He could feel the cold through his jacket. The insulation wouldn’t be able to keep him sufficiently warm. He looked reluctantly at the firewood arranged in front of him, logs as fuel at the base, kindling arranged over them, with the tinder in the centre. It was surrounded by rocks to contain the fire properly. He flinched slightly, as the bearded, forty-something man opposite him struck a match. It sparked once, but he lit it on the next try, casually throwing it into the tinder. It took a while, but soon the campfire was lit in earnest, crackling cosily. He hesitantly put his hands out, catching the warmth. It was strange. Here, in this mountain forest, at this campsite, fire wasn’t treated as the malicious, destructive force he’d been familiar with seeing. It was a friend, a companion keeping you warm, throwing light, keeping dangers at bay. His experiences refused to go away, and he was uneasy…and yet, he found the fire comforting, which disturbed him. Sure, fires, for all the centuries he’d been around, had been used as a source of light and warmth, but it were the torches that lit the fires. The fires which consumed everything. Man, once discovering that fire could be grasped in the palm of his hand, quickly went on the offensive, making it a weapon much like a spear, or a sword, instead of a component necessary for life. That is why it still took him by surprise, when fire was treated with respect, and not brandished carelessly.
“They say, if you make a wish to a campfire, it usually comes true.”, the bearded man said, his voice hoarse, but friendly, clearly attempting to make conversation.
He looked at the man, curious. His appearance would appear to be that of a man in his mid-twenties to the bearded man, as he didn’t age. Indulging the remark, he said-
“Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.”.
“Well, it’s more of a thing amongst us mountain travellers. I wished to be reunited with my family after I complete this supply run to the hill village. What about you?”
The question caught him off-guard. “I…well, I…”, he was blank at first. Then all his memories hit him at once. Painful ones. “I wish to be in time, I guess…before anything bad can happen, before the fire burns out.”, he said, looking at the steady flame, his voice cracking a little.
– – –
He was born as an immortal, a divine being among humans – he would keep on living for as long as possible, unless killed. He’d stopped counting how old he was, after the first two hundred years, or so. In his time here, he’d seen so much. He’d never told anyone his secret, and had no family. It had been easy. He easily mixed in with people, and kept moving from place to place, never staying too long. It worked out fine for him, and other people. They enjoyed his company enough when he was there, but he was peacefully forgotten once he left. There was fighting, but that was in specific clearings which were designated as battlefields, and between regional kingdoms, which hardly ever affected civilian centres. Then they came – the raiders from the faraway north-western provinces. He first learnt what a terrifying force fire could be, from them. At the time, he lived in one of the towns, mixing into the crowd of hundreds. He’d gone to the riverside, a little way off town, to fetch some water. When he returned, the raid was already in full swing. Hearing thundering steps, he barely dodged out of the way of a charging horseman, as some hapless onlookers were cut down. But what was deafening, above the battle cries, above the screams, was the roaring fire. Everywhere he looked, a house was burning. And unlike the torches and lamps, these burned with a fearful intensity – everything became tinder, it didn’t matter if it was wood, cloth, food, humans, the fire burned and burned. It seemed to consume everything so completely, that it seemed to erase everything that it touched, almost as if the raiders wanted to leave no trace of the vanquished. Somehow, he managed to survive the sacking of the town, but what he’d seen had changed him forever. He feared fire in the hands of man. Little did he know, that was the first of many times he’d witness a settlement put to the torch, as a message, as a marker of victory, for fun…in the end it didn’t matter. The memories were seared into his mind.
As horrifying as the experiences were, they never touched him personally. He was pained by the pointless loss of life, the destruction, the cruelty, but there was a distance he could maintain. As the years passed, he accepted it as human nature. But seven centuries later, all that changed.
The native land had been taken over by foreigners from a faraway island. He discreetly signed up to serve them, for it seemed like a good decision at the time, their soldiers weren’t picked on by the locals, and the service was gruelling, but otherwise they were untroubled. He was serving under a Captain, part of a small garrison stationed at a village which served as a trading outpost. One day, returning from a patrol, riding through the village on his horse, he spotted her. A young woman, dressed in a light-coloured saree, with a basket of vegetables. Her head covering had dropped, so as she hastily put it back again, their eyes met. She was, he thought, beautiful. Something sparked an instant interest in him. Later on, he caught her alone at the river, washing clothes. Convincing her that he wasn’t a threat, he struck up a conversation with her. It started raining, and they took refuge in an abandoned hut. Her name was Kaamini, and she was in her late twenties. Married off when she was just twelve, she’d spent most of her life as a glorified maid, in service of her husband, around twenty-five years her senior. Now that he was bedridden, she had to manage everything in the house, doing menial jobs to make ends meet, and the rest of the time, she had to look after her infirm husband. She was wary of most men, but somehow, there was something about the way he had approached her, friendly and sincere, that drew her to him, in a way no man, and definitely not her husband, appealed to her. As the rains stopped outside and she was about to leave, she leaned in and kissed him, leaving the lingering fragrance of the flowers in her hair.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have partners before, but it had never been this way. He’d never committed more than the bare minimum, and the women never expected him to stay. For the first time, he coveted someone, and yet, circumstances made it impossible. They agreed to meet secretly in the abandoned hut, whenever it was possible. This carried on for almost a year. That was when it happened. One day, he waited in anticipation in the hut, hours passed by, but Kaamini didn’t arrive. After waiting for hours, he knew something was wrong. She’d been late, but this was unusual. He rode to their house; asking some bystanders, he gathered that Kaamini’s husband had died in the morning. But if so, last rites were supposed to be finished by this time…then it struck him. He’d only heard horrific rumours, and hoped they weren’t true. As he rode like the wind towards the burning ghat, he found himself praying to a God, any God, in the hopes that Kaamini would be safe. He found one of the pyres lit, and a few priests laughing amongst themselves. Using one hand, he covered his nose, trying to block out the suffocating fumes. The priests didn’t seem to have any problem with it, though. He caught one of the priests, shaking him roughly by the shoulders, demanding to know where Kaamini was. The priest giggled a bit, before looking at his group, then nervously at the burning pyre, before giggling a bit more. He understood from the priest’s breath and behaviour that he was intoxicated, and thus unfazed by the fumes, as were his companions. But he couldn’t…no, wouldn’t believe it yet. But he looked at the ground near the pyre – he could see Kaamini’s sandals, and…the necklace crafted out of bamboo shoots he’d gifted her. He forced himself to look at the fire; and in the centre of the flames he could make out…two figures, already burnt beyond recognition. But he knew. He was too late. Behind him, one of the priests laughed loudly. Something snapped, as he turned to look at them, knowing well that they were the culprits, and he drew his sabre. The rest was fuzzy in his memory, it was mostly screaming, and a lot of blood. But the image that endured would be the flames, burning on and on, consuming the one piece of his heart that he’d given up.
He continued to live on, but part of him died there. He wanted to hate Man, for it was His atrocities against His own kind, but he had to live among them, and it would be impossible. He decided to hate fire, instead. Fire was the enabler, it gave Man power beyond his control, whomever it touched, it consumed, literally or with malintent. He could never reconcile that.
– – –
It was morning at the campsite. The bearded man stomped on the glowing embers, putting out the fire for good. Turning to him, the bearded man said, “Well, we follow the same route till the next village. What say we trek together?” He’d been in a pensive mood since their little conversation last night, reminiscing his centuries-long life, and had naturally fallen quiet. The bearded man was concerned. “Sure. I’d like that.”, our immortal replied quietly, with a slight smile.
They parted ways at the next village, and our immortal made his way to the monastery higher up. The guards at the gate were about to stop him, but suddenly stood stiff, and made way for him. He stepped into the monastery courtyard. There were many people, of various ages, but there was a strange uniformity to their shaved heads and red and yellow robes. Everyone seemed to look at him once, then pay him no mind. Unlike other places, where he was regarded as an average human, here it seemed there was an implicit understanding that he was different. But it seemed like everyone acknowledged that before demonstrating to him that everyone was equal in this sanctuary. He made a few enquiries, and found his way to the prayer hall. Morning prayers had just finished, the hall was deserted. There was a large carving of the Buddha at one end, and on the altar in front of it, a row of candles, burning steadily. Fire was never far away from a place of worship.
He dropped to his knees, hands clasped together. He didn’t know who he was praying to, or why, but he prayed. And for the first time, in the absolute silence of the prayer hall, all the little candle flames didn’t seem malicious anymore. The little pinpricks of light seemed to be reassuring him; they flickered, but remained lit. Standing in their place, neither expanding nor diminishing, telling him that the light that they provided always held some hope.
Written By Arya Jash,
Arya Jash (he/him) is a postgraduate student currently pursuing his Masters in Economics from the University of Hyderabad. He is currently based in Kolkata due to the pandemic. He writes informally and has been published a few times.
Week 31, August 2021
