August

 

The Benzini Brothers was the best circus in town. Everybody knew that. Their acts were unmatched; their reputation, renowned.And never were they more renowned, than when August was their ringmaster.

 

Oh, to watch August in his ring. How the crowds loved him. How they cheered. He would come trooping in when the music reached its crescendo, resplendent in his red coat, top hat and boots…magnificent was an understatement.

 

Every minute that August held the ring, he held the crowd. When he raised his hand, he raised the collective consciousness of the people. His hands flowed, his eyes danced, and his voice…

Many pages may be devoted to August’s voice. It was said that he could make the clowns weep and send the lions scurrying for their mothers merely with the sound of his voice.

 

I was enthralled by August. Every night that they were in town I would pester father to take me and I would always sit, eager,  in the first row, gazing at the man; taking the show in. I saw no lions, no elephants, no dancing girls, no fools; I saw August and I was thrilled every time I did.

 

August had a ritual. Every show he followed it, with religious fervour. Every show, he would stride in, and wait for a few seconds of absolute silence. He knew exactly how long to wait.

 

To Art, he would say. And the show would begin.

 

In silence, again:

 

To Beauty, he would say. And the show would end.

 

 

….

 

Of course, I grew older. And yet, over the years, I kept coming back for the show. August, too grew old. But his showmanship never left him. His majesty did not wane. He continued to enthrall and awe our children and our grandchildren just as he had enthralled us. And he never once forgot his ritual.

 

I am old now. And yet, I still think of August. I wonder about him. We meet many people in our lives. How many do we wonder about?

 

   August could have gone anywhere, been anything. He could have run for President, become a banker, and yet, he did not. And I know, that even amongst August’s own show there were those that were just as talented as he was. The Acrobats performed death defying stunts every day. The clowns had every audience in splits. And still, they were not August. I had many heated conversations about him. Many times would I argue, as to why August was…well…August. Many of these arguments were in my own head.

 

In the end, I think mother put it best;

 

 He is Beauty’s son. And he follows her and serves her with a devotion few on this world can match. He is Beauty’s son, and Beauty herself raised him. Proud? He is proud. He is proud, veering on arrogant, that he alone can see Beauty and that he alone knows how to present her. He is humble, in that he knows that he is not Beauty.

 

Behold, I send one before me so that he may prepare the way for the one to come.

 

August is the voice in the wilderness that cries out, so that the people may be drawn, and that they may see Beauty. That departing they may make their lives sublime, knowing that others have made footprints in the sands of time.

 

August, my dear child, is as in awe of Beauty as Beauty is in awe of him.

 

And why then does he start with Art?

 

Because August is also human.

 

 

 

AN: Is he the stage-builder or the star attraction? Depends on where you’re standing.