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Word Count : 3000

Audio Theme : Kiz Kardes | Yali Capkini |

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36 | Blood. Sweat. Toil. Guts. . Glory

14 Years Ago

May 20, 2009

Wednesday

The sun shone in the bright cerulean firmament above them. The chirps of the sparrows, sitting on the maple trees surrounding them, graced both of their ears with their honeyed spells.

"You are still confused?" Darshana asked, her brows scrunched together.

Tilting his head in contact with the maple trunk they were both seated against, he mumbled, "What's there to get confused about? Didn't Grandpa already decide upon it? It's either mechanical or computer science, or . . . perhaps both."

Darshana let out a heavy exhale at her nephew's purely plain-sailing attitude. "Devi, you are traversing in the wrong direction here." She remarked.

He turned his head to the left side to meet her eyes. "As in?"

She clapped her hands together, brought her limbs together, and sat cross-legged. "It should never be about what Paa wants; it should never be about what anyone else wants either. It should always be about what you want, little one, because it's your life and you are supposed to live through it."

He sighed, "And that's exactly what I am not aware of. I don't know what I want, Didaa."

"Ask yourself. Do you really fancy the mechanical or computer engineering fields enough to let the rest of your life revolve around wires, computers, or engines?"

Mahadevan scratched his chin. Never in his eighteen years of life had he wondered about his future professional endeavors. He just liked studying, and that was his prime reason to proceed to that loony bin called school he had just passed out of. It was always the smell of those books in his bag that fascinated him.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."

Darshana clicked her tongue, shaking her head in the process. "Confused fellow." She muttered.

Then, filling her lungs with a deep intake of air, she continued. "Okay, tell me, in that future innovators' contest that you signed up for, you won the first prize in it, didn't you?"

"Yes, Didaa." He nodded, staring at her in confusion.

"I also heard that the organizers of that competition still showcase your model in their main exhibition."

"Yes, they do." He answered, picking up a maple leaf that had fallen next to him.

"What did you make exactly? What was that model about?" She probed further.

He played with the Maple leaf for a second. "It was a prototype of a flood-resilient city."

Quirking her thick and beautifully arched eyebrows up, she appeared impressed. "Interesting!" She then grabbed the delicate piece of bright rubicund leaf from his hand. "How did you get the idea, though?"

He took hold of another leaf that had cascaded down on him the very next second. "I read about it in a book in Grandpa's library."

"Good. You have got an edge in design." She commented. "By the way, those sketches in your notepads-" Darshana paused, her eyes searching his eyes for a hint of recognition of his own potential. "Especially the designs of those buildings you have randomly sketched; they are commendable!"

He nodded.

She followed the direction of his gaze to find him keenly peering at that one Gulmohar tree in the maple grove behind the manor where they were both currently settled. It's sapling had appeared there out of nowhere, one fine day. But what surprised her the most was her nephew's fascination with it.

Without uttering anything further, she let him be. Unlike most teenagers his age, silence was the state in which he thrived the most.

Meanwhile, the sparrows continued with their honeyed chirps while the sun kept bestowing upon them, its soothing beams.

And some two minutes later, Mahadevan finally faced her.

She smiled and began slowly, "If provided with three different boxes; the first one, let's suppose, is filled with wires, circuits, engines, and stuff of similar nature. The second one is filled with the most coming-of-age computers or laptops with the best technical facilities in them. And lastly, the third one is filled with all sorts of cutting-edge designing tools, cement, bricks, timbre, and the best books and latest research papers on construction and architectural designs." She halted her words, carefully focusing her gaze on his face. "Which one out of the three would you choose?"

Without even wasting a second worth of time, words subconsciously rolled off his tongue, unescorted by any form of hesitation or halt. "Obviously, the third one, Didaa. Is there even a doubt in it?" He scrunched his face with hints of irritation.

But then, through the mirage of his own words, the very next moment, the answers to all his confusions dawned upon him at last.

Eyes wide open, he stared at her for one whole minute.

Darshana chuckled, flicking his forehead with her fingers. "Silly boy!"

He blinked twice. "Civil?" And then gulped. "Or Architecture?"

Her lips rapidly molded to form a lopsided smile. "Or perhaps both." She concluded. "It's absolutely your decision to make, little one."

He smiled, but then the smile subsided within the following quarter of a second. "But, Grandpa? Will he agree?"

Darshana Dogra waved her right hand dismissively. "Who cares! Let the old man deal with his constipation first! I'll explain it to him later on." She shot back, softly stroking the crown of his head with her left hand.

Mahadevan nodded, this time with a huge grin plastered on his visage.

"Didaaaaa!"

"D Square!"

A rough and deep male voice, followed by a light and youthful female voice, echoed from a certain distance away from the grove.

Darshana Dogra beamed, thinking about the two incoming hurricanes.

Already preparing herself for the upcoming impact, she stood up on her feet. Mahadevan eyed the movements of his siblings in amusement.

A Mouse being followed by a Camel.

Swiftly getting up from the ground, he towered above his aunt by a huge gap.

The following moment, he saw the Camel and Mouse duo hijacking their aunt in a bone-crushing hug.

Darshana giggled out loud, trying to maintain her balance while tenderly caressing the two hurricanes in her embrace.

"Let her breathe, idiots." Mahadevan interjected.

"Come on, Bhai!" Nirjhara squeezed her head out of the hug. "You didn't even tell us that D Square was coming today?!"

"Exactly." Aridaman scowled at his elder twin.

Darshana looked on with a smile.

Mahadevan nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders. "Not my fault if one of you can't keep his insanity in check around mud and manga and the other one can't keep her adrenaline in check around music."

"Devi!" Darshana admonished her eldest nephew with gaiety lacing her tone of speech. "Anyway-" She turned around to face Aridaman and Nirjhara. "Where were you both?" She cooed, caressing their cheeks with both of her hands.

"My ghungroos broke yesterday. I was out with Aunty Ayesha to buy a new pair." Nirjhara trailed, hugging her paternal aunt's torso.

"And you?" Darshana turned her attention towards Aridaman while simultaneously signaling for them all to settle down on the ground next to the maple tree nearby.

He grinned sheepishly while scratching the back of his neck. "My clay supply was exhausted. I also tagged along with this rat to fetch it."

"Stop calling me a rat, you hooligan!" Nirjhara cried out.

"I will call you a rat! A wet rat!" Aridaman wagged his tongue and made faces. "Do whatever you want!"

"Dad!" The fourteen-year-old girl called out.

Aridaman panicked. "Shut up, wet rat! Or else he will whip my ass!"

Nirjhara simpered.

Darshana laughed her heart out witnessing their antics. Meanwhile, Mahadevan scowled.

Immature teenagers.

"D Square! Do you know I even got a pair of Ghungroos for you?" Nirjhara squealed in excitement.

Eyes agape, Darshana acted all surprised and enthralled. "You did?"

Nirjhara nodded excitedly. "We will dance together."

"But, unlike you, I don't know how to dance, my love. . ." She trailed apologetically.

"I will teach you, D Square!" Nirjhara boasted.

"Alright, my love." Came a soft reply.

The following morning, Mahadevan was summoned to his grandfather's office at eight a.m in the morning.

Knocking twice on the ancient Ebony-hued Victorian-era door, he straightened his back, casually thrusting his hands inside his trouser pockets.

"Come in." The familiar, old, and steel-cold voice of his grandfather greeted his eardrums.

Providing the wooden barrier with a slight push on its spindle, he entered inside.

Surprisingly enough, other than the familiar cold and unwelcoming pair of earthy brown swirls of his grandfather like his own, there stood another person, the beholder of a pair of warm and gentle aureate eyes.

Warm enough to subdue even the chilliest of winters.

Gentle enough to subdue the pain caused by a hundred splinters.

His Didaa.

"Settle down here, boy." The tall, imposing figure instructed, pointing at one of the visiting chairs.

He, in turn, glanced at the feminine presence in the deadly calm Victorian-era office. She blinked her eyes, smiling at him assuringly.

With a single nod, he followed his grandfather's instructions partially. Because instead of settling down on one of the chairs, he chose to be firm on his feet behind them.

"Do you know why I have called you here, boy?" Giriraj Dogra questioned, authority dripping down each and every word slipping off his tongue.

Mahadevan peeked at his aunt once. She appeared amused.

He then shook his head.

"Words, young man." The old man trailed.

"No." He replied.

Giriraj nodded his head. "ICE has just opened its portal for the incoming batch to finalize their branches." He dictated. "So, what have you decided?"

The young boy swallowed, meeting his aunt's aureate eyes.

She blinked with a peaceful curve of her lips.

'It should always be about what you want, little one, because it's your life and you are supposed to live through it.'

Her zephyr-like voice from the previous day echoed throughout his subconscious.

He cleared his throat, his gaze finally skirmishing against a pair of imposing, earthy orbs similar to his own.

"I want to pursue a dual degree in civil engineering and architecture." He barely whispered.

The old man threw a challenging look at him. "But, didn't we talk about this previously? What about mechanical or CS fields?"

From his peripheral vision, he saw his paternal aunt encouraging him through certain barely perceptible hand gestures.

"They are good, with really high scope in the industry, in fact." He paused, clasping his hands behind his back. "But I want to study civil engineering and architecture because these are the two domains where my true strengths lie. I may regret my life choices later on if I choose mechanical or CS now, but I can assure you that I won't regret my choices if I get to study civil and architecture. . . ever." He concluded firmly, his stance erect and his shoulders square.

Giriraj nodded and then glanced at his third child.

She gazed at him with those puppy eyes of hers. He rolled his own.

"Alright." He announced, "Fill up your preferences by tonight itself. Clear?"

"Yes." Mahadevan answered, his tall frame now completely relaxed.

"Hear me carefully-" Giriraj finally got up from his chair, as his commanding voice reverberated in his office.

Mahadevan focused his gaze on his grandfather with unwavering attention.

Giriraj began. "Every drop of your blood that flows out of your body, every bead of your sweat that you shed, every ounce of toil that you do, and every single circumstance you combat with guts. . . my boy. . .shall all return to you in the form of your ultimate glory."

He paused, stoic, as he met the young boy's pellucid, earthy eyes.

"Mark my words."

The young boy bowed his head in deep reverence. "Yes." In the meantime, he felt a feathery, warm touch on his shoulder. He looked up and, needless to say, it was his paternal aunt after all, with the most mellow smile on her visage.

"Come here." He heard the same steely voice again.

And so he did, as instructed. He wended his way toward his grandfather.

Under their watchful eyes, he observed his grandfather taking out an antique-looking yet polished, silver-engraved box out of the left chest of his work table. Unclasping its lock, he opened the box. He then fished out a small piece of paper that was quite yellowish in appearance and a little crumbled from its edges. In all its glory, it looked like a vintage piece of linen or cotton passed down from previous generations.

"Here-" The elderly man with salt and pepper hair said, "Years ago, when I was leaving for London for university, this was what my grandfather passed on to me." He ceased his words, passing on the paper to him. "Keep it safe. Always remember and structure your every action according to the words written on it."

Mahadevan surveyed the vintage piece of paper in his hand. A series of words inscribed with sable ink against the once pristine white but now yellow background, akin to what his grandfather just said, stared back at him in their full glory.

Blood. Sweat. Toil. Guts. . . Glory.

He shook the uppermost spherical part of his body. "I can't accept this."

Giriraj Dogra frowned, his whiskers moving violently due to the air passing out of his nostrils. "What rubbish! Why?!"

Mahadevan shrugged. "Didn't your grandfather write this note for you? Why should I possess this, then? It's yours." He halted his words, meeting the elderly man's eyes. "Your grandfather wrote it down for you to remember. In a similar manner, I want my grandfather to write it down for me himself, for me to remember."

Instantaneously, the similar pair of brown eyes before him softened. "Brat." The old man muttered.

Nevertheless, he swiftly picked up his diary, tore a piece of folio from its tightly bound confines, and scribbled down whatever he wanted at a rate of knots using the ink pen kept next to the Bhagavad Gita on his table.

"Here." Folding the paper neatly, he passed it on to his grandson.

Mahadevan quickly shoved the crisply folded sheet into his right pant pocket.

"Also," The old man interrupted again, extracting a set of assorted drafting pencils from his leather bag stationed on the chest of drawers behind him. Ducking his head, he stared at the file on the table, hiding his face from his grandson. "These might help you in drafting all those architectural drawings later on at college."

Darshana shook her head in disbelief, hilarity shrouding her face.

"Coconut," she muttered under her breath.

"You can take your leave now, boy." Her father instructed her nephew.

Mahadevan bobbed his head in agreement, picked up the set of drafting pencils and quickly turned around to walk out of the office.

Just as he placed his hand on the doorknob to get himself out of his grandfather's office, he heard the elderly man's voice echoing in his own workspace once again.

"Mahadevan." Giriraj called out.

Mahadevan about-faced to face his grandfather and paternal aunt.

"Always remember; Blood. Sweat. Toil. Guts. . ." The old man dictated.

"Glory." The young boy concluded, in a firm whisper.

Five minutes later, as both the father and daughter breathed in silence, Darshana asked, "You were testing him? Weren't you?"

The old man nodded. "He should have the courage to stand up for his people, let alone for himself. That's the bare minimum."

Darshana sighed. "You care about him more than anyone else can ever do. Why are you so stiff around him, then? Children need a sense of tenderness more than adults, Paa."

Giriraj sighed. "Have you ever noticed his silence? Do you know whom it reminds me of?"

It took a few moments for Darshana to fathom her father's words but when she finally did, she gasped.

Despite taking a full minute to compose herself, she hesitated to let that name out. "Datta... Dattatreya Bhai?"

"Yes." A soft whisper greeted her ears. 

Quietude chocked their respective throats with a vice-like grip.

Yet the elderly man embraced his guts to let out the words sitting on the tip of his tongue. "I lost my firstborn to those vultures, Darsha. I can't let that happen to my first grandchild too." He paused, gulping down a sip of water from the glass kept nearby.

Darshana quickly strode towards her father and rubbed his back for comfort.

"Especially when he is exactly like him. . . my Dattatreya." He chocked on his own words; his old and experienced eyes coated with a thin layer of moisture. "Too soft and reserved."

"Tough times make tough people, Darsha. And I will make sure that that boy who has just walked out of this office becomes tough enough to combat every bloody situation that crosses his path." He got up from his chair, clasped his hands behind his back, and slowly walked towards the life-size portrait of a man hanging on the opposite wall, the founder of the Dogra Empire. "The crown needs its rightful owner, and it shall by all means get its rightful owner."

"Mahadevan?" Darshana mouthed.

"Who else?"

Darshana bowed at the sovereign's command, her mind and heart at peace. "Indeed; Aridaman is more interested in sculpture art, while Nirjhara is into music and dance."

"Yes." Giriraj voiced, "Morever, there is that glimmer in his eyes. I can feel it. Unmatched and distinct. Lethal enough to rule the entire empire with an iron fist and benign enough to understand the woes of all those people who will work under him in the time ahead. . . just like Atreya."

"Darsha?" He called out.

"Yes, Paa?"

"I have already prepared my will."

The lady in question looked alarmed. "Why Paa?"

"I can sense their presence, Darsha." He turned around, locking his eyes with his daughter's aureate ones, akin to his beloved wife. "The vultures are back in the sky again."

"A day; a month; a year; two years. Five years, or maybe even a decade. They may begin their work at any time. Beware, little girl." He concluded, his eyes distant.

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