Ever After (4 page)

She listened at
first with a detached air. She heard the crickets chattering, the
rain pitter-pattering and the far off jabbering jays. She heard the
thunder and the wind, the rustling leaves, and the rolling
carriages and drays.

She spent hours
listening to the world outside, learning to hear sounds that most
humans would miss. She learned to differentiate between the sound
of a butterfly wings and the sound of a falling feather, and if she
tried really hard, she could even hear deep inside the earth where
blind moles were busy digging tunnels, worms squirmed about to and
fro and snakes were on a hunt.

And then one
day, she heard him.

A man.

She could see
his hazy reflection in the window. He was tall and dark and stood
behind her rocking chair. She tried to see his features in the
window pane, but they seemed to dance out of her sight.

He crept closer
towards her, and his footsteps sounded softer than a fish skimming
over water in some faraway land. She wanted to turn her head and
look at him, but after so many years of being an ice statue, she
could no longer move her stiff neck.

He stood
patiently like an inanimate stone as if waiting for something.
Perhaps he wanted her to look at him? Or did he want to stare out
at her wonderful little garden and hear all the lovely sounds as
well?

For the next
few hours they remained like that—one sitting, one standing—both of
them still like a placid lake; calm, serene and silent. He departed
just before her husband came home. She wondered vaguely if he would
return.

He did. He came
every day, always patient, still and peaceful.

Gradually, she
turned away from the world outside, her attention on him. Questions
sprouted once more in her mind, and she wondered who he was and why
he came, and every time he left with the setting sun, she wondered
if he would return.

He always
arrived when the sun’s rays hit the oak tree by the pond. He did
not come through the front or the back door, nor did he whoosh down
the chimney, but somehow he materialized inside her room like a
wizard or magician, moving a hair’s breadth closer and closer to
her rigid form …

Until one day
his warm breath rustled the tiny hairs on the back of her neck.

She shuddered
and her breathing grew ragged. His breath seemed to race through
her spine, and the frost on her skin dripped down to form a puddle
at her feet.

Why, she asked
him mutely, why had he made her feel again?

He looked at
her through eyes that spoke of deep wisdom, his handsome face
etched with learned lines.

She watched
him, frightened and awed at his strength. A translucent, bright,
hot shield seemed to pulse all around him, as if he was
encapsulated in a ball of fiery energy.

"Sing," he
whispered in her trembling ear. "Sing."

***

Sing, she
thought, a smile lurking in her eyes. The last time she had sung
had been in her father’s palace. The whole palace had implored her
to never try again. Even her mother, who had often turned a blind
eye to her faults, had been forced to concede that she was tone
deaf.

The dark man
spoke no more. He offered her no reason, no hint as to why she must
sing.

But she must
sing, that was all he said before he vanished from her sight.

Her husband
entered the room that night, but she did not notice. He told her he
loved her more than anything in the world before falling asleep.
She did not hear him.

She must sing
he had said, but how? She knew nothing of songs and tunes, of
ballads and rhymes. She glanced at her husband sleeping on the bed.
No one must know, her heart whispered, for if she failed she
couldn’t bear to be laughed at yet again. She got up from the
rocking chair and went to the kitchen to think. Her starved body
reminded her to eat, and she bit into a juicy pear as she
contemplated her future.

When her
husband left the next morning, she followed close behind. The path
ahead forked into two, and he took the left while she walked down
the right one. She came to a small garden, walled on all sides and
blooming with scented flowers. Choosing a bench facing a pond
filled with swans and ducks, she made herself comfortable. No one
could see or hear her in this place.

This is where
she decided to sing.

***

She opened her
mouth and sang the first notes. It was a lullaby that her mother
used to sing to her every night. It was a bitter sweet song meant
to sooth and comfort, but the moment the first few words of the
song left her lips, every bird in the vicinity shrieked in protest
and flew away, the flowers in the garden withered and died, while
the frogs hopped out of the pond to complain.

Her mouth
turned down, her heart heavy.

"Sing," the
voice whispered again.

She eyed the
grumpy looking ants and snails glaring at her. She pursed her lips
undecidedly.

“Sing,” came
the voice again, this time more insistent.

She nodded and
tried again.

The fish sped
right to the bottom of the pond and hid under rocks, while the bees
covered their ears with leaves and looked mightily annoyed, and
every snail and ant near where she sat packed up their bags and
departed to make a new home across the pond.

But this time
she did not give up. She tried again and again. And from then on
she returned every single day to sit on the bench and sing. She
sang songs from her childhood or snippets she had heard on her long
journey. Sometimes she made up songs and lyrics or simply hummed or
whistled a few tunes.

The squirrels
threw nuts at her to make her stop singing, the birds dropped
berries on her head, and all the leaves on the tree above her dried
up and fell off. At first, she ignored the complaining animals, but
then one day, she became aware of the wonderful sounds of nature.
She heard the lovely rustle the leaves made when they withered and
fell all around her. She realised that the bouncing acorns that the
squirrels were throwing her way made a wonderful rhythm. The
berries the birds plopped onto her bonnet rattled around charmingly
on top of her head. And together the leaves, the acorns and the
berries made the most wonderful symphony.

With an odd
thrill in her heart, she began trying to learn from her
surroundings. She started with the birds, trying to mimic and sing
like them. She imitated the hens, the ravens and cockatoos. She
went on to buzz like the bees and ring like the temple bells. She
even tried to ape the words she heard some school children singing
close by.

She learned it
all and finally made a song.

The birds
reluctantly fluttered back to the garden to hear her song. They
nodded in approval. It wasn’t so bad. The squirrels, too, heard her
song and admitted it was bearable, and they stopped throwing nuts
her way. The rest of the creatures heaved a sigh of relief, and
life went back to the way it had been. The ants, beetles and the
snails arrived with their luggage to make their homes once again
near her feet. The fish swam back up, the bees went back to work
and the frogs complained no more.

The garden was
once more at peace.

Pleased, she
rushed home that evening to sing for her husband.

He heard her
song and smiled and told her she was talented. He begged her to
continue at her little task, reminding her that he loved her and
always would.

"Stay busy," he
said. "It is good for your sweet little head."

Her shoulders
drooped, and she once again returned to the rocking chair, but
before she could sit the voice came back and whispered in her ear.
“Do not stop. Sing.’’

***

Her chin lifted
and she moved away from the chair. Anger raged through her veins as
she watched her husband sleep. He loved her, he said over and over
again, and yet he had allowed her to turn into a frigid statue. She
recalled those early days of marriage when she had just began to
cook grand meals…

One day, he had
taken her to an inn and suddenly announced to everyone that his
wife would now dance with a spoon. The inn had erupted in applause,
and she was pushed onto the table to twirl and dip with an
inanimate silver spoon.

Another time he
made her eat paper soaps, telling her it was biscuits, and laughed
as she had frothed and foamed. He had laughed until he had cried
and called all his friends home to witness the bubbles that came
out of her mouth every time she hiccupped or spoke.

He had
continued to demean her and flaunt her faults until slowly and
surely he sapped all her warmth, leaving her chilled to the core.
He expected her to thrive without love and companionship, to be
content without affection, encouragement or coin. For him, she was
a royal doll carved out of white unfeeling stone. Something he kept
as a decorative piece that he brought out now and then to show to
the world. Something exotic that he had picked up on his travels
that now sat hidden away gathering dust. But she was not a statue,
nor was she made out of stone. She still lived and breathed. She
could still think and move. And in spite of months spent in
silence, she still had a voice—a voice that allowed her to speak, a
voice that allowed her to sing.

Anger bubbled
in her veins and hatred grew in her heart. No longer would she be
weak and trodden upon. No longer mocked and pitied. With this
silent vow wrapped around her like a cloak, she walked out of the
door in the middle of the night and went and sat on her favourite
bench in the garden.

The glittering
moonlight cascaded down to where she sat. The light soaked into her
pores, filling her up and washing away her anger. The soothing
scent of night flowers and ripe peaches lacing the chilly breeze
buried into her soul. She breathed in deeply and closed her
eyes.

An owl hooted
somewhere up in a tall, dark, shadowy tree.

She hooted
back.

The owl
fluttered down closer to where she sat and cocked its head in
surprise. It had never seen an owl quite like her, and an owl she
must be for she had hooted so well.

She smiled at
the brown wide-eyed bird and suddenly felt filled with a strong a
sense of purpose. She would sing, she vowed, sing better than
anyone in the world.

She sang until
she forgot she was a princess and a daughter or Anahita and a wife.
She sang until she forgot herself and was lost in notes and rhythm.
She continued to sing even after the sun rose and the sun set. She
sang over and over again, and with every day that passed, her voice
grew a touch stronger and more confident.

She sang like
the birds until they were fooled into thinking she was one of them.
She sang like the insects until they crowded out onto the path to
see if they had left behind one of their kind. She sang like the
leaves until the trees bowed their head and rustled their branches
to join her in her tune. And then she soared above nature’s sound,
singing better than the insects and the birds and the trees.

She sang her
own song, a song no longer earthly but so much more. She sang
better than the sweetest voice in the world, and people began
flocking to hear her. She sat on that bench singing her heart out
surrounded by people who had travelled across countless lanes,
roads and oceans. Her song healed the aching hearts, her tune
lifted spirits high, her voice calmed the most agitated minds, and
her words seeped into old bones giving them comfort.

She opened her
eyes and saw herself surrounded by hundreds of faces. The little
garden was transformed. Colourful tents had sprouted up everywhere
she chanced to look. Hundreds of entranced faces stared at her in
awe. The walls surrounding the garden had been torn down and the
small garden had expanded into a giant field of flowers and
trees.

Here no one was
a commoner and no one king. All were equal, joined together to hear
the simple beauty of her song. The lame sat next to the healthy and
the rich rubbed shoulders with the beggars.

She looked
behind herself and found her husband counting coins. People were
paying him to hear her sing. She spied her mother next to him, her
chin raised proudly telling all who could hear her that the girl
who sang was her daughter.

She stopped
singing, and a disappointed sigh went through the crowd.

"Sing," her
husband beseeched. "Why ever did you stop?" he asked.

She complained
that her throat felt parched, and he rushed to get her a drink.
Rest, he begged, for her voice was precious and should not be
strained at all.

She closed her
eyes and leaned back in her seat.

Her husband
whispered in her ear, “What song will you sing next? I am certain
it will be better than your last. Look at the coins your voice has
fetched us, enough to buy a palace.”

She opened her
tired lids and looked down at the piles of gold and silver.

"Imagine," he
crooned, "what we could do when you sing well enough to please the
emperor."

"Emperor?" she
asked in horror. She did not think she could please someone so
great.

He scoffed and
told her she could do anything. Couldn’t she see all the people
milling about praising her song and willing to give him coin?

“Sing to feed
our children,” he begged.

"Children?" she
asked in wonder.

"Surely now we
can have children, now that you have a voice," he told her.

She was now to
sing for her home and hearth? He thought she was capable of far
more than being a decorative doll? Never before had her husband
spoken so many words to her, never had he seen her as an equal. But
now that he did, she cared not at all.

The love from
the people surrounding her lifted her out of her misery. She no
longer felt frightened. Her face glowed in confidence, and a
beautiful golden aura surrounded her. She glowed brighter and
brighter, her light falling upon all those present. Her song had
made her realise that every land was the same and every human an
equal. The same emotions raged in every breast, and the same
sadness and happiness marred every soul.