The Assassin's Song Read Online Free PDF Page A

flood; it washes into Patan, it washes away the streets and the squares, it washes away the works of my forebears, the lake of the thousand Shivas, the temples, it washes away my palace …”
    “Yes, my King? There is more?”
    “Brick by brick the great works of the artisans of the past are washed away. I know this portends the end of my kingdom. Our enemies are already in Malwa and knocking at the eastern gates. Yet, I cannot see more. Perversely, the dream ends there, with the bricks and the lingams washed away. I do not see myself in all that. I do not see my progeny. What can
you
tell me, Sufi? Apply all your powers and tell me.”
    “My Lord, the sages have warned that the world is but a two-day carnival. The Atman alone lives forever and is indestructible, as Krishna taught the brave Arjuna when he mourned the killing of his kinsfolk on the battlefield of Kurukshetra …”
    The king stared at the mystic, who he knew had spoken the truth— a truth he had indeed heard countless times but not understood with this same immediacy.
    Nur Fazal the mystic then removed a black ring from his finger. He handed it to the king. “My King,” he said, “may this token come to the aid of you and yours should you need it. It belonged to my Master in the west … who is no more on this earth.” For this was the message he had received in Dwarka. He was alone, and he had to forge his own path here in the new land.
    The king accepted the token. “Go then,” he said. “You have permission to stay in the kingdom. And my mahamatya, the chief minister Rajpal, will draw up a declaration granting you safe passage on this land and permission to set up abode.”
    And so Nur Fazal the sufi departed the city with his followers, travelling southwards, until he arrived at a peaceful, welcoming place where he chose to settle, which came to be called the Baag, or the garden.

Postmaster Flat, Shimla
.
    My brother's keeper, here in the shadow of the mountains
.
    All is quiet, unstirring, on this edge of the world as I emerge every night for my stroll into a lucid, starlit darkness, aware each moment of that terrifying mystery first suggested to me by my father outside Pirbaag the day I turned eleven. I cannot help but wonder: Is this nightly walk that I take a mere coincidence, or is it memory's prompt? Is it the same sky here now, above these foothills, as it was there over the dusty plains that night? It is comforting to believe in an overarching pattern, an answer to everything, called the Universal Soul, or Brahman, the Om and Allah of that wanderer the sufi, our own Pir Bawa; and yet how far did I wander away from this reassurance.
    The air is crisp and cold. Far in the distance rise the shadowy silhouettes of the mighty Himalayas, guardians of this realm for aeons. I try to imagine the absolute silence in those mountains, amidst a sheer, unprofane beauty: surely a state to aspire to, free of the clutter and cruelty and delusions of human life? That is what my Bapu seemed to teach. All around me the ghostly grey buildings of the Institute, currently my refuge and once the summer residence of the British viceroys of India. Down below, across the valley forested with pine and rhododendron trees, shine the dimming pinprick lights of Shimla town.
    I have been given for my residence the Postmaster Flat, which stands like a watchtower at the entrance of the Institute grounds, above the care-taker's office at the head of the long winding driveway uphill. Its two bedroomsare actually a luxury for my single needs. The front door opens from the living room and study to a flight of perilously sagging wooden stairs descending to the driveway. The back door faces the Guest House, which is where our former rulers' servants had their rooms, I guess, and in whose dining hall the visiting scholars, of whom I am counted one, eat their meals. My appointment here was sudden, a timely favour granted through the influence of a sympathetic friend. This, and