The Palace

Short story

The Maharaja reclined on the plush silk pillows in his intracately carved sandstone rooms that lay in the middle of a man made lake filled with lotus of various saturated colors. There were violet and blue, red and yellow. Rich dense incense burned on circular charcoal embers and wafted through the fabrics and cloth, through the ornate lattice and out the open windows where it wove through the lotus stems, mystified a variety of exotic fishes who swam below and then lay thickly like a fog on the surface of the glistening water.

The lake was square like a pool and was not large, a narrow sandstone path like a bridge led to the rooms so that they were sorrounded by water on three sides. This was the most beautiful spot on the palace grounds which were already overflowing with beauty. A small water snake slid across the surface, cutting curvy lines that caught the sunshine on their edges. A black snake that swam among the fish and the lotus and tasted the warmth of the incense with its tongue. In Rajasthan it was the cusp of spring and summer and the light was like heaven, the sun at least twice as large as anywhere else on the earth.

It was said that the Maharaj had not left these rooms for forty years. That he smoked the resin of poppies from a long metal pipe and dreamt the months away. The he lay day and night on his plush beds and couches and fawned over scrolls and paintings, that he had commissioned the masters of the land to create ever more so that he should never run out of works. The writer and historian from the west, notebook always in hand had captured it all.

The musicians of the palace played night and day, the ragas for the morning exultant and celebratory, the ragas of the night longing and mystic.

After many months as a guest in the palace the writer thought it was time to travel on. He would go west out of India and travel through the lands of Central Asia until at last he found his home again in Europe. Of all the amazing sights and impressions he had collected in his dusty notebook, he was saddened that he had no first hand account of the Maharaja himself. He was given access to the palace grounds, he even had sumptuous rooms of his own. He had written of the fountains and waterways, of the gardens and courtesans, he had written of the hypnotic beat of the tabla and the haunting voice of the shehnai, but he had never laid eyes on the Raj.

The night before he was due to leave the palace the moon was full and golden, encircled by an etheric ring, an auspicious sign. His bags packed and his notebook stowed the writer gazed out his windows with wonder on the moon soaked palace grounds. A balmy breeze stirred the leaves in the gardens and crept through the exotic native trees. The sound of water burbled through the fountains and swished in the waterways. And that was odd wasn't it so, as he realized he was hearing these sounds for the first time. And then he had it, there was no intoxicating rhythm from the tabla and no haunting melody from the shehnai, the palace musicians were not playing.

The writer snuck from his room and strolled along the edge of the garden until he came near to the man made lake, the moon light casting his shadow before him on the path. The musicians were gone, but amber lights flickered in the Maharaj's rooms, linen draperies swayed gently in the windows the light making them golden ghosts. The writer had a maddening urge that he could not resist and so after carefully spying the palace yard and finding it empty of anyone he walked from the edge of the garden to the sandstone bride and approached the Maharaj's rooms.

When he reached the archway with the wooden door he stepped inside. The apartment was aglow in light, many ornate lanterns burned, incense smoke hung thickly in the air. The beds and the couches were all undisturbed and beautiful scrolls lay here and there. But the rooms were empty, there was no Maharaj, and in a moment of great relief he was aware of how fortunate he was. He could not imagine the punishment for betraying the hospitality of his host and storming the Maharaj's rooms. Surely, he had let his curiosity get the better of his judgment. As he turned to leave in a moment of elation, a tiny black water snake that lay unseen in the doorway struck him in the ankle just above his slipper, delivering with its needle sharp fangs a mighty dose of deadly poison. The writer fell through the doorway and stumbled down the sandstone bridge and then promptly fell into the lotus filled lake. As the world became darkness he registered in his slowing mind the reflection of the encircled moon dancing on the black water.

Several generations later, when the palace was deserted and the descendants of the Maharaj had made an inventory of the copious written works contained in the rooms, a dusty notebook was found, the histories and recollections of an erstwhile European traveler and historian.