Vijayaprastha, Kadamba Rajya
Dwapara Yuga
Ahyan lay flat on his stomach, swinging his feet in the air, completely absorbed in the book before him. His almond eyes were misty, holding teardrops like dew on a winter morning.
"Fuck that general!" he exclaimed, slamming the book shut. "He's a selfish bastard for ruining Priya and Ravi's love story. Poor Priya, she deserved better."
The historical fiction novel that Mohana had given him for their project had taken him on a wild emotional ride. It made him feel everything from sweetness to anger, a joy to sorrow. The story of Lieutenant Ravi and Priya, set against the backdrop of war and social struggles in a time where birthright was everything, had gotten to him. Their love story was tragically cut short by fate, leaving shattered dreams and unfulfilled hopes.
Ahyan decided to bring this story to life through his art. Since he has free rein over story choice and art style, he chose 'The Song of Priyamvada' as the plot for his first comic.
So, there he was, hunched over his sketchbook, lost in his world of creativity. He was experimenting with different art styles, trying to find the perfect one to bring his characters to life.
As he experimented with various art styles, from old-fashioned to modern, he drew inspiration from a wealth of cultures including the vibrant Kadamba, the chic Persian, and the ornate Rajasthani. The clothes and jewellery of his characters were infused with intricate details and bold colours, reflecting the beauty and diversity of these cultures.
He missed the comforts of his own time, but he had grown to appreciate the simplicity of life in the mediaeval era. His love for art had kept him going, and he had worked tirelessly on his character designs through the night.
He woke up late and realised he missed breakfast, his stomach growling. He lazily got out of bed and freshened up, noticing his tired reflection. "I look like Aizawa," he chuckled. After eating the food Chandran left for him, he took a nap and woke up feeling refreshed. In the evening, he met with his writer friend at Malli Vanam. The writer's eyes shone with excitement as the artist unveiled his latest work.
The artist felt a sense of pride as the writer's eyes widened in amazement. His new art style was unlike anything the writer had ever seen before, and he couldn't stop staring at the intricate details in each character.
"These are truly amazing! How'd you come up with this style?" the writer asked in awe. The royal guest explained, "It's a combination of different techniques and styles from my hometown. They're quite popular there." Despite support from his family, he held himself to high standards and strived for perfection. Mohanavadana was awestruck by the guest's talent and character, and they grew closer through their interactions. The writer nodded, thoroughly impressed.
The artist chuckled, feeling renewed purpose in leaving his mark on the world through his art.
For the rest of the week, they worked on creating some sample storyboards and dialogues to make panels that they could show to the book's author and get their permission to turn into a comic.
After finishing the final draft of their work, Mohanavadana suggested, "We should meet Neelakanta tomorrow, the author of this book, to ask for permission to adapt it into a comic. We might need to make some changes to the plot. He lives on the outskirts, so we should leave early, preferably at sunrise. But be warned, he can be a bit eccentric."
Ahyan chimed in, "What should we call it? There are many names based on the format and style, like manga, webtoons, and comics. But I want a name that locals can relate to."
Mohana pondered for a moment before suggesting, "Since it's meant to be entertaining and engaging, how about we call it Vinodaka?" Ahyan nodded in agreement. "I like it. Vinodaka it is."
He retired to his chambers after bidding farewell to Mohanavadana. His attendant, Chandran, gave him a soothing head massage using warm coconut oil. The massage helped to ease Ahyan's tension and allowed him to relax.
"I have started something that could be considered a revolution in this kingdom's literature. Do you think this project will be successful?" Ahyan asked, his eyes closed, consumed by self-doubt.
Chandran seemed aloof at first, but he quickly proved to be one of the warmest people Ahyan had ever met. From the moment they became friends, Chandran never judged Ahyan during his darkest days of depression. He treated him like a person who needed to grieve and was always there for him, kind and never pitiful. It was like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold day or feeling the sun on your face after a long winter.
"Although this servant is unaware of what my lord is talking about, I believe that if someone puts their soul into a project, the whole universe would come together to help them," Chandran replied, his thoughts wandering to his own love story with the stubborn crown prince.
The prince never gave up on them and persuaded them to follow his heart, even when he felt they should stop seeing each other because of his status as an attendant. He awaits his knight in shining armour to break the shackles that bound him as a servant. Although the current king has made many efforts, he has not been able to eradicate slavery, a blot on their otherwise stainless utopia.
Ahyan loves Chandran for never prying into his personal life, yet always being there for him. When he was struggling with his emotions and missing his family, Chandran checked on him, reheated his food, and got him art supplies whenever needed. He didn't tiptoe around him or make a big deal when he attempted suicide. Chandran was a solid and comforting presence, always there when he needed him.
He regretted not spending more time with Chandran and his soon-to-be parents as he struggled to divide his time among his loved ones. He had made the same mistake before when he was in a relationship with his ex and landed his first job as a comic artist. As he grew older, he realised the importance of cherishing those who were always there for him, and he hoped to make up for lost time with Chandran.
"Thank you, Chandran. As always, you know the right words to comfort me," the kaliyugi said gratefully. Chandran gave him a slight smile and left, holding back the urge to bow - a habit that was hard to shake off. He felt a glimmer of happiness, knowing that he was slowly but surely treating him as an equal.
The next day, he awoke while the stars still glittered in the sky, and the palace had just stirred from its slumber. He thanked the attendants who had readied him in those ungodly hours.
He decided to journey on foot to reach the home of the court poet, which was an hour's walk from the palace, relishing in the world as it readied itself to welcome the dawn. His shadow guard, who had saved his life when he attempted to take it, trailed behind to protect him from any unknown dangers, unbeknownst to the oblivious royal guest.
Mohanavadana's simple one-story home had a rangoli-decorated veranda with sturdy wooden pillars and a red-tiled, slanted roof before the main door. Beautiful gardens with exotic flowers bloomed under the golden morning sun on either side of the clay path leading to the house.
A small table and cushioned chairs sat under the cool shade of an old mango tree, with sunlight filtering through dense branches, casting a bokeh effect on the ivory furniture.
The servant ushered him into the guest room and politely asked him to wait until the master finished his morning ritual of worshipping the sun and the sea. He smiled and nodded, accepting a cool glass of water. He observed the room's intricate details, such as the skillfully carved wooden pillars, vibrant beaded accessories, threaded wall hangings depicting village life, enchanted forests with women, and dancing men. The room perfectly embodied the owner's lively and whimsical personality.
Sometime later, Mohanavadana reached home and the servant informed him of Ahyan who introduced himself as his friend, rather than the royal guest as he disliked the formalities.
"I wonder where Ahyan comes from," the poet pondered to himself as he changed clothes and headed to the guest room. Despite the class divide and caste discrimination being far less rigid here than in the rest of Aryavartha, it persisted despite the efforts of royalty over generations. He wished that the nobility in his land could be at least half as humble as Ahyan.
He muttered in frustration as he thought about the scions of Hastinapur. "I don't even want to talk about those bastards from Hastinapur," he said quietly. "Especially Rajkumara Arjuna, who thinks whatever his elders and guru teach him is true, and everyone else is wrong. And don't get me started on his elder brother Yudhistira, who lives and breathes by the Manushastra."
The poet pushed his thoughts aside and asked the chef to prepare breakfast, including Ahyan's favourite snacks. "Please make sure his favourite snacks are included," he instructed, listing them. "I want him to feel at home here."
The elderly man, who considered Mohana to be like a son, was taken aback by his show of affection towards the guest. Knowing that Mohana only cared for a few people, he realised that this young man must be special. "Okay, Mohana. Let's prepare the food now. Don't keep our guest waiting," he said in a gruff yet kind voice, sending Mohana off to oversee the meal in the kitchen.
As he entered the guest room, the poet greeted Ahyan with a smile and a warm welcome. "I hope you slept well," he said in a friendly tone. "Breakfast will be ready soon, and I've made sure your favourite snacks are included." "Wow, that's sweet of you, thank you!" Ahyan replied, flashing a grateful smile.
"The interior is totally you - I love it! Obviously, I don't want to assume that I know you super well, since we only met a week ago, haha," he added, keeping it friendly and platonic.
Mohanavadana smiled and nodded. "Thank you, my friend. I'm glad you like the decor. It's been a while since I've had a guest in my home, and I wanted to make sure you felt comfortable." He paused before continuing. "And don't worry about assuming too much about me. I am a poet, after all, and my life's work is to be understood and appreciated. I'm happy to share as much as you're interested in hearing."
The two continued to chat amicably about poetry, literature, and their shared interests. It was clear that their connection was purely platonic, and they enjoyed each other's company without any romantic tension.
As they chatted, the servants arrived to announce that breakfast was ready. "Please, after you," the host said with a polite gesture, allowing his guest to lead the way. "I'm sure you'll love Sivanna's cooking. He's an excellent chef, and I have no doubt you'll be delighted with his food."
He then led his guest to the cosy dining hall, where they settled onto Persian mats with banana leaves and bronze utensils laid out before them. "I hope you find the setup comfortable," he said with a smile. "It's quite cosy here, and a nice change from the formal dining room at the palace," replied Ahyan. After savouring a delicious and homely breakfast, they rode Ahyan's beloved horse, Vega, and headed to Neelkanta's home on Mohana's, just as they had done on their previous trip to the bazaar and beaches.
As they arrived at the old poet's home in just an hour, Ahyan was taken aback by the sorry state of such a renowned author's residence. If it had been well maintained, it would have been a magnificent mansion. However, now it looks dilapidated and desolate. "Um, isn't he a famous author and don't his books have quite the following among the youth?" the royal guest paused, trying to find the right words, "So why does the home look so...crappy?" he asked, standing at the entrance.
"He doesn't have a good reputation among the nobility," explained the court poet, feeling sorry for his idol, "and he fights with anyone regardless of their status. While it's admirable that he stands his ground and does not compromise his values, it has made him many enemies, some of whom are quite powerful."
Ahyan listened attentively, taking in the information as he looked around the dilapidated house. He couldn't help but feel a tinge of sadness for the once-renowned poet.
"Did you know," continued the court poet, his voice thick with emotion, "he inspired me to become a poet. But now, the work we're using is his last piece, which was written five years ago."
As Ahyan followed the court poet into the house, he noticed the musty smell of neglect and the sight of cobwebs in every corner. He could feel the weight of the poet's struggles and misfortunes in the air. The atmosphere was sombre and melancholic as if the house itself mourned the poet's decline.
As they arrived at the main door, Mohanavadana knocked on it a few times but there was no response. Fearing the worst, they broke open the door, swiping away the clinging cobwebs. They moved through the house, searching in every room, but the poet was nowhere to be found. They rushed to the kitchen, glancing at the freshly cooked food, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness! He must have gone out-" Mohanavadana began to say before being cut off by an angry, loud voice from the front door.
"Who broke the door?" the voice bellowed, causing everyone to jump. The group turned around to see an old man with a fierce expression on his face. It was the poet himself. Mohanavadana stepped forward, feeling guilty for breaking into the poet's home. "I'm sorry, sir. We were worried about you and thought something had happened. We didn't mean to intrude," he explained, hoping to calm the poet down.
The author's expression softened slightly, but he still looked displeased. "You should have at least knocked properly," he grumbled. Despite his apparent anger, there was a hint of sadness in his voice. It was clear that the poet had been struggling, and the intrusion had only added to his troubles.
"We are terribly sorry, sir. We just wanted to meet you and Mohana knocked, but there was no response," Ahyan apologised, his eyes cast down.
The old man let out a gruff sigh as he settled into a creaking chair in the dusty guest room. "Whatever. I'm Neelakanta, the owner of this dump," he said, his tone jaded and bitter. "Who are you, and what do you want? I don't remember meeting you before. Also, if you want to apologise properly, you should look straight into one's eyes. That's the right way," he added, his expression softening slightly.
Despite his rough exterior, it was clear that Neelakanta was a kind man at heart. He simply had been worn down by years of disappointment and neglect. "Don't expect any fancy welcoming here," he warned the young men sitting across from him. "Just say what you want."
Ahyan looked at his companion, prompting Mohanavadana to introduce themselves to their favourite writer in a formal tone. "Excuse us, sir," Mohanavadana said, extending a courteous bow. "I am Mohanavadana, a poet in the royal court, and this is my friend Ahyan, a talented artist and esteemed guest of the royal family."
The old man regarded them with a critical eye before speaking. "Oh, really? To what do I owe the pleasure of such esteemed persons gracing my humble abode?" he replied, his tone laced with sarcasm that betrayed his previous softness.
Despite the author's bitter tone, Mohanavadana remained composed and empathized with their pain.
He expressed his admiration for the author's works and added, "The Song of Priyamvada is a personal favourite of mine and my friend here," gesturing towards Ahyan who smiled nervously.
Mohanavadana went on to explain Ahyan's idea of vinodaka, a storytelling format that incorporates pictures and dialogues to enhance the narrative. "We believe it would be a wonderful way to showcase your stories and reach a wider audience," he said.
He then elaborated on the concept and awaited the author's response.
In the olden days, writers followed established patterns and mostly wrote poetry. Neelakanta stood out for his innovative approach to prose, experimenting with various structures and using seemingly simple romance stories to satirize society.
Despite his pioneering spirit, Neelakanta never considered the idea of blending art with writing, nor had he witnessed anyone else doing so.
"May I know whose idea is it?" the author asked them, face and tone not betraying any expression. Ahyan feared for the worst and his overthinking brain was finding new ways to torture him.
But he found strength in Mohana's encouraging smile and replied, "It's my idea, sir. I believe that using pictures can make the story more engaging, and dialogue can help readers understand the structure and immerse themselves in the story." Ahyan concealed the fact that similar books existed in his world to avoid raising too many questions, especially with strangers outside the palace. "It gives the impression that the story is happening before the reader's eyes," he added.
The author's poker face broke into one of awe as he gazed through the panels, his eyes grazing over every intricate detail. "Who drew them?" he asked his tone now filled with intrigue and appreciation.
Encouraged by the author's positive response, Ahyan replied, "I drew them, sir. But I'm not sure if they're any good. I'm open to any suggestions," his self-doubt resurfacing once again. Mohanavadana gave him a disbelieving look, which Ahyan missed as he was focused on the author's response.
The author asked him, "Do you know what is the most important quality for an artist?" Ahyan thought persistence was the key and replied as such. But the author's response caught him off guard, "No, you fool! It's a healthy amount of self-esteem. You should be proud of your work. Humility is not always a virtue," the old author lectured him. Mohanavadana nodded in agreement, hiding a smile, which earned him a mock glare from Ahyan.
Ahyan felt a mix of emotions, a sense of pride at having his work appreciated, but also a twinge of embarrassment for his lack of self-esteem. However, the author's words resonated with him and he vowed to take pride in his work and believe in himself more.
"Although I don't know why are you choosing my story when you know my reputation, I'm happy that I can contribute to such an innovative project," the author said, eyes crinkling in happiness.
"Thank you, sir, I can't express how happy I'm now!" Ahyan said and continued, "Can we negotiate about royalty?" Ahyan mentally kicked himself for using an English word. They looked at him questioningly, but he quickly caught on and clarified, "I mean the fee we have to pay for using your work. We can't use your intellectual property without due credits and payment."
The author responded, "Oh... You can give me 20% of the profits. I don't know how my tainted present would affect your work, so I can't ask you to pay me now." Their self-deprecating tone conveyed a sense of insecurity and perhaps a history of disappointment.
Ahyan heaved a sigh of relief mentally when the author forgot about the English word. Mohanavadana sought to reassure the author, "Sir, I've faith in all of us and this time it'd be different." "I hope so, I really do," the author sighed, their words reflecting both hope and apprehension.
As they left the author's home, the team felt a sense of anticipation and happiness for the success of their project. On Mohanavadana's suggestion, they decided to head to the beach. By the time they arrived, it was already evening and the sky was filled with pregnant clouds, and the temperature had dropped a few degrees, indicating the arrival of rain. The sea was agitated, and the waves were crashing against the shore.
"Seems like something big has happened," Mohanavadana observed, taking note of the unusual weather.
He couldn't help but think about the upcoming coronation ceremony, which would take place in a few weeks. He dearly missed his best friend, the crown prince Kruthavarma. The little mischief-maker would always cause so much trouble for him and Chandran. Although he occasionally hung out with Chandran, he knew he was not as close to him as the soon-to-be yuvaraja. He had initially been hurt, but he had come to accept that everyone had a different place in someone's heart.
As the group walked along the beach, they could hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shore and feel the cool breeze on their faces. The impending rain seemed to add a sense of urgency and excitement to the atmosphere.
As the first raindrop hit Ahyan's face, he quickly spoke up, "I think we should leave now." Mohanavadana nodded in agreement, pulling himself out of his reverie. "You're right," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "It did rain on our parade," he added, eliciting a chuckle from Ahyan.
The two of them quickly mounted Vega and rode through the rain, feeling the torrents hit their faces. Ahyan was determined to protect the panels with his life, as they rode through the gusts of wind. Despite the weather, he loved the experience, feeling exhilarated as they ripped through the storm.
The rain beat down on them as they rode, the wind howling in their ears. The sound of the rain and wind was deafening, but somehow, it only added to the thrill of the ride. The experience left them both feeling energized and invigorated.
By the time they reached the palace, both of them were thoroughly soaked, hair and clothes dripping wet. The papers in the leather bag somehow survived from becoming mushy pulp.
As they approached the entrance to the royal guest wing, they were interrupted by the queen's concerned voice. "What were you thinking, riding through that ominous rain?" she scolded, her voice filled with worry. "Do you both have any sense of safety? What if something happened to you?"
Ahyan felt tense at the queen's words, but he kept his composure as the queen continued to fuss around him, accompanied by the maid he addressed as Apsara when he first came here.
"Mahadeva knows why it's raining this bad in the spring," the queen added, her tone filled with frustration.
Despite the queen's scolding, Ahyan could sense that she was genuinely concerned about their safety. He couldn't help but feel grateful for her concern, even though he knew he should have been more careful in the rain. The sound of rain pounding on the rooftop and the howling of the wind outside only added to the tense atmosphere.
"Sorry, Your Highness," Ahyan apologized as he and Mohana entered the room. "We went out, and the weather suddenly changed. Mohana got us here as quickly and safely as he could."
"It's okay, vatsa," the queen replied, feeling a bit hurt that Ahyan addressed her formally, but she understood the reason. "No one can predict the winds. Now both of you take a warm bath, lest you catch the flu."
Ahyan nodded his head and muttered a "thank you" before turning to leave as the court poet was ushered by the attendants in the other direction.
As Ahyan walked away, the queen couldn't help but notice the tension in the air. She knew that they couldn't reveal their plans to adopt and understood the need to keep their relationship formal in public due to the prying eyes in the court. The courtiers could make things difficult for Ahyan and Krutha, the crown prince if they found out.
Despite this understanding, the queen couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness at the situation. She longed to openly shower her love on her son and the nephew whom she loved like a son, but the political climate made it impossible.
After taking a refreshing bath, Ahyan found the sound of the rain to be a soothing ASMR to his ears. He joined Mohanavadana in the dining room where fresh Daal, steaming rice, and ghee were served by the servants. "This weather calls for the perfect comfort food," he exclaimed in delight as they savoured the homely meal.
"I'll be leaving early tomorrow as I have to attend the Kala sabha," Mohanavadana informed him after they finished their dinner.
"Ohh... then I'll bid you goodbye here because I'm not sure I'll be able to get up that early," Ahyan replied.
"I understand, today was quite hectic. Good night, Ahyan, sweet dreams," Mohanavadana said as he departed to his room.
As he jumped onto his beloved bed, he grumbled, "Don't jinx it, dude! It's only been a few days since I've had a dreamless sleep." He rolled around, reflecting on everything that had happened today.
He was surprised to learn that there was social inequality in Kadamba. When he discovered that the society was LGBTQIA+, he assumed that there would be no class differences. He had guessed wrong. The thought left him feeling unsettled.
The softness of his pillow and the warmth of his blankets were a comfort to him, but his mind was still racing with thoughts. He wondered how many other assumptions he had made about Kadamba that were incorrect.
As he closed his eyes, he hoped that tomorrow would bring some clarity to his understanding of the society he was living in. He tried to push aside his worries and focus on getting a peaceful night's rest.