Astrologers consult the heavens. And advise that the crown prince of Nepal should not marry and/or beget children till the age of 35. They warn that if this is not heeded, harm will come to King Birendra of Nepal and to the members of his family. The advice is heeded. The crown prince is prohibited from marrying. He retaliates, by shooting his father, mother, sister, brother and assorted other family members dead. Makes you pause and think, doesn't it? What greater harm could have come to King Birendra, Queen Aiswarya and the rest if Crown Prince Dipendra had been allowed to marry the girl he had set his heart on? The Mahabharat is the tale of an apocalyptic battle between good and evil. But more to the point, it is a mosaic of tales, parables, bits and pieces of wisdom disguised as stories. Stories that tell of life. And death. Like the one about the Brahmin pundit, who one day was walking down the road when at a distance he saw a snake. It suddenly reared up, and bit -- fatally -- a passer-by, then immediately slithered away and dodged into an open doorway. The Brahmin, wanting to warn the occupants of that house of the danger, rushed in -- and found not a snake, but a banana peel, lying on the staircase leading to the upper storey. He also heard the sound of a quarrel from upstairs. As he listened, a male voice shouted angrily. Then came the sound of a slamming door, and racing footsteps. A man came running down the staircase, he stepped on the banana peel, lost his footing, fell down the stairs and was dead, with a broken neck. The Brahmin, intrigued, grabbed up the banana peel. And found it squirming in his grasp. "Let me go, I have work to do," a voice said. "Not till you tell me who you are," the Brahmin responded, "and what all this is about. How did a snake become a banana peel?" "I am Death," came the response. "In each person's life, it is written that he will die at a stipulated time, in a stipulated fashion. Yet, Death is the same for all -- it is merely that I change my shape to assume the one appropriate for the person. Now let me go!" "Not till you tell me how I will die, and when," the Brahmin insisted. "No point," said Death, "you will not be able to do anything about it, so it is better not to know." The Brahmin, though, showed no sign of letting go, so finally, Death said, "You will die of a crocodile bite!" The Brahmin released the banana peel. And went home to think it through. The results of his meditations became soon apparent -- from that day on, he refused to go anywhere close to any body of water larger than could be contained in a bucket. With fear now erased from his mental make-up, the Brahmin focussed on his punditry and soon gained fame as the most learned in the land. He also earned ill fame for his nocturnal activities. His vice was women and, secure in the knowledge that he could not die, he indulged. Indiscriminately. Leaving behind a trail of ruined lives, of broken families and, at times, of death. One day, in obedience to a summons, the Brahmin pundit went to the court of the Emperor. "My son is due to be anointed Crown Prince, I want you to perform the rituals," the Emperor said, after paying the Brahmin the homage due to him. "Sorry, no, I can't do that," the Brahmin replied. "That was a request, but I can make that an order," the Emperor pointed out. "And failure to comply with my order is punishable by death." "Sorry," the Brahmin said, "But I still refuse." Intrigued, the Emperor asked for an explanation. "The rituals have to performed at dawn, with your son and me standing waist deep in the river. And I have been told that my death will come of crocodile bite, so there is no way you'll get me near such a large body of water," the pundit explained. Understanding the Brahmin's dilemma was one thing, but an Emperor after all is an Emperor. So: "Okay. Then I'll tell you what I'll do. I will have my army, marching shoulder to shoulder, walk from one bank of the river to the other, so we can be sure there are no crocodiles in there. Then I will form them in two concentric circles, one facing outside, the other in, all with their swords drawn and ready, so that any crocodiles that might swim towards you can be taken care of. "That way, you will be safe. But, if you still refuse, I will have my men tie you up and I will personally feed you to the crocodiles." The Brahmin agreed to the conditions, and they were carried out. A part of the river in question was swept clean of crocodiles. The army formed two concentric circles and at the appointed hour, the prince and the pundit walked out into the centre. Dawn broke, bathing all in a wash of mellow yellow. The pundit prepared to begin the ritual. And out of the blue, one of the soldiers in the inner ring flung his sword, accurately and with such enormous power that it pierced its mark entirely, burying itself to the hilt. The pundit fell. Later, it was revealed that the pundit had, just a couple of days earlier, made the soldier's sister the victim of his lust. "But," the Emperor mused, "didn't he tell us that his death would come from the bite of a crocodile?" "Sire," said the General of his army, "you know how men have this habit of having the hilts of their swords carved into shapes of their fancy. We found that the soldier had carved his in the shape of a crocodile." Managing Editor Prem Panicker is not only an authority on cricket, but on mythological tales as well! Tell us what you think of this diary
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