A Mouse on the Ground, A Lion in the Mind

 He has done it again. The feeling of victory is carried by the air around his puffed-up chest. These are the proud steps of a famed warrior. A victorious fighter walking triumphantly can literally create an earthquake with his stomping, forceful steps.

The King was effusive in praise when he emerged as the most skilful swordsman of the kingdom once again. The Lord’s words are ringing in his ears as he steps down from his chariot. Holding the most coveted sword of the state, he walks down the flower-bordered path to the entrance of his impressive mini-palace. He has been awarded and rewarded so many times that he has lost a trail of the achievements of his swordsmanship.       

The competition has been long, tedious, tough and even bloody. He bears many cuts as a testimony to the arduous path to the trophy. He is tired and wants some immediate rest. There is group of female servants who run to help him ease up. He just dismisses them as if he doesn’t even feel they are around. He wants to soak each and every moment of the victory. He appears willing to retain his scars for some time. It keeps the smell of victory nearer for some more days.

It’s getting dark. A restful night is around the corner. He is belching, full with numerous delicacies the King had ordered in the royal kitchen to celebrate his victory. He ate and drank to his victorious self. The champion swordsman is full of food, praise, pride, glory and victory. He doesn’t put off his robe for the night. He decides to go to sleep like he is now, just to carry the feeling the next day as well.

The sword, but, needs to be placed on the well-ornated sword-holder on the wall. It’s a sanctimonious ritual. He loves and reveres his sword. As he moves to place it where it should be, he sees a mouse on the cushioned chair by the wall. The tiny trespasser is twitching its muzzle, almost like poking fun at him. He gets angry. How dare a mouse keep its presence longer than required—which shouldn’t be more than the fraction of a second—in front of him? He expects the little thing to scurry away at the mere sound of his step. His anticipation is scuttled.

His ego gets a dent. By natural instinct, his hand grabs the jewelled hilt of his sword. But then he shakes his head in irritation for even thinking of using his sword against such a tiny irritant.

“Just the sound of air through my nostrils should be sufficient to scare this idiot!” he thinks.

He has let out a few noisy breaths. The mouse but is relaxed on the silky cushion like it is a special guest. The champion swordsman’s irritation is turning to anger. His hand is itching to just finish it off in one masterstroke. But won’t that it be an insult to his sword? To use it against such a small creature!

He moves on to place his sword at its place expecting that his crossing the room will scare away the tiny piece of annoyance. As he turns back, he is surprised to see the mouse still there, unmoved and relaxed like the room belongs to it.

“This is too much! This little one is inviting sure death!” he claps and expects the mouse to literally faint with fear.

As we all know, it’s all but normal to expect a mouse to be the most cowardly creature. It is linked to so many tales of chicken-heartedness. However, the mouse is still unmoved.

“This bloody tick of a shit seems to be deaf and dumb!” he mutters.

The defiance seems to be a challenge to him. He picks up the wooden practice sword and waves it around hoping the airy swirls will be sufficient to scare the mouse and make it run for its life. His expert swings in the air in front of the mouse fail to budge the tiny opponent. Now he is flabbergasted.

“What the hell! Does it want to commit suicide or what? How can I put a dark spot on my heroism by even accepting the challenge from something that will be buried under my shit?” he is offended.

The things which take a detour from the normal, of course, unsettle us. He moves towards the cushioned chair, hoping the cowardly creature will scuttle away, twitching its tail. They are face to face. Still the mouse isn’t moving.

Now it’s getting into his nerves. He feels like putting it off in one strike. But then to stoop so low to start accepting challenges even from a small mouse. His ego is whispering. After all, he has slain mighty warriors in bloody combats. He seems intent to give the mouse more chances to run for safety, accept its defeat and let things remain normal in the world.

He puts the lower end of the wooden sword on the cushion just inches away from the little rival. The mouse is still unmoved. Now it’s really eating into his nerves. He is in no mood to jokingly pass off such things as trivial one-offs. The bursts of clapping, shouting and sloganeering are still echoing in his ears.

“And now this bloody mouse! Go little one go, don’t mess with my patience. I don’t want to put a blot on my bravery by being a mouse slayer.”

He feels like cutting it in two smooth pieces even with the wooden sword in an expert stroke. But killing a mouse with your artistically bravest of swordsmanship. The voice of ego from inside is even stronger.

“This little nuisance is worthy of being killed with a stick. Poor mouse,” he raises his practice sword to hit back like a stick.

But to strike a sword, even if it is a wooden one, like a stick is an insult to the holy art of swordsmanship. His hands just give in. He cannot do it. He cannot use his sword like a stick. A mouse is too lowly a creature to be killed by him. His mind is full of so many ideas that he even gets panicked for a moment regarding his dilemma.

“This suicidal chit of a bird-drop needs a suitable punishment. I cannot bring myself so low to turn from a demon-slayer into a mouse-slayer. The fate of a mouse is to be slaughtered by a cat. Yea, that seems justified and natural! And this little rascal will pee at the sight of a cat. The little devil!” he is angry like he has been given a tough fight by some combatant.

He is thinking of an appropriate punishment to the mouse without compromising his sense of heroism. It’s fair between a cat and a mouse. He agrees on this and already has the instrument of punishment in his mind. The fat, well-pampered cat of the wealthy man in the neighbourhood! He feels a sadistic sense prevail over him as he visualises the cat chasing the shitty little one, putting its teeth into its soft fur, and mowing down the squealing bastard. His hands are itching to grab this moment from the space-time continuum of happenings.

A servant is sent to fetch the cat from the neighbouring house. Now, the cat is listening to the exaggerated version of what happened in the warrior’s palace.

“Just imagine the guts. The devil is not scared of anything. Not even the bravest soldier of the land. Not that he cannot kill it. Of course he can. But he doesn’t want to put a blot on his name by being a mouse-slayer on the day he has been crowned the state champion. But this little piece of arrogance by the tiny creature has forced him to mete out the harshest punishment to a mouse. And that is to be hunted down by a cat.”

The cat is listening. It doesn’t sound normal. There is something in it. It doesn’t seem like any other cat and mouse encounter.

“Of course, it means it must be some special mouse. Otherwise, why would my master take all this trouble to look out for a cat? He could have taken rest after the hard-fought victory,” the servant is nailing it down.

The well-fed and amply pampered cat is becoming serious. Many things are playing in its mind. Its paws aren’t itching to slice through the soft fur. Its mind is clogged with calculations. It seems a daunting task. It doesn’t appear like any other cat-mouse encounter like she has done hundreds of times in life. The poor mouse scuttling away at the mere sight of the cat, the cat preying upon, a minor one-sided scuffle and the inevitable happening. So easy! But this one seems to be different.

The merchant is very happy over the prospect of being of some service to the King’s prized fighter. Holding his dear cat he walks with swag to the scene of the looming encounter. With each step the poor cat is becoming more and more conscious of the fight. The news has spread like fire and people are toeing after. The procession moves.

“The mouse is definitely some special devil otherwise why would these humans make such a show of it,” the cat’s mind is getting bombarded with countless random thoughts.

Her judgment is getting clouded. All the natural sequence of hunting down a mouse is getting stretched to miles with so many distinct steps. And she has to face a mouse that stood up to the mightiest warrior of the land. Thoughts are randomly scurrying across its head. The chaos of thoughts are now changing to numerous apprehensions, which in turn are eating her natural inborn confidence and mastery in doing a small task like killing a mouse. Today it’s not about hunger. It’s about a challenge. The cat is fully fed. Still it has to kill with the impunity like it is the hungriest beast on the planet.

“What stance I should take before preying upon, and from what distance it would be the safest to pounce upon? Should I put up a fierce avatar with my hair standing up, tail taut, and mewing and growling like a tiger? No. Yes. But wouldn’t a cool approach will ensure a better shot at the aim? Yes. No, because the idiot may take it as lack of character in me. Should I, shouldn’t I??” each word from the people around is putting out questions after questions in its mind.

At the end of it, the cat feels like they are taking her to the altar to sacrifice her.

“Who knows, it may even be a devil dog impersonating as a mouse!” she has completely forgotten about its experience in killing mice.     

By the time they reach the warrior’s house, there is a terrible pandemonium around. The cat’s head is buzzing with thousand questions, thoughts, fears, apprehensions and what not. It can barely see what is happening around. Now she is in a total daze, not able to think at all. It’s not about killing a mouse; it’s about defeating THE MOUSE.

Before she realises, she finds herself placed at a distance from the mouse. So many eyes are prying over her. Her natural instinct, her inbuilt dexterity, her inherent skill, her easy-going call to eat a mouse has abandoned her. The cat is conscious of the effort it will take to make a swift dash. It tries to think, but its mind has gone empty. Abandoned by all conviction, it sits there indecisively. It’s puzzled beyond measure.

It’s a blind, futile rush. With a very awkward movement it leaps. The mouse coolly shifts to its right by a few inches. The cat doesn’t know what is happening. It goes rolling like a lump of earth thrown aimlessly. It hits it head on the wall, loses balance and a brass utensil falls on it from the windowsill. There is noise. Its senses are in a riot of panic. Yea, it’s not some rat. It’s the devil himself and I am attacked. The cat runs away for its life. The mouse looks curiously at the peoples standing at a distance.

Well, that’s what happens when a mouse become THE MOUSE.         

The news spreads far and wide to reach the King’s palace. It’s no ordinary mouse. It doesn’t scamper away at the sight of swords and cats. The King’s still more pampered cat listens with its innards shivering with fear. What if they send me? What if even I fail? I will lose all this royal luxury. Lost in the painful reverie, the poor thing doesn’t even realise that the onerous duty of dispensing justice has already been handed over to her.

Now there is a bigger hoopla. Lot more people are talking about the incident. There is more clamour and clatter. And consequently thicker are the clouds of nervousness in the royal cat’s mind.

“It’s not scared of a sword, nor of cat, and now the presumably the finest cat in the state is summoned to get it done. It cannot be a mouse even if it is impersonating like a mouse.”

Simple mouse is becoming a still larger THE MOUSE with each step they take towards the place of the incident. The royal cat seems surrendered to a doomed fate. They appear like enemies who are pushing her to doom and fall from the royal grace. Her worst days are coming. There has been a shift in her destiny. The winds of misfortune are pounding the fabric of her well-pampered self. Chronic panic has set in. She thinks of everything expect the art and craft of the natural skill of killing a mouse.

The royal cat is in a far bigger dilemma by the time they put her in front of the defiant mouse, who seems hell bent upon retaining the seat like it is the crown of the universe. The cat is shaking with nervous excitement. It goofs up even more miserably. The mouse just jumps to its left and doesn’t move. The cat seems to have wasted all weapons in its armoury.

Even before the fight she has been thinking of the aftermaths. How the King will laugh at her and kick her impudently. She is thinking of her life away from the palace in disgrace. More than killing the mouse, its mind is plagued with thoughts of where to run away from the humiliation. So having missed the aim, the cat simply runs away from the scene of its dishonour.

The news blasts through. There is an unheard of mouse which is not afraid of cats and swords. Almost everybody appears unwilling to put his cat through the ordeal and the impending shame. Nobody seems eager to be called the owner of the cat which can’t kill even a mouse.

An ascetic stays in his hut outside the state capital. The task of accomplishing the deed reaches his doorstep. He listens to them patiently. There are long and wordy narrations of the incident. It is made to appear larger than life. People look overawed of what has happened. The ascetic’s demeanour is calm. He listens to the tales with a smile on his lips. His kind eyes shine with a divine understanding. Knowingly he looks into the eyes of his cat. The cat too appears unperturbed.

“Go and do what you always do with the same attitude and mindset. A mouse is a mouse. Remember. Always. Everywhere. And expect a mouse to be just the same mouse you have eaten so many times in the past,” he pats his cat affectionately.

The molehill has become the biggest mountain. It is being talked like nothing else. It beats the pulsating humdrum of a thoroughfare. Everything seems to have been pushed into the background. Everybody is talking about it. But the cat is beyond all this hoopla. Its mind is the same like on any other occasion.

They place the cat in front of the mouse. It twitches its tale with the familiar conviction. There is surety in its movement. It holds its head at a convenient predatory angle. It beats the mouse in the dozing game and buries its teeth into it. The mouse squeaks. The people cheer around. A great thing has been accomplished.

“A mouse is a mouse only. Why burden your mind with so many things which a poor mouse itself can never relate to in the wildest of its dreams,” the ascetic is telling the people who have come to return the cat.

The cat has eaten the mouse and mews contentedly. There isn’t anything complicated about it.

It was a simple, straight matter torn and skewed into numerous phantom shapes and appearances. And when that happens, even a simple mouse becomes THE MOUSE.                 

It’s better to treat a mouse like a mouse only; spare the lion treatment just for a lion. A mouse under the misfitted conduct of apprehensive minds becomes still more significant than a lion.