Revenge of the Chandalas
Page 1
About the Author
Sandeep Nayyar is a Mechanical Engineer by discipline, an IT expert by profession and a creative writer by choice. Born in Raipur, the capital of Chhattisgarh state in Central India on August 20, 1969, he is a British citizen.
Sandeep has had a great flair for writing since an early age. After doing his B.E. with honors, Sandeep was a working journalist for a couple of years. Wrote a weekly column for Saptahik Hindustan, a literary weekly published by The Hindustan Times group.
Came back to his professional fold of Mechanical Engineering in 1991 and worked with Reliance Industries. Migrated to the United Kingdom on a job assignment and finally settled there in 2000. Keeps regularly writing for literary portals and magazines.
Sandeep also manages a website sahind.com which provides a platform for ecosystem of people engaged in the writing occupations.
Sandeep’s literary works have received immense praises and critical acclaims from readers and critics alike.
Published By
Redgrab books Pvt. Ltd.
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First published by Redgrab Books in 2019
Copyright © 2019 Redgrab Books Pvt. Ltd.
Copyright Text © 2019 Sandeep Nayyar
Cover Design & Typesetting by Redgrab Books team
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, and including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
The post-Vedic era is the period marked by momentous changes in the history of India. This is the period when the glorious Aryan civilization struggled through the darkness ensued from the great Mahabharat war. The egalitarian Vedic society gave way to a rigid hierarchal social order. The permissive Vedic religion developed into Brahmanical orthodoxy. The states battled for supremacy and began to display imperial ambitions. Inequity and perfidy crept through society.
Amidst this decadence re-emerged the olden Shramanic philosophy of the Panis that taught amity, austerity, propriety and non-violence.
The greater Kosala (North Kosala and South Kosala) pivoted these epoch-making moments. It beheld the interplay of two contrasting ideas which gave rise to a brilliant culture that dominated the lives of the people of India for centuries . 'The Chronicles of Kosala' trilogy tells fascinating tales of this tumultuous time witnessed by Kosala.
Preface
It is the post-Vedic era in the land of enigmatic India. South Kosala is a mighty kingdom in central India (present day Chhattisgarh and western Odisha). South Kosala, the birthplace of Kausalya, daughter of emperor Bhanumant and mother of lord Rama, is ruled by the Yaduvanshis. Its splendour and glory invite envy from several kings across the Bharatvarsh.
The arch-rivals of the Yaduvanshis and the former rulers of South Kosala, the Raghuvanshis of North Kosala, are resolute to settle their score with the Yaduvanshis and to reconquer the state. They understand that in the tryst with their militia, the Yaduvanshis are overlooking and losing their social and ethical values. With tact and shrewdness, they make it worse for the Yaduvanshis by sprouting corruption throuhgout their society. They pay handsome bribes to senior administrators of South Kosala to promote impropriety in their system. They drive their youth to get accustomed to regular prostitution, drugs and gambling.
The Raghuvanshis don't just stop there. They also incite neighbouring Nishada tribes to carry out guerrilla attacks on South Kosala. They also ignite the fury of outcast and untouchable Chandalas of the kingdom to force a violent uprising against their ruler.
The infuriated Chandalas, equipped with a lethal chemical weapon, unleash a marauding attack on Sripur, the capital of South Kosala. Mayhem ensues. The chaos begins to lead to a catastrophe.
What eventually happens in this cataclysmic clash between the oppressed and the oppressor? Does the cold war between the two rival states culminate in a 'battle royal'? Do the Raghuvanshis and the Nishadas also enter the fray? Do the Raghuvanshis succeed to repossess South Kosala? Do the Chandalas attain a historic success in overthrowing the oppressive regime and changing the very fabric of the society?
Doesn't this fascinating fictional tale set in an ancient time bear many resemblances to the realities of our modern world? Doesn't it draw many parallels with our present state of affairs? Does the revenge of the Chandalas have any significance in today's political atmosphere? I leave these questions to the readers. Revenge of the Chandalas, book one of 'The Chronicles of Kosala' trilogy, will not only keep the readers rivetted and engrossed until the last page but will also leave them pondering on the current socio-political predicaments of our society by the end of the novel, and may also provide some insights into their solutions.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 1
Frustrated once again with another failure in her spiritual pursuit, Shatvari opened her eyes gradually. Coming back from her trance she instantly locked her gaze with a jackal who was sitting outside the circle made of human bones wedged in the ground. On that no-moon night the jackal's eyes were two bright embers flared up like the burning pyres in the crematorium. Shatvari looked deep into those amber eyes as if looking at a reflection of the fury that was smouldering inside her. In the deep realms of middle-aged Shatvari this fury still hummed as strong as ever , ignited long ago by the lusty seekers of her youth and beauty. Shatvari was of an average height and had a strong constitution. Even in her middle adulthood, she did not carry an extra inch of fat on her toned belly. She had a slightly wheatish complexion that had got a little mellowed with time from the blazing, golden hue she carried when she was young. Her face, which glowed with the aura of a full moon in her youth had also lost some of its vibrancy. Bright lavish eyes gave way to a pair of jaded orbs. A brooding sadness lurked in them.
Shatvari was looking deep into the eyes of the jackal, delving deep to rescue a drop of hope. It was well past midnight. A nimble-footed young man of about twenty walked up to her. The young man of slim build and average height had a simple personality. He could have looked attractive had he been well fed and groomed. An animal skin was draped around his thin waist. He had tied a worn-out piece of cloth to cover the upper part of his body.
Shatvari looked sharply at the young man. 'Seems like another futile day,' she thought obse
rving the disappointment writ large all over his face.
Fiercely probing his eyes, she asked, “Did you find out anything about the Yantra?”
He simply shook his head and lowered his eyes, bowing down.
“Do you have the faintest of idea how important it is for us to find that Yantra?” Shatvari's voice turned a bit harsh.
“Yes, I know that the Yantra can help you attain extraordinary powers,” replied the young man mustering all the courage to raise his head to face her.
“The word extraordinary pales in comparison to what that Yantra can enable me to attain. Its miraculous powers are beyond human perception. It can empower us to avenge all the miseries heaped upon us by the wily coterie of priests, men of riches and the ruling class.”
The young man remained silent, but a little agitated. He clenched his fists to express his resolve to fight the wily coterie, which according to his mother, had driven them to this sordid state.
Shatvari closed her eyes and tried to calm down. She remained silent for a few minutes. After regaining her composure, she looked at him affectionately. She spotted that he had a small bundle of cloth tightly cupped under his left armpit.
“What are you holding there?” asked Shatvari looking at the bundle.
The young man showed her a neatly folded sheet of raw silk and a blanket.
“Where have you brought them from?” she asked again, sternly.
“These were taken from a dead body before putting it on the pyre,” the youngling meekly replied.
With her misty eyes she softly averred, “No, my son! You should not have even touched these clothes.”
“But, Maa! All Chandalas and Doms do it.”
“You are not a Chandala!” screamed Shatvari almost without intention.
“What do you mean? My father was not a Chandala?” the so far calm voice of the young man rose in rage.
“No, neither was he a Chandala, nor I an untouchable outcaste.”
The young man stood puzzled. His eyes widened with surprise.
“So how come I became who I am today? Why was I expelled from the society to live here among the dead bodies? What was my sin?”
“You did nothing wrong. Your only fault was that you took birth from my womb - an unfortunate Brahmin woman,” said Shatvari with moist eyes.
The young man also felt the emotions of her mother's words. His eyes narrowed down.
“What is it that you have been hiding all along? Please tell me if you are a Brahmin, then why have we been living here in this crematorium among the untouchables? What happened?”
“Do you have the courage to hear the anguish of a Brahmin woman who was forced to relinquish her family to seek refuge amongst the Chandalas? Do you have the heart to hear out the gruesome tale of your mother's life?”
“If you can muster courage to recall it, I will hold my breath to hear it out,” replied the young man trying to hold tears within his eyes.
Shatvari gathered herself to untie the knots of an old tale, which even though was always on the periphery of her conscience was never allowed to come to her lips.
Chapter 2
Neel stooped down to greet and to feel the pure silken water of Narmada; revered as the only virgin river in India. Using both his palms, he drew a handful of water to soothe his parched lips. In the calm water of the Narmdakund, he could clearly see a reflection of himself. An unkempt and tired-looking sullen face, tresses of overgrown hair tangled loosely on the shoulders, lines of stress drawn on the forehead and estranged eyes looking blank and nervous. A spate of unfortunate events over the past year had transformed this tall and handsome twenty-one-year old youth who could mesmerise any Mekal girl with no effort, into a distrait man, unaware of the impact of the stress and anxiety that his attractive persona had covered up. It affected the gleam of his eyes, peeling the charm from his face and taking away the spring from his strides.
Bringing his palms closer to his lips, he took a sip, feeling the soothing effect of the cold water in his lungs. A current of freshness ran through his body. The fresh cold water did not just quench his thirst, but also helped to calm his raging nerves. Getting back on his feet, he again bowed to pay his thanks to Narmada. Looking at the serene stillness of the water, he only wished if his disturbing thoughts could stay still, even if for few moments.
Neel started walking towards the east. The picturesque valley of Amarkantak was endowed with flowering shrubs of the most beautiful colours and kind. Herbs of miraculous medicinal value were blooming in abundance. Hovering over the flowers were countless butterflies, appearing as if getting a treat on every nip of nectar until the last ray of the sun fades away into the dark night sky. Soaring from within the shrubs were towering Sal trees eagerly waiting to bid good night to the sun sinking into the lap of the Vindhya. Envying the tall Sal trees, stood mango trees of average height unaware of the fact that their own fruits' sweetness was the envy of every other being. The melodious singing of birds returning to their nests was adding new tunes to the gamut of the evening.
But Neel's heart wasn't in harmony with the surreal surroundings. He restlessly glanced at the serene backdrop. Amarkantak was a major town of the tribal kingdom of Mekal, nearly as important as a state capital. He had spent all twenty-one years of his life in these mountains and the valley. Playing in the mango orchards, learning to hunt with other boys of the Nishada community and running around in the thick but familiar jungle valley, had marked the happy days of his childhood and adolescence. The flora and fauna of this valley had nourished him into a strong and shapely man. His father was the king of this tribal kingdom of Mekal and the chief of Nishada tribe. After his father's untimely demise, Neel was made to shoulder his father's responsibilities.
Ambling through the valley, Neel found himself mesmerised by the beauty of Amarkantak. On one side, Narmada moved towards the north-west, caressing the bosom of Vindhya. On the other from Sonmuda, Sone river leaped north-east to fall into the arms of the Riksh Mountains. Down in the far south spread as far as the horizon, the defiant dark forests of Dandakaranya were daring the champions and warriors of Aryavart to combat. In the southeast beyond the wild valleys, the lowlands of Mekal were kissing the borders of the great and mighty kingdom of South Kosala—the birthplace of Kausalya, daughter of emperor Bhanumant and mother of Raghukul's emperor Rama. Rama was the epitome of human dignity and a sea of compassion. One who taught the lessons of highest empathy towards one and all. He embraced Nishadas and other downtrodden communities to fight against the tyrannical rulers. His elder son Kusha had expanded the kingdom of South Kosala and established a substantial empire. The descendants of Raja Rama and Kusha had given new dimensions to the empire's opulence and might. The capital of South Kosala, Sripur had the splendour and glory that was the point of envy for several kings of the Aryavart. The same South Kosala was now under siege of Yaduvanshis. They had captured the villages of the lowland areas of Mekal. Mekal's youth were their captives; Mekal's women were their maids.
A flurry of disturbing thoughts crossed Neel's mind: How would they be treated there? Would they be demeaned to the level of animals? Would they still be alive? The thought of the plight of young girls made him tremble with alarm and determination. His fists tightened, arms strained, and a stream of perspiration flowed enormously.
Neel took a deep breath to regain his composure. He took off the white cloth wrapped around his neck and wiped the back of his neck and shoulders. Putting it back around his shoulders, he again drifted into the stream of his thoughts: Has that time arrived where loss of righteousness was presaged? Are virtues really failing in Bharatvarsh? What is happening to the Aryans nobility? Do Aryans care about anything related to the Nishadas anymore? Thanks to the dense forests and vicious valleys of Mekal that our kingdom is not under the possession of Yaduvanshis? Would Mekal too eventually meet this fate? What's my responsibility as a king? Is it not my duty to protect my populace? Is it not my utmost responsibility to free my villages and peopl
e from the clutches of Yaduvanshis? But, are we ready to face the mighty Kosala? Do we have a trained army that can stand face-to-face with Yaduvanshis in a dire battle and defeat them?
The sun had set. Calls of birds were nowhere to be heard. Moths and bees were making their humming dance around the flowering shrubs. The buzz of butterflies had taken a pause until the next morning. Glimmering fireflies flickered from far away. Neel decided to call it a day. His small strides moved westwards to take him back home.
Chapter 3
“How long will you take to get dressed Shatvari? Aditi has been waiting for you outside,” Gautami, Shatvari's mother shouted towards the room where Shatvari was busy getting dressed.
“Just the last bit of kaajal left to put on Ma.”
Shatvari pried upon her appearance in the mirror while dabbing an extra bit of kohl on her eye. She blinked a few times to let it set in. New-born youth spends more attention in beholding the beauty than embellishing it further. With a slight dash of kohl on two starry eyes set perfectly within the round full-moon face; a bright red bindi sitting right in the centre of converging eyebrows; slightly moist and tender, rosy lips; open dangling hair braided with fresh jasmine flowers; earrings of shining gold; and a pendant round the neck studded with rubies, she felt as if some vagrant clouds had descended upon two lakes in a valley of flowers.
Shatvari was barely of eighteen years; she had a wheatish complexion, average height and a slender build. Adding the final touches to her make-up, she slightly adjusted the silver chain worn round her thin waist below her navel. She smiled at herself in the mirror and ran outside.
'Oh, Aditi must have been waiting for long now. We must get going for our music lesson from Pandit Achyut Acharya. He is very punctual and expects discipline,' thought Shatvari while running out to Aditi, who was waiting in a bullock cart all set to go.