Back in Haridwar, walking on the bridge over the Ganga. White-capped mountains rose in the distance. The river was a gigantic being flowing beneath. Anushri walked a few steps behind me.
Things wriggled in the river. I clutched the thick jute ropes and stuck my head out through the loose-knit loops for a closer look. Snakes and crocodiles slithered entwined below the surface. I wondered how they survived in pure, flowing water.
The splash that came then was like a whiplash.
My head snapped around. The bridge was empty and for one moment, I froze.
Anushri was gone!
Frantic, I scanned the bridge and the water on both sides.
My little sister was gone.
“Oh God! Help!” I screamed.
Falling down on my knees, I squeezed into a ball and burst into loud, crying hiccups.
Of a sudden, a voice called out. “Didi! Look Didi! Look!”
I couldn’t trust my ears. I looked up and there she was. Anushri, smiling and holding a stranger’s arm. A man in his 40s, radiating calm and assurance.
The phone rang again. I didn’t wait for mom to speak.
“Who was he?” I asked.
“God,” she said. “Appeared out of thin air and vanished into one. As if someone had called out to him from the heart, and he came.”
Mere coincidence? Did I call him? Was he God? Does God exist? Was it my prayer? How could I have called a God I didn’t believe in!
After hearing the details from mom, I walked out lost in thought and found myself at the chapel. Night had fallen. A candle moved in the darkness, lighting a small path. It was the chapel sister.
She ran her soft palm over my head. “A power cut, child,” she said.
“The chapel has called you though. Take this candle and walk right in.”
My newfound faith in the almighty found the certainty it didn’t find in books and logic.
I came awake with a silent scream on my lips. Eyes flashed open. Adrenalin coursed through my veins.
My little sister! Anu!
Open or shut, my eyes were seeing the same dark night. Someone snored. It took me a moment to realise it was matron in the room next to our dorm. I heaved a sigh of relief.
Just a dream! With a trembling hand, I reached for the bottle by my bed.
Cold water trickled in, easing the dream out. One of the girls turned over and the sheets rustled.
“Anu’s fine,” I told myself.
“It was a dream. A bad dream! That’s all it was.”
My watch showed 4 a.m. We had a physics test today. The dream was fading already. Switching on my desk lamp, I settled down to revise. Last minute revisions are important.
Five hours later, dream forgotten, I was whistling on my walk to the school.
“Looks like someone’s well-prepared,” said Sally who struggled as much with physics as with her frizzy hair. Right now, it was an electric halo around her head. She was never put out by my silken straight hair nor my affinity to physics.
“It’s a hack to beat nervousness,” I winked. “There’s science behind it.”
“We’ve got ten minutes,” she said. “Let’s go to the chapel.”
“Chapel?” I asked. “You should be revising now.”
“To ask for blessings that we do well in the test,” she said. “Equally important.”
“Prep and revision, Sally,” I said.
“These get you through the test. Not blessings!” I was sharp, but Sally was a sweet friend who shrugged off life’s troubles easily.
“I forget!” She slapped her forehead. “Atheist! Logical, scientific thinking nerd!”
During the test, my focus wasn’t fully on the paper. Anushri was on my mind. I had been in the 2nd grade when she was born. When I visited her and mom in the hospital, the first thing I noticed was her tiny nose.
Born seven years apart, we had the big sister-little sister thing going. When she’d throw a tantrum for the TV remote, all it took was a warning glance from me and she’d drop it in a sulk.
Last night’s dream remained clear in my mind. Hard as I tried to block the disturbing images, they continued to return.
Next day, the first bell for breakfast found me knocking on the bathroom door. I shared one with Radhika. No response. She had been in there for a while now.
I pressed my ear to the door and heard her muttering.
“Are you talking to someone?” I spoke. “You sound like you do.”
Radhika slammed the door open. “I dreamt,” her voice trembled.
“I dreamt our dormitory had caught fire and everything was burnt.”
“It’s just a dream,” I said, holding her wrist.
“Not so,” she shook her head. “Dreams come true. But, if you sit on the pot and narrate your dream aloud, the dream won’t come true. I was doing that.”
“Really, Radhika! Sitting on the pot and saying your dream aloud? Did you just say that! Dreams don’t come true. Not the ones you have in sleep. They’re just your subconscious manifesting itself. Now, please move! I’m late already!”
My dream returned, and I tried to shrug it off. It was just a dream!
But, was it? It was a constant presence through the day, during classes and at play. The encyclopaedia, which I could usually rely upon to calm myself didn’t work either. I shut it after a few minutes. Anushri played behind my eyes.
What was she doing now? Watching TV, I suppose. I needed to hear mom’s voice, for her to tell me that all was well.
In the phone room, I avoided Sister Angie’s eye while I wrote down mom’s number for her. Sister Angie was bone thin and leaned heavily towards moral science and I wasn’t in the mood for it.
A senior was on the phone. I sat on the wooden bench, smooth with use, but with the ink and scrapes of a thousand girls who had shown their stress, fear, and happiness on it.
The senior leaned against the wall, answering in monosyllables.
I began rocking back and forth. I was restless.
Finally, the girl put the receiver down. Not a moment later, the phone rang.
“Your mother’s call, Mann!” Sister Angie called out cheerfully. “The wireless connection of the divine. Connected before I could dial.”
Strange coincidence! Now that I had mom on the phone, my hello was muted.
“Mann! Manu. All well with you?”
“Yes, mom,” I said. She sounded fine. Maybe a tiny bit breathless, but fine. Anushri must be fine. Not that the dream meant anything.
“You don’t sound like your normal self, beta. Don’t tell me you’ve been through something too! Is all well? How are things with you? I am worried. Say something!” Her words were tumbling over one another, not giving me a chance to answer.
“What do you mean me too?” I said, holding my breath.
“Anushri!” her voice wavered. “Anu almost drowned at Haridwar. Two days ago…”
A chill ran down my spine. Her voice receded.
“She slipped in the Ganges,” I cut in. “A stranger appeared out of nowhere and…”
“Did…did dad call you? How do you know this?” mom was saying.
“A dream, ma,” I said. “I dreamt the whole thing at night.”
The line disconnected and I found myself back in the dream.
TO BE CONTINUED……
What was the dream? What happened to Anu? How did Mann find the path of faith? To know, read Part-2 of “THE CALL”
As a postlude to my write-up titled, “Wars and Festivals” that spoke of historical, mythological and individual battles, here is “Home Coming”.
We all know Diwali is the celebration of Lord Ram’s return to Ayodhya. After 14 years long tryst with resolving social issues of the day, facing the harsh forest life, taking back the empire that was deceitfully usurped within the family and waging a war with an Asur King to rescue his wife, he returned to his land triumphant, with newly developed skills, followers, learnings and stories to share. His journey stretched from North to South, and on his way, he touched the hearts of many. Grand décors, sumptuous feasts and open arms with glistened eyes welcomed him. Ayodhya was adorned with diyas to welcome its awaited and deserving king. The stories of his valour and victory spread far and wide as his coronation announced the dawn of Ram Rajya. The foundation of a new kind of leadership was laid – by a leader who ruled by being an example and who first practised and then preached.
Just like his challenging years in exile when he fought the mighty Lankesh (Ravana), almost losing his wife and beloved younger brother to death, the throne of a king offered challenges of a different kind. During his exile he had won an external battle before returning to his land, marking the celebration of Diwali. Now while he sat on the throne of Ayodhya as the Suryavanshi King of Aaryavrat, he faced an internal civil war. A war, where his praja raised fingers at his wife’s chastity. A war where no weapons could be helpful because the enemy was his own people.
It wasn’t a battle for power or rule. It was a battle of truths, of ideologies. It was an inner battle between Ram and Ram, between Ram who was a husband and Ram who was a King. The trials of the Agni Prariksha and an assurance from the king went futile to convince the praja of Sita’s pious body. Ram reached the verge where he had to choose one side. To be a just husband or to be an ideal King. Unlike the battle fought on the ground, this was the tug of war he experienced within. His Kshatriya blood didn’t offer any respite. The only way to resolve this war was to choose. To choose one. Either be a husband or be a king. Sita’s uninformed boycott and abandonment into a forest announced his decision to be. He chose Ram Rajya over Sitapati Ram. He succeeded in resurrecting Ahilya but failed to stand beside Sita. For, the Rajya was at stake. The husband died, and the king lived.
When the war is internal like this one, and the victory is declared, how does one celebrate? Does one feel joyous or mourn? For either way, it’s one’s loss. After bleeding from the arrows of regrets, helplessness and doubts, when one accepts his choice, he reaches home. After the painful suffering of losing, knowing one’s personality flaws and bearing the scars that the decision left, one begins to travel through the feelings of returning home. When complete acceptance sets in, healing begins, and this marks the celebration as Home-Coming; a celebration of profound peace within. The inside finally lits-up, calm sets in, and Diwali is announced as ‘Home Coming’.
Battles have been an integral part of human history. Bulky mythological and historical texts are reflective of it. Massive, brutal wars have been fought to bring down the demons, the invaders, the evil and the devil to restore peace, and for conquests. Whether it was Mahabharata, the Greek wars or the wars of independence, the documented scriptures and texts speak of fights, fight as the path to attain the desired.
The word ‘War’ immediately evokes an image of bloodshed and dead bodies in the conscious mind, but that’s not exactly the truth about all wars. With the evolution of mankind, new types of war methods have emerged. For example, Mahatma Gandhi’s path of Ahimsa, introduced the world to the non-violent means to win back the conquered territory. He used self-imposed austerity, boycott and guilt as his weapons, and he was acclaimed worldwide for it. Nuclear wars, Cold Wars etc. are yet again different forms with different methods and strategies. Although the warfare techniques are ever-evolving, one thing remains unchanged. There is always a relative good and bad involved in wars. And at the end of the battle, there emerges a hero and a villain, followed by journals being filled with analysis and epics written on the newly born superhero or even God. Numerous festivals are announced to celebrate the victory of the good over the evil, and they eventually become traditions to keep us reminded of the heroism, the heroic acts. Dusshera and Navratri are examples, where the victory of good over evil marks the festivity.
Having spoken of the battles that were fought on fields with huge armies, superpowers and lethal weapons, what about the wars that an individual fights within? We all undergo some form of war inside us, at least once in our lifetime. A war between Me versus Me. The conflict of thoughts, the struggle to decide, the dilemma of choices. Aren’t they also a form of war? There isn’t so much noise created, and not any soldiers to join. But yes, they are also fights, short, and sometimes maybe prolonged over a period of time. So what are the weapons used when one is fighting an internal war? Will power? Yes! One resorts to this while fighting against the behavioral demons. To overcome laziness, to give up substance abuse, food habit, break a thought pattern etc. One’s latent will power is evoked for the victory. Knowledge also serves a potent weapon while facing the dilemma over choices or confusion. Research and study followed by expert advice or a mentor to guide wades away the ignorance to allow the light of enlightenment to seep in and to see the victory of clarity against chaos. After facing the tribulations of internal war, where habits, thoughts and options are killed, emerges a newer self, a godly super-self, flurrying the flag of victory. Each dawn then becomes a festival to rejoice.
This Dusshera and Navratri, let’s share sweets and radiant smile to celebrate the victory over vice.
“Aisee Vani Boliye, Mun Ka Aapa Khoye Apna Tan Sheetal Kare, Auran Ko Sukh Hoye” (Speak with a language that brings healing and peace not just to others but to oneself.)
The legendary 15th century poet, Kabir Das, wrote the above mentioned words to highlight the purpose and art of using spoken words. The Indian culture has always been an epitome of compassion, hospitality and holism. For aeons, language has been used for constructive measures. Statesmen and leaders like Swami Vivekananda, Mahatma Gandhi, Priya Kumar, Shiv Khera and many others have influenced and driven people to progress with the right and articulate use of spoken language. Their list of testimony, which is filled with fans sharing how their words have transformed their and many other lives, is exemplary in showcasing the power and might of right words.
Like the two faces of a coin, language also has two effects based on its use and form. Akin a sword, it can be used for a massacre and it can be raised for safety. Language’s form changes its course with the agenda attached to it. Words can be used for healing, encouraging and motivating, and they can also be used for abusing, brainwashing, shattering dreams, tainting identities etc. History has shown how razor-sharp weapons have coloured the soil red, with the bloodshed of millions in the battles that were fought either to avenge, usurp or sometimes defend in the display of ego wars. Such wars are not over, they do not occur once in a millennium; propelled by odious words, they are a part of our present-day reality. Although we have peace treaties, ammunition acts and various international organizations upholding world peace, the ego wars continue to be an innate part of our daily life. These are wars of egos fought with the weapons of words.
In the present times of pandemic, the celluloid screen has increased its TRPs with a 24*7 live telecast of such wars. The Talk Shows have given the talk a whole new meaning and form, which often appear abysmal. The shrill, blaring tone, harsh and brutal words make your ears bleed, opinions are spoken with affirmation that matches a prophecy. Such mannerism not only kills the person targeted at, but its bloodshed of an identity. At a larger level it is an injury to the art of speaking, of our language culture that has been traditionally marked with compassion and empathy. The repeated sessions of debates have lesser content and meaning, appearing more like a teaching session of how to use words as lethal weapons. And how they must be used for the baseless killing to unfurl the flag of victory even if that means a walkover on virtues associated with humanity and culture. And not to forget the national platform is a place which the future generation is looking up to. Hence, before we view or deliver, let us stop and think – is the language ki laathi used for killing or saving, or should the language be used as a laathi altogether? When we think about the undesirable or harmful effects and outcome of words used as
weapons, doesn’t it call upon us for their use in more conscious, and thoughtful ways ?
“How do you define a mother, I wonder? By the number of kicks you’ve given her in her womb and every time she smiled, or by the number of bites on her swollen nipples yet she happily fed you and never cried.” (Excerpt from book)
“Priceless Pearls” by veteran writer, Gitanjali Kapoor, popular by the pen name, ‘Laughing_Soul’ is a poetry book with a theme of love for a mother. Through 21 literary pieces, the poetess paints the facades of love she feels for her mother. Her poignant writing style adds to the empathy and relatability. Various poetry forms like versus, unmetered poems to Haiku poetry makes it a learner’s delight. In some of the poems like “The Golden Sunset”, the prim use of simile and metaphors brings forth Geetanjali’s outstanding skill to blend vividity with inner emotions. Besides the theme of love for mother, the book shares subtle hues of the writer’s journey along with the challenges and conflicts every woman undergoes in life. The poetries beautifully depict the vulnerable yet strong, ordinary yet exceptional sides of a mother. Although the book is a dedication of the poetess to her mother, it offers a universal appeal. My personal favourite is the poem, “My Treasure Trove”, as the lines, “My poems are nothing but messages from above” resonates with my writer’s heart. Besides the soulful poems, some impactful verses inspire and offer much to ponder upon.
All in all, Gitanjali, the inventor of the poetry form, “Mirror Alphoppbet” after 3 phenomenal books, yet again adds a masterpiece, “Priceless Pearls” in the showcase of the literary world.
“A thousand splendid suns” by Khaled Hosseini, is a heart-rending tale of two women set in Afghanistan in the 1960s, when the country was at a war between the Soviet Communist and the Taliban.
“One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.” The plot pivots around stories of two women, how their lives merge not by choice but for survival. Their relationship ignites with flares of jealousy and a tug of war for power over the household and husband. But when the two realize that they share the same enemy and are battling the horrendous consequences of the war, they lower their guards and bond into a love that transforms them into courageous women.
The book is divided into two parts. The first part revolves around Mariam, an illegitimate child of a popular, affluent businessman in Herat. She faces ruthless prejudices and blames not just from the big legitimate family of her father but her mother as well. “You are a clumsy little harami. This is my reward for everything I have endured. An heirloom-breaking, clumsy little harami.” Miriam is raised with a belief that she is a mistake. Her identity is carved with the repetition of such words. The second half revolves around Laila’s story. A good looking, intelligent daughter of progressive parents. There is a strake contrast in both the characters, not just in terms of their age but in terms of outlook and upbringing. Laila is portrayed as the woman Afghanistan needs. An educated, free-willed girl with a mind of her own. Her pre-marital sex with the love of her life, going to school, not wearing a burqa, are all reflective of it. The tragic death of Laila’s family in a bomb blast lands her in Miriam’s life. Although Miriam is the age of Laila’s mother, they become the wives of the same man. The latter half of the book offers some hope to the reader when love fumigates between the protagonists. The book begins to turn towards the brighter side.
The intricate description of the landscaping of Afghanistan, their food, aromas, homes, clothing and rituals give a feeling of a tour around the place. I found the book outstanding, in Khaled Hosseini’s ability to unveil the vulnerabilities of the characters clad in a burqa and how a bond of love lead to their metamorphosis. The language is lucid and the gripping narrative makes the book a page-turner. The graphic description of the war, depiction of bloodshed, oppression, suppression, brutality, starvation, loss and trauma leave the reader’s heart injured and their vivid depiction makes the eyes sore. All in all, this classic literary masterpiece by Khaled Hosseini leaves behind a bittersweet taste.
Hyder Ali Khan, the de facto ruler of Mysore disguised himself in an ordinary attire and rode on his horse as if conversing with the winds. He loved to ride alone without the military force to spend some time alone. His soldiers tried to catch up with him. His popularity as an able military commander-in-chief was gaining momentum as he was on a conquering spree to expand the boundaries of his empire. He stopped at the sight of the Chitradurga fort; a pink, rocky fort located over the hills. He was always mesmerized by its towering thick walls. They challenged him. As if telling him, “See if you can win over me?” Madakari Nayaka IV ruled Chitradurga then. Hyder Ali’s numerous proposals of collaborations were politely rejected by him. Hyder Ali was awestruck by the fort’s beauty and strength. While he was romanticizing on invading Chitradurga, he was distracted by a female figure. A young woman, who seemed to be in a hurry. His gaze followed her. Before he could get a glimpse of her face, the woman bent and disappeared. Unable to spot her from the distance, he summoned one of his soldiers and ordered him to go check how a woman had vanished into thin air. The soldier returned in a few minutes and huffed,
“Maharaja! There is a kindi, a hole in the wall. It leads inside the fort. She must have gone there.”
This information sprung a plan in Hyder Ali’s mind. He ordered the soldier to spy and collect all the information of the kindi. The soldier returned to the court in a few days.
“Maharaja, it seems the kindi is unknown to everyone. It’s rarely used. No one is ever spotted using it. Just one guard named Khale Mudda watches over it. During noon, he is away for lunch and the kindi is left unguarded.”
The information supported Hyder Ali’s plan. He ordered his military head to invade Chitradurga with 100 soldiers. He ordered them to sneak in through the kindi and attack Madakari Nayaka. This will make it an easy win without much bloodshed. Confident of the plan the army chief set out for its execution. The kindi was a very small opening. Only one man could barely crawl through it in dark. Adopting the stealth mode, they hid in the nearby bushes and waited for the guard to leave for lunch.
Standing below the watchtower near the kindi’s opening inside the fort, yelled Obavva, Khale Mudda’s wife,
“Don’t you see the sun is high up? The food is getting cold. Come and eat! Rest is also important.”
Aware of his wife’s short temperedness, Khale Mudda ran a vigilant eye, and walked home that was located nearby. He washed himself and sat before the plate to eat.
How Obavva fought Hyder-Ali’s army single-handedly ?
“Did you run your finger in the curry today? This is so pungent!”
He teased Obavva, gulping the entire glass of water. Rolling her eye on the comment, Obavva sprung up to refill his glass. To her surprise, the pot was empty with just a little water left. She poured the remaining and rushed to fetch more from the nearby pond uphill. She had just walked a few feet from home, when she noticed fingers clutching on the ground at the kindi. Someone was climbing out from it. Presuming it to be some spy, she rushed and picked up the wooden pestle lying outside her hut and hid by sticking to the wall. To her horror, she saw a black turban that was worn by Mughals. Without a thought, she tightened her grip around the onake (pestle) circled it around her head to gain momentum, kicked away his turban and with one powerful shot smashed the soldier’s head. Blood splashed all over her face. Shocked at her own action, she reached for her pallu to wipe the blood. Just then she heard more noises. There were more, she swiftly dragged the dead body behind her to clear the kindi’s passage. Presuming the entrance was safe another soldier emerged clutching the ground to climb up. Obavva repeated the whack and smashed his head like a cockroach. The soldiers kept coming, she kept smashing them with the pestle and dragging them away from the entrance view. Some kind of supernatural power seemed to have entered this ordinary woman. She continued to do so, as a heap of dead bodies piled behind her. Having waited for half an hour, Khale Mudda came looking for her. When he saw Obavva holding a blood dripping pestle and a pool of dead bodies behind her, he froze with fear.
“Blow the trumpet! We are under attack!” commanded Obavva dragging the dead body. Khale Mudda kept blowing the emergency trumpet loud. The siren alerted their army and made the enemies retreat. Just then a soldier entered unannounced with a dagger and stabbed Obavva, who was by now losing consciousness out of fatigue, dripping in perspiration and blood. She collapsed and died on the spot, fighting single-handed with the army of Hyder Ali.
That day the Fort of Chitradurga was saved from falling in the hands of the invaders. Although Madakari Nayaka was defeated in 1779, the city of Chitradurga pays its tribute to this braveheart ordinary woman of the Beda community and revers her for her outstanding bravery and patriotism.
‘Vinayak Chaturthi’ or ‘Ganesh Chaturthi’ is celebrated on the fourth phase of the moon in the Bhadrapada month of the Hindu calendar. It marks the birth of God Ganesha, the younger of the two sons of Shiva and Parvati.
THE STORY OF GANESHA’S BIRTH
There is an interesting tale behind the birth of Ganesha. It’s a story of faith, of dutifulness. Once Mata Parvati wanted to bathe in a water body inside a cave, but the mouth of the cave was unguarded so she needed someone, someone her own, reliable to watch over the opening. To do so she collected some clay from the cave and moulded a sculptor of a boy. She then placed both her palms on it and with complete faith uttered words in its ears. Words, filled with feelings of belief and faith.
“You are my son! I have created you with my will and I give you my acceptance as a son. Please guard this entrance of the cave. Do not allow one to enter.”
Saying so, she went inside. Her words of belief and faith personified the sculptor and it turned into a son. Lord Shiva who was away at Mount Kailash meditating arrived at the cave to meet his wife Mata Parvati. He didn’t notice the tiny sculpted boy and stepped forward to enter the cave. The boy stopped him,
“Stop! You are not allowed to go inside. My mother is bathing and has asked not to permit anyone’s entry. So stay right where you are!”
Shiva was angered, firstly for having been stopped to see his wife and secondly for this boy announcing himself as Parvati’s son. With no further thought, he axed the boy’s head. Just then, Parvati emerged hearing the chaos. She was devastated to see her beheaded son. She narrated the whole story to Shiva with tears of anger. Lord Shiva immediately repented upon his short temper and instructed his Ganas (attendants) to fetch a head. Since they were in a forest, the Ganas found a dying elephant, seeking the animal’s permission they took its head. Shiva like Parvati, with utmost faith and words of acceptance, placed the head on his body and spoke,
“I wholehearted take you as my son and name you Ganesha, the elephant-headed. I bestow you with qualities of unsurpassable wisdom and sturdy temperament. You shall be summoned by devotees at the onset of new ventures and initiatives. Your presence shall keep the patrons reminded of your qualities, of how steadfastness and perseverance are helpful to clear the vighans (challenges) that fall on the path of action.”
In this manner, Lord Shiva and Mata Parvati birthed Lord Ganapati. Since then Lord Ganesh is worshipped before all Gods at the initiation of any enterprise.
SYMBOLISM
Lord Ganesh is portrayed as holding a sweet, a ladoo or modak, symbolic of the blessing of sweetness and affluence in life, the other hand is showing a palm, symbolic of reassurance that everything will eventually come to you. In another, he holds a lotus, representing Mother Nature and in the fourth holding his broken tusk symbolic of a weapon to pierce and dig into the problem. His vaahan is a rat, yet again symbolic of problem-solving ability. Just as a rat although not fast and ferocious is acclaimed for chipping away the problem by biting it away rigorously. The rat is also able to reach deep down into the ground and can reach high up the mountains. Considered as people’s God, he is aptly called ‘Ganesha’.
Rani Durgavati placed her sword and shield on the takht and raised her palm to send away the sipahis for privacy with her father, King Keerat Rai Shalavahan, at Kalinjar Fort in, Uttar Pradesh.
“He may be a Gond, a tribal by birth. But Dalpat Shah is a Kshatriya by deeds. His valour and political moves speak of his remarkable statesmanship. He is the only King who has been able to keep the Mughals under control, checking their spread towards South India. He fiercely guards his territory, showing those invaders their place. I have also seen his knightly demeanour in many competitions, he impresses me; he is worthy of a Rajput princess’s consort. I see no better marriage match for myself, Baba Hukum!
Durgavati tried to convince her father as well as tacitly announce her decision to marry the ruler of Gondwana land, Dalpat Shah. King Keerat Rai, standing before the life-size portrait of his late wife, intently listened to his daughter. Simultaneously, he recalled his wife’s last words before her death,
“She shall have her will to marry as per her choice. Raise her to be an independent Rajput princess. Promise me! You will allow her to choose her life partner.”
Durgavati was only five years old when her mother died. Her father had raised her as a competent warrior and a free-willed girl, well-versed with armoury knowledge, horse riding, archery and sword skills. Since her early years, she displayed an inclination towards learning political and military aspects of the empire. She often pestered her teachers to narrate and explain the political set up in the epic Mahabharata and Lanka Kand of Ramayana. She would act stubbornly to accompany her father on hunting expeditions. He was always left surprised by her outstanding hunting strategy and markswoman skills. She loved to hear him and being patted,
“You are a true Rajput. You know how to kill an enemy and how to save yourself.”
A Political alliance between the Gond Dynasty and the Rajputs.
And now, despite raising her as an independent, free-spirited young woman, when she was proposing to marry somebody of her choice, a king from the Gond tribe, he wasn’t in her favour. Just because he belonged to an inferior tribe. But soon reminded of his promise to the dying wife, he gave in to his daughter’s decision and nodded for the marriage. Marriage between a Rajput princess and a Gond ruler also announced a political alliance between the Rajputana and Gondwana dynasties. It was a remarkable move in the history of both the dynasties. Durgavati sat on the queen’s throne beside Dalpat Shah. The latter’s initial hesitation in accepting a Rajput queen soon disappeared by her warmth towards the locals. Dalpat Shah was mesmerized by the beauty of the Rani and amazed by her intelligent views and opinions on socio-political affairs of the kingdom. They both romanticized their goals of resisting the Mughals who were rapidly spreading their empire across India. She absorbed everything from her husband on how to efficiently run an empire. Blissfully their marriage bloomed, and soon they were blessed with a son. Grand celebrations were held across the Gondwana lands at the birth of the heir. They named him Veer Narayan. Durgavati now became thoroughly engaged in raising a worthy heir. Noticing her engrossed in her new phase of motherhood, Dalpat Shah would often mock her,
“It seems my beautiful Rani has lost herself to this innocent cherub. My heart and the courtroom miss you. Spare your time for us also sometimes. I am beginning to get envious of him now.”
And they both would burst into laughter as their eyes filled with dreams of their son’s future as the next ruler of a prosperous Gondwana empire.
In the wee hours of one morning, Dalpat Shah was all dressed to leave for a hunting expedition. Durgavati came forward to hand him his sword. As she rested the sword in his hands, it lost balance and fell down with a thud. The hard metal noise echoed loudly in the hall. Dalpat Shah immediately lifted it and graced it with a forehead touch. With a loving touch on Durgavati’s head and Veer Narayan’s cheek, he left. The bad omen of the sword’s dropping played at the back of her mind all day. It was late midnight, Durgavati restlessly paced in the chamber, for the Maharaja was never so late in his return. As she looked through the Jharokha below, she saw that the mashaals that were dimmed were now burning bright, and many soldiers were running around frantically. Just then a maid and minister barged in
“Maharani, Maharaja has been injured badly. He lost his balance from the horse and fell into a hole in the forest. He is in the Aarogyashala.”
Why Rani Durgavati had to take up the regency of the Gond Dynasty?
Although a Kshatriya Queen, Durgavati had never experienced this much fear in her life. Intuitively she had already known what was coming. She rushed into the shala and to her horror, she saw that Dalpat Shah had collapsed to the severe head injuries. She stayed in a state of shock for months. All that she repeated to herself was,
“Why do all my loved ones leave me so early?”
As she looked at her toddler son, Veer Narayana, her heart wept even more. She turned into a living corpse.
One day while she sat alone, looking distantly at the far lands, their royal ministers, Adhar Kayastha and Man Thakur walked in, “Maharani! There is an urgency that demands your attention. We are surrounded by Mughals from three sides, our empty throne has become an available invitation for them. Our spies have brought in the news that Baz Bahadur of Malwa is soon planning an attack on us. The empty throne is inviting invaders, Maharani! Until our heir, Veer Narayan reaches a suitable age, you will have to take up the regency. And that too immediately.”
Why Rani Durgavati shifted the capital from Singorgarh Fort to Chauraghar Fort?
The news of Mughal’s plan to usurp their land sent her blood boiling. For months she was lost in her misery, unable to foresee the consequences the death of her husband had brought in. She left for her chamber without a word. Her anger flowed through her tears as she stood before Dalpat Shah’s portrait. She stood there for a long time as if preparing herself for a big leap. Without wasting any time, she announced herself as the regent. She dressed as a Maharani once again, this time the persona spoke of a military regent, her eyes stone hard and focused. She held Veer Narayana’s hand and regally walked into the hall of ministers for addressing her court. As a first political move, she announced the shift of their capital from Singorgarh to Chauraghar Fort. The announcement sent the hall buzzing with confusion. She explained,
“We shall shift to Chauraghar for its highly strategic location. This shall announce it to our enemies that our land is not weak, vulnerable to an invasion. It’s located over the hill-top amidst the dense Satpura forest, making it hard for any enemy to attack and conquer it. Also, we must immediately prepare our cavalry to meet Baaz Bahdur’s attack. I am sure he is coming soon.”
Her political moves convinced the ministers and the Gondwana people of her astute abilities as a ruler. In unison, they nodded in approval.
“Jai Bhavani!”
Rani Durgavati raised her sword of victory over Baaz Bahadur for the third time. His repeated attacks were answered hands down by the Gond ruler. By now the Mughal ruler had received a clear message that Gond was not an available land for invasion and that the brave Rani Durgavati was an avatar of Goddess Durga herself. Since she took up the post as a regent in 1550, Durgavati had not just resisted his attacks but had caused his army much loss.
Rani Durgavati stood watching her people celebrate their victory with dancing, music and lavish feast. She pampered her warriors well with ample rewards. In the span of 6 years as a ruler she had earned much respect not just from the Gonds but from other dynasties as well. She truly personified the statement that a female ruler is just as capable as a male one. As part of the celebration, the tribe came together and sang her praises. The women heaped accolades on their queen for building several reservoirs for sufficient water supply, thus saving their labour and offering respite from drier days. A group of farmers came forward and shared the story of her immense courage in hunting and getting rid of a man-eating lion. Unlike most rulers, she didn’t just rule from the throne but also treaded in the streets. She was an approachable administrator who empathized with the woes and needs of the common Gondwana people. The praja revered their ruler as a Goddess.
************
Mohammad Akbar accompanied by his council of ministers strolled in the Mughal garden, as they exchanged the news from around Hindustan.
“Jahanpanah! Baz Bahadur’s third attempt to invade Gondwana has resulted in his bitter, shameful defeat yet again. The Gondwana dynasty is growing prosperously under a Janana (female) regent, Rani Durgavati,” informed one of the ministers.
“Isn’t she the same Rajput rani under whom the artistic sculptures of Khajuraho and Kalinjar Forts are sculpted?” confirmed Akbar.
“Yes, Jahanpanah!”
“Plan an immediate attack on Baaz Bahadur. I shall address the court on the same tomorrow in Diwan-e-khaas,”
Akbar commanded, beaming with the announcement. Victory over Baaz Bahadur was like eating a piece of cake for the Shehansha of Hindustan. The trumpet of Akbar’s rule over Malwa was heard far and wide.
“How do you have the audacity to suggest an alliance with that Muslim, Asaf Khan? Fearing Akbar, you are seeking security under the shelter of another Muslim. Have you lost your mind completely, Addhar Kayastha?” Rani Durga retorted in disbelief.
Durgavati knew Akbar’s intent behind usurping Malwa. His eyes lay on their prosperous Gondwana land, which shared its territory with Malwa. He also held grudges against them since the Mughals were always kept under the thumb by the Gond ancestors. His proximity was certainly a major threat to them now.
“Call for a meeting with our most trusted ministers. I am certain Akbar will come for us soon. We shall have our defence ready. Make sure no information leaks out. Also, make an announcement to the people in the whole region that their land needs them. Gather all men and prepare them to join the army and fight. We shall arrange our camp in the Narrai Valley. If Akbar is superior with artillery and infantry, we shall counter him with our navigation skills in the dense forest. Our Gond people understand the region well. And that shall be our strength. Let’s go and access our cavalry!”
Durgavati immediately got to action. Veer Narayan, her now adolescent son followed her. He bore a stark resemblance to his late father, Dalpat Shah. His valour and learning skills spoke of a rich gene pool of Rajputs and Gonds. In spite of Durgavati’s resistance, he had declared his will to fight in the battle against Akbar. Headed by their army chief, the Gond soldiers built a camp at Narai Nala. The location was highly strategic as it was situated between hilly range on one side and Gaur and Narmada River on the other, offering just a small opening to the valley. Durgavati’s plan was executed immediately. The locals guarded the valley with hideouts in the forest area of the hills and the tribes watched their river water. The opening was protected with a good number of soldiers equipped with artillery. As predicted, Akbar’s army attacked uninformed. They underestimated the Gonds; their attack was countered from three sides. The chief succeeded in defeating their attack, making them retreat. Though the army chief lost his life battling them, the win boosted the confidence of the Gondwana army.
In the tent, Durgavati was planning the strategy with Veer Narayan, Man Thakur and Adhar Kayastha.
“It’s a huge loss to have lost our most able army chief. With no further argument, it is decided that I shall lead the army now. I shall make Akbar’s army taste my attack. Let’s attack them today itself at night. The darkness and their unpreparedness will benefit us,” Durgavati announced, oozing confidence.
Sensing that their Maharani looked over-confident and less reasonable, they retaliated,
“We could offer a successful defence because we were prepared and guarded on the sides. But walking into their camp at night would simply be a reckless move. Given their kind of artillery and a huge army, it’s like walking into the arms of death. We suggest we play defence and not attack.”
Veer Narayana also nodded to their minister’s reasoning. Having lost her chief, Durgavati didn’t want to lose the confidence of her ministers, so she complied with their advice. Next day, Akbar’s army attacked again. This time with ten times the number of soldiers and with artillery the Gonds had never even seen before. The sight of Akbar’s massive army shook the hearts of Durgavati’s army. Seated on her elephant, Sarman, with Veer Narayana on her side, she thundered,
“Let those Mughal beasts know that the Gondwana land is treaded by brave hearts. Show them the power of our might. Strike to kill! Jai Bhavani!”
They marched forward. Within a few hours, as Durgavati massacred many soldiers, her son Veer Narayana followed her with equal might, slaying whoever fell in his path. The Mughal army chief knew where he had to strike to weaken Durgavati. He surrounded young Veer Narayana with his soldiers. Veer Narayana lost his life fighting them. The sight of his dead body paralyzed Durgavati. The heart of a warrior transformed and weakened in motherly sentiments. Her grip on the sword loosened as her eyes moistened with tears.
“Fight Maharani! Look straight! Tighten your grip and strike!” yelled Man Thakur from a distance. He could see her losing her senses. Before she could regain her strength and mind, an arrow pierced her neck and ear. She began bleeding profusely.
“We must retreat Maharani! Shall I take you back to the camp?” proposed her mahout as he saw her losing her consciousness.
“We must retreat Maharani!” Man Thakur and Adhar Kayastha shouted in unison.
With no reaction to their words, Durgavati looked at her son’s body. Her hand reached to the dagger hanging on the left side of her waist. With one sharp move, she stabbed herself with a loud shout,
“Rajput blood never accepts defeat!”
With those last words, she died. She chose to honour her own death than live under the Mughal rule. Although Akbar took over the land, the region followed her way of administration and the people of Gondwana worshipped her as an avatar of Goddess Durga. History glorifies her name in gold – as a brave legendary queen of the Gondwana land.
