part0016

At the outskirts of Indragarh, the city was well-equipped with a number of villages, which aided the urban elites with agriculture, mining and husbandry. There were long tracts of green fields spread across the general landscape of lush forestry. They had no proper roads like in the city. They didn’t have charioteers or horses, but bullock carts, and some of them even travelled on foot. Houses were made of clay. They had their own panchayats and followed the city instructions, but had their own laws passed by the sarpanch.

Out of these villages, one of the most sheltered ones was Shambala—a five hundred people strong tenement, where inhabitants knew each other by the first name. They were famous for cow grazing and the exportation of milk to the city and thus they had flourished the most. Shambala was even gifted with large terrains and caves that no one dared to enter for fear of bad luck. There were sculptures and trees more than twenty feet in height. The biggest one was where Sarpanch Devadatta would sit with his men and pass judgments.

Arjan Hari was the first to know about the ill-fated news—INDRAGARH HAD BEEN TAKEN OVER. This was the talk of the village when Sarpanch Devadatta instructed the villagers to welcome the change open-heartedly.

“They say King Vedanta was defeated by the outcasts…”

“The Tribals are scary people…will they come after us?”

Villagers murmured, and whispers and rumours flew fast.

Devadatta promised that no such thing would happen if the compromise was met. “We knew the day would come where we would have to look up to new leaders. I have got the news first-hand that they do not seek the destruction of Indragarh but want a settlement for everyone to live in peace and harmony.” He pulled out a golden-coloured parchment and said, “We have been given the royal decree that even though there are changes in the city administration, the villages wouldn’t be affected and the relationship between us will remain absolutely the same as before. And only, if only we rebel, only then we shall be punished. Now let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, eh people? Same as before, a little stricter, but yeah, same indeed.”

Some said: “BAH! WHAT HORSESHIT!”

While others said: “It could be well for the development of Illavarti.”

Arjan partially knew the truth though, from what he had heard about the other cities. Unlike the villagers, Arjan had heard rumours about what had happened with Suryagarh—the entire treasury had been looted away, the army was replaced and the king was just a mere puppet. But most of all, the villages were burnt and instead cities had been erected. They cared about development, but in the wrong sense. In the name of harmony, the Tribals spread anything but that.

He left the meeting and rushed to his hut, where he had some bread and vegetable soup with his mother, Sumati Amma.

“Where is your brother?”

“Absolutely no idea.”

“Must be loitering around with that girl…”

“I suppose. You can’t blame him for being with her today since she came from the city after many years,” Arjan laughed. “Did you hear about King Vedanta?”

“Yes, and I hope it doesn’t affect us.”

Arjan assured it wouldn’t, though he knew he was lying to her.

“I just hope we get to keep our jobs since we have worked so much on it. You can’t really believe the Tribals. They are capable of just destruction and death.”

“No one will steal from us.”

She paused and composed her words. “Not when I have a brave warrior in our house.”

“You mean Kalki?”

“Shush. No, you.” She smiled.

“Thank you for the kind words.” Arjan came to his feet with his wooden bowl, moving to the sink and pouring some water from the jug to clean it.

Kalki had always been the more jovial and casual son, while Arjan had been the dependable one. It was a surprise how maturity struck Arjan earlier than Kalki, since Arjan was eight years younger than him.

“Are you leaving for work?” Sumati Amma asked.

“Yes.” And he placed the washed bowl on the side.

The setting sky bestowed the scenery with glimmering orange rays as Arjan walked to the pastureland, where his father, Vishnuyath, was working. He waved. His father glanced at him, sighing.

His father walked towards him after instructing his men to take the milk back to the warehouse. He stood, lanky, next to the bulky frame of Arjan. He wasn’t the most handsome man, Arjan believed. But he was a kind person, with eyes that had warmth in it.

“Earlier than him.”

“He hasn’t been coming for work for the last two days,” Vishnuyath cursed, walking over to Arjan.

The dairy farm had been part of Arjan’s family for generations, passed from the forefathers of Vishnuyath to the point that Vishnuyath had learnt everything about breeding, milking and herding before he had hit his teenage years. There was no injustice on the poor animals unlike other places, where cows were beaten and milk was forcibly taken from them. Milch animals were treated with foremost respect; acknowledged for their milk and dairy products, which imbued Shambala with its prosperity.

Arjan was proud of this fact though he found all of this a tad exhausting and boring. It was not fun—cows and milking. Not the most interesting thing for a young lad like him.

He began to work for the day, wondering what his older, careless brother was be doing as of now. And then, across the farthest stretch of the field, he saw silhouettes of horsemen, with their swords and lances high in the air.