Vikramaditya's Throne

Poile Sengupta

Description

A young girl s father goes missing A strange old man insists on his storytelling An ancient throne reveals forgotten tales When Upa's father gets kidnapped from the tiny village where he was working, she and her mother move to her great-grandmother's house in a small town, to recover from the shock. There the dejected and worried mother and daughter are befriended by an odd-looking stranger who insists on telling them stories of King Vikramaditya and his long-lost throne. As Upa and her mother listen to these magical stories they begin to see the goodness in the people around them and recognize the relevance of the tales of King Vikramaditya in their lives today. Funny yet thought-provoking, Poile Sengupta's retelling of these ancient stories makes them come alive like never before.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 17 juin 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9788184751154
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Poile Sengupta

VIKRAMADITYA S THRONE
PUFFIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
Other Titles in the Series
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PUFFIN BOOKS
VIKRAMADITYA S THRONE
Poile Sengupta has written several books for children. Her published works include The Exquisite Balance , The Way to My Friend s House , Story of the Road , How the Path Grew (CBT), Waterflowers (Scholastic), Role Call and Role Call Again (Rupa), Vikram and Vetal and Good Heavens! One-Act Plays for Children (Puffin). Her stories have appeared in various anthologies like The Puffin Treasury of Modern Indian Stories , Sorry, Best Friend , One World (Tulika), The Best of Target , Favourite Stories for Boys and Favourite Stories for Girls. Her column, A Letter to You , ran in Children s World for nearly three decades.
Poile is also a playwright. She has written several plays for adults, of which Mangalam has been published by Seagull Books, Calcutta. She has also written one full-length musical and a number of short plays for children.
She has been a teacher at school and college and is a well-known theatre person in Bangalore, which is her home. Poile now lives in Delhi with her husband who is a senior civil servant.
Other Titles in the Series:
Akbar and Birbal Mulla Nasruddin Vikram and Vetal Tenali Raman
For Sanjoy Ghose whom I never met but whose life and work will always be inspiring
One
Could there be such people, I asked Manu at the end of it all. People who suddenly appear. And just as suddenly vanish? Who seem to be in different places at the same time? Who are unexpectedly so kind, they can make a long face smile? Are there people like that?
I think there are, said Manu. But not everybody meets them. Only those who believe.

It was a cruel time, the year my little girl Upa turned eight and I suddenly found myself being both mother and father to her. Even now, as I hear them chatter in the next room, father and daughter, my stomach curls with the memory of those cruel, heartless twenty-nine days when we did not know where Manu was, where he had been taken, not even whether he was alive. How did I live through that time? How was I able to get up each day, take care of Upa, answer the phone, wait endlessly for that one call that alone would bring life back to our home. How did I do it? I don t know. Much of that time is a blur; I remember the stream of calls from my parents far away in Finland on a three-month work assignment. They had left only the previous week and I would not let them come back just to be with me. How would it have helped anyway? There was nothing any of us could do. Manu was preparing his next day s work in the school when he was taken away, sometime in the night. He had been alone. There were no signs of a fight, nothing had been stolen, there was no ransom note. Nothing to tell us why.
So many people gathered around Upa and me as soon as they heard the news. Manu had no parents and, like me, he was an only child but that did not matter at all. Cousins, friends, his office colleagues, kindly strangers, they did everything possible. Two of Manu s colleagues even went to the village from where he had been taken away. They came back with no fresh news except that people were too frightened to talk. His colleagues also felt it was dangerous for me to go there. I remember writing endless letters pleading with policemen, political leaders, ministers; I even managed a minute s meeting with the prime minister. But nothing helped. There was absolutely no trace of him or of those who had taken him away, his abductors. For us in the family, it was as if the sun never set because it never rose. The world was bleached, all colour drained.
What I do remember clearly is the day we got the terrible news. It was a Sunday, a golden October day with a happy, smiling wind that waved away the last of the summer heat. Manu had gone on one of his long visits to the village he had adopted where he helped settle disputes, gave legal advice when asked, made sure the school was running properly and as he often said, made a nuisance of himself. The village had no telephone connection so Manu would send us word every now and then through whoever was going to the taluka headquarters where there was a phone. Everybody knew Manu and therefore everybody knew us too, although the last time Upa and I had gone there, she was still a baby. Once she started school and I went back to my writing, it was difficult to make the trip. Would Manu have been abducted if Upa and I had been with him? I don t know. How can I tell?
Manu was to have returned that Sunday evening, in time for Upa s birthday the following Wednesday. When the doorbell rang, I was knee-deep in paper trying to sort out a pile of stories. I called out to Upa to see who it was but she was already running towards the door shouting, It may be ManDaddy! I heard her open the door, there was a murmur of voices and then, Upa s cry, Mummy! Something was not right. I threw down the papers I was looking at, rushed to the door and put my arms around my little girl. She was trembling. There were two men at the door, they looked tired, their faces grave. One of them was the schoolmaster from the village. Even before he could finish what he was trying to say, painfully squeezing out the words, Upa screamed, No! Not my ManDaddy! And then she collapsed into my arms, her cheeks burning hot, her body shivering uncontrollably.
Upa was ill for a long time. When she finally managed to sit up, and after a few days took a few steps, the doctor told me firmly that I should take her away from the city. Somewhere quiet, where people won t ask questions. And, he added, just forget about her school and all that nonsense! Upa s school principal was not as impolite but she agreed with the doctor s advice. And don t worry about school, she said. Her eyes spoke more than her words.
Two
So Upa and I found ourselves in a local train, crammed with yelling babies, men and women with loud voices, lots of empty, horribly-in-the-way baskets, and a group of strange-looking people, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, who did not seem to belong there at all. Most of them stood near the door chattering, but one sat at the window opposite our seats. He was a small, thin man with pointed ears and a face that was unusually long. He had been reading a book when we came in looking for our places; he had put it away and, without a word, helped us with our suitcases and bags. When the train moved at last, with a final, fussy whistle, he went back to his book once again, and then suddenly, abruptly, he said to Upa, Your face is longer than mine, young lady. Lost your smile to a cat? Upa stared back at him in complete silence. They call me Rumple, he went on. I suppose you will tell me your name by and by. In the meanwhile, I m going to read out a story from this book. You can close your ears or go off to sleep if you want. I don t really care.
The train had picked up some speed and as usually happens, everyone, especially the babies, became quieter and a little drowsy. The man called Rumple began to read out aloud from his book. His voice, how do I describe it? It was like a roll of rich, red satin that he could twirl and knot, curl and twist. Sometimes his voice unfurled like a proud nation s flag, brilliant against a thundery sky. At other times it was shy, a piece of delicate lace, half hidden in the folds. As his voice told the story, Upa curled under my arm and listened. So did we all, those awake, those drowsy, those who only half understood. We all listened.

For many centuries after the king had died, his throne could not be found. This was the magnificent throne that had been gifted to him by the god of the heavens. It was the throne of the great monarch Vikramaditya, the wisest and best and most generous of kings. It was believed that when he died, a voice rang out from the skies saying, O ministers! This throne mourns for its king, the great, the just, the most compassionate Vikramaditya! There is no ruler now worthy of a seat such as this. Bury it deep inside the earth, in a field of fruit and flower and let it lie hidden there, away from the gaze of an unjust world! So, it is said, the ministers of Vikramaditya buried his throne deep inside the earth, in an orchard of fruit and flowering trees and there it lay hidden for many long years. Kings reigned over the land and died, thrones were built and broken, battles were fought and lost and won. Then, during the reign of Raja Bhoja, the orchard turned into a field of vegetables, sugar cane and chickpea according to the season. Every crop was rich and full, and to keep off the birds, the farmer built himself a raised platform along one side of the field. From here, he could catch sight of any thieving little bird and drive it away.
One day, the farmer was sitting on the platform in his usual way, when he saw the king go by. King Bhoja was returning from a tour of his kingdom and had his ministers with him. When the farmer saw the grand chariots go past his field, he called out loudly, O gracious king, Your Majesty, please, please do me the honour of stepping into my field. My harvest is rich, great king, and my heart is full. Please come in and eat of the fruit of my field. I will be truly blessed! Truly, truly blessed! King Bhoja was amused by the farmer s words; he was also hungry. So he ordered the chariots to stop and walked into the field with his ministers. The farmer clambered down from the platform and ran forward as if to greet his important guests. But as he came towards the king, the farmer was no longer welcoming! Instead, he got angry with the king and his ministers. He almost shouted at them. O King! he said. You should know better than to come into a field in such a careless way! Just look at the damage you and yo