Padmini

by Mridula Behari

  Sugna spoke in a cold impassive voice, ‘His Highness has arrived at Prabha Mahal.’

  A crumbling wall came crashing down inside Padmini. But she managed to look unperturbed. She kept her deep breathing suppressed. A muted cry resounded in her head: ‘He didn’t come to me! Didn’t come!! Didn’t come!!!’

  The rising wave of exhilaration had been slashed abruptly. This disregard of her feelings had slammed the door to her dreamworld in her face. She was numb with shock. An attack and counter-attack of emotions left her nonplussed.

  The light from the gem-set lamps began to dim. Her sense of pride began to erode. The cavernous night of separation began to expand. Winds began to swoosh over the hills.

  She had no option but to suffer this agony, this slight. She could not help it. It was not for the first time that she had been cold-shouldered. She had already put up with such inattention on several occasions earlier, she thought.

  It felt as if somebody had forcibly taken away all her happiness. She stood staring into space. The stars began to lose their glimmer.

  A debilitating despondency began to seep within her, twisting and turning all the way. The wait was interminable. The royal bed was untouched, unruffled. The flowers that had been scattered began to shed their petals one after the other, the spiralling wisps of smoke blurred, and a fathomless agony began to torment her. The intense pain brought tears to her eyes.

  Everything around her was eerily quiet. Thoughts that crossed her mind a while ago evaporated and she was overcome with feelings of inadequacy and low self-esteem. Suddenly, she felt as if she was all alone without anybody to stand by her.

  She could hear some woodsmen talking in the distance.

  The wheel of time was moving unobstructed. The first phase of the night had passed. It was past midnight.

  With that, her longing too had passed.

  I am not the only queen with a claim on the maharawal. He must have been faced with the problem of choice. If he had preferred to visit me, it would undoubtedly annoy the maharani. It would be unbearable for her. And he would be extremely perturbed to find the maharani sulking. He would lose his peace of mind. What the maharani wants is important for the Rajan.

  The Rajan knows that his Padma is generous and kind-hearted and would not mind if he showed some consideration for the senior queen. After all, one can afford to do injustice to those closer to one’s heart. There is some kind of pleasure in bearing such injustice. Such injustice, howsoever bitter it might be, holds in its womb an indefinable self-contentment.

  She suddenly wondered if her brooding was her agonized mind trying to find a way out of the restlessness. The sense of defeat grew deeper. At that moment, deep in her heart, the gap between the feelings of joy and sorrow shrank so much that she found it difficult to set them apart.

  Slowly, the skies began to brighten. The world was bathed in the light of the rising sun. Far in the east, a pipal tree wore the pink glow of dawn. Padmini’s tired visage lit up with renewed hope. There was no trace of any emotion on her face. There were no pangs of separation or nonchalance, but there was no affection either.

  A soft light glowed in the room. Golden lamps filled with ghee were burning. A soothing calm was in the air.

  An announcement was made that the maharawal was visiting Queen Padmini. Her eyes sparkled like glittering jewels. In no time, she forgot everything that had tormented her a while ago. A babbling brook of pure, unadulterated love began to flow within her. She felt something like the storm of exhilaration rise in her heart, but she repressed it.

  The Rajan stepped in.

  Embellished with the valour of a brave warrior and drenched in royal grace, he let out a smile. It stayed on his lips for a brief moment and then disappeared. Looking at him, she was unable to decide whether he was a king or a lover, a person close to her heart or a complete stranger.

  Holding his stole edged with golden lace in one hand, he slowly came towards the bed, taking every step thoughtfully. He seemed unaffected by the opulence of the decor. He calmly reclined on the bed with his head on the bolster placed on the white silk sheet. He kept gazing into space.

  Padmini felt that he was lost for words. Yet outwardly he was not looking restless or disturbed like before. He looked calm and composed.

  After a few moments, he muttered, ‘After undergoing the trauma of being confined to a dark dungeon in the painful presence of guards, one truly realizes what freedom is all about. What an irony it is that we are unmindful of this great gift of God.’

  He still seemed to be struggling to express himself. ‘The darkness and isolation forced me to think a lot. It’s true that a person who has never suffered pain cannot understand what others feel. Staying in a magnificent palace, I probably would not have any idea of what atrocity is.’

  ‘It is in isolation that one can discriminate between truth and untruth. All great experiences of life happen in isolation, when one is all by oneself, Rajan!’ Padmini wanted to divert from the topic. She knew that the king was an emotional person. He was temperamental and would easily get frustrated.

  He took a deep breath and said, ‘It was not like this, Padme! In fact, I had lost my self-esteem. Their unjust and inhuman treatment revived it.’

  ‘They didn’t treat you as a king?’

  ‘As a king? Huh?’ He laughed ironically. ‘I was kept hungry and thirsty. They made fun of me. That heartless fiend would order his soldiers to whip me and watch my ignominy with glee. And that evil-minded Raghav . . . he too was there watching with a devilish grin.’

  A deeply felt pain shadowed Padmini’s eyes.

  ‘It was Raghav who conspired against us by luring the sultan into catching a glimpse of you. He then laid a trap for me. He knew that once Ala-ud-Din cast his lustful eyes on you, he would not stop until he captured you.’

  Padmini was thinking that though the king was unable to hide his pain, there was no trace of the usual excitement or tension in his voice. After he had escaped from the sultan’s captivity, the king was no more his usual self. A dignified, quiet, mature demeanour had been added to his personality. He seemed to have regained his self-confidence.

  The brutalities he was subjected to in captivity came back to haunt him.

  ‘He seems to believe that might is right. He doesn’t know that magnanimity, morality and justice are the attributes of a ruler.’

  ‘It is futile to expect such values from him. It is good in a way. The mercy shown by an enemy is more agonizing than humiliation. To tell you the truth, Padme, if he had succeeded in his lustful designs, I would have killed myself. That he would enjoy your beautiful and chaste body is worse than death to me.’

  The pain in his words tore a rent in Padmini’s heart.

  ‘I am the cause of all that you had to suffer,’ she said contritely.

  He softened his voice and said, ‘No, you are in no way to blame for this. It is but natural that a man cannot resist the charm of a beautiful woman. But . . .’

  ‘It means that beauty is, in fact, a curse.’

  ‘It is not so, Padme! Beauty is the greatest gift from God, it cannot be a curse. Beauty and aesthetic sense have always found a place of pride in our culture and ethos. In our ancient works of art and literature, and also in our philosophy, the central thought is envisaged as satyam, shivam, sundaram—the truth, the good and the beautiful. Our great works of poetry have sung paeans of beauty and grace. In our concept of the goddesses, the apotheosis of the aesthetic associated with them evokes a sense of piousness and awakens in our souls the element of oneness with God. The very thought of beauty opens our mental blocks and elevates us to a sense of all-encompassing blissfulness. But minds filled with carnal desires cannot appreciate such spiritual nuances of beauty. For them, a beautiful woman is just an object to satisfy their lust.’

  She wanted to take her beloved husband far away from this world of torment, to a place where there was nothing and nobody between them. She abruptly changed the topic.

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bsp; Padmini felt a new sense of love and a renewed yearning to melt in his arms. Ratan Singh felt her fingers on his feet. He smiled slowly. Padmini could not make out whether his smile was genuine or not.

  Ratan Singh was inclined to enjoy this pleasure. However, somewhere within, he was also trying to withdraw from that idyll. In between moments of seriousness and fun, he was lost to the world and wasn’t conscious of his surroundings.

  Padmini’s hands continued to caress his feet. The stiffness in his body began to unwind . . . the stifling sadness crowding his mind began to disperse . . . the pleasure of her gentle touch began to soothe his nerves. His eyes riveted to Padmini’s face. An inarticulate expression on his face seemed to convey that her face was ever so beautiful; even her growing years had left no mark on her face.

  As they say, even an extremely beautiful face begins to look ordinary if you happen to look at it often. But this face is exceptionally awash with a perennial stream of beauty and grace. It appears that the clear sky has bequeathed its blueness to her eyes. A tantalizing streak of love and desire was lurking between her lips.

  The conflict in his mind began to dissipate. The deep lines between his brows dissolved. All the tangles in his body and mind began to loosen. The blood in his veins flowed with warmth.

  He basked in the warmth of her exquisite beauty.

  Padmini had helplessly watched the worried, restless and distracted king for the past few days. Today, after so long, he’s looking composed. His silence looks eloquent. She sat so close to him that it looked as though a tremulous vernal creeper had found the delightful support of a tree.

  Ratan Singh reached out and lowered the wick of the oil lamp to dim the light. This brought them closer. An intimate fragrance caressed their souls. Like a flower-laden vine, her body trembled.

  The soft unlit warmth, the rising smoke from the incense sticks, the sweet smell from their lighted tops and a mellow silence pervaded the room.

  Lost in thought, Padmini didn’t notice when her odhani slipped off. Ratan Singh gazed at her longingly, at her voluptuous body elegantly dressed in diaphanous silks, her delicately sculpted midriff, her lips retaining the innate proud, winsome smile with no trace of trauma, the same liquid eyes of a doe, and her voice as sweet as the mellifluous notes emanating from the strings of a veena. The glow of her face, as bright as ever, radiated only love and yearning, even as irresistible charm dripped from her eyes.

  Outside, a thousand moons showered their coolness as though attempting to quench the fire of passion. From far-off woods, beyond the royal garden, came the sound of the joyous peacocks.

  An irrepressible invitation in her eyes and in the air kindled a strong yearning in the king. Driven by intense emotion, he drew Padmini into a tight embrace. An ecstatic sense of fulfilment pervaded their existence.

  Ratan Singh’s weary mind was now relaxed. Hurt both physically and mentally in the past few days, he now found himself in his beloved wife’s loving arms. Almost instantly, he fell into a deep sleep. A sense of bliss and sensual satisfaction swept over Padmini’s face.

  The sweet sound of birds woke her up. She opened her eyes and saw that the night had passed. The king was preparing to leave. He rearranged his stole and cummerbund and walked to the window. Outside, the sun was rising over the distant hilltops. He continued to look in that direction. The king looked calm and composed, perhaps a little pensive. It looked as though he was ready to take on a new resolve with the rising of the sun. As the golden orb rose from the horizon, he bowed deeply, muttering words of prayer. She did not disturb him. There was something changed in the man who stood by the window.

  He stood there for a while, and then walked out of the room.

  The king had disappeared from sight, but she kept looking in that direction.

  She went back to her thoughts. There’s so much change in him. The hard time he faced in captivity shook his self-esteem. But now, he has overcome that sense of inadequacy. The thinker in him is awake. His thinking has found a new direction. Aglow with a sense of real pride, he looks determined and yet is so simple. It looks like some kind of sanjivani, a mythical life-giving herb, has infused a new life-force into him.

  It is so ironic that man does not learn as much from his successes as he does from defeat or downfall. The king’s transformation became possible after he went through hell on earth. It was as if that terrifying ordeal was an essential driving force to spur him into action. Mewar, at present, had somehow been saved, but its future was fraught with frightening premonition. Inauspicious stars presaged the state of Mewar. Ala-ud-Din, capable of spelling disaster, had cast his evil eye on Mewar. Having returned empty-handed, he must be mortified. He could attack Mewar any time in order to avenge the humiliating defeat.

  The reports coming in from Delhi were ominous and alarming.

  After fleeing Mewar, the sultan had been entangled in other skirmishes. The Mongols had made one attempt after another to invade his territory, but the sultan had crushed them each time. The victories made him more barbarous.

  Mewar’s spies had informed the king that the sultan was preparing to mount an attack. This time, the assault was likely to be worse. The entire operation was being planned under the supervision of Khijra Khan, the elder son of Ala-ud-Din. Khijra Khan was said to have inherited his father’s cruelty, brutality and arrogance.

  The whole of Mewar was suffused with a new life. The maharawal was sweating blood to save the sovereignty of his state. He devoted every waking moment planning military strategies. The inhuman treatment he had received at the hands of Ala-ud-Din was so fresh that it would not let him be at ease.

  Preparations were afoot for the impending war. All possible enemy action was being discussed by the war council. Activities of making and developing arms and other war material had picked up pace. Training sessions were being held day and night to equip the warriors with the skills required to wield the entire panoply of the newly developed weapons.

  New training centres were set up. Those already in existence were revived. The war council began to meet daily.

  Even those who were not Kshatriyas—those hierarchically belonging to the warrior caste—were conscripted into the army. Chieftains of the tribal Bhil community living in the surrounding villages were taken into confidence. They had always assisted the army of their ruler in times of need. The Bhils, as a community, were known to keep their word. They were experts in scaling steep hills and could easily leap over deep pits and thick bushes. Not just this, they could endure harsh conditions. By enlisting the services of the Bhils, the technique of guerilla warfare was being fine-tuned. Training in cavalry charge, speed-riding, tactical positioning of the forces and other strategic formations and operations were being undertaken every day. Outstanding warriors were appointed as garrison commanders.

  Supplies and provisions were stored. The availability of water from natural sources inside the fort was found to be insufficient. Therefore, new tanks were built.

  Tunnels were dug underneath the fort. Structures the enemy could use to its advantage were removed or dismantled. Heavy rocks were being stored inside the fort to be used as missiles to impede the enemy’s advance.

  The citizens of Mewar were reminded of their cherished ideals and goals in order to motivate them to do-or-die for their country. Bards and war-trumpeters, with the magic of their patriotic songs and music, created a charged atmosphere that motivated the people. They girded their loins and got together, determined to face any eventuality in an attempt to defend their motherland.

  Tasks were assigned depending on authority and skill.

  The maharawal was actively involved in all plans and programmes. This left him with very little time for himself. Unlike earlier, he no longer had fixed meal times or bedtime. He couldn’t afford to sit peacefully even for a minute. Finding their king overflowing with vigour, the soldiers and commanders felt a fresh wave of enthusiasm sweeping over them. To sacrifice their all for the sake of their land and their
flag had become the sole purpose of their lives.

  With their fingers crossed, they were ready for battle.

  Padmini was content to see her husband, a monarch, in this new avatar. No more luxuriating in self-indulgence, he was now driven by the mission of accomplishing the mammoth task of defending the honour of his wife, the queen of Chittor. She did not fail to notice that the heat of some fire constantly tormented him day and night.

  If only I could play an active role in this campaign! Padmini felt a distinct urge to put her shoulder to the wheel. The river of her life wanted to flood. She was unable to figure out what to do with it . . . how and where to direct its flow? A wave of discouraging sadness took over her soul. She wished she could discard the shallow life that opulence offered.

  Am I worthless? Is a woman merely a showpiece, a commodity, an object for sensual enjoyment, a luxurious accessory, someone’s private property? Does the very existence of a woman depend upon her being a man’s wife or mistress? Does she have no self-esteem of her own without a man by her side? Does she have no personality of her own? Is she helpless and subordinate to men? Are a woman’s thoughts and feelings of no importance? Must she need a man’s protection for her safety?

  In fact, women have been reduced to an instrument to satisfy a man’s lust, a part of his repertoire. This is the reason why so many abductions take place; just to forcibly seize that prized possession. This has caused devastating wars followed by treaties between the warring potentates.

  Why is it that the nature and attitude of men decide the destiny of women?

  Hamir of Ranthambore was a brave king who laid down his life to defend the honour of his land. He refused to hand over his wife and daughter to the sultan. Instead of succumbing to brute force, he chose to make the supreme sacrifice by offering them to the leaping flames. The bodies of the pious women were reduced to ashes but the honour of their souls was saved.

  And look how Karna Deo, the ruler of Patan, behaved. Afraid of the enemy, he turned tail and abandoned his queen and daughter. They were dispatched to the sultan’s harem. One can imagine how they must have suffered there. The sultan’s order was like a whip on their bare souls. It felt as if they were being pushed and dragged to that hell like lifeless objects.