The youth walked like one invisible in the midst of the busy marketplace. His robe drawn close around his straight shoulders, he watched with jaded eyes the people laughing and chattering, the dancing girls moving with supple limbs to the flutes of their masters, and the aggressive vendors hawking their wares. For one so young, he should not have borne the look of an ancient man, but he did, and the people edged away from him because of it.

    All except for one.

    "Bit of food for the poor?" a pushy voice asked, and the young man's dark eyes alighted on a half-starved girl clad in what looked like a sack with holes for the arms and head. She balanced a little boy on her hip, and looked pleadingly at him.

    "What's your name?" he asked, and instantly the girl's eyes grew suspicious. She backed away, tugging on a matted lock of black hair.

    "What's yours, stranger?" she retorted, and the young man smiled palely.

    "Ronaq. Here," he offered, tossing her a small bronze nugget. The little boy caught it, and the girl grinned, like a sunbeam dawning over a dark hill.

    "Thank you, kind sir, and welcome to our glorious city of Kukkutarma," she said, nodding her head respectfully as she noted the bronze necklace hanging just above his collarbone.

    "How did you know I was a stranger?' Ronaq asked.

    "You seem lost. Unless you are a young lord run away from the Citadel, you are most likely a stranger."

    "Where is the Citadel?" Ronaq asked quickly, glancing from the girl to the greying southern skies.

    "That way," the girl said, pointing towards an area of the city that resembled a large mound towering over the rest, where Ronaq spotted elegant buildings far finer than those surrounding the marketplace. "But you won't get very far if you try to get in. The King does not like strangers very much."

    Ronaq nodded, biting his lip anxiously and turning to the south again. The skies seemed darker. "I have to," he murmured. King or no king, it was his duty to warn the city of the approaching disaster. Reaching the King would ensure that proper evacuations were made. He turned back to the Citadel and took a decisive step forward.

    Suddenly he felt a light touch at his hand, and glanced over to see the girl again.

    "I have no more to give you," he began, but she shook her head, her straggly dark hair waving.

    "I'll help you get in," she said reassuringly. "I know where to go, how to get in."

    "How?" Ronaq asked.

    "We have our ways," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. She darted forward, pushing through the crowd of buyers, going so quickly that Ronaq almost thought he'd lost her, before her dark head bobbed beside a bread seller. Ronaq caught up to her as she purchased a flatbread, which she handed to the little boy, sending him off with a smile on his thin face.

    "My name is Sabira," she said, slipping another flatbread into her pocket when the bread seller had turned. "Follow me, and try to keep up."

    She headed back into the sea of people, and Ronaq followed, wondering at her ability to sweep by rich and poor alike as if they were reeds in a field. Before long they were at the gates that separated the lower city from the Citadel, where the King and his officials resided. Sabira paused, looking the guards up and down. Ronaq wished he could communicate his haste to her without frightening her, but he knew now was not the time. He must tell the King.

    "Is there another way?" he asked anyway, watching her survey the guards with alert dark eyes.

    She nodded, and quickly dodged to the left, heading along the wall until she was out of sight the guards. Ronaq followed, glad of her nimbleness, for the clouds seemed to encroach at his heels. Was that a damp wind blowing in from the Indus River? He could not tell.

    Sabira stopped again, this time in front of a grate, where water flowed into a covered drainage pipe. An unpleasant odor wafted up from the brownish liquid, and Ronaq realized his determination to warn the King was about to be tested. Sabira carefully removed the grate, and gestured to the murky depths.

    "It comes out from the public baths," she said. "You'll come out into a courtyard with a pool in it. After you leave the baths, simply look for the building with the ornamental brickwork and you'll find the Palace."

    Ronaq nodded, still wrinkling his nose at the smell. So much for any sort of grand entrance. Instead of appearing as the lord he was, he would come into the King's presence smelling like sewer water. Nevertheless, he slid into the drainage ditch and peered through the wall. Indeed, he could see the green lawn of a courtyard, and hear the gentle splashing of people bathing.

    "This—this doesn't go into the women's court, does it?" he asked quickly, turning back to Sabira.

    "No," she said, shrugging. "I don't know."

    Ronaq concluded it wasn't very important, anyway, considering lives were at stake. He looked Sabira in the eye, nodding gratefully.

    "I'm telling you this because you helped me," he said. "Get out of here. Get out of Kukkutarma, and make for the hills. Any high ground. Just out of this plane, and far away from the Indus or the Ghaggar-Hakra."

    Sabira nodded, though her brows came together in confusion. But Ronaq did not stay to see if she had gone. Stooping beneath the wall, he went into the Capitol.

    Fortunately, he was not met with the screams of discomfited women. In fact, nobody seemed to notice a dripping young man slide out of the drainage tunnel and creep around some shrubs. Ronaq felt slightly better now that he was out of the water; the aromatic magnolias and orchids hid the unpleasant smell of the water. He quickly crept to a champa tree, hiding behind it until he was able to slip up the stairs to the main hall of the baths. He passed by elegant columns with hardly a second glance, ignoring the luxury of the Citadel baths in his haste.

    When he emerged into the quiet, clean street outside, so different from the crowded Lower City, Ronaq saw at once the great building that housed the King. Intricate brickwork formed patterns in the walls, and the guards standing watch outside with their bronze-tipped spears looked sternly for any danger to their King.

    Now would be the difficult part. He would have to convince them to allow him to see the ruler of Kukkutarma. As if in answer to his fears, the sky rumbled ominously overhead. He noted that the sun had made her flight. May the gods grant me fortune, Ronaq thought, striding forward with as much confidence as he could muster in his current appearance.

    "Who is at the gates of the King?" one of the guards asked threateningly, and Ronaq saw the man grip his spear harder.

    Ronaq tried to stand straighter, letting his robe fall away from his neck so that they could see the seven-stranded bronze necklace at his collarbone, a sign of nobility.

    "Lord Ronaq, son of Karlani," he said, feeling a pang of regret at the thought of his deceased father. "I have come to speak to the King on a matter of great importance."

    "Lord, eh?" one of the guards snorted, surveying his bedraggled appearance. "More like a slave who stole his master's jewelry. Depart, before we arrest you for theft and have you killed."

    Ronaq gritted his teeth at the insult, but the nearly imperceptible drop of rain that fell on his cheek spurred him on. In desperation, he gestured to the sky.

    "It is urgent," he said, pleading with the Mother Goddess to show them how crucial it was that he see the King. "There is a great storm coming. I have watched it, I have seen the signs. Kukkutarma is in grave danger."

    "From what? We have withstood storms before," the other guard said dismissively. "Go back to your books, oh great man of wind and water, unless the rain really troubles you so much that you must make up stories to get under shelter."

    Ronaq could see he was getting nowhere. He looked between the guards, to the cool, dark halls of the Palace. What were the chances? The thought of rushing them daunted him. For a moment he thought of turning around and going home, to his own city, or what was left of it after the great typhoons had rolled in. He could help to rebuild, to bring back life and repair what the floods had brought. But should he let Kukkutarma fall as well, its people killed because of his own cowardice?

No. He faced the guards, face tight and resolute. The rain pounded around him, and he felt almost strengthened by it and the urgency of the approaching storm. Before the guards could push him away, he slammed into them, shoving between them and dashing down the hall of the Palace. Thunderstruck, they didn't even chase him, and he was able to make it all the way down the corridor before they came to their senses.

    "Halt!" they cried. "Halt in the name of the King!"

    Ronaq ignored them, panting as he sprinted down hall after hall, trying to lose them. He spotted a pair of great, gold-decked doors ahead. Slamming into them before the guards could catch him, he nearly fell into the great room of the King of Kukkutarma.

    "My king!" he called, stumbling to a bow before the startled ruler. "My King, I bring an urgent warning!"

    "Halt!" one of the guards bellowed, nearly falling on top of him.

    Ronaq kept his head pressed to the floor, though he wanted to spring up and plead with the King to act at once. All he heard, however, was a bemused chuckle from the ruler of Kukkutarma. Glancing up, he saw the King arise from his seat and stalk haughtily down the steps of the dais.

    "What is this?" the King asked, a patronizing smile on his plump face. He bent down and spotted Ronaq's necklace. "A noble smelling of the sewers?"

    The King backed away, wrinkling his nose and waving his hand in front of his face. Ronaq couldn't help but cringe, though he nevertheless stood at the King's gesture. He was amazed to find that His Majesty was considerably shorter than he first appeared, and very plump, with a rather unruly beard stained with wine. Apparently the King had just been dining, for he went back to his seat and began to eat again, nodding for Ronaq to speak. Relieved to have an audience, Ronaq shook off the guard's hand and hastened to give his warning.

    "My king," he said, "there is a great storm coming. A typhoon is coming from the south. Even now it begins. I have been watching the skies for many weeks now, and I warn you, the rain that is coming will be too much for Kukkutarma. The Indus and the Ghaggar-Hakra will flood, and this plain will be completely submerged!"

    He spoke as quickly as he could, leaving out the details of his discovery, only that he was certain of the outcome. He could already see the waters rising in the Indus River, the banks overflowing and rushing from the Ghaggar-Hakra across the plain, the two rivers joining in one place: Kukkutarma. He had witnessed it in his own city not many miles south; the rivers were already swollen with the monsoon season. With this storm coming, the plain between the rivers would flood. And so would Kukkatarma, in the middle of the plain. 

    Ronaq prayed to the Mother Goddess that the King would act at once. He watched the ruler's dark eyes take in all that he had said, and hoped above all hopes that he would be moved to action. For your people. For Kukkutarma.

    But the King only laughed, taking some more food and shaking his head in ridicule.

    "This city has stood for generations. Centuries. The Indus and the Ghaggar-Hakra have never come so far above their banks—the gods would not allow it. Go back to your sky-watching, little lord."

    "Do you care so little for your people?" Ronaq cried, even as the guards came to take him away. He heard the thunder rumble overhead, and knew time was nearly gone. "Will you not evacuate the city?"

    "And leave thieves and marauders to take the opportunity to steal?" the King snorted. "No. It is a foolish panic; the rivers will not flood."

    Ronaq struggled against the viselike grip of the guards. "My King, I beg of you to listen. I beg you to heed my warning—"

    "Take him away," the King said dismissively.

    The guards dragged Ronaq back, and despite his struggles they took him to the door. No. No, this cannot happen, he thought as they threw him none-too-gently to the stones of the Citadel's streets. Rain pounded on his bruised body, soaking him to the skin immediately. For a moment he did not want to get up; he wanted to lie in the puddles of water and let the floodwaters wash over him when they came. But he knew he could not. So he stood, wiping the rain from his eyes and going forward to the gates.

    It did not take him long to leave the Capitol. It took him even less time to leave the city; the crowds were gone because of the heavy rains. He looked sadly at the lights shining from the lamps in the houses, twinkling glimmers of life that would soon be extinguished by the floodwaters. He thought about a warning; he thought about standing in the middle of the square and shouting his knowledge to the city. They're all going to die. I told him. I begged him. He groaned his frustration to the storming sky, lifting his hands in misery. He took his bronze necklace in his hands and tore it from his neck, throwing it to the muddy ground. The word of a lord was not respected anymore. He had failed.

    But, like a rejected prophet, he turned and walked away dejectedly. He shook the dust of the city from his feet, and he left. It would be a long journey back to his home, but he would go. He would return and help rebuild his own city.

    That evening, the Indus and the Ghaggar-Hakra flooded. At midnight, they met in the center of the plain between them, greedily reaching long waves of reunion towards each other.

    By the next morning, Kukkutarma was completely submerged. Some had escaped; most had not. When the waters receded, little was left. The Citadel, once standing proud, was now ruins covered in mud. Houses crumbled, foundations slid into the depths of the earth. Covered in many, many feet of mud in the center of the square was a bronze seven-stranded necklace.

Historical Note:

The city mentioned in this story, Kukkutarma, is better known by its name of Mohenjo-Daro (which is a modern name stemming from the Sindhi words "Mound of the Dead Men" or "Mound of Mohan"). The original name of the city is unknown, but Kukkutarma is historian's best bet for what it was called.

Mohenjo-Daro was an early Indus Valley city known for its great size and advanced technology. Situated in Pakistan, it lay between the rivers Ghaggar-Hakra and the Indus (the Ghaggar-Hakra river has now run dry). It existed between the 25th and the 19th century B.C., until it was mysteriously abandoned. Historians are unsure why people might have left Mohenjo-Daro so suddenly; it could have been a plague or invaders. I took some poetic license and imagined the two rivers could have flooded and destroyed the city.

Ronaq and Sabira are fictional characters; however, a seven-stranded bronze necklace was found in Mohenjo-Daro. Additionally, the city did actually have a sewage system and heated baths, which was very advanced for its time. 

Currently Mohenjo-Daro suffers from neglect and is sadly beginning to fall apart due to the Pakistani government's lack of funds and/or interest in restoring this amazing historical site. Numerous nations, including Germany and Japan, have donated money in an attempt to repair Mohenjo-Daro, but currently the city is beginning to collapse due to moisture and flooding. Without help it will probably be completely crumbled by 2030.

#history #historicalfiction #ancientindia #india

"You've got to be the worst potter in all of Jiangzhai," An snorted, shaking her head in amusement at her younger sister's crooked basin. "Might as well crush that back into another lump of clay; Mother wouldn't allow us to be seen with such work in the house."

    Mei groaned, slamming the clay on the ground in discouragement. This was her third attempt at making a water basin for her grandmother, who was turning seventy in a few days. Mei had imagined that she would paint it with lilies, Grandmother's favorite flowers. But now, at this rate, she would never complete a polished work.

    "An, Grandmother is waiting for you to accompany her on her daily walk," Mother called from outside their home, which was essentially a pit surrounded by wattle walls shaping up into a cone. "Come, now."

    An grumbled under her breath, springing up from her stool by the fireplace in the center of the house. "I hate walking with Grandmother. Why do I have to anyway? She can take care of herself perfectly fine."

    "She's old," Mei pointed out. "She might fall and, well..."

    "Die? Well, at least I won't have to walk with her anymore," An began to say, before the tall, slender figure of their mother appeared on the steps, adjusting her black bun.

    Mother's eyes flashed, showing that she had heard every word. "An, you shall not speak of your grandmother that way! She is the matriarch of the village, and has lived far longer than any of us. Do you think that you, a girl of sixteen, are wiser than a woman of seventy?"

    "N-no," An murmured, looking down at the floor.

    "I'll go with her, Mother," Mei volunteered, wanting to escape the stuffy house, as well as her sister's criticism of her basin.

    "Very well, Mei. An, since your tongue is so lively today, why don't you go and help Auntie Zheng tend her baby? Keep her company."

    An nodded submissively. Mei hastened up to the surface of the village, taking in the warm sun. It should have lightened her spirits, but instead she felt heavy-hearted. What would she say to her grandmother in a few days when the other members of the family presented their gifts? Would she be empty-handed? Perhaps she could bring her one of the new piglets their sow had just birthed. But then, what would Grandmother do with a piglet, besides eat it? In any case, Mei had heard that her brother Yu was going to give Grandmother a pup to keep watch over her when it was grown. She didn't want to seem as if she was stealing his idea. She thought of making Grandmother a new hemp cloth, but An was already doing that, and Grandmother hardly needed two coverings. If she could get silk...but silk was rare, and very expensive. Mei would have to sell her father's entire flock of sheep just to afford a bit of silk, and Father would never allow that.

    Grandmother was waiting patiently outside of her house, clasping her staff tightly in her gnarled hands. Despite her age, she was not bent, like old Auntie Huo, but straight-backed and full of courage. Mei remembered the stories Mother had told her of Grandmother's younger days. Supposedly, once she had fought a man from another village who had tried to murder her husband because of a dispute over a cow. Mei was not sure whether she believed that story; at any rate, that must have been many years ago. Now Grandmother's hands quaked, and her legs were unsteady.

    "Ah, Mei, my granddaughter," Grandmother said, nodding with eyes squinted at the sun. "So you are sent to watch over me today, to ensure that I do not fall like your grandfather did and let out my death rattle all alone on a walk."

    Mei's eyebrows rose in shock, and a little embarrassment that Grandmother would speak of death so casually. Her grandmother only smiled and took her hand, squeezing it in her own warm one.

    "And what have you been doing these days, granddaughter?" she asked, taking a few slow steps towards the River, where she often liked to walk and look at the ducks.

    "Oh, not much," Mei said, trying to smile.

    "Not much? Surely you have not been lazing around your house all day."

    "No...I was making something, but it didn't work."

    Her grandmother looked at her with a sweet, tranquil smile. "What were you making?"

    "A—a water basin," Mei said, deciding that it didn't matter now whether her grandmother knew or not. She would probably never complete it.

    "How lovely; did you choose a design to paint on it?"

    Mei nodded, looking out to the bright orange lilies growing by the banks of the Yellow River. "A lily."

    "And how is it not working?"

    "I cannot form it properly; it is crooked," Mei replied ashamedly.

    Her grandmother did not laugh, as she had expected her to, but only nodded, walking serenely to the lilies growing tall. Bending down, Grandmother seemed to sniff the air around the flowers, before resting her hands gently on them, as if she was patting one of her grandchildren on the head.

    "Do you see the perfection of this lily?" she asked Mei, pointing out a single plant somewhat distinct from the others.

    Mei came closer to the blossom, noticing at once that something was wrong. Instead of the smooth, unblemished orange, it was streaked with black.

    "It has spots on it," she said, frowning at this aberration of nature.

    "Yes, it does.

    "It's not supposed to; lilies are supposed to be one color—"

    "Not this one. It is like a tiger, is it not? Black on orange."

    "But it's not—"

    "Granddaughter," Grandmother said a little impatiently, "is it not as beautiful as the others simply because it is imperfect?"

    Mei looked at it, and then at the other, spotless lilies. She had to admit that the tiger-striped lily carried an allure, a mystery of form that the others did not because they were all the same. "It is beautiful."

    "Indeed. And it has taken many months to become this beautiful. First it was dropped as a seed to the earth. Perhaps a bird carried it from some far-off place and then neglected it here. The seed soaked in the water during the rainy season, and then it was trampled into the earth, to grow into a bulb. And when the weather grew warm, a stalk grew out of the bulb, slowly, steadily, pushing out of the earth and forming leaves. With the sun's rays, buds formed on the top of the stalk, and then, one day, the flower bloomed."

    Mei shrugged. She did not see what her grandmother was trying to say. Mother said wise women often spoke in riddles, and Grandmother was the matriarch; she was certainly wise. But Mei could not see her point yet.

    "It takes time to make such a work of beauty, Mei. And though many may not see it as beautiful, to me it is lovely because of its imperfection."

    Mei's eyes widened, and she nodded, suddenly realizing what her grandmother meant to say. The old woman's face dissolved into wrinkles as she smiled down at her granddaughter.

    "Perhaps we had better go home, now," Grandmother said. "So that you may finish your basin."

    Mei could hardly wait; it was an effort to keep patient with her grandmother's slow steps until they reached Jiangzhai. Then she tore down the path to her house, nearly falling into the pit. Ignoring An's teasing, she snatched up the forgotten clay and began to form again the basin. Every time it came out crooked she did not give up, but simply squished it back into a ball and made it anew. Finally, as the sun set, she decided she was content. It was not perfect—no, the edges were slightly uneven and one side leaned towards her—but she was finished.

    Mei let the basin sit for a while outside, to bake in the sun. When her brother Yu wanted to kick it over with his laughing friends, she defended it like a wolf would defend her pups. When An scoffed at it with Mei's cousins, she ignored them like a cow ignores a gnat.

    When the basin was dry and hard, she took it back inside and painted it. Black and red; she wanted to find orange, but there were no colors readily made, and she did not have time to make some.

    On Grandmother's birthday, the entire family showed their deference with a great feast celebrating her leadership in their clan. Gifts of many kinds were given—Yu's pup, An's hemp cloth, an elegant dragon statue Father had gotten from a talented craftsman, a ding from Aunt Zheng (which Mei suspected was used), and even a silk cloth from old Auntie Huo, Grandmother's sister (who had apparently been holding her wealth secret for the last fifty years). Finally, Mei, as the youngest grandchild (besides Aunt Zheng's baby, who was too little to give anything), stepped forward, her eyes resting respectfully on the ground. From behind her back she took the basin, holding it out to her grandmother and hoping that she would not be insulted by the humbleness of the offering she had to give. The paint seemed to her chipped, the basin deformed, and she was certain it would probably not even hold water. Nevertheless, it was what she had made, and she could not take it back now.

    "Oh, granddaughter, it is beautiful," her grandmother's voice came. 

    Mei hesitantly looked up as her grandmother took the basin in her hands, turning it around so as to see every detail. The background was black, dark as a cloudy, starless new moon night. The lilies covering the sides were a pale red, and each one was perfect...all except for the one at the lowest dip in the rim. This one was streaked with black, blemished, one would suppose.

    "You made a mistake," An said from behind Mei. "You got black on it, silly."

    "No," Grandmother said, smiling at the lily and touching it lightly with the tip of her long finger. "It is perfectly imperfect. Well done, my granddaughter."

Historical Note: This story was set in the time of the Yangshao culture in China, an ancient civilization based around the Yellow River. The ancient town of Jiangzhai is actually a real place, though now it exists only as an archeological site. It is believed that the Yangshao civilization might have pioneered the creation of silk. and possibly pottery as well. Though very little is known about this civilization, there is some evidence that it was matriarchal.

#history #historicalfiction #ancientchina #family