The Lost Fragrance Read online

  In an instant, the enormous window was transformed into a blur of dazzling colours as myriad swirling images zoomed in and out at a speed that seemed to be faster than thought itself. The village raced towards the window and was replaced by life-size images of the villagers, which filled the window for a fraction of a second. The images then vanished as others took their place. Zooming from one cluster of villagers to another, the blur of colours hurtled down alleyways, zipping from one house to another, till it finally settled outside Old’s house. Then, it went through the doors and walls as if they simply did not exist, past the living and dining rooms and straight into the bedroom where Little Girl lay sleeping. There it paused, zoomed in on the girl child, focussed and then, it filled the entire window with her image and that of her companions. Balloon lay neatly folded beside the bicycle pump. Crow slept perched precariously on a bedstand. His laboured breathing resonated stereophonically within the castle walls.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ the shrouded figure smirked. ‘Looks like her mother!’ He turned and whispered to his shadow, ‘As you must have heard, that is the little girl who is going to kill us.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘Or so indeed, the village fable goes.’

  ‘That thing,’ muttered his shadow, suppressing a yawn and contemptuously pointing to the image of Little Girl with his tail, ‘is our nemesis? Accompanied by a sleeping bag and a snoring crow! Eeeeewwwew, see how I tremble in fear!’ It gave an exaggerated shudder and slithered close to the window. ‘I just love a bit of drama! Heightens the tension!’

  ‘You have much to learn, my pet,’ the shrouded figure said softly. ‘Never ever underestimate children! Look how young she is and uncorrupted. Beware of innocence, for it can be unpredictable.’

  ‘This is all make-belief and false,’ his shadow sniggered. ‘She will succumb. They all do. Some sooner, some later.’

  ‘This one could prove difficult,’ said the shrouded figure. ‘She is her mother’s child.’

  ‘If that is so, Master,’ said his shadow, ‘invite her over and let us get it over and done with.’

  ‘Such faith!’ the shrouded figure said as he patted his shadow indulgently on the head. ‘What would I ever do without you?’

  ‘What is so special about this one?’ asked his shadow.

  The shrouded figure paused at the window. ‘I knew her parents,’ he said, ‘and I killed them both. She has come to kill me because she swore to avenge their death. But I will corrupt her soul, and we will embrace the earth with evil so deep and profound that there will only be unimaginable suffering, and a desperate longing for death, so that the pain might finally stop. But the pain will be eternal.’ He paused, ‘The key lies in corrupting the little girl, the so-called Awaited One.’

  ‘And what if she refuses?’ asked his shadow.

  The shrouded figure frowned and a forked tongue slithered out. He seemed unsure, as he nervously played with the beads of his bracelet. ‘Then, I will just have to kill her,’ he said softly, ‘just as I killed her stupid parents.’

  Silence followed and then, his shadow purred like a cat and rubbed himself against his master’s leg. ‘If you promise me the bag and the bird,’ he said smugly, ‘I promise you the girl’s head on a platter!’

  The shrouded figure heard the words and froze for a second and then, with lightning speed, a vicious claw whipped from underneath the shroud and seized his shadow in a deathly grip. A horrifying transformation of the shrouded figure had begun by then. The eyes had narrowed and grown sinister. The breath came in hisses. Two enormous snake hoods grew from where there once was a face. Enormous serpentine forked tongues flicked in and out.

  ‘Fo…for...forgive me, Ma…Mas…Master,’ his shadow stammered, trembling with fear.

  The shrouded figure stared into the eyes of his shadow and softly said, ‘I don’t want her head, you fool. Harm her and I will rip your throat out.’

  He kicked his shadow aside. It quickly slithered into the dark corner and lay there, whimpering.

  Absent-mindedly, the shrouded figure played with the beads of his bracelet. ‘Call my consorts,’ he whispered hoarsely, wiping the saliva from his fangs with his sleeve, ‘tell them, the game has begun. The beads,’ The Serpent added, ‘tell them to remember the sacred beads!’

  Happy to be of service, his shadow leapt joyfully to the window and flung it open and hissed into the night, ‘Come quick! The beads beckon!’

  The shrouded figure turned to the window and his fingers traced the outline of Little Girl’s image. ‘When you are mine,’ he said, ‘this story will finally end in shadows and in darkness, as the days will turn into one eternal night of the starless sky, and the jasmine will be condemned to being without scent!’ Then he bent forward and kissed the image of the girl child on the window with his flickering serpentine tongues, and let them linger on her face and her long neck and slithered all over her body.

  ‘Feel the longing, O Awaited One,’ whispered the shrouded figure. ‘Come into my embrace, and learn evil as you have never known. Drown in its generosity!’

  Little Girl shuddered in her sleep. She felt cold and unclean. Her legs twitched with a new kind of sensation. She covered herself and clutched the scentless jasmine flowers tightly. ‘What a strange dream this is?’ she told herself. Then, she once again drifted off to sleep.

  ‘This is just the beginning,’ said the hunched up shrouded figure, ‘and you will grow to long for more, for it will make you whole.’ Then, he hissed, in laughter.

  Twenty-seven

  She awoke to the sonorous sound of the flute. The music was deeply evocative as it blended with the early morning song of the birds, bringing back memories of scented jasmines and of happy times.

  ‘Where have I heard this divine music before?’ she cried, ‘and why does it bring tears of joy to my eyes?’

  An extraordinary calm seemed to descend as the music flowed from the flute. The flowers seemed to yawn and stretch and open to the morning sun. And then, they swayed in rhythm. The bees fluttered their wings in frenzy and buzzed impatiently for the flowers to open. The birds took to the sky and let the wind guide them.

  Languorous, slow and magical, this was music that surely spoke to God.

  Little Girl knew at once that this was no ordinary musician that she was listening to. Could this be the one her father had called The Master? His music could make the seasons change and the sun set, her father had once told her.

  This was music, the likes of which she had never heard before. It seemed to speak in so many different languages and yet, it was familiar. It reminded her of the life that she had with her parents, the happiness of being with them, the laughter they had shared, and the stories under the jasmine-covered tree in her village. It seemed as if the music was speaking to her, joyfully and sadly, of things done and of things left undone, of today, of tomorrow and of never again. She felt a tear trickle down her cheek.

  ‘I must go to him,’ she told herself, as she hurried past the blue meadows of jasmine flowers till she came upon a rock on which an old man, with a long, flowing white beard, sat playing a flute.

  She listened, mesmerised.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Little Girl, her eyes large with wonder.

  ‘I am,’ gently said the man with the flute, ‘the one who plays the flute.’

  She sat beside him. ‘You must be The Master,’ she said. ‘My father spoke of you with deep reverence, and I have always believed that you were someone he had made up. Yet, you seem so familiar, as if I have known you from somewhere before, but sadly, cannot remember. Perhaps, it was in an earlier life. Perhaps, you came to me in my dreams. Perhaps, this too is a dream. It is all so confusing, for I am unable to distinguish between magic and reality.’

  She paused and looked entreatingly at his face. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘which is which?’

  ‘So many questions,’ sighed The Master. ‘Did you know,’ he said, putting down his flute, ‘that sometimes the questions are, by themselves, the answ
ers that you seek and then again, sometimes the answers are really questions? Am I real, you might wonder, or am I someone who lives only in your imagination? Am I really and truly here?’ He chuckled as he spoke, as if it amused him. ‘It’s all very mysterious, when you come to think about it. But then again, while things can be complex, they need not be complicated.’

  The little girl looked puzzled. ‘It’s important to figure out,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye and tugging at his long overflowing beard, ‘when a question really begins, or when an answer actually ends. It’s like knowing the difference between reality and a mirage. Which, you wonder, is what. When does magic begin and when, indeed, did reality end?’

  ‘Teach me,’ said Little Girl, ‘for I do not understand. I am confused and lost. And yet, in this strange land, I feel so happy once again.’

  The Master smiled. ‘Happiness is rare,’ he said. ‘If you feel that you have found happiness, you are truly blessed. Enjoy its presence. Come,’ he said, getting up from the rock, ‘let us listen to the river.’

  It seemed as if countless diamonds shone in the water. She washed her face in the crystal clear, cool waters, and saw her reflection. Long black hair and chiselled face. Her mother’s nose. Her father’s chin.

  The Master played his flute. The haunting notes were like the waters of the river, lingering by the rocks and then, swiftly flowing away. The music seemed to be deeply melancholic, for it brought back memories of the bed of flowers on which her parents had lain that cruel morning, the scent of the jasmine that had slowly disappeared, and the longing and sadness that had followed. Slowly, ever so slowly, the music seemed to travel through the village that she had left behind, and the length of the forest that she had grown to know so well.

  She closed her eyes and let the music fill the meadows and then, the meadows, in turn, filled her. Every blade of grass, every fruit and flower, every scent seemed to become a part of her, and she a part of them. It is as if they were inseparable. The morning was glorious and it flowed into her like the gentle spring breeze.

  ‘Pick up your father’s flute,’ The Master said, ‘and play.’

  She had wanted to protest and say that she had never played the flute before, though she had wanted to, many a time. Often she had thought about it, touched the flute reverentially, and then put it back in her bag. Today, she felt as if a strange presence guided her hand as she found herself taking the simple bamboo reed from her pocket and putting it to her lips. It seemed to be the most natural thing to do.

  The first few notes floated in the air like butterflies. Then, she closed her eyes and let abandon overwhelm her. In the presence of The Master and the blue jasmine-filled meadows, her music enveloped her little frame, and then it soared into the heavens, unfettered and free in gay abandon.

  They played together for quite sometime—The Master and pupil. A deep quiet seemed to descend on the two of them, mixed with the sound of the river.

  Twenty-eight

  ‘There is something you should know about music. When you play music, put aside all your thoughts,’ said The Master to the little girl. ‘Cluttered minds distort the pristine purity of music. When that happens, all that flows through the flute is our angst and our rage, our envy, our loss and our longing.’

  He seemed to be talking to himself for his eyes were closed and his mind seemed to be far, far away. ‘Music can give you strength but only when you learn to talk to your flute, and to listen to it. When you are able to do that, you will speak through your flute. It will become your voice.’

  ‘How do I learn to do that,’ asked the little girl.

  ‘Free your mind, even from your most innermost thoughts. Learn to speak to God but without the chains of memory. Think that just you and God are together, quiet and alone, and that God wants to listen only to you. Only then will you speak through your flute. You and your flute will become one, and when you do, so will you and God.’

  He turned towards her and said with an impish smile, ‘And from what you have just played, young lady, I can clearly hear the sound of clinging thoughts,’ said The Master.

  He looked deep into her eyes and softly said, ‘Your father and your mother are dead. Let them go, my child.’

  ‘But I love them so much!’ she cried in anguish. ‘My life is so empty without them!’

  ‘You do not deny them,’ The Master whispered, ‘when you let them go. Did you not know that?’

  She closed her eyes and remembered how every waking moment she had thought about her parents, and how dearly she missed them.

  ‘Why did they have to die? Why did they have to die?’ she had wept and asked herself over and over again. She had talked to them in her dreams, she had laughed and joked with them, she had told them how lonely and sad she was, and how after they had died, she was spurned by everyone, other than the old balloon-maker and his wife.

  Her silent tears flowed freely as she watched the river. It seemed as if time had no meaning in this strange land. The river flowed fast and furiously, tripping over polished stones and carrying branches across to God alone knew where, while never once stopping in its endless journey. What stories, she wondered, this mighty river must know.

  She put her hand into the water and looked once again at her reflection. Startled, she took a step back. Her reflection looked strange and completely different! She was astonished. Who was she looking at? It seemed as if she were staring at a total stranger, and yet she could see there was something familiar. As she stared at the flowing river, her hair started growing thicker and longer and then, changed colour till it became white. Her face seemed to lose its child-like appearance, as it took on the beauty of youth, and then the weariness of middle age, till she was covered with wrinkles. In a matter of seconds, she had aged before her own eyes!

  Horrified, she turned to look at The Master. ‘What is happening?’ she cried in fear and anguish. ‘And who is it that I see in the reflection?’

  ‘The river has spoken,’ he said with what looked like a smile of relief, ‘for you were looking into the future. It is a good sign that you grew old in the reflection, for that means that you will live long.’ He paused and hoped that the words had sunk in. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘it does not tell us whether you can feel the breath of The Serpent and will not be tempted. Or if, like so many others, you too will live in the world of the un-dead and crave for the scent of the jasmine.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked the little girl.

  ‘Listen carefully then,’ said The Master, ‘to what I tell you about death and about letting go, for there is one who will try to help you unlearn all that your dear parents tried to teach you. He is known by many names but, for our purposes, let us call him The Serpent.’

  He got up and plucked a bunch of jasmine flowers.

  She held the flowers, inhaling deeply, as she closed her eyes. ‘They remind me so much of my mother,’ she said, looking towards him, her voice choking with tears. ‘She would wear them around her wrists like bangles. She would leave them beside my pillow. And yet, these flowers have no scent.’

  ‘Do you trust me?’ asked The Master.

  She nodded in assent.

  ‘Then, smell these same flowers once more and tell me if you feel they are different.’ He raised her hands that held the flowers, and as she inhaled, a heady jasmine scent seemed to overwhelm her. ‘It happens, and can happen again. This is no magic,’ said The Master, ‘this is the power of giving, of love, of trust, of the goodness and generosity of life. You can bring the scent of the jasmine back!’

  The little girl was puzzled. How could this happen, she wondered. The jasmine that had lost its scent seemed suddenly to be filled with it! The Master turned his eyes towards her hand. She felt a gentle unseen presence open her palm. He looked deep into her eyes, and she felt her hands guided as she slowly lowered the flowers into the river. She asked no questions. They watched the swiftly running waters take the flowers away.

  ‘From where we stan
d,’ he said, ‘the journey of the flowers is like death. They are taken away to another place. They are gone from our sight. But, they have left behind their scent and the softness of their touch, so that you may never forget. We, who have experienced them, know how beautiful they are, and what happiness they have brought. We will always remember that. To us, they are never lost, even though we have let the flowers go. Just as you learnt to let go of the flowers, so indeed, you need to learn to let go of those whom you dearly love. Remember always that to let go is not to deny them or to forget them.’

  ‘And what happens if we do not let go?’ asked Little Girl.

  ‘Alas,’ said The Master, ‘then we simply condemn those we love to the land of the un-dead. They wander like the pitiful neither-here-nor-there people, and live a life lost in space and suspended in time. Trapped, forever, in the lair of The Serpent.’

  He knew that she had not understood. ‘Think of the flowers in your hands,’ he said, pointing to the river. ‘They died when we plucked them from the tree. If you hung on to them, they would have grown limp and withered away, crumbling in your hands. And yet, when you let them go, their fragrance stayed in your heart. And so it is, with other things in life.’

  ‘But I was so young,’ she said to him, hurt and sad. ‘It was so unfair, so cruel and heartless that my father and my mother should have been taken away from me so soon.’

  The Master sighed and said gently, ‘I cannot answer that, my child, but once, when you had asked about death, your parents had told you that it comes to us all but for some, sadly, it comes earlier.’

  She looked at his face, confused and distraught. ‘How could you possibly know,’ she asked in an anguished whisper, ‘what my parents and I had talked about?’

  He slipped his flute into the deep pocket of his cloak. ‘Come my child,’ he said, ‘reality and magic have grown fuzzy! Let us walk through the jasmine meadows, for there is much to be said.’