Conquest of Time

By Surya Boddu

I am a Twenty-five years old, aspiring writer.

I like writing stories and my biggest inspiration has always been the stories of the people that were untold and unheard by most. So, whenever I go to a new place, I try to interact with as many people as possible.

And I was told this story by an old man in one of my journeys. 

In the first-class compartment of the Prashanti express. I met an old man who sat across me. His thick hair looked like a pillow of cotton resting on his head. As if to match that cotton pillow, he wore a white cotton shirt and a white dhoti that were ironed so crisp that I felt insecure about the formals that I was wearing.

That man had a fountain pen in his shirt pocket with its golden clip clearly visible to outside. He had a cane in his hands and with its support he made his weathered body sit straight.

The man had a pale face, soft skin and the wrinkles on his forehead looked like speed breakers in a school zone, forming a thick natural frown.

I couldn’t help but wonder, the amount of stress he went through to get that natural frown.

Looking at his straight posture, I didn’t dare slump back into my comfy seat. I sat up straight. I wanted to initiate conversation, but I felt a bit pressured from his presence. 

I felt like a small sapling standing in the shadows of a giant tree. I didn’t even dare breath loudly. To escape that tension, I took out my notebook and started scribbling.

WHOO

The horn of the train helped me a bit as the train moved. 

The man still looked out of the windows, same as he did when we were in Bangalore railway station.

Then came a halt after a couple of pages, not of the train, but of the pen. It ran out of ink. I rummaged through my backpack and could not find a spare and I couldn’t help but feel frustrated. My grip tightened around my pen and almost cursed out loud at my own stupidity.

After all, what sort writer goes around with his writing instruments? I believe a stupid one

I was in my writing zone, the flow was good, all my thoughts were being penned down and then this happened. In that state, my eyes landed on the only person that was there along with me.

I gulped down in nervousness as I looked at the fountain pen in his pocket. The old man was still looking out of the window. He did not even bother to look at me once. I wanted to ask him… but the words that were at the tip of my tongue refused to come out.

At that moment, the man moved his old wrinkled hand to his shirt pocket and took out his fountain pen. He handed it to me without saying a word.

I was hesitant and did not take it right away. The old man finally looked at me with a faint smile. The smile so faint that if not for the proximity, I would not have even noticed it.

“Take it. A writer’s words, a singer’s voice, a musician’s tune, a dancer’s steps, and a warrior’s battle. They should not be interrupted. It is a sin too big for this cursed world to bear.”

Have you ever felt a lightning strike your head? I felt that at that moment.

Even without my own thought, my hand moved. I took that pen. It was heavy, its diameter almost reaching an inch a half. The body of the pen was made out of a material tat I don’t know. But the black sheen made it apparent that it was some metal.

The nib however, was very recognizable. It was made of Gold. So, was the clip. It was a pen that I couldn’t afford even in my dreams. That part was apparent.

I couldn’t help myself and wrote with it. The words flowed once again, but I didn’t feel satisfied for some reason. To be honest, I don’t even remember what I was writing at that time anymore. Because the words of that man reverberated in my head.

It was like the echo in a canyon. It wasn’t going away.

BAM

I slammed the book shut and closed the pen. I took deep breaths and sighed before passing the pen over the old man. I couldn’t write after a while. My words suddenly felt a bit tasteless and characterless as I mulled over the words the old man said.

He looked at me with the same smile.

“Seems like I disrupted your flow. That wasn’t my intention. My apologies.”

His voice was mellow, showcasing the obvious age and the wisdom that came along with it. But there is something hidden behind that mellow tone. Something strong, powerful and something that I couldn’t fathom.

“Please don’t apologize. I am too young and immature to receive such a gesture from elders like you.”

I promptly refused.

He didn’t say anything, however since the Ice has been broken, I decided to shove the hesitance into my back pocket and asked.

“Sir, if you don’t mind. Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“The words you said. About the writer’s words, singer’s song… What do you mean by that? Why is it a sin for this world? I don’t understand.”

“All the things I mentioned, they are the representatives of the state of the world. They represent what a place, a person, and even a civilization in this endless stream of time. They are also the result of effects of time on the people and the society.

And if a time comes when even these things couldn’t go uninterrupted, the very representatives suppressed and blocked… I can’t say it in my own words.”

And just like that, those words made me think and I looked down at my own hands. Then only I realized that I was still holding the pen with my hand extended. The old man didn’t take it. I extended the hand further prompting him to take it.

“Keep it with you for a while. Since I interrupted your story, I would like to compensate. I have a story to tell you. Do you want to write it?”

I didn’t know how to react to that, I only nodded my head.

His smiled widened and he started narrating.

“Long long ago, there was a forest called Viswavanam. 

It was lush with life and looked like a carpet of green from the top. Trees measuring up to dozens of meters and the mountains measuring up to hundreds. Ravines deep enough to swallow the cities and in the middle of it was a village.

Kaalgadi.

The village was like a child in the womb of that mother forest.

And like any mother carrying the child, the forest had every nutrient required to nurture this village. Colorful flowers that could make the rainbow jealous and the shiny streams that could make the moon blush. 

Birds that sang the mirthful tunes and the herbs that could even shun the death. From the food that could feel every last living child to the wood that could help light the pyre of every person that took their last breath.

It has everything.

But there was a time where people of that village was ignorant of using the magical resources given by their mother. Thousands of fruits only few steps away, just fell of the trees and stayed there rotten, going back to the soil it came from.

All the while when people of the village died starving in the fear of the dangers that lay there in the woods.

Spring water so fresh and full of life that one could mistake it for a heavenly elixir, was flowing in a stream just a few miles away. 

All the while when people of the village died from disease while drinking from a dirty pond nearby as they neither had the discipline to travel for the stream nor the knowledge to purify that water.

There were a million trees out there that could provide the wood to build a house that could last for years. All the while the villagers lived in frail homes built with walls of sticks and roofs of leaves. Exposing themselves the dangerous to the rain, sun and the pain of being the targets of the animalistic desires of their peers.

They had everything within their arm’s reach, however they were like an unmoving flock of sheep, unaware of the vast grazing field right in front of their eyes.

Until the one day, a shepherd was born there. His name is Amsha.

He shed the light on their darkness. He taught them how to learn. And they started learning from him. He taught them to work, he taught them to make and with the tools they made, he taught them to dare.

He taught them discipline, he taught them hygiene, he taught them exploration and he taught them that there exists something called old age.

The people that looked as if some skeletons wore a garment of pale skin finally looked like living beings.

Gone were the days where they starved. They had enough grain to feed the village ten times over.

Gone were the days where they fell ill. They had enough medicine to live their lives ten times over.

Gone were the days where they fell prey to the beasts. They had enough strength to fight back and even use the hides of those beasts as decorations.

The villagers remembered the good done by Amsha and made a statue for him in the middle and blessed that he shall remain immortal.

Amsha took all the praise and reveled in it. He took all the love and sailed in it. He took all the gratitude and stewed in it.

He felt like an immortal until he realized he wasn’t.

One strand of grey hair, made him realize that all the blessings he received can’t bend the will of time. All the good deeds he has done can’t please the will of time. All the wishes of villagers can’t change the rules of time.

And thus began his search for immortality.

He went out of the village and travelled the world. He met with wisest of scholars, and read the greatest of scriptures, he talked to the purest of sages.

One said that unending charity was the way and another said, unending penance was the way. One said that boundless knowledge was the way and another said thankless prayers were the way. One said, path of the arts is the way and another said ruthless war is the way.

He sailed the seas, walked the deserts, scaled the mountains and trekked the forests. From all the corners of the world, he didn’t receive a single answer.

And all this while his hair kept on greying.

He hurriedly went back to Kaalagadi and started doing everything. He used all of his riches and started a charitable place that serves meals until the end of his time. He gathered all his resources and opened a school to educate.

He gathered artists of all kinds and gave them a roof so that the dying arts can finally thrive. He built a hospital that housed the greatest doctors ever and fought against sick health.

He called for the greatest warriors and made them the guardians of his people. And he stayed in penance as he prayed to gods dedicating all his good deeds to him.

As far as his influence spread, a man might have been poorer than other, no one spent their lives in poverty. A man might have been healthier than the other, but no one died of disease. A man might have been more educated than the other, but no one was illiterate.

Many people claim that donation of food is the greatest deed, some say donation of education is the greatest deed, some say preserving life and health is the greatest deed and some say propagation of the arts is the greatest deed.

And he did all of them over the decades. His glory grew, his reputation grew. Kaalgadi was not a village anymore, instead it was a hub for healing souls, it was a hub for greater learning, it was the hub for thriving artists and it was the place for feeding hungry.

However, the immortality he sought wasn’t found.

By the time he was in his eighties, his reputation grew to the greatest heights. While his body couldn’t even carry his own weight and made him dedicated to his sick bed.

As the death approached, everyone started visiting him. Out of love, respect, admiration and grief.

One night, he watched the sunset from his window. That day, the sun looked a lot less brighter than usual. There was a gloomy that shadowed him like the dark clouds that were trying to devour that sun.

He looked at himself in a mirror. He was half bald. And whatever he had left on his head… there was not a strain of black in it.

CRASH

He threw the mirror against the stone wall. Tears streamed down his cheeks and ended up on his silk sheets.

Grief enveloped him and soon it turned into anger.

“Bloody Time. 

What right do you have to take my life away? What right do you have to take my dream away? All the wealth I earned, all the charities I have done, all the arts that I preserved and all the lives that I saved. Which of those acts is not worthy of your admiration?

If the millions of people are bowing their head to me, why didn’t you do it? Why did you stubbornly battle against me? Why are you dragging me down this bitter path?

If I am not worthy, who on this earth is worthy of your bow? WHO AMONG THEM IS WORTHY OF IMMORTALIT…*Cough* Cough”

His outburst came to a halt as he coughed up blood. He wiped it off on the silk sheets as his young son who is well into his twenties came running into the room.

The man is tall, over six feet. He had thick black hair. Lean but muscular, breathing stable and eyes sharp, his eyebrows even sharper, shaped like swords.

Amsha looked at his son and said.

“Son, my time has come. In the face of battle with time, I lost. I have done everything I could and anything that could work, but I couldn’t.

I have given my everything, but it wasn’t enough to trade for immortality.

I urge you my son. I urge you. Find the immortality. Find what this time needs, earn what this time wants and you shall trade it for the immortality. Defeat the time for me.”

His voice weakened slowly and with his setting son, his soul left the mortal world.

The son, Dvityamsha looked at his father’s corpse with screens of tears blurring his vision and they only cleared after he let them out, crying like a little child.

He remembered the days he craved for his father’s presence, but only for his father to work himself in his delusional pursuit of immortality.

And yet he was unable to do so.

That night, he was sleepless.

The cremation was done the next morning. All of Kaalagadi lost its usual lustre. Even the forest looked like it was weeping tears as gloom surrounded the usual vibrant lush.

Dvityamsha walked back to Kaalagadi after bathing in the stream and on his way, he saw many people greeting him, offering their condolences and he saw even more people bowing, kneeling and worshipping his father’s statue.

He went back into his house and spent another sleepless night, which was followed by another day of sadness and another night of sleeplessness.

Time went on as he holed himself up in within his room. Until one day, his mother knocked on his door.

He looked at the woman who wore the white color of the widow with the bun of grey hair on her head. The crows feet near her eyes were more definite than ever and the wrinkles made her seem like she aged a decade over the past few days.

She held his hand and led him out to their balcony, from where they could see the whole of Kaalagadi.

“My son, do you see the library over there?” She asked.

Dvityamsha nodded and she said.

“When your father and I were still kids in this village, Kaalagadi ended there. Beyond that point the whole place was nothing but trees, grass and the snakes hidden within.

Dvityamsha was surprised. Because the library was just over a hundred and fifty meters away. It wasn’t that far. And if all of the village was that small… it was barely one-fiftieth of the current size of the village.

“Before your father, Kaalagadi was just a place where starved and died. Nobody wanted to stay here. But now, no one wants to stay anywhere else but here.

In his pursuit, your father has started many deeds and it is necessary for you to continue his legacy. You are son of Amsha, who lived for the people. So, grieve his death along with them and continue the deeds your father has started.”

With those words, Dvityamsha, finally stepped out of the house. He went to work and took up his father’s responsibilities. And he soon realized just how much work was his father handling. He also understood what kept this whole thing running.

Money.

The hospitals need more herbs. Money.

The artists need more material. Money.

The people need more food. Money.

The people need higher education. Money.

No matter what he did, all he needed was money. With money, he could quell hunger, with money, he could uplift the arts, with money he could even honor the gods with money.

And thus began his pursuit for money.

He travelled the world and traded everything. Every time returned home with treasure. Soon he was richer than the riches of the world. His treasury was adorned with mountains of gold and streams of silver, piles of gems and hoards of jewels.

His wealth unmatched, he was revered as the Kaliyuga Kubera: The god of wealth in the age of Kali.

And in brightness of his riches, his face shone brighter than a million sons.

In his reign, the Kaalagadi which started as the child of forest turned to become the home of wealth.

And with the birth of new generations in his raise, who became the beneficiaries of his charitable deeds, he gained the respect of his people, just like his father.”

However, as the days passed and his hair greyed, he finally understood his father.

With all the wealth in the world at his beck and call and with the ability to buy the world as it was, he wasn’t able to buy one thing. The same thing that defeated his father.

As he watched the wealth he built and the businesses created and all the charity he did with all the glory he accumulated. He was reluctant.

He was reluctant to succumb to time. He was reluctant to be confined by the mortal constraints.

And thus began his pursuit for immortality. Using his immense wealth, he called for the greatest priests of the world to conduct yagas. He made thrones and crowns for gods out of finest gold and the rarest gems, distributing to all the temples he knew.

The charity increased beyond any vicinity of the kaalgadi and his name started spreading far and wide.

However, all these good deeds didn’t amount to much just like gold as he wasn’t able to buy even a second of time.

Soon, as the old age hit, he was confined to the same bed his father laid on while dying. Just like his father, he looked at the setting sun with the gloom of dark clouds surrounding the city.

He leaned against the headrest and sighed.

“Bloody Time

With the vastness of wealth that one could ever accumulate. With the mountains of gold that one could only dream of.

With my wealth, I bought education for the illiterate, food for the hungry, health for the sick and art for the artist.

But why can’t I place a price on you.

For my wealth, kings bow before me, peasants kneel at the sight of me, poor crave for my mercy and rich desire my treasury.

But why can’t I make you bow before me.

Even if the gods that control are the reason for the life on this earth. My wealth is the reason those gods have shelter on this land. Why do you refuse to sell yourself to me.

I can buy every creature of this world and sell it only to do it all over again. With my wealth, I stood on the top of the world. 

WHY SHOULD I BURN IN THE FLAMES OF TIME? ANSWER ME.”

He screamed out of the last sentence with the anger and rage that built up inside.

His son came running inside. Dvityamsha couldn’t help but remember the time when he saw his father on the death bed.

Sadness accumulated his heart as he watched his son run inside, but at that moment his son froze. Not out of shock, but literally froze. Not just his son, everything froze. The fleeting breeze, fluttering curtain, descending sun and the waving trees. Everything froze.

And all of a sudden Dvityamsha saw something

In front of him came a man. But the next second, he wasn’t a man, but a child. And the next moment it wasn’t a child but an old soul. And that moment Dvityamsha understood. The one in front of him was neither the man, nor the child. It was time.

He wanted to say something, but he was stuck.

He looked into the eyes of time that seemed to hold the cosmos within. And the time spoke with a voice that seemed to have contained both the eternal wisdom and infinite innocence.

“You want to place a price on me? Do you believe you have enough wealth? Do you believe you have enough worth? What are you even worth to have that thought?

You speak of your wealth with which you did immense charity. And I am supposed to bow before you for that?

What is your wealth in front of Karna,who was begged by even the lord of the heavens, the Indra?

What is your wealth in front of that Narayana? Who married the literal manifestation of wealth, goddess Lakshmi?

What is your wealth in front of Kubera, who was owed money even by that Lakshmipathi?

What is your wealth in front of Bali, the one that could give away three worlds as alms?

The time that couldn’t bought by them. The time that didn’t bow for them. Who are you to ask my respect? Who are you to ask my surrender?”

Dvityamsha couldn’t speak and the time resumed for him. There was nothing in front of him anymore.

His son, Trityamsa came running towards him.

Dvityamsha, could feel his life leaving his body. He looked at his son and his eyes showed reluctance. He held his son’s arm tightly with the little strength that he could muster and said in his frail voice.

“Son, all my wealth… all my work… is useless. Pursue truth behind the time, pursue the truth behind life and pursue the truth behind this world and achieve immortality. For me, and for your grandfather.”

With those words, he left the world. 

Trityamsha was sad, but he was stronger than his father. Instead of holing himself up, he started spending more time in the place he liked. 

The academy of arts that his grandfather built and his father developed.

The place where the greatest artists of the world gathered.

He find solace in literature, calm in acting, peace in singing, strength in dancing and delight in teaching. He lost himself in that house of arts as he explored each and every one of them. He learned from the greats and he was on path to become one.

As he mastered one after the other, he started learning more than art itself. 

He learned more about himself. He learned what love is, he learned what pain is, he learned what joy is and he learned what peace is.

He learned that every single human being on this planet are taking their life as a human being for granted. With all the emotions he had to absorb as a singer, with all the expressions he had to convey as the dance, with all the lives through which saw the life as an actor, all the stories he told as a writer…

His learnings went beyond the physical aspect of humanity.

And he began his exploration. He went to his mother for the blessings and then came to the statue of his grandfather. He touched the feet of the statue and asked for his blessings from the heaven.

He then looked at Kaalagadi. The place that is over a hundred times larger than the Kaalagadi of his grandfather’s time.

Now, one could barely see any traces of the forest from the center of the city. In fact, on one side, it wasn’t even covered with forest anymore. The village grew and grew until it reached the borders of the city.

And then only the people realized, Kaalagadi has become a city itself.

“I shall travel the world and master the art of life through all these arts. I believe these arts are the only way for me find the truth of life and fulfil my father’s wish.” He spoke those words to himself, or maybe to the statue or maybe to the vast city.

One thing is for sure. Thus began his quest to fulfil his grandfather and father’s legacy.

He left Kaalagadi and he started travelling. Every place he went, he taught, he sang, he wrote, he acted, he danced.

In the greatest of temples built in the nation, his programs were held day after day. Whenever his arrival was announced people from the surrounding places came to visit him.

He talked to people, lived with them, he contributed to their laughs and shared the burden of their woes.

He learned their stories, wrote them. Published them for the world to see and become enlightened.

And his prestige grew with no bounds. 

Time passed and his reverence rose.

People believed that every art form that was ever bestowed by god was done to be performed by him. As he held his pen he became the poet of the world and as he raised his voice he became a celestial bard. Every role he played felt like it was born for him to play. And when he directed, he became the Director Extraordinaire. And one cannot forget about his dance, as no matter the form and no matter the tune, once he stepped foot on the stage it looked like he was dancing with the cosmos.

There was no award that he didn’t achieve.

There was no praise that he didn’t receive.

With his art, he rid the world of its superstitions, people of their stupidity, nation of its materialistic obesity.

He was the humanized manifestation of the word reformation. The deepest parts of the world that refused to turn their heads to prosperity in the fear of change, responded to his art and adapted. He singlehandedly showed what art is meant for and what life is meant for.

However, with all the achievements he had, with all the glory he gained. There is one thing he couldn’t stop. Time

With the time, his steps slowed down and his voice turned dull, his fingers went numb and his vision turned blur. 

Once again, the time played its role and stole everything that brought his glory. And he was confined to the same room his father and grandfather laid for their deaths. The bed was different, but the view wasn’t.

The orange sunset threatened to be swallowed by the gloom of dark clouds.

He looked at the sky and yelled in a hoarse voice.

It might have been a yell for him, but for the room it was merely a whisper. 

“Who on this earth dares to say they are the first in arts if I claim to be second?

For millions, my words were the greatest enlightenment. For millions, my songs were the path of attainment. For millions, my dance itself was the divine intervention, for millions my acting was their source of inspiration.

For all the rewards I attained, all the titles I accepted. Was it for my honor? No, it was honor of those rewards. Me being their recipient adds to their value not mine.

You might be time and the god you serve might have created this art forms for the human expression. They might be the means he gave for the humans to express themselves.

But my presence made the arts greater, my acceptance made them worth something in the eyes of these ignorant masses, my propagation made them what they were.

I am the sole reason these arts stayed in existence.

I AM THE SOLE REASON THESE PEOPLE OF AN INKLING OF ABSOLUTION.

IN THIS PLAY OF LIFE, WHO IS WORTHY OF BEING THE PROTAGONIST IF NOT ME?

HOW DARE YOU TRY TO JUDGE A MAN LIKE ME? HOW DARE YOU TRY AND TAKE MY LIFE AWAY FROM ME? BY WHAT RIGHT CAN YOU DO THIS TO M… COUGH COUGH”

A wild cough interrupted his outburst.

“HMPH…”

At that moment, he heard a snort of derision. His eyes widened as the time froze. In the same room, he saw what his father did. An old man that appeared out of thin air, turning into a youth and then turning into a child.

The time has appeared again.

“The wannabe protagonist of the tale of time. 

The audacity to question the judgment of time. 

You speak of the contributions you made for the art and you speak of the contributions you made to the word with that art. You speak as if you are the greatest in history, when many heads bigger than your had to bow before me.

What is your literature in front of Ravana who made the Siva mesemerized? What are your words in front of Vyasa who wrote timeless jayasamhita? What is your singing in front of a Gandharva’s voice? What is your dance in front of a Rambha’s celestial rhythm?

Are you a greater artist than Krishna? The one who won the hearts of all the living with just his flute. One who danced with death on Kaliya’s(A serpent demon) hood, one who broke hearts of millions with his dance moves. One expression from his eyes made the whole world bow.

Yet, he didn’t dare to ask for my submission.

What are do you speak of that surpassed theirs? And what right to do speak of that makes your worthy?

When the greater lives than yours couldn’t attain my acceptance, what right do you ask for Immortality?

Let go for your mortal pride and that mortal life. You, the artist the unworthy.”

The time said its piece and left.

COUGH COUGH

Trityamsha’s eyes glowed with hurt, despair, rage and melancholy. He reached for the water on his sidetable and knocked over the bottle and the glass.

CRASH

The noise made his son come running over.

Trityamsha looked at his loving son and said.

“My child, my time has come. You shall inherit my riches, inherit my values, inherit my glory, inherit my legacy and finally inherit my woes. I travelled the word, pursued the arts in the hopes of finding the truth of life, so that I can beyond it.

I might have understood what life is, but I do not understand the way to conquer it. Try to find a way to conquer the life. Attain the rights over it and attain immortality.”

Those were the last words passed on by him.

The son, Chaturthamsha looked at him. Tears threatened to pour out, but he forcefully stopped them. For him the world looked like it wore a screen of translucent silk. With a hardened heart, he suppressed the grief and performed all the cremation rituals.

A few days later, he stood in his ancestral home and looked from the balcony. The same balcony from where his grandfather looked at the growing Kaalagadi.

His mother with a bun of white hair stood beside him, just like how his great-grandmother did for his grandfather.

The city of Kaalagadi is now vast and it occupied one third of the forest. Even though Trityamsha was drowning himself in art, the businesses and welfare conducted by the Amsha family went on without any hitch.

And thus the city kept on growing.

Chaturthamsha’s eyes landed on his great-grandfather’s statue.

“Mother, father asked me to find the way to conquer the life.

As the one who bestowed me this life? You tell me. What should I do?

Since the start of our Amsha family, the namesake of my greatgrandfather, we were on the pursuit to win over time, win our rights over eternal life and we did little to find answers.

My great-grandfather, planted the seed of life in this place. He gave the chance for millions of people. My father poured water over and propagated that life, my father, pursued arts and taught them the meaning.

But how does one conquer the life?”

His mother smiled slightly.

“I don’t know how you can do that, Son. But all I can say is, there is no one way to do it. There is no blueprint for it like a building. There is no set path for you to follow. From your great-grandfather to your father, they were all great men. 

Even in their selfish pursuits, they contributed to this world greatly.

They chose their paths first and the welfare of the world followed. Maybe, if you cannot choose the path, aim for the welfare a bit. Try to do contribute to this world and maybe that will show you the path.”

He mulled over his mother’s words for the next few days until one day, a group of citizens came running to him.

They came bearing the bad news. The kingdom they are in is being invaded from all sides. The enemies are everywhere and they declared war.

The king has sent a letter to all the lords of the city for able-bodied man, to fill the ranks of his soldiers.

The news of the invasion made Chathurthamsha’s eyes redden. Not in sorrow, but in rage. Among all the values he inherited from his ancestors, patriotism took precedence of all. After all, in this land he saw the results of the deeds of his ancestors.

They contributed to the welfare of this land, they showed it love and care and he couldn’t help but love that land as well.

And thus, without hesitation, he took off his silk robes and donned on the soldier’s uniform.

Among with the peasants, among with the commoners, among with the troubled youths, he walked hand in hand as a normal soldier starting from ground up. With one and only goal. Destroy the enemy that attacks his land.

Only after he entered the battlefield, did he realize that while he came to fulfil his duty, he found the purpose of his life. A path for himself.

When he took the first life of the enemy, he felt sad and despair. But they were accompanied by the pride and the feeling of power. He found his calling.

Thus began his pursuit.

Battlefield became his second home. Maybe more than his first home because he rarely left it. No matter front, no matter the enemy, he was the first one to volunteer for the fight.

Weapons became his closest relatives. He lived with them, he walked with them, he fought with them, he made his life with them all the while the taking the lives of others.

As he brandished his arms and leaped to the enemy, his comrades, couldn’t help but think how the death would feel. After all, more than anyone else that man has come close to the death so many times, only to offer up his enemy to the oncoming death.

Maybe even death would smile for that kind of patronage.

As he faced the enemy with their weapons brushing past his face, while his blood was dripping along with the enemy’s life, all he had was a smile on his face.

Not a smile of joy, not the a smile of despair. But a smile of futility. He realized how futile a human’s life. His father with all the arts realized how expression, deep and layered a life is, but he didn’t see the futility beneath all of that.

How can he? When he was playing of the field of arts, not on the field of battle?

Chathruthamsha with his skill and bravery, rose to his glory. Maybe his glory was not as shiny as his great grand father. Maybe it was not as loud as his grandfather’s, maybe it was not as far reaching as his father, but whever it reached, it resounded like no other.

His name sent shivers down the spine of the enemies, his presence changed the tide of the battlefields. He alone changed the course of the history of that nation. Not with his words, not with his wealth, not with his reforms, but with his sword.

By killing his enemies, he saved several million from the destined slavery.

By killing his enemies, he saved several million from the cursed poverty.

By killing his enemies, he saved the land from innocent bloodshet.

By killing his enemies, he stood as the pillar that could support the whole nation.

On honor after another. One medal after another. The kingdom ran out of honors to give, and with Charthurthamsha’s wealth, they couldn’t afford a monetary reward that could earn his interest.

So, gave the only one thing they could give. Their respect. An unending and unflinching respect.

As he rose his ranks, he started teaching. Not the way to live one’s life, but the way of taking a person’s life from theirs.

As the days passed, from a soldier that strived on the brink of death, he became a commander that led the charge, later became a general that laid a plan and then became an instructor that even trained those generals.

With time grew his glory. His name reverberated throughout the barracks of all nations. Every soldier understood that with the time to come, this man’s name shall be synonymous to what a soldier should be.

His name that took the strength out of the spines of the enemies, made the comrades chest pop-up in pride.

All his peers, his commanders, his students and even the king whose kingdom he preserved, all wished for one thing and one thing only. Make this man an immortal and his stand will make the kingdom reign secure.

Too bad for them, the time doesn’t act as they wished. With time he aged and with age he weakened. The bones that could crush the enemies will, started losing their hardness. Muscles that made snapped the necks of the enemies, started losing their strength.

The sword that always acted like an extension of his hand refused to stay in his grip.

The pride that held many spines up in attention, couldn’t hold his spine up and not make him hunch.

All that was left is a weak body, a weaker spirit and the title of nobility from the king for his contributions in the war along with the territory around the Kaalagadi.

He looked into the sky through the window, observing the same old gloomy sky. Many things have changed, but the sunset evening didn’t.

The sun is the same orange he has always been and the clouds were just as gloomy if not more. Like the darkness that wants to devour the light.

“*COUGH* COUGH”

He coughed wildly and felt his chest heave in pain. This made him feel frustrated. 

“Which soldier of this kingdom wouldn’t find pride in uttering my name? Which citizen of this land wouldn’t smile in peace up on hearing my name? Which kid doesn’t want to wield the sword like me? Which enemy kingdom doesn’t want a soldier like me?

Which army doesn’t listen to my commands? And which enemy troop doesn’t shiver up on my reddened eyes?

When I was on the battlefield, how many times has death tried to apprehend my life and how many times have I tore away from its claws? 

I held the absolute authority over the lives of millions. I destined their ends and made them follow through. I decided their future which is to die by my hands.

My words were the commands and my commands were deemed abosolute.

I was the judge, I was the jury and I was the executioner of my enemies. I held the complete reign over their lives by holding the decision of their deaths.

Every weapon is my limb and my every limb is a weapon. I can spell a million tactics and break a million more. 

I am the man. I am the warrior that defied death to its core and made it feel helpless and I was the biggest patron of the death at the same time, and sent it millions of souls.

I won every battle I was a part of.

But how can I withstand this battle with time? What scout tactic should I use to find it? What war formation should I use to trap it? What weapon should I use to confront it? What technique should I use to kill it?

The death that feared to approach me in the battlefield is being coming at me now with the support of time.

What right does the time has to take the life of me?”

His words were not loud. He didn’t shout like his father did. However, he was more resolute, his expression more of a commanding question rather than a rageful cry.

And once again, he triggered the phenomenon, which he also inherited from his ancestors.

Time has appeared. Once again, changing itself into all three forms of a child, a youth and an old man.

“A Soldier? A warrior?

In this day and age. When killing an army of peasants can be considered a sign of valor. When Slaughtering a fleeting troop of enemies can be considered a great honor. You dare utter the words of being a warrior.

What kind of warrior that this land hasn’t seen before? Whose valor do you think you surpassed?

Can you match to the valor of the ruler of death, the king of hell and the protector of the southern direction, King Yama? Can you surpass him, the man who accepted the first ever death?

Or the man who made even that King Yama run for his existence, and the man that made the Indra, the king of the heaven bow his head, King of Lanka, the ten-headed Ravana, can you beat him a fight?

Or the man that dared to treat Ravana like a mere insect and kept him in a filthy dungeon for days. The man with the thousand arms, Kartaveeryaarjuna. Can you cross arms with him?

Or the man who wielded the axe and severed the thousand arms of Kartaveeryaarjuna along with his million man army all for the sake of a cow. The warrior sage that waged war against the and made them disguise in sarees while wearing bangles. Lord Parasuram. Can you even endure his breath?

Or the man that learned the teachings of the Warrior-sage and became the teacher of the warriors that could tear this world apart one too many times. Drona, can you get into field with him?

Or the man that became known as the greatest student and the greatest warrior that dared to challenge his own father, the god of heaven for the sake of a promise. The man that could wield the pasupathastra that lord siva invented. The man whose name became synonymous to valor, Arjuna. Can your strength be greater than him?

Or the child that was born to Arjuna. A youngster that tore apart the Chakravyuha executed by Drona himself. A teenager that charged at the Kuru army all by himself. A child that defeated his father’s rival, the son of Sun, Karna, in a head on combat.

And the child whose valor made the whole kuru army forget the rules of war, the dharma of their life. They had to stake the glory of their clan just to kill him. The boy. Abhimanyu. Can you match your guts with him?

In the land that tasted the blood of these warriors, you killed the lesser men while facing their backs. And you dare call yourself a warrior? You dare question my right over your life?”

Time disappeared after those words.

Chathurthamsa felt the remaining strength of his leave his body. 

“Panchamsha.”

He called for his son. A young man ran in and checked up on his father.

“My time has come my son. I pursued the path of a soldier and thought myself as a warrior. I took a million lives all in the pursuit of gaining control over the life itself.

However, I realized it is wrong. The power in the ability to take ones life is fleeting. And it is a foolish way to try to conquer those lives.

I hope you don’t follow the same path as I did. It has been the dream of the men of our family for generations to conquer the life and conquer the time to achieve immortality.

I will not tell you to do the same, but I do want to tell you to understand it.”

Those were the last words.

A grand funeral was held. Much grander than the one held for any of his forefathers. A funeral that was befitting of a general and a funeral that was befitting of a noble.

Panchamsha inherited his father’s noble tittle. He was offered a place in the army just like his father, but he rejected it remember his father’s last words.

The king heard the news and offered him a place in the King’s Court as an advisor. But Panchamsha rejected it as well as he didn’t want to leave his home.

He was told the stories of his ancestors. The lives they lived in an endless pursuit. And the deaths they had with indignation and reluctance. He shall not go down path.

He walked to his balcony one day and looked at the vast territory in front of him. The surrounding forest was no where to be seen. It was but a far place both in present and in the past.

The city of Kaalagadi now has its own force to protect and its noble ruler to serve it.

“My father. I shall follow your words. I shall understand the lives and I shall understand the process of living.

But not in the pursuit of the greater immortality but rather for the welfare of the given mortality. I shall rule this place and the strive for the lives of these people.”

He promised himself. He took the blessings from his great ancestor Amsha’s statue before assuming the role of his father’s title. 

Unlike his ancestors, he didn’t travel often, he didn’t pursue glory, he didn’t pursue fame and honor. He stayed in his territory and looked after the people.

He travelled within the territory to understand the people. When he saw the struggle of the peasants travelling between the cities, he constructed the roads for easier travel.

He connected the territory with paths and roads. He improved the living conditions of people. Not by giving them charity, rather by giving them the competence and ability to make them contribute for themselves.

He used his father’s influence to bring some great veterans to teach people in territory. Thus creating a great training camp that churned some of the greatest warriors and generals for the kingdom.

He used his grandfather’s influence in attracting the scholars. Improving the literary and artistic stands of his territory and its people. Churning out some of the greatest artists and scholars for the kingdome.

He used his great-grandfather’s wealth and connections to establish trade routes with even the foreign countries, improving the economic conditions of the Amsha territory.

And he used the name of the Amsha itself that held great and influence over the people to suppress his jealous peerage in the royal court and other noble houses. To make sure that his territory will not be targeted.

All this while, he followed two things. Never did he accept a promotion in his noble title, no matter how many times the king tried. Never did he accept a felicitation or a reward for doing the duty he supposed to do.

He made sure to not let the glory get into his head.

Every day he touched the feet of his grandfather to keep in mind where he came from. He walked with his bare feet to remind his own mortality to himself.

The only praise he ever accepted was his own for not letting the pride take over him. The only pursuit he allowed himself is the pursuit of duty that his title demands.

And as he did that the time passed.

His body aged and he accepted it with a smile. The only regret he had as he reached the same sick bed as his ancestors was the regret of not being able to do his duty anymore.

He looked at the sunset from that bed. The same sunset, the same dark clouds. But the image wasn’t as gloomy.

He leaned back into those soft silk sheets and spoke.

“I brought the Ramarajya to the Kaliyuga. 

There isn’t single living person of my territory that starves to death because of lack of food.

There isn’t a single living person in my territory that couldn’t find education for a better future.

There isn’t a single living person in my territory that doesn’t have a roof over their heads.

There isn’t a single living person in my territory that doesn’t have clothes to wear.

I strived for them and made them thrive. I lived for them and improved their lives. I worked for them and kept myself grounded.

In many people’s hearts I am their living god. For a fewer people, I am their native king. For a few people I am their born leader.

In their opinions, I can do anything and everything. I am the ruler of all living and otherwise. But maybe even they never thought that I am the ruler of time. Like the people that came before and the people that will come after me. I shall also be part of the time and I shall flow along with it.”

He muttered to himself as if he was teaching himself humility one last time.

At that moment, shock enveloped him. The time froze once again and the time came once again. The child, the youth, the old man. The ever shifting form looked at Panchamsha’s wrinkled face and this time he had a smile on his face.

“You are the fifth of your blood that I have met. And fourth of them that I talked to you.”

Panchamsha held his hands together and bowed.

“It is our family’s honor”

“Do you really think you brought Ramarajya to this world?”

For the first time, time didn’t just hit him with words. He asked instead.

“I would like to believe so.”

“You are living in Kaliyuga. The period of time that is unworthy of the word Rama itself and you claim that you brought Ramarajya? How many times have you crossed the grey line? All with excuse of doing it for the sake of people?

How many times have you lied for your cause? All with excuse of doing it for people?

How many times have you diverted a problem? All with the excuse of doing it for people?

How many times have your cheated the truth out of your people? All with the excuse of doing it for them?

In the pursuit of worldly duities, you have forgotten many of his Divine Duties. How can you say that you created Rama rajya with all those blemishes?”

Panchamsha looked dazed as he heard the questions. What Time said, was indeed true. 

He had an expression of enlightenment and bowed once again. Time chuckled in amusement and said.

“Your time too shall pass.”

Time released the grip over the flow of time and everything returned to normal. Panchamsha leaned further down into his bed and just gazed at the sky until it turned dark and he fell into eternal sleep.

The city slept soundly without even knowing the news of the demise of their beloved ruler.

Time who saw as the soul of the Panchamsha  being taken away by the death, looked at the Amsha’s statue and reminded himself of where it all started. The Deathbed of Amsha. The stubborn man who couldn’t let go of his desire immortality.

Time remembered as if it was yesterday. Because for Time, it might as well be yesterday.

On the Death bed of Amsha, he manifested in his form for the first ever time. As Amsha cried out his deeds and demanded that he was given immortality, time spoke to him that day.

“Amsha, you have led a good life and you shall stay immortal in the deeds you have done.” Time has consoled.

Amsha’s eyes reddened and looked at time with a hateful gaze.

Time shook its head and said.

“What is your wealth in front of Kubera, the treasurer of Gods?

What is your glory in front of the fame of Ravana, who was known across the three worlds for his might and intellect?

What is your power in front of strength of Hanuman, who lifted the entire Dronagiri mountain with ease?

What is your name in front of renown of Arjuna, who was praised by gods and demons alike for his archery skills.

You speak of your immortality, your defiance against with stubborn ignorance.

And even in that you are not greatest, as what is your defiance in front of Viswamitra, the man who even defined his will to breath just to attain the statue of sage?

What is your defiance in front of Yudhisthira, who embraced death as a natural part of life.

What is your anger in front of Dhruva, who meditated for thousands of years to attain divine blessings?

Even the preserver of the worlds, Lord Narayana, has to come down to earth in Ten Incarnations just to leave his mark in this world. 

Amsha, the reformer of Kaalagadi, you are but a mortal. How can you hope to conquer me?

I am time, not swayed by wealth, glory or desire. I am impartial, unyielding, and inevitable. 

I am the eternal river that flows through the ages, the silent witness of all deeds and destinies. You rage against me, but in the end, you will yield to me all things must.”

WHOOO

I was in a daze and it was broken by the loud whistle of the train. The old man sat there looking in my eyes with a smile. I noticed that I am experiencing goosebumps all over. I looked at the fountain pen in my hands and I had the sudden urge to write.

I looked at the old man as if to ask for his permission. But the next moment, I was shocked. Because, in the place of the old man, I saw a young man wearing torn jeans and a leather jacket holding a phone instead of the cane.

In a blink, I saw the young man turn into a toddler wearing a hoodie with cartoon designs while holding a children’s book in his hands.

Another blink and there is no one else in front of me. The seat is empty and the man is gone. I looked at the pen in my hands and it is still there. 

KNOCK KNOCK

At that moment, someone knocked on the compartment door before opening it and coming it. I didn’t remember what they looked like, they just arranged their luggage and sat in the seat where the old man just sat.

They introduced themselves and they were the ones that reserved that seat. 

WHOO

Train whistled. Train moved and the time passed as the rest of my journey began.

By Surya Boddu