01: The Query of the Sunset Peacock
(Inspired by Marc Reisner’s ‘Cadillac Desert’)

The great bath was full. Fashionably dressed men and women jostled with each other to undress, take a quick dip and hurry to feast at the temple. The brick-lined floor just outside the enormous reservoir of water was still warm with the evening sun.

That is when the sunset peacock chose to make its first appearance in town*. Right in front of the chief of the council of town elders who was hurriedly drying himself, thinking hungrily of the food laid out in the temple courtyard.

‘Why do you hurry – o chief?’ said the strange creature startling the elderly man enough for his robe to slip – and make a beautiful courtesan standing next to him, to first giggle and then convert it elegantly into a cough.

The voice of the sunset peacock was expectedly harsh and unmelodic.

‘Who the hell are you?’ asked the chief of the man who was dressed as if he had escaped from the theatre troupe that had arrived last week from a primitive kingdom** in the south-east, and performed noisily for slaves and poor courtesans at street corners, wearing the most garish of clothes.

On a closer look, he saw that the man had a human form only up till his waist, after which he really was a peacock.

‘And what is a creature like you – not fully human as yet – doing in the great bath where the waters are meant only for the most evolved, even among the fully human?’

‘I, the sunset peacock, come as a harbinger of bad times o chief. Us peacocks – even if we are not fully formed birds as yet – always arrive to celebrate the arrival of rains before they come, so you can enjoy our dance and fill your reservoirs in time as a bonus. But I come with sad news. This year you won’t be able to see our dance in time. Incidentally, you may have to cut down a bit on your baths too. I think you may need to keep some of it for drinking. But that’s nothing compared to the real tragedy – the inordinately long wait before you get to see our dance.’

The chief continued to take his ritual dip and even winked at the courtesan who winked back, slipping into her bronze jewels, smiling to herself.

The peacock man bristled with anger at their disdainful response.

‘Do you mock me with your silences and half-smiles?’ he asked and proceeded to unfurl his tail into a gigantic fan of feathers that had a thousand eyes in hues of silken blue and resplendent green. They reflected the flickering light of the torch-lights hung on the brick walls and made his rich black skin shine with those very shades.

The whole bath turned at once into the most festive space you could ever imagine. And even though there was no actual thundering of drums you could hear the beats.

‘No – we don’t mock you with our half-smiles’, said the chief, still smiling. ‘We are a bit worried about the water though. Do you feel the rain gods are angry? Do we need to propitiate them in some way? Maybe make a sacrifice? I was told that in the days of yore our ancestors actually sacrificed a peacock to make the rain-gods happy.’

‘No,’ said the sunset peacock hurriedly, ‘that’s all superstition. Just answer my question. If you get it right then I shall ensure that the rain gods actually hasten their journey and arrive on time.’

‘Go ahead – shoot,’ said the chief, still half-smiling, already making his way towards the temple courtyard, thinking of the buffalo meat that would have been garnished with exotic herbs brought from a faraway land beyond the oceans.

‘I’ll give you three chances. What marks the boundary of your great city?’ asked the sunset peacock in his loudest and croakiest of voices.

The chief stopped short at once – turned back to face him and said –

‘Where the last brick-house gaze at the fields beyond and our neat brick-lined roads become dirt paths?’

‘Wrong! Next Try’.

‘Where the last port of our great ships dock their sails?’

‘Wrong again! Last try.’

‘Let me guess’ said the courtesan unexpectedly.

The two looked at her with quizzical eyes.

‘The fields beyond our towns that fill our granaries, the river that feeds them and the forests that nourish them in which the peacocks – who really love to live in dry arid city boundaries – occasionally like to feast? Or should I say the city has no boundaries at all?’

The sunset peacock smiled.

‘You are a wise woman. But since the question was not directed at you, I am afraid this time the rains won’t be on time and you will be deprived of our dance. But next time around I hope the chief of the council is a wiser man.’

So saying the sunset peacock gave a loud croak and flew off.

The chief lost his appetite for the feast and walked away from the courtesan who gave a giggle again, before elegantly converting it into a cough.

* A town that would be located – on a contemporary map – in modern day Afghanistan. But this story is set in an ancient era when the moderate whispers of the Buddha had not been heard and the rational wisdom of Islam hadn’t yet made its appearance.

** Primitive only from the standards of the town in which the story is set. It was, after all, a town that was part of an urban civilization so advanced for its times that it would make modern day LA envious with its stunning vistas of grid streets, roads at right angles and miles of uniformly built habitats.

02: The Dancing City

When Vatsayana finished compiling the Kamasutra, a goddess visited him.

She saw him lying exhausted across his wooden desk, legs stretched on either side.
Her ethereal eyes glided over the room. The oil in the lamp was nearly extinguished, making the room blink occasionally, with its few last minute bursts of flaming energy. The room was quiet, except for the sound of crickets and the hoot of an owl immediately outside the window. Palm leaf scrolls lay around untidily – with Vatsayana’s passionate scribbles, scratches, and sensual drawings.

As was her habit, the voluptuous goddess – wearing little else but jewelry as was the fashion of those times – walked into the dream Vatsayana was dreaming. She became immediately embarrassed to see it heavy with memories of his research. Embarrassed not in a coy manner, but out of politeness. The way you do when you step into someone else’s intimate moment. She was far too urbane and sophisticated for coyness. After all, she was the patron goddess of Ujjain – the city in which Vatsayana lived – in the year 400 B.C. She had seen far too much, felt far too much, and desired far too much to be shy about anything.

She quickly transformed her embarrassed gaze into a mildly contemptuous look. After all, she told herself, she was in his dream now and may as well play her part.

She saw explicit images from his book. They looked as if they belonged to different worlds. There were basic drawings he had sketched while doing his research. Then there were images from the future. Temple engravings, miniatures, and scrolls – in a hundred different unknown languages and mysterious scripts. She saw books and films, videos and even websites.

Then she saw Vatsayana’s staring face, looking confused.

‘What troubles you good man?’ she asked him, giving one of her effortless smiles.

Vatsayana looked up at her, bowed his head, folded his hands and said, ‘I do not quite understand this dream. What do you think will happen to my stories and drawings great goddess?’

The goddess smiled, ‘Those are images from the future. Your book is going to be read for a thousand years and more, and in many different ways. There is something about it that will be loved and valued for a long time.’

Vatsayana turned to the images for a closer look.

The goddess continued to speak. ‘You are destined to become a famous man. You will hold the torch of pleasure in this land for centuries – even when the land has forgotten to value pleasure.’

Vatsayana beamed.

‘But I have a request great sage,’ the goddess looked at him with cautious eyes.

‘What is it?’ asked Vatsayana suspiciously.

‘I would like to be known as the co-author of the book. After all, if it was not for the city of Ujjain the book would not have been written.’ She turned her gaze away from him even as she spoke. She knew what she wanted was not going to be granted so easily.

She was right. Vatsayana scowled.

‘Hello,’ he said, his turning loud, ‘I was the one who went from house to house, peeping into bedrooms and kitchens, prayer rooms and drawing rooms. I was the one who interviewed courtesans and householders. I spent time with women, men and eunuchs asking them intimate details of their lives. I was the one who read the sacred scriptures about fashion, history, food and sex. Here I am lying exhausted after years of research. And now you come around asking to be a co-author? How fair is that?’

The goddess breathed in deeply before giving out a long sigh.

‘Yes, yes, I understand. But believe me, learned one, this book could not have been written on the banks of a great river, or in a monastery in the great mountains or in the peaceful environs of a rural hamlet. It could only have been written in a city – such as mine. Where courtesans roam freely, with their head held high. Where pleasure and dancing is still seen to be as natural as eating delicious food. Where the gaze of a spiritual master, a gourmet cook, a musician and a pleasure giver are not arranged in any hierarchy. Where the bustle of the market place sits comfortably with the warmth of homes. Where you can trade in anything you wish or belong permanently to anyone or anything you wish to belong to. It is this world of a city, where dancing is allowed till late into the night – that made it possible for you to write the book in the first place. I should be known as the co-author. I am saying this for the good of the future.’

‘And what if I refuse?’ said Vatsayana, with a mutinous expression.

‘Seeing the future, I know that you already have,’ replied the goddess sadly. ‘I can see it is going to be known as your book. It will seen to have emerged from a vague hoary past of this land. From some vaguely defined idea of tradition and spirituality. It will contribute to the archive of sexual and spiritual literature – without of course – any connection with me. It will thrive in expensive bookshops in its cities even when dancing, pleasure and music get frowned upon. However, it will always be known as your book.’

‘Then that is what I desire. I should be its sole author.’ Vatsayana said with finality and opened his eyes.

The goddess is said to have cried in anger before leaving Ujjain forever.

Since then, cities on this land soon lost their status as fountainheads of culture and a dynamic tradition and became stern places where dancing, music, and pleasure were curtailed or outlawed.

The bookshops in those cities, however, still stock copies of Vatsayana’s Kamasutra since it is difficult for them not to see it as part of their tradition. However, they frown upon pleasure, music and dancing as being outside the purview of that very tradition.

If you roam these cities at night, after the curfew hour and when everybody is supposed to have returned home – it is said that you can still occasionally hear the angry cry of the goddess.

03: Buddha of the Urbs

It was just another evening in Pataliputra, four hundred odd years BC. Cloth merchants from a province in China had arrived with bundles of the finest silks that aristocratic families had been eagerly awaiting for months. The river ports were bustling with ships that had come all the way from towns that mushroomed off the banks of the River Ganga. Greek soldiers walked the streets watching appreciatively the latest fashions adorned by women selling spices in the bazaar.

In a drinking saloon, off the main street, next to a bull-fighting ring sat a disillusioned young man with a glass of flower-beer in his hand. His name was Athan and he was an architect employed by the richest courtesan in the province. He was to design her ‘Special Chamber for Festive Nights’ and he was depressed because he also happened to be in love with her. The thought of designing a chamber that would not necessarily be used by him was devastating. He was contemplating giving up his profession and returning to his village on the outskirts of the kingdom to grow mahua flowers so he could produce more beer and drown his sorrows and extinguish his love once and for all.

Then he saw a middle-aged man with the most enlightened face he had ever seen appear at the door with a begging bowl. The saloon owner poured him a drink and the man thanked him and started to leave. Even through his drunken haze, something about the man drew Athan to him and he called out ‘Come in good sir and I shall treat you to a meal.’

The man with the most enlightened face joined Athan and they began a conversation.

Athan discovered that the man was a king’s son and had become a wandering monk out of choice. He was on the verge of discovering deep spiritual truths but for now had only managed a few half-formed insights on the nature of cities. He was happy to share it with Athan, who looked delighted and informed him that he was an architect and any knowledge about cities was most welcome.

‘I am still working at it’ said the enlightened one, ‘My spiritual quest is really ultimately about making better cities. I am now quite convinced that the way of the wandering monk is what the city can learn the most from.’

Athan frowned – ‘Please explain?’

‘The real wealth of this city comes through various acts of wandering. Trading wealth comes from the traveling traders who come from China or from other kingdoms from down the river. Quite a bit of the food and the flower-beer comes from the nomadic fishermen, food-gatherers and hunters living in the forests around. It is the pleasure provided by the wandering woman which provides the greatest joy to most men. It is this spirit of the wanderer that must become the inspiration of all future cities’.

Since Athan still looked a bit distracted, the enlightened one said, ‘The matters of your heart and knowledge of the city are all connected good man. Listen carefully to me and you will be able to help shape a new vision for the future of humanity at large. Besides, you will be able to solve the problem of your heart as well.’

Athan smiled enthusiastically when he heard this. ‘Okay, shoot’ he said, ‘Go on…what are these words of wisdom?’

The man paused and continued, ‘I am still working things out, but basically I follow the middle path. All that lies in between interpreting something and over interpreting it. If you get that balance, you will be able to produce that great urban vision. So here goes;

Over-Interpreting food security can paradoxically create droughts.
Don’t force farmers to produce grains only to fill granaries. The poor will still manage to die of hunger. Instead, allow the freshest of food to come and go everyday and make sure that the food of the forest and the rivers play as much importance in your daily diet as do grains from a farmers field.

Over-interpreting what is a city and a forest will create degraded habitats.
Don’t look at homes only in the form of extremes – as forests on one hand and villages and cities on the other. They are connected by the world of movement all the time. In fact nomads and wanderers still provide the most important services to kingdoms. Wanderers and nomads can still camp anywhere they wish. If the cities of the future value their life, they will produce lighter homes and more wholesome cities, full of excitement and colour. Besides, villages and huts will be valid urban homes and the forest will become the pride of place within all cities.

Over-interpreting joy only in terms of owning things or sacrificing all that you have will both cause bitterness.
Cities attract goods like magnets do iron fillings. And yet the neat arrangement of goods in the market place and their convenient availability should not make you forget that the biggest joy one gets is actually walking to the market, enjoying meeting people and bargaining. That is the sediment of the wanderer still in you. On the other hand giving up taste and pleasures altogether because the goods in the market don’t satisfy you will also make you bitter. The trick is to have some things in the market and some things that can only be got when you travel, move into another town or forage for yourself. This will prevent you from extremes of cluttering your life or and giving up everything.

And finally something specially for you.

Over-interpreting relationships only in terms of permanency and possession will cause unhappiness.

Don’t look at relationships as if they are only about settling down. Nurture the wandering lovers soul in you as well. Enjoy the moments of togetherness without trying to possess her. Your love will become only joy and you will carry forth the most cherished memories through your own wanderings. The fact that she may have more than one lover will cease to agonize you.

It was the last bit that really got Athan’s attention. He thanked the enlightened man profusely and returned to his courtesan. He spent a wonderful night with her, built her a light traveling chamber that could move with her as she wished and returned to his village to regenerate a mahua orchard so that he could produce beer. With that money he planned to build a wandering city-camp that could move through the kingdom, embodying the ideals of the enlightened man.

Unfortunately, the young man was murdered on his way home. The contractor who was supposed to supply him large chunks of stone to build the ‘Special Chamber of Festive Nights’ wasn’t happy with his change of heart. The stone was used to cover up Athan’s body and still stands on the banks of the river in the guise of a temple.

04: The Battle of the Firewall – The First Announcement:

The flea-market of the Agoma forest was the largest in the region. The thick wilderness was really a node of inter-continental trade routes and nomadic meeting points. It spawned temporary cities – complete with movie groves, courtesan-gardens and wild sport-dens – that got dismantled soon after business transactions were completed. Even though, occasionally, the dismantling happened spontaneously with a good fight that followed particularly harsh disagreements and counter-accusations of cheating. There could be blood-shed, though no one really got killed. You never wanted to really kill a potential customer – bad for profits.

The forest had the most elaborate network of underground cables – made up of roots that belonged to a distant cousin of the mangroves – that connected all the great forests of the region. This web was a huge bonus for trading communities and individual mavericks, mystics, programmers and magicians who were keen on getting the best possible deals for their goods – mainly forest food and medicines, spells, images, stories, music, movies and knowledge software. They always knew that the flea-market of Agoma would get them the best customers and prices, thanks to this underground web of knowledge flows.

Animals and birds kept away from the melee, even sacrificing a trip to the lake that lay nearby, for their evening drink. Why one earth would you want to come in the way of thousands of human beings shouting at each other, their faces painted in ludicrous colours and most of them drunk on mahia juice?

They kept their distance. But the Nogas – half human, half-beasts – had no such compunctions – most of them could speak as loudly as the ‘fully humans’ and give them a piece of their beastly mind.

That evening – Naliya – her long hair conditioned by rice beer, her beautiful human face polished by a special venom-based spell her mother had given her and a firm resolve in her heart, slid through the grass with her maroon snake-body glistening with the reflected light of the flea-market. Her stomach was fattened by the prophecy she had consumed last evening and she was determined to find the recepient to convey the message from the future, or suffer from constipation that night.

She headed straight for the section of programmer-wizards and knowledge-software dealers, who hung around together behind a thick cluster of Mahia trees. It was always easy to find them. You just had to follow the smell of the lucid-sleep spell – a special spell made up from mahia flowers – that this tribe loved. It helped them with their job – which needed constant movement between worlds without really moving their butts. Something that this particular spell facilitated with unsettling ease. And there – below the tamarind tree, looking intensely at his magic cube, his fingers dancing away on a wooden keyboard was the recepient of the prophecy. Ornest was a knowledge-software dealer – specializing in image-spells.

She coiled herself into a seated position and stared at him defiantly. She was going to say what she had come to say.

‘The end of the Age of Agoma is round the corner. The Kingdom of Aan is spreading its tentacles through minds, souls, bodies and forests. Get ready for the Battle of the Firewall – Get ready for a New Age – of Truth, Beauty and Purity and of A Grand Urban Revival. And Get Ready for the End of Lucid Sleep.’