It was a happy place; happiness built on the foundations of unconditional
faith and kept by the power of love. It was a place where the heart learned the
wisdom of love, and the mind romanced every shade of the truth; where the timid
soul borrowed courage from the legends of the greats, and the wayward wits
sought direction in showers of dazzling light. It was a place where music
permeated the very being, and like the cheeky bard at a Khan’s court, the
spirit sang merrily without fear or regret; a place where color infused life’s
every beautiful face, and the miraculous downpours of the monsoon made the
bright shine brighter. It was a monument to eternal love, white, like the
purity that reigned at its core, and red, like the smoldering embers of separation
which kindled this love. It was where the wounded heart returned for solace and
sanctuary, and all that was ever broken could be mended with sagely words exchanged
softly, intimately; where the habit of giving was extolled over the pious
virtue of remaining constantly expectant; where the summer was the coolest time
of the year, and the winter beneficent in the warm glow of companionship. It
was a place that stood out like an island of serenity amidst a swollen river of
noxious decay.
He was the unquestioned master of this unlikely bastion of blessed living. He had built it up from naught, snatching away his birthright from the fangs of injustice. Upon his command the spring spread its cornucopia of color; the furrow of his regal brow deterred autumn from stealing away the greenery of his fief. His code of honor defined life; his sense of order set the plane of existence. He spoke with the cumulative wisdom of ages; he laughed that infectious laugh which never failed to fill his universe with mirth. He spoke and the world was mesmerized; he spoke and the most subdued of listeners got swept away in conversation. But carefully, respectfully, for no one high or low dared raise their voice to his. For his was a voice, like a clap of thunder; resonating across time through the halls and chambers; echoing far beyond the perimeters of his keep. That voice preserved the labors of his love; that voice daunted the ugliness from breaking in. Once alone was there a breach. Feeble in body, yet steadfast in spirit, he stood like a colossus in the face of a pygmy assault, compelling the enemy to retreat with shame in the eye and muffled apology on the tongue. That was to be his last stand. Not long after, that majestic voice would only be heard in the echoes it left behind.
His strength was not his alone. It was derived from a quieter, subtler presence behind him; a slender hand the touch of which was the sturdiness of his back, even in that final moment of truth; a soft voice that spoke to his limitless reserves of courage. She was the burning beacon of progress that lit up a firmament darkened by the absence of a single guiding light, and the suffocating shadow of small-mindedness and petty intrigue. She emerged on the horizon like a lone star that leads lost travelers in the wilderness of self-deceit to the oases of enlightenment. She was the force behind his passion to invent a whole new system of circumstances. Hers was the measured speech, the voice of reason, which tempered his fiery spirit; hers was the calm intellect, the moral compass, channeling the authority that emanated from him into charting new courses. She was his perfect complement, in a way that only two people from two different worlds can be. She upheld the faith and became equal partners in the lifelong task of creating wonders and keeping malevolence at bay. If he was the sculptor of an alternate destiny, hers was the image that it was to be cast in.
After his towering persona was consigned to the fading canvasses of memory, she held their world together with a forcefulness that was undoubtedly his bequest, and an arsenal of love that was entirely her very own. She, with her inimitable clarity of vision, always differentiating between the material and the spiritual, cherished valuing the soul over pricing its utility. As the years went by and enervation restricted movement, her place of genuflection to faith was the center of gravity around which all those specks of dust whom she had given life, orbited. She welcomed every new pulse of life with a kind of spontaneous joy that it would not probably deserve for many more years still. Her face lit up at the sight of every young tot, someone who would never really know her and who would only piece together her life, and his, from what his father or mother tell him; and yet, someone who would be living proof of her triumph. And when the time came for her to return to dust, she wore that same celestial light on her face that would overwhelm the darkness in her final abode, just as it had done in the realm of the mundane.
Now, one might ask, what of that world that they had so painstakingly created? That haven of peace and happiness? For all one can say, measuring the strength of love like that is actually a question for posterity. Right now, every silent, lifeless object, every inch of stone and concrete, every piece of wood and cloth, every plant and every tree, screams out the name of a life that used to be. And for those within earshot, that just means a lot of secret tears in solitary nooks and darkened crannies, where many more memories lie in wait.
He was the unquestioned master of this unlikely bastion of blessed living. He had built it up from naught, snatching away his birthright from the fangs of injustice. Upon his command the spring spread its cornucopia of color; the furrow of his regal brow deterred autumn from stealing away the greenery of his fief. His code of honor defined life; his sense of order set the plane of existence. He spoke with the cumulative wisdom of ages; he laughed that infectious laugh which never failed to fill his universe with mirth. He spoke and the world was mesmerized; he spoke and the most subdued of listeners got swept away in conversation. But carefully, respectfully, for no one high or low dared raise their voice to his. For his was a voice, like a clap of thunder; resonating across time through the halls and chambers; echoing far beyond the perimeters of his keep. That voice preserved the labors of his love; that voice daunted the ugliness from breaking in. Once alone was there a breach. Feeble in body, yet steadfast in spirit, he stood like a colossus in the face of a pygmy assault, compelling the enemy to retreat with shame in the eye and muffled apology on the tongue. That was to be his last stand. Not long after, that majestic voice would only be heard in the echoes it left behind.
His strength was not his alone. It was derived from a quieter, subtler presence behind him; a slender hand the touch of which was the sturdiness of his back, even in that final moment of truth; a soft voice that spoke to his limitless reserves of courage. She was the burning beacon of progress that lit up a firmament darkened by the absence of a single guiding light, and the suffocating shadow of small-mindedness and petty intrigue. She emerged on the horizon like a lone star that leads lost travelers in the wilderness of self-deceit to the oases of enlightenment. She was the force behind his passion to invent a whole new system of circumstances. Hers was the measured speech, the voice of reason, which tempered his fiery spirit; hers was the calm intellect, the moral compass, channeling the authority that emanated from him into charting new courses. She was his perfect complement, in a way that only two people from two different worlds can be. She upheld the faith and became equal partners in the lifelong task of creating wonders and keeping malevolence at bay. If he was the sculptor of an alternate destiny, hers was the image that it was to be cast in.
After his towering persona was consigned to the fading canvasses of memory, she held their world together with a forcefulness that was undoubtedly his bequest, and an arsenal of love that was entirely her very own. She, with her inimitable clarity of vision, always differentiating between the material and the spiritual, cherished valuing the soul over pricing its utility. As the years went by and enervation restricted movement, her place of genuflection to faith was the center of gravity around which all those specks of dust whom she had given life, orbited. She welcomed every new pulse of life with a kind of spontaneous joy that it would not probably deserve for many more years still. Her face lit up at the sight of every young tot, someone who would never really know her and who would only piece together her life, and his, from what his father or mother tell him; and yet, someone who would be living proof of her triumph. And when the time came for her to return to dust, she wore that same celestial light on her face that would overwhelm the darkness in her final abode, just as it had done in the realm of the mundane.
Now, one might ask, what of that world that they had so painstakingly created? That haven of peace and happiness? For all one can say, measuring the strength of love like that is actually a question for posterity. Right now, every silent, lifeless object, every inch of stone and concrete, every piece of wood and cloth, every plant and every tree, screams out the name of a life that used to be. And for those within earshot, that just means a lot of secret tears in solitary nooks and darkened crannies, where many more memories lie in wait.
