The Lost Fragrance Page 5

  The little girl felt a pang of deep sadness as she remembered her mother, and how she would always put jasmine flowers in her hair, and wear them around her wrists like bangles. Ma would also keep bunches of jasmine flowers on the table and near the bed, and the small room they lived in would smell so beautiful. Her father used to look forward to it and would smile when he saw the flowers Ma had so carefully placed. It was a scent the little girl associated with happiness, for it reminded her of her parents and her home, and how very fond they were of one another.

  She wept as she remembered how after her parents died, all the jasmine flowers lost their scent, as if the bushes too were sad, now that her mother was gone.

  She would walk past the bushes seeking answers on why, on what, on how. The bushes wore a silent and embarrassed look, and as much as she tried, they never smiled anymore. They wished they could reach out to her but their life spirit had already left them. The flowers fell off and, one by one, the bushes began to wilt. Some died quickly. Others lingered on for a while, and then they too dried up. As suddenly as they had come to life, they died. With their magic gone, they had now become like any ordinary bush.

  She wept quietly but it was a secret she had not shared with anyone so far.

  What she did discover is that a bush can actually feel the parting and the going away. They develop bonds. They grow because of love. The flowers recognise the touch of affection. They wait, every morning, to be plucked. They offer themselves.

  When sadness creeps in, as indeed it does with death, the bush can grow sad too. When that happens, the flowers can no longer release the magical aroma and then, with their life spirit taken away from them, the flowers lose the willingness to live. They become like any and every other bush, with no special quality or attribute.

  But what she did not know, at least not then, was about bush anger. The bush knows its life spirit has been snatched away and by whom. It waits for the opportune moment to strike back.

  She sighed as she closed her eyes, recollecting her mother’s gentle face and her soft hands. How she longed to hug and kiss her! If she could only meet her parents again, she thought, she would never let them go.

  Little Girl wiped the tears from her eyes.

  Fifteen

  In the distance was the village that Lost came from. It appeared fuzzy at first, as if a great mist had descended on it, and then it slowly came into focus.

  The little houses, all of which were neatly arranged, as if by design, looked so pretty. The trees around the houses, the gardens full of blue jasmine flowers gently swaying in the breeze, and the sky a light shade of orange with brush strokes of red where the sun was setting—it was almost as if a picture had come to life.

  They stood and watched wide-eyed.

  Crow cleared his throat and said, ‘Never seen anything like this before. Good tourism statement, I’d say! Incredible.’

  Lost smiled.

  They trudged along. There was a sense of deep tranquillity and peace all around.

  Tired though she was, Balloon dreamily gazed but did not doze off. The beauty of what she saw was so picture-perfect that she wondered why those who had never been to this place before, spoke of it with such fear.

  They had by now reached the village. From the houses came sounds of laughter. Families were sharing jokes and time with one another. They brought back a flood of memories for the little girl. The happy times she and her parents would have, simply by being together.

  Her mind went back to the stories that her father would tell her every night of mysterious, magical lands—stories of courage and of adventure, of friendship, and of love. How she would sit cross-legged at her father’s feet, as he conjured a world of magic before her eyes!

  She knew of no one who could tell stories as well as her father. ‘He’s the best,’ her mother would proudly say.

  Her father would speak softly and dramatically as he enacted each scene. Sometimes, he would raise his voice and gesture with his arms. At other times, he would speak with a voice of deep authority, as he stood tall as a king. Or, he would hiss and slither as he portrayed the demons of the dark and the times that should never have been. He could be anyone and everyone as he told his stories—a swordsman or a king, a pauper or a forlorn lover.

  She sighed as she remembered those memorable nights and how every story was, somehow, basically the same. They were about a simple peasant who married a beautiful but poor flower girl, after he had rescued her from his evil brother, who had abducted her and locked her up in his horrible castle.

  Each night, the story would have embellishments of different kinds. Some nights, he would tell her how terrible the castle was. Full of nasty surprises and filled with a stench that was difficult to describe and yet, impossible to forget, he would say. On other nights, he would tell her of the battle. It would be monstrous and most horrific, since the vicious brother was, in fact, a wicked sorcerer who could change himself into different and terrible creatures.

  The story invariably ended with the peasant and the flower girl living happily ever after, with their pretty daughter.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she would giggle and tell her father, ‘you are the peasant, Ma is the flower girl and I am your daughter.’

  Her father would hotly deny it, though he would turn his face aside and smile. He had the habit of pausing, as the story entered a tense phase.

  ‘And then?’ she would ask impatiently. ‘Oh, do hurry up and tell me what happened next?’

  Before he continued, he would invariably pick up his flute and play. She would close her eyes, for she loved the sound and the way he played it.

  ‘He’s creating the right atmosphere,’ her mother would smile indulgently and say. ‘Don’t rush him!’

  ‘I won’t Ma’, she would respond as she sat wide-eyed, not moving, not even daring to breathe, as she let his music mesmerise her.

  After a while, Ma would sleepily say, ‘I think that is enough for tonight and you both should go to sleep now. Tomorrow is not far away and we have flowers to pick and sell.’

  They would turn on their sides, laughing and giggling, and then go to sleep under the stars.

  She loved the stars, the way they shone in the clear sky, some in clusters and some alone. It was as if each star was unique and had its own story to tell.

  She would smile contentedly, holding one palm of each parent in her own, as she drifted off to sleep. She dreamt only of serpents and things evil. She dreamt also of a little girl who came to be known as The Awaited One.

  Sixteen

  One night, she had asked her father what stars were.

  He had seemed surprised by her question. ‘It is a bit too early,’ he had whispered to himself, ‘but one never knows. He could be near at hand.’

  Her father had cupped her face in his hands and had gently said that stars had to do with death. ‘If you cannot let go of the dead,’ he had said, ‘or if the dead are unable to let go of those they leave behind, the sky is denied a star.’

  It all sounded so very complicated and confusing. ‘What is death?’ she had asked. ‘What does “to let go” mean?’

  Her mother had left a bunch of jasmine flowers on Little Girl’s pillow because she too did not know what answer she could give to her queries. Perhaps, the little girl understood her parents’ silence meant that dying had something to do with going away and never coming back. She remembered how she had put her arms around her parents and said in a scared whisper, ‘I hope you never die. I cannot let you go anywhere without me. Please,’ she had tearfully begged, ‘promise never to leave me.’

  How indeed does any parent make such a promise?

  But she was not to know that.

  At least, not then.

  Her father had taken her tiny hands in his and said, ‘Someday we must all die. Some, sadly, must die before others. When we die and we let go, we become stars! So, you will always have us somewhere in the sky.’

  The sky was filled with innumerable star
s. As she lay in bed, she had wondered if the stars were indeed the dead. Holding her parents close, as if frightened that they may not be there when morning came, she had drifted off to sleep under the jasmine-covered tree.

  And so, the nights would pass and every morning she would wake up to the sound of the birds and of her father playing the flute. She would then sit beside him, with her eyes closed, and drift away as she listened to the divine music which spoke of the morning and of the things to come, of dreams and of journeys to take.

  Such music is difficult to describe. There is a sort of magic and mystery about it because it speaks not only to the heart but also to animals and to plants. Each note seems to flutter like a butterfly, lingering briefly, before it silently fades away, only to be followed by another note, which tugs at the heartstrings.

  So divine was this music that at times she would weep. ‘These are happy tears,’ her father had once told her, ‘for it means that you have been in the presence of God.’

  ‘How did you learn to play the flute so well?’ she had asked.

  ‘I do not know,’ he had replied with his arm around her. ‘One day I picked up the flute and the music came naturally. Perhaps, there is a magic that we do not fully understand.’

  He had told her that the flute belonged to his father who was an extraordinary musician. ‘He could make flowers bloom in barren trees and trees grow on parched land. There was a magic about his music,’ he had said, ‘that I cannot explain. It was as if it could protect you from the dark.’

  She had nodded. ‘I feel like that when I hear you play,’ she had said.

  ‘I am just a beginner,’ he had said, ‘for my father spoke to me of a legendary flute player known to all as The Master. I have heard it said that his music has such incredible power that it can even control the forces of nature!’

  The little girl had listened with astonishment. Could music really do all this, she had wondered. Could it make the sun set? Could it make day into night? Could the seasons be changed?

  They had talked for a long time that morning. Her father had told her that someday she too would play the flute.

  ‘That day when you hold the bamboo reed in your hands,’ he had said, ‘it would seem as though it had always been a part of you. Every breath in your body would speak through it, whether it is sorrow or joy, suffering or happiness. It will fulfil you and make you complete.’

  ‘Never forget,’ he had then added, ‘that nothing can ever take that away from you. And when negative and evil thoughts come, this music will be your strength, for it is pure and it is untarnished.’

  She sighed as she walked. Her heart was heavy, as she remembered how the music had always reminded her of the night and of the stars.

  Seventeen

  It was getting dark and they had still not reached Lost’s house. All of them were very tired by now and the little girl wondered how quickly time had flown as she drifted off, lost in the memory of her parents.

  She remembered how one night, when her father had finished telling her the story, she had asked him if he had a brother. He had grown deeply quiet, as if his mind was filled with a disturbing thought. It was strange how the expression on his face had suddenly changed, and how it was shorn of all colour.

  Her mother had knelt beside him and said, ‘Someday, she would need to know. How long will you keep the truth away from her?’

  He had seemed agonised. ‘Not now! Not now!’ he had said. ‘She is much too young to learn that my only brother is the master of all that is evil!’

  The little girl had not understood what her father was saying and it had confused and disturbed her. For some reason, from that night onwards, he seemed different. He stopped telling her stories. He became quieter and sat cross-legged in a meditative posture with his eyes closed, under the shade of a giant tree from whose boughs hung bunches of jasmine flowers. He did not help in picking the flowers, or in selling them at the marketplace either.

  Seven full days and nights passed like that. During this period, the little girl went through a strange experience. It was almost as though she could read her father’s mind. The images were blurred and came in sudden flashes. It was all very confusing, for she saw a monstrous double-headed serpent in a strange castle.

  It was the horrible stench that she remembered clearly—overwhelming and assailing—every single time the serpent came into focus. She remembered how the most recurrent image was that of her cringing in the shadows, weeping with fear, as she helplessly watched the serpent swallow her father. Clutched tightly in her hands, as she slunk deeper into the shadows away from the slithering serpent, was a broken flute. At her feet lay a bunch of shrivelled jasmine flowers. She had let her father die.

  And then, the images disappeared as suddenly as they had come. She would wake up, sweating and breathless.

  She had never understood the images but they had frightened her. She wondered why she was going through this terrible nightmare, where everything seemed to be going wrong. She had lain awake, each and every one of those seven nights, too scared to close her eyes, lest she wake up to find that she had allowed her father to be killed by the serpent.

  All these seven days and nights, her father had sat immovable as a rock, under the tree. His face had been serene and calm. A white stubble had grown over his chin and cheeks. His eyes were closed.

  On the eighth night, he had called her aside and told her, ‘You were beginning to read my thoughts, and I believe that the power that is within you will awaken soon. Listen to it carefully, for it will teach you the art of entering the mind of the other person. But for this, you need to learn to unshackle your mind. To let it wander, before it can return.’

  While these were strange and new thoughts, the little girl had not found them entirely confusing. Her father had continued, ‘You asked me if I have a brother. I do indeed. Your mother and I have kept you away from him because he is the worst form of evil imaginable. He believes that you can be like him. It has always bothered me,’ he said grimly, ‘because I know for a fact, that one day he will find you, and that day your future would be written, for it would lie in the choices that you would make. I hope for your sake and ours, that you become The Awaited One.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are speaking about, or why you have held it from me for so long that I have an uncle,’ said the little girl. ‘But if I have never seen him, how would I ever recognise him?’

  He had looked deep into her eyes. ‘It is the stench that will give him away,’ he had said. ‘It is so overpowering and so awful, that you would wish that you had never smelt it. It follows him around.’ He paused as he held her face in his hands. ‘If however, the stench does not bother you, know then that you have become a part of him, and there is nothing that can save you. He will become your master, and you and he will slowly become one, as you will forget what it means to be kind and gentle and caring. You, and the life that you would lead, would become evil and despicable. It would then be known that you were too weak to become The Awaited One.’

  She had thought this over. When the images had flashed through her mind, the smell had invariably accompanied the serpent. ‘I remember seeing an enormous snake,’ she had said, ‘which looked as though it had two heads.’

  He had nodded. ‘He takes many forms. It is the serpent that scares most people. But in your case, my child, he will assume an even more frightening form. He will look familiar.’

  She had looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘Where can I find my uncle?’ she had asked.

  ‘When it is time,’ her father had said, ‘you will find him in the Land of the Blue Jasmine.’

  ‘My uncle,’ she had asked, ‘does he have a name?’

  She remembered how her father had looked sad and distant as he had spoken. ‘He once had a name. But now, he is known only as The Serpent.’

  ‘Who all await The Awaited One?’ she had then asked.

  ‘All those who are in the Land of the Blue Jasmine. But for diff
erent reasons…’ he answered, ‘you will learn of them when the time comes.’

  Eighteen

  She remembered telling her father that she found it all so very confusing.

  Her father had stood silently looking at the stars and then had whispered, almost to himself, ‘He stole the bracelet of sacred beads from my father. He will be destroyed only when it is returned.’

  When she had looked puzzled, he had put his arms around her and hushed her. ‘I have already told you a lot for one night,’ he had said, ‘bit by bit, I hope to train you for your meeting and your battle!’

  She had tried to make sense of what her father had said, but could not. And so, she drifted off to sleep, curled in his arms, under the star-filled sky.

  She had told herself that night that it was just another one of his remarkable stories. He was, after all, such a good storyteller.

  Tonight, as she walked with the flute in her hand, she knew it was not a story and that her evil and despicable uncle truly existed. The old balloon-maker had confirmed it for her when he told her that both he and his wife had dreamt of a flute player who spoke of a strange and secret place, swathed in shadows and in evil. Beware, they had been told, of the double-headed serpent and the stench that accompanies his presence.

  Instinctively, she sniffed the air as she walked.

  Nineteen

  She could not take her mind off her parents, as she walked towards Lost’s village. She remembered how the days and months went by after the conversation she had with her father, and how she had learnt to weave jasmine garlands from her mother.

  Every evening, her father taught her to sit under the tree and close her eyes. ‘Listen,’ he would say, ‘to the sounds around you, be alert to the smells. Let nothing seem impossible. You can be a bird or a flower or the wind. Anything or anyone that you want to be. Just let your heart will it!’