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The Nightingale's Song!
Was that a nightingale he just heard? Could he have even heard it, deafened as he was by the lament of his own heart? Was the song of the bird a figment of his imagination after all?
The same figment of imagination that had compelled Keats to write that ode? Had he also imagined the song of the bird so it could outcry his heart?
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,"
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
His mind drifted back to the verdant green of the Oxford lawns, the games of cricket that they had played, the rowing competitions on the River Thames, the endless hours spent discussing poetry and drama! Was it him who had lived that life? That incognito life when he had not been a royal but just another student, unburdened by kingly duties. While other privileged sons of lords preferred to flaunt their status, he had begged his father that he be allowed to conceal his. He wanted to live life like any other, without the trappings of his lineage! How happy and carefree a life it had been? Had it really been his?
A soft moan cut through his thoughts and he hurriedly bent down to look at her. Beads of sweat had collected on her forehead. He hurriedly mopped them up with the linen square that was his kerchief, not sparing a glance to the beautifully embroidered monogram on it.
Sweating indicated the breaking of a fever? Did that mean the worst was over? That her lashes would soon flutter open and she would bestow that doe-eyed look on him again, with eyes that reminded him of liquid honey! Where had that thought come from, a part of him wondered! A product of a fevered imagination? Why, when it was she who had been in the grip of a fever?
Wait, her lips seemed to be moving. He couldn't hear what she was saying though and had to bend close to her lips to catch her words!
"Rana ji...!"
Was it possible for a heart to break and exult at the same time?
Why did she have to love him so much? Why couldn't she hate him just a bit so it would be easy for him to do what he was doing! Breaking her heart piece by piece!
How could he give her what she yearned for? When it was not in his power to give? When his own shattered heart had never recovered to be able to love again? When the part that could love had died along with his Sulakshana, leaving behind only a muscle that mechanically pumped blood!
Was it the memory of a past emotion then that had made the muscle jump? Not so long ago when she had buried her face in the crook of his neck? He was not sure he wanted to look for the answer! Not while he was in the house of God. Not while he held her cradled in his arms, not while his tears rolled unbidden down his cheeks.
While his hands were full of her, he had no way to wipe his tears. No way to stop one from finding its way onto her parched lips.
"Rana ji!"
Her eyes strained to open!
"Gayathri..!"
Her doe-eyed gaze appeared blurred by tears now!
Was it his or was it hers?
It seemed that there was a nightingale out there after all! For he could now hear it sing with pristine beauty! Was it the nightingale? Or was it the song of his heart?
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