The Despot
There once was a land ruled by a despot grown fat on the fineries of power. Seated each day high upon his favourite golden throne, draped in scarlet robes to remind subjects of his great love for the realm, the proud ruler regarded himself as the union of all virtues. ‘Show me a man purer and more justly observant of the sacred laws,’ he liked to say. ‘There are none. My duty is to my people, to shield them from national misfortunes, to purify their hearts and bless them with wealth and prosperity.’ The despot was sure he was a true guide and redeemer, and not surprisingly he gathered around him many admirers convinced of his magnificence. Satraps and beggars, magnates and merchants, petitioners and flatterers flocked to his court. When the ruler toured the realm, as was his custom, his people, even the poorest, proffered flowers and perfumes, curtsied, bowed and laid down their modest garments on the streets. Yet not all subjects agreed that their ruler was justice incarnate. Tormented by the passions of the rich and mighty, jealous of their liberties, townsfolk and traders, tillers of the soil and sufferers of penury grumbled and growled. Some subjects dared to cast doubts on promises of a dawning age, purer and richer in all things. ‘Show us a ruler more squalid,’ they cried. When the howls of heretics threatened, the despot declared treason. The state is sovereign only when the government is concordant, he affirmed. Informants were summoned. Spies despatched. False news was spread, hurtful rumours propagated. The mouths of troublemakers were sealed with hot wax, women were caged, their children roasted on spits. Fearing rebellion, the ruler and his officials stopped at nothing to weed out enemies of the realm, to silence and subdue those said not to belong to the people. The realm’s ancient library was spitefully sacked; so many of its treasured books and priceless manuscripts were thrown into a nearby river that for a time its waters ran black with ink. But writers and scholars, helped by brave keepers of the library and others of courage and spirit, stood their ground. No longer forbearing, they risked their lives by printing new works and protecting precious old texts from the claws of the wrathful despot. Spines straightened, these lovers of liberty and learning refused to stoop or surrender, wise in the knowledge that rulers enjoy no powers except those granted by their subjects.
This is a revised version of the allegory originally prepared for To Kill A Democracy: India’s Passage to Despotism by Debasish Roy Chowdhury and John Keane (Macmillan, New Delhi, 2021). The illustration is by the Polish dystopian surrealist painter Zdzisław Beksiński (1929 - 2005)