~Introduction~
Have
you ever wondered what the walls would say if they could
talk? Do you know what secrets they could tell you? I can
promise you, the walls would not be able tell you half as much as I
could.
Who
am I? I am the old tree by the road, the jasmine flower
growing wild in the jungle. I am the Spirit of the Subcontinent,
something wild, terrible, and magnificent. I have seen many
things, and I safeguard the secrets of so many people just like
you. I
surround you, in the rocks, the dirt, and the plants. I race
through your blood the moment you step on my soil and romance you with
my own allure.
Do
you think you can resist me? Let me tell you about a child who
came to dwell in the heart of
India, in my own heart. She was young, impressionable, and
foreign. She wanted nothing to do with the raw beauty that I
possessed. I whispered stories to her, and she resisted. In
the end, she grew to love me.
Let
me tell you why I chose these particular stories to tell the
child. This
child, the girl who resisted my power, came to me from the urban
jungles found across the seas. She was a blossom from a consumer
nation, oblivious to the natural world and to me. She intrigued
me. I decided when I saw her that I would win her heart, just as
I had millions of others before her. I decided to tempt her with
one of my most exotic features: my flowers.
Do
you know what magic a flower holds? Its beauty and its
fragrance are unrivaled. Something about a flower ignites
passions and lures people into its soul. Even the names of the
flowers inspire passion in the hearts of men: orchid, jasmine,
rose. I have long understood the significance of a single petal,
and so have the people who dwell in my heart. These people have
long told tales in which the flower plays a most important role.
Usually these stories feature women as their main characters or as the
reward for a long, difficult journey or battle. Sometimes the
woman is the flower,
and sometimes a man must find a rare but beautiful flower in order to
win the woman's hand. A few of the more famous tales that are
recited by my people include the story of Sita's Ashoka tree from the
Ramayana and the many
tales that tell of the Lotus blossom.
My
people, the people of India, understand both the life of the flower
and the lives of the people whom the flower touches. Since long
ago, these people
have recited my tales of the flower in their own languages:
Kannada, Hindi, Tamil, and others. Some have even gone so far as
to collect my stories and translate them for the rest of the
world. One such man, A.K. Ramanujan, collected seventy-seven of
my
stories in his work "A Flowering Tree" which was published
in1997. He translated my stories from Kannada into English and
breathed into them a new life. Though not all of these tales
feature flowers or trees as their main motifs, many of the tales
do. A majority of the tales that Ramanujan collected he
had heard as a boy from members of his family. This man, who
spent
his lifetime among my tales, brought them to new audiences around the
world. Unfortunately, he passed into the next life before
completing this work. He left behind an unfinished
essay and
incomplete notes about my stories.
India,
my very being, is itself a land that breeds the magic necessary
for a good story. It is a place of many different languages and
cultures, and its landscape is the picture of a dream. I spent
many years drifting alone through the oceans until I came to collide
with the Asian continent. Since then, I have obtained such
wondrous features like the Himalayas and the Ganges River. These
wonders also inspire religions and stories across my heartland. I
came to rest in a tropical area, and now I am covered in
rainforests. The rainfall
that I receive is enough to keep my soil in bloom. It really is
no wonder that there are so many stories are told about my flowers.
Because
I understood the allure of the flower, I told the girl these
stories of mine, the stories that wove the magic of the flower into
their souls. I told her first of The Pomegranate Queen and her
surprising fate, then of
The Three-Thousand-Rupee Sari and its tragic beauty. I next
whispered to her the tale
of The Turtle Prince and prevailing love and, finally, the tale of A
Flowering Tree and growth and change.
In the end, she could not resist. Now, I will tell you her
story. Will you be able to resist the allure of exotic India?