M. R. Radhika Pai (19) is a second-year student at the English and Foreign Language University, Hyderabad.

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Mother-to-be’s cries curdled the blue blood of those about her,
while Gramma-to-be, with her blood gone sour, twirled her coral-beaded wonder.
She wished He’d granted her less of goofiness
to get over with this ordeal without much of clumsiness.

She went jade-green at the sight of Grampa-to-be, who seemed all calm and aloof,
while Mother-to-be meowed and yowled like a cat on a hot tin roof.
Majestically seated, indifferently poised,
He reclined on the ebony, in the suite next door, amongst his most prized.

Little did Gramma-to-be hold known
that Grampa-to-be was making arrangements of his own.
“A hundred and eleven trumpets to be blown
at the arrival of the second-in-line to the thrown!”

So staunchly spoke Grampa-to-be in his loud and pompous voice,
that when a befuddled minister asked “Why a hundred and eleven?” he thwacked,
“You have no choice!”
“A hundred and eleven elephants lined outside the royal bower!” spoke the King again.
“Why a hundred and eleven?” wondered the befuddled minister, but that, too, was much in vain.

“A hundred and eleven beauteous maidens to serve our new prince!”
“A hundred and eleven sagacious sages to wash away our sins!”
“Bulbs and blossoms, silks and suits of all kinds in hundred-and-elevens.
May the grandeur of this palace be the envy of the heavens!”

“A hundred and eleven of the choicest savouries and sweet!”
“A hundred and eleven of the finest wines and meat!”
“Why a hundred and eleven?” asked Father-to-be; utterly fed up of the puzzle was he.
“Don’t you see?” cried the pompous King “Oh son, don’t you see?”

With a conspirator’s smile, the King wrote down the charming riddle:
‘111’ it solemnly declared; but all sonny dear could do was twiddle.
The tension was killing. The sickened son cried, “Oh father, pray! Don’t play fiddle!”
So the King cried out: “It reads the same – forwards, backwards or from the middle!”

And then, came the much-awaited triumphant roar.
The battle was over; out he came all bloody and sore.
Bloodied, truly he was, but unscathed all the same.
“He has won his first battle,” cried Grampa “but many more has he to tame.”

Infants across the kingdom shut their ears in wretched horror,
as the hundred and eleven trumpets blew in all their splendour.
The hundred and eleven elephants trampled over shrubs and weeds.
The sages came, too, all hundred and eleven of them, with their hands holding beads.

The hundred and eleven beauteous maidens, with their curls blowing in the air,
came forward dancing gracefully to partake of the euphoria that was their share.
The sweets arrived. Had you counted them, you would’ve cackled out your might;
There were a hundred and eleven of them, all right!

And then came the savouries and fruit, meat and wine.
Men and women gathered galore; they’d hit upon a goldmine!
And before the King could say, “Dear citizens of mine!”
The throng jumped upon the food like famished swine.

The royal gong sounded, the revelry began.
The folks clapped their hands; with eternal joy they sang.
Not a hundred and eleven, but a thousand floral cheers went up in the air.
They danced and drank to their heart’s content; long forgotten was the newly born heir!

The new mother sat flushing in her bower,
while emeralds and rubies poured on in a shower.
Her sweat, much like tiny diamonds themselves, poured down her shapely forehead.
She revelled; she was all red; long forgotten was the little bundle that lay beside her bed!

The proud father emerged from the suite next door;
he could keep from the excitement of it all no more.
So out on the balcony came he, opulently dressed in his lustrous finery.
You ask, and what of his new bonny boy? Oh, that was clearly history!

Trumpets blew, flowers flew, elephants trampled, and sages chanted.
And what about the little boy just born?
He lay there unsought of, until the next morn.

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