Song of the Firebird

Eleven

The tablet on his front told him the route, ETA, speed of the aircraft, distance above the sea level and so many other things along with newly released movies and his mind was not ready to process those stuffs one thing at a time. Sure, he had to travel to the other part of the world– flying from New Jersey to Madurai, with two transits without getting up from his seat. And that was not an easy feat. What appeased him throughout the journey was food and sleep, which he doubted that the latter would ever last in his vacation.

Jay slowly rubbed his eyes with his palms, massaging them clockwise. Two hours into the journey, he thought that his eyes were starting to miss his computer screen. When something that had bothered us to exhaustion suddenly went out of the focus, our minds were unable to modulate the little peace that came after that period. Jay was starting to miss his dog and Natasha. The tables had turned, he thought.

***

'Mrs. Mullai, it is time you teach good manners to both your sons. Look at my son. Look how they beat him up! All for a GIRL!! You must be ashamed of giving birth to such boys-', the man wearing a half-sleeve kurta with cotton pants said to the woman in her fifties.

'One more word about my sons, Mr. Teja, you will incur the wrath of my ancestral gods!', the woman wearing a pastel blue cotton saree, roared. Though she had aged, she still had the respect and prestige she once had when she married the son of the village's wealthiest merchant. Messing up with a lady whose husband showered all time highest donations to the village would always invite trouble. 'Before you start talking, have you asked the story from my boys' side?'

Teja went silent. He shook his head.

'Well then, ask them now.!', she roared. She called out, 'PRATAP! PAARI! Come to the foyer right now. I know you both are hiding behind the stone maiden.'

Mullai looked towards the stone maiden. One sight at the house, no, mansion, one could say everything in it could sign up for examples of historical, more like ultra-traditional artifacts. Their mansion resembled more like those of an ancient hindu temple, with stone maidens and men on near every doors, a special pentagonal carving on the wall just to place earthen oil lamps, bells hanging from the main doors, peacock motifs adorning every door knobs, mythical stories on every walls, oil painted gigantic 3D floral motifs on every ceiling, a tulsi garden on the east side, a back garden bearing flowers and vegetables and a miniature chariot in the corner of the front porch. Portraits of over five generations of ancestors, men and women, equally graced their plain walls. The family didn't have a special place for worship since they believed that the gods are omnipotent– them being residing everywhere and are one. Most of the prayers were carried out in the pavilion behind the mansion, adjacent to the gardens. By the dusk, earthen lamps, besides the electrically powered ones light up the entire place, giving the mansion a celestial vibe to the outsiders. Lighting lamps had been carried out through generations, with the hope that it drew away the darkness in all forms. Thanks to Mullai, the house still hadn't lost its touch of traditional essence. That also was the sole reason that made other residents in their village look up at her in awe and with respect. Everything she said was considered as equally as a man's decision. No other women gave the same vibe as hers.

Two figures slowly crept out of the sculpture. Two boys of almost equal heights, resembling almost similar, but not twins. Moustache was the only thing that differentiated them.

The one with the moustache came forward and the other tailing him, concealed in his features. They both had this fear in their faces. They were raised to be brave but they fear their mother– the person who fed them, bent them to her will and who loved them like they were her world.

As they marched towards her, they could hear her talking. 'Where is the other one?'

The once-hidden figure showed his face. She then continued, 'So, it's you then. The one who beat the boy black and blue.' He nodded. He seemed more like a teenager. He wore white shirt and khaki pants, the local high school uniform. The other boy wore a white cotton sleeveless vest and a red traditional south Indian dhoti.