The Nor’westers

The air was stifling. An eerie calm pervaded. The winds no longer blew and the birds watched in uneasy anticipation. The sun beat down on a parched earth. Markets were empty, businesses lay unattended. Even the Gods had to do without offerings. Men scurried about fearfully in haste, hurrying to return to the safety of their homes. Worry carved deep furrows in their foreheads. The fear and tension was palpable, as was anticipation. Dark clouds had ominously gathered. The forces from the south had marched for days and the indestructible army had now completely surrounded the city. For as far as the eye could see the battle formations lay in wait, as a tiger planning the fatal swoop on the hapless deer. The siege was on, battle imminent. The invaders had arrived.

It was inevitable, destined by the fates. The generals decided that the time had finally arrived. Massive flares lit up the southern skies and the tumultuous beat of the war drums rolled across the length and breadth of the city. The trumpets blew their deadly tunes – the soldiers were called to arms. The city drew in its breath in panic and waited, afraid to breathe. For a long moment, nothing happened. The silence was deafening, the inaction terrifying. Then a fierce cry of “Archers” rent the sky. The long bows were loaded and the strings stretched. The cavalry horses groaned and the war

machines tugged hard at the reins. The blood lust threatened to break free. And then the arrows were loosened. They tore through the skies and rained down upon the city. The attack had begun.

The attack was fierce. The attack was relentless. Quivers were emptied and arrows rained down upon the city incessantly. Totally incapacitate the city’s proud defenses, was it's goal. It was as if time had stopped. The skies darkened blotting out the sun, as the merciless arrows fell in a never-ending sequence, bringing forth absolute devastation. The parched earth lapped up the shed blood, as edifices crumbled under the onslaught. The winds howled in fury; trees were uprooted and the drains overflowed with red fluid. The cavalry charged and the cannons boomed in synchrony – participants in a macabre cosmic symphony. It was inevitable, destined by the fates. Under the sheer violence of the invasion, the city’s walls fell. Its defenses were breached. The tyrants of the city were humbled, the unbearable heat of their tyranny swept away. The conquering hordes swept through the city. The battle had been won.

And as the victorious army marched through in triumph, the vicious attack was halted. And in its place, a gentle benevolent radiance of reconstruction began. Like the gentle rain that nourishes and soothes a ravaged earth, the victors spread their munificence. The stench of death gave way to the sweet fragrance of mother earth. There was greenery sprouting everywhere. Gentle winds infused fresh life. Birds began to tweet again, and a grateful people bowed down in reverence. Children played, men embraced and women smiled. The sound of blowing conch shells rose in unison, the people sang the lilting tunes of the “malhar” and the temple bells chimed in prayer. There was joy everywhere again. The liberators had arrived. The monsoons had arrived.