Moonlight Sonata – The Call of the Past

Hello Readers

This month for the WEP, the prompt is Moonlight Sonata. I have a short entry, a dream sequence of one of the characters from a longer piece. It is merely a manifestation to help me understand the character better and seemed to go well with the prompt. I hope it makes some sense as a stand-alone and you enjoy reading it.

You can read other interesting takes on the prompt here.

THE CALL OF THE PAST (Tagline)

Babul looked up at the temple top, a tiny halo covered its spire. It was yet another full moon night, eleven years later. A flight of 247 stairs stood before him, their familiar vanity intact. He sighed; it was going to be a tough climb but he had done it several times before. The sleeves of his loose pathani kurta slapped his arm. The wind was cold but it felt soft against his skin. The slight gentleness of the mountain air filled his lungs. He quickened his pace, just the way he used to do as a nineteen-year-old. But a few steps later he stopped, gasping for air. His cheeks felt hot and he bent down, resting his hands on the knees.

In front of him a mountain of steps waited patiently to be tread upon. Babul sat down, his back to the temple, and moved his hands over the cold stone that carried faint imprints of his Baba’s footsteps.

You’re the light of our lives, the captain of this ship. Baba’s words rang in his ears.

In front, across the valley on another hill stood the palace, once inaccessible, and now with the abolishment of royalty, a mere symbol of affluence. He flicked his head backwards and rested his eyes on the gentle rays of the moon that bathed the front door of the temple. Eleven years ago, he had run down one last time, while drums beat in the temple courtyard and a horde of rustics danced in ecstasy. Among them, was Chandi, the child-bride.  It was a call he had to take.

We are the caretakers of the abode of the goddess. We cannot alienate her. You will make us pay for your insolence, Babul.

There was no time to waste. Babul stood up with a sense of foreboding. There was no beating of drums today, not even a whimper. Not a soul stirred in the temple above him; no Baba, no Chandi. As he made his way up the stairs, a slow languorous climb in place of his old whirlwind ascent, a shimmery, red scarf fluttered atop the spire, and a silhouette of a woman, her several arms wrapped around … folks … around Baba, appeared at the huge temple gate.

Babul took a few hurried steps. He had to reach the top before they disappeared. But his feet were heavy, something weighed him down. He was no longer nineteen, but he was still a boy of the mountains with toned calves and lean legs. He couldn’t give up and lunged forward, now on all fours, an urgency flowing through his veins. ‘Rescue Baba’ was the mission that had made him travel miles.

You will not be able to resist the call of your own blood, Babul.

Did he hear the distant beating of the drums, the distinct chatter of the hordes once again? What a shame the boy has brought to his clan!

Babul forced an index finger in each ear. The frivolous gossip always tired him. He continued the climb, his legs sturdier than before. He was nearly there, on the last few steps before the ornamental gate. Baba’s smile was fading away and the shadow of the woman in red was a disappearing mirage. Babul had to act fast. He took a deep breath and thrust himself forward, throwing his body at the retreating images before him.

It was perhaps the last, in the long list of mistakes he had committed. His right foot landed on the edge of a stair pulling him backwards, dragging him all the way to the bottom. As he rolled down, he watched the temple top, farther away than it had ever been, the shikhara pricking the full moon right behind it.

Babul, I had asked you to stay, he heard Baba say. His chest tightened and he felt a hammer blow at the back of his head. It was a splitting pain, a loud screech piercing his ears.

Babul sat up with a jerk. His head was sweaty and a stray drop trickled down his face. From a distance came the call for Azaan that filled up his tiny cell. He looked around at the bare brick walls and rested his back against one that housed the only window in the room. Outside, the day was beginning to unwrap itself, and in the midst of its pearly glow the sky was bidding adieu to the moon from last night – still and quiet like its twin, somewhere over a temple spire.   

Total words – 753 (FCA)