It might be known to a lot of old dilliwallahs, particularly the kinds who have circulated around the old

hauz rani tank, that the ruins within these premises were the bearers of a medieval madrasa. Mr. Murari
however was enlightened of the same quite recently, by a student at his Spoken Enligsh centre, located
a few miles south of the tank. And so a few days after receiving this information, unable to resist his
overwhelming curiosity he has presented himself to the premises of the old complex and is circling the
walk around the tank, well past permitted hours.
He occasionally adjusts his glasses or coiffeurs his moustache with his fingers, as he considers this or
that fact about the madrasa or the complex. There is something unusual about the place and he is trying
to get to the nub of this strangeness. He agrees as most people do that winters make a place look
stranger, he agrees also that he hasnt ever been around an ominous looking monument past 1830 hrs
in the evening before. But thats not it, or not all of it.
In fact, the ruined ramparts of the structure surrounding the tank seem quite in place. As does the lake.
The paved footpath around the tank, the electrical light; creating glowing red trees and thick black
shadows ; the manicured, grassy grounds which contrast but quite aesthetically with the older stony
walls. He studies all this with a studied eye, as he does most things.
His mind is lost in these fortifications, both modern and medieval and has been for a few hours now.
The spirit of the place has not leased its hold on him. He has drifted through the grounds around the
tank, lost in his thoughts and lost to the world around him.
He has moved on, but Im still stuck, he thinks, on this silly question of strangeness. And being moved
by a sudden sense of futility he coughs out a light Tch, which seems to move out along the chilled air,
expressing its ferment to the deepest parts of the walls around, which for a minute seem cautious, alert
again to the suggestion of a teachers admonishment.
It is at this point that Mr. Murari is startled by a desperate cry. The geese, thinks Mr. Murari, as he runs
closer to inspect the source. Along the surface of the lake, lost occasionally in between logs of dead
trees protruding out of the water, passes the white flicker of a flock of geese, shuddering and drifting
along the surface of the tank, their wings glowing spectrally in the moonlight.
As he stares at the white gloomy figures, the cry is repeated but seems to come from another place. Mr.
Murari struggles in the direction of the cry again. It seems to come from the other side, closer to the
actual walls of the madrasa, its source lost upon the dark lawns in front.
Mr. Murari proceeds closer to these walls, quite undaunted by the curdling nature of the cry and the
cold wetness of the grass. As he passes from the pernumbra of the street lamp into almost complete
darkness he detects a regular grumbling sound. Reaching closer he barely distinguishes the figure of
man pacing in the darkness.
Hello, calls Mr. Murari enquiringly.
The pacing stops. Measured footsteps approach Mr. Murari. In the last photons of lamplight is revealed
the figure of an ancient warrior, covered from head to toe in spiked leathery armour. His face is hard
and worn, like the mountains, by ceaseless wind. He wears a cruel conquistadoral expression and a
regal, military manner. He surveys Mr. Murari with menacing green eyes which pass arrongantly across
Mr. Muraris blue and white Madras checks and rest upon his thick rimmed glasses. An uneasy moment
passes.
How do you do? ventures Mr. Murari.
The old warrior unleashes a series of viscious, incomprehensible abuses upon the curious figure in front
of him. Mr. Murari does not comprehend the speech, but the words seem rude. Mr.Murari does not like
rudeness. He clears his throat.
Do you speak English? I doubt you speak Tamil, but English surely,he drifts off. The old general seems
to be grimacing; somewhere the memory of a rarely visited madrasa still haunts him.
Mr. Murari endeavours further But surely you must see that English is a world language now, we can all
speak it quite comfortably, if youre having some trouble with accent dont worry, I run these classes
you see
Stop, screams the figure, who has reached the limits of his educational patience.
I am Thhaimoor!
The words resound through the very foundations of the complex. Mr. Murari searches his mind
desperately for the name; somewhere a weak link is built with an abruptly written passage in a history
text book. At this point the figure quite irritated by this lack cognizance attempts to stride out of the
shadows to reveal himself better, but manages only a weak hobble, from which he has to quickly regain
balance.
Mr. Muraris face lights up. Of course. Timur the lame. No wonder you seemed so familiar.
I am not lame.
Of course, of course, pets Mr. Murari I forgot my manners.
The conquereor strides forth again, this time with no polite intention, there is only so much insult an
emperor can bear. But as he tries to, he finds that in the absence of a horse he cant quite find the
rhythm of his aggression. He looks downcast. His eyes shut in anticipation of a weak moment, but he
manages to get hold of himself.
Mr.Murari waits for a moment, sensing the conquerors misery. He attempts to make polite banter:
Im glad to see youve picked up some English. Some of the tourists helped you out no doubt.
Is that all you have to say , feeble old man, rasps Timur.
Youu stand in the presence of one of the worlds most fiercesome conquerors and all you banter about
is language?
Well I must say its quite an honour
Oh! You silly old man. I stand here timeless and yet lost in time, never having spoken to a man after my
conquest of this city, and the first man brought to me is a fool teacher, who speaks to me of language!
Well we can talk about anything you like you know
What can I speak that you will comprehend.
Well perhaps you could tell me a joke
Oh had I the strength to smite you

Then listen old man, listen to words that you have only brought upon yourself. I stood here, once as a
man, bound by his body as I had always been. I could not explain it as a child, but I was born with an
incurable rage. I was not meant to be here, for there wasnt a single human word that I could use nor a
gesture nor an act that could express the anger I felt. You speak of your languages, your systems, well I
have learnt of human systems too, briefly but enough to know that they arent enough. My words barely
kept pace with my surging thoughts, this is why I chose not to write, for what I wrote, I knew would
always be behind what I felt, a strange sublimation, one I did not desire. And in that rage, in that
inexpressible fury I found only the expression of conquest to keep pace, only the destruction of all
humans in my path, and the vanquishing of all that was before me. Anything I held I wished to crush, for
I knew it would not understand my rage. What was the use of the existence of any of this. I felt this all
my life until I landed upon this spot.
I was seated before a fire, still seething , my anger unquenched even after the conquest of this city, that
people speak of as so grand. For there were still rocks lying around, and people alive, and trees alive too,
and I felt further anger that my mortal body was not capable of destroying any of this. I am not like the
emperors of old, nor like those who followed, I knew always that I would never look back at an empire,
never desire to know an indistinguishable thread that bound all that was mine, never care to find myself
in the presence of that which rushed through the world like the wind. I would never care to know that
wind, for I could not since all I felt in its presence was aggravation, and it was oly this aggravation that
kept me alive, like something gnawig at my ceaselessly knowing at my insides. But then conquest often
brought me some mild relief, which felt more like a passing spasm, like an ebb, like a sleep, like a
tiredness of the soul.
And so it was that I sat alone in front a fire, at the end of my conquest on these very grounds. My army
rejoiced, but I could not join them for had I te power I would have destroyed every last one of them. But
I was always tired after a conquest, and so they lived and rejoiced. Not a man came before me at such a
time, for they knew that I was to drift away now into sleep, and any disturbance would only cause a
slashed throat or an immolated body.
However that night as I shut my eyes, something strange transpired, perhaps it was the fire, or the lake,
or the ebbing presence of learning around me, but I felt for a few seconds a strange calm. I can hardly
remember it anymore, it is barely a phantasm that feeling now, but I cannot expunge the memory
entirely. I opened my eyes and lo! Before me were the stars, as I had never seen them, and all around
me hundreds of fires. Warm and burning ceaselessly. And as I thought of the stars and the fires spread
like stars across this ground, I felt for the first time a strange empathy, or rather I did not feel it but
understood it. And even in the faded memory of that understanding I recollect the knowledge. It was
the knowledge of a pattern, a pattern of dance a dance of fire. I saw each whirling lick of flame, and then
I saw deep within it, within the blue core of every flame, too a movement, an abiding one, one that ad
always been, one as old as fire itself. And from the dance there rose a music. And what a music old man,
not one of voice, or of the instrument, nor of the mere crackle of the fire, but of all of it, of these geese
as they are now, of people who have walked this earth and will, of all the beasts. I was neither asleep
nor awake, but in a state so blissful that I was ardly taimur, for this I ad never been, this was only a
phantasm.
And as the music grew, I desired merely to sleep once in its presence and awake again as whatever the
wat waking would be as whoever that morning would bring.
I had tried to meditate before old man, in the grand plains of Samarkand, watching the rising sun at the
mountains of the hindukush, before the ceaseless time of the Indus, but I had known them only as they
were, as their names, as what my teacher had told they were. But I had never stared into fire as I did
that night, nor known such kinship in the world of men or such passion in the embrace of a woman. I
knew then that such learning was immaterial, for I was not meant for it, and I felt no pity for those that
abided by it, for even to them, through the flame I felt an intimcacy, I felt for the first time ow men
desire the warmth of fire, and in those moments I too was a man desirious of a warmth that sung witin
me.
And I felt sleep coming to me, but sleep more powerful that the greatest awakening, the sleep of fire,
my body burst towards a crescendo of perfect consciousness, and I new that the world of music that had
begun to color what would be my dreams, would be a world in itself once I was truly asleep.
But then in the distance I heard a voice calling, a strange supplicatory voice, like a pig seualing in a mans
words, and I resisted it, cast it away, but it repreated itself
Your highness, the generals desire your presence,
I tried again to avoid the voice, and again it burst upon me, louder, more demanding
Your highness
And then I awoke. The music was lost, its chords suddenly distant memory, no longer there, no longer
present, but only resounding in a part of my body that I knew was my brain, and the knowing of it, of
myself was an end to my transcendence.
I was shocked, as a new born babe for some seconds. And then the voice repeated itself, as if
demanding a right, as if it had the rigt to wake me up, te right to speak to me, at that moment, of the
trivial matters of an army, or a war, of a people of a society. I had never known suc fury. For a man of
anger to be born again only as an other creature of fury, what could be worse that this.
I destroyed the bearer of the voice, and many others that night, my own army cowered from me. And I
slew men I felt great pity, and in that feeling a further surge of anger, for what was I doing here pitying
men, when the music of the world had opened up to me. I felt then such vanity of words of thoughts,
knowing that they were truly meaningless, truly deceivers. For in those moments, were words good
enough I would have found a man a thing a being, who could have listened to my rage, listened to my
agony, but this is never possible in human society, for if a man could not listen to te music burning out
of me as I slept that evening, then what would any of mankind hear in my words.
And it was that night that I lost myself. I know not whence I went, for my anger stayed here, rooted to
this spot, mouring the loss of the person I could have been the next morning. And I have stayed here
ever since.
Perhaps some poets or mystics, entranced my their inebriants might find the words to make the world
listen, but for a man born as rage, there are no listeners, and it is here that either your precious
language or I fail. And it is in this contradiction that I hobble every evening, knowing the passage of time,
without my mortal body, released from it shackles and yet enslaved by time. Desperately wishing all the
while for a listener, hoping that I can once again discover that music. But it is pointless is it not, for even
as I speak, how can you listen, how can you know the music I knew, or the rage I feel. And now I do not
even have my body to destroy you with I must bare your dull incomprehending presence as a respite,
when it is but a magnification of my grief.