The author of all time

Galpothugoda Sudath CHANDRA

Mohan was working on his masterpiece. The world will recognize this novel as my magnum opus, thought he. He churned the ocean of his thoughts quite intent upon raising a brain wave, a title to the novel. He could not settle for but the most befitting title to the profoundest work ever done by himself or anyone else for that matter. His imagination ran riot harnessing his incomparable creative powers to its yoke. 'Life'. Out of the blue it came. Nothing could have better suited to such a voluminous work that contained countless characters. Mohan was certain the gods in the pantheon of literary sphere would, not only read it, but also shower heaps and heaps of praises upon it. Glory to his name! He was over the moon.

He worked all by himself. In his novel there was no protagonist. Each of the countless characters was equally important. None was left but thoroughly explored. Every being that breathed in the world could be seen in his work-men, animals, deities, demons, sprites, spirits, ghouls, Brahmas; beings in happy destinies as well as those in state of misery. None escaped his pen print. He haunted the soul of each of them, and depicted their characters true to any criterion of authenticity. Nothing wasstatic in this world of transience. Mohan's all seeing eyes captured the evolution of these characters through countless aeons changing their mentality materiality in many a becoming.

He knew by the time he finishes his novel it would be a hundred times or even larger than War and Peace. Simply it would be the heaviest volume on Earth. Critics, over the last two centuries, were astounded by the genius of Leo Tolstoy who commanded a great multitude of characters in such magnificent depth and dimension. Yet the characters in War and Peace would look just a handful when legions break forth from the myriad pages of Mohan's magnum opus. Princes and paupers, saints and sinners, sages and savages, pilots and pirates, whales and eels, elephants and ants, an endless procession would multiply in black and white.

In spite of his genius endowed with supreme power to create a new landmark in literature, Mohan's was not a brilliant head. A dark head that stood on top of an ugly face would, more or less, be the appearance envisaged in the reader's mind. With coal black whiskers that framed his dusky face and hair that seemed to emerge out of a fathomless black hole, he bore the semblance to a huge black bear. With that invisible black form he could well hide himself in the fathom long bodies ofhis characters.

He travelled far and wide not just across the continents, but across the planets reconnoitering worldspheres and gathering material.

Within a fraction of a second he could transport himself to a distance that could be measured in millions of leagues. He could fly millions of light years to and fro and see into eternity. He wanted to be framed in the beautiful costume of fame. Years rolled on with the pages of his masterpiece. He wrote about the rise and fall of great civilisations; about the turns and tumbles of kalpas; about the existence and extinction ofantediluvian animals; about holy wars and holocausts. He was obsessed in Life.

It was the saga of living beings depicted with infinitesimal detail into their psycho-physical metamorphosis in each successive becoming. He had rendered to its rhyme and rhythm, dimension and dynamism, mystery and mesmerism with a symmetrical blend of narrative and dialogue. His penetrating eyes ran through the last passage that flowed out of his pen:

The flock of rooks was flying to roost, their black wings blending imperceptibly with the dusk gathering in density. The dirty rag of darkness was sprawling over the bed of evening sky extinguishing the last few sparks left by the setting sun. Day was followed by night right in an endless circle, only tobe chased after in turn by day. Life was moving in a circle; and so was death. Mohan picked up his pen, and resumed writing:

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, years into centuries, and centuries into millennia. The wheel of time trundled along to be in the year 4000 BC. It was the age of monumental mausoleums. Egyptians built a civilization that elevated mortal monarchs to a state of immortality. Suzerainty of Pharaoh stormed the world against serenity of God. Pharaoh wasdeified as God sitting on the throne of secular kingdom. He was the ultimate power towering above the great civilization built upon ruthless slavery.

Young Pharaoh was riding in his royal chariot along the sandy desert raising a cloud of dust in its wake. The stone marvel known as pyramid of Giza rose to a staggering height in his eyes while he was still leagues away from them. Their tapering points touched the very abdomen of the blue sky bearing a semblance to a huge arrowhead poised to pierce the heaven. Pharaoh could not but think that even heavenly eyes regarded them in extreme awe and wonder.

All his pomp and glory, power and panoply owed their existence to his army and armoury. Without them he would be a mere non-entity. He knew the power he was wielding emanated neither from his own body nor mind. Yet it was absolutely beside the point. He was the omnipotent, omnipresent source of power. The rest of the world stood in awe of him. That was how he wanted the state of affairs to stand. All was to be in his favour and at his disposal.

He reached the site of those magnificent monuments. Having dismounted from his chariot he marched forward with imperious strides. Pride swelled in his relentless heart as he visited the inner chambers where one day his mortal remains were to be lying in the immortal state to which he aspired. His living flesh stepped into what was to be, after death, his living chamber.

Not only in life, but also in death I would be crowned with glory, thought he.

He drove back to his palace like a conqueror. He was received by his queen in her bed chamber.

"My lord, you look as if you've been to the seventh heaven," said the queen.

"Why not when there's all the reason to be happy he retorted.

"What makes you so happy"

I'm back from what would be my death chamber said he with a chuckle.

I'm happy in life, so will I be in death. Isn't it natural that Ishould be happy as a man who conquered both worlds

They both laughed to their hearts content.

Much water flowed under the bridge since then. The sun of Egypt, gradually losing his brilliance, glided towards grey evening. He withered being heated by his own fire. A solitary blade of grass, withered and bloodless, in the hot desert, Pharaoh with his youth stolen by the invisible hand of time, intensely felt the burning touch of fire from within. He was on his deathbed. Pain rose up in smouldering flames and enveloped him from head to foot. He was seeking for the panacea that relieves the pain of death. The best physicians in the domain of his rule were around him attending to him with the best medicine they had. Yet they had not the least effect on Pharaoh's rapidly failinghealth. No panacea, only the pain was there. He was meeting his fate face to face.

He was gasping for breath, submerged in a pool of perspiration. He struggled in excruciating pain throwing his arms about. He was no longer the all powerful Pharaoh. A sorry figure he cut to the utter dismay of the onlookers. The sun was on the brink of sinking below the horizon into the depth of the red sea. At his request he was moved up to the balcony from where he could see the great pyramid. He descried the top of it steeped in dark as clouds death pall hanging from above. He wanted something to drink. He received it. It was the cup of his sorrow. He gulped it down breathing hard.

His senses grew weaker one by one. And then his vision failed though his eyelids were still open; his ears could not grasp the sounds coming from without. He could not feel any touch save that of death. His body seemed to be calm, but his mind still imprisoned in that ruined castle, was all turbulence. The scenes from the past appeared on the screen in a rapid run. He did not see the pyramid in its consummate glory. Instead, he saw thousands of men and women savouring the best of slavery, shedding blood and sweat to make his dream a sweet reality. He saw the task master flogging them with a whip at the slightest lapse; the welts and weals across their bare backs appeared big and appalling on full screen.

He heard the men screaming, and women wailing writhing in inhuman pain. He saw himself laughing in utter contempt for those slovenly slaves, whom the task master was taking for a ride at his bidding. The contrast between those slovenly dogs and heavenly god now accentuated before him, bold and callous. Experiencing these horrors Pharaoh, at length, breathed his last. His death was far from being peaceful. Subsequently as pre-arranged his mummy was medicated and preserved in the mausoleum for the benefit of posterity.

A lapse of six millennia since then saw a scraggy old bitch in a street gutter in Los Angelesdeliver a brood of three puppies. One of them happened to be a white puppy dappled with black. It grew up in the company of street dogs feeding on the stale contents of garbage bins. Thus it turned out to be a skeleton of an ugly dog roaming back streets.

Very often street urchins made fun of it bypelting stones at the poor wretch. If, by chance, it came by a piece of meatless bone, it was a lucky day for the poor stray dog. It was later discovered by a man of supernormal powers that this dog in the days of yore, assumed it to be a god, and under that illusion treated human beings like dogs. By the magic of the transposition of elements this once god was metamorphosed into a dog, aftermany a millennium.

A part of Mohan's masterpiece was quoted above to convey to the reader a clear idea of the nature of his work, and the manner in which the author portrayed his characters - the complete set of characters you find in the world with each particular phase of their evolution from one thing to another over the aeons long journey. It was peerless as a work of art from whatever perspective. After working from dusk to dawn and dawn to dusk for years on end, Mohan, eventually, completed this chronicle of Life in the form of a novel.

As expected, critics hailed it as the greatest work ever accomplished in the tradition of classics. He won accolade after accolade from many literary organizations, before, at length, being awarded the title, The author of all time by the foremost of them, headed by Death for the most absurd reason that of creating Life for him to feed on eternally.

..................................

<< Artscope Main Page