r/WritingPrompts • u/Cody_Fox23 Skulking Mod | r/FoxFictions • Dec 13 '20
Constrained Writing [CW] Smash 'Em Up Sunday: Mughal
Welcome back to Smash ‘Em Up Sunday!
Announcement:
Hello faithful SEUSers! The real world is being very greedy with my time lately. As such I will be suspending my personal choices for a bit. I will try to stay on top of scorekeeping, but I can’t make too many promises there either. The start of 2021 should have things cleared up and ready for a fresh start. I hope you will continue writing and trying to complete the challenges.
Now, more than ever, I would love to get your votes for Community Choice. As such I will be expanding it, at least temporarily, into a podium. Get those votes in for your fellow writers and I’ll announce their positions!
Last Week
Although I didn’t judge any of the stories I gave them all a read because I can’t ignore my inbox. You all brought it last week. I was shocked by how much support the idea had both on the Discord as well as here on the sub. I loved seeing how everyone took the idea of Brutalism and brought it into their narratives. No joke, this may have been one of my favorite weeks with submissions and pure creativity of our writers <3
Community Choice
1st - /u/Leebeewilly’s “The Slab’s Reckoning”
2nd - /u/Lord_Demerek’s “Where the World Ends”
3rd - In a tie we have /u/Pyronar’s “Ministry of Communications” and /u/shoemilk’s “Worlds Apart Together”
This Week’s Challenge
This month I am being a bit odd with the theming. I want to see how you all work with architectural styles. If you want to be literal and use them in your setting you can. Alternatively you could write a story that fits in line with the ideals of the movement. Another route is writing a story that is set in the same time period as their construction.
Or you could do something totally different.
This week we are going to a more historical style: Mughal Architecture! A style spanning 300 years of history it is a mix of a few traditional styles and would become massively influential for the Indian region of the world. If you picture Indian style buildings, you are most likely thinking of a Mughal style bulding.
Characterized by bilateral symmetry and an eye for equal quadrants, often with minarets to the four corners, there is an inherent pleasingness to the eye. As you get closer the intricate and delicate ornamentation becomes more obvious. The inlay work and carving work is on its own level of craftsmanship. Like many opulent styles it shows off the wealth of the ruling class as they commissioned these buildings to be made which creates a dark underpinning to those who were destroyed to bring these jaw dropping structures to life. I look forward to seeing where these structures take you!
BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE!
There seems to be a lot of people that come by and read everyone’s stories and talk back and forth. I would love for those people to have a voice in picking a story. So I encourage you to come back on Saturday and read the stories that are here. Send me a DM either here or on Discord to let me know which story is your favorite!
The one with the most votes will get a special mention.
How to Contribute
Write a story or poem, no more than 800 words in the comments using at least two things from the three categories below. The more you use, the more points you get. Because yes! There are points! You have until 11:59 PM EDT 19 December 2020 to submit a response.
| Category | Points |
|---|---|
| Word List | 1 Point |
| Sentence Block | 2 Points |
| Defining Features | 3 Points |
Word List
Grand
Ornate
Mourn
Stone
Sentence Block
I was at a loss for words.
It was peaceful.
Defining Features
- The story uses Mughal Architecture as a core of the story whether in theme, setting, or associated tone.
What’s happening at /r/WritingPrompts?
Nominate your favourite WP authors or commenters for Spotlight and Hall of Fame! We count on your nominations to make our selections.
Come hang out at The Writing Prompts Discord! I apologize in advance if I kinda fanboy when you join. I love my SEUS participants <3
Want to help the community run smoothly? Try applying for a mod position. You’ll get a cool tattoo that changes every time you ban someone!.
I hope to see you all again next week!
2
u/CuratorOfThorns Dec 20 '20
A Garden for Lone Souls
The doorway to Evie Noble's sewing room was gone when I turned around - spirited away by forces unknown in the time it had taken me to pick up a basket of cashmere. An intricately carved set of doors loomed in its place, dark wood and rose-pink stone somehow blending out perfectly into paisley wallpaper. I expected some sort of painted mural, or camouflaging tapestry to meet me as I reached out, but there was only wood to push against.
There was no hallway on the other side.
Soft, damp grass tickled at the underside of my suddenly-shoeless feet for a few paces. Ahead of me rose a grand temple; resplendent stretches of pink stone topped by gleaming white domes, lush gardens bounded by four proudly jutting towers. I couldn't tell you how long I stood there, mouth slack, before a gentle hand came to rest at my elbow, guiding me into the temple proper to sit on a bench at the juncture of four streams.
She seemed disinclined to hurry me; white cloth brushed against me as she settled onto the bench as well, reaching into my basket to retrieve a ball of yarn. It was peaceful, almost companionable; we sat together like that until I found sufficient curiosity to turn to her.
She spoke before I could, her smile creasing her face into kind lines. "I was at a loss for words myself, the first time I saw the Gardens."
"What is this place?"
"Everybody deserves to have somebody mourn them." She stroked at the cashmere in her lap, her smile turned wistful. "So thank you, for bringing poor Evie to us. May I show you what we do here?"
She'd already risen and turned away by the time I nodded, gliding towards a tower. I hurried to catch up, falling into step with her as we wound through the garden. So close, unmarked white stone clarified into ornate carvings, a bizarre medley of animals and objects, strikingly ununified beside the carefully arranged temple.
And then she carefully traced a finger along a decorated section. "This was Alex. He loved his animals more than anything in the world, while he could still take care of them. And this," she traced her fingers over the blank spot following it, "Will be Evie. She spent her days knitting for the charity shop down the street. I'm sure that she'd have loved for them to have the yarn, if you have any choice about where it goes."
She waited patiently as I drank in the crowded tower, occasionally providing a name if I paused at a brick, sometimes pulling my hand to a favourite of her own. I stayed until the light could no longer support us, and for a while after, the dark no impediment to her as she listed the names under my blind fingers.
I cried when my fingers met heavy wood instead of carved stone.
Worn hands clasped at mine as she pressed the basket (missing one ball) into them. "When you come across somebody that needs us, please do bring them."
The door to the Garden was gone when I turned around, replaced by unassuming pine and paisley wallpaper in the time it had taken me to step into the hallway.
1
u/JohnGarrigan Dec 20 '20
“Julie, wait up.”
She ignored me, rushing ahead down the hidden path, past ornate statues and stone arches sweeping through the trees. I followed behind, slower, carefully choosing which of the slippery stones I stepped on, painfully aware that slipping into the stream would be a disaster. It was peaceful, calming, yet waiting. I could smack my head on the way down and drown. Twist my leg or arm. I could…
I could make it through. Dodging under an abandoned arch I saw it.
The temple had no name. I would never have found it on my own. Julie had lived here three years while studying, and she had met the right locals, proven herself a friend.
At the sight of it I was at a loss for words. It sat hidden in a valley, turrets rising at its four corners, three in light, one in the angled shadow cast by the valley walls. Orante spirals of diamond patterns bordered the walls and archways.
Despite all this I was struck by an intense feeling of mourning. Locals found it fifty years ago, and in that time they had learned very little. Whether it was local legend or actual fact, Julie had heard that the temple was erected by a forgotten prince, a sanctuary for him and his beloved, but that his beloved died the same day the final stone was set. Overwhelmed by grief, he killed himself.
Somehow, the temple seemed to express grief. I was sure the story was wrong, perhaps misinterpreted or missing facts. Whoever built this had lost their love.
The legend went on to say that the prince’s final words were a calling to all, to find their love, to act before it is too late, for life was a grand adventure with but one ending.
I fumbled at the ring in my pocket. Locals went on first dates here. They held their marriages and announced their engagements here, believing that the prince still blessed love to this day. I started dating Julie in the states, and we lived there, but I could do this here.
She was already up the steps when I got there. Inside were two local couples, each having a homemade picnic. Couples, hoping that, by birthing their relationships here, they would be destined to have a great love, an eternal love.
I’d call them foolish, but wasn’t that what I was trying to do? Sure, I was hoping that the personal connection, the thought put into it would cause my relationship to last, but I was still using this location, its history, its connection and spirituality, in an attempt to make my love eternal. As Julie rushed up the stairs I froze. A moment of deja vu, there and then gone, as if I had seen those stairs in a dream. On the wall was a painting of a starburst, bizarrely in grey, not white, the lines stretching out almost rectangles, ending in flat points, not sharp ones. I snapped a pic with my phone, then shook my head.
My nerves might be on edge, but up the stairs lay my destiny, and it was time for me to go and grab it.
Follow your destiny to r/JohnGarrigan
1
u/Isthiswriting Dec 19 '20
Fair warning to those reading this story, I didn't have time to edit this story due to life.
Word count 797
As I pass through the shaded entrance arch, the sun shines down on my grand work, my magnum opus. For once, I am at a loss for words. The light shows the blue veins running through the marble and red sandstone accents bring the glow of life to the marble.
I had wanted to call it The Taj Meditari. Unfortunately, everyone else had hated the name, philistines. Instead, some distant marketing firm had been called in. I still don’t know what label they’ve tacked on my temple like some googly eyes on an ornate Hamsa. I take some umbrage when I hear it called, in whispers, The Mausoleum. The name suits the design even if it doesn’t quite fit the purpose, since it is not a place to mourn.
Now that I was away from the entrance, the beauty of the gardens washed over me. It was peaceful here. On either side of me were gardens.
To my right the grass was dappled. The sun light in places having to fight through the canopy of hundreds of trees. This garden was further broken into four smaller and equal squares. The two closest to the entrance held the normal food producing trees. Most were various fruit and nut trees, so the future occupants could taste the sweet prizes the earth produced. Across a polished walkway, near where I stood, were trees from around the world known for their unique aesthetics. This area wasn’t packed so tight in order to allow the viewing of each type in their own splendor. The last quarter of the tree garden is where those trees modified by man were kept. Some glowed, others were vibrant shades of the rainbow and some grew fruits which replicated the tastes of dishes from around the world.
The other side stands in stark contrast. The green hills garden is my favorite. It is easy to miss the benches and small fountains grown into the garden, providing unobtrusive relaxation spots. There is even a small pond taking up most of the south eastern quarter. The water changes throughout the season with modified fish stocked within. In summer the water is cool and perfectly clear while winter sees it opaque with “healthy” minerals and heated to 40C. That is all window dressing to my best idea for the gardens. Through the middle of each garden runs a glass covered river each with a different purpose. The hills and tree gardens for example carry the cold water to the underground complex and warm water away. They were also color coded with rare stones, sapphire, lapus lazuli and other cool colors for the hills and red beryl, spinel and warm colors for the arborous garden.
I continue my walk toward the main building. The first thing that catches my eye is the beautiful dome over the complex. The dome was less the traditional onion shape and closer to a diploria coral. I knew the outside was completely smooth yet the stone had been carefully chosen to give the illusion of ridges and crevices.
The structure overall was an irregular octagon with the cardinal directions the same size and the intercardinal directions being half there width. Each of the main sides has iwan entrance with its own color and art style. In the direct sunlight the gold of the front facing iwan is almost blinding. Even as I approach, the images of man’s glory and domination over death are too painful too look at. Instead, I begin to circle the building, so I may take in all of my creation.
Arches were everywhere, each side has four per level, twenty a side. Each arch, which bears a name in flowing script, represents a different guest. The arches are carved with the exploits of each guest and contain a stone screen that looks into a museum of the person’s mortal life. I take my time and enjoy the great craftsmanship that went into this ornate work. It shows that none need ever mourn this person for they would live forever, or at least as long as neuro-retreat lasted.
As I swing around the rear corner, I am stopped in my tracks. Here are the filthy bugs, the dalits. They walked in a single line from the servants quarters. Why were they still dirtying this beautiful place? They should have been finished supplying the needed material days ago. Why did it have to be collected fresh? Why couldn’t they crack the heads open off site. Cleaning the site would take even more time.
I let out a sigh. Some under boss hadn’t been doing their job and now I would have to fix it. I look forward to the eternal peace of a neuro-retreat retirement. But it seems an architect’s job was never done.
1
u/nanagagner Dec 19 '20 edited Dec 19 '20
The Visit
“Sorry for calling you so incredibly last minute. I don’t doubt you have a life outside here but if I were you, I’d live on this couch,” he looks up at the clock on the wall and then at his own. His watch always seems to be slow. Such a contrast to his legs which never seem to stop bouncing from nervousness.
“You're rambling Tom. Which means you are deflecting my question, again. I will have someone else here shortly. Please, tell me what brings you here today?”
“Always right down to business with you. I’ll be a good boy. I just don’t like answering stupid questions,” he smiles out of the corner of his mouth. She already knows how he is. She’ll just ignore him and keep pressing, she always does.
“Is this about your dreams again?” she shifts in her expensive leather corner chair waiting for what she hopes is an actual response to her $200/hr. question.
Tom’s been coming for some time now. He always seems to pop in at the same time, like clockwork. He loves being in her office when the sun is about to go down and the last bit of light fights to make its way into the room. Another poor sap on his therapists couch. How unoriginal.
“Of course it’s about the dreams. Every night I have the same one. It’s really starting to get to me.”
“Would you mind sharing it with me? I know they’ve been bothering you for a few weeks now. Discussing aloud might help,” she looks reassuringly at him.
“Fine. I’m somewhere in India walking among the people. It’s beautiful! The people are warm and welcoming. Someone offers to take me on a tour and between their bad English and my bad Hindi I agree to follow them,” he pauses to breathe and calm his nerves.
“Then what?”
“It gets a little fuzzy around here but I end up somewhere that I think is the Taj Mahal, based on the pictures I’ve seen of it online. I’m mesmerized by its beauty and just… man all that stone. The guide asks me what I feel and I’m at a loss for words. Literally I cannot speak. I start to panic and my heart starts racing. It starts to feel like every tourist there is looking at me and photographing. They start pointing as if they know who I am and the guide leads me inside away from the watching eyes,” his agitation is building.
“If you need to take a moment. We can pause. I’ll have Janet bring you in some water if you’d like.”
“I’d rather finish,” he says as he calms himself. “I’ll keep going… So then I’m walking through the maze of corridors and the guide starts to be completely incoherent and it starts to get really dark. Then I realize I’ve been lead into the tomb. They close it and I’m trapped, screaming at the top of my lungs. No one can hear me through the massive marble stonework.”
“I’m seeing some archetypes in there for sure. But why don’t you tell me what you think this means,” she responds, maybe Tom will actually give her a response this time.
“Opposed to you just saying what’s wrong with me? I mean I pay you enough for me to not have to do all the work myself,” he smiles playfully.
“Humor me, if you don’t mind. I’ll throw in a free pen, they're expensive,” she smiles back.
“Why are they all watching and caring about me? I don’t care about me. And another thing, who would want to be memorialized for all eternity in a tomb so grand it took decades to build? No one could care about me enough to do that for me, hell I wouldn’t do that for me!”
“Tom we’ve been over this, I have no issue reiterating it though. No one is harder on you than you. To the point that even in your dreams, rather, your nightmares you feel inadequate and undeserving of anyones praise. It makes you very uncomfortable even getting a compliment. I want you to do something for me until we meet next, try and write one good thing about yourself a day in your journal. If you’re comfortable you can share them with me.”
“If I’m comfortable? I’ve shared so much of myself with you over the last few years I feel like you’ve seen me naked,” he looks down at his shoes. “You know you could join me for a sad dinner and feel sorry for me.”
“Tom. Put that smirk away and go home,” she smiles and stands to lead him to the door. “See you next week, and don’t forget your pen.”
“Goodnight Doc.”
WC 793
2
u/Badderlocks_ Dec 15 '20
Colonel John Dormer hated.
He hated the heat, the endless humidity that choked the very life from a man. He hated the rebels, the savage upstarts who had harried his men for so long only to run away and deny a proper battle the instant the tides turned against them.
He hated how the artillery batteries pounded ceaselessly, first driving his men into the dirt and then tearing away at the city when his own siege train arrived.
He hated the ceaseless weeks spent in filthy streets, ever aware that a bullet or a blade might spring from a shadow and waste his precious life. He hated how the brilliant red stone of the fort mocked them from a distance, ever untouchable, ever grand. He hated that despite the chaos of the streets, it stood proud and it was peaceful.
He hated the civilians that swarmed them, begging for food and medicine, mourning their fallen as his men tried to first restore order, then silence. He hated how their twisted corpses screamed louder than they ever had in life.
He hated the delicate symmetry of the fort’s gate, the towering spires that reached into a smoky sky. He hated the ornate designs that could only be appreciated up close, how they playfully twisted and danced through the structure as though defiant of their very purpose of war.
And when a subordinate ran to him as he considered the marble masterworks within and interrupted his contemplations, he hated.
“Colonel Dormer,” the soldier said with a crisp salute. “Bahadur Shah Zafar escaped. The fifth regiment is pursuing. What are your orders?”
And in his hatred, Colonel Dormer was lost for words. The arid air and the scorched sandstone and the soldier’s ragged uniform blended together, and the world bled red, and he hated.
“Destroy it.”
2
u/Twenty_Weasels Dec 15 '20 edited Dec 15 '20
I remember the night that I felt I had come to some understanding of Emperor Akbar. I woke from a dream of being pursued, a dream in which I was trying hopelessly to hide from some all-seeing and implacable seeker. The night when I woke was as warm as blood, and my sheets were sticky with sweat. A heady scent of jasmine reached me from the courtyard. Rising, I followed it outside. The air was no cooler, but there was a slight breeze that soothed me a little, at first. I looked up, and my eye was caught by the arabesque designs of inlaid polished stone that crested each of the arches of the colonnade. The intricacies of the design were too subtle to be clearly seen in the moonlight, but something in the endlessly winding geometry of it reminded me unpleasantly of my dream. I looked up further and saw the stars, and for a moment they seemed to me not so much the ordered heavens described by a sane natural philosophy but rather uncountable eyes staring coldly down, eyes in which I would be less than an insect, the very eyes of my nightmare.
I shuddered, and the feeling passed. It was peaceful in the courtyard. The strangeness of the stars was no unnatural horror, but a simple product of unfamiliarity - I was in a different land, far from home, and the disposition of the stars here was not at all the same as in England. Looking again at the inlay above the arches, I had to own it was a marvel. I had known from my studies and my correspondence with other travellers to expect wonders in these lands, but I never expected to find myself lodged in a building like this one, more opulent and ornate than the palaces of most European princes.
Emperor Akbar was a prolific builder, there was no doubt of that. In Fatehpur Sikiri he ordered the construction of a grand arch, Buland Darwaza, the door of victory. He commissioned the arch to mark his victory over Gujarat, but scarcely had he given the order than the Afghans and Rajput entered into new intrigues and forced his return to Ahmedabad. They say that in his wrath he made that trip, which usually takes six weeks, in just eleven days. His armies slew the rebels in their thousands and left the province to mourn its sons, a vengeance worthy of his forebear Genghis Khan. Now there was a tower of rebel heads in Gujarat, and statues of Jai Mal and Patta, slain leaders of the Rajput, mounted on elephants, were being erected to guard the gates of the imperial fort at Agra.
It was whispered that he could not read, and that was why he surrounded himself with learned men who would read to him. It may be true that reading was beyond him, but he certainly did not lack learning; I had heard him expound at length on works from al-Madini to Averroes, Saint Thomas Aquinas to Copernicus. I myself was asked to read to him, on several occasions, the newest scholarship of Christendom by men such as Zuniga and Bruno. I read in Latin, and although I never heard him speak in that language, the Emperor listened intently while I read for many hours.
Only once did he actually address me directly, through an interpreter. He asked me if I believed that the God of the Christians, or of the Muslims or the many gods of the Hindus, could be distinguished in essence from each other, or indeed from a man like himself - or if all of the seeming differences were not mere faults of human perception. I was at a loss for words, faced with such heresy not merely against my own faith but against all possible faiths. I murmured that my own belief was in one true God, with whom nothing else was to be compared. His smile told me that he had understood my words, and did not think much of them. Looking back on that moment from that dark, quiet courtyard, I felt like a statue of myself, one more imperial doorkeeper like Jai Mal or Patta.
Years later, word reached me back in England that the Buland Darwaza had been completed. It stands more than twice as tall as the Arch of Constantine. Inscribed on the main gateway, in Persian, it reads: Isa, son of Mary said: “The world is a Bridge, pass over it, but build no houses upon it. He who hopes for a day may hope for eternity, but the World endures but an hour. Spend it in prayer for the rest is unseen.” When I read that - forgive me - I pictured Christ himself, mounted on an elephant at the gates of Agra.
* * *
WC: 800 exactly
Disclaimer: although based on recorded descriptions of historical events, this account is fictionalised and is an attempt to describe the feelings of one fictional character on Emperor Akbar. I am aware he is still a contentious figure for many South Asian people today, and this is in no way an attempt to pick sides, comment on his character, or represent the factual truth of what occurred in the past.
1
u/katpoker666 Dec 15 '20
”Thank God we packed enough duct tape!” Jen smiled, making the best of a bad situation.
“Two thousand kilometers in, and this auto-rickshaw is more duct tape than anything else,” Dean grumbled.
“Yeah, but at least it’s still getting us around.”
Dean sighed. “I never should have agreed to this bloody race!”
“But you did. And now we’ve got to finish.”
“Do we, though?”
“You fancy paying for a helicopter evac?”
And so they drove on.
“Great. It’s getting dark. No more horn for us. Who designed this rubbish vehicle that you can only have headlights or a horn?” Dean groused.
“I have a funny feeling that they were designed for cities with street lamps and not 3,000+ km races.”
They rode on in silence, occasionally looking at the map for a city large enough to have a hotel with a fenced-off parking lot.
Unbundling the rucksacks from the roof, they crashed for the night.
“Fancy going to the Taj Mahal?”
“That’s like 500km out of the way,” Dean protested.
Grinning, Jen replied, “Yeah, so? It’s not a timed race. I’ve always wanted to see it!”
“Fine. Let’s discuss it in the morning.”
Rising at dawn’s crack, they sat down for chai and garlic naan—a safe but smelly breakfast choice.
“C’mon. You know this has to be on your bucket list.”
“Yeah, but so is finishing this damn thing. One hundred ten degrees without air conditioning and the blazing sun does not really make me want to go out of my way.”
“Pleeeease?”
“Fine, but you owe me.”
Two days later, and the grand, overly ornate Mughal masterpiece, the Taj Mahal loomed before them.
“Amazing! So beautiful!”
“Yeah, if you take pix from the exact right angles. There’s too much crap around it.” Dean pouted while secretly impressed.
“Imagine building a tomb like this for someone you love...”
“You mean to mourn the emperor’s favorite wife? Yeah...romantic beyond belief.”
”You’re my favorite husband.”
”I hope I'm your only husband, Jen.”
”Well, you are my first,” Jen said, as Dean playfully punched her in the arm.
”One thing I don't get is all the fuss about Mughal architecture. It's pretty, but objectively there are so many other more impressive styles here. Take the Kaliasa Temple. Three stories carved out of a single stone. That was amazing: I was at a loss for words.”
”True. But this is so famous.”
”What about the Ajanta buildings? Or the Buddhist ones in Varanasi? It was peaceful. Completely different styles and yet so gorgeous.”
”There is a lot of beautiful stuff in India, I'll admit. But when we go back home, the Taj Mahal will be the only one our friends and family will have heard of. Kind of sad, really.”
”It is. But Mughal architecture is all anyone knows. There's so much more to India. There are literally lions and tigers and bears here. Plus elephants and all the monkeys you could ever want. Remember that nature reserve in Bandhavgarh? How cool was it to see tigers from elephant back?”
”Extraordinarily so. Although I wasn't crazy about the fact that the male tigers had names and the females had numbers. What kind of misogynistic bullshit was that? Still that plus all the fantastic food, from the street to high-end, has been eye-opening.”
”Okay. Enough waxing poetic. We've got to get to Goa. Don't want to miss the race finish party!”
Laughing, Jen couldn't help ribbing Dean. ”Is the party the only reason you came?”
”Probably! I was kidding: because my dearest wife wanted to. It may not be the Taj Mahal, but I do love to make you happy.”
WC: 605
Feedback is always appreciated
3
u/EdsMusings Dec 14 '20 edited Dec 15 '20
It doesn't matter what they've told you about it, it's not what you think it is.
Emperor Shah never had the intention to build such a grand monument to mourn his dead wife. Are you kidding me, the guy never loved her. There was a much more sinister reason behind its construction. One that goes beyond you and me.
But first this. I'm Farroukh, a humble and obedient servant of the emperor. Ever since my father died I have been in the emperor's service. And let me tell you, he's a real jerk. He bosses everyone around and if someone doesn't please him, decapitation.
A year ago we were relocated to a smaller palace to serve the emperor as he was overseeing the construction of his magnus opus, as he liked to call it.
It was spring when I first noticed the emperor's short disappearances. As a man who was always heard in the palace, you would notice when he was away. I wasn't the only one that did, but I was the only one who dared to investigate it.
All the other servants were too scared to do anything. And they'd always try to convince me that it must be nothing.
Yeah right, like he wouldn't just scream throughout the palace that he would be away.
One day when he was away I couldn't take it any longer. I went to the steward's office, a humble room in comparison to the emperor's ornate one. On the top of a shelf I found a master key.
I went to the emperor's office, where none of the servants had ever been. It was strictly forbidden.
I snuck in the room and was quickly welcomed by a opened stairway, as black as the universe in Krishna's mouth. The unevenly cut stone steps contrasted with the rest of the palace.
I descended carefully to not make a sound. I didn't know what to expect. Treasure? Dead bodies? The emperor's fifth harem?
I giggled at that last one. It was probably gonna be that one.
As the darkness engulfed me, I slowed my pace to not slip and tumble down the stairs. The only sounds I could hear where scratching of my poorly made shoes along the rough steps and the drips of cold water that fell from the ceiling.
Yet, deep down, I could see the faintest red light, and as I moved deeper into the ground it became brighter and bigger. I should have been right under the construction site at that point.
At the last stairs the earth suddenly rumbled. Earthquakes weren't common, but I had lived long enough to experience three, so I wasn't really scared.
As I set foot on the floor at the end of stairs, a huge room appeared, bigger than the biggest ballroom in all of the empire. But there was something in the room, and I had felt it since the rumble. As I turned around I saw it, or rather, her. I was at a loss for words.
She was clad in the same armor all the paintings of her showed. A necklace of skulls hung around her neck. Yet what stood out most was the double pair of arms that were trapped in huge chains attached to the wall. A symbol was floating above her head.
She was two elephants big and had fiery eyes that darted around the room. Although having seen her in so many paintings, I was still shaken by her appearance She let out a roar as she saw me enter the room.
There was no mistaking it, this was Kali.
But still there were more people in the room. And they as well noticed me.
Two men with scimitars were quickly running towards me and I tried sprinting up the stairs, but they caught me after ten steps. I was sure that this was my end and closed my eyes.
But death never came.
I was interrogated by the emperor himself, asking me how I found the room. I told him everything, because I was sure I was going to die. But right as he was going to call for a guard to execute me, one of the men who had caught me ran with terror in his eyes into the room.
"She escaped."
The emperor and the man ran out of the room, and I was left alone.
So this is where I am right now, in an interrogation room writing down this story as the world collapses at the hands of a goddess. I know I'm not going to survive this, and frankly I don't mind, because I was going to die anyway, but in case she leaves and someone finds this place and hopefully this paper, I want you to know my story.
WC: 799 First SEUS, I like this challenge, will definitely do again.
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u/Ninjoobot Dec 14 '20
"Here's what you do: When you arrive at the airport, hire a helicopter to take you straight to the Taj Mahal. Then bask in the glory of the world's grandest mausoleum - surrounded by thousands of people doing the same thing - and then get out. India's not a vacation; it's an adventure. It's hot, sticky, dirty, smelly, crowded, and my wife will cook you better food than you'll find there," Dinesh had told me.
I had never been to India, so I was at a loss for words...for a few seconds.
"When can I enjoy the pleasure of your wife's cooking?" I asked. I was never one to pass up a home-cooked meal and I had no shame in assuming he had made the offer.
At the time he had just returned from his fourth trip to the "old country," the result of familial pressure to honeymoon there and visit the extended family he was obligated to briefly see every six years of his life. Knowing how much he hated traveling there didn't turn me off from going, but rather it had me curious as to just how awe-inspiring the Taj Mahal must be for him to still say it was worth the trip.
The Taj Mahal was the height of Mogul architecture, simple from a distance, but ornately and delicately decorated in every nook and on every stone of the massive structure. The beautiful edifice was the product of one man's mourning over his favorite wife who died giving birth to their fourteenth child. It was his attempt to gift the world the same beauty he saw in her.
That advice was twenty years ago, but now that I was finally on my way to Delhi to visit an old friend Dinesh's words were stuck in my head. I had lied to Sangeeta and said I would be arriving the next day so that I could have an adventure of my own and navigate my way to the Taj Mahal before getting pampered by my own local guide. If India was an adventure, then I may as well go all in.
I had it all planned out and most of it paid for before I landed. I would take one train to the next in order to make my way to Agra where I would meander just over a mile from the main station to see, according to Dinesh, the only reason to visit India. Indian culture and cuisine were nothing new to me and I had even lived briefly in Singapore's Little India, but I knew that would be nothing compared to the motherland. I wasn't going in blind, but I don't think anything would have prepared me for exactly what it would be like. Dinesh, however, tried to, and he was right in every way.
I was hot, sweaty, sticky, tired, and a little gassy (one can only pass up the smell of fried cumin so many times). Scooters and motorcycles felt like they were about to hit me every second while my ears were filled with revving engines and conversations I didn't understand. But there it was, peeking out over the buildings and the haze: a white dome. Even from a distance its magnificence was unmatched.
All my senses were overwhelmed in every way, and yet, it was peaceful. I smiled.
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