the immortal of maluha

ody?’
A starded Shiva glanced up at the old man; the circumference of those shrunken arms would
have been smaller than Shiva’s wrist. The old man was taking ridiculously small bites, moving
larger portions of the bread towards Shiva. Shiva could not find the heart to look up any more.
As his heart sank deeper and his tears rose, he ate the portion the old man gave him quickly.
The food was over in no time.
Freedom. Freedom for the wretched to also have dignity. Something impossible in Meluha’s
system of governance.
‘Are you full now, my son?’
Shiva nodded slowly, still not daring to look into the old man’s eyes.
‘Good. Go. It’s a long walk to the temple.’
Shiva looked up, bewildered at the astounding generosity being shown to him. The old man’s
sunken cheeks were spread wide as he smiled affectionately. He was on the verge of
starvation, and yet he had given practically all his food to a stranger. Shiva cursed his own
heart for the blasphemy he had committed. The blasphemy of thinking that he could actually
‘save’ such a man. Shiva found himself bending forward, as if in the volition of a greater power.
He extended his arms and touched the feet of the old man.
The old man raised his hand and touched Shiva’s head tenderly, blessing him. ‘May you find
what you are looking for, my son.’
Shiva got up, his heart heavy with tears of guilt, his throat choked with the cry of remorse,
his soul leaden and its self-righteousness crushed by the old man’s munificence. He knew his
answer. What he had done was wrong. He had committed a terrible mistake. These people
were not evil.