and mouth, while doing a creditable impersonation of a surfacing whale, till he saw a small figure grazing in the meadows. He cursed a violent explicit, startling his daughter for a second.
His perky daughter screamed happily, “There is Ghunghru!”
This 7 years old girl loved the donkey. She loved those rides, when her father took her to the Thursday market. She loved the ascetic, introspective and amiable face of the ass with its look of polite curiosity, when she discussed those obtuse and poignant questions which 7 years olds are prone to do, to which we 70 years old don’t have an answer yet. Her father was too busy earning bread and her mother was too busy cooking it. Her only companion was this philosophical beast, who always agreed and nodded to her rhetorics. She was really broken hearted to see him running away and was truly sad when she saw her father attacking the donkey with that horribly huge club. Her lovely eyes clouded with tears.
O reader, I’m sure that you are a grown up, and we grown ups have a weird tendency to vent our entire frustration on someone who’s incapable to fight. We are at our most valiant when faced with the most inoffensive target. We vent all our pent up frustration at them and revel in our triumph. We regale our like-minded grownups with this tale for a long time. We forget that even we are a prey for bigger fish, which is more frustrated than us, and when we are at the receiving end, we cry foul!
The potter tiptoed behind the donkey. He shouldn’t have bothered. Our hero was too enamored by the beauty of the swaying grass to bother about any worldy distraction. The potter’s entire frustration had found it’s own inoffensive target!The stick rose and landed hard. The action was repeated till the actionable arm was rendered useless with fatigue. Ghunghru turned around with an amiable inquisitive look on his serene face, when the potter pulled him by his ears. The girl ran and hugged him, crying. Ghunghru had that eternal mildly puzzled look on his face, which all the asses of the world have when they are out of their depth and ask everyone what’s going on, irrespective of their physical or internal pain.
The mismatched trio trudged back to their common homestead. No mismatched set of souls with more morose hearts walked in that fields that night. The potter was grumbling and cursing. He let his staff loose absentmindedly, which incidentally hit the ass. The girl was confiding her own theory about moons and stars to the ass. The ass was lost in his own introspection, like all wise sages before him had done, before it saw another inviting glade of greens and beelined towards it.
It was a beautiful night. The Opal Moon was hiding behind the dark rain clouds, who were trying to disintegrate themselves in search of the glory. The tall palm trees laughed their soundless mirth at their stupid game. The flooded river smiled at the cosmic comedy like a pregnant woman smiling at a bunch of rowdy kids. She looked at the tiny figures at her bank and smiled indulgently. Suddenly the western gale rose playfully, whipping the wet palm trees. the pregnant and heavy river raised her waves as in benediction. The gale whistled gleefully and caught her waves, spraying the mist. They accidentally also caught a raised hand of a mortal and deposited it into the gurgling river.
The potter lost his mind completely. It’s really hard for a guy, who has toiled on a potter’s wheel all day, heard the curses of the village dealer of lamps and pots for not fulfilling orders on time, has born the ugly brunt of the burnt comments of his wife, was shaken awake rudely by his own stupid donkey in the middle of the night and made to run half a mile in half awake condition across desolate country in a rainy season… It would take the pith out of any man! He roared in anger and waved the stout crop in his hand wildly to hit the donkey angrily. In the process, he knocked the tiny girl down. Suddenly he found himself lifted in the air and slammed back in the deep and angry torrential river by a strong westerly gale, which ended in a waterfall, crashing 3000 ft below.
“Chetak..!”
Unfortunately, the chestnut royal stallion was once again in the hold of that infidel Ali-ud-daula Siddiqui. The entire Andalusia was ashamed on this sacrilage of such a breed!
The proud horse was beyond caring. He had proved his valor and death was as welcome a guest to him as for any warrior in the field of battle. He looked behind at the darkened sky and lapping river and rose his head proudly. He walked a few miles, till he heard that death cry of his beloved master! His hind muscles were taut like so many piano strings… He reared his noble hoofs in air, startling his guards. The shortest way to his master was the flooded and friendly river. Chetak didn’t hesitate for a second before plunging in the icy water.
The potter had already seen his entire life twice and had drunk around 10 liters of water. This was the third performance of his spectacular life in high definition with cinemascope clarity. He was just going through his favorite part, where he was fixing a needle in the wooden chair of his maths master, when he was rudely interrupted by a muzzle. He felt a rough hide slide beneath his sinking body and he suddenly erupted through the boiling river, gasping for breath.
The first thing he saw while straddling the ass, which was trying to scramble out of the pulling waves off the slippery bank, was his beloved daughter, who was bent in the grass, talking to a firefly. He lost his often lost head again and screamed. The effect was a deluge on the head of the donkey, who turned his mildly surprised head and being reassured at the sight of Maharana, Chetak galloped over, and collapsed in the welcome grass.
That night, a tiny hut in the deluged countryside had a donkey as a guest of honour with a surly landlord begrudgingly acknowledging its valor in a situation, which wouldn’t have arised in the first place, if the ass would have behaved. A tiny whisp of a girl was catering to both of her loves. A matronly lady was presiding. She mentioned some rude words with rightly pantomimed actions about the illustrious parents of the potter, which this chronicler failed to capture, howeve true.
Let’s skim over such inconsequential things and move on.
In the arid desert of Dasht-e-Margh, the disheveled young Pakhtoon, or Pathan, as he was known to the world beyond Hindukush, was wandering like a soul possessed. His Avtomát Kaláshniková 56 was slung carelessly on his broad shoulders. The burning desert sand streaked his beard and made him look twice his age by their pristine and pellucid bleaching.
The merciless sun rained fire with that remorseless intensity, which marks all the celestial benevolence, which is supposed to exist, but is monumentally conspicuous by its sheer absence.
Sahera-e-Margh or the Dasht-e-Margh is one of the most inhospitable deserts in the world, where even perspiration is crystallized in dark and black crystals along the nape of your neck, rubbing angry welts through their serrated edges, drawing blood. That is the desert which justifies its name: The Desert of Death. Life dies here and Death dances her morbid dance. A desert where even cactii don’t prolifer, cos they are unable to draw moisture from ground or wind, as there is none.
Mullah Rahim Khan screamed in his heart and cursed life in general for its mercilessness and supplicated a prayer to the Greatest. He needed something to feed his brood of around 40. No one ever told him when he was chosen the Khan that being a leader also brings such responsibilities, as feeding the entire jirga, he thought bitterly!
Ba-ism-e-Allah, ul Rahim, al Kareem.
He saw a white goat distantly, wandering in search of food and unslung his carbine. He let go three shots in succession in rapid mode of his Kalashnikov and saw the goat falling. He exhilarated at the dying sight of that small animal, which actually proclaimed that his hungry daughters, ailing wife and others in his tribe will live. Albeit he was surprised that he was able to hit such a tiny target at 500 yards with a 9mm assault rifle which is already notorious for its accuracy in best of the conditions, notwithstanding his tottering legs and shaking hand!
Allah-u-Akbar! Allah is great and is known for such miracles! He staggered towards the prone animal while reciting tasbeeh-e-jehan, the mind rosary. The animal, which wasn’t really a goat but a lot larger than it and was something which he had never seen; thrashed its legs and then lied still, it’s tongue lolling out. Rehmu, who had shot it for the sole purpose of eating it, suddenly was touched with the pristine beauty of a helpless animal and didn’t want death to come near it.
“She’s going to die, unless I provide her some nourishment!” Rehmu screamed. “Ya Allah, I don’t have enough to feed my daughters and wife! What will I feed this beautiful wisp of vision! Ya Nabi, rahem!”
Mullah himself was half dead and somehow carried that weird animal, which wasn’t dead at all and was surprisingly heavy for a goat. He dimly realized that all his three shots had gone wild and the animal had fallen from the sheer clap of sound in the deafening silence. He didn’t remember how he reached back to his Jirga with this huge goat.
In Afghanistan (pron: Affw-aa-nistan with a soft F in Pashto), the society is divided in small tribes, or jirgas. The leader or Khan is selected based on certain stringent customs and battles of wit, strength and proficiency. The leader is held responsible for the jirga. The animal was communal as it was shot by the community leader. But his both daughters refused to let go of such a white spirit. Being the Khan, he proclaimed amnesty, which was one of his own prerogatives. The goat got a new life.
The goat, which never existed. The Goat, which he never shot.
The next morning both kids fell over ten other kids to see that weird animal their Khan brought. When they saw it, they looked at each other and smiled. The mullahs of the jirga shook their cumulatively indulgent heads in denial to the fawning kids and enjoyed their own dreams of feast tonight.
Our Mullah-Khan fell in love with this monstrosity. It’s impossible to not to fall in love with such a dainty beauty. Khan Darvesh-Rehman-ud-din-ul-Samshirullah-bin-Seemab-bin-Pakhtoon-al-Mullah fell in love with a calf he rescued from Dasht-e-Margh and was sad.
The calf was teeny-tiny and cute as a button. 7 years old Sofia screamed with hunger. So did 5 years old Saira. First hunger was of sheer love and second was purely anotomical. Saira wanted to cook the calf and Sofia wanted to sleep with her arms around it as a modern girl would across her teddy bear.
Sofia, the eldest, won and slept with that warm calf, and the angry Saira, along with the family, with a hungry stomach.
Yawning with her tiny limbs flying in all directions, Sofia kissed her new warm toy good morning and went to Namaz-ul-Fazar, the early morning obeisance to The Greatest.
After 30 minutes of innate praying about her extensive family, which included her latest lover at the same level as her dad, she eyed askance at other girls, and as soon as the muezzin billowed ameen from the turret of the mosque, she stood up, straightened her naqab, bowed toward Mekka and shot with a silent whoosh towards the kitchen, halted with a screech and screamed in abject terror!
Her dad stood with a knife in his right hand and a tall leg in his other, and his mouth wide open, staring at this unexpected apparition. Sofia screamed hysterically, “Leila…!”
Rehmu shook his head in disgust for the follies of youth and kept carving the camel leg he had bartered from a wandering nomad for one of the watches he had got after murdering that Russian oilman in Sehra.
Sofiya fell across the calf protectively and swore loudly through her tears that her family will eat her before they even bring a knife near her calf. Leila was agreeable with her tail in air.
Rehmu looked at her and prophesized, “Sofijaan, be careful. This goat is not normal. She will die for sure!” Then he muttered to himself, “Whoever saw a goat with such a long tail? This is surely Iblish, Alla-Khair! Look at the girth of those stubs? Ya Khuda! These horns proclaim the presence of the devil! If she gets them, we will have to kill her! These horns are not visible too!” He probed the forehead of the calf.
Sofia and Saira laughed at their father’s stupidity. They discussed this with Leila. Leila must have agreed to it as she shook her bovine head dumbly.
That night two lovely nymphs played along with an animal…
…and there hangs a tale!
The girls asked Leila what she thought about being alone. Leila was agreeable. She nodded and snorted. They asked if she ever had mother. Leila nodded. They asked, if her father was as beautiful as their own father. Leila snorted again. They again asked if she knew her father. Leila stomped her feet irritably and tried to scramble.
Both little girls caught hold of all the protruding hairs of the tail and hung up. The calf made a beeline towards the kitchen, which she knew will alleviate her eternal hunger.
Today there was no kitchen but an astonished group of gruff and wary nomads with Kalashnikovs in hands, who were speechless to see two girls hanging and trailing on a calf’s tail in the light of the clear moon in the blue desert sky. They clapped in the magazines in their automatic rifles and zeroed in at Leila. They also started screaming, gesticulating, which sounded the general alarm, and the entire Jirga was up in arms under the Opal Moon, who was smiling at their folly!
The calf heard those cacophony of alarms and decided to ignore it, unaware that it can be shot just for target practice. Unaware that one’s own death might be just a matter of interest for someone. Unaware that we didn’t learn after 20,000 years of civilization that death is never a news. It’s a symphony, which unlike any Wagner, Chopin or Pink Floyd, begins with a crescendo and ends with a silence! One person’s calamity is a mere news for the community.
Somehow Leila managed to survive as the army was astonished to see the goat running away with two tiny kids hanging to its flanks and were unable to shoot, lest they hit the kids.
Our funny troupé revisited the workmanlike kitchen and destroyed whatever there was. A carbine shot in the next room and their father went screaming at the top of his lungs… BANDITS…
It aroused the already charged Jirga.
In a land, which has fought tooth and nail for one thousand years, death is an everyday occurrence. The sun arose over 16 male and 2 female bodies, who were shot accidentally in this fracas. Some fowls were shot too in this impromptu melee. The latter were eaten, the former were buried.
The girls concluded that their father is the most handsome guy in the world as Leila thinks so. Didn’t she establish it by prancing and running towards him? Also she was accepted in the jirga now. Didn’t the Pakhtoons appreciate her by shooting so wildly all night?
They fell in love!
The midsummer sun was high in heavens and was merciless on this part of hell. The temperature crawled to 55 degrees Celsius with a humidity of 12%. Sweat was drying before it formed on a brow. Sehra-e-Margh began to hold its reputation.
Leila was staggering in the huge stone house. Sara brought his father’s desert gown and put it across the beast. Sofia brought the 5 gallon stone water container, which was half full and poured it on the romping goat, who suddenly shivered and stopped in its tracks and sat down, dazed.
Both girls clapped and laughed. Their father saw and clasped his forehead at this folly and slapped both girls with a bunch of peacock feathers as Huzoor-e-Al’ah Hazarat Muhammad dictated as punishment for the females.
“God take these brats who waste precious water on a beast which is sure to die! It doesn’t belong to the desert! It is our nemesis!” He cried desolately, while hugging his both daughters, who were laughing uncontrollablly and raring to get his goat, and no pun intended. That evening the family didn’t have a drop of water to drink.
Then onwards, the family fasted and stayed dry, but the cursed goat was always brought grass and water, lest she dies. The family slept under open sky during the freezing winters and gave their cozy homestead to the animal for the fear of the omnipresent death, which seemed to lurk around the corner in hope of a beast, but always was conspicuous by its absence.
The most funny thing about death is its sheer unpredictablility. Death isn’t a lion who attacks you from front. It’s a leopard, which leaps on your unsuspecting back. Death is a treacherous nymph, who changes forms.
In spite of the proclamities of the learned Mullah, death somehow tended to ignore that cursed goat and always made a beeline towards the youth and ladies of the jirga, decimating them as soon as they reached youth. Some died under crossfire of other jirgas, some died of cholera and other diseases. Very few died of hunger, females died while giving births to stillborns, life was death, thus proving our Rehmu as a great leader. Beauty perished in the heated sun and freezing winters. People aged before their age. The eternal Afghan Snow wilted under the heat of Rusko-American politics, which ensured a stunted country which had a glorious past!
Our beast grew larger than a normal goat. Then, it outgrew it in every proportion. It grew to the height that it couldn’t get in the tiny gate of their home, which was designed to be smaller to prevent summer heat. Leila grew two majestic and curved horns, which looked deadly.
Incongruously, this huge goat had very gentle eyes, which seemed to be full of compassion and always seemed to be on the verge of crying. Try as they might, the Mullah family couldn’t bring themselves to kill this goat, which could have fed their entire jirga now for many weeks in winter.
Days passed by. Sofia was a beauty of 14. Khans from other jirgas couldn’t keep her eyes away from her, but dared not make a pass in fear of bloodshed. In this parallel universe, where death is cheap and life is uncared for, a casual glance towards a lady may be an invitation to dine with the Grim Reaper. Leila was 9 years old now.
40 years old Rehmu was desolate whenever he saw this huge and majestic goat! He always screamed in anger. “Ya Khuda! Why did you bestow me such a gift which I can’t keep! I know that it will die! Why this injustice for this fidel! Why, God?” And he hugged the huge neck of his goat and wept. The goat licked his desert sand laced hair and both were content.
Once they went to a nomadic convention. As is normal, no women accompanied them. But, this time he took Leila instead of his Andalusian horse Sultan with him to show off. After all, a beast can’t be considered a female, right?
Little children followed this weird animal, which they never had heard or seen. They slapped and mocked it. The animal couldn’t care less and was indifferent. They tried to pull it’s long tail and felt a sting from the whip of Rehmu. He cursed those brats away. The entire camp thronged around this weird animal and it’s proud owner. Rehmu smiled proudly and proclaimed to everyone who cared that his family nearly died to bring this animal to its yore. Inwardly he felt sated for his pains for the adulations and again looked in those majestic eyes with tears. “She will die!” His agonized eyes met with Leila’s pools of eternal serenity.
He went to the camp for the Leaders of the Convention and wished them amnesty from The world. After the regular greetings, he broached the subject to Khan-Munseer-ur-Rehman-bin-Maqsood-ul-Husaain-bin-Tanzem-Khan. Khan Munseer was intrigued and demanded to see such a curious animal.
Both elders went out and went to Leila. Khan Munseer went near the animal and touched its soft hide, which shivered under his palm. He saw the healthy sheen on the hide. He bent down to have a look at the underbelly and stood up, guffawing loudly. “Leila?” He collapsed laughing in the desert sand.
“You named this animal Leila? It’s an ox. A male animal. Like cow, but can’t give milk.” He spluttered between his long paroxyms of laughter.
“What’s a cow?” the mystified Rehmu asked.
“Bigger than goat. They give 2 gallons of milk as compared to a quart of a goat.” Khan composed himself. “Where did you buy it? I’ll give you 15 guineas for this. This is the best ox I’ve ever seen. It’s strong and powerful. Though a bit soft. I’ll keep it thirsty for a fortnight and water will dry out. Then I can use it to race, fight or simply eating.” Khan appraised Leila, while probing her with his calloused fingers, to Rehmu’s consternation.
“Keep her thirsty!” Rehmu was aghast!
“It’s no more female than you and me, Mullah Khan!” Khan Mansoor chastised. “It’s a male. Leila? It’s more like a Majnu.” He again got a wave of laughter at his pun.
Rehmu caught the rein of the Bull and went away. He looked around and called our his shoulders. “I’ll let you know my decision tomorrow after the namaz of Fazar.”
He went to his camp and began packing. He saw at the bright blue sky and realized that it’s 2 am. 3 hours to the namaz of Fazar.
‘Let him wait till the namaz of Eesha now!’ He smiled wickedly and went to his Bull and loaded it up. He came near its face and whispered. “You damned cheat! You always told us that you are a female! All the time you were a male! I know that you will die, and you will die tonight, and justly too. Unfortunately, I can’t sell you without asking my daughters. You are a cheat and a thief and deserve death. But, I’m not a monster and will let my daughters decide. God knows that those guineas would have been my resurrection.” He slapped the animal on face, who nodded cordially, while chewing on the lace of his boots as it was an amenable creature, who always adjusted to the surrounding with an amiable mien. it never objected to anything.
Majnu’s aplomb was unshaken. He wasn’t aware of his eminent death as prophesized by the learned Mullah, neither was he worried about their ongoing travail. He was in a resort, where he got all his thirteen meals and seven baths which a Bull desires. Yes, the green meadows were absent from his life, but one can’t get everything in one’s life, especially when one isn’t aware of things one might be missing. Lazy and luxury seeking, this Taurus was in his heaven and loved his one master and many mistresses. His bovine senses knew that their is a killer wind outside, but his nostrils were always wet, because of those blankets on his back, suffused with life nourishing water. He was agreeable to anything his master said.
A Bull Has Only One Master. He had Mullah Rehmu.
They left Kandahar early morning and were back in Sehra by noon. The middle aged mullah was naked except a loincloth and the Bull was covered head to toe when they entered their jirga.
The Bull harrumphed, pawed its great hoofs and charged toward their hut. It pushed its both horns between the legs of laughing Saira and propelled her in the air. She squealed and landed on its rump. Majnu stopped panting before the oven and nudged the arms of the wife. She caressed his muzzle affectionately and handed the latest offering from the community oven. Majnu settled down to chew on the proffered loaf and was careless of 15 kids who were trying to scramble on his back and then fell down laughing.
The father whispered to the mother that this isn’t an oversized goat but an ox. The mother silently advised to slaughter and hold a feast. Dad denied because he wanted to discuss this with his daughters. The daughters didn’t want their goat to die and that was that.
Majnu was a celebration once he was recognized for a male. The human race is obsessed with size amongst all the creatures it recognizes. We worship hugeness in males and tiny size in females. He was hailed for his huge horns and manly proportions. Rehmu basked in the stolen glory like that Opal Moon does off the stolen Sunshine, and forgot that once he proposed to slaughter this beast, which made him famous in all the jirgas across eastern Afghanistan to the foothills of Hindukush.
Years are like a fistful of sand. They pass through and vanish, while we are complacent or rejoicing our puny achievements, like small children clapping over their sandcastles. Many storms blew across the desert of death. Sofia was married and was back with her kids. Saira was visiting with her husband and both kids too. Now here arose a conflict about who Majnu loved more. All the kids loved this Bull and everyone wanted his attention.
Rehmu was very thirsty. He came out and saw those kids romping around his precious goat and screamed. “You guys will get the curse of all prophets! You will be damned to hell!” The kids ran away laughing. The 30 years old Bull blinked mildly while Rehmu fell on his knees and wept.
Majnu tried to get away, but was smothered by kids, whom he had learned to love and grunted helplessly at his master!
“This Bull will die! I’ve been telling you!” He stood up and shouted at the kids in anger while waving his walking stick. He suddenly staggered and fell.
Majnu shot like a projectile, scattering a bunch of kids like confetti on a dance floor and sat down near Rehmu. He harrumphed cordially and nuzzled the Mullah, who in spite of his learned prophecies, was dead as a stone.
Huge dollops of tears found their way on the expansive cheeks of Majnu, who kept on licking the cold, salty and sand stained face of his master.
Someone in the house screamed…
This story is about me and every other Taurean out there. The laziness, stubbornness and loyalty, which are the hallmarks of a thorughbred Bull are the most despised features in us, except loyalty, yet adored in them.
It was 6 am in Banaras in a freezing January morning. Pandits were returning home after their daily rituals and the streets were washed by the daily municipal crew. The fresh winter winds carried an exhilarating whiff of euphoria, which croons a long forgotten song in our ears, which hearts still remember.
I was strolling on the deserted Varanasi Cantt railway station platform in the freezing temperature. I was wearing a woolen sweater and had a cashmere jacket on my left arm. I couldn’t wear it, shivering though I was, as it was my tool of trade and was used to camouflage the dexterity of my right hand, when it snaked towards the pocket of my blissfully unaware customer. Yes, my friend, I’m a pickpocket, who plies his trade in the Holy City of Bholenath. You may frown upon my trade under these auspicious banners, but it’s always those myriad types of fishes who make up the ocean. You can’t expect only dolphins without killer sharks or barracudas. I’m a way of the nature to equalize the existence of the mundane.
Today I was waiting for the Mahanagari Exp from Bombay, in hope of a couple of rich passengers, who make a beeline here to wash their sins. I had plans to alleviate their sins in my own devious way. Every little helps, where Nirvana is concerned, mind you.
I found a bench and sat there. The train was late. The lazy sun was struggling to rise above the fog – which pranced and curled up from the insurgent lap of ganges like the winged pegasus – and was grumbling. The winter wind, that saucy daughter of the North Wind, Zephyrus, was playfully teasing all and sundry, causing poor people to quake in their clothes. At times mischiefs hurt, with the perpetrator blissfully unaware of it. I shivered in my inadequate sweater and looked wistfully at the bundle of rags lying next to me. I grabbed a fistful and tried to keep it in my lap to alleviate the biting sting of the winter, and the bundle suddenly screamed, “Ouch!”
I don’t know if you have been bitten by a rabbit or a piglet, for that matter, but there are certain experiences, which life dishes us, which are close enough. Upon my soul! How can I deduce that this dirty bundle of rags houses a 10 years old kid! I mean, I know that there’s a housing issue still going on and even I’m homeless, yet, I don’t go out masquerading as a bundle of clothes! The kid stared at me balefully and then sat upright. Rubbing his eyes.
“What’s your name, son?” I asked with a tentative smile. I’m not much of a hit with kids. Nasty little vermin! All of them! Eating everything in sight, screaming and shouting and all that! In short, making a mess of the organized world, which is just a tad off of a politician.
“Chandu.” his reply was barely audible and muffled. He hitched up his knees on the bench and put his head on his knees, with his arms covering it, thus giving an impression of a castle fortified by armored walls.
“And what are you doing here, Chandu?” I smiled in what I hoped to be a winsome smile. An effort entirely wasted on our hero, as he didn’t raise his head up, nor deigned to reply. He heaved a bit.
I’m as smart as they come, and I deduced that he’s crying. In my line of business, one has to understand human psychology and nature, so I gently touched his shoulder and brought my voice an octave lower like those psychiatrists in American movies, which I watch a lot for those sexy women, but seldom understand a spoken word, and said throatily, “Look at me, son. Speak to me.”
My talents paid off and he looked at me with his red rimmed eyes, wiping his running nose on one of the rags, which seemed to be in abundance around him. “I’m hungry.” he stated, sobbing, “Haven’t eaten anything since yesterday…” His voice choked up and he bawled in hiccups.
I don’t know, my reader, if you have ever seen a child, or for that matter anyone, crying in disconsolate waves, but if you haven’t, believe me that you haven’t missed anything. That’s a sight, which is sent for us sinners to haunt us for a lifetime. Our entire belief in this fabric called universe is shaken. We begin to question our own security. Like a Bull in a slaughterhouse, we know that now it’s their turn, but we are not far behind…
I hastily hugged that strange kid. My own granite eyes were damp. “No, my son. I’ll do something. Don’t worry. Who’s your father, mother? Are you lost? Let me know. I’ll find them. Please calm down. I’ll get something for you.”
He calmed down a bit. I searched my pocket. All I had was a packet of beedis, a matchbox and couple of tablets of chewing gum. I offered the chewing gums to him, which he snatched hungrily and ate them, swallowed them.
“I’ve run away from the orphanage.” He replied cryptically. “What orphanage?”
“Smt Kalyanidevi Anathashram. Near Bajrangi Akhada at Gai Ghat.” he mumbled.
“And why would you do that? You don’t know? There are bad people who will catch you, blind you and make you beg?” I was surprised at my soft heart and caring tone!
“I’ll beg. I don’t want to be beaten and forced to sleep with the warden anymore.” his crying waves started and he howled tearfully. The sleeping constable in the distant booth moved a bit. I looked at him warily.
Hunger is a horrible thing. I’m not a saint, but am also not a monster. I’ve felt the whips of Life on my back and have lived to count those scars of that beautiful, but ugly lady. This baby was too young for her, but Life is a heartless mother.
Suddenly the silent and caressing zephyr wind was slashed by a shrill whistle of an incoming train. I patted his tiny shoulders and stood up. Suddenly feeling ten feet tall. It’s a quaint thing. All your life you toil and break your back, you always feel like a worm, and suddenly you are someone’s savior and you feel like an eagle, soaring those infinite skies on your golden wings, keeping a sharp eye on your loved one, while keeping your sharpened talons poised to disembowel anyone who’s a threat…
…I, not unlike that eagle, looked behind at the child, who was staring back at me, and I charged in the meleé of the arrived train. I had run this route many times, but today was different. Today there was someone waiting for me. Someone, who was dependent on me. My usually barren heart had had a shower of the elixir called love, and now it was burgeoning with beautiful flowers! I might be a criminal hitherto, but now I was responsible for a budding career. I was a Guardian! A little boy!
While picking the pocket of a rich looking kid, I decided that I’ll open a tea house. While my fingers gripped the wallet of an old man, I was running the gamut of English medium schools, where I’d enroll Chandu. I froze! Chandu! What a weird name? I’ll rechristen him Chandrakant. A name worthy of respect! I hastily returned to that bench. Chandu was staring at me wide eyed. I smiled. This time the bonhomie came effortlessly. An animal was tamed. I had felt the feather finger of love. I asked him, “Would you like something to eat?” he dumbly nodded, while staring at me with those wide innocent eyes.
I pulled out the wallets, which I had earned and checked. The 1st wallet had 2 ₹500 notes and some change. Second wallet yielded another ₹1000 and 3 fifty notes. The 3rd one had one ₹100 and was empty, bar a black and white faded picture of a beautiful girl with almond eyes. Eyes, which seem to be accusing under the arched bridges of long eyebrows. A pert dimple on her right cheek, which accentuated the guilt, along with that cross smile. A heart in red pen was drawn over her oval face. Probably a ditched lover, who was still mooning over the girl, who found another novelty and replaced him. I laughed, pulled out the image and tore it and threw the pieces in the gutter, and tossed the empty wallet of the poor lover on the tracks. There’s no place for love in my world, except, may be for this kid.
I stole a look at him. He was ecstatic. The hungry little kid may never have seen so much money. I smiled at him and gave him a ₹50 note, and felt like Akbar bestowing a Jageer on some unsuspecting poor farmer. I kept A ₹100 and a ₹50 notes in my pocket and kept the rest of the money in my jacket.
The child was still shivering. My heart went out to him. I asked him to stand up and then draped the jacket on him. He was lost in that cavernous jacket and I laughed gleefully! He clutched it gratefully and looked at me with those voluble eyes. My heart felt warm! It’s really a great feeling, when you see someone happy and content as a result of something you had done, be it a human or a beast, and I was happy. I bade him to sit on the bench and went to the canteen to get something for him, while something glowed within me.
The canteen was a ramshackle affair with an earthen oven and rickety bamboo benches at the end of the deserted platform. The whiff of burning wood mixed with the damp fog and emanated a bouquet, which only gods could resist. A tendril of fog was trying to enter this canteen and was failing.
I took a couple of samosa and a tea, and hurried back to the bench. There was a bundle of rags, minus one child 10 years old. Something broke within me. I stared wild eyed! I looked around, bewildered, and then shouted, “Chandu!” I began running on the platform. My samosas and tea lost somewhere. I found Chhediram, the constable, whom I had given a 100 many a time to evade arrest. “Daroga saab, did you see a 10 years old kid on that bench?” I was tearful. Love makes a beast out of a man and an angel out of a beast. “He was my nephew. He’s missing!” My eyes welled.
“Your nephew? What had you been drinking, you rascal?” Chhedi laughed. “His name is Bablu. He’s 19 years old midget and is a known con. When I saw him, I chased him, but he escaped. What’s your connect with him? Planning a gang?” He looked at me suspiciously.
“Oh.” I said, “No no… Actually he took of with my jacket,the bloody con. So, I’m jobless. Do you have a jacket?” I asked hopefully.
So much for love! I think, the biggest con in this world is love.
Tales of The Opal Moon 
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