One that was the king

It was not necessary to know much then. I did not stop the flow of the story by asking questions such as where is the king, and what is the name of the king. The king's name is Shiladitya or Shalivahan, Kashi Kanchi Kanoj Kosala Anga Banga Kalinga exactly where his reign was, all these historical-geographical arguments were utterly insignificant to us,--the real thing that made the heart flutter and all hearts were instantly electrified like a magnet. That which was attracted was becoming one who was a king.

Today's readers should be sitting on their backs. At the very beginning, the author was caught lying. That's why he asked with a face very much like Sayana's, 'Writer, you say that there was a king, well tell me who was that king.

Writers have also become Seyana; They say, 'One who was a king, his name was Ajatshatru.'

The reader closes his eyes and asks, 'Ajatashatru. Well, tell me which foreign enemy.

The writer assumed a steady face and said, 'There were three undead enemies. A man was born three thousand years before the birth of Christ and died at the age of two years and eight months. Unfortunately, the details of his life are not available in any book.' Finally, after ten different criticisms of ten historians about the second Ajatastra, when the hero of the book reaches the third Ajatastra, the reader exclaims, 'Ore Bas, what a scholar. Come and listen to a story, about how many lessons were learned. This man cannot be trusted anymore. Well, Mr. Writer, what happened after that.

Alas, alas, people want to cheat, love to cheat, but lest someone thinks they are stupid, even this fear is sixteen years old; That's why he tries to be Seyana. The result of this is that the end times will happen, but with great pomp and circumstance.

There is a saying in English 'Don't ask questions or you won't hear false answers.' The boy understands that, he asks no questions. Hence the beautiful lie of the fable is naked as a child, simple as the truth, clear as a fresh source; And nowadays smart lies are masked lies. If there is a mole hole somewhere, all loopholes are caught from within, the reader is diverted, and the writer has no way to escape.

As children, we were perfect philosophers, so when we sat down to listen to the story, we had little interest in gaining knowledge, and the uneducated simple heart did not understand exactly what the real words were. And in the present day, so many unnecessary words are left behind, so many unnecessary words become necessary. But finally, it comes down to the real thing -- the one who was the king.

I remember it was raining that evening. The city of Calcutta was completely submerged. A little water in the street. I had a sincere hope that the master would not come today. But still, until the appointed time of his arrival, I am sitting on the porch looking at the road with fear. If the rain is about to come with a little delay, then I pray with concentration, O God, let it pass seven thirty in the evening a little more. At that time, it seemed that there was no need for rain in the world, except to save a single evening boy from the outskirts of the city from the cruel hands of the master. Even an exiled yaksha in the olden days thought that there was no great work in the dark clouds, therefore it is not serious for him to take the sad story of the only Virhi of Ramgirishikhar across the world to a Virhini of Alkar Soudhbatayana, especially when the path is so beautiful and his heartache is so painful.

Not according to the boy's prayer, the rain did not fall according to any special rules of Dhoom-Jyoti:-Salil-Marut. But alas, the master did not leave. A familiar umbrella appeared at the corner of the street just in time, all hope burst out in a moment and my chest was like a cage. If there is a proper punishment for the sin of persecution, surely in the next life I will be born as a master and my master as a student. The only objection against him is that if I am to become the Master's Master, I have to leave this family very prematurely, so I apologized to him with all my heart.

As soon as I saw the umbrella, I jumped and entered the inner city. Mother was sitting face to face with Grandmother and begging in the lamplight. I fell asleep on one side. Mother asked, 'What happened?' I made a face like a pot and said, 'I am sick, today I will not go to study with the master.'

Hopefully, no minors will read this, and I will not be quoted in any school selection. Because what I did was unethical and I was not punished for it. Rather, my intention was fulfilled.

The mother told the servant, 'Stay today, tell the master to go.

But from the way he calmly began to plead, it was clear that the mother smiled to herself as she saw the acute symptoms of her son's illness. I also buried my face in the pillow and laughed a lot--neither of our minds was invisible to either of us.

But everyone knows that it is very difficult for the patient to sustain this kind of illness for a long time. After a minute, I caught Grandma and said, 'Grandma, tell me a story.' Two or four times there was no answer. Mother said, 'Ross, let's finish the game first.

I said, 'No, you finish the game tomorrow, don't ask grandma to tell the story today.'

Mother threw the paper and said, 'Go Khuri, who can deal with him now.' He may have thought in his heart that the master will not come to me tomorrow, I will be able to play tomorrow.

I grabbed Grandma's hand and pulled her up into the bed in the mosquito net. At first, he wrapped some pillows, threw his legs, and moved around to contain the joy of his mind--after that, I said, 'Tell me a story.

It was still pouring rain outside--Grandma began softly--One who was a king.

He has a queen. Ah, survived. Suyo and Duo Rani's hearts trembled when they heard it--I can understand that the danger of the two unfortunates is no longer delayed. There is a strange anxiety in the mind from before.

When I heard that there was nothing more to worry about, only that the king was distressed because he did not have a son, and that he had prayed to the gods to go to the forest to do severe penance, then I was relieved. If I did not have a son, I did not understand that there was any reason for sorrow; I knew that if it was ever necessary to go to the forest for anything, it was only intending to escape from the Master.

Leaving the queen and a girl child in the house, the king went to do penance. One year turns into two years and gradually becomes twelve years, but the king has not seen him again.

Meanwhile, the princess has turned sixteen. The age of marriage passed but the king did not return.

He wants to look at the face of the girl and does not taste the food on the face of the queen. 'Oh, my golden daughter will be old forever. Ogo, what I did.'

Finally, the queen begged the king, saying, 'I don't want anything else, you just come to my house one day and eat.'

The king said, 'Well.'

On that day, Rani cooked sixty-four dishes with her own hands decorated them all in gold plates and silver bowls, and served them with sandalwood sticks. The princess stood with chamar in hand.

After twelve years today, the king came back to Anthapura and sat down to eat. As a princess, she stood up and began to do chamar.

Looking at the face of the girl the king does not eat. Finally, looking at the queen, he asked, 'Yes, queen, such a golden idol, who is this girl like Lakshnitakaruna. Whose daughter is this?

Rani hit her forehead and said, 'Oh, my forehead is burnt. Can't you recognize it? She is your daughter.'

The king was very surprised and said, 'My little daughter that day has become so big today?'

The queen sighed and said, 'It will not happen again! Say what, it's been twelve years today.'

The king asked, 'Don't marry the girl?'

Rani said, 'You are not at home, who gives her marriage. Shall I go out to find a husband myself?'

Hearing this, the king suddenly got up and said, 'I will get up tomorrow morning and give her in marriage to the one whose face I see at the royal gate.'

The princess began to cry. The bangle on his hand started to bang. The king's food is over.

The next day after waking up, the king came out and saw that a Brahmin's son was collecting dry wood from the forest outside the palace. He will be seven or eight years old.

The king said this is my daughter's wedding day. If anyone could violate the king's order, the boy was caught and the princess's garland was exchanged with him.

I approached Didima very close to this place and asked with a very desperate curiosity--after that? Wasn't there a little desire to replace the Brahmin's son in those seven or eight years of lucky Kathkuran? When the rain was pouring that night, the lamp was flickering and the old lady was telling stories in the mosquito net, did not a very possible picture wake up in a small unexplored corner of the trusting mystery of the boy's heart, that one day in the morning there was a king. At the king's door in the country gathering wood, suddenly a golden idol like Lakshinitakaruna with a princess in its garland changed; On his head is a cinch, on his ears is a pendant, on his neck is his voice, in his hand is a kanban, on his waist is a moon necklace, and on his two feet is the sound of the Nupur jam.

But if that grandmother of mine had become a writer and told this story to today's Seyana readers, how much she would have had to pay already. First of all, the king stays in the forest for twelve years and the princess does not get married, in one word everyone said it was impossible. Even that would have been passed in a noise, but a strange chaos would have arisen at the place of the daughter's marriage. This never happens, secondly, by marrying a Kshatriya girl with a Brahmin's son, which everyone feared, the author must be spreading anti-social views by cheating. But the readers are not such boys, they are not his grandson who will listen to all the words silently? They will criticize the paper. Therefore, I pray in my heart, that grandmother is born again as a grandmother, and that she does not have to become a writer like the unfortunate grandson.

I asked with a trembling heart, then?

The grandmother began to speak, after which the princess left with her young husband in sorrow.

Having gone to a far country and built a big building, that Brahmin's son, your tiny husband, had to be brought up with great care.

I moved a little grabbed the side pillow a little more tightly and said, after that?

Grandmother said, that after that the boy went to school every day with a female hand.

As the boy gradually grew up after learning various sciences from Guru Mahashay, his classmates started asking him, who is the girl who takes you to the Satmahala house.

The Brahmin's son is restless, unable to decide who the girl is. I remember a little bit that one morning I went to collect dry wood in front of the gate of the palace--but that day there was no great noise. It's been a long time, does he remember anything? Four or five years pass like this. Every day the boy is asked by his companions, 'Well, who is that beautiful girl who lives in the seven-story house?

No, the Brahmin came from the classroom one day with a big face and said to the princess, 'I am asked by the elders of my classroom every day - who is the most beautiful girl who lives in the Satmahala house.

I can't answer that. Who are you to me, tell me.'

The princess said, 'Let it be today, I will tell you about it another day.'

A Brahmin's son came daily from Pathashala and asked, 'What are you to me?'

The princess answered every day, 'Say that today, I will tell you one day.'

Another four or five years passed like this. At last, the Brahmin came one day and said very angrily, 'If you don't tell me who you are today, then I will leave this seven-story house of yours and go away.'

Then the princess said, 'I will surely tell you tomorrow.'

The next day, the Brahmin came home from school and said to the princess, 'I will tell you today, but tell me.'

The princess said, 'I will tell you when you go to bed after eating tonight.'

The Brahmin said, 'Well.' Balia started counting the hours waiting for the sunset.

Meanwhile, the princess spread a bed of golden flowers on the golden couch, lit the golden lamps in the house with fragrant oil, tied her hair dressed in the blue cloth, and sat down to count the hours until the night came.

At night, her husband finished his meal and went to sleep on a bed of flowers on a gold couch in the bedroom. I started to think, today I will get to know who is the beautiful woman who lives in this Sat Mahala house.

The princess ate prasad from her husband's bowl and slowly entered the bedroom. Today, after many days, I have to openly say, that I am the only Adhikari of Satmahala house, who is yours?

After going to the altar, she entered the bed and saw that there was a snake in the flower when it bit her husband. The dead body of the husband is lying in a bed of flowers on a golden bed.

My chest suddenly stopped beating. What happened after that I asked in a hoarse voice with a pale face.

Grandma started to say, after that--. But what's the point of that? That is even more impossible. The main hero of the story died in the attack but after that? The boy did not know then that there could be an 'after' after death, but he could not answer the 'after' even to a grandmother's grandmother. By faith, Savitri had even accepted death. Children also have strong faith. That is why he wants to return to the realm of death, never mind that his masterless evening's tale of so many saints suddenly died with a snake strike. So Didima has to bring back the story from the eternal house of great consequences. But he accomplishes it so easily, so effortlessly--perhaps just by floating a banana on a raft and reciting a couple of mantras--that the image of death comes to the boy's mind so firmly in the dim light of that drizzling rainy night, that it seems more than a night's blissful sleep. no, When the story is over, two tired eyes come to you, still the little soul of the child is floated on a raft of sleep in a soft silent stream, after which in the morning two magic spells wake it up in this world.

But to him who has no faith, who dares to violate even an inch of the impossible for the sake of this timid taste of beauty, there is nothing 'after' for him, all has suddenly ended in an untimely end. As a child, crossing the seven seas and defying even death, I used to listen to the story in a loving and melodious voice at the appropriate pauses--

My point is clear.

Wrap the tree in nine.

Now that I am old, now in the middle of the story, I suddenly stop and hear a cruel hard voice--

My words are not enough.

Don't wrap the tree in knots.

Ken re not Muroline Ken.

in your cow-

Get rid of it, there is no use in naming that innocent animal. And who will take it from the other side?