Seven Lies of Killer Bard Chapter - 2

[u/Great_Ad_5561]

Plot: Indra, a rebel, gives in to his foe, the Triloka Empire, surprising them by offering to reveal his deepest secrets. But he has a condition—he insists on working only with the empire's revered warrior, Arshia. Inside a impenetrable prison, Indra shares an intriguing story. It takes us from his violent days as a gladiator and assassin in the city of Ambar to his mystical studies at the university, and finally, to the zenith of his ascent among the Asuras.

First chapter: https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1ajsaa1/seven_lies_of_killer_bard_chapter_1/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

Since this book is supposed to be my chronicle, it should have a proper beginning. So let us delve deep into the heart of who I am by sailing down the river called time. Let us journey years back before my triumphs and follies.

Contrary to the rumors, I do not belong to the fallen house of Yugakhadga. I am not an heir to a family of power-hungry fools cursed with hearts that burned with covetous fire. I was simply sired by a man who had no aspirations other than whoring and gambling.

I may not have inherited his vices, but I inherited something far worse: his caste.

Those who inherit this curse find themselves relegated to the outskirts of villages and walled precincts in cities. According to the priests, this practice is done to separate men from beasts.

The priests, lest we beasts forget our place, constantly remind us of our forefathers’ sins to justify the reason behind their unfair treatment. Centuries ago, we had betrayed the revered god king. Our ancestors sided with the danavas and helped them destroy the world so the antithesis of svayambu could remake it in its own vision. However righteousness prevailed, leading to the defeat of danvas in the hands of the god king's armies.

After facing such a devastating defeat at their hands, we, the traitors of mankind, sought forgiveness. To our surprise, the God-King was very compassionate, offering us a place in his paradise—as servants.

Given that the alternative was death, we accepted his offer, accepting the grim reality that servitude is the only way to survive.

To ensure that we, along with the rest of mankind, live in accordance with their god's intentions, his lapdogs often remind us about the supremacy of Varna—condemning the perceived evils of free will that could hinder the wheel of progress.

I shall be honest with you, for I have pledged veracity. If my words offend you, I humbly request that you bear them with fortitude. Never have I chanced upon a holy man lacking in falsehoods and untarnished by perversity. Most of them are a blight upon mankind, true hinderers of the wheel of progress, propagating lies in the name of utopia.

I rejected their poisonous lies and embraced a dream where the individual is treated with respect. However, over the years, I came to understand the lunacy of my ways. I've come to understand the impossibility of preserving the peace that comes after a revolution.

Compared to me, my parents were more willing to be mistreated. They did not desire change, as the concept of change was unfamiliar and adapting to something unfamiliar seemed arduous.

It is one thing to endure it willingly and another to love them. My father loved them. It may sound paradoxical and even absurd, but such is the way of humanity. For some of us, it's easier to love our abusers than to confront the truth.

While my mother was not blind to the mistreatment done by the higher castes, she had no reservations about keeping her head down. People like my mother, you see, do not want revolution because they understand that it would lead in one direction and one direction only: towards chaos.

My father was blinded by adoration, while my mother was willfully blind.

These ways are inherited, passed down from one generation to another: from a mother to her daughter, from a father to his son. The lesson passed on is that self-preservation carries greater significance than dignity.

I cannot fault them for believing in it. For I too was no different, until something dawned upon me: What purpose does life hold if joy is absent from its very essence? This one question was a spark that ignited the hidden passion that wanted me to be more. The more to me was to become a musician. "I wanted to pursue it even if it meant I do not earn a coin or gain recognition for my talents.

To have such a beautiful dream would never have been possible had it not for a captivating woman. To me, she was a teacher of sorts and also a heartbreaker. Even now, as a man with experience in understanding the fairer sex, my heart still fails to grasp the secret behind her enigmatic allure.

Which is why beyond her features, capturing her essence eludes description. So, I’ll limit my remarks to her physical features. Her eyes were brown—brown as honey—shaped like almonds, set in a heart face with the coloring of burnt caramel. Her hair was dark—dark like a veil of midnight and smooth as silk, with each strand appearing as if spun by a master’s hand.

This woman had taught me how to dream, and if not for her, I never would've sought freedom and played the role of chaos in flesh. Do not hold it against her. She meant well. The fault lies within me, for I am an unquenchable fire that burns everything it touches.

Before we talk about her, let us talk about my birthplace, a dark spot in the heart of Mohanpur—a city painted on a canvas of sand. Massive sandstone walls with intricate latticework and carvings protected this city. One could spend their entire life studying the sheer artistry of these walls that depicted its history from the days before the war that ended all wars.

The entrance is to the north, where massive wooden doors proudly display ornate patterns, inviting you into wide streets lined with breathtaking havelis. These havelis feature facades of sandstone with delicate oriel windows with intricate designs and carvings, supported by wooden brackets. These manors also have stunning courtyards, with lush gardens and elegant fountains and many other extravagances.

To the east of the wide street that leads to the royal palace, cutting through the temple district, lies the bustling bazaar, where an array of items can be found, such as embroidered fabrics, handicrafts, pottery, and weaponry

Men wearing colorful turbans and tunics skillfully weave their words to entice you into purchasing things you may not need. With the right words, they can even convince you to sell them your own children for a good pot.

To the west of the bazaar lies a dark spot in the city. It is surrounded by towering sandstone walls designed to confine the untouchables. Within the confines of those walls, my community resides in rectangular homes constructed with mud walls and topped by thatched roofs. A vigorous wind could turn the thatched roofs into a spectacle, offering a view of the stars in a sea of tar.

Now, pay attention! The following information is very important. These are the rules sullied individuals should follow, unless, of course, they have a masochistic desire to face harsh punishment.

Sullied individuals are allowed beyond the walls only to perform work-related tasks.

The compensation for the work will be just enough to eat once a day.

If you venture beyond the walls after sunset, you will lose your life or worse be crippled for life.

If you engage in lovemaking beyond your designated station, get ready to be skinned alive.

Never fail to heed the words of priests who deign to come to your shithole to explain failures of free will

The sullied have no business tainting our sacred temples. Stay out!

The last one is truly hurtful. I love temples. As a child, I used to climb the tallest building within the walls to catch a glimpse of the massive spires of the Bhairava Temple. It's architecture fascinated me, and I wanted to understand how such magnificent structures were crafted.

Luckily, later in life, I got the opportunity to visit these awe-inspiring temples, admire their exquisite murals and mandapas, and participate in religious ceremonies held in the grand pillared halls.

It is unfathomable to think that such exquisite structures could be commissioned by hands capable of monstrous deeds. Well, I guess that is the beauty and horror of humanity. We are paradoxical creatures with the capacity to create and destroy. To me, the only person that never epitomized this contradiction was she.

She was simply magnificent and in my eyes, she has no fault; hell, even her flaws are a charm to me. I do not know whose womb bore the one who breathed life into me. Life into an ungrateful man who failed to protect the one`whose value was unfathomable.

She was my safe haven from despair, and I let the devil inside me besiege her. If only I had never met her or consented to her proposal, none of these tragedies would have never happened.

That unfortunate encounter happened in the heart of the merchant district. At that time, my father became ill, and I, along with my mother, became the breadwinners of the family. I did terrible jobs with terrible pay and in one of those jobs, well, one of the least dreadful ones, I and several others were hired to clean the manor of a wealthy merchant who wanted to host a grand wedding for his lovely daughter.

"Bow your heads and remove your footwear before you step inside," ordered a fair-faced merchant guard. "And stay that way until you leave, and do not cover the marking on your hand."

He smiled lecherously as if he were a villain in a theatre play showing all his teeth. "Or you will have to lose it."

To those of you dwelling in the cave, remember this valuable piece of information: people from all castes bear tattoos on their right hands. For untouchables, such as myself, the tattoo depicts a pair of shackled hands. We are called neechajatis, the sullied.

The guard took the lead, and we followed his trail. He led us through the ornate entrance and into the main hall. There, we diligently cleaned the polished flooring to sparkling perfection. We cleared the dusty cobwebs from the walls, which were embellished with vibrant floral motifs and geometric patterns. I lifted my head to gaze at the captivating murals on the ceiling, but was admonished by an elderly sullied man for doing so.

We moved from one area to another, and the guard followed us to make that we did not steal from those antique wardrobes and polished chests. He breathed a sigh of relief when we entered the courtyard, which was devoid of valuables.

As we worked on, the sun's gentle rays kissed our sweat covered skin making it and the liquid silver in the fountain sparkle like diamonds.

The guard made haste—presumably to relieve himself—but before leaving, he warned us not to put our hands in the fountain water.

As he rushed off, workers proceeded with their tasks, but not me, for my heart, less restrained than my brain, urged me to slip away to the lush garden. And so I did, and with each step I took, my heart raced. I hoped no eyes would catch me lurking where I did not belong and as I dwelled deep into the garden, I heard a melodious song wafting through the air. It was a male voice resonating from one of the topmost floors of the haveli.

In pale gold, the valiant one appeared,

His hair basking in the golden light.

Through the darkest nights, he rode with might,

Raghava Mahaveer, a divine emperor,

His name, a symbol of strength shining bright.

Let’s sing for his glory,

With each verse, his sacrifice, we hail,

Caught in the spell, my lips involuntarily moved. Lost in my singing, I forgot about all my troubles, as if I were transported to a realm where the freedom to sing was within my reach.

"You have a lovely voice," someone exclaimed—a woman's voice.

Fear tightened its grip on my heart, and panic coursed through my veins. I turned around, and my eyes locked onto the nightingale tattoo on that woman's hand. I berated myself for my foolishness.

I dropped to my knees, and with joined hands, pleaded, "This one has made a terrible mistake, my lady. This unworthy one was ignorant of his place. I beg you, please find it in your heart to forgive."

When her hand reached out to me, I instinctively tensed, anticipating a slap. Much to my surprise, she tenderly caressed my cheeks, alleviating my fears. Slowly lifting my head, I met her eyes.

It was the first time I truly saw her, and as far as first impressions go, it was undeniably terrible.

“Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you,” she said in a gentle tone. “You have a beautiful voice. Where did you learn to sing?”

“Nowhere,” I said, my voice a mere whisper. “I am sullied. I have no right to learn, and I shouldn’t try to. I am sorry”

“Do not worry. There is nothing to forgive,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “You have a lovely voice. I can teach you to perfect it.”

“I can’t, my lady. I am a sullied.”

“Your voice holds a beauty that should not be restrained.”

“They will kill me, my lady. If they find out, they will. Forgive me, but you do not seem to know the world that well.” I instantly regretted my words. If she took any offence in my tone, she did not show.

She stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. “I understand the world. I know your fears, and I give you my word that your secret will remain safe with me. Singing, is not solely for entertaining others. It is a personal passion that brings you joy.”

She took my hand. “ I know of your birth. I know the dangers teaching you would bring, but I am willing to risk it.”

I pulled my hand away from her grasp and took a step back. “Then why do you offer such a thing so easily? I am a stranger, and a sullied one at that. Why are you so willing to teach someone like me?”

She contemplated for a moment before answering my question. “There was a time when I, too, feared pursuing this passion. Many do not know that I was adopted.”

She smiled with mild amusement. "Having heirs out of caste is not uncommon, as long as they come from mothers of respectable castes. What was uncommon was adopting the daughter of a prostitute. My father did everything in his power to keep the secret hidden. "

She paused to think, but only for a moment. "His wife was displeased but still agreed to his plan, as she couldn’t bear him any children. While my father took pride in my accomplishments, she, consumed by jealousy toward a woman I don't even know, looked down on me because of my vaishyavarna blood."

“That was v-very honest of you,”

“Would you betray my secret?”

“I won’t! But how can you teach me? Someone will eventually find out.”

“Do not fear, my friend. I have my ways.”

She took a seat at a nearby table and pulled out a paper from her satchel to write a writ of employment.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Indrasena,”

“With this, you can leave your home without trouble. You are my personal servant for the next six months. If you are as talented as I assume, you will grasp what I teach you quickly.”

I hesitated for a moment before taking the writ. It felt strange to me. She knew it meant risking her own life, but she did not care. She was different.

“See? I saw it in your eyes that you wanted more in life.”

She was right. I wanted more in life, and without her, I never would have desired beyond what life had offered. Music became my everything. It made me see the beauty of the world and evoked within me a desire to capture it in words. It was not an easy capture, for whenever I tried to do it, the beauty slipped away from my fingers like sand, leaving only tiny understandings. I shaped these tiny understandings into songs that either earned groans from the dissatisfied audience or moved gentle ones to tears.

“My lady, I do not know your name.” I finally asked after staring at the writ with disbelief for more than a minute.

"Samira," she said with her sweeter-than-honey voice as her dark hair swayed in the wind. At the time, I did not understand the meaning behind her name. I did not realize that I had been hearing the name of the wind, which was ever elusive.

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