Even as the first shades of pink appeared in the east, men began to file out of their huts and, with their nimble hill men’s gait, traversed valley, dry river-bed and steep hillside, to assemble, in obedience to the Chief’s order, in his courtyard.  The Chief’s house stood on the highest hill.  The men were tense and fearful, for they did not know why they were being summoned.  This was not the time to pay taxes, and relations with neighboring villages were most cordial : the Chief had but recently returned form a triumphant tour of these lands.

When they reached the courtyard, in silence, they formed themselves in a circle and awaited the Chief.

The Chief appeared shortly after sunrise, followed by his wife and his advisers on the gallery of his two-storied house.

For a while he stood surveying the assembly of expectant faces.  Then he began.

“We have met here today on a matter which involves the prestige of the village.”

In silent inquiry the men looked at one another.

“My duty obliges me to be constantly away from the village,” he explained, perhaps needlessly.  “On my return this time, I discovered…”

He paused and looked at his wife who stood by his side with her head lowered.

“That my wife has been unfaithful to me.”  He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.

“She is with child. Not mine”

A murmur ran through the assembly.

The chief held out his arms in a mute appeal for silence.  The murmur subsided.

“I have summoned you,” he continued, “because I wish to discover my wife’s lover.”

Some in the assembly looked in the direction of a few young bucks, who through constant boasting of exploits, mostly imaginary, with certain women of the village had earned a rather disreputable name for themselves.  Some of the young men winced.

“I shall use no force.  I shall not take the help of my Council.  I shall only request.  But as for consequences, I shall act according to custom.”

Everybody knew what that meant － death by fire for the man ; a living death for the woman － social ostracization. Silence fell on the circle of men.

“I request the guilty one to present himself,” he said slowly.

No one came forward.

Then, after a few excruciating minutes, there was a stir at the back.  The circle breached, and all eyes turned to see the man who had emerged.

They held their breath then exclaimed, “The Sad One.” In disbelief, for he was the last man they expected to be the adulterer.

“Impossible,” some whispered.

He was known as the Sad One because he always kept to himself and stayed at home when not at work in the fields.  Poor, deprived of his parents at a young age, he was always morose, so much so that even on festive occasions he did not join the other young men of the village in merrymaking or in sport.  Nor did he dress well.

His only diversion was the flute, which he played with great skill.  On it he could reproduce the gurgling of a stream, the purring of the wind, the rustling of trees and even the calling of the night bird.

He strode boldly into the open and, with hands folded behind, stood in the middle of the circle, courageously meeting the stare of the Chief.

The Chief’s wife threw a quick furtive look at him, her pulse quickening rapidly as she remembered how, enchanted by the sweetness of his music, she had felt herself irresistibly drawn towards him, how the desire had grown, how she had tried to drive him away from her thoughts, and, how, finally, one night, when her husband was away, she had stolen to his hut, and though refused entry at first and scolded….

The voice, slow and proud, interrupted her reverie.  “I am your wife’s lover.”

He turned his eyes upon her and caught her stealing a sidelong look at him.  Why, he exclaimed speechlessly, why had he succumbed to her beauty, the friendship she had to offer and what he believed was her love?  But he knew he regretted in vain, for even had he wished to stop meeting her he would not have succeeded, the very thought of her was overwhelming, capable of arousing in him those delicate, indescribable, painful-pleasurable feelings which even now, as he stared at her, he felt swirl in his being.

“I admire your frankness,” the Chief said, “and your courage.”

The Sad One made no reply.

There was the silence of death all around.

Some in the assembly genuinely felt sorry for the Sad One.  Here, they thought, when at last the root is about to take the sunshine, it is to be cut.

“I leave it to you to choose the time you wish to die.”

The Chief’s wife began to sob convulsively.  How can I bear to live? she broken-heartedly whispered to herself.

The Sad One saw her plight and, even as his being melted with love and pity for her, he spoke full-throatedly:  “Now.”

The Chief was filled, momentarily, with admiration for him and pity for his wife. Thinking that perhaps the Sad One would like to exchange a few last words with his wife, and mentally prepared to permit such a meeting, the Chief asked, “Have you a last request to make?  If reasonable it shall be granted.”

“Yes, I have, one…”

The people held their breath.

“While you prepare the pyre, allow me to bring my flute.  I wish to play it one last time. Before I throw myself in the fire.”

The Chief looked at him quizzically and thought, what an eccentric person.

“Two requests really.  But they shall be granted.  You may leave now.”

Darting a swift look at her who was now bent almost double, he left the circle, and unable to untangle his feelings, hurried down the hillside to his hut. He leisurely changed into what he regarded as his best set of clothes, took his flute, and left for the cremation ground.

When he arrived there, he saw the ground full of people and the pyre ready for lighting.  He also saw that the Chief had brought his wife and when he realized that perhaps it was to torture her, anger surged through him.  But he controlled himself and called to the people.

“Light the pyre.”

When a huge orange flame rose to meet the sky, the Sad One put his flute to his lips and played a melancholy air bidding farewell to the sun and the moon.  Then, planting the flute in the ground, he leapt on the pyre.

Before the people could realize that was happening, the Chief’s wife dashed towards the pyre and flung herself on it.

The flames enveloped the lovers.

And it is said that when the fire died down, a pool of water appeared where the pyre had stood and tall bamboo trees, whose leaves grew upside-down, sprang up where the Sad One had planted his flute.

To this day, lovers go to the Lake-where-the-bamboo-grow-with-their-leaves-upside-down, to seek their hearts’ desire.

(Inspired by the current trend of re-mixes in music, this story is a re-telling/interpretation of a well-known Khasi folktale)