This is a short story I wrote in 2010, but was lying in my secret blog (Yes, I have a secret blog too :-))
Now after all these years, it was an interesting read. So here goes...
(Image taken from : http://www.beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/artwork/lost-citadel/)
I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone. We lived in a bungalow which was situated quite away from the main colony where most of my friends resided and I had to walk about ten minutes to reach their homes, a walk which included a railway bridge and a vacant plot which was full of shrubs and about 2 kms away from the main railway line, there was this big red bungalow which was always in the best of the condition though no one ever saw anyone there. The ‘princess of the town’ owned the vacant plot. The princess herself did not reside in the town but had moved abroad. Everyone talked about her property being maintained by a housekeeper, but no one had seen him.
There was also this legend in the old town that the house was haunted by the ghosts of the ‘princes’. The legend had passed down from generations which said that the royal family had a curse and none of the male members crossed an age of thirty, as a result the blue blood was not so pure anymore and the city had been reigned by female rulers belonging to another royal families brought to the city through marriage. The legend said that all the male members, fathers, brothers, and sons lived in the house after their deaths and overlooked the city. They partied at nights in the open verandah of the bungalow and walked among the common people of the town in the day.
One of the princes, who ruled about 300 years ago, was deeply attached to the city and he had constructed a citadel that was in shambles today located about two kms away from their palace, the red bungalow. A railway line ran near the remains of the citadel now. Nearly all the passengers of the trains that crossed that part of the city at nights closed their windows because many people had claimed to see a well-dressed man scorning at them from the citadel. It was claimed that sometimes that man would peep inside the train windows and look intently at people. As a result, it was a ritual; the windows used to be closed. The more adventurous sometimes left the windows open, but it was said that the prince made it a point to scare the ones who dared. He did not like being disturbed so even the engine driver never let out the siren while in the range of the citadel. The legend said that the prince was forbidden from entering the palace. It was something he had done while living and people claimed to have heard his cries of despair at nights, when he heard the other kings partying while he stayed alone in the citadel.
I usually walked that part of vacant plot to play with my friends and returned before sunset. On some occasions, my mother would invite my friends over. One day it so happened that I was playing with my friends and our topic of discussion strayed to the ‘prince of the citadel’. I was raised in a contemporary family and my parents had made it a point to rationalize my thinking as a result I never believed in the legend or the ghosts. The curfew of not walking through the barren land was still applicable on me but the reasons given by my parents were related to safety as the place was quite isolated. My friends with a more traditional outlook though stood by the story. So a bet was placed and I had to walk into the citadel at night alone. It was not a big deal I could do it. I had imagined it all when the plan was hatched and my logic said that if I could imagine it all until the end I could do it. I just had to calmly walk to the citadel, climb up the stairs, wave at my friends and come back home. Simple. The only problem was that when I tried thinking about it, I saw myself entering the citadel but when I tried picturizing my return the red bungalow popped up in my imagination. Something was wrong, I usually followed that routine of imagining things before I did them and if I could, all was safe. If I could not, there was a problem. That is how I knew my return was going to pose some dangers but under no circumstances, I could back off. The image that an eight year old carries in front of his friends is fragile and has to be maintained under all conditions. I was going to go through this. Period.
The day was fixed, I informed my parents that I was going out to play and then at about 7pm after the sun went down, we walked to the citadel. My friends maintained a safe distance and I was asked to walk down to the citadel. I managed to stride up to the foot of the building. All the while, my friends kept making scary noises, but I was not scared. I knew I could do it. However, the moment I walked up the stairs my courage had diminished greatly. And then I saw it, a pair of black eyes boring through me. When I reached the first floor where the window was located, I saw someone hunched near the window, fighting the cold. That person kept staring at me and I was frozen. We kept looking at each other for a long time, then my nerve cells reacted and I shrieked. The next second, I was running. I had no sense of direction but I sensed that someone was chasing me. I reached the vacant plot still screaming and in my confused state, I misunderstood the red bungalow for my home and ran in that direction. I climbed the stairs at the front and reached the verandah. The lights were on there and a round table was set with chairs around it. But it was vacant. And then I saw four well-dressed men walking to the table. I let out another shriek and was running again.
The next thing I remember is being in my bed. I had a scar, which looked like a whiplash cutting my right eyebrow. I don’t remember much about what happened but my mother filled me in. She said that after I failed to reach home, as it was getting dark, my father was sent on my search. He heard the scary noises from the vacant plot where my friends stood making them (he did not know that, of course) and had returned home to take his service revolver. When he came back, he heard me shriek and started running after the voice and then he had found me unconscious in the verandah with a whiplash wound.
My friends saw me with renewed interest after the episode and a new story circulated the city that I had met ‘the prince of the citadel’ and that I was whip lashed by the partying kings in the verandah. I did not deny any of it, but for the days my father was posted in that city, I embellished the details of that night with new musings from my overactive brain. When I left the town, everyone believed that I had talked to the prince and that he told me how so lonely he was and he wanted to come with me, which I had vehemently refused. After the prince refused to listen and persuaded me, I had left the citadel shrieking at my disapproval and ran straight to the palace to complaint to his forefathers about his stubbornness. I always highlighted the fact that I was brave enough to stand against the prince and had the guts to warn him that I would complaint to his forefathers. This was my version of the story to hide the fact that I was scared. I never mentioned the dark hunched man at the window.
Another version of the story was by my friends, in that version the prince had indeed come out of the citadel with me and I had screamed when the prince entered me to use my body as a host to reach his destination. The fact that I ran towards the red bungalow from the citadel was a further proof, they said that it was to meet my ancestors and to join their party. I should say that my friends’ version was better than mine was. It made sense because my version was tainted with my weak effort to hide the fact that I was scared. The result of their version was that I was looked at with a certain amount of respect after that. Even the parents of my friends made sure that they pleased me lest they would infuriate the prince who lived inside me. Many a times mothers of my friends remarked that I had developed a royal attitude. It was the look in my eyes they said. Everything about me had turned regal. I was not complaining. I was the ‘prince of the citadel.’
I was using the sobriquet to the best of my advantage. Soon, my father was posted in another city and we moved out. I carried my little autograph book was filled up by my every friend and every one wrote the same thing. They were going to miss the prince.
I insisted on keeping the windows open as our train passed from that area of my city. In addition, I am not sure why it happened but a shiver ran down my spine as the train crossed the citadel. I was sitting at the window and staring at the citadel, but I did not see anyone, nor did the other family who shared our compartment with us. They were five people- an old couple, their son and his wife and their eight-year-old daughter. Like my father, even they did not believe in the legend and that is why they allowed me to keep the window open. I was staring intently at the citadel, hoping to see the shabby man I had seen that day, but no one was there. The prince was gone too. And then I wondered if my friends were right, what if the prince was me now? What if he lived inside me now? The thought was scary but romantic. I told the eight year old we were traveling with about my escapade. Her name was Sheeba; she was also traveling to be in the same city I was going to. Her father was in a bank and they frequently changed places. When I told her about my theory, she seemed impressed. I liked her and very soon with some aid from our parents we exchanged addresses and phone numbers. I was to keep her posted about the status of my theory and that I did. I went to an all boys’ school so Sheeba was not in my school but I managed to meet her in the evenings for a game or in a park or when we went for a stroll. She never asked me about the prince and gradually she lost interest in that theory and our topics changed to her grades and hobbies and the extra curricular.
I soon forgot the old connection and was carried away by my new life at the new school. There were some changes in me. Mom attributed those changes to her upbringing and my subconscious mind told me that it was the prince. I could use fork and knife without spilling anything now, a feat mom had invested a lot of her time on but I had refused to learn and then out of nowhere I had the best table manners Things happened at their own pace from then on. I was always great at mathematics, it was genetic, my father had masters in mathematics. I had no interest in history or geography. But suddenly, I was good in that too. My social studies grades shooted up and I was not complaining. The prince was very giving; he was enhancing my capabilities without asking for anything in return. I was enjoying living with him now. Very soon I found myself talking to him. If I saw something new, it was a routine to take his approval before I took a decision. When I cleared my class X exams, my future course of action was to be decided. My parents wanted me to pursue science to enhance my mathematical talent but I decided to go with arts.
“And why arts?” my dad questioned.
“Because I want to study history,” I replied calmly. There was this development in me. Earlier I was a temperamental child but I grew up to be a well-behaved adolescent. I had never lost my cool, growing up, accepted all the curfews imposed by my over watchful parents with grace. In my mind, I had become manipulative and political. I could have my own way usually without throwing a tantrum. That was a good sign, which could be attributed to growing up, I chose the prince.
“What is in history?” dad asked.
“There are many things which happened in the past that I don’t know of.”
“And how are they going to help you?”
“That’s what I want to figure out by actually studying the past. The past is the answer to many present situations; maybe I can change the future by actually studying the past.” I replied.
I had a vertical distance from friends my age; I was too perfect for their lousy taste. So I do not know if sixteen year olds talk to their parents with such articulateness or not. The only friend I had was Sheeba and she had turned religious, for her everything had an ulterior motive decided by God. So we do not decide our path, God does that for us. I refused to accept her theory, the way she had dismissed the prince theory years ago after believing in it for a short while. So I had no chance of finding out about other sixteen year olds. I was perfect in my own world. Even my closest friend of years, Sheeba was not so perfect anymore. She was not even cute now. Sometimes when she got idealistic on me, I wanted to kill her. But I did not. What stopped me? I had no clue; it could be one of the two- my own upbringing or the royalty of the prince. I had never done anything violent.
Something had changed, maybe her attitude had made me distant from her or maybe she grew up to be a different person. I was no longer attracted to her. Other than her, I had very few friends. The guys in my class maintained a distance from me, there was something about me that disturbed them. I never cared to find out. I was happy to be on my own.
Needless to add that I managed to convince my parents and joined arts with a major in history. I was good at it selectively. My classmates were good in modern history that involved the Indian freedom struggle but all that was like news to me. I excelled in ancient history though. The Maurayan dynasty, the Gupta dynasty, Mohenjo-Daro & Harappa civilization were my strong points. It did not seem that ancient. I could visualize it. And the key to understanding and remembering history was to visualize it.
It took me years to find out only because I was not looking for it. It was while I was doing my masters in history. I had begun to spend a lot of time in the library and that is where I found the book that covered the history of my childhood town. It had pictures starting from about a thousand years ago but I flipped through half of the book and landed on the page, which gave a detailed account of the building of the citadel. It felt live. I also read about the prince. The book was written by one of the local historians and it gave me all the answers I needed
I stopped blaming the prince for everything after that. If I was improving, it was me or like my mother felt it was her upbringing. I could never be the prince. I could never be the person who had about three hundred years ago created havoc, who had in his freakiness to survive more than thirty years of age that was given to all male members of his family killed many. A man who had run from pillar to post to uplift the curse. He was abandoned from the palace because he had been cruel to his people, all the other kings before and after him had made peace with the thirty years and they lived happily and lovingly for the years given to them. The prince of the citadel could not do that. Reading it all, made me sense that the prince was a lie. A childhood notion in my head, which made me believe that I was the prince. I could never be.
That night, I went home a changed person, like the curse was lifted from my head. I did not feel weighed down by anything. I reached home and all I wanted was a good night’s sleep, my overworked brain needed that rest. But that was not to be. I had just slept for an hour and there was a knock at my door.
“Happy thirtieth Birthday!” my mom sang
Now after all these years, it was an interesting read. So here goes...
(Image taken from : http://www.beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/artwork/lost-citadel/)
I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone. We lived in a bungalow which was situated quite away from the main colony where most of my friends resided and I had to walk about ten minutes to reach their homes, a walk which included a railway bridge and a vacant plot which was full of shrubs and about 2 kms away from the main railway line, there was this big red bungalow which was always in the best of the condition though no one ever saw anyone there. The ‘princess of the town’ owned the vacant plot. The princess herself did not reside in the town but had moved abroad. Everyone talked about her property being maintained by a housekeeper, but no one had seen him.
There was also this legend in the old town that the house was haunted by the ghosts of the ‘princes’. The legend had passed down from generations which said that the royal family had a curse and none of the male members crossed an age of thirty, as a result the blue blood was not so pure anymore and the city had been reigned by female rulers belonging to another royal families brought to the city through marriage. The legend said that all the male members, fathers, brothers, and sons lived in the house after their deaths and overlooked the city. They partied at nights in the open verandah of the bungalow and walked among the common people of the town in the day.
One of the princes, who ruled about 300 years ago, was deeply attached to the city and he had constructed a citadel that was in shambles today located about two kms away from their palace, the red bungalow. A railway line ran near the remains of the citadel now. Nearly all the passengers of the trains that crossed that part of the city at nights closed their windows because many people had claimed to see a well-dressed man scorning at them from the citadel. It was claimed that sometimes that man would peep inside the train windows and look intently at people. As a result, it was a ritual; the windows used to be closed. The more adventurous sometimes left the windows open, but it was said that the prince made it a point to scare the ones who dared. He did not like being disturbed so even the engine driver never let out the siren while in the range of the citadel. The legend said that the prince was forbidden from entering the palace. It was something he had done while living and people claimed to have heard his cries of despair at nights, when he heard the other kings partying while he stayed alone in the citadel.
I usually walked that part of vacant plot to play with my friends and returned before sunset. On some occasions, my mother would invite my friends over. One day it so happened that I was playing with my friends and our topic of discussion strayed to the ‘prince of the citadel’. I was raised in a contemporary family and my parents had made it a point to rationalize my thinking as a result I never believed in the legend or the ghosts. The curfew of not walking through the barren land was still applicable on me but the reasons given by my parents were related to safety as the place was quite isolated. My friends with a more traditional outlook though stood by the story. So a bet was placed and I had to walk into the citadel at night alone. It was not a big deal I could do it. I had imagined it all when the plan was hatched and my logic said that if I could imagine it all until the end I could do it. I just had to calmly walk to the citadel, climb up the stairs, wave at my friends and come back home. Simple. The only problem was that when I tried thinking about it, I saw myself entering the citadel but when I tried picturizing my return the red bungalow popped up in my imagination. Something was wrong, I usually followed that routine of imagining things before I did them and if I could, all was safe. If I could not, there was a problem. That is how I knew my return was going to pose some dangers but under no circumstances, I could back off. The image that an eight year old carries in front of his friends is fragile and has to be maintained under all conditions. I was going to go through this. Period.
The day was fixed, I informed my parents that I was going out to play and then at about 7pm after the sun went down, we walked to the citadel. My friends maintained a safe distance and I was asked to walk down to the citadel. I managed to stride up to the foot of the building. All the while, my friends kept making scary noises, but I was not scared. I knew I could do it. However, the moment I walked up the stairs my courage had diminished greatly. And then I saw it, a pair of black eyes boring through me. When I reached the first floor where the window was located, I saw someone hunched near the window, fighting the cold. That person kept staring at me and I was frozen. We kept looking at each other for a long time, then my nerve cells reacted and I shrieked. The next second, I was running. I had no sense of direction but I sensed that someone was chasing me. I reached the vacant plot still screaming and in my confused state, I misunderstood the red bungalow for my home and ran in that direction. I climbed the stairs at the front and reached the verandah. The lights were on there and a round table was set with chairs around it. But it was vacant. And then I saw four well-dressed men walking to the table. I let out another shriek and was running again.
The next thing I remember is being in my bed. I had a scar, which looked like a whiplash cutting my right eyebrow. I don’t remember much about what happened but my mother filled me in. She said that after I failed to reach home, as it was getting dark, my father was sent on my search. He heard the scary noises from the vacant plot where my friends stood making them (he did not know that, of course) and had returned home to take his service revolver. When he came back, he heard me shriek and started running after the voice and then he had found me unconscious in the verandah with a whiplash wound.
My friends saw me with renewed interest after the episode and a new story circulated the city that I had met ‘the prince of the citadel’ and that I was whip lashed by the partying kings in the verandah. I did not deny any of it, but for the days my father was posted in that city, I embellished the details of that night with new musings from my overactive brain. When I left the town, everyone believed that I had talked to the prince and that he told me how so lonely he was and he wanted to come with me, which I had vehemently refused. After the prince refused to listen and persuaded me, I had left the citadel shrieking at my disapproval and ran straight to the palace to complaint to his forefathers about his stubbornness. I always highlighted the fact that I was brave enough to stand against the prince and had the guts to warn him that I would complaint to his forefathers. This was my version of the story to hide the fact that I was scared. I never mentioned the dark hunched man at the window.
Another version of the story was by my friends, in that version the prince had indeed come out of the citadel with me and I had screamed when the prince entered me to use my body as a host to reach his destination. The fact that I ran towards the red bungalow from the citadel was a further proof, they said that it was to meet my ancestors and to join their party. I should say that my friends’ version was better than mine was. It made sense because my version was tainted with my weak effort to hide the fact that I was scared. The result of their version was that I was looked at with a certain amount of respect after that. Even the parents of my friends made sure that they pleased me lest they would infuriate the prince who lived inside me. Many a times mothers of my friends remarked that I had developed a royal attitude. It was the look in my eyes they said. Everything about me had turned regal. I was not complaining. I was the ‘prince of the citadel.’
I was using the sobriquet to the best of my advantage. Soon, my father was posted in another city and we moved out. I carried my little autograph book was filled up by my every friend and every one wrote the same thing. They were going to miss the prince.
I insisted on keeping the windows open as our train passed from that area of my city. In addition, I am not sure why it happened but a shiver ran down my spine as the train crossed the citadel. I was sitting at the window and staring at the citadel, but I did not see anyone, nor did the other family who shared our compartment with us. They were five people- an old couple, their son and his wife and their eight-year-old daughter. Like my father, even they did not believe in the legend and that is why they allowed me to keep the window open. I was staring intently at the citadel, hoping to see the shabby man I had seen that day, but no one was there. The prince was gone too. And then I wondered if my friends were right, what if the prince was me now? What if he lived inside me now? The thought was scary but romantic. I told the eight year old we were traveling with about my escapade. Her name was Sheeba; she was also traveling to be in the same city I was going to. Her father was in a bank and they frequently changed places. When I told her about my theory, she seemed impressed. I liked her and very soon with some aid from our parents we exchanged addresses and phone numbers. I was to keep her posted about the status of my theory and that I did. I went to an all boys’ school so Sheeba was not in my school but I managed to meet her in the evenings for a game or in a park or when we went for a stroll. She never asked me about the prince and gradually she lost interest in that theory and our topics changed to her grades and hobbies and the extra curricular.
I soon forgot the old connection and was carried away by my new life at the new school. There were some changes in me. Mom attributed those changes to her upbringing and my subconscious mind told me that it was the prince. I could use fork and knife without spilling anything now, a feat mom had invested a lot of her time on but I had refused to learn and then out of nowhere I had the best table manners Things happened at their own pace from then on. I was always great at mathematics, it was genetic, my father had masters in mathematics. I had no interest in history or geography. But suddenly, I was good in that too. My social studies grades shooted up and I was not complaining. The prince was very giving; he was enhancing my capabilities without asking for anything in return. I was enjoying living with him now. Very soon I found myself talking to him. If I saw something new, it was a routine to take his approval before I took a decision. When I cleared my class X exams, my future course of action was to be decided. My parents wanted me to pursue science to enhance my mathematical talent but I decided to go with arts.
“And why arts?” my dad questioned.
“Because I want to study history,” I replied calmly. There was this development in me. Earlier I was a temperamental child but I grew up to be a well-behaved adolescent. I had never lost my cool, growing up, accepted all the curfews imposed by my over watchful parents with grace. In my mind, I had become manipulative and political. I could have my own way usually without throwing a tantrum. That was a good sign, which could be attributed to growing up, I chose the prince.
“What is in history?” dad asked.
“There are many things which happened in the past that I don’t know of.”
“And how are they going to help you?”
“That’s what I want to figure out by actually studying the past. The past is the answer to many present situations; maybe I can change the future by actually studying the past.” I replied.
I had a vertical distance from friends my age; I was too perfect for their lousy taste. So I do not know if sixteen year olds talk to their parents with such articulateness or not. The only friend I had was Sheeba and she had turned religious, for her everything had an ulterior motive decided by God. So we do not decide our path, God does that for us. I refused to accept her theory, the way she had dismissed the prince theory years ago after believing in it for a short while. So I had no chance of finding out about other sixteen year olds. I was perfect in my own world. Even my closest friend of years, Sheeba was not so perfect anymore. She was not even cute now. Sometimes when she got idealistic on me, I wanted to kill her. But I did not. What stopped me? I had no clue; it could be one of the two- my own upbringing or the royalty of the prince. I had never done anything violent.
Something had changed, maybe her attitude had made me distant from her or maybe she grew up to be a different person. I was no longer attracted to her. Other than her, I had very few friends. The guys in my class maintained a distance from me, there was something about me that disturbed them. I never cared to find out. I was happy to be on my own.
Needless to add that I managed to convince my parents and joined arts with a major in history. I was good at it selectively. My classmates were good in modern history that involved the Indian freedom struggle but all that was like news to me. I excelled in ancient history though. The Maurayan dynasty, the Gupta dynasty, Mohenjo-Daro & Harappa civilization were my strong points. It did not seem that ancient. I could visualize it. And the key to understanding and remembering history was to visualize it.
It took me years to find out only because I was not looking for it. It was while I was doing my masters in history. I had begun to spend a lot of time in the library and that is where I found the book that covered the history of my childhood town. It had pictures starting from about a thousand years ago but I flipped through half of the book and landed on the page, which gave a detailed account of the building of the citadel. It felt live. I also read about the prince. The book was written by one of the local historians and it gave me all the answers I needed
I stopped blaming the prince for everything after that. If I was improving, it was me or like my mother felt it was her upbringing. I could never be the prince. I could never be the person who had about three hundred years ago created havoc, who had in his freakiness to survive more than thirty years of age that was given to all male members of his family killed many. A man who had run from pillar to post to uplift the curse. He was abandoned from the palace because he had been cruel to his people, all the other kings before and after him had made peace with the thirty years and they lived happily and lovingly for the years given to them. The prince of the citadel could not do that. Reading it all, made me sense that the prince was a lie. A childhood notion in my head, which made me believe that I was the prince. I could never be.
That night, I went home a changed person, like the curse was lifted from my head. I did not feel weighed down by anything. I reached home and all I wanted was a good night’s sleep, my overworked brain needed that rest. But that was not to be. I had just slept for an hour and there was a knock at my door.
“Happy thirtieth Birthday!” my mom sang
