Satataharitam - Short Stories On Narayana

Claws Over Swords - Narasimha

Song for this chapter: Sada Sumiran - Dashavatar 2008
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The magnificent, gold-brimming city. The place was a marvel in itself. Multiple domes of the royal palaces were plated with gold, intricate carvings all over the outer surface of the buildings. The pieces of sandstone architecture, apart from the rich gold-covered ones, would shimmer in the sunlight to even surpass the glow of real gold itself.

The sunsets were often the most beautiful time of the day. The orange glow behind a seemingly endless silhouette of majestic architecture, it was a sight to behold everyday.

The palace was massive, but was still entirely covered with the most intricate of carvings. It was said that it took the most skilled sculptors and artisans, and many years, to make such a piece of art, such a massive one.

Even commoners had a prosperous life in the city. But that came with a condition. A cost that many weren't ready to pay, but were forced to.

Demolition of certain temples. Prohibiting people from worshipping one deity. Persecuting them if they did. It was all cruelty at its peak.

However, there was one person, who could be forced by none to pay that price. A king could threaten to persecute, even kill, his subjects, but would he do the same to his own son?

Inside a small room with simple wooden doors, a glimpse of realism in surroundings full of fantasy, sat a young boy, hands folded and eyes closed.

There was an unusual aura of serenity that surrounded him. It was something that one wouldn't normally associate with a child his age. It wasn't to say that he wasn't capable of coming up with the mischievous ideas, or irritating his parents, but that wasn't his aim. At least not at the time.

It was only if one went closer to him, that they would hear his whispered chanting. He was chanting the names of Vishnu. But it wasn't mere memorised chanting. It was like every syllable of every name he pronounced was the most earnest call to his Lord.

It was like he was pleading with the Protector of the three worlds, to come before him and show him his divine form. He looked like a child speaking to his father, his words barely heard, perhaps even to himself. But he was certain that his Vishnu would hear it.

Of course he would. He resided in his heart. He knew him more than he himself did. He was Vishnu's, entirely.

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Vishnu had lost himself entirely to his little Bhakta. The smile on his face seemed eternal, his eyes holding the love nobody could truly, ever understand.

It was like the love of a mother for her son, heart melting to every gesture the little boy made. It was like the love of a father, feeling that unparalleled pride every time he chose to walk on the right path. It was like the love of a teacher, the unimaginable delight when he stood his ground, no matter what storm he faced.

But it was, more than any one of those, a mix of them all, and a kind of love nobody else would ever experience. The love Parameshwara has for a devotee.

The urge to protect him from everything, but having to stop himself because of something called fate. The yearning to go and hug him every time he was even close to shedding a tear.

The wish to make him sit on his lap and treat him like he was his own son, giving him all that he wished for.

The desire to grant him what he wanted. It was so simple. All he wanted, was to be able to see him. And he couldn't grant him that. Not yet.