DAUGHTER OF THE CREATOR

Room number 403 of Little Saints’ Hospital in New York was peculiar - not perpetually so - but on the afternoon of a cold February, it certainly was. Just as the Baby resuscitation machine was being brought in by a midwife, Nurse Delilah noticed that the room had suddenly grown very bright. The white sheets, white pillows, equipment coated in off-white, and the white-washed walls had allowed a semblance of such brightness on other instances of her day shift in the past, but, it had never been so particularly intense. Without doubt, she thought, the almost dazzling light must originate from outside, from across the only window in the room.

But it was queer, Nurse Delilah admitted to herself, for even the most open space in New York let alone a secluded room to experience such brightness in February! Besides, this particular window had an oblique obstruction for the sunlight too: a tall, brown building standing not too far away. If anything, the room should be less bright than the pavement which she could see way down below. Oddly, the situation was converse.

Nevertheless, Nurse Delilah left the matter at that, peculiar as she thought it to be, for she could faintly hear the grunts and heavy breathing of the incoming patient in the hallway outside. Moving away from the window she switched on the Patientline and quickly adjusted the head of the bed to an angle that would be most convenient for delivery. Then she paged Dr. Kibou Takase that he should immediately make his way to room 403 for the heavily pregnant Mrs. Field.

What was really peculiar though, as a person with a precocious set of organic senses would have perceived, was that the bright light emanated from a lean figure seated outside the window of Room number 403. He was transfixed in air - as though supported on an invisible cantilevered glass pane jutting from the plinth level on the outside. Behind this curious, brilliant figure, was standing another tall one; its hands joined together against its chest, and effusing a similar light.

Both figures were those of males, acutely anthropomorphic, yet obviously belonging to a race far removed from the human one. If they chose to be visible to ordinary human eyes - regards to which they had an adept mystic ability - they’d appear to be a pair of outstandingly handsome men. Of course, they’d also invite remarks, stares (because of their comical outfits) and the small dilemma of how they were suspended in air without support. Added to which, their brilliant radiance would stir a few questions too. But, since they had the ability to pass off as premier specimens of human males - no matter how odd - it wouldn’t be misplaced to refer to them as ‘men’, simply for convenience’s sake.

The seated man was wearing a dhoti made of a silky cloth, and dusted with millions of sparkly blue particles. He had a long, white beard, swaying gently against the silver mail - which covered his torso; a brilliantly handsome face, adorned with an ivory helmet; and long, curly, white hair. His arms were long and in his right hand, he was holding a golden scepter loosely.

The man standing behind him had dense, black hair of medium length and a handsome face. He carried a dull gray weapon which seemed like a spear, and wore a very similar outfit - only not nearly as magisterial as the other man’s. That, and his countenance - coupled with his joint palms - indicated his status to be that of an attendant.

He spoke in a complaining, yet masculine voice, “Why are we here? I’ve been asking you this throughout the journey!”

The seated man said, “Dear Drumila, you have infinite devotion for me but very little patience.”

Drumila clenched his jaw, as though reluctant to retort smartly.

The seated man continued in a gentle voice, “Nevertheless, it would be more painful for me to leave you unsatisfied than anything else. Content as I am that we’ve arrived just in time, and with the fact that we hold a clear view of this room, I think it wouldn’t be harmful to indulge your questions. However, do not let a soul in this world be able to witness our presence, or conversation, by any means whatsoever. Let your words - and yourself - be guarded from the most powerful senses. Beings more powerful than humans roam about this country.”

“The Dark One and his minions?”, Drumila asked with a frown as he grew more alert of their surroundings.

“Yes, them. So beware - and before we proceed, I’d like to make it easier for you to hear what’s going in that room.”, saying which, the seated man thrust his scepter straight into the window ahead of him - a motion which he performed with startling agility and grace. Instead of impacting with the glass - as any metal should - the scepter sent ripples through the glass upon contacting it, and made it vanish completely. Suddenly, the muffled noises from inside the room were clearly audible to Drumila. The only change in the scene was that a middle aged man, with very small eyes, and wearing a white coat, was in the room and the pregnant lady was now lying on the bed.

“Who is she and why do we need to see her give birth? Couldn’t we have done the same from back home?” Drumila was hinting at the mystic process by which even the most distant events could be perceived. He himself hadn’t mastered the technique - that took a long time and equal patience to boot. But, he wouldn’t have had to perform it himself, only needed to link his mind to that of the Creator’s – which was fully able to perceive the tiniest event with this mystic ability.

“My dear Drumila, the good lady’s name is Jennifer Field, wife of Charles Field - that plump man who is standing near the foot of her bed.
“We very well could have witnessed this birth from the comforts of our home - which does seem terribly luxurious now – but, we wouldn’t have been able to help the new born child if there arose any complications. It would be too late by the time we reached here for help.” The seated man pointed inside the room, as if he were discussing a particular scene being displayed on a television screen in their living room, clearly aware of the fact that none of the humans inside could hear or see either of them.

“But Sire! Why oversee the birth of one particular child amongst trillions that occur on all the planets - Earth being just one of them? Doesn’t this go against the rule that you personally cannot intervene in the affairs that concern an individual’s fate? Besides, shouldn’t we be concentrating all our energies on the Dark One?”
Drumila scowled in irritation. His curiosity about the impending birth had long peaked – only restlessness remained in its wake.

It seemed unusual for his master to act thus - his master who went by the appellatives: ‘The Creator’, ‘Grandsire’, ‘The First Born’, ‘Primeval One’ in all the quarters of the Solar System. It seemed very inappropriate for him to get involved in something so prosaic.

Hadn’t he created the entire solar system - in all its entirety and imposingness - from absolutely no starting material save his inherent mystic energy and knowledge? Wasn’t he the basis of all life forms? Hadn’t he created - from his mind - extraordinary beings far exceeding the complexity, nature, beauty and strength of humans? Wasn’t one second of his life equivalent to thousands of human years, in which trillions of such births occurred?
Then why was he taking interest in the birth of a human child - something which was far removed from the pressing matter of the Dark One? Why was he acting so childish?

“Dear Drumila, suspend all your doubtful thoughts at once. I’d hate to see you lose this position which affords you access to my most personal thoughts and realizations.”

Drumila’s face flushed as soon as he grew aware of the Creator's mind-gleaning ability. He’d never become quite used to it till now, maybe because he'd never come across any other Aditya who didn't need to exert himself - even if it is in the slightest- while doing so.

“I’m sorry… But I just don’t understand why this is necessary… I know I’m supposed to be patient at all times - and everything, but I cannot help worrying about the Dark-One-issue; it’s urgent – and I know you think that too.”
Drumila sighed and then continued, “One would think that I deserve to be cast into the regions of nescience, stripped of all good qualities - what with the offenses I keep committing against you! If only you had not intervened with providence now and then, I would be there now.” He barked a nervous laugh and fell silent.

The Creator chuckled softly - as if deriving pleasure from having chided his companion and evoked such a reaction, and then said in a voice which seemed to be laced with amusement, “But you know I do not have a say in these matters. If any celestial being degrades himself by committing offenses against pure souls - in mind or in action - he gradually loses all good qualities automatically. If you would deserve a thing as you describe, you’d have already obtained it and I wouldn’t have been able to repair it at all. However, you could be expelled to the outer spheres of Satyaloka, if such a trend of decadent thought continues!
"Nevertheless, back to the birthing! You’ll see why it is so important; it not only concerns the Dark One, but also a dear one of ours - a dear one you keep asking me about all the time. Here, you’ll find all answers.”

Drumila felt shocked and he snapped his head up to hold the back of the Creator’s helmeted one in view. Drumila was shocked at the careless use of 'dear one of ours'.
For an amount of time which had appeared like eons to him, Arundhati - the heartrendingly beautiful daughter of the Creator had been absent from the gemstone gardens of Satyaloka; which, she frequented - and where, Drumila would observe her under ceaseless enchantment and ever-increasing desire. Her absence had been bothering Drumila more than what one should expect of a person in his position.

The Creator had been dismissing his enquiries with not so much as even a monosyllable; sometimes with an unending stare - which would force him to look away eventually; and at other times by merely closing his eyes and exhaling deeply - as if laboring under exhaustion. Drumila had learned to live with - and respect - the Creator’s lack of expressiveness, for the trait was an inevitable result of practicing such high degree ascetism. But, in the matter concerning Arundhati’s absence, he never deemed it disrespectful to press further.

Regardless, the Grandsire hadn’t revealed one word about his daughter’s whereabouts; whether she’d gone away from her personal quarters or was still within them, terribly consumed with some sort of an obsession which didn’t allow her outside.
What else could it be but an obsession? The denizens of Satyaloka had never known a moment of bodily fatigue - let alone any disease; they drank light and were naturally continent. Inevitably, Drumila had imagined her obsession to be an Aditya. He'd even thought, Perhaps she’s been cavorting in the privacy of her quarters - just as she always does with her handmaids, in the ponds - instead, with the guy now? The thought had made Drumila extremely agitated and depressed, but even those torturous emotions had not been strong enough to propel him into Arundhati’s abode. He was afraid of the power she held over him; afraid she’d wield it again.

He’d only actually met her twice - and at both times, she’d looked into his eyes with such blithe casualness that he’d found it impossible not to look away and stare down one of her friends in a much exaggerated manner. Before he’d been able to gather himself on both accounts, she’d glided away - her voluminous, dark hair flowing sentiently around her, the attendants and guards moving in an array behind her.