Keepers Of The Flame

As the vehicle pulled up to the main entrance of the mansion, Amulya, the royal chaperone opened his umbrella, for the rain would prove to be unkind on the elderly gentleman who would soon step out of the car. Everyone else had arrived. They were seated, feasted and ready for the session to start. But they couldn’t without the Patriarch. 

The Patriarch, all of five and a half feet stepped out in a khadi top and a plain white dhoti, carrying a briefcase. Amulya immediately assisted him with his journey up the steps and into the doors. 

The Patriarch thanked him by name and inquired about his wife’s health. 

“She’s doing fine sir. Eight months into her pregnancy. We are expecting twins,” he replied. 

The Patriarch looked up, raised his index finger and said “Good, good. When your family arrives, do bring them to Varanasi. I would love to bless your child personally.” 

“Most certainly sir, we would be grateful for your hospitality.” 

They entered the room where the others were seated. Plush, spacious with a magnificent chandelier gregariously decorated with diamonds descending so deep that it stopped just four feet above the table that nearly spanned the entire room. All seven of them were seated around the table. The Matriarch rose from her seat at the far end of the table, bowed slightly and resumed her seat. The Patriarch returned the gesture. Amulya kept the briefcase on the table next to the elderly gentleman, collected the empty glasses and plates, and took them away in the trolley. Once they heard the doors close behind them, they all looked at the Secretary. He scribbled something in his journal and said, “We may begin.” 

As was tradition, the Patriarch began the meeting, “Fellow keepers,” he said, ”The Prime Minister recently apprised me of the current security breach by our neighbouring country. The threat assessment was level ole.” 

All eight pairs of eyes expressed shock. Even the Secretary stopped noting down the minutes and looked up at the Patriarch. 

“We’ve never had a level one,” the Monitor was the first to speak. “Are you sure we did sir? Because the last time I checked the news was half an hour ago and the headline was about our anti-satellite missile demonstration this evening. No mention of a nuclear explosion in the country sir.” 

“That headline describes why the level one threat never came to be Monitor,” the Patriarch replied. 

At the other end of the table, the Matriarch took a sip of water and said, “Are you saying that the anti-sat demonstration was in fact not a demonstration?” 

The Patriarch nodded. “Our neighbour had launched a nuclear-powered missile to hit New Delhi from a satellite they had placed in low orbit last year. It was supposed to be a communication satellite with a light enough payload. Not even in my nightmares did I guess the payload in fact was a missile.” 

“The mere audacity!”, exclaimed the Monitor. 

“Kudos to the intelligence services and the army for acting swiftly,” the Overseer had joined in. “They’ve saved thousands. But then, we can’t disclose any of this to the fourth estate, can we? If everyone should know, the world will not be the same. Pandemonium, name calling, sanctions, fear and more audacious moves from trigger happy dictators.” 

The Blacksmith raised her hand. The Patriarch nodded. “Why are we here sir? Planning the next course of action in diplomacy or mobilising the armed forces is not our modus operandi.” 

 The Patriarch, listening intently with his hands resting on the table bent over to his side and pulled up the briefcase onto his lap. Opening it, he pulled out three sheets of papers, teal coloured, and placed them directly in front of him. Putting the briefcase back down, he turned to look at the seven seated in front of him and said, ”All of you here recognise these documents. They’ve aged for millennia and yet govern the actions of the country. Today I wish to bring your attention to paragraphs 7(A) and 23.” Putting on his spectacles, he continued, “The former, written circa 7861 B.C. states ‘For peace to exist, ye must be peaceful.’ He took off his lenses and called for a vote. He did not say what for. They all knew that if they raised their hands unanimously, their country, for the first time in ten thousand years, would invade another. It would no longer be the motherland they knew. 

No hand was raised. The Secretary scribbled his scribbles and looked up at the Patriarch. All of them breathed a sigh of relief. Their country would not instigate a war. 

The Patriarch moved on to the next paragraph, “Article 23, written in 1949 A.D. and enacted three times since then, states ‘If thy leader be unjust, justice shall descend unto thy leader’ now, our dear Prime Minister wants to go public with this information, take credit for the work of the armed forces and incite communal tensions by pitting one religion against the other. Those IN favour of enacting the articles justice?” 

All hands went up in unison. The Patriarch removed his lenses for the last time, kept the papers in the briefcase and said, ”Farmer, we look to you to carry out the task. As usual, we give the leader a choice. Resign or cease to exist. The Gardner shall arrange for fresh elections to be held. Meeting adjourned.” 

The doors opened. Amulya returned with a tray carrying each of the keepers’ belongings. As they rose, they chanted, ”Be it right or be it wrong, be thy weak or be thy strong, in the night and during the day, keep the flames forever shall you may.”