What's WOT, What?

Ten years have past since that fateful day which turned my life around. Ten years since that quiz in the Daly Memorial Hall, standing on Nruputhunga Road in Bangalore, where all good KQA quizzes took place, where my good friend Sidu Ponappa, or Panchyloppuly (quite a mouthful) as he is dearly called, showed me this blue covered book of eight hundred or so pages. A book so blue, that the sky paled in comparison; a book with a cover of a fine lady on a white horse off to Banbury Cross, perhaps; next to the lady’s horse was a stern warrior on a dark steed followed by a train of people on lesser horses against a pale moon. Ten years; ten summers, Wordworth would say, with the length of ten long winters.

Raised as I was in a world of myth and legend, pouring since my childhood over the intricacies of the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, I was drawn to what old Panchylopuly had to say about the book. It was a book on fantasy, he informed me, called The Eye of the World; first of a series of books by an author called Robert Jordan. The book was supposedly about a band of adventurers and how they were sucked into having to fend for their lives and rescue the world. I was all of twelve years old and saw, in my mind’s eye, great knights fending off dragons while rescuing damsels in distress with really long hair a la Rapunzel and Arthur. I took the book from him and began reading. The first chapter gripped me by throat and dragged my tired eyes at one in the morning (which is late enough for a working man and a nightmare for a boy thinking of the witching hour) through a series of around ten thousand pages.

Ten years and eleven books later, I find it hard to think of my life without the Wheel of Time and fantasy in general. How can I forget the times I went out to bat while playing inter-school cricket psyching myself up with the dying words of Manatheren? Carai an Caldazar, Carai an Elisande, al Elisande, Fear holds no place in my heart, al Elisande. How many times have I called Her, Mashiara? And would I ever forget how she reacted when I told her what it meant? How could I forget Marwaha and me fighting our Jedi battles and then discussing that Jordan’s descriptions of sword fighting go far beyond that of the Jedis’; wondering how Heron wading in the Rushes actually looked; whether the swordsman actually held the sword with one arm or both when delivering the blow?

And yet, the Wheel of time goes much beyond mere words or swordfighting. If I am a romantic now, thinking always in the rather contrasting world of black and white, I would attribute the same to my excessive reading of fantasy novels. The Wheel of time shaped a lot of my morals and ethics. It taught me about heroes and heroic deeds, that everyone has a hero in us who is willing to fight for what he or she believes in. it showed me how a person could choose his or path based solely on ideology, with little consideration for the consequences of ones actions. It reiterated, wittingly or not, the world of karma that we live in, that cause has effect; that the world is so much more beautiful; that our own mundane lives have meaning; that immortality comes through passion, through love, through grandeur.

And that, as GRR Martin comments in his site, is the essence of fantasy. If I may be allowed to paraphrase him, fantasy is black and white, while other fiction (and possible NOT our world) is filled with confused shades of grey. Though I may be repeating myself to those who know me, grey is not a colour, it’s a mixing of two beautiful extremes, grey is for the lazy, for the ones who aren’t sure enough to make that decision, who do not wish to bear Atlas’ burden on their shoulders for choosing. Fantasy is about gold and silver while the rest is about tarnished bronze. Fantasy is about mulled wine with an aroma of exotic spices while the rest is nothing but stinking vodka. My world is fantastic; it is filled with fantastic people, with fantastic situations, with ethics and choices and so much more. It might be absurd at times, but it is grand nevertheless. My world is populated with Zelazny’s Sam, with Martin’s Tyrion and Snow and Danny, with Rincewind and Corporal Carrot and the Great God Om. And all because my world was first filled by Lews Therin, by Mat, Rand, Ishamael. An Moiraine.

Moiraine. Weep for Moiraine, my brethren, for she represents you and me. That part in us that would die for our cause. That shows us what passion might be, that gives meaning to our life and work. That shows us that duty is heavier than a mountain and that death is lighter than a feather.

Weep for Manetheren and its fall. Weep for the Aiel’s loss. Weep for what was and is and what might be, world without end. World and time without end. Weep.

My little post is unable of course to capture all that I have learnt. All because of that winter’s Sunday in Daly Memorial, where a friend showed me what our world is. Taishar Malkier, Taishar RJ. May the Dragon ride again on the winds of time. Thank you for colouring my world.

Waerjak the Barbarian

I first got introduced to the saga that is Might and Magic when I was in the 7th standard, when I first played HOMM 2. I remember with glee when the Hermit and I quoted together that memorable line from the tavern "A Black Dragon can take on a Titan anyday of the week!" More recently, my old friend Sid (who, in fact, introduced me to the series) brought back memories when he shared with me one of the Goldberg Variations, which was an inspiration for Rob King's haunting Barbarian and Wizard themes in HOMM2. King went on to much greater musical pinnacles in HOMM3 and HOMM4. How can I share with you the almost religious ecstacy that one felt when listening to the Castle theme in part 3, or the abyss of insanity one felt under the feet when lost in the meandering Asylum music, that, through some classic interweaving of music was alternatively the closest and furthest thing from the tranquil Nature music? However, 3DO folded up and the latest HOMM project might or might not be what was once sheer magic. Nevertheless, HOMM, like a lot of other games and fantasy series, shaped my meagre life and so, in my own humble way, I offer this piece of fan fiction as those thoughts of mine which, I consider are closest to that great Barbarian King, Waerjak...

"I know you don't understand it now, Waerjak, but someday you will. Yes we are Barbarians. Yes, we are born warriors. But a warrior is not just a killer. He's a protector! You must have respect for life, and an even greater respect for your ability to take it. Otherwise, you're just a murderer." Tarnum was much more than a father to me; ever since he had found me in an ark of reeds in this strange world, he acted as mother, mentor, friend, drinking partner all rolled into one. He had trained me in the art of battle and my bloodthirst often took on his form, often so different from our fellow Barbarians. While they hacked away at dead lumps of meat that were once attached to the lusty bodies of warriors, Tarnum would often say a prayer for the dead and walk away from battle, his arms firmly by his side, singing dirges in a voice that would make camels cry.

"The rules of the world were different once, Waerjak;" Tarnum would often say, "before the portals opened and brought us to this runied fragment of this shell of a world. There were great Wizards searching for secrets greater than the fabled philosopher's stone; secrets that were tangible, that were not all talk and smoke. There were Knights of honour too then; all that remains now is a mockery of that great order- that and a fool who calls himself ADAS Knight and thinks he can stick to some strange morality of his own while compromising his soul for the most frivolous of businesses. But let us leave ADAS for another time, Waerjak; let me teach you how to cook a kangaroo rat without burning the moisture out of the hard flesh..."

The strange world that we found ourselves in after the Fall, had its own rules. Might was right, in this world, though, when you actually thought about it, it was no different from the old in that respect... except, of course, when you factored in Magic. Tarnum always told me that there was magic in the old world as well, though they called it Science then. I never understood much of either, though Tarnum would chide me that being a Barbarian with the muscles of a mule, didn't mean that I had to think like an ass as well; and so I would sit with him each night, as he added his strange powders to the fire to make the meat taste better or to create fragrances that that haunted the senses, to learn what I could about the world and about greater knowledge.

He once commented on the philosophy of politics in the old world and how it compared with what we, Barbarians, followed now. "You see, Waerjak, the rules on how to lead a life were framed a long time ago by people who didn't quite know how lead it themselves. These are no sacrosanct. No Ancestor has actually whispered in a magus' ear. The whole thing consists of a lot of half truths and educated guesses. And so, Waerjak, never take anyone too seriously, not even me; not even you. However, the ancients were so caught up with the fact that they should be following a Philosophy, that they gave many names to various aspects of their lives. There were some who believed, in essence, that the individual came first- that the tribe would be sacrificed, if it came to it, to protect the smallest right of this self-same individual.

"There were others who said that society came first- and that the role of the microcosm was to serve the macrocosm. They gave these terms fancy names and thought themselves clever. Still others provided a commentary on life, claiming, in their conceit, that the Maker created it just for them while the commentators sitting in the opposition claimed that the whole thing was just too absurd and that every one of us had better give up and die, right then and there." Tarnum paused to light his homemade cigar. He paused on his horse and looked up at the moon. "The point I'm trying to make is simple, Waerjak. When a Barbarian lives his life, his choices are his own. He is responsible for feeding himself, for fending for his mate and children and to worship his Ancestors. However, there are times when the Tribe needs his help and when he needs the help of the Tribe- and that is when the measure of a man, or a Barbarian is observed. You may call the message what you will, but our people need someone to explain to them that they need each other to help, to care for and to heal, while remembering their own identities and honour.

"And this is where we failed before. In our mad rush for the gold in the war between the Kreegans and the Gryphonhearts, we forgot our honour, our Ancestors, our tribe. Someone should teach them, Waerjak; our we'll find ourselves eaten like scattered grains of rices polished off by pigeons."

He was silent for sometime then. I miss him.