Skip to main content

The King orders his tomb

Short Story
The King was acutely aware of the smallness of his stature.  In fact he was the smallest man among all his adult citizens.  Even the queen stood half a foot taller.  He sought to solve the problem by making his crown as tall as possible so that the crest of the golden crown would stand above the heads of his citizens if at all he would ever come into contact with them.   
A king cannot live without ever coming into some contact with some people.  Every such contact made the King feel small.  He tried to masquerade the smallness with self-flattery.  “I am very popular among the citizens, aren’t I?” he would ask his ministers.  Or, “How was the cultural show I arranged last evening?”  “Isn’t my new robe designed by Christian Lacroix a marvel?”  Ministers are people who have mastered the art of diplomacy and self-flattery invariably loves to call a spade a clade.  Nevertheless there is an awareness that lies deep beneath the surfaces of flattery and diplomacy which wiggles and wriggles occasionally and even painfully.
Prompted by some such squiggly wiggle King decided to change his Prime Minister.  He would only have a man shorter than him in height as the PM.  The King’s wish is an order.  The courtiers soon found out a man shorter than the King.  He was a dwarf.
Standing beside the dwarf the King felt himself very tall.  The feeling of tallness became excitement when the King realised that his new PM was more intelligent than the one who was superannuated prematurely. 
“Who built the Taj Mahal?” asked the new PM.
“Shah Jahan, of course,” answered the King condescendingly.
“Wrong, Your Majesty.  20,000 labourers, many brought in from Iran and Central Asia built the monument.  Shah Jahan merely sat with one wife or the other and drank vintage wine and ate Mugalai chicken.”  Dwarf laughed merrily.  “That is the art of management, Your Majesty.  You sit down and relish the riches lavished on you by the Almighty and make others work.”
The King looked down with stupefaction at the man who was half a metre in height.  Is intelligence quotient inversely proportional to physical height, he wondered.
“I want to keep the mouths of all intellectuals and critics shut for ever,” said the King as if he was suddenly inspired.  “Give me an idea that works.”
“Make them the 20,000 labourers who will build a monument for you, Your Majesty.  They will have no time for talking and you will earn the fame of their work.  History belongs to those who enslave others.”
Thus the King ordered his own tomb.

Note: The story was partly inspired by Robert Browning’s poem The Bishop Orders His Tomb.

Comments

  1. Nice story Sir, very correct "History belongs to those who enslave others." Even though there's lot of transparency now a days but the situation is pretty similar!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Much has indeed changed from the days of the kings. Yet much remains the same!

      Delete
  2. What a message!
    To the victor go the spoils and the victor writes the history -
    All rolled into one!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I'm writing from a certain personal experience, Brendan. So it's as much the history of mankind as my personal one!

      Delete
  3. The king is a dwarfish both physically and mentally.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Very few kings have managed to rise above such dwarfishness.

      Delete
  4. Wow What a Great Read..And the message conveyed through this post is very much appreciated.. :-)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you. I'm indeed glad you appreciate my writing so much.

      Delete
  5. Hi Tomchi. Because of barely visiting indi I am arriving here after a long time. The story depicts one of the harshest truth about corporate slaves. I agree we often forget that the work we are doing will in no way benefit us. We are only walking talking for someoneelse... what a wonderful way of retelling history :D

    Richa

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. It's always nice to get a comment from you, Richa. You always get the connections clear, connection between the apparent history in my stories and the present situation, connections that I only make subtly. Thanks.

      Delete
  6. History remains significant to date!! Great read.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Reminds me of the many enlightening fables that have outlived times. Your stories belong to that genre and i love the way you manage to arrive at the message using the right amount of words, never too long, never too short. This was a wonderful work :)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Glad you like my stories and find them enlightening. Thanks for the appreciation.

      Delete
  8. Sir, hats off to you! Precisely expressed sarcasm. Howsoever the king manages to engage his employees, if he is not fair, he must be digging his own pit.

    ReplyDelete
  9. be the king .. the dwarf PM or the labourer .. is what I am not able to decide .. Of what I understand, Sir, you write such .. perceptions vary .. for each reader .. :)
    BTW,The issue with our nation is that the Dwarf PMs have become the kings too :)

    ReplyDelete
  10. Jack, I'm sorry if I confuse you at times. Blogging is also a kind of diary writing for me, a public diary of sorts, in which I let out my personal problems in a creative way. This story is one such writing.

    ReplyDelete
  11. Excellent. Never thought from the angle that kings were in fact digging their own graves by building marvelous monuments :-)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Not all kings dig their own graves, Santhosh. Visionless ones do :)

      A few years ago, I wrote a story about some Mughal kings and princes including Shah Jahan. That's as historical as a story can be. In case you're interested here's the link:
      http://matheikal.wordpress.com/2010/05/29/the-saga-of-a-warrior/

      Delete
  12. reading this intelligent piece of art i feel the en-slavers be enslaved once to realize how tall do they stand in the pit dug for them by they themselves!
    angellina

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Though such turns have occurred in history they are exceptions. Once you reach certain heights of power, you keep rising! That's the normal rule.

      Delete
  13. Adam Smith starts his economic analysis on the value of money, and here is the interesting thing in the context of this post - the most important value is that of the labor in producing any thing, be it a palace or a mausoleum! The mausoleum cannot be transferred to or traded for anything else, but labor can be. So, the way I see it, the king has lost the game at the coin toss!

    RE

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yeah, so the labourers have the choice, the king doesn't. Though I had not thought in terms of Adam Smith, I knew that the King was digging his own grave.

      Delete
  14. "what everything really costs to the man who wants to acquire it, is the toil and trouble of acquiring it"

    "Labour was the first price, the original purchase-money that was paid for all things."

    RE, courtesy Adam Smith in "Wealth of nations"

    ReplyDelete
  15. I loved this sentence "History belongs to those who enslave others." How true!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I loved the patience with which you read half a dozen of my posts one after the other :)

      Delete
    2. I usually do that :) Unfortunately I am enslaved by the corporate world and hence can't read daily. Whenever I find time, I read all the pending posts in my list in one go. :D Some bloggers have named me a monsoon reader :P

      Delete
    3. I loved these monsoon showers. Thanks.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Pranita a perverted genius

Bulldozer begins its work at Sawan Pranita was a perverted genius. She had Machiavelli’s brain, Octavian’s relentlessness, and Levin’s intellectual calibre. She could have worked wonders if she wanted. She could have created a beautiful world around her. She had the potential. Yet she chose to be a ruthless exterminator. She came to Sawan Public School just to kill it. A religious cult called Radha Soami Satsang Beas [RSSB] had taken over the school from its owner who had never visited the school for over 20 years. This owner, a prominent entrepreneur with a gargantuan ego, had come to the conclusion that the morality of the school’s staff was deviating from the wavelengths determined by him. Moreover, his one foot was inching towards the grave. I was also told that there were some domestic noises which were grating against his patriarchal sensibilities. One holy solution for all these was to hand over the school and its enormous campus (nearly 20 acres of land on the outskirts

Machiavelli the Reverend

Let us go today , you and I, through certain miasmic streets. Nothing will be quite clear along our way because this journey is through some delusions and illusions. You will meet people wearing holy robes and talking about morality and virtues. Some of them will claim to be god’s men and some will make taller claims. Some of them are just amorphous. Invisible. But omnipotent. You can feel their power around you. On you. Oppressing you. Stifling you. Reverend Machiavelli is one such oppressive power. You will meet Franz Kafka somewhere along the way. Joseph K’s ghost will pass by. Remember Joseph K who was arrested one fine morning for a crime that nobody knew anything about? Neither Joseph nor the men who arrest him know why Joseph K is arrested. The power that keeps Joseph K under arrest is invisible. He cannot get answers to his valid questions from the visible agents of that power. He cannot explain himself to that power. Finally, he is taken to a quarry outside the town wher

Levin the good shepherd

AI-generated image The lost sheep and its redeemer form a pet motif in Christianity. Jesus portrayed himself as a good shepherd many times. He said that the good shepherd will leave his 99 sheep in order to bring the lost sheep back to the fold. When he finds the lost sheep, the shepherd is happier about that one sheep than about the 99, Jesus claimed. He was speaking metaphorically. The lost sheep is the sinner in Jesus’ parable. Sin is a departure from the ‘right’ way. Angels raise a toast in heaven whenever a sinner returns to the ‘right’ path [Luke 15:10]. A lot of Catholic priests I know carry some sort of a Redeemer complex in their souls. They love the sinner so much that they cannot rest until they make the angels of God run for their cups of joy. I have also been fortunate to have one such priest-friend whom I shall call Levin in this post. He has befriended me right from the year 1976 when I was a blundering adolescent and he was just one year older than me. He possesse

Kailasnath the Paradox

AI-generated illustration It wasn’t easy to discern whether he was a friend or merely an amused onlooker. He was my colleague at the college, though from another department. When my life had entered a slippery slope because of certain unresolved psychological problems, he didn’t choose to shun me as most others did. However, when he did condescend to join me in the college canteen sipping tea and smoking a cigarette, I wasn’t ever sure whether he was befriending me or mocking me. Kailasnath was a bundle of paradoxes. He appeared to be an alpha male, so self-assured and lord of all that he surveyed. Yet if you cared to observe deeply, you would find too many chinks in his armour. Beneath all those domineering words and gestures lay ample signs of frailty. The tall, elegantly slim and precisely erect stature would draw anyone’s attention quickly. Kailasnath was always attractively dressed though never unduly stylish. Everything about him exuded an air of chic confidence. But the wa

Nakulan the Outcast

Nakulan was one of the many tenants of Hevendrea . A professor in the botany department of the North Eastern Hill University, he was a very lovable person. Some sense of inferiority complex that came from his caste status made him scoff the very idea of his lovability. He lived with his wife and three children in one of Heavendrea’s many cottages. When he wanted to have a drink, he would walk over to my hut. We sipped our whiskies and discussed Shillong’s intriguing politics or something of the sort while my cassette player crooned gently in the background. Nakulan was more than ten years my senior by age. He taught a subject which had never aroused my interest at any stage of my life. It made no difference to me whether a leaf was pinnately compound or palmately compound. You don’t need to know about anther and stigma in order to understand a flower. My friend Levin would have ascribed my lack of interest in Nakulan’s subject to my egomania. I always thought that Nakulan lived