The Prize Poem

(Short-story)

P. RAJA

King Moodapoda always chose pleasant evenings to discuss matters pertaining to his kingdom and people with his minister. They took an evening walk in the royal orchard on a lovely       summer evening.

“What’s all the news today?” began the king.

“My Lord, of late I have learnt from the spies that the poets in our land wish you to organize, now and then, a poets’ meet and distribute prizes to the participants as is done in the neigh­bouring lands”, answered the minister. “This”, to quote a spy, “not only provides entertainment to the public but also gives an opportunity for the poets to come out with their hidden talents.”

The king blinked and after a while, shot another question: “What do you mean by ‘poets’ meet”? And what does ‘hidden talent’ mean?

The minister raised his eyebrows and replied: “My Lord, that is what I, too, cannot understand. But I could not have asked the spies, could I?”

Both of them racked their brains, then the king came out with a suggestion. “It is not worthwhile to torture our brains over a trivial matter. Instead you can go to a neighbouring land and make a study of the ‘poets’ meet’ and ‘hidden talent.’ ”. The minister commended the king’s suggestion and agreed to go as a representative of his majesty.

A week elapsed. The minister returned from his study-tour and reported to the king: “My Lord, I had the opportunity to attend a poets’ meet. It was a grand performance. Are we in any way inferior to our neighbour? We should also arrange such functions and distribute prizes. It is very simple....”

“Tell me!” said the king eagerly.

“Poets”, continued the minister, “both domestic and foreign, were invited to participate in the poetry-reading session. The function began in the evening. The king delivered his inaugural address, which I have faithfully jotted down in my pocket notebook for you, so that you may without any difficulty reproduce it. Thereafter the poets, one by one, read their poems before the audience consisting of men and women. But I found no children there. This, My Lord, is a thing to take note of the moment a poet finished reading his poem, the audience clapped their hands, while the dogs here and there barked. The clapping and barking, it seems, are the essence of the gathering. When all the poets had finished, the minister read out a list of names written on a sheet of paper and proclaimed that they had won. Then the king, all the while smiling, gave each winner a bag con­taining pieces of gold. But the size of the bags varied. Then the audience dispersed. And that is what a poets’ meet is all about.”

“Interesting and simple! Good! We, too, shall arrange a poets’ meet,” exclaimed the king. He asked after a pause, “And did you find out the meaning of ‘hidden talent’?”

“Ah! That still remains a mystery, My Lord. I tried through all possible sources to understand that term, but in vain. On the way home, a new idea struck me. Allow me to give vent to it, though it may sound barbarous. But I find no other way.”

“Continue,” permitted the king.

“The only way to find out the ‘hidden talent’ in a poet is to cut open his body and thoroughly search for it,” suggested the minister.

King Moodapoda wrinkled his brow and thoughtfully. said, “It should be easy to cut open the body with a sharp knife. But we should also think about the aftermath. Suppose the poet dies in the process, the people will brand us butchers. Further, if our search for the ‘hidden talent’ ends in a fiasco, what a shame it would be. Let’s not bother ourselves about that devilish thing. Let’s leave it to the poets themselves and wash our hands of it. But by all means we should have the ‘poets’ meet’ from this month onwards. Announce it before the public.”

The next day the town-crier beat his tom-tom and announced in the market place: “The king has great pleasure in announcing that a ‘poets’ meet’ will be organized on the fifth of every month at the royal auditorium. Whoever can write poetry can participate and read the best of his poems. Grand prizes await the poets. All are welcome. Children will not be admitted, but dogs are most welcome.”

King Moodapoda sent his messengers to give the news of the ‘poets’ meet’ to neighbouring and far-off lands.

On the appointed evening the native poets as well as poets from various neighbouring kingdoms gathered. A vast crowd consisting of men and women, some with their pet dogs constituted the audience. The king as advised by the minister, welcomed the gathering with the borrowed speech and then requested the poets to read out their poems.
The first poet rose up and read out a very long poem. King Moodapoda was unable to make head or tail out of it. But when the audience clapped their hands, he, too, followed suit. When they kept quiet, he remained silent. But all the time he managed to smile in order to give the impression that he was enjoying the recitation. When the poet finished reading his work, there was loud applause. Infuriated or scared, the dogs here and there barked.

The king was very pleased with himself, for according to his minister, the clapping and barking formed the essence of the affair. He looked at his minister and smiled. The latter reciprocated the smile and congratulated himself by twirling up his moustache.

One by one the poets went on reading their works. Mooda­poda understood nothing. Neither did the minister. They became restless and moody. But the king’s spirits rose when he saw the last poet rise up to read his poem. He heaved a sigh of relief. But within seconds, his spirits fell from dizzy heights to gloomy depths. “How to judge the winners and distribute the prizes?” was the puzzling question of the hour. Perturbed, the king gestured to his minister to come nearer and whispered into his ear: “You didn’t tell me the method of selecting the poets for the prizes. Have you already selected the winners?”

The minister felt like the thief in the folk tale who was stung by a scorpion at the moment of his departure with the booty. He scratched his head and hesitatingly replied: “That was the only thing that I forgot to study in my study-tour, Your Majesty! But that matters very little. We are always at liberty in making our own selection as we wish. What do you say, My Lord?”

“You are right!” agreed the king. “I am at liberty to do anything I like. Who is there to dispute my rights? In the eyes of the king, all people are equal. Poets, it goes without saying, are also people. So, to go by logic, all poets are equal. Hence, there should be no discrimination. And so no poet should go unrewarded.”

“You mean equal reward, My Lord?” inquired the minister.

“No. It’s there we should use our commonsense. When all the poets have recited their works, let us weigh their manuscripts one after another in a balance. And let us give gold to the poets equal to the weight of their scripts. What do you say now?” smiled the king, appreciative of his own ideas.

“What an excellent idea, My Lord! All the contestants will be very happy and you can judge their worth by weighing them in an impartial balance. How original you are, My Lord!” applauded the minister.

Meanwhile the last poet had finished reading his poem. King Moodapoda and his minister came to know of it by the clapping and barking that followed.

The minister then asked all the poets to fall into line. A balance was brought in and the first poet was requested to place his script on one pan. The king poured an equal weight of gold on the other pan and the poet moved away hugging his reward. The process continued.

The poets who wrote nothing but trash over many pages got several gold pieces, while a few genuine poets who expressed themselves in 10 to 12 lines bagged nothing more than a sprinkle of gold dust.

The king and his minister went away jubilantly. Not only had the function been a grand success, but also they were free from the tedium of listening to the poets for a full month to come.

Poets worthy of the title cursed the sovereign in their hearts and wept over their fate. Poetasters who could without effort turn out pages of trash praised him for inventing an impartial balance in judging poetry. But no one had the courage to open his mouth before the king, leave alone criticizing his actions. “My good verse goes unrewarded, whereas poetasters’ bags are bursting with gold. This fellow deserves to be taught a good lesson at any cost” muttered a genuine poet who was among the recipients of gold dust.

The fifth day of the next month came and the royal audito­rium was full. The gathered poets had under their arms big bundles of paper. Vagabonds who had never read a poem in their lives made use of the opportunity and carried on their heads reams of paper with some undecipherable lines of “poetry”. To add weight to the bundle they had cunningly inserted heavy metal pieces in between sheets of paper.

The king and his minister came reluctantly to the auditorium. They were astonished to see the large number of poets with the burden of paper bundles balancing on their heads and shoulders. In fact, the poets outnumbered the audience. “My God! How to listen to all these poets?” Moodapoda ruminated. He con­sulted his minister who replied: “My Lord! You should feel proud of this gathering of poets. Historians will talk highly of your reign as the golden age of poetry.”

“But each one will take more than a day to read his poem” said the king. “If I sit here I’ll be driven to the edge of madness. Suggest some alternative.” The minister thought for a while, then whispered to the king.

The king nodded in approval.

And in his welcome address he added: “To discover what honey tastes like, just one drop of it is enough. It is needless to drink a jarfull of it and then suffer later. So too with your poems. Read only the first page of your works, and that too quickly and without pause, so that all the poets here may get their turn. And you need not worry over the recognition of your verse. We have here an impartial balance, which is capable of judging your entire work within seconds... Now you can proceed. Justice will be done to every poet.”

The poets obeyed, each one not taking more than a minute. The recitals went on so quickly that the king and his minister heard nothing but the sound of clapping and barking throughout the four-hour session.

When the recital was over, the poets stood in a long queue to receive their prizes. The first in the queue placed his voluminous work on a pan of the balance. The king was about to pour pieces of gold on the other pan, but was stopped by a cry:

“Stop! O Sovereign Lord, famed for your munificence. I have the biggest poem with me. Reward me first, lest I should lose the proper reward due to me.”

The king and the others looked around. There stood a poet at the threshold of the auditorium. He was the one who on the previous occasion had got nothing more than a sprinkle of gold dust and had gone away with the intention of teaching the king a lesson. Having attracted the king’s attention, he said with a smile: “Look! The biggest poem in the whole world. Send ten sturdy men to bring in my poem and estimate its merit.”

King Moodapoda walked to the entrance. There stood a bullock cart and on it lay a a heavy stone slab, with four lines of verse chiselled on it.

“This will be much too heavy!” exclaimed the king.

“But this is also a poem,” responded the poet.

The king pondered deeply. He said to himself: “Promises by the king should be kept at all cost. I should keep my word or else historians will speak of me as a bad king. And I will fade into oblivion without even a monument built for me unless I myself finance it.”

The king then commanded that a big balance be brought. The stone slab was placed on one pan and the gold pieces were heaped on the other. But to no avail. Even after the royal treasury was emptied, the pan that held the stone stirred but a little.

The king and his minister were in a quandary. The poets and the audience burst into laughter. The king bent his head in shame. His downcast eyes fell on the four lines chiselled on the stone slab. It read:

“Before you weigh a poem by the pound
Ask if you can ever find
Treasures in all your lands around
Equal to those of the kingdom of mind.”

A flush spread across the king’s face. At last he understood what was meant by ‘hidden talent.’