A King in Bangalore

Two burly men stood on either side of him, pouting. Their eyes looked so innocent, they didn’t look the bodyguards they were. The king was broader, stronger. A fourth stood a couple of feet away and blew a horn held sideways. The sound came in short pained bursts, we don’t know that music, and were anxious the king may suddenly stop him, but he didn’t, so maybe he was playing alright. The king’s arms were bare, he wore many rings on his hands, and his torso bore rich, pleasingly designed robes. A shawl was draped irregularly over those vestments, a mark of honor from the hosts. It slipped often as he spoke (in excellent English and a deep, powerful voice) and the men constantly arranged and rearranged the shawl about him, the pout pronounced as they did it, but he never once noticed the fuss. He said he wouldn’t speak very long; but His Majesty is human and there were hundreds of thousands of happy people before him, so time he forgot.