The Lost Flute

An Open Door

If you sat atop a branch of the ancient banyan tree hugging the edge of Subala's rice field you could see in the distance the narrow unpaved road coiling around the grasslands, flowing into a quiet village just outside the city of Mathura. However, there was something different about this sleepy little village. Here, the men laughed mechanically, and the women merely sighed. There was something in the air that made visitors uneasy. An unheard plea. A sharp, drawn breath. A sob stifled at the back of the throat. It was as if time itself had stopped in shock. As though suddenly, the heart of the village had stopped beating. Here, the silence was deafening.

Anyway, back to the road. This long winding stretch of road had seen a lot in its time. At one point it used to be the main road for the transport of royal tributes, from the village to the city of Mathura. Carts and carts of fresh milk, butter and yoghurt would be transported each month. The road would be bristling with travellers, businessmen and soldiers. The laughter of the young women who went along to mind the shops in the city. Then one day, a chariot had rolled on and away from the village. Scores of villagers had run behind it, calling out, but it had never stopped. Soon after, a royal messenger had come to the village square and announced that the village no longer needed to pay tribute to the crown, and that had been that. Soon after, the war had come. The Seventeen Years' War. It had burned everything in its path, eventually forcing the royal family to shift to the other end of the known land. And the road had never been repaired.

The story of the village had started a long, long time ago. Back when it used to keep its head down, silent in compliance, staying out of trouble.

Then one day a man had come knocking, an infant in his arms. The baby had stayed, growing up into a flute-bearing menace, beloved nevertheless. Passionate in his pursuits, the little boy had turned the little village on its head, challenging demons and humans alike. He had lit in them such a fire that even when the war came, not a single villager left their post, choosing to take on the oncoming army by themselves. They succeeded somewhat. Stalling the army at the borders of the village, they stole away precious time, allowing citizens to leave the city before the wrath of the emperor fell upon them. Of course, they were burnt in the process. Even though the boy had gone on to become the commander of the kingdom's army, in their eyes he was still the precious little boy who needed help balancing the mountain that he had already held upon a single finger. Hence, they burnt, happily.

---

Balarama's chariot kicked up the dust on the rustic road as it rustled past the sun-soaked fields and bristling bushes of Mathura's countryside. The fields flew behind, as the vehicle rumbled down the ill-kept turns in its way. The sun was already set to kiss the horizon. Balarama's arms were wrapped around the half-asleep young girl beside him. She had covered her mouth with the end of her dress, her head resting on his shoulders. This journey had been long overdue, but it was finally drawing to a close.

"Can I ask you a question, Rama?" The girl asked quietly, nudging at her brother.

"You know you don't need my permission, Subhadre." Balarama smiled down at her. Subhadra was his younger sister, born almost two decades after him and his step-brother. Balarama had practically raised his sister himself and it was no surprise that she held a very special place in his heart.

Subhadra smiled briefly, "Rama, I've always heard how great of a flautist Kanha is, but I've never seen him play. He always makes excuses when I ask. Did he not enjoy playing the flute?" She looked up at her brother, the burning sunlight glistening in her dark eyes. Balarama looked down at her. Even though she was his sister, she had inherited the charm and the thoughtful nature of their step-brother.

Balarama shifted slightly in his seat, "Who told you that?" He hesitated for a moment but continued, "He and that flute used to be inseparable. We wouldn't be able to pry it from his sleeping hands!" He chuckled at the distant memory of his baby brother wrestling him for that darned flute. He would win too!