How can anyone erase the times of childhood?... Nostalgia. Nostalgia has come in, carrying underneath it, the sadness. The sadness of its end. The tragedy of childhood, Jaliya, is its unbreakable bond to the eventuality called adulthood.
“...In the water are lily pads, or some water flora resembling lily pads... The two boys are naked. Swimming joyfully, they are utterly carefree. The camera cuts back to the face of Karaibrahim...”
He is recalling his childhood Jaliya. It is a terrible pain for him to bear and still be the man he is required to be.
“...His eyes have gone to a distance, inwards, within him...”
“Jaliya?”
“Yes Rachana?”
“How do they make those small boys, those children, into cruel warriors? How can they be made to do violence to their own people?”
“The method of creating janissaries has been a science developed over centuries... The people in the Rhodope Mountains say that no janissary was ever born into the world, but were moulded out of their children, turning the supple flesh to a hateful iron. It happens like this Rachana. You see, when those small boys in their innocent childhood are taken into the hands of the ottomans, they are blindfolded. They remain deprived of sight of the daytime, being taken on horseback on that seemingly unending journey to the capital of the Ottoman Empire. Only at night during the journey, as the soldiers camp, would the blindfolds be undone, and that too inside the tent. And only for a new minutes would they be allowed this respite from the fearful darkness bound on them. Only the dim flicker of a fire outside do they see. And then darkness takes over again... In this way they live for days, until they enter the capital. Deprived of sight and assailed by a plethora of sounds that scare them to no end. Children from sleepy mountain villages thrust into the ‘centre of the world’. And it is here finally, after days and days of harsh travel on horseback blindfolded into an unmoving darkness, they finally see the daylight once again....And the sight that greets them is the grandeur of the Sultan, the Padishah himself... His gaze falls on them kindly with an embracing visage of affection. The kind of powerful impression a father may cast on his son who assures that no harm will ever be allowed upon him, by anyone, hereafter. It is this very moment that marks their total capture Rachana. Because now their hearts have run to this powerful figure pulsating with an abundant paternal love. And from this benign father figure they receive their first delectable meal. The Sultan himself serving the famished boys who yearn for a sense of comfort, assures them that he will from then on be their father in their new home. He will lovingly feed each boy a mouthful by his own regal hand, and kiss the forehead... Smiling with unbound love he looks into their eyes, assuring he will dispel whatever fears haunt them. And this is the point where the innocence of their supple flesh is met with the deceptive irons of the ottoman methods. The means to craft steely men who will unquestioningly brandish swords for their Padishah and dedicate their very breath to be at his bidding....And so these children are taught the arts of soldiery from that day on. They are trained as men and not spared of cruel punishment for the missteps of children. Both their bodies and their minds being shaped in the mould of a loyal servant who embraces the greatness of the ottoman civilisation unquestioningly...The children have no respite from the harshness they are subjected to. The only comfort they would look forward to is the meal they will have once a week with their newly professed father, the Sultan. His warmth and benevolence is the only drink of water their hearts receive in the harsh burning trek they make in desolate loneliness. His sight becomes the form of love that fills the void in their hearts...So, this benign captor becomes the paternal figure who is their only dear one. The one they will never want to displease. The one they become devoted to in a gratitude for healing them of the fear they were tormented by...And as they mature, Rachana, the janissaries are bound to their father, their master, in a devotion that is fanatical. A devotion that is crafted through deceptions, yet is a realness they feel. To them all that matters is they uphold this sanctified feeling. Because it is a filial piety. And this filial piety Rachana, they called it...”
“Omunkashyu.”
“Yes.” The acoustic form of his reply dissipates to a solemnity of quiet between them.
“What happens to him Jaliya? Karaibrahim.”
There is a quiet contemplation as Jaliya holds his words. She knows this about him. The story, in a way, must become him. Only then will she feel she can live it through his words. A story must always feel as though it will make the listener live it. Those are the stories that survive the generations as time rolls on unceasingly. Time, which is a respecter of no persons.
“He wonders what waits for him in Elindenya. That is why his gaze doesn’t flow to the distance beyond, but dwells inwards. Within him are questions... You see Rachana, there is a certain science when it comes to the janissaries. The system that governed them dictated a janissary never be sent to his village of childhood, his first home. It was feared that to send a janissary to the place of his childhood would mean a possibility of creating a rift between his worlds. The life he has been moulded into and the life he knew, which secretly lurks in his subconscious. Made to sleep silently over the course of years and years of harsh training. The rigidified janissary must not be made to hear the whimpers of the child subdued, nor echoes of his laughter from days that may only drift across him like a soft wind in his dreams. They, the masters of the janissaries feared Omunkashyu, the code of filial piety observed by the janissaries, would be broken if overpowering emotions from the land of their childhood were to take hold of them, which would happen only if the sights and sounds of the forgotten past were to meet them once again... There is nothing more powerful Rachana, than the power to cause remembrance...”
And what will you remember of me Jaliya, when morning comes...
“...We see there is a speckle at the corner of his eye. He remembers the land that slowly takes shape in front of him as he comes out of the narrow rock passage. His horse takes steps along a gravel path and a mountain road opens to them. He knows this path Rachana, in his eyes there is a silence that says his whole being has been caught in a moment of involuntary solemnity... The wind feels familiar to him. The camera cuts to a close-up shot of his face. The emotionless face is secretly affected. In front of him is the road to the village. Elindenya. A land of memories. Yes, he is caught in a moment of remembrance...”
...Perhaps you will keep some of the words... Maybe the sound of the laughter, we shared.
“...He wonders what awaits him... What faces could emerge from like a shadow seen in a dream?... Something vague will touch him. But too vague to be anything relatable to the world he was possessed by.”
“But Jaliya, why is Karaibrahim being sent to Elindenya? It goes against their system doesn’t it?”
“Karaibrahim was the favourite of the janissaries’ commander. The mission to Elindenya was of significant importance to many in Istanbul. It would be a matter of pride and in another sense a bid made in desperation.”
“Who was desperate?”
“The clerical bastions in Istanbul wanted this symbolic conquest desperately to further their own influence. And the most effective of the janissaries was Karaibrahim.”
“Was he asked?”
“Yes. And when the commander of the janissaries spoke of it to his most trusted protégé, Karaibrahim had begged to be given the honour of proving his steadfast resolve in serving the destiny of the Sultan. The king of kings, the Padishah.”
“And they disregarded the principle that was meant to protect Omunkashyu?”
“They challenged it. The strength in the character, the redoubtable resolve of Karaibrahim beseeched for the trust of the janissaries’ commander. He was desperate to prove his bond to Omunkashyu. To show how nothing could tear it from his heart.”
“What is his destiny? This man driven by his conviction in Omunkashyu?”
“He has no idea of what lies ahead as his mount
steps onto the gravel path to Elindenya. He doesn’t know yet Rachana that in his village there is an ailing woman who has had a dream of his arrival... She hasn’t much time. She is dying and wants to see with her own eyes the man whom she knows will change Elindenya forever.”
Dare she ask, she thinks. But she will, because she is as much part of driving this narrative ahead as Jaliya. The raconteur may find in his listener a partner whose questions become a strength that propels the imagination, with something as so subtle and unsuspecting as the feeling carried in the tone of the questions spoken.
“Who is she Jaliya?”
He knows now who she is. The touch of Rachana’s tone on his ear made it clear to him. And how will he tell her, answer her simple question? Will he say it in just a word, or go deeper into the woman’s being and the advancing figure of violence?
“She is submerged in a fever that is claiming her into the growing darkness... The fever had turned terminal ever since she saw the dream. The face that remained unmoved against her pleas. The stony determination on that face to commit violence had spoken to her in an expression that had needed no words... And then she knew. Her time was coming... She is bound to that face by the truth of blood. Blood. It holds the definition of life, Rachana... And Karaibrahim is yet to know how strong the ties of blood are. Because it was the blood in this woman lying febrile in a cot covered by a sheepskin that created him.”
She takes in a sharp breath. Consternation stifled. And Jaliya knows how she feels by the subtle sound of her reaction.
She is still there! Waiting for his return!... But then, he is not who he was. After all those years and after all he has been through....He is not who he was. Is he?
“Though maybe all too well known, there is a saying, ‘a man cannot escape his past’.”
Can any of us Jaliya? Can any one of us really escape our past? We live in it with every turn our life makes we think is ‘new’. It is the story we are meant to find again and again in different forms. However much we step towards the future. However much the dawn brings a new day.... But then, Karaibrahim doesn’t know that yet.
“Where does his horse take him? Is he in Elindenya?”
“The wind speaks to him of what he may have to face. There are gentle whisperings in the wind he finds familiar. As a boy, bathing in the river under a clear sky, he would listen to the wind and imagine the wind was whispering poems only he was meant to understand...”
Sigh... Those poems will not mean anything to him Jaliya. There is no dearness in his heart. He is a man whose poetry has been taken out of his soul.
From whose soul has the sense to feel poetry been taken out? Who is this emotionless being Rachana thinks of as Jaliya speaks? Are her thoughts still referring to Karaibrahim, the janissary in the story Jaliya narrates?... Ah!, but then, the thought of a hardhearted man isn’t a thought that can only find a stem of truth in the character of Karaibrahim she hears of from Jaliya. To Rachana it has a whole other dimension of truth. Ever since she began to see the innerness of the man who waits to claim her on a day set in the not too distant future... There is no poetry in his soul? How sad. But why does she think that? Was it because he chided her girlishness and the want of romance from him? Were her wants too great? A quiet walk in a park, under cool foliage, holding hands. Perhaps to sit together watching a sunset, gazing at the boundlessness of the ocean. Talk softly in wonder of what the future may hold in store... Simple gestures, like stealing a lick from her ice cream. Looking into her eyes, and smiling. To feel his lips touch her forehead. Picking a white flower adorning her hair, as a keepsake, before leaving for the airport. Things that make the moments they spend together matter only to them. Things that say she is dear to him.
She now has a dire urge to feel a human touch on her hand. To feel there is a world of humanness abundant in tender emotions. And this makes her sigh deep within. For she cannot make herself fulfil this need. To put her hand upon his.
“...There are memories still lurking in him Rachana. Memories held in silence. Bearing silently the sweetness of childhood, he knew to be true. But the grip this wind has on him is frail. It can’t yet grip him as tightly as Omunkashyu...”
How tightly did Ravan grip Sita that day, when he took her on his flying chariot? He fought Jatayu, refusing to give her up. Defended her, treated her honourably. Maybe her husband’s grip on her wasn’t strong enough. Maybe that is why Ravan was able to enchant her. To take her away to his island paradise.
“...But with the steps his steed makes, slowly on the cool dry gravel, there is a change in the road of destiny that he does not know of Rachana...”
He may not really care Jaliya. Whatever turn of fate that waits ahead is not the doings of an unseen providence... Destiny happens when people make decisions that give definitions over their actions, their lives.
“...The janissary’s world will be thrown into turmoil... He will contest inside him how much of Omunkashyu can bind him to who he is. The sight of his mother, now just a vague outline of what he can recall only in his dreams, the sound of her beseeching voice will finally cause him to search within, what Omunkashyu means to him...”
And what does it mean to you? Omunkashyu... Touch me. Touch me Jaliya. Can you become my Ravan...
“...She is visibly silent, but her mouth moves in the hope of producing speech. The frame is a tight close-up of her. The old face is wrinkled and beleaguered. The years of grief and the fever plaguing her have claimed the spirit of her vitality. The camera cuts to a close-up of Karaibrahim. The intensity in his eyes speaks of a possible duality. He may even commit the unthinkable... Slowly his lips move as the camera cuts quickly to capture in a full frame the ultimatum pronounced. A wide angle frame. The villagers have formed a periphery. The anxiety and despondency written on their faces become clearly visible as the camera pans in a track shot... The camera cuts to a close-up frame of a Turkish sword, a yatağan, encased in its silver scabbard. A hand clutches the handle. And the camera cuts to a profile shot of the fierce janissary who draws his sabre. The camera cuts to a frontal close-up shot of Karaibrahim. There is a battle he faces on two fronts. The one assigned to him. And what he has inherited...”
With whom does his loyalty lie? Who has the privilege of claiming his true bond?
Is this how it really happens? The story of Karaibrahim the janissary as he sets upon the village of his childhood Elindenya, in the Rhodope Mountains? Is this the story narrated in the historical novel Vreme Razdelno written by the Bulgarian writer Anton Donchev, which was translated to English with the title Time of Parting? On which the movie Vreme Na Nasilie was made, directed by Ludmil Staikov, carrying its English title as Time of Violence? Is this that very exact story we are told by Jaliya? But then, the fact of the matter right now is that it does not really matter to Rachana. And Jaliya has taken the full extent of liberty that a raconteur may deem as his prerogative. But, has he really, truly, and fully got an audience digesting every word he narrates and lives in the moment created by his words? Because right now Rachana is made to think of a state of reality that can only be spoken of in terms of Jaliya’s shareera yatharthaya theorem. She must feel the reality of a human touch on her to feel that all that she has felt within her isn’t merely her imagination at work and that she has not drifted into a dream, blanketed by this impenetrable darkness. So then why doesn’t Jaliya comfort her with the simple act of making his hand come into physical contact with hers? Perhaps he doesn’t know she needs a human touch right now? Yes, true enough, he doesn’t know that because he isn’t a mind reader after all. But, perhaps, there is something else when it comes to the significance of a touch that Jaliya may be dealing with subconsciously... Sometimes, a touch, human skin making its presence upon another, can create bonds stronger than iron.
“Jaliya!”
“What is it Rachana?!”
Her breathing is intense. It cuts the silence sharply. The anxiety in her made his name burst out. She trem
bles. Her hand is slightly shaky as it grips Jaliya’s....This hand she holds, the touch they share is an anchorage of comfort.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s this darkness...” the voice quivers slightly, “...Jaliya this darkness. I can’t bear it. It’s, it’s...it’s like, it’s suffocating me!”
“It’s alright.”
His hand holds hers. He couches her hand in his touch of comfort. “It won’t harm us.”
His fingers slip between hers and keep her entwined in a grip of a promise. This closeness comforts her; keeps the oppressiveness of the dark silence around them at bay. “What’s troubling you?” He makes his words fall gently on her ear.
“Jaliya there isn’t a speck of light in here now. Outside the window there isn’t a thing we can see!”
“But this bus is still travelling Rachana. We are en route to our destination.”
She senses the smile of reassurance is on his face. The face her eyes cannot behold, but is only a breath’s distance away. The sound of his breath is audible. It is calm, and seeks to calm the shakiness in her.
“How much time do you think has gone by? Since we left Nandyal?”
“I have no idea.”
“We should have made several stops by now Jaliya. And I know we should be nearing Chennai by now. We should have some sign of morning coming to our sight through the window!”
“Hmm...Yes, you have a point. But I can’t for the life of me see my watch in this darkness.”
And so they both reach for their mobile phones again and check if they can switch them on again somehow to have some idea of what the time, could be. But neither of them can get their phones to switch on. Somehow it’s as if time has deserted them. Abandoned them to the unrealism of the dimensionalities governing their state of being aboard this bus, travelling on its course of a night that does not seem to let up.