THE MAHAL'S STORY

It was a may day – hot and sultry- and I was just out of routine. Theory and history have taken a toll on my sense of real and practical – ‘ities’. I was home and it had just rained the previous day. Thunder showers are a reprieve, some say but it has to rain heavily in order to entirely realize the respite. It rained. The night was dark, power-less as well as mosquito-less. However, the next morning was hot and sultry, un-respite-fully.

We went to a betrothal - My Uncle’s. He was a chemist in the Arab emirates. He was a guy who went the hard way up. The Mahal wore a festive look. There were songs in the air. The spicy chicken masala’s sailed past our noses. Noices, cries, whispers and confusion. Everything happened except the betrothal. For they were waiting … actually… were made to wait.

The bride-to-be was nowhere to be seen. The man-to-be was anxious. Actually the ambience made him act that way. There were allegations and the tones that rose, arose to create only problems. However, nothing deterred the would-be couple. They acted the way they ought to. Then the unexpected happened.

The power went off. The Mahal was filled with exhaled heat and mouthed clatters. It was de-silenced. If the Mahal had a story to tell, would it distinguish between the many functions it witnessed? How many festivities? – Grand and casual; People of different castes and classes; regions and religions; cultures and ethnicities. The Mahal knew none. However, it could have recognized a pattern in all the proceedings; A dramatic outline in the revelry. And it is performance that drives the social-real in. The Mahal of course has stories and it must be a million tales of a particular version. If its walls had had ears and its fans eyes; the versions we could have known might have been disturbing.

Ah the bride arrives… along with the noises/voices.
Lenny.