MATCHBOX

We, the animals, express ourselves in more ways than one, but a script is the first of its kind. I believe it will further communication, especially in interpersonal and diplomatic relationships. Initially, we will need interpreters, such as Hanuman. Later, the curve will slope, and language will flow.

Sugreev encouraged my attempts; Bali was not amused.

‘Why do you spend time on something so unimportant?’ he would ask, repeatedly climbing up a tamal tree and jumping down.

‘How is this not important?’ I would be taken aback.

‘We have a voice and a body. Those are enough for articulation.’ Bali would stroke my face with his tail and tilt his head to the right, revealing a wide range of teeth. It irritated me when he did this.

‘A script will transmit crucial messages from one source to another when direct interaction is not possible.’ I slapped him on the back with a swing of my tail.

‘Why is such transmission required?’

This would make me look up. Bali was watching innocently. If only he were anything close to innocent … We kept having these arguments. ‘What do you mean? When putting together a kingdom and protecting it from its enemies, the messages will need to discreetly reach the right destination. This will maintain transparency with allies and give you an edge over the opponent.’

He shook his head like a stubborn child. ‘When we are attacked, we fight. When we receive love, we love back. Things are simple and straightforward. Writing will complicate matters.’

For Bali, the world was linear, and its rules were meant to be effortless. He didn’t see principles changing really fast or virtues being revised.

‘Bali, don’t speak just because God has given you a mouth. You have been gifted a brain, too. Use it. Talk sense, at least sometimes.’

He relaxed, his body stretching out. ‘Persuade me,’ he challenged.

‘Do you realize that a script could document history? Whatever is happening today, the problems we are facing, the solutions we are coming up with, the stories of our community and vegetation, the land and its practices – all these could serve as a comprehensive reference for the future,’ I said with great excitement.

Bali was hardly swayed. ‘You really think so?’ He sat up restlessly. ‘What if the future finds such documentation restrictive? What if historical narratives limit the imagination of upcoming generations? No, wait.’ He stopped me as I was about to erupt. ‘What will you write about? The making of Kishkindha? How we’ve stitched a system together?’ He did a backflip. ‘Think about it. What if this history impels its readers to stop thinking beyond us? What if they immerse themselves in the vanity of something they have not contributed to, and flaunt the glory of ancestors as their own defining identity instead? Every new generation must engrave its independent achievements. Don’t let the accomplishments of one era become baggage for another!’

My head was reeling now. Passion is always crazy, ideals are unwavering. One has to spend a day with Bali to endure their extent. He was smiling at my furious face. I don’t know whether Bali truly believed what he said or if it was a trick to get me to talk. He hated when I remained silent, withdrawn or thoughtful. From dropping bananas in my vicinity to raising a storm of dry leaves by shaking the surrounding trees, he would attempt all kinds of distractions just to hear me shout, ‘Bali, stop!’ He would then rush in, sit close to me, brushing his arm against mine.

‘You mean history is futile? Keeping a chronological note of events is a stupid occupation?’ I asked angrily, picking up a few pebbles from the ground. He chuckled again, displaying his prominent teeth.

‘History is not futile; historians are.’ He laughed loudly and dodged the stone I had thrown, pointing to his ear. ‘Historians politicize events. Preferred characters become heroes; anyone questioning the heroes is vilified. Historians forget to file how many were deceived by the inspirations of an epoch – every great personality hides a trail of undocumented cruelty.’ Bali was running now, as I chased him through the mango forest. He picked up a fruit and gobbled it on the run, throwing the peel and the seed at me. ‘The human race salutes manipulative writers. May the animals be spared. Aaarrrrgh … slow down, woman,’ he groaned, as some pebbles landed on his back. ‘What is remembered is all that matters. Only memories are real. Documentation is deceitful.’ He disappeared between the tall grasses and towering trees.

Excerpted from ‘Tara’ by Koral Dasgupta published by Pan Macmillan Publishing.