"Do you know the meaning of the word FAILURE?" Mr. Anderson asked a clueless looking Devdutt who was busy, doodling in his notebook. He pretended to go through the book, but Mr. Anderson knew that he had filled the pages with his name - the only thing he had learnt to write in the past week.
"You've been scribbling your name idly through the pages. You're wasting precious writing material here!"
Devdutt was visibly shaken by Mr. Anderson's tone of voice. But he knew that his tutor was warm and good-natured. He set the borrowed notebook and fountain pen down on the floor, where he chose to lay and scribble and bowed down at his tutor's feet. Mr. Anderson was astonished at his only pupil's humble gesture. Then again, Devdutt's responses had constantly amazed him. He was such a well-behaved child that it was impossible to stay angry with him.
On their first day of English lessons, he had had a servant bring him freshly picked flowers from their garden. Mr. Anderson was pleased and had picked out a rose from the selection of flowers of the hurriedly put together bouquet and had placed it between the pages of his sketchbook. When asked to describe the most important person in his life, he had rambled on about his beloved Guru ji. Devdutt's responses were only in Hindi for the first few days. But upon Mr. Anderson's insistence, he had begun to pick up on a few pleasantries and greet him at the beginning and the end of the lesson.
Mr. Anderson had had no experience dealing with children, but he liked the challenge. He constantly found himself in the company of people who outranked him either in money, social standing or educational qualification. But it was easy to manage such people. Their lives were led by their over-sized egos and he knew better to stay within his bounds when among them, never taking liberties or crossing the line. Devdutt outranked him as well, but more in humility than his royal bearing.
"Get up. Now tell me why you aren't writing anything down?" asked a discernibly calmer Mr. Anderson.
"Guru ji has never asked me to write anything down before." said Devdutt, with an earnest smile on his face.
"Yes, but this is different. English is different and it's not easy to recall. You need to write down the words that I dictate and repeat them until you have memorised them," Mr. Anderson said with a sense of urgency in his voice.
Devdutt missed his Guru ji and their study-time activities. Guru ji had known the cheerful little prince since the day he was born and was aware of his strengths and weaknesses. Devdutt didn't respond well to numbers or a linear approach to learning. Guru ji would observe his interest and his ability to absorb information by constantly asking him to fill the voids in the story that he would be narrating. He would continue to talk depending on the quickness of Devdutt's response and would change the subject or give him a break if his focus seemed to dwindle.
Devdutt had a vivid imagination and responded well to stories. Guru ji would often engage him in richly woven tales filled with compelling characters who fought their flaws and inadequacies to exhibit and uphold virtues they were expected to possess. He would try to instill in Devdutt, all the traits required of him to take charge of his Kingdom in the foreseeable future.
Mr. Anderson had noticed that Devdutt wasn't paying attention to him and had stopped talking. His silence had made no difference in the prince's mood. He was back to scribbling his name in English and his handwriting had gone from bad to worse.
************
He was back on his bed in his chamber, at the palace over the hills of Makrai. The silken sheets felt smooth against his filthy palms. The strong mountain wind billowed the curtains, making a hollow, eerie sound as it blew into the room. He got up from his bed and walked over to the mirror to inspect himself. He noticed that as he moved, his body was sore and ached all over.
He stood before the mirror, unstable, glancing at his school uniform. His navy-blue trousers, white shirt - which was now muddied, and tie were crumpled and made him look haggard. His jacket was missing, and his face, hair and fingernails were dirty. It looked like he had clawed his way through the mud from underneath the school's compound wall. He was sweaty and thirsty, perhaps from all the rigorous clawing and scraping.
The mirror was starting to get foggy and he noticed in it, an outline of what could only be his parents, standing behind him, looking disappointed. He turned around to embrace them only to find that they were gone. The empty room began to spin, and the wretched wall clock's ticking grew louder. He tried to storm across the room, but his legs felt like they were made of stone. He staggered towards the clock and grabbed it with both hands to pull it off the wall. And then he noticed the oddest thing. The clock didn't have any roman numerals on the dial. They were all replaced by English alphabets.
F - A - I - L ... F -A - I - L ... F - A - I - L instead of I II III IV …. XI XII
The hour hand was missing, and the minute hand was jutting out of the frame, pointing at him. F A I L F A I L F A I L. Devdutt realised that the clock was mocking him, jeering at him. In a moment of panic, he released the clock from his hands….
…. The hard-bound book fell to the floor with a thud and Devdutt opened his eyes to another nightmare.
_ _ _ L _ R _
Hint: The condition or fact of not achieving the desired end or ends