The Flowers Are Lovely

The first crowing of the cock echoed through the green fields, laden with their yellow wealth. The fragrant morning breeze blew over the undulating terrain, lifting the veil of sleep and silence wrapping the village by the diamond - specked sky of the night before. The weariness of the hot bygone day blew away with the first breath of fresh air.

At long last the day all were waiting for had arrived- the marriage of the village sarpanch's daughter. Everyone in the village had been invited to the great feast that was to take place - everyone except Mohan because he was an outcast, who lived with his family in a remote corner of the village, close to the dense forest.

Every morning Mohan woke up, as usual, fearing to face the light of the new day. To him, the sun and the darkness hardly made any difference for nothing on earth could illuminate the gloom and the eternal night of his life - Lady Fortune had abandoned him the moment he was born of a low caste couple, and the untouchable blood that throbbed in his vein had sealed his fate.

Destiny was his only guide leading him through the bitter experiences of life. Mohan had believed his fate and followed his destiny, waiting patiently for the moment when the final blow would remove all his sorrows. Yet, he was a man with a wife and two children, a broken heart and a broken house, battling hopelessly against the vast and cruel world. His cries had always been drowned by the laughter of the other villagers, his pleas had echoed fruitlessly through the halls of the superiors. Justice of an independent nation had, for once, turned a deaf ear to this old cripple.

The door of the dilapidated hut flew open and two young children, aged six or seven, rushed out into the morning rain. They were thin and pale with long locks of hair falling over their eyes, and tattered loin clothes carefully wound around their waist. Momentarily the sound of childish laughter rose over the singing and dancing as the children wove their way through the thickets and stones to enter the great forest. There was a big Ashoka tree with fiery red blossoms interlacing the young green leaves, and often the children would go to sleep under the gigantic branches, - they would forget that they were the brutal victims of a merciless world, silent sufferers who never knew what was better, but always dreaded the fearful worse.

Back in the broken hut, the old couple quarreled."But its Mallu's birthday" implored Meera, the old woman. But I ain't got anything left!" sighed Mohan.

Then there was a long silence. Then the soft feminine voice broke in once again, "There is still the brass plate that we really don't need - ."

After the morning shower, the sun and the laughter rose high in the sky and slowly the day drew to a rapid conclusion. Once again, Mohan wished this to be the last sun that he ever saw. Perhaps his prayer was heard; perhaps it only resounded in the darkness.

At the same time when Mohan said his prayers, there was a commotion in the village proper. Mani had lost ten rupees and he thought that Mohan had stolen it."Didn't you see him come to the village" he yelled at the fast gathering crowd, " Today the man was buying milk and sugar! The same man who lived on rice and salt! That swine! That thief! Kill him, bury him alive." The villagers rose to the occasion - the red sky and the heavy atmosphere echoed: Kill him! Bury him alive!

Like the dying flame of an ancient lamp, Mohan's life light flickered. In the dark night, Mohan settled to celebrate Mallu's last birthday. There were no cakes or candles, no lights or laughter. The broken house was aglow with the smile of two young children, their eyes mesmerized by the sight of hand - made bread and the kheer their mother had prepared. The loss of the brass plate was hidden by the young dimpled smiles and the sumptuous meal placed before them.

Through the open window, a gentle breeze blew. As Meera looked out, her blood ran cold. In the distance, she could see the villagers with lighted torches in their hands. The fearful truth dawned upon her. Mohan had just sat for dinner when the words, "Open, you thief, son of a pig - " broke the silence. Mohan froze. Death was knocking at the door the moment he felt the things were turning for the better. God had heard his ill-fated prayer.

Meera stood up hastily. There were tears in her eyes as she led the weeping children to a broken window - tears of sorrow as well as happiness. As the children dissolved in the darkness, the door broke open.

The shriek and agonizing cries echoed for a long while, through the silent green fields, before they came to an abrupt stop. The flames of the blazing hut rose high in the sky, as it strove to draw the attention of the heaven above. The dimly lit stars stood silent witnesses to this atrocity.

In the forest, a brother and a sister wiped away each other's tears. Mohan's life will never reach the pages of history, nor will anyone strive to wipe the invisible tears that he shed - he was an outcast who deserved his fate!

Death's hunger it seemed was insatiable, as the frenzied villagers, unable to find the children or the money, turned towards the forest.

Mallu and Velu sat gasping and panting at the foot of the Ashoka tree." The blossoms are lovely, aren't they?" asked Mallu. Velu smiled, doubts and fears slowly lifting from his mind. He bent to kiss his sister. " We are safe" he whispered. The daggers struck them even as he spoke. There was a stifled groan and that was all.

"Off with their clothes. They have hidden the money - " somebody screamed. The tattered clothing was torn off, but a few fragrant roses were all they could find. The wind was getting turbulent, the sky was turning dark. Someone said something about the storm and the villagers hastily retreated.

The first light of dawn broke through the sky to look upon the smouldering wreck which had once been a home. Then, as the sun rose, penetrating the darkness of the deep forest, one could see the Ashoka tree with its blossoms strewn around its feet. Amidst the bed of red and white blossoms, lay two children, drenched in their own blood. As the morning breeze of the new day blew over the motionless figures, the silence became loud with the immortal joy and laughter of two innocent children, and the leaves whispered, "The flowers are lovely. "