‘It appears nobody else in our kingdom can either. They ask that you be stripped of your rank and titles and imprisoned for life.’
‘You are the regent of none other than Lord Eklingji himself, the Maharana of Mewar by divine ordinance. What other opinion can prevail when you are the paramount power in the kingdom?’
‘That is unquestionably so, my son. But the key to sovereignty lies in never bringing a critical issue to a head. Put it to the test and you may discover that economics, cultural factors, unforeseen circumstances like droughts, floods and famines, the obedient or indifferent masses, not to mention the vassals, nobility, middlemen and traders, priests and the landed gentry, may tip the balance against you, perchance topple you. The idea is to go with the flow. You may generate the undercurrents, occasionally even swim against the tide, so long as you maintain the formal proprieties.’
What finely reasoned words and how politic. His contention that the court and the populace were clamouring for my imprisonment was clearly far-fetched and for ulterior motives. (I may be powerless and prone but Kausalya, Mangal and my newly discovered counsellor, my wife, have their networks which are far more sensitive to public opinion than Father’s inner circle of sycophants, and they would have warned me.) But even if I were to grant the point for the purposes of academic discussion, would Father have the courage and candour to admit that the direction of the tide was generated by Queen Karmavati and her beloved son, my brother Vikramaditya?
‘On what charges would they arraign me?’
‘Conspiracy and treason against the crown. Affronting the dignity of the court. Egregious and criminal defiance of the most revered traditions of Rajput honour and valour. Inciting subordinate officers and the soldiery from our armies to set up a parallel centre of power. The list goes on.’
‘In that case His Majesty must forthwith start proceedings against the accused in the highest court of law in the country.’
‘Do not presume,’ His Majesty did not raise his voice, ‘to advise me about how to conduct the business of the state, Prince.’
Why were this man and I at cross-purposes? Even as he snubbed me, I respected his magnificent imperiousness and his sense of the dignity of his office. Openness or the heart-to-heart chat are alien to Father’s nature. They are to me too. On the other hand, I could take a calculated risk, and throw myself at his mercy. But I had no intention of falling into the trap Father was so carefully setting up for me. He works out his strategy before any encounter and would surely have considered the possibility of my trying to throw him off guard. Having told me to shut up, he would have to make the next move. That dead eye of his watched me fixedly. Perhaps he would never again talk to me. Perhaps he would leave. Then I saw him do something he reserves for the rarest occasions. It is one of the most disconcerting and effective ploys in his arsenal. He shoved his index finger thoughtfully into the socket of his dead eye and foraged around inside. I sought to keep an impassive face. I think I didn’t do too badly but I might as well have screamed or ranted. He savoured the effect he was having on me. He understood that I was willing to tear and gouge out my own eyes just so I could stop his exploration.
‘I have a document with me. Sign it and there’ll be no more talk of treason, dishonour or whatever from anybody. All your offices will be restored to you. You’ll be back in the War Council and you’ll be guiding all those projects that are important to the welfare and security of the country.’
‘May I see the paper, Father?’
‘Of course. Have I not always told you never to sign anything unless you’ve read it?’
He handed me the paper. It said that I would relinquish the title Maharaj Kumar and all claims to the crown.
‘Trust me, son. It’s a mere formality. People have short memories. In time they’ll forget all the fuss and we can tear up the paper.’
It was odd. I was sorely tempted. He was using all the phony words, the kind that come with ‘Danger’ written all over them. And yet I believed him.
‘Would you have signed it, if Grandfather had asked you to withdraw from the field in favour of your brothers, Uncle Prithviraj and Uncle Jaimal?’
‘It’s a temporary measure, a mere sop. You have my word.’
‘Will you sign a document with words to that effect?’
‘Don’t be insolent.’
‘Frankly, even if you did, I would not put my signature on the paper.’
His voice was low but the threat of retribution was in his good eye. ‘This is your last chance, son.’
I thought he would strike me or run his sword through me. He sighed and then rose. He stood with his eyes closed. What a long night it was. Was it also my last night of freedom? His shoulders slumped and he looked old. He walked to the door and opened it. His guards came to attention. He walked back to me. ‘What will be, will be.’ He touched my forehead. ‘Is it true that you were wounded badly seven times on the front and forbade Rao Viramdev from writing to me about it?’
‘Minor nicks and cuts, Your Majesty.’
‘Now you even lie to your father.’
‘When have you ever spoken about your wounds?’
‘You are a prophet who’s come before his time. An early bird waking up people just a little after the hour of midnight.’
Chapter
24
It was a morning of sullen and lucid beauty. The Gambhiree was a festering gold rupture in the plains below Chittor. Someone had plucked the sunflower in the sky and torn off the petals and smashed the glowering bulb at the centre. The light was angry pollen scattered from horizon to horizon. It was in a state of constant flux but refused to rise or descend. Soon I would be covered in a patina of yellow dust. It would enter my lungs, burnish them and fill up the holes in my bronchi till all the air had been forced out and I would stand petrified forever in gold in honour of my ancestor, the Sun-god. Gangs of peacocks were out, celebrating the sudden break in the monsoons, fanning out their one-eyed feathers in shimmering waves. The peahens with their acrid scent of sex flew for short bursts and cawed mercilessly while pretending indifference to the frenzied attentions of their future mates.
It had looked as if the rains would never come. The granaries were half empty and the Gambhiree was a cracked bed of stones, pebbles, rusting coins and other detritus of life, an abandoned and shrunken skeleton with the occasional puddle and a ragged trickle of water. They had already started rationing the water and food in the fort. Two and a half months after everybody had given up on the rains, the sky was tarred over, the Sun-god was shut out, the moon and the stars banished and a final darkness closed in on the earth. There was no air to breathe, the birds disappeared and babies choked silently. No rain. The displeasure of the gods with Mewar was obvious. There was only one remedy. Appeasement. A propitious day was chosen by the priests to conduct a mahayagnya for mercy and rains. It took a week of frantic preparations. When the wood, ghee, milk, coconuts, turmeric powder, camphor and kumkum were in place and the fires about to be lit and the darkness lifted, it started to rain. It continued for a month and a half. What were the gods trying to tell us?
It was a beautiful morning if you could hold your breath, or better still, never breathe again for Chittor was in the grip of cholera and the stench of death, debris and excreta was unbearable. I had been in exile in my own home for over seven months. Father was right, people have short memories. I was not ignored, I was forgotten. I’m not quite sure which is more insulting. Those who could afford to, have left Chittor, among them His Majesty, Queen Karmavati and Vikramaditya and most of the court. In a sense I have the run of the capital once again.
The roads are slush, a wild and exuberant mix of rainwater and shit that races along open gutters, clogs them and leaps out with abandon. Nothing new, this. In the summer, the heat cakes and disinfects everything instantly. In the winter, lips chap, the skin cracks and the drainage and sewage waters dry up. In the rains, mud, earth, water and faeces are one gurgling, churning mess. And ye
t seventeen monsoons have gone by, albeit there were two years of drought, without the visitation of cholera. Why do epidemics occur in some years and not in others? Where do they come from and why do they vanish after they’ve killed half, sometimes three-fourths of the populace? Three thousand seven hundred and eighteen dead so far. How many more to go before the cholera dies out?
All night long there were cries and screams and moans. It was Vikramaditya’s parting gift to me: the cholera, the rumour went, was retribution for what I had done to the Gujarati soldiers in an early dawn attack. The story took hold. The people of Chittor had found their scapegoat. The hostility that Father had spoken of had come to pass. At first they went inside and banged the doors shut if I rode down a street. On two occasions they attacked me. The first time I defended myself with my sword till Mangal joined me and beat them back. The next time, I got off Befikir. Mangal was aghast and told me to get back into saddle, ride home and send reinforcements while he took care of the mob. It had been barely six or seven men when I was spotted. There were at least twenty-five now, a murmuring, maleficent lot waiting for someone to make the first move. ‘Only blood will quench the thirst of blood,’ a short man shouted and drew his sword. A boy of twelve threw a stone which hit me in the chest. They were milling around me now. A treasonous and criminal act needs to gather momentum before it can be executed. Mangal’s sword was about to come down on the man closest to him to divert attention when I raised my hand. He stopped but did not sheathe the sword.
‘Kill me,’ I said, ‘kill me now if it will rid Chittor of cholera. You will do the country a great favour.’
They waited. They had not expected me to be a party to their decision. A white-haired woman with at least fifteen of her thirty-two teeth missing came forward and spoke up.
‘Just because there are fifty fools here who are willing to believe any nonsense they are told, it does not mean that you have to follow their example and make an ass of yourself, Your Highness. With your permission, Highness, I want to ask these gentlemen gathered here one question,’ the old woman wasn’t finished with my would-be assailants or me. ‘They are obviously wiser than you are, Maharaj Kumar, so you’ll forgive me if I ask them and not you. How should we deal with an enemy? Should we breast-feed the vipers so that they can bury their poisonous fangs in our flesh and wipe us out? I was a wife once who lost her husband. I was a mother who lost her nine sons. I was a grandmother who lost seventeen grandsons, all of them in wars. I had one great-grandson left. When he marched to Gujarat with you, I thought now I’m truly orphaned. But you brought him back, Highness. You got back Idar and you avenged the deaths of three thousand soldiers and Rajendra Simha. Now, if that is not honourable, will these fine gentlemen tell me what is? As for you Maharaj Kumar,’ it was my turn to get a dressing down, ‘the trouble with you is that you are tough abroad and soft on the people at home. Don’t take shelter behind your shyness. In your position, it is no virtue. Get yourself a trumpet and blow it. Where have all the charans and poets who sing of the exploits of heroes gone? If someone’s silenced them for their own ends, a little greasing of the palms will unloosen their tongues.’ She smiled slyly, and toothlessly. ‘How about hiring Joharibai, that’s me?’ There was a pregnant pause here. ‘As of today?’ She was a terrific actress with a pungent turn of phrase and was obviously enjoying herself. The audience loved her and burst out laughing.
She laid her forehead on my feet. As I picked her up she looked around at the crowd that was at least four times the earlier group. ‘Now bend your head, Maharaj Kumar, so that an old, old crone, so old as a matter of fact that I may just decide never to die, can bless you.’ She took my face in her hands. Her palms felt like crumpled paper that was about to disintegrate. ‘God bless you, Your Highness.’
The Gambhiree is downgrading its currency from gold to silver as the sun ascends and gets a tighter grip on the day. Will the respite from the rains last? There are few sights as beautiful as the Gambhiree in spate. There’s a violence to her that is both terrifying and exhilarating. She’s untamed, out of control and lethal. The monsoons are her favourite season. It’s easy to see why, the engorged sky bruising and bloodying her, spilling its sperm into her. But enough is enough. If only it will stop raining for a week or ten days, the earth may dry and perhaps the cholera ease a bit.
It’s always the same. The first two days the men, women and grown-up children make it to the toilet outside. Thirty, forty times. They spurt and squirt like a fist of fury. They pour out everything they’ve got, bewildered by the discovery of this raging and writhing python they had thought of as their stomach and intestines. For a couple more days they’ll crawl out of the house to defecate. After that they can’t move and their shit is thinner than pee. They lie in a stupor of exhaustion, mouths dry and open, the unseeing eyes scanning the ceiling with this thin ribbon of diarrhoea, their only sign of life. Their breathing gets so attenuated, the cart drivers have loaded still-living bodies on four or five occasions.
Following the carts are the scavenger birds. Why did the gods make vultures and their ilk – take hyenas – so grotesquely ugly and repugnant? Is it because they live off death? There is, however, one exception. Have you observed a crow? It is sharp and sly and its black coat is shining and slick. You may not like it but it’s a compact hustler, a bird of the world. The vulture now is an altogether different story. Difficult to find a more bedraggled, seedy and uncouth creature. Nothing arouses it except the sight of food. Then too it gets up grudgingly and eats with an expression of extreme distaste. It must be hard work to consume against its will. But this is one task it will not shirk. Even with a full and bursting belly, it continues to work its way through whatever carrion there is, never mind if it takes another hour or a full day.
The sun is on the run again. Dirty, smudged clouds the colour of ash are blowing in from the east and a slow, warm and sticky rain has begun to fall. The raindrops are bloated leeches reluctant to move. They cling to the skin and when they are pulled off forcibly, they leave behind a powdery charcoal film. This is not a rain that washes you clean. It fogs your mind and leaves you feeling soiled.
The peahens must have grown weary of play-acting or they’ve realized that if they play demure any longer, the cocks will walk away and they’ll have to wait till next year to have a good time. Suddenly there’s a flurry of activity. The petulance, shyness, mincing and don’t-touch-me are forsaken for an instant and the males are all over, atop their partners. I watch their frantic goings-on from the window of the palace. Do they not know the gravity of the occasion? Do they not see death stalking the land?
‘Lakshman Simhaji sends you his greetings. Would you do him the favour of going to his office immediately?’ the servant’s voice was apologetic.
The peacocks had an expression of smug and brimming fulfillment as they rested deep inside their womenfolk. I turned back from the window and followed the man to the Defence Minister’s office.
‘I want you and the Princess to leave Chittor immediately,’ Lakshman Simhaji came straight to the point.
‘On what grounds, Uncle?’
‘On what grounds?’ He was puzzled and a little irritated by my question. ‘Isn’t that obvious? Your lives are at risk, that’s why.’
‘From whom?’
‘What’s come over you, Maharaj Kumar? I always thought of you as one of our most sensible young men who would never put his or anybody else’s life in unnecessary danger.’ I still didn’t get his drift. ‘From the cholera, what else?’ He saw the look of relief on my face and laughed. ‘What did you think?’
‘I don’t know what to think anymore, Uncle.’
‘You’ve begun to see red everywhere which is not unreasonable, considering ...’ He didn’t finish the sentence. ‘Somebody else in your position would most likely have done something thoughtless and wild. Now, is it settled that you and your wife will leave tomorrow morning?’
‘I cannot vouch for my wife, you’ll have to talk to her
and see what she has to say. But I have work here.’
‘If you don’t go, you know very well the Princess won’t go either.’
‘She may not go even if I do which I have no intention of doing. She has commitments here.’
‘There’s no work here that the health officers cannot manage.’
‘Which health officers, Uncle? We don’t even have a secretariat of health, let alone a ministry. The five officers appointed were transferred from the ministries of revenue and agriculture. They are not trained or motivated and have neither enough powers nor money.’
‘That’s not true. I’ve blocked off five percent of this year’s defence budget to combat this epidemic.’
‘I’m not finished yet, Uncle. Two of the officers are dead.’
‘That’s precisely it. I cannot in all conscience permit the same fate to overtake the heir apparent. It took me three weeks to persuade His Majesty to leave Chittor. I’m not going to spend another three weeks trying to cajole you into leaving.’ He was out of breath and those soft baby jowls on his face were in a tizzy with anger.
‘I do not underestimate your concern for our well-being. I’m grateful to you for having forced Father to go away. Had I been His Majesty’s only son, I would have considered it my duty to preserve my life and secure the future of Mewar. But the line of succession has, in the event of my demise, six princes of the blood. Someone from the royal family must be in Chittor if our people are not to feel abandoned and lose morale and heart altogether.’
‘I am of the royal family,’ his voice was a dangerous rumble. He had drawn himself up straight and was in full possession of his dignity.
‘So you are, Uncle. If the capital is still running, it is because of your presence and leadership. But I am the son of His Majesty, for better or worse, the eldest one and I would like to stay with our people. And if you’ll permit me, to work under you.’ Lest I compromise his relationship with Father, I immediately added, ‘Only in an unofficial capacity.’
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