FABLE FACTORY

Maharani's Elixirs

Shreyosi Endow

Maharani lay in a state of sheer bliss. Her lean hands hung over the edge of the red, velvet sheets; a pale, pinkish white against a startling blood red. Her thin, slightly puffy lips were parted with a few droplets of clear liquid at the corners and were slowly turning a shade of dark purple. Her hair was neatly tied, in a way that not even a single strand dared to make its way to her spotless forehead. As her eyelids rested, you could see the magnificent wave of her long eyelashes, and if you looked hard enough, you could see a tiny flutter. As if at any moment, she would open her eyes and you would lose yourself in the magical, blue lagoons in them.

Shards of red glass lay scattered across the marble floor, a clear liquid trickled in between, and a dropper with a big, bright knob rested at a small distance. The knob was exquisite: scarlet red, and shaped like a ribbon. The bottle used to sit on a coveted spot in the mahogany cupboard alongside other similar bottles. Maharani's lean fingers quivered every time she stroked its exterior, she had goosebumps every time she breathed in its scent. It made her heart skip several beats, her knees wobbly, and with every passing day, she grew to love it more till one rainy morning, when she had dared to open it.

The mundaneness inside the palace fed on her like a parasite, her lack of activity had sucked the living soul out of her bit by bit. The Maharaja was only a guest who visited her infrequently, for he had other sources of pleasure: 'Betting on horses' and 'Bird-watching with my mates' as he put it. And as he did so the eighteen year-old beauty slowly decayed from negligence.

There was only one thing in particular she liked to do, and that was to take strolls in the woods nearby, much to the guards' dismay. And it was during one such stroll, that she came across a wild flower. A small, dark purple beauty with small, bright green leaves that grew on the trunk of an oak and the air reeked of its sensuous smell. She rushed to pluck it, when a guard yelled, 'No Maharani, that is poisonous!' She stood transfixed. The words were like music to her ears.

Maharani had it plucked, and ordered an elixir to be made out of it, an elixir that would smell as sweet as it did in the woods but when it would come in contact it could rot and burn even the loveliest of skin. The whole palace was in an uproar, the scientists were bewildered, but no one could refuse the Maharani. They supposed it would be her only desire, but as it was delivered, Maharani ordered another one. And then another. And another.
And soon, she had an array of 'elixirs,' magnificent bottles that stored malicious secrets. She had a cupboard made, and would store them in it with her own hands. The scientists started to rebel, but she turned the tables on them and threatened to use their own creations against their wives and children. When they were not ready to believe, she started doing what she thought she could never do. She made this man's woman infertile, and that man's toddler dumb, all with a few drops of her love potions.

It was a fine morning when Avinash made his way to her hall, carrying a plate covered with a red, velvet piece of cloth. Maharani recognised him instantly; he had made her some of the finest in her collection. Avinash's hands trembled as he laid the plate on her table. Maharani lifted the piece of cloth, and time seemed to stop. She stared at it, mouth agape, a tear falling out of the corner of her eye. Avinash studied her expression, his lips curving into a small smile, and he turned around and headed back.

'Avinash,' he heard Maharani's shaky voice. He stopped on his tracks, but didn't bother to turn around. 'I'm sorry for what I did to your wife and your son. I did not realise a few extra drops would stop their breathing forever.' 'Of course you didn't Maharani,' Avinash replied. His eyes began to water as well.

Maharani's body was discovered much later in the evening by one of her maids. When the Maharaja heard, he expressed his grief for a mere second or two and then ordered the immediate emptying of the wretched cupboard, after which he resorted to bird watching. As for Avinash, there was no news from him since he had made his last delivery.

***

Lisbeth

Raisa Rownak

I have come here to get away for a short time. From the yelling of my parents, the crying of my baby brother, and the teasing of my little sister. Nothing in particular catches my attention. I wander, distracted among stone plaques, each representing a life and a death. The carved letters mean no more to me than the scribbles of a bored student.

After awhile I begin to get annoyed with the presumptuous air of the stones. A few speak as personally as the dirt around them, suggesting a forgotten life, and unmourned-for death. Some tower high, polished and ornate, competitive even in death. Others lounge beside them, basking in simplicity, murmuring in proud, hushed tones, "Here we stand. Here we have stood. Here we will always stand." Still I wander unimpressed, feeling superior in my role as one who has not yet lost her life.

Lost in a corner behind a dark marble monument, a small stone catches my eye. Its rough, unpolished surface doesn't reflect my face as some of the others do. No fancy decorations, no dates, no message to God clutter it. All that lies on the surface, half covered in consuming moss, is one small word, a name. Lisbeth. In the instant that I read the two syllables my clamouring family, my contempt for the hubris of the graves, and my boastful confidence in my own vitality, all disappear. This stone fills me with questions about Lisbeth, making me intensely curious about her life and death. This stone makes me an intruder into a foreign kingdom, makes me understand that life, perhaps, is not always the champion over death. As I look around, it is I who is the shadow, I who sees a world I may not, cannot, participate in.