The Emperor
WHEN he returned home, his wife said, “Someone came by looking for you a short while after you went out for your walk...” “What did he look like?”
“I didn’t manage to get a good look at him,” she replied. “Shall I get you a cup of tea?”
His wife seized the chance to get away, and he was overcome by the desire to close his eyes for a long time. His face, pinched by melancholy, took on a faraway look. The voice declaimed: Fools! Nincompoops! How on earth can a man attain victory if the wheels of his chariot sink into mud at the height of battle! There are strategies to chalk out, campaigns to command, countries to conquer, and when you’re set to do all that and more the very ground on which you stand starts to give way!
“Sir!”
He opened his eyes a crack and saw two young boys, thin and starry-eyed, entering the room. His reverie interrupted, he stared at them with evident displeasure.
“This is the second time since yesterday that we’ve come to see you, sir,” the boys said. “If you turn us down we’ll knock our heads against this wall.” He remained silent.
“You must agree to take the role of the emperor in our play, Swargadwar. Nobody else can do justice to it. So what if you do look a little old and feeble? A touch of make-up and you’ll look better than a real emperor. You’ve always played the emperor and you will play him one more time.”
He remained silent.
“We simply refuse to take no for an answer. The handbills have already been distributed.”
Who are these fellows? he wondered, straightening himself with a sigh. His neck looked longer than before. The furrows on his broad forehead and chin gave his face the look of a squeezed inverted triangle. Everything had withered away: the imperious hauteur, the bushy eyebrows, the big brooding eyes, the Grecian nose, everything. The sweat on his unshaven face looked like the churned muddy waters of a ploughed paddy field, and his face was pockmarked with the footprints of nameless dark monsters. The gaping holes, the furrows, the stubble.
Where had the famous face gone? He looked up.
“So it’s all arranged, sir!” the boys cried out together. “We’d better run along now.”
His eyes closed. Reflections rose on the life-size mirror of the auditorium: the haughty, swaggering Karna in his red robe, golden waistband and heavy crown, with gilded pendants hanging from his neck like rising suns; the strapping Kartyavirya guffawing uproariously; Prataparudra, Mukundadev, Kharavela in exquisite dresses, with glittering necklaces and armbands, flinging their glorious arms about; the puny, deferential make-up man tiptoeing in and out of the green room, touching up an eyebrow one minute, a sideburn the next...
The stage is flooded with light. There the sun rises; there night sets in; there the lion growls, setting the papier mache mountains and the cardboard fortresses atremble. The tumultuous sea of the enthralled audience stretches from the mouth of the cave to the deep night sky—every spectator a pair of wide unblinking eyes, a pair of cocked ears. Oh, the festival of applause! The sea rolls with joy, the sky showers petals, and someone climbs onto the stage to pin a gold medal on the emperor’s vast chest. The emperor does not deign to bow his head in acknowledgement, his crown touching the sky...