::: BEAUTY LIVE IN THE WORLD :::

The peace across the vast stretches of land from the magnificent mountains to the dreaded deserts had been perished by the pandemonium spewed over the once prosperous earth by the never ending wars and battles. Clans after clans obliterated, kingdoms after kingdoms annihilated and live after lives destroyed by nothing more than the mere plenitude of cupidity, detestation and idiocy of the dark rulers, sinister sorcerers and demented demons.

To end this all, it was time once again. The Aurumus Aera (the Golden Era) spanning a hundred thousand years had ended, leaving the moribund earth to be rejuvenated by a legend. A legend who would rid this world of further suffering.

Today was the day that the warrior would commence upon a lone quest to begin a new era for the Earth. The chosen one has to be entirely of the Yang clan which had control over the elements of the earth; it was clear that the only ceremony the prevailing Yang clan ever partook in had to be the most imperative amongst all lesser festivities minor clans celebrated. The fate of the entire world rested upon the choices made by the conclave of Yang warriors that day.

But this hero wasn’t chosen to save the righteous but to destroy the guilty, he wasn’t chosen to pave the way for the future but put the present at ease and he wasn’t chosen to introduce a sense of security to the people, but to diminish all aspects of hope for the oppressors. What the chosen warrior would do was not cleanse the stains of sins of every man but expunge every man who were stained with sin. And just like the many great warriors of the past had ushered in the Aurumus Aera, he would rid the world of all evil by bringing about darkness just to follow the bright dawn.

Today, the ritual had begun and the clan was silent, silent and seated on the grassy patch of the dense dark forest the race has originated from. The Praesidium Arboris (the Protection Trees), the forest that had witnessed the rise and fall of great Elders and the dark and golden ages of the tribe — the forest that would yet witness another historic event. Hidden beyond the towering trees of the Praesidium Arboris and covered by a sheath of fog, the staid guild gathered around the Elder perched on a high round stand bearing the emblem of this wind clan. At either side of the Central Elder were two lesser Guides, those who were next in line to be the much respected Elder who served as a fundamental part of the race; negotiating with other tribes and acting as a source of never ending power and support.

“Today,” spoke the Elder in a stentorian voice which belied his frail frame, “We decide upon our fate, we decide upon our future. Today, we summon the Valde Proeliator [the Great Warrior] and his Dracon [the Dragon]! ”

Whispers. Murmurs. Questions. They knew the purpose of this meeting of course, but who, who would the Savior be? Who was the most skilled of warriors? Who had the courage to shed their earthly desires for the greater good? Who had the will to survive in a world drowned in the black innards of evil? And who had the strength to carry upon this burden of being the only one who could deliver the world from madness? Questions whose answers the future depended on. A wave of the hand by the Elder silenced all again.

“It is time to summon the warrior’s Dracon and it is this very beast who will answer the question we all have pondered upon since the last Valde Proeliator walked upon this earth!”

He spread his frail but sure hands in front of him chanting, murmuring spells and calling upon his years of magical learning to build up a force within him. Spreading across the air between his hands, a tiny but blinding light came forth, floating over the heads of gaping clan and unto the denser region of the forest, disappearing altogether from sight.

A distant rumbling was heard which came closer and closer until finally, beyond the tall trees and the silver mist, an immense being moved, immediately triggering trepidation among the onlookers. As the behemoth began to take form, the warriors could fathom the reptilian head, the scaly wings and the massive lumbering body of the beast: a dragon. Not the puny rogue dragons one could see fluttering in the skies like dazed moths but the one dragon that could bring upon salvation to the world. The movement ceased. The dragon had arrived and lifted its colossal head searching, seeking its master. Slowly it rested its eyes on an isolated figure away from the horde gathered around it.

One warrior remained standing, away from the crowd. Like the others, he too wore a long black robe covering his head to his toe but he wasn’t looking at the dragon but downwards, his face covered by his striking silver hair. Aware of a mythical presence, he lifted his head to face the dragon which had already transfixed its blue cat eyes upon him. And he knew. He looked amused as the dragon walked up to him, awkwardly shifting amidst the massive weight of its body and bowing its massive scaled head low towards the ground.

The onlookers froze in disbelief. He was Yue. A newcomer. And never before in the history of the Yang clan had a newcomer been the chosen one. The earlier Valde Proeliators had all been burly fully fledged warriors trained to protect and qualified to destroy. But this young saviour was hardly a warrior. He had discovered his control over the elements only a few weeks back. In the clan’s eyes, he was unqualified but unbeknownst to them the Elder sensed his perspicacious eyes carried depth that could draw in what the world had in store for him. Of course some protested and others scowled while several valiant ones stepped up to take his place. But all were silenced when Dracon gusted forth a jet of flames from his crusty nostrils towards a row of trees instantly reducing them to dust. The sanctimonious beast had spoken and nothing could be done now.

Settling in to the decision and what was to follow, the Elder commenced to complete the second task that he had to accomplish. Carefully, he pulled out a grand sword from a heavily encrusted hilt, the Vita Gladius, the Sword of Life, rumoured to revive thousands and kill millions.

“Seek and destroy our enemies, the Fallen Angels and the Lost Demons.” The Elder declared as he handed the sword to the next redeemer. Yue extended his hands, composed yet confident, to the hilt of the sword.

Liking the feel of his weapon, he carefully placed it inside his robe, inside his sash. And as he laid hands on the great silver behemoth - Dracon — the rest of the warriors looked on. He lifted his piercing blue eyes and placed them unto the rest of the clan. While the race bowed down to him prepared for their fate, his outstretched palms conjured up a powerful life orb which absorbed the breath out of everyone in the conclave, using their energies to build up his own clout, his own life force. The sacrificed Clan would rise again from the ashes of their newly chosen warrior but for now they all fell as would the sinners and the demented.

And for the Valde Proeliator, no one would be a part of his journey now. No one would be his pillar of support. On his own and towards the unknown he set flight upon his beast — towards his destiny and towards the world that he would seek to conquer.

She stands there in my garden, beautiful and grand, spreading her branches out as far as she can to give shade and fruit. For almost seventy years she has been the pear tree that was the envy of all who came to visit us. The garden was attractive indeed, but the pear tree held a special place for those visitors and relatives who had the privilege of hearing or witnessing real-life experiences that centered around her.

As kids, we came home from school in Darjeeling once a year for three months during the winter season. There was always the excitement and anticipation about sitting around the clay makkal on the warm floor of the common family room and listening to stories about spirits and ghosts that supposedly lived around the tree.

On those cold winter nights, my mother made it a point that after supper, we sisters sit in a small circle with the makkal in the middle—close enough to be warm and comfortable. So it was a discipline that we maintained each winter. My mother would pour glycerin into our hands followed by some drops of lemon. We would then rub the palms of our hands together, place our hands over the glowing fire and rub our faces and neck with the potion which would prevent our faces from chapping. It was almost like the “happy hour” that I and my friends often enjoy talking about—things that range from politics to spiritualism!

My mother who by then would have chatted with us, heard our enthusiastic and lengthy tales about school, the nuns, events, etc. would leave us happy that we were progressing well in studies, that we loved school and were excited to be home.

Then began our happy hour as Badi, the stately lady who was the focal character of our household, told tales about the saga of the pear tree. Widowed in childhood, Badi left her home in the mountains, as many young Brahmin widows did in those days, and descended to Kathmandu. We never asked her details about her life then as we did later, but knew that she was no maid in our house but a part of the family who jealously guarded every bit of the premises. And there was Hari, a young cook, who would sit with us at times confirming and reconfirming those eerie tales about the white khyaks (ghosts) that slipped in and out of the trunk of the pear tree in the dead of night.

We looked on, wide-eyed, listening to these tales and digested every bit because we had been used to hearing stories about those kichkandees—female witches, beautifully charming and cunning—who lured men, chased them and destroyed them. Such stories about those witches with flowing hair, heels in front of the foot and toes behind, went around Darjeeling like wildfire and names of men, often love-lorn students who studied till the late hours of the night became victims, obsessed by these vivacious witches who sucked their blood and turned them into skeletons till they withered away and died.

Hari, the cook, full of wit and energy, would swear that these white, child-like, male, luminous ghosts floated out of the tree trunk every night and skirted the compound only to return and slip back inside the trunk. And sensing our fear as we clutched each other’s hands, as if never to let go, he said there was no need to be afraid. These were the good ones who were harmless and had the power to bring joy, health and wealth The black Khyaks were to be feared as a bad omen, for they had brought about illness, bankruptcy and death amongst many families. And so these stories were confirmed by our immediate neighbours as well as the milkman, the vegetable walla, the big stout halwai, the sahuji, the nagini—the local manicurist, and our even our conservative next-door neighbours who looked upon my parents with great awe and curiosity, unable to fathom how they remained poised and content with seven daughters on their heads and no son! It was whispered in the neighbourhood that the compound was blessed by these khyaks that bestowed such calm and quiet.

The pear tree and her inmates knew it all. The wise spirits had seen the struggles and the challenges so that any visitor to the house went away with great admiration for my parent’s contentment, zeal and forward vision.

The years rolled by and the bungalow with the pear tree fell into my lot. My curiosity about the angelic ghosts remained and many a night I circled the tree, listening to the faint ruffling sounds inside the tree trunk which, with time, has become hollow. The khyaks are now accompanied by a naga (serpent) that stealthily makes a dutiful round of the premises and slides back into the trunk. It has been many years now—ghost and man have learned to live in peace and the pear tree, so old and weary will one day, I’m sure, open it’s secret about the good little khyaks and the gracious naga.

That will happen soon enough, for the tree is tired, her branches no longer sway gently in the wind as before but threaten to snap at the slightest use of force. The ugly crows have become territorial, snapping at other birds that dare chirp on her branches. The pears have shriveled in size and number. Wriggly worms are regular visitors. Yet she does not give up!

And as long as she clings on so dearly to life so will the ghosts who have been her companions.

The evening comes on with a gush of wind followed by dusk when all is quiet. I watch, earnestly waiting to witness the comings and goings of these spirits and to listen to the sweet rustlings within the hollow of the tree. I have not been fortunate enough to see them but have heard their sweet music and know that someday, a treasure hunt awaits me when the pear tree reveals her secrets and how she mesmerised her little friends to grant us those blessings. The naga is rarely seen—but is still believed to be there.

Meanwhile my fears have turned into strength with a tenacity of—Come what may! The legacy of the pear tree will continue—the music may change but the spirit will live on.