black

[this was a tag from pavi who wanted me to write a story based on my favorite color. black is what it is. i have borrowed heavily from myths and maybe twisted a few facts here and there due to ignorance or to fit the story, my apologies]

Shyama was his name.Literally meant black. And so was he.

Born of wealthy if vaishya traders who have been entrenched in their business of precious silks and diamonds since the time of King Raghu. His dad Rakhtahasa was a boisterous man who, legend has it, rode along with King Dasharatha in many of his wars. The king, and certainly lady luck, had heaped fortunes upon him. Only one worry nagged at his soul, of his son Shyama.

Shyama was black and not the fiery and subtle shade of a cloud like their Prince who was in exile ( as told by the bards who always referred to him as dark as a cloud) but literally black as an asura. In a society that measured virtue a lot by the appearance of the person, that meant that he was generally an outcast. Alienated, even though a eleven year old.

Just because he was black.

On that day of Ashadha, he was at the stables, grooming Markasha, his dad's favorite stallion. The horse was his only companion and his adoloescent mind often wondered why black was so prized in a horse while he was shunned for the same. Ah, the quirks of grown-ups!

Shunned would be harsh as the people around him, the dasis, the stable hands and usual coterie of clerks and servants could hardly be disrespectful the young master. Atleast not in an obvious way. But on and off, an ill placed snigger and snatches of conversation reminded him of his color.

"by Indra! is it true Durasta missed him while he was on his way to light the lamps?"
"our master, shines like lord Surya in the month of Phalguna but look at his son..."
"looks...a..Asura"

They called him an Asura or a demon. That's what irked him the most. More than the fact that his dad never used to act least bit bothered even though he was sure to be tuned to the sea of rumors. Not even during that ghastly episode during the Madira orgy where a rival trader openly questioned his mother's chastity. Rage had boiled inside Shyama but he was an unwelcome visitor feasting on savories from under the table. He was amazed at the self restraint shown by his father.

All because he was black.

He was tired of all this and he sought means to end it all. He had heard about the ill effects of Kartaraasa, the medicine for colic-ridden horses and which was kept in the apothecary's room.

A sudden roar like the ones never heard before interrupted his reverie. He was aware that it was coming from the main street of Ayodhya, which his house overlooked. He left his grooming tools in the stables and ran into the house. There was a generous amount of chaos inside the house and all along, a feverishbluster.

People were running to the front door or to any of the balconies over looking the streets as it seemed to be the cynosure of all activity.

"he's back"
"oh my lord, he has returned to be with us"
"...ruler of all.."
"Ravana is dead?"
"even Vanaras..."
"14 years...so long"

he could not make any sense of anything and he made his way to the main balcony. Surprisingly, it was crowded too, with an array of dasis waiting with thalis laden with flower petals and lamps. He tried in vain to push through the line blocking his view but settled for an audio commentary.

Soon, there was a hush among the crowd. More than a general sense of quiet, Shyama could feel the anticipation building in everyone around him and the air was heavy with it.

A loud collective cheer broke it like a thunder clap and shouts thronged the air.

"Jai ShriRam! Jai Jai ShriRam"

The dasis were showering flowers on the street and there were cries from the older ones in the balcony.

"It has been 14 years, oh god, I thought he would never come back", cried old Duvarya. One of the younger ones interjected,"but, he...he is so...I mean...------"

Shyama, who did not hear the uttered word, wondered what she could find incongruous in the prince.

"be careful about what you speak of, you young imbecile. he is the lord, reincarnate of the Lord Vishnu, heir to the Suryavamsha and true King of Ayodhya. You dare say that about him? So is our young master, isn't he?"

It was evident that they hadn't seen him yet. Else they would not be speaking about him. Still, he wondered what he had in common with the prince that drew that interjection from the dasis.

Curiosity welled up inside him as he resolutely pushed away at the line and finally got a glimpse of the road.

There were throngs of ministers, soldiers, generals, vassals, courtiers and noble men along with the Regent-King Bharata standing in front of the small party of three. The crowd all around them was chanting Rama's name and as in his balcony, all around the street, flower petals were being showered upon him. All the houses were lit up with millions of oil lamps and the whole seen shimmered like an unreal vision of Swarga.

All for Rama, the prince who came back.

Rama, who was as black as him.

He never thought about the Apothecary's room ever.