‘Language, my friend, mind your language.’ Her fingers lengthened and became blades. They went through his heart and pinioned him in the sand. ‘Let’s not forget you are the supplicant.’
‘You are an ineffectual, inefficient and disgusting crone. You botched up everything. You couldn’t even get the right person the first time but bumped off poor Kumkum Kanwar. The second time you got Kausalya in addition to my wife but they both survived your singular ineptness. You are a bloody bumbling amateur, Bhootani Mata.’
The Mata caught him by the throat and shook him till his head snapped. ‘You ingrate, do you know who I am up against?’
‘Don’t tell me you expect me to commiserate with you for your failures,’ he managed to get the words out despite his broken neck. ‘If it was not a god but a mere mortal, why would I have come to you?’
She was gone.
‘Leave her alone, you hear, leave her alone.’
* * *
When he recovered from the sunstroke, he had no way of knowing how many days had gone by. He realized that he had survived without water only because he had either been in a stupor or unconscious. Befikir was standing near him. How had the horse managed to keep alive? Had he found an oasis or a shallow water hole? He didn’t look dehydrated or exhausted. The Maharaj Kumar caught hold of the stirrup and raised himself. He unstrapped the leather bottle that Mangal made sure was always filled with water and tied to the saddle. He could only take a few sips at a time. There had obviously been a heavy sandstorm. The sand puckered north to south now instead of east to west. And a button was missing from his duglo.
That was a long time ago. Befikir was nowhere to be seen. He could not find his other shoe either now. The sun would soon go down and he would once again freeze in the chill silver light of the moon. He placed the flute against his mouth. It was hard to form a hole with lips so drawn, dry and shrunken as his. He blew air out slowly. A crystalline ‘sa’ in the lowest register. A note of such clarity, depth and weight, it seemed to still the clouds in the sky and the tiny busy creatures weaving in and out of the sands. Sa, re, ga, ma, pa, dha, ni, sa. He went through the full octave and back. Each note was a pearl in the roundness and plenitude of its sound. There is only one art on earth which echoes the perfection of God. It is music. And in music, the most perfect and complete godhood lies within each note. You cannot add to it nor can you subtract from it. It has no reason and no rationale. It is sufficient unto itself. Memories of the ragas he had learnt in childhood flowed through his fingers. He had a gruff, narrow range to his voice. Now there was nothing to stop him from journeying through the three octaves and leaving memories of his stay upon the air and sand of the desert. And the music he made and the journeys he went on were a balm and an elixir and an unguent that brought peace to his battered mind and weary soul.
When the stars came out, Mangal gathered him to his breast and kissed him time and again. And the Prince held his friend Mangal tightly in his arms and would not let go of him.
Chapter
20
Poor Malik Ayaz. He was recalled home in disgrace and disfavour. War is a risky pastime for generals, more so for them than for kings and princes. A sovereign is hardly ever dethroned because he loses a war. A general, if he is lucky, is made head of a police station or put in charge of supplies. But more often than not he is stripped of his rank and job. He may not be banished but it is wiser for him to keep a low profile and retire to his ancestral village. He loves his country dearly but his only hope lies in his successor faring much worse than him. There is then a chance that in time he may be recalled and perhaps even be asked to lead the armies once again.
The time to kick an enemy is when he is on his knees. That way he’ll be flat on his stomach and with luck, incapable of getting up again for some time. We could have gone home but someone had to be around to greet Zahir-ul-Mulk, the general appointed to put Mewar and me in our place. Zahir-ul-Mulk, I knew from my docket on him, was a circumspect man. I can’t say whether it was my engagements with Malik Ayaz which made him extra careful or he had been instructed by his king to err on the side of caution. Hubris and overconfidence, I warned myself every hour, are the fatal fallout of any victory. Which meant that Zahir-ul-Mulk and I were like two dogs chasing each other’s tails but never confronting each other.
I was much clearer now about the strategies I wanted to pursue and the kind of war I wanted to fight than when I had started the campaign. Unless we were left with absolutely no alternative, we would call the shots and if possible, never engage in a head-on battle. In the meantime we practise. I am not a popular commander but the men are beginning to trust me. They are puzzled about why their daily workout is speed-riding and attacking in flight as if they had lost a battle and were fleeing for their lives. We time the operation daily. The idea is to get them to ride in formation but faster and faster. In our training sessions, the putative ratio is invariably in favour of the enemy. A group of five hundred Mewar soldiers must take on a thousand and five hundred to two thousand enemy troops. The next step is to conduct the exercises at night. Rao Viramdev, Shafi Khan and the rest of the leaders are getting used to my weird ways but I can still detect a strong undercurrent of resentment because I have removed gallantry and valour from warfare.
While we prepare for war with Gujarat once again, I ponder over the war that I am so ill-equipped to fight on the home front. My brother Vikramaditya is out of prison without so much as a rigged trial. How, I ask myself, how is it possible that Father, whose thoughts are straight as an Ashoka tree and can pierce the lush and snarled undergrowth of his courtiers’ machinations, cannot, or rather will not, see the threat to the throne and the precedent he is setting for my other brothers and – why am I being coy – me, in letting Vikramaditya go scot-free?
Is this what love for a woman amounts to? Rani Karmavati is not to blame. It is her foolish, uxorious husband who does not merely jump when his wife says jump but smiles ingratiatingly and asks how high. Can you imagine a greater travesty of justice than appointing the highest offender of the law its keeper? The security and policing of Chittor are in the hands of Vikramaditya. The word is that every petty havaldar, sub-inspector and police inspector, licensing clerk and petty official has to be bribed before he’ll do his duty.
And now to the one question that has been uppermost in my mind. What about me? Yes, you heard me right, all you stars and the sun and the moon, and the leaves on trees, and the restless waves on the far-off sea and the sand and the birds and beasts and all the creatures of the earth, what about me, the heir apparent, the next in line, the would-be-king whose chances grow dimmer by the minute? There’s no one in Chittor who will hold a brief for me or promote my cause vigorously. There’s my mother, the Maharani who means well and Father is fond of her in the same way that he likes his dogs and pets. She would not know how to broach the subject of her eldest son and if she did, Father will look quizzically at her and point out that she must be more watchful for she has just dropped a stitch in the nine hundred and seventy-seventh sweater she is knitting for him. Then there’s my wife. She was Father’s favourite daughter-in-law. If there’s one person who could have stood her ground against Queen Karmavati and got Father to consider a point of view at variance with that of his favourite queen, it was my wife. She’s Rao Viramdev’s niece which fact alone carries not a little weight; she is also self-possessed, has dignity, intelligence and beauty, all of which earned her a rather special place in Father’s heart when she first came to Chittor. But it would not occur to her to stay in Father’s orbit, cultivate him and insinuate herself into his inner circle. Unfortunately, now, she herself needs something akin to a miracle to reinstate her in Father’s good books. Her star, I suspect, has not just plummeted but has, as a matter of fact, dragged me down with it. She has disgraced Mewar and brought dishonour to it as no other princess of the realm has.
There is, of course, one other factor which must certainly weigh heavily against her. She has no
t delivered herself of a son who will ensure the line of succession. Sadly enough, she has not even proven that she is capable of childbearing.
That leaves but one person in Chittor who could plead my case: the Queen Mother. I believe she would speak up for me but my childless state compared with the prolific output of my brothers and their several wives makes her wonder whether I am man enough. She has good reason to doubt my manhood. After all, I have proved incapable of keeping my wife under control. But even if she set aside her reservations and pushed my claims energetically, I suspect it wouldn’t get me very far. Father respects her but she is no match for Vikramaditya’s mother, Queen Karmavati.
* * *
The war with Gujarat is a boon. I may brood but I must work at least sixteen hours a day. I am sure I am not inventing guerilla warfare but I am certainly the first among Rajputs to reinvent the sudden swoop, the savage attack on the flanks, the terrorizing of isolated units, the lightning rearguard action and the just as swift disappearance. The idea, of course, is to avoid a face-to-face confrontation while snapping at the enemy’s flesh, sowing chaos and confusion in his ranks, making him tense and nervous by never relaxing the pressure. In short, to play with him tactically, militarily and psychologically while covering one’s tracks till he becomes a physical and nervous wreck.
My friend, guide and chief of planning is Raja Puraji Kika. He and his people may call it by some other name but as mountain people, they cut their teeth on guerilla tactics.
Puraji Kika and I have divided our army of twenty-five thousand men (I’ve sent the rest home) into ten units of two thousand and five hundred each. Each encampment is self-sufficient with its own courier service, stables and other amenities. The distance between any two camps is two or three miles. If there’s an emergency or a sudden enemy attack, a dispatch rider can cover the distance within ten minutes on the outside. We change locations frequently, never more than a fortnight at any one place. Of course, this will not prevent Zahir-ul-Mulk from attacking us. But the risk of an attack has been reduced by a factor of ten. We are not just an extremely mobile army, for the time being, we are ten commando units acting with one mind.
Raja Puraji Kika couldn’t have wished for better students than Tej, Shafi Khan and me. We were eager learners and theory was almost immediately translated into action and tested. The general belief is that the essence of guerilla warfare is speed and the detour. Puraji Kika told us it is nothing of the sort. Speed and diversionary tactics are absolutely essential but the key to this kind of engagement is your state of mind and your willingness to run. ‘You’ve gone to great lengths to avoid the enemy, and now, at a place and time of your choosing, you are all set to inflict a serious injury upon him and then vanish like mist in the sunlight. The problem invariably arises because after all that trouble and the psychological pressure, you feel you owe it to yourself and your troops to keep an appointment with destiny and attack even if you have a gut feeling that something’s amiss. The slightest suspicion that you are being set up and you must have the courage to put your tail between your legs and run.’
Our tactics drove Zahir-ul-Mulk to desperation. He needed to show results, to engage our forces in a decisive battle. He came chasing us only to find that we had moved and were very likely visiting his camp or attacking the tail end of his forces. We were everywhere and yet never to be located.
Our soldiers had begun to get the hang of what Puraji Kika and I were up to, and to enjoy the sense of power and control this low-key style of fighting gave them. They enjoyed the frustration and helplessness of the Gujarat troops who did not know how to hit back at a moving target. They learnt stealth and stillness. They could sit for hours without stirring or exchanging a word. They got used to eating their meals on horseback and trained their horses to hold their neighing and to stand without moving. In time, they might even discover bravery and pride in these clandestine encounters.
It was on the day that Rao Viramdev decided to observe our quicksilver charges that we got mail from Chittor. All of it routine except for one letter in Leelawati’s hand. I had begun to think of her letters as harbingers of bad or, worse news, the usual case of confusing the messenger with the debacle. What rotten news did Kausalya have for me this time?
Jai Eklingji
To His Highness, the Maharaj Kumar,
About a year ago Sunheria, the washerwoman, asked me to look after the two villages you had gifted her for a fee since she does not have experience in property matters. I told her that I had too much on my hands as it is but I would teach her the basics of poultry farming along with tax collection and accounting so that she need not be dependent on anyone. She spent four hours with me every alternate Monday. A month ago she did not turn up on two consecutive Mondays; nor did she send anyone to explain her absence. This was unlike her. She is keen to be her own woman and is always on time. I went over to her place but she refused to come out. I spoke to her husband. He was hostile and evasive and wanted to know what my relationship with her was. I explained to him that I was the new inspector for laundry and had come in the context of two of the Queen Mother’s gold brocade ghagras which were missing. He went on a long tirade about never having been accused of theft in all the seventy years that he had worked for the kings of Mewar. I said I was not accusing him of anything. Besides while he may be innocent, what about his wife? That perked him up. He called her a string of names and vouched that she was a harlot and a thief and begged me to charge her as he had evidence that would lock her up for several lifetimes. His manner and mood changed and he became voluble. After half an hour I cut him short and told him that I would have to interrogate his wife alone. No need, he said, I have not only questioned her but administered severe corporal punishment. That, I told him, was unfortunate since only His Majesty and the courts have the authority to punish and I would have no choice but to report the matter. He was frothing at the mouth by now and rubbing his forehead on my feet pleading with me to ignore his indiscretion. He promised that he would never touch his wife again. I asked him to leave me alone with his wife which he reluctantly did after telling me not to spare her or believe her tales.
I was expecting the worst but I must confess that I was not prepared for the sight that met me. There were wide-open gashes on Sunheria’s skull and her body had been worked over with a belt till there was hardly any skin left on it. I put her in my palanquin and brought her home. I got the Raj Vaidya to examine her. Sunheria never did tell me why her husband had beaten her almost to death but my enquiries revealed that the old man had found out about the gift of land and wanted to know who it came from.
Sunheria is a strong woman and recovered rapidly. Yesterday morning while I was preparing a meal for the Princess, she left the palace without informing me. It appears that she went home to collect her belongings and tell her husband she was leaving him. The neighbours saw him screaming and attacking her with the wooden stick they use to beat clothes with. He beat her till she fell unconscious. When she came to, she picked up the clothes beater, told him that it was the last time he would raise his hand against her and smashed his head.
She has been charged with murder, and is currently in the Chittor jail. She is in a state of shock and severely depressed. I will visit her daily and let you know her condition as well as the progress of the case which will come up for hearing within the next fortnight.
I am sure everything will work out well.
Regards and blessings.
Kausalya.
P.S. I went and saw her again tonight and took some food for her.
So much for good intentions. Why had I not summoned Sunheria’s husband, clapped him on the back and had a man-to-man chat with him? ‘I say, thank you so much for lending me your wife over the years. Been a real pleasure knowing her, not to mention you, of course. I was thinking of giving her a little something, don’t get me wrong, not for services rendered or anything of the sort. Just as a small token of appreciation and for a rainy day. After all, you
could kick the bucket any day now. So I thought before someone else fancies her, I should…’
Was it prescience or had Sunheria been merely improvising to get my attention when she last spoke to me? Neither, I guess. The writing was on the wall, I just didn’t want to see it. Breast-beating wasn’t going to help. I wrote her a letter care of Kausalya. Leelawati would have to read it to her.
My letter was brief.
Dear Sunheria.
I’m going to prove you wrong. I’m going to see you. Soon. Very soon.
I am making arrangements for extra funds for you. Kausalya will help you. You will be out of jail in no time. Don’t you forget that you are innocent and hence the law is on your side. Have courage.
I put my royal seal on the letter and was about to call the courier. There must be something perverse in me. I’m always waking people up, pulling them out of bed, arranging exercises at one in the morning, force-marching them sixteen hours at a time, disciplining them, all in the name of being prepared for some unexpected contingency. For once I wouldn’t have to wake up the courier. He seemed to have got together a gang of boisterous companions. They were trampling down and tearing our tents. I knew then that Puraji Kika’s and my worst nightmare had come true.
Since I prefer to be overcautious, each camp had twice the regular number of sentries, plus seven commanders, to supervise vigilance duties each day of the week. It was the turn of Rao Raimul and his men tonight. As luck would have it, Rao Viramdev and the rest of the leaders had come to brief me about the last raid. It was late when we were finished and as the fortnightly War Council meeting was scheduled for the next morning, I had asked them to spend the night in my camp. Not bad really: every single senior leader including the Rao of Idar, was present in my camp. The only one missing from our midst was Rawal Udai Simha. Rao Raimul and his men must have gone off-duty or something of the sort. And that’s the day Zahir-ul-Mulk decides to visit us. A few too many coincidences here. The Gujarat spies had not only kept a close watch on this camp, they must have tailed the Rajput leaders of all the other units as well. Zahir-ul-Mulk was no fool. He had realized that the only way to retaliate against an enemy who is playing hide-and-seek, is to learn his game and turn it upon him. I sat there paralyzed. How many of our soldiers were already dead? It was a matter of a few minutes before the Gujarat forces made for the tents of the leaders. Tej, Shafi, Raja Puraji Kika, Rao Viramdev, there were no men on the face of the earth who were dearer and more valuable to me than them. And yet I would not move. I had misplaced a thought, it was an important one and I had no idea what it was.
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