Kalideva was expecting the sunset in his palace, to which walls and flying buttresses more prosperous time have contributed. Today the cement ivy of the City of Benarés, the new one, covers this affectedness, the galleries of lapislazuli bordered by tiny reproductions of creation scenes, of conservation and destruction of the world, in 29 sequences, by the Trimurti. From the outer part of the saloons covers of jade plates, this fall afternoon the sweet and powerful sound of the domestic elephants reached us, that at this time it was thought that the were old enough to have heard at that same room, where Kalideva was, the breath altered by the ambition of the older ones. Some old slippers covered in Egyptian gold covered their feet and moreover the tribute of the people that they have heard one time was spread transformed, giving support to anything that surrounded him.

But Kalideva, the magnificent, the one that was called Elephant Head as an ordinary formulae by everyone that came to him during the daily and night hours was not happy.

A close memory tortured him, something that did not seem to match with the monster like piece of furniture and the construction of his house of many generations. Moreover the basalt barns of the elephants, crossing the bush gardens- covers with golden little bells that gave out a monotone  sound and perfume , the slight wind barely moved a breath that came from far away and from the Ganges, and he laid down on the copper pipes that fed the gutters, a wall of diverse bricks, swollen like the belly of a hangman.

Kalideva glided the small finger through the ring finger and the ring of his left hand fell to the gravel floor, causing an unique and admonitory sound, enough, so that the slave of fair hairs and water like look, like a river respectfully bend the primitive laud and the civilized spine due to many whip blows and caresses and retired bowing, closing the doors of strong chestnut behind his back.

Kalideva was not happy.

In vain he had recreated himself with the caresses of the women behind the red chamber, at the Eastern part of the palace and contemplated like an early branch the kisses and the games of the teenagers among themselves, brought from the cold region that remained from behind the Urals, stolen from the fierce Scythians by captains that were sure of the gold, if death was not coming across the whim of their master; in vain they have been captured with nets by loyal marshals, invested of that sole mission , the black virgins in the jungle of a continent populated with lions and Pygmies and warriors and of mortal insects and  carnivorous plants (according to the tale of marshals at the time of facing the lack of confidence of the treasurers). Vainly, one unluckily afternoon, his second son, the Rajah of Eknambah, of only thirteen years of age, had found the death at the doors of a barbarian group of houses, just for obtaining a concubine of pale eyes for his father.

His bones were completely rotten in a country unknown for the Vedas and his father was an unhappy fellow, who just from time to time, like an exceptional fact, lost the boring activities of the powerful, with the vision of a decapitated head or the fabulous news of a wizard. The rest was just a passing of days and nights that without any variation stopped in the same hindrance that fall on him, king- priest of the green and happy India, like a balm of rotten flowers.

Like a Golden bug, the memories were nagging on him. Before the wall on the back was built, he, Kalideva, and his neighbor Siddartha, had hunted the rhinoceros and black antelope at the moorlands that surround Allasbhab, had been astonished of the temples built by the fervor of the fans of Vishnu, the beggars of the saffron colored toga, in the outskirts  of the citadel that belonged to them by inheritance rights, buildings that were just a dream come true by will of those minds that despised cold, heat, good food and burning lust of their nights of yound and noble men in the empire of the world. Together, Siddartha and he had killed in an memorable afternoon the tiger that runds away from the heat and the arrows with its fur of shadows and corners and had teased the old ladies and the axles – it was a sweet memory in the bitterness of power and of age- while they were full of dignity and waving for water to the public  fountain, without knowing, that those teenagers of disrespectful manners were the same that were making reverences at the ceremonies, when they were marching two meters from their white heads, carried by young men of absent look, while the anniversary of the citadel or the ephemerides of a battle was celebrated.

The wall had been build higher than the Himalaya between Siddartha and himself since his spies had flooded his palace with strange voices that had to be believed after a time, due to the public excentricities of Siddartha.

It was a custom then, that in spite of the fraternal table and the milky bread shared among powerful relatives, to keep a court of spies between one and another, just for a mere precaution and just in case.

“King of  Time and of Bhrama’s viscera, Siddartha has shown the face and said “look me in the eyes” to a vulgar one of his villages”, had exclaimed one disgraceful afternoon one of the regions in the house of his relative, without daring to look at his face (allegedly glowing) of his benefactor, at the use of the time.

“Siddharta has donated a precious cloth, but not more precious than the one you dress for going out of the bathroom, of course, Son of Prana, to a foreign fakir at the doors of the citadel.”

“Oh, light of Indostan, your simplicity Siddartha, the formulae that provoked a cold anxiety and sent to cut off the nails of the daring one, as soon as he had finished his tale, threw a handful of gold coins with his image to the crowd, as soon as the starvation feast was declared in honor of the Gods of the drought. “

“Siddharta has changed his customs, noble Master of the Hours: he has obliged his followers, his slaves and grooms, the maids of his wife and the young nurse designated for his son to be born, to venerate a God with the face of a man that he himself does not clearly defines.”

“Siddharta is a God.”

Kalideva’s fist blow sounded harshly on the area surrounded with silent walls and the spy fell down on the marble stones, like a brunch of grapes exhausted by the anxiety of the hands.

Then he had sent to build the wall.

One night and one day the craftsmen had works with masses covered with tow cloth and chisels bathed in water saturated in sand to not disturb  the Kalideva’s sleep, who during the following morning had contemplated something similar to his dream from the previous night, fresh but already crossed over by the flees of the palpable summer, elevating between his cousin and him. Reinforcing the simple dividing wall and only making a limit between both properties, a wall of glowing bricks was there, performed of mica and sleepless hours.

“Siddharta has given as a gift a fifth part of his reign to his inhabitants, the gondo black ones, from the best earth of your ancestors, conquered to the sound of the zithers and without shooting a single arrow.”

“Your neighbor, the innoble Gautame, has been surprised bent in a prayer by those eyes that inhabit the face that does not dare to contemplate you, Lord of the Day, and was praying not to one of the shapes of the brilliants or to the Mandalas that give the key of the six bodies that cover the Atman, but : to the body of a slave standing up behind Siddartha himself, reflected in a mirror !

Kalideva send to blind the eyes of the spy and pull out his tongue, stubborn to the deaf confirmation of his inform suspicions.

That night about twenty craftsmen hired the morning before at the nearby Drabhiddi, famous for its arcades and bridges and streets, built behind walls the work of their ancestors with a thick cover of limestone and mortar at the back of the domain.

At noon, without resting since the culmination of their work, the same craftsmen were expecting at the stables together with Kalideva the news of the spies.

“Siddharta has officially proclaimed the pregnancy of his wife and instead of being happy for a heir that perhaps could dispute, once having been carried out his inheritance, the throne of his same Serene Eternity  - the eyes of the spy were full of common sense- has torn with his strong hands his rich clothing and shouted until he became hoarse the prayer of the dead and announced that the name of his son would be “Chain”.

Does his Serene Eternity know what that mad shout mean? Siddharta has afterwards locked himself up in his tower of arms and announced that for three days we should not be molested, but if, in case someone did so, no matter for what stupid reason whatsoever, he would be forgiven for him.

Nobody has ever approximated to the tower of arms.

Kalideva ordered the craftsmen to depart immediately from the luxurious Drabhiddi .

“ As a matter of fact, even though the wall measures only three meters from its original width, nothing could be done,” was the result of its noon meditation.

“Fire the spies of Siddartha from this my court”, was the consequence of its pondering, as soon as the shadows of the grapes in the flowerpots of his inner yards  had bent.

“Give the guards of the walls a free day and say to the slaves they go to serve  me to my fields in Gutah, three  miles away from here”, exclaimed Kalideva while the pictures of the sun darkened, that were filtering through the sycamores and were projecting even more weaker on the yard stones where he ordered the executions.

The night closed between the gaps of the empty palace and then, almost without any strength and with a smooth whistle, he called his pet as he was accustomed to , his great monkey of gray mutton chops.

The animal hung down from the grapes and fell down like a slight paper on the stones.

He danced for a few seconds and performed one of his most celebrated graces before he understood in his confused science, that his master was looking at him with the same interest than at the sycamores.

Then he went to sit down near to Kalideva and largely and free from any sorrows he scratched his but until midnight.

Kalideva looked at him and compared, scratching his parts that made the recount of his domains until midnight.