When I Was A King

I was a king for six months.

Now, on deforested land, there must be banks, restaurants and roads in Beluru. Then, it was less than a village deep in the jungles of Borneo. It had a store, I think. I do remember the locals giving us plenty, rice, sweets, prawns, fruits and vegetables. I can’t remember a mosque or a church. The tribal lot had their voodoo gods in the jungle. Mine was in a spare room with a single lamp with space for dreams, fears and prayers. 

In that village that was not even a village my father took me to my first school, a single building with a moat of mud at the entrance. I was the fairest, tallest and biggest. The teacher gave me sweets and a special seat in front. She used to ask me if she was right. I used to nod wisely, thinking about how to reach the back benches. She helped me cross the moat, leading the way, stepping lightly on the planks laid across that muddy route. In the second week, my father built a bridge for me before I learned how to skip over those planks like the other kids.

They played with me. But when it came to the main contest, they left me out. Every boy, even the snotty forgotten ones, got paired up with a girl. I was too young to know that I was king but I was old enough to know that I wanted my own woman. I was keen about at least two girls who sat two benches behind me, grinning, giggling imps with mischief in their eyes to raise a flutter in my chest. I would have made them mine if I knew I was king but I was a fool instead and tried hard to be like them. I went with the roughest bunch, exploring the secrets of the thick jungle, running across new plantations and paddy fields, slipping happily into the mud rising equally brown, going home stinking worse than a dung pit. My parents stripped me naked in the front yard and hosed me down. I shook myself dry like a mongrel and screamed little tarzan cries. I prayed to my god, to be included at the next pairing.

When I left my kingdom, the girls were still not mine. I went to lands where I was darker, shorter and smaller. I live in places with temples, mosques, churches, all too grand for my voodoo god. The priests refuse to touch me, the judges waste my life and the ministers and their officials make me feel worse. I meet kind girls with kind excuses. Now, I know how to be a king but in this place called home, I have no imps or prayers.