(Book 5) Hayden Mackay and The Pride of Haima-Endira

10.2 The Hidden Dynasty

The man pushed aside a concrete circular door, the size of a manhole cover. The feeling of suspense that I had all my way down to this side of the street was now overridden by an awful sense of deja vu. How many times had I passed along this very street? The location was covered with overgrown dried grass and stacked rocks. An entrance to something large and peculiar hidden beneath this thatched area could be anyone's guess, right?

"Please, follow us," the man said. He seemed overly polite and respectful, that I could do nothing but be the same.

Nodding at him, I studied the boy's hostile attitude. He somehow reminded me of the Singh before the challenge in his realm, who had been doubting my disposition until I succeeded to prove myself to be different. The boy gave me a cold shoulder and descended down, holding the stairs leading to the underground shelter where they claimed dynasty to be hiding.

It was getting darker as I stepped further down. Slowly the blackness seemed to be pushing away by lanterns and oil lamps hung on the stone walls beside the stairs. There should be around a zillion threads since I kept stepping down and the ground nowhere getting closer. The smell was hard and of decaying leaves. Wherever I was being led to, definitely had one advantage though. The warmth and dryness should be worth it as if forever living in a comforting embrace of an Eskimo jacket.

I let out a huge sigh on finally stepping down the last thread. The distinct mummers rang in my ears, eventually realizing that it was the sound of busy people at work. Panting and heaving, I swallowed heavily to clench my thirst. I gazed across. And on perceiving what I was actually staring at, my heart thudded like a drum beneath my chest.

It was an endless sea of people, hidden in this confined huge chamber built underground that seemed like an age-old catacomb crackled to life. There was an exhilarating feeling as I walked inside watching the men and women, immersed in the day to day activities that were supposed to be done in their own respective huts underneath the glowing sun.

"Look," said the boy, grudgingly, "what your grandfather has left us to live with."

"Don't get started, Yuvan!" said the man, "It's not just anyone you're complaining to."

"Hold on a second," I hedged the man and fixed my focus on the boy. Somehow there was an overwhelming feeling of possessiveness. "Before we start off on the wrong foot, I want to know what your problem is. Care to explain?"

He looked at the man and then back at me. He didn't care what the former one's opinion was. "My mother died giving birth to me, here, in this dark catacomb. Oh how lucky she must be, to die and get cremated in the same spot. She died because there were not enough resources to take her to the infirmary at the right time. King of Sharad denied to send us help because Panchayat didn't allow him to. What a great country it is!"

"Yuvan, stop!"

"Please," I said to the man, "Let him speak."

"For the past twenty-five years, we have been living in this crude. Families separated only by a thin sheet of cardboard. Sharing meals among thousands of people. Deaths and cremations every day. Children crying for an extra drop of milk. There are seven other dynasties up and running, their kings taking utmost care, why is this the only dynasty suffering?"

I remained silent.

"Your grandfather believed that the Knight Yodhin Ojha was a traitor and died leaving his family and the others to lead this life. According to him, we are safe from Shashi and Almourah. But he wasn't realizing he was shredding his own dignity by dumping us down here. And these innocent people blindly believe that the King has given us a sanctuary to live. Where are we living? Aren't we are equal to a dead because we are forever stuck underground?"