by S L Bhyrappa
‘Maharaj, is it wrong to impose your religion on somebody you’ve defeated in war?’ I persisted.
‘Setting out with a definite intent to defeat someone is in itself a product of a mind that’s not yet evolved. We call it a product of tamas, a quality of human nature characterized by sloth, irresponsibility, betrayal and insensitivity. It ultimately leads to death and destruction. Wars happen but how acceptable is it to loot, enslave and kill the vanquished even after the war is over? We believe that just as our soul is but a spark of the Universal Soul, so is that of the enemies. Then what’s the point of enslaving others? Bharat, what you call Hindustan, witnessed several wars centuries before these people came, but not one king forcibly imposed his faith upon a conquered people.’
I had heard this and similar verses in a life before this life as a slave. I had been taught parts of the Bhagavad Gita and now recalled, hazily, the things I had learnt—that though people have their individual souls, it is but the same Universal Soul inhabiting different bodies. This meant that even plants, insects, and animals had souls. Human nature comprised three gunas or fundamental tendencies—sattva, rajas and tamas. But now I couldn’t recall what they really meant. I marvelled at this sadhu’s brilliant sweep of knowledge and his razor-like precise explanations for almost everything…so did the Prophet’s (Peace Be Upon Him) deeds set the model for the raiders, nawabs and sultans who came later in time? It appeared as if the conversation had ended. We sat in silence, looking at each other. And suddenly, something flashed in my mind. I said, ‘So what are you doing? I mean, these people are running around the country destroying temples, smashing idols, killing Hindus, torturing their priests, and selling hundreds of thousands as slaves…what are you doing?’
‘Hmm…what am I doing? What I am doing is what thousands of people like me—sadhus, sanyasins, bairagis—are doing. We go around the country, everywhere from the cities to remote villages, and tell our people not to lose heart because we’re facing very hard times. We comfort them and ask them not to abandon the faith of our forefathers. We give them the example of Shivaji Maharaj. We tell them that he was the disciple of Ramadas who was a sadhu like us. We tell them that others like him will be born or will eventually rise up and become powerful. The wheel of time doesn’t remain at the same place for long.’
‘Is he still alive? Shivaji?’
‘He’s not only alive, he has safely reached his fort and now he’s recapturing, one after the other, the forts he had lost. I think, in time, Bharat will be free of this curse.’ He turned his gaze behind him as he said these words. The sound of footfall grew louder. I turned around and saw a soldier walking towards me, sword fully drawn. He asked me roughly in the singular, ‘Which place are you from?’
‘Delhi.’
‘You came with the badshah’s courier?’
‘Yes.’
‘That means you came here to relieve yourself. Hamdullah Sahib is anxious. He sent for you. You must come with us now.’ This time, he addressed me in the plural. I left immediately. It was unsafe to talk to this sadhu in his presence.
~
Hamdullah Sahib was a meticulous record-keeper. He noted down even seemingly minor events and sights and details of everyday life here. He dictated, I wrote. The actual writing of the history of the demolition of the Vishwanath temple began a day after the cannons blasted the walls.
‘That kotwal will do his duty of sending reports of the demolition. But what do the lowly clerks who write these reports know of the fine art of recording the kind of details I do? Their language is crude, has none of the elegance of the pristine Farsi in which I write! Alamgir Badshah will grant me a massive jagir just reading my description of the demolition! But you see my tragedy, child? The bloody courtiers will never allow my hard work to pass through and reach the badshah’s eyes.’ He emitted a long sigh before continuing, ‘But I have done this as my sacred duty. Whatever reward Allah gives me is enough for me,’ he said in a tone of self-consolation.
I replied, ‘Kafirs say that God can be worshipped by anybody in any form they choose. However, the wise say that idol worship is a filthy practice and that’s why we must destroy all idol-temples. Was this the word of the Holy Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) himself?’
‘Not merely his word but his deed. He has shown the truth of this wisdom over and over several times during his holy lifetime. Al, Al-lat, Manaat, Al-Uzhu, Shams, Dhu, Sh-Shara, At-Thuraiya, Khu’zu, Wa’ad, Ruda, Zad, Manaaf, Yagut…all these gods had idols. Idol-temples were built for them. The Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) burnt them down and defeated them completely and established the supremacy of the Only True God, Allah and laid the path for the faithful. The nawabs and sultans that ruled Hindustan followed this holy dictum and destroyed the symbols of darkness and now, under Aurangzeb Badshah, this stricture is being followed with the thorough sanctity it demands. Learn something from this!’
That sealed it because the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) had himself laid down the precedent, and one did not judge the Prophet’s (Peace Be Upon Him) word. Yet, the sadhu’s words came to mind. ‘Anybody who hasn’t purified himself first by observing the practices of truth, continence, non-stealing…is not qualified to talk about God…this is a continuous process and it is by such constant and unswerving practice that one grows in spirituality.’ I was confused but I had neither the courage nor the freedom to talk about this with Hamdullah Sahib. I wanted to meet the sadhu again but it was already night and the whole city was under curfew. I couldn’t risk going out alone. I decided to see him tomorrow. Sleep eluded me for a very long time.
He was not there when I went to the riverside the next morning—there was nobody there. The Ganga flowed seemingly oblivious to the momentous happenings in Kashi. It seemed that her flow had a sweep that ingested the nuances of the thousands of traditions at Kashi, which she showed the world as she flowed on. I thought I had discovered an unexpected and important insight, but I didn’t understand what it meant.
~
We received our travel permits together with the response to Alamgir Badshah’s farmaan. These were neatly rolled and placed inside a bamboo reed, reinforced with wooden covering and sealed with wax and placed inside a cloth-bag, which was stitched to the teeth and sealed again with wax. It was time to leave for Delhi. Hamdullah Sahib was honoured with an expensive shawl and I got a new kurta as a gift. The kotwal whose name was Nayab personally came to see us off. We could easily guess the contents of the letter secured inside the bamboo reed. Even with minimal experience, the couriers, Khadar Khan and Imitiyaz Khan, knew it was pretty much an open secret. We ate a steaming hot—and delicious—dinner when we stopped at the highway rest house that night. Then we offered our namaz and slept. I overheard the conversation between the couriers. ‘I’m certain I have earned my share of merit in that temple destruction. I may not get a palace for myself in jannat but I know I’ll get a massive marble mansion!’ Imitiyaz Khan said with obvious confidence.
‘What do you know about heaven? It’s not for people who take salary and deliver farmaans. Learn something!’ Kadhar Khan instantly chided him. He was a black-skinned Muslim from Hindustan but he was quite learned in Islam. Imitiyaz was a Hindustani Muslim too, but like Kadhar Khan, he couldn’t tell when his ancestors had converted to the Only True Faith. At any rate, neither told me the complete truth about their ancestry when I had engaged them in conversation during our onward journey to Benares. I didn’t want to press them—they either really didn’t know or were unwilling to tell the tale of their lineage. But I did notice how both of them repeatedly insisted that they were descended from the Arab country, but they couldn’t speak Farsi or Arabic at all. They spoke Hindustani, the curious mixture of Arabic and Farsi, which was the common tongue of the military. Although the highest officers of the military were proficient in pure Farsi, the administrative language of the Mughal Empire, they were equally well-versed in Hindustani. But between themselves, they didn’t, even in error, use the loathsome Hindustan
i. Alamgir Badshah, too, it seems, knew Hindustani. But he had learned it in the interest of political prudence—you could have a tighter control over your subordinates if you conversed with them in their own tongue, a fact that Hamdullah Sahib told me.
Now Imitiyaz’s pride was wounded. He retorted, ‘So are you saying that if we hadn’t delivered the farmaan the temple would’ve still been destroyed?’
‘No no no. It’s not that. Only he attains heaven who dies in jihad…in a war waged to spread the Only True Faith… do you know what’s there in heaven?’
‘You’re the learned one. You tell me,’ Imtiyaaz now said in a subdued tone.
‘I’m happy. I’ll tell you. Heaven, jannat, is where you have an unending supply of milk and honey. Heaven is where you have large, flowered and perfumed gardens that are always pleasant—it doesn’t burn in summer or freeze in winter. Horses made of rubies take you anywhere you want, any time you want. Soft cushions are spread everywhere for you to recline. And the bashful, dark-eyed virgins…they are as chaste as the sheltered eggs of oysters and their eyes are always half-closed and they have full, round breasts. They are called houries. They are eternal virgins and they will serve you, and no matter how many times you have enjoyed them, their vaginas will always remain chaste. Their bodies are transparent so you can see their bones, which are like the soft thin lines inside a pearl. They resemble the pure red wine in a white goblet. Their skin is marble-white and they suffer from none of the things that ordinary women suffer here on this earth. They neither menstruate nor go through menopause. They don’t carry children in their womb. They don’t urinate and defecate. And you know why their eyes are always half open?’
Imitiyaz said no.
‘Because they’re bashful, because they don’t look at a man other than you and because they are in your eternal debt because you married them. Their bodies always exude a sweet smell and they’re free from any dirty odour. They’re young forever. They grow up in pure luxury. Why! A hourie is the symbol of luxury! Her form is intoxicating. Her large, round breasts don’t sag ever; they’re full and ripe and unblemished. She has but to look in the direction of this earth and there’ll be light and fragrance everywhere. She’s more reflective than a mirror—anybody can see their reflection in her cheeks. Every man who enters heaven will be given seventy-two houries. Think what that means! He will become thirty-two years old the moment he steps into heaven, no matter how old he was on this earth, and his age will remain thirty-two years forever. And it’s not just that. He will be endowed with the virility of a hundred men! He will be given a diamond-studded palace and he’ll have eighty thousand slaves. Do you understand?’
Imitiyaz didn’t reply. He didn’t say anything even after a long time.
After sometime, I heard the sound of Hamdullah Sahib getting up. I could faintly see him grope around and then feel and touch the walls as he made his way towards the door. I sat up. He stepped out and headed towards the couriers. In a moment, I heard his voice, ‘Khadar, whatever you’ve said till now is correct. But remember, whatever you say in the matters of faith, be sure to say the name of the Holy Book it was taken from, and be sure to say the chapter.’
‘Khan Sahib, I’m not as learned as your exalted self. I have read the Holy Book in translation in the military…Hindustani tongue. I have read a little but I read every day. There are so many suras and verses, I don’t remember all their names and numbers. But you have told me that I have learnt it correctly. That means Allah’s mercy is on me.’
‘Good.’
~
On the afternoon of the third day of our journey, we had to halt abruptly on the highway. About five or six hundred people—men and women, old and young, and children of various ages—were running amok. Almost all of them except the children were carrying pots, utensils and sacks of groceries on their shoulders and heads. Several women had plastered their babies around their waist and had hoisted a cloth bag atop their head. What was also quite apparent was that they were villagers—stick-thin bodies from being underfed since birth, sun-charred skin and unkempt hair that hadn’t seen a drop of oil. The men wore only a large wisp of cloth to cover their private parts. Skin peeped out of the holes in the women’s blouses and on some women the naked expanse above their breasts and on their back was visible. In no time, we saw a large cloud of dust followed by about twenty armed soldiers on horseback that encircled them. The group that was fleeing halted in the same fright that had motivated its flight. Looking at them, I thought they anyway didn’t have a good chance to flee forever. They would’ve eventually stopped. They were catching their breath in quick, loud gasps. Babies began to wail loudly. Children began to cry. The four of us approached the soldiers, who, seeing our dress, said ‘Salaam Aleikum‘. We returned their greeting and asked what the matter was.
‘They’re a bunch of sooars! Dirty pigs were running away without paying tax! We hunted them down the moment we got to know of this! Bastards would’ve escaped!’ said a soldier, almost screaming.
An old man from the group said, ‘But we have paid the tax and now they are asking another unjust tax upon it.’
‘Sooar! How dare you call jaziya an unjust tax! Convert to Islam if don’t want to pay jaziya. The badshah is merciful. He has issued a farmaan to exempt those who convert from paying even the land tax. Convert, and your land and cattle will remain with you,’ he roared.
‘Yes. He’s right. Convert, all of you. It’ll be good for you,’ four more soldiers said in chorus.
But the old man was spirited. ‘Who are you to order us to leave our god? If you think your god is the greatest, he is, only for you. The next time you abuse our god, here!’ He opened his mouth wide, made a disgusting crackling noise and spat on the ground, emitting a loud ‘tchthoo’.
The soldiers immediately huddled close and began to confer about the exact punishment this abomination deserved. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Imitiyaz sped forward like an unexpected gust into the crowd of helpless, frightened people, swooshed his sword horizontally in the direction of the old man’s shoulder and in one motion, delivered a chop that cut the neck by half. Blood spurted like a fountain. A feeble ‘Ram! Ram!’ issued from the old man’s mouth as he slumped on the ground and died. A loud group-wail was heard and then the group ran berserk again, despite the soldiers who were guarding them like hawks. The soldiers had made a strategic formation but their numbers were small and they didn’t know what to do when five hundred-odd people ran like they were possessed. They managed to catch a few but the majority of them escaped. ‘Sooar! Swine! How far will they flee? Our army will hunt them down like flies. They have no idea of our badshah’s power!’ the chief of the band roared.
Meanwhile, Imitiyaz had emerged from the group with the bloody sword still drawn. Kadhar Khan said, ‘Collecting jaziya is not our job. Are you insane? Why did you do this? We’ve wasted enough time already. We still need to cover a lot of journey. The courier has to reach the badshah real soon.’
‘Didn’t you hear what that old swine said? If you think your god is the greatest, he is, only for you. The next time you abuse our god…didn’t you see how he spat? Which true Muslim can just stand listening to such wretched words without doing jihad on that infidel bastard? I’ve dispatched him to hell. Tell me now: don’t I get a place in heaven?’
Be it even a game, nobody other than the authorized officer could kill or order a killing. Anybody who disobeyed this law faced instant, severe punishment. But then, Imitiyaz said he had murdered someone who had uttered the gravest of insults—a kafir who had dared to reject the supremacy of our God. To this, Kadhar added that they were the official couriers who delivered the badshah’s farmaan to demolish the kafirs’ sacred idol-temples in Kashi and were now heading back to Delhi carrying the report of the temple demolition, which was successful. The chief of that band of soldiers was convinced with this explanation and let us go. We wanted to get away as quickly as possible and exerted our horses till we were completely out of their
sight. Kadhar then manoeuvred the beast to a steady, comfortable pace.
I was feeling ill at ease and dizzy after I saw how Imitiyaz had cut that old man’s head. I touched my sword and resisted the temptation to move in from the side and chop off Imitiyaz’s head. This rage-filled contemplation filled my head for a long time and it took a lot of effort to extract myself out of it. What was the point? I could kill this wretch Imitiyaz but I knew I’d be caught and taken to Delhi, where they would surely cut my head. Killing Imitiyaz would accomplish nothing. But I couldn’t get the picture of that old man’s face out of my mind—lying dead on the ground, his half-cut throat…and then his words: ‘If you think your God is the greatest, he is, only for you, not for us!’ I could sense how the rest of them would be hunted down sooner than later. I knew what would happen to them. Sold as slaves, the good-looking girls as sex slaves…it was the same story always. Shyamala! I didn’t see her again after that day. Perhaps I could have seen her. Suddenly I had an idea. I could beg the mercy of Udaipuri Mahal and convince her to take her as her servant. I liked the idea but there was little chance of that happening. A mother of three was of no use to anybody. Even if Udaipuri Mahal agreed, what was the point? I could get married to her. It had happened in many cases—servants married each other if they had the master’s permission, but my case would look ridiculous. A marriage in which the man had no manhood. Why, Shyamala herself would laugh at me. And my thoughts reverted to those villagers who had managed to escape. They knew fully well what awaited them if they were caught…their only choice was to go so deep into the forests and mountains that they put themselves completely beyond the reach of these soldiers. Then they’d live there for the rest of their lives hunting raw meat, plucking fruits, vegetables and leaves, and trying to protect their lives from wild animals every second. They would wear no proper clothes and their bodies would go all rough and weathered from unprotected exposure to rain and sun and cold. They’d live like animals…like…like…like Maharana Pratap and his loyal band of soldiers who fled into the forests to escape Akbar Badshah’s army.