Cuckold

by Kiran Nagarkar

  I knew what the next question was going to be.

  ‘And the business of dog and monkey eating, is that true?’

  ‘Entirely. It’s something we learnt from a Chinese traveller who visited us some years ago. Their belief is that the meats of these animals, especially the brains of monkeys, increases aggression and virility to the power of ten. That explains why so few of us were able to take on so many of you.’

  ‘That is disgusting. A dog is a man’s best friend. For no gain on earth would I consume dog or monkey flesh. I feel like throwing up.’

  He didn’t. One thing I was certain of: when he went home to Malwa, he would order monkey brains at least once a day. The Sultan took his duties of servicing his seraglio a trifle more seriously than the care and administration of his kingdom.

  ‘I cannot begin to tell you how honoured and touched I am that the people and princes of Mewar have recalled me to their midst. My salutations to His Majesty, the Rana. My adaabs to His Majesty the Sultan of Malwa. My special greetings to His Highness, the Maharaj Kumar and His Highness, Lakshman Simhaji. Each and every one in this august assembly is special to me. I will name each one of you separately and singly when we are alone, one to one, just the two of us,’ Sajani Bai paused. What alternative did she have? She had brought down the whole house and they were never going to cease clapping. She had not lost any of her magnificence. She had the royal audience waiting on her every word, and more than her words, on her every gesture, for it is with her nazakat and nakhra that she is the equal of any king or emperor. ‘But before I sing for you, I am going to ask a favour from a very special patron of the fine arts. On behalf of all of us lovers of music, I am going to ask His Highness Raja Medini Rai to render a song for us.’

  If you think the men went berserk, then you should have heard the women. They would have put to shame the entire populace of stalwart ladies working in our red light district. Catcalls, hooting, howling, ululations, clapping. Soon they had joined hands and trooped down to where His Highness Medini Rai was sitting and formed a circle around him and danced an impromptu dandiya. The Raja raised his hands several times to quieten the audience, then gave up.

  Don’t be shy

  Medini Rai

  Don’t be shy

  Sing us a lori, hori or thumri

  Else we’ll follow you to Chanderi

  Sing us a lori, hori or thumri.

  The Raja of Chanderi smiled and the women of Chittor sighed and swooned.

  ‘There’s no point, none whatsoever, in pleading with me to sing,’ his smile grew bigger and the dimples in his cheeks were deep enough to play parallel games of gilli-danda. ‘Did you people really think that I was going to let you go without singing with Sajani Bai?’

  Listen now, cut out the weeping, nip it in the bud.

  It’s only a story, even if the people in it were real, like me and you.

  Nothing new about it, just a boy and a girl and some spilt blood.

  Listen now, cut out the weeping, nip it in the bud.

  After all, neither you nor I are Dhola or Maru, are you?

  Sajani Bai closed her eyes for the lovers Dhola and Maru and for my dead cousin, Rajendra, who had died while listening to the song. How innocently Medini Rai of Chanderi had opened wounds that had not yet had time to develop scar tissue. Sajani Bai kept us waiting and wondering, would she sing on or would she move on to another song ? Then her clear, source-of-the-Ganges voice dug into the wound and drew blood and cleansed us all.

  Death will not part them, so the song tells us with authority.

  How would you know, songster, did you die and check out your story?

  Speak not to me of the afterlife, it’s the here and now I’m interested in.

  Can you make Dhola Maru come alive, uncross the stars, change the ending?

  If not, cut out the weeping; better still, shut up and do our bidding.

  Say what you will, the story will be told, Dhola Maru may live only in the retelling.

  Sajani Bai stopped and looked around. This was not unusual. Our singers and instrumentalists, even classical ones, will interrupt a taan, a raga, bhajan or folk song to recount its history, tell an anecdote, give a comparative analysis of the way different singers or schools treat the same words, or comment and philosophize about any matter whatsoever. Instead Sajani Bai zeroed in on me.

  ‘Does not our song give you pleasure, Maharaj Kumar?’

  ‘It does, madam, but I cannot deny that it awakens painful memories.’

  ‘And you fear that some terrible catastrophe will follow as on the previous occasion? But there is no cause and effect operative here, Sire. If we consign a song to amnesia because of the burden of our own memories, then it is possible that an entire people will push a dastardly act or even the life of one of their own into the black hole of oblivion merely to seek forgetfulness and absolution.’

  ‘Do you really think one can wipe out people and events that easily?’

  ‘We rework our own memories and reinvent ourselves to suit our tastes and predilections every day. Who is to notice a hiatus in history a few centuries down the road?’

  ‘Why is it so important,’ Father spoke almost inaudibly, ‘to remember, Sajani Bai?’

  ‘Because otherwise our lives would be lies and we may never tell our children to speak the truth again.’

  ‘Will you be the remembrancer of Chittor, Sajani Bai?’

  ‘I would be honoured, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Then the truth will never be in jeopardy, at least not in Mewar.’

  A regal pronouncement, eminently suited to such a public occasion and yet even as fond hopes go, I thought His Majesty was getting a little carried away.

  Chapter

  38

  The good times had idled by. The party was over. It was time to get back to work. What next, heir apparent, question mark; husband of the Little Saint; black sheep, black cloud on horizon, source of all ills, one and only hurdle to kingship, for Queen Karmavati and Vikramaditya; friend in absentia to Raja Puraji Kika; bully and repeatedly beholden to Mangal; lover and looking desperately for Kausalya; plaything of Bhootani Mata stroke who is she stroke fate, stroke the void; indefatigable voyeur and reader of crumbs and leaves from Babur’s diary; murderer of ten thousand innocent (are there such beings on earth?) Gujarati soldiers; dysfunctional husband of Medini Rai’s daughter; hypocrite and destroyer of the one woman who is fit to be his wife and future queen of Mewar, Leelawati. What next, Prince? Any more fillers, any more homilies? Yes, yes, yes. Anything to put off facing up to the enormity of the question mark that is the future. To complicate matters, there isn’t at any one moment in time, one future but many futures.

  * * *

  Future number one: What do we do with the Sultan of Malwa?

  At the cabinet meeting to which Medini Rai and Silhadi were invited as special advisers, this simple matter was debated for four and a half hours. The Pradhan Pooranmalji and Silhadi were of the same view but for different reasons. Pooranmalji felt that we should hold the Sultan hostage and prisoner for six months and thereby ensure that all war reparations were cleared. Silhadi was convinced, along with nine-tenths of Mewar, that we were being foolishly lenient and lax. Khalji, that ... (expletive deleted), ought to be clapped in a dungeon and left there for a year or two. Had we forgotten the forty thousand massacred at Mandu, the humiliation that Rao Medini Rai and the other Purabiya Rajputs had suffered at the hands of the feckless sovereign, etc. etc?

  Lakshman Simhaji was remarkable that day. My uncle kept a lid on his impatience till Silhadi had finished his diatribe. Further amazements were in store for us. The most upright and outspoken man in Chittor forbore to remind Silhadi that he had sat on the fence till the very last minute; that at least partly because of his procrastination, Rao Medini Rai could well have lost Gagrone, Prince Hem Karan and his followers, and that for this extraordinary contribution to the Malwa campaign, Silhadi had been awarded no less than three jagirs. Instead, Lakshm
an Simhaji was at his courteous best.

  ‘Do you suggest then that we leave Malwa headless for a year or two? Chaos will ensue. Nature cannot endure a vacuum. The Sultan has brothers and an adopted nephew who would be king. Civil war is not an unthinkable possibility.’

  ‘Good. We’ll carve up Malwa and take what is ours.’

  ‘What is yours is a moot point, Highness. But even if you did manage to grab whatever you could on a first come, first served basis, do you think Gujarat or Malwa’s other neighbours will sit tight and watch as spectators? Won’t they jump into the fray and want a piece of Malwa?’

  ‘Perhaps I am speaking out of place but it might help if we could know our minds first before we decide upon the Sultan’s fate.’ That soft voice which went for the jugular couldn’t be anyone else’s but Adinathji’s. As Finance Minister he would listen to all your raving and ranting and then suggest, humbly always, that you compute the cost before you act. ‘What is it that we want? Vengeance and short-term gains? Or do we wish to secure peace so that we can build and strengthen our own fiefdoms? If the latter, then stability is the first prerequisite. Stability, however ephemeral and illusory, will come from law and the natural order of things. Which would seem to suggest that the earlier the sovereign of Malwa returns to his throne and his people, the more we stand to benefit.’

  ‘Are you going to swallow this specious reasoning, Highness?’ Silhadi Rai turned upon Medini Rai as if the Mewaris were conspiring against the two of them. ‘They can mouth such fine and noble sentiments for one reason and one reason alone: because they didn’t lose a single man, woman or child that day when Muzaffar Shah of Gujarat and his obsequious, knee-scraping, toadying host, the rat of Malwa, fell upon forty thousand of our family members and put them to the sword. Have you not wondered every waking night since then about one thing: what kept the Mewar forces from coming to your rescue? Lakshman Simhaji says that they left as soon as they got word. Maybe I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the fact is they were not there when they could have made the difference between life and death for forty thousand of our people.

  ‘I have seen the smile of sheer gratitude appear on your face every time the Maharaj Kumar greets you. Gagrone was in dire distress and about to fall to the Khalji menace and all Lakshman Simhaji could spare for the relief of Prince Hem Karan and Gagrone was three thousand five hundred men. The Maharaj Kumar told the Sultan that he headed a force of forty-seven thousand seven hundred men and the fool believed him. But you and I were not born yesterday and we aren’t taken in by these childish fabrications. Granted, the bluff worked. It was a fluke and lady luck was his mistress for that day. But what if that idiot Sultan had called the bluff? Where would we have been today? Think about it, Rao. It won’t bear thinking.

  ‘Lakshman Simhaji and the Jain Minister of the Exchequer want us to be politic and diplomatic, they appeal to the statesmen in us and ask us to let the Sultan go back home. I say no. I trust false gratitude will not overwhelm you and you too will say no. Let the Khalji pig rot in prison till doomsday.’

  Before Medini Rai had a chance to recover from Silhadi’s onslaught, His Majesty intervened.

  ‘Your Highnesses, Medini Rai and Silhadi Rai, we must beg your indulgence. We have known the grievous loss you suffered and we’ve grieved bitterly for it. What we perhaps failed to appreciate fully was the intensity of your feelings against His Majesty the Sultan of Malwa. But it has been our experience that a military defeat is in itself so devastating a blow to the enemy that any further humiliation beyond territorial and war reparations is counterproductive.

  ‘You are, however, our allies and our dear friends. Beyond all else, Mewar values the strength that issues from a commonality of interest, a shared heritage and principles, and respect for each other’s deepest and innermost feelings. The Sultan, we assure you, will remain our prisoner.

  ‘It has been a long and overwrought day. I’m sure you want to rest a while. To our honoured guests, I say this, stay as long as you wish. Chittor cannot pretend to be your first home but it begs you to treat it rightfully as your second home.’

  Was ever a royal conference dismissed with greater finesse? Most meetings end with the participants exchanging notes, lingering and loitering before they part. That day we took our leave of each other instantly and went our separate ways. I am not quite sure what Silhadi stood to gain from his performance but there wasn’t much mystery about his methods or motivation. He had ostensibly targeted the axis running through Lakshman Simhaji, Adinathji and me and sown, or at least made an overheated attempt to sow, dissension between Medini Rai and us but his real quarry was the Rana.

  Who had put Silhadi up to such a barely-concealed attack on His Majesty? Do I set my long-cherished scruples aside and hint without saying a word (how does one do that?) to Mangal to put Queen Karmavati under surveillance? And if the man is already doing it, for who is more protective of the Rana than Mangal, how do I elicit the information? Worse still, if there is bad news, what action can one take against His Majesty’s favourite queen?

  * * *

  Future number two: the parijat tree.

  My tree is dying. There are plenty of leaves yet on the branches and every morning there are still drifts of parijat blossoms on the dew-drenched ground. But I know that my friend has turned its back on me. I have no idea what unspoken covenant I have broken, what unwritten law of nature I have transgressed or in what way I have disappointed my joyous companion of the mornings. Who knows what pain we cause our dearest ones? And yet I tell you, tree, however grave the error of my ways, it cannot compare with the hurt you inflict when you shrink at the sight of me.

  I can see you shrivelling, the sap slowing down, the heart growing fainter. Even in terminal cases, the doctors have told me that if the will to live is strong, both the disease and death are kept in abeyance. Who or what killed your will?

  What is it, tree? Speak to me. You were like a three-hundred-armed goddess and your bounty was prodigal as a summer shower, day in and day out. I remember the leap of joy in your face and the goose-pimples on your body the first morning after I returned from the Malwa campaign. A thousand parijats leapt down and covered me; not even the pet dogs I had when I was a child have missed me so and made me feel so welcome. And now, barely ten weeks later, you are willing to fold your three hundred hands, withdraw into your tight little cocoon and bid goodbye to the concourse of creation, birds and worms and bees which nested in your breast.

  No fever, no bruises, no symptoms and yet I know that something happened, something terrible.

  Can we talk this over? I guess not. You can’t talk to someone’s back, to someone who’s stopped listening.

  I’ve brought Befikir’s manure and buried it under the topsoil. I turn the earth every two days. I water the ground myself. I have rushed back sometimes even during office hours like an anxious parent or lover. I have played you the flute for hours. I’ve hugged you tightly and said I’ll not let you go. You were but a fledgeling shoot when I brought you from Kumbhalgarh. I don’t know whether you missed home; or the terrain and nourishment here are different from those where you were born. You almost died but you didn’t give up. You were a tough fighter. Do you know how young you were when you started flowering? Queens and princes and the most beautiful odalisques would stand and gaze in wonder. I thought when I grow old, I would sit in your shade and let your flowers drizzle on me.

  Has the thing I fear most happened? Is there death in my touch?

  Has that Bhootani Mata been here? Has she cast the evil eye on you?

  * * *

  Future number three: How do we greet Sultan Bahadur Shah?

  If you believe that you are the captain of your own destiny, I’ll tell you that I share your view. And were your friend, neighbour and wife to warn me that it’s all ultimately in the infinite number of hands that fate has, I’ll concur energetically with them, too. Look at what happened to Sikander Shah, Sultan of Gujarat, and you’ll beg
in to see that nothing makes sense and that’s the way it was meant to be. The essence of fate and God is to move not only in mysterious ways but to be incomprehensible.

  Sultan Muzaffar Shah died on March 16th, 1526. Two months and nine days later on May 25th, his son Sultan Sikander Shah was no more. They say he had an evil disposition and his slave Imad-ul-mulk, acting in concert with others, strangled him to death.

  I remember the day Shehzada Bahadur rose out of the morning mist while I stood at the window of the top storey of the Victory Tower and took in the panoramic view. He had spent years in search of that elusive headgear, the crown of his father. Now in a trice, one of those storybook quirks of fortune had decreed that the golden orb come looking for him. Imagine, Prince Bahadur had been in touch with Babur and was contemplating joining him, when an envoy from Gujarat came to receive him and invite him to sit on his father’s throne.

  Congratulations, Sultan Bahadur Shah. I rejoice in your good fortune.

  The Sultan’s first act on ascending the throne was to pass a sentence of death on the slave Imad-ul-Mulk who had disposed of his brother, and on the amirs who had instigated him.

  I would like to send an embassy of goodwill and gifts to the new Sultan and when the time is ripe, remind him of the peace treaty that we had talked of so often. Perhaps we can go beyond that and sign a military pact in case of an act of war on either of our kingdoms by an enemy. What chance do I stand of persuading the members of the cabinet to proffer a hand of friendship to the new Sultan of Gujarat?

  The only chance I may have is to cite the Babur factor.

  * * *

  Future number four: Will someone please tell me what His Majesty, the Rana, is up to?

  If Babur had been like the other visitors who invaded Hindustan from the north-west, he would have plundered Delhi, left a few hundred thousand dead or maimed, taken back slaves along with famous craftsmen and artisans, and the crown of Delhi would have passed on to Mahmud Lodi who unlike his brother Sultan Ibrahim, had escaped unhurt from Panipat. For the time being, however, Mahmud Lodi has had to be content with being the Sultan of Hindustan in absentia only. War and misfortune, I’m aware, are reputed to make strange bedfellows but Father has not only offered Mahmud Lodi asylum but struck an alliance with him to drive out Babur. Wherefore such misplaced haste and enthusiasm to make a commitment and to a former enemy at that? What happened to the classic rules of wait-and-watch when a new man comes into the neighbourhood, especially one who is aggressive and flush with victory? Does Father wish to dare Babur, see how far he can go? But if you think that His Majesty was deliberately going out of his way to provoke the new Padshah of Delhi, you haven’t heard the rest of the story.