Chapter 13-

When I look at my peers, friends, colleagues, cousins and brothers, I realize what a dullard I am. They carouse together, they go out whoring, they are lively and full of fun and pranks. I would like to join them once in a while but am rarely invited since I am prematurely serious, and would very likely dampen their high spirits. But I am a plodder in other ways too. Even my elders find me a bore and a little too earnest. War is fun and games for them. They dress up, wax their moustaches, ride their steeds and charge blindly. They kill or get killed. Life is simple and far more exciting that way.

War is not my favourite pastime. I would resort to it only under exceptional provocation or if, after thorough planning, I was going for the big kill. The fact is, in the long run, most wars lead nowhere but back to where you started. If I am to fight, I want to make major and if possible, lasting changes in our political geography and fortunes. Otherwise I would rather sit at home and be at peace with my neighbours. I like to prepare myself before a confrontation. I need to do my homework. I want to know every single detail and fact I can lay my hands on about the enemy: the monarch, his generals and his army. I want to learn their likes and dislikes, peccadilloes and predilections; their mental make-up, their previous campaigns, what they eat, their notions of hardship, their sleeping habits and any other trivia you can think of. Most of all, I’m interested in finding out how they think. What about contenders and pretenders to the throne? Why fight if you can help along a civil war and get someone else to do all the fighting for you? If internal jealousies and power equations are germane to the final outcome of any war and need to be exploited, it is just as relevant to know the state of mind of the ordinary citizenry. Are the common people tired of conflict or supportive? What was the harvest like in the current year and in the previous three? Not just the state of the economy, trade, too, has an indirect but very substantial bearing on the enemy’s – or for that matter, our own – capacity to fight a long war. None of these propositions are very original but I am perplexed by how reluctant most strategists and military commanders are to follow even the most basic principles of preparing for war. I’ll grant you this, collecting information, more precisely reliable information, is laborious, time-consuming and a bore. Besides it’s effective only if it’s done in a sustained manner. Imagine studying the enemy’s economic, political and military abilities for months, sometimes years when all that the decisive battle itself will take is three, five or seven hours at the most.

I have had such short notice this time, I feel particularly at a disadvantage. A fine way to assume the reins of command for my very first campaign. How am I going to lead my men if I don’t know the lay of the land, let alone anything else? I’m not even too sure why we are fighting the war with Gujarat over Idar. I’m exaggerating of course. But the reasons are emotional and tenuous rather than political, economic or strategic. My sister’s husband Raimul has a claim to the Idar throne but is rarely seated on it. Idar is a ball in perpetual motion between Gujarat and Mewar. Sometimes it is with us and sometimes, with Gujarat. How did Idar get to be so fickle and inconstant? You’ll have to do a bit of back-tracking to the time when Prince Bahadur’s great-great-grandfather, I am not too sure about the number of ‘greats’ there, Sultan Muhammad, was in power. Idar had for some time been a thorn in Gujarat’s hilly western frontier and none too forthcoming with its stipulated tribute. Matters, however, became a little tricky when Har Rao, the chief of Idar realized that if he shilly-shallied any longer, Sultan Muhammad might just snap up Idar whole. He then did what was most uncharacteristic for a Rajput ruler. He bought his way out of the quandary by offering his daughter’s hand in marriage to the Sultan.

The matrimonial alliance bought peace for Idar for a few generations until Raimul became Rao of Idar. But soon after he came to the throne, the young Rao was deposed by his uncle Bhim. Raimul took refuge in Chittor and married my sister.

Meanwhile, Rao Bhim embarked on a policy of confrontation with Gujarat. He stopped paying tribute, raised the standard of rebellion and plundered Gujarat east of the river Sabarmati. Not a wise move that. Bahadur’s father, Muzaffar II, was the Sultan now. The wrath of Muzaffar was the thin, long blade of a scythe that swept across Idar as if it were the tall, brittle yellow grass of autumn. The Gujarat armies sacked the capital of Idar, laid low temples and buildings and ravaged the country. Rao Bhim paid a heavy price for his little adventure. It took twenty lakh tankas, and one hundred elephants to appease Sultan Muzaffar.

Two years later, Rao Bhim was dead and his son Bharmal succeeded to the throne. Things had come full circle: Bharmal’s accession was challenged by his cousin-in-exile, Raimul. When Father sent a strong force to support his son-in-law, Bharmal approached the man who had rubbed Idar’s nose in the dust, the Sultan of Gujarat. That, in short, is how we got embroiled with Gujarat.

We had ridden hard for days and were finally at the border. I asked Mangal to see to Bahadur’s needs including provisions, water or whatever else he required and to let him and his friends go. Mangal came back with a message: would the Maharaj Kumar be so kind as to give Prince Bahadur a brief audience?

‘It does not behoove a prince of the royal blood to regret his actions. I do not. But I am sorry that I will no longer have you as a friend. You were a better host than I could ever have imagined. I owe you my life, not once but twice over. It is a debt that I’ll never be able to repay. There’s much that I or anybody else has to learn from you. I’m not blind, Your Highness. You are the loneliest man I know. No slander nor ridicule can touch you because you do not let the personal affect your professional life. It is in the latter sphere that I respect you most. I doubt if you’ll ever be a popular king when it is time for you to ascend the throne, because you do not know how to make unpopular measures palatable.

‘You’ve taught me that sewers are a subject worthy of a prince’s attention. Shit, they say, is your element. If I gain the throne, some day in the distant future, I’ll take it as a compliment if my subjects say the same about me. I’ll not embarrass you further. All these years I had believed that money was a royal privilege and it was the duty of the king to spend it. I now know that to become king, one must master money. Economics and commerce, you’ve taught me, are more important than war and victory.

‘I will not wish you well on this campaign but Godspeed and may God be with you. Khuda hafeez.’

‘Where will you go Prince?’

‘My brother Sikander seeks my head. I would rather keep it on my shoulders. I fly to Delhi, Your Highness.’

‘Goodbye, Prince. I was serious about peace with Gujarat.’

‘I know you still are. It took me a long time to realize it.’

Father. Why do I feel like a greenhorn at his first job interview? Perhaps it’s because he’s behaving like a king and employer and has kept me waiting in the antechamber of his sprawling tent for the last fifteen minutes. It’s a good ploy. Makes the subordinate nervous as hell, his mind runs amok and his imagination works feverishly. Am I out of favour? Did I say anything to upset the great man? Have any of my actions in the last twenty-seven or thirty or hundred years given him offence? (Or perhaps I earned his enmity while I was still in Mother’s womb.) Perhaps someone’s been telling tales behind my back. I could see it in the sentry’s eyes, I’m bad news and no one wants me.

Good tactic, that. Let the arrogant son-of-an-untimely screw stew in his own juice. These youngsters think they own the earth including their elders. Best to take them down a peg or two before they get completely out of hand. By now I’m really getting into stride, doing a piteous number that would make stones weep: you never loved me, Father. Where my soul was, there’s a void and scar tissue.

But all my tomfoolery can’t conceal my anxiety about this meeting. I have not exactly had a run of great good luck in my time as regent, have I? What with a prince of the royal family, Father’s very own son Vikramaditya committing treason, and now Bahadur killing Lakshman Simhaji’s son, Rajendra. Lakshman Simha is Father’s closest ally and confidant and oldest friend. All this is bad enough but I can weather it. It’s just so much inert fuel till you introduce the mother of all inflammatory substances into the scenario: Queen Karmavati. We’ve ridden almost non-stop. We’ve halted for barely a few hours at night and stopped to eat and let the horses graze. I have goaded everybody on in the hope that no one but I will break the news of Rajendra’s murder. But I know it’s a futile attempt. I’ll bet Queen Karmavati’s man’s been here before me and Father’s already heard.

I’m called in. I’m right about the Queen’s man but wrong about Father deliberately keeping me waiting. The surgeon’s been with him dressing his new crop of wounds. I wonder how he holds his water or blood or any other fluid. The man should be a veritable fountain with close to a hundred spouts all over his body. Why he has to be in every charge or fray is anybody’s guess. Is it arrogance, megalomania or is it fear? Fear is a strange and, perhaps, the last word that would occur to anybody in speaking of Father. But Father is afraid as no other man in Mewar or anywhere else on earth is. He has been afraid from the day his brothers chased him from Charni Devi’s temple. He’s afraid someone will call him a coward because he didn’t make a stand while his deracinated eye swung like the flesh and seed of a custard apple from his eye-socket, and fight his brothers. Somewhere deep in his heart Father subscribes blindly to the Rajput code of heroism and honour and is ashamed that he did not die an utterly pointless death.

We are face to face finally. He embraced me briefly and awkwardly; I was going to say reluctantly, but that would be incorrect. Awkwardness is what binds father and son together. For I am perhaps even more ill at ease with him than he is with me. I love him dearly and don’t know how to express it and so make all kinds of wisecracks about him to myself. I give him a short, succinct account of the major actions I have taken and the events which have overtaken me since his absence. I do not stint on the unpleasant bits, neither do I wallow in them. He listens impassively, but not irritably or with hostility. At the end of it I am none the wiser. I hope he is. Does he approve, disapprove or is he indifferent? Did I behave and act responsibly? How would he have responded had he been in my situation? What now? I need to have an answer to these and a few million other questions urgently, desperately. I know he’ll not let on, now or ever. He doesn’t disappoint me. What about Vikramaditya, what are his plans for him? Here, too, I can guess his game plan. He’ll play his cards close to his chest and I’ll know his mind and his moves only when the rest of Mewar discovers them.

‘We have been away for months on this campaign. On a couple of occasions we’ve given the Gujarat forces a drubbing. To what effect? Muzaffar Shah has changed the command of his armies from one general to another and our son-in-law, Rao Raimul’s morale has certainly taken a turn for the better. That’s about it. We can’t stay here forever. Neither can we post our armies here permanently. I want a decision. You are the one who has new ideas. Give us a decisive victory, son. Let Idar revert to its rightful owner and let us move on to other pressing matters.’

I did not speak. ‘I like the work you have been doing on our water and sewer systems. I’ll go back and study the plans and then together, you and I will take a decision. So you have reservations about a decisive victory?’ I should have known better. He had diverted my attention only to get me into a corner. I had not uttered a word but he had interpreted my silence rightly. There was no point mincing matters now.

‘May I speak frankly, Father?’

‘Better be blunt now than when it’s too late to retrieve the situation.’

‘If you want to get a decision on Idar, you’ll have to take Gujarat first, Father.’

‘You mean take on Gujarat?’

‘No, Father. I said what I meant. We have been taking on Gujarat for years. And where’s it got us?’

‘You are serious about this, aren’t you?’ He was not posing that as a question.

‘I am not proposing that we attack Gujarat. I am merely clarifying the precondition for getting Idar for good.’

‘Supposing I agree with you, what would you propose?’

‘I would suggest we do our homework carefully. I’m taking it for granted for the time being that whatever the costs, we’ll win against Gujarat. But is Gujarat worth the trouble, expense and the death-count? Or, all things considered would it be less expensive, less trouble and far more profitable to attack the Delhi Sultanate which is in an advanced state of decay and decadence? Or are we missing something south and south-west of us? I am, as you are aware, talking of our other neighbour in Malwa, Mahmud Khalji. Muzaffar Shah of Gujarat is a strong, active and dynamic ruler. Mahmud Khalji is weak and vacillating and possessed of little beyond personal bravery. Besides, we could exploit his troubles with his Prime Minister, Medini Rai.’

‘And you think the time is ripe to strike?’

‘No, Father. It’s time to plan and form a strong and indivisible confederacy of Rajput and other like-minded interests under your leadership. The only reason the Sultan of Gujarat has not fought with and annexed Malwa is because it’s a Muslim kingdom. If we attempt to take Malwa, we must move with care and yet suddenly. We don’t want Gujarat joining hands with Malwa.’

‘I had forgotten how deep still waters run, son. I had not realized that your ambition had taken the form of such clear long-term planning.’

‘We are kings before we are warriors. Which is why it is our task to have a vision first. And then a policy to translate that vision into reality. Whatever ambitions I have, Your Majesty, are for Mewar.’

Did he believe me?

‘Take back Idar. Talk to me when you return. You’ll have plenty of time to consider the various options and make your recommendations then.’ He rose and the brief meeting was at an end. I bent down and touched his feet. His hand brushed my head and in an uncharacteristic gesture, ruffled my hair. ‘May the blessings of Lord Eklingji be upon you.’

‘Is there anything special you wish me to bear in mind about the Gujarat army?’

‘The key to it is their commander, Malik Ayaz. He’s a Russian by birth and was taken into slavery by the Turks. Eventually he became the ward of a merchant who presented him to Muzaffar Shah’s grandfather, I think. He’s bright, ambitious and has a chip on his shoulder. He has had to work twice, if not thrice as hard to move up from being a slave to a free man and then to his current position as one of the most trusted generals of the Gujarat Sultan. He has more at stake than any other general in Gujarat, or Mewar for that matter. He needs to prove himself and the rightness of Sultan Muzaffar’s choice of him. The other generals look down upon him and would be only too happy to see him fall and may even help to trip him. Somewhat overeager, he has the recent convert’s excessive zealousness. A good commander.’

Father is laconic beyond words. He would literally eschew words if he could. He had said more to me today than he had spoken in all these years put together. He has a knack of zeroing in on the pivotal issue in any discussion. Having thrown a brief beam of light on a subject, it is his policy to withdraw.

There was one more occasion when we met. It was the march-past on the morning he left. He and I together took the salute and then he officially handed over charge of the command to me. The minor and major raos and rajas and rawals including my brother-in-law Raimul, the Rao of Idar, were all gathered at the farewell breakfast. Father was about to bite into a samosa when he lowered it. It was one of his quaint or deliberate quirks, no one knew which, that everybody was familiar with. It suggested in the most polite and indirect of ways that he had something on his mind and it might be well worth everybody’s time and effort to listen carefully to him.

‘Almost everybody here,’ he said in his hoarse whisper, ‘is older and wiser than my son. You have seen more monsoons and seasons, more wars and have far more experience than him. All this will be invaluable to him. I advise him to make use of these resources. I have one thought to share about him with you and then I’ll leave. Don’t go by his years. You are in good hands. Jai Eklingji.’

I spent the day conferring with the elders and the heads of state whose advice Father had asked me to take. Some I was meeting for the first time, others I knew well from childhood or had worked under on other campaigns. But I was the commander-in-chief now and like the Gujarat commander, Malik Ayaz, I too had to prove myself twice over. I introduced them to my Bhil friend, King Puraji Kika and to my cousin, Tej. Bringing Tej along with me was a politic move. As Rajendra’s brother, his presence did not fail to impress them. But both Puraji and I knew that he was my biggest gamble. It was not his loyalty to Mewar that was in doubt, his opinion of me was. He thought I was a coward and a blackguard. We had a little under fifty thousand cavalry and infantry with us. Rao Ganga of Jodhpur had brought a contingent of seven thousand and my wife’s uncle, Rao Viramdev of Merta, one of Father’s closest associates, had come at the head of five thousand. Rawal Udai Simha of the state of Dungarpur and Ashwin Simha, the ruler of Banswara were both fighting under Mewar’s standard with small armies of their own. Even without the hundred-odd elephants, we were not an unimpressive force and were well matched with the Gujarat troops which according to Rao Viramdeo were in the region of sixty thousand.

Malik Ayaz had four deputies under him, all of them seasoned commanders who had fought our armies on several occasions. I asked Rao Ganga if he could compile detailed profiles of them, along with Malik Ayaz’s, especially their previous battles and the strategies they had used. He was not sure what purpose they would serve but he was willing to oblige me.

‘How many Mussalmans in our armies?’

‘Under seven hundred, not counting the fifty you brought with you,’ Rao Viramdev informed me. ‘They are good fighters and loyal to us, I assure you.’

‘That is not the reason for my question. Is it possible to augment their numbers without compromising our security and safety?’

‘How many would you want?’

‘Five thousand would be a good number. For the time being two thousand will do.’

‘We are better off without them.’ That was Tej’s first remark of the session.

‘If I could, I would get Adinathji’s Jains to fight with us. Fortunately our Muslim citizens are not pacifists. They’ll only be too happy to do their bit for their country.’ Tej could barely conceal his contempt for me. ‘But there is another reason. We would like to avoid, if possible, Malik Ayaz or his sovereign, Muzaffar Shah converting this war into a jehad against the infidels. They may do it regardless, but it will be difficult to sustain their case if we had a substantial number of Muslims fighting on our side.’

As a matter of fact, I, too, had my doubts. Was having more Muslims in our forces really going to scotch the fanatical and incredibly effective appeal of Muzaffar Shah or any Muslim potentate to go after the kafir? I had spent sleepless nights in the past wondering how to combat such a potent call to arms. The truth is, I know of nothing in our scriptures which could compare with the motivation and power of Islam. We, too, could and do fight holy wars but there’s no mechanism for conversion in our religion. The urge to convert is, definitely, one of the driving forces of Islam.

Our greatest call to war is the Bhagavad Gita. And what does the Gita say? Fight the war or perform the duties of your vocation, whatever they may be, but without thinking of the fruits and consequences of your actions. Compare this with what Islam codifies and spells out in the most precise and factual manner. If you die fighting for your God, you go directly to heaven where houris and other vividly-described indescribable pleasures await you.

What is the afterlife the Gita offers? For the great mass of us unenlightened souls, there’s nothing but an endless cycle of reincarnation. Unless we deliver certainties in the afterlife and be specific about the preternatural joys which await those who fulfil their duties, I doubt if we will be able to match a Muslim’s zeal or commitment. It is a wonder then that Hindus win as many wars as they do.

I sent for Shafi Khan, our Muslim strategist from the military academy. He entered hesitantly. His first encounter with me had not gone well and it was obviously still on his mind. He did adaab to me, then to the rest of the Council and stood wondering how he had fallen foul of me now. I pulled out my sword suddenly. The sound of unsheathing would have jangled a dead man’s nerves. I pointed the sword at Shafi Khan and switched it from hand to hand.

‘We plan to kill you now, Shafi,’ I said softly to him. ‘How would you run?’

‘For what offence, sire?’ He was shaking.

‘Because I don’t like your face.’ I raised the sword. ‘Answer me.’

‘You expect me to retreat and leave by the regular parting in the shamiana from where I came in,’ he was on to the game I was playing. ‘Instead I’ll run to my right, kill Rawal Udai Simha and Tej Simha if they come in my way, but only if they force me to. I’ll then tear open the side of the tent and flee.’

‘Why not to your left?’

‘It would be risky to take on Rao Viramdev and Rao Ganga.’

‘And you think I’ll be easy to get rid of?’ Tej was incensed. ‘Try me.’

‘You have a bad temper. I’m counting on it to help you make mistakes. As to Rawal Udai Simha, I would never venture against him when he’s on horseback. Standing, he has a wooden leg. It’s a weakness I’ll exploit to my advantage.’

‘How far has your treatise on the science of retreat come, Shafi Khan?’

‘Halfway, Maharaj Kumar.’

I needed to enlighten my companions about our private conversation.

‘Shafi Khan has spent the last fifteen years studying and innovating war strategies. I believe Father used one of them in the last battle he fought here. I have set a different task for Shafi Khan. To work out strategies of retreat.’

Rao Viramdev was, as almost always, the first to get my drift. ‘That makes a lot of sense. We lose more men while falling back than while fighting.’

‘Extend your right thumb, Shafi Khan.’ I passed the blade of my sword over it. I dipped my thumb in the large bead of blood that had welled up and put a red tilak on his forehead and then on mine. ‘I hereby appoint you member of the War Council for this campaign. Do you, Shafi Khan, on pain of death, swear to total secrecy and allegiance to the kingdom of Mewar and none other?’

‘I do, your Highness.’

After lunch Raja Puraji Kika, Tej, Shafi Khan and I went with Rao Raimul to get a feel of the lay of the land. We were about seventy miles north-west of Idar. While it was mostly hilly, some of it was densely wooded. The ground rose and fell steeply. One last treacherous dip in the land and we were on a plain that stretched for a couple of miles to the north.

‘What’s at the edge of the flatland?’ I asked Rao Raimul.

‘Valleys, hills and forests. To the west, the country is mostly deceptive quagmires and marshes. They are a legacy of the earthquake which churned up and displaced the inland seas three years ago.’

‘Let’s go west and then skirt around the sands.’

The Rao and I rode ahead. Puraji Kika and the other two followed.

‘You don’t think Idar is worth fighting for, I believe,’ my brother-in-law, the displaced Rao of Idar said bitterly. ‘When do you plan to abandon the pretense and give up on Idar?’

‘The trouble with appointing stupid spies to do a job, Rao Raimul, is not that they misinform you but that you trust them.’ I was curt and cutting with the Rao. ‘So that’s what made you sulky and silent this morning. If you were not married to my sister and if this war wasn’t being fought on your behalf, I would have you suspended from the War Council for eavesdropping on His Majesty. What I said to the Rana is none of your concern but I will tell you what the Rana said to me in the hope that you may behave a little more responsibly. He said, “Win Idar and then come back”.’

‘I beg your pardon, Maharaj Kumar. I beg you not to hold it against me. You know how much I respect you. I would never do anything to upset you. I’ll sack that spy as soon as I return. I’ll have him whipped for slandering you.’

‘Restrain yourself, Rao Raimul. Your apologies are worse than your accusations against me. And before you whip your eavesdropper, ask yourself who gave him the assignment.’

I slowed down and waited for the others to join us. I did not wish to hear any more of the Rao’s talk. The hills and valleys proved to be almost a replica of the land we had traversed when we started out. We changed course quickly and rode towards the quagmires. They stretched for at least a mile and a half and, but for the Rao’s warnings, we would have blithely entered them. Raja Puraji Kika and I dragged a heavy branch weighing as much as a normal man and threw it as far in as we could. It fell about eight feet from us. In a few moments, it had been sucked out of sight.

The next morning, I rode before sunrise to the tallest hillock nearby to get a panoramic view of the bits and pieces we had seen yesterday. For ten minutes the sealed ball of the night would not let in the light except at the razor-thin line of the horizon. Then the sun broke through and flooded the undulating land. Violet and purple were the colours of the sun’s waters and they rose in the sky in alternate bands. Soon the waters had commingled and deep red wine lapped at the edge of the earth. I looked to my right. Malik Ayaz’s armies were falling into place on the plain. Oh, what a sight it is to see a disciplined army do its work with precision. Malik Ayaz, you didn’t waste any time. The only way to greet the enemy is to catch him napping. I swept down into our camp and asked Mangal to have the leaders of the War Council in my tent in five minutes. What would have happened if I had not been atop that knoll this morning? I’m not talking about a stationary and unprepared army being an easy target for a massacre. Quite the contrary. My question is very different: what if we had not turned up to face the Gujarat armies? Would Malik Ayaz have waited four hours and then gone back in disgust? Would he have advanced? Would he have sent a message to us asking us whether we planned to join him in battle? Would he have assumed that Gujarat had won an unconditional victory? Would he have been confused and irritable and his armies bored and hungry and dispirited after a pointless wait? What is the secret and unspoken covenant between warring armies? It’s not as if they have decided to meet at an appointed time like trysting lovers or duelists meeting to settle matters of personal honour. Who decides the time? Why do both armies range themselves against each other? What if one or both of them decided they don’t want to fight that day because the general has got a cold or because the niece of one of the soldiers has eloped with a brigand and she needs to be brought back and brought to her senses? What if one of the parties does not care for the site or the angle of the sun in their eyes? Why do we feel honour-bound to fight that very day at that very time? What would have been the outcome of the great decisive wars if one of the armies had stayed put in its camp or chosen to wait at a different site of its own choosing?

Rao Viramdev, Rao Ganga, Rao Udai Simha, Raja Puraji Kika are old hands and so are their troops. They know the tricks of the trade and they don’t get fazed easily. They have seen too many wars and there’s not much that surprises them. Perhaps our Rajput ancestors knew a thing or two about fighting the Afghan hordes who came down the Hindukush mountain passes which other Hindu rajas didn’t. Their antidote to the Muslim passion for jehad was to glorify death in war to the point where any other mode of dying was a lesser form of life and close to dishonourable.

We fought well, all fifty thousand of our warriors. But on the enemy’s terms. By noon we had lost seven hundred and fifty men.

It was then that I took the fateful decision which has put all the raos and the elders in such a dudgeon with me and earned me the obloquy of all our armed forces. Rao Viramdev refuses to speak to me while Rao Udai Simha can scarce restrain his contumely. Raja Puraji Kika tells me that the budding poets in the army are busy composing limericks about the cuckold and coward.

I guess my first act and crime set the tone for what followed. I was not at the head of the troops at the outset and I did not lead the first charge. I wanted to but what I wanted more was to get a feel for how the different contingents from Mewar and its protectorates worked together and to observe Malik Ayaz’s game plan from some elevated place. The right time to have done this was halfway through the battle but that, as any urchin in the streets of Chittor will tell you, is inconceivable. The troops think you are mortally wounded if you disappear and there’s chaos and pandemonium leading, more often than not, to a rout. God knows I was unsure of myself but I decided to take my chances and I informed the War Council of my intentions. They were not pleased. They distrusted my new-fangled ideas. I was showing off, they didn’t say that, but implied it. This one time, however, they were willing to indulge me. Except for Raja Puraji Kika. ‘Don’t do it, Highness,’ he told me in front of the entire Council.

Malik Ayaz, I discovered from my position on the hill, had arranged his armies with precision following proven classical strategies. He had chosen his ground well, so that the sun was behind his troops and straight in the eyes of our army. He was a meticulous man, yet not conservative as he had shown by his wily move to engage us on the heels of Father’s departure and while we were still getting our bearings. A man to respect and not take chances with. His elephant was tucked in an inconspicuous place and there was a clutch of twenty dispatch riders waiting at his side. They brought him news from the different divisions and he sent instructions to them as the battle progressed and the patterns of attack and defence changed.

We were at the height of the melee now, two battering rams trying to crack the other’s defences. It looked like a deadlock, neither side willing to give an inch. If only we could continue to hold our ground, we could, in time, neutralize the Gujarat army’s advantage. But I knew even then that I was fantasizing. Mewar, Merta, Jodhpur, Banswara, Dungarpur were all putting up a terrific front but they were pulling in different directions because we were not one army but many different units ranged on the same side. True, we were united by common sympathies and loyalties. But when did sympathy win a war? I knew what my first task was going to be when we were through with this engagement. It would take months, perhaps years, but we had to forge our various forces into one great fighting machine whose actions were as cohesive and single-minded as its intentions.

We were disintegrating imperceptibly like a sand wall. It was curious, now that the cracks were widening, the different divisions were no longer even pretending to be a single army. I raced downhill. The chances of my being able to stop the damage and reverse the tide were remote but I was going to give it a good try. I got hold of Raja Puraji Kika and told him to ask his forces to chant ‘Jai Maharaj Kumar’ vociferously so that our armies would know that I was in their midst. The cry was taken up none too enthusiastically and I could see in the distance soldiers standing in their stirrups to get a glimpse of their prince. I raised my sword and whirled it over my head and was about to yell ‘Jai Mewar’ when I realized that it was not just the Mewar armies which I was leading and changed my call to ‘Jai Rana Sanga’. That got a good response. I repeated Father’s name like a mantra. It seemed to revive everybody. The people around me were charged up now and we managed to break through the enemy’s ranks. We kept up the pressure and penetrated deeper and deeper. But our progress, it turned out, was not echoed in other sections. What we had on our hands was a disaster: a comparatively small band of Rajputs forming an island in an ocean of the Gujarat army. We suffered heavy losses all round and I got a few nicks and slashes, one of them rather deep to prove that I was my father’s son. I decided to call it a day.

We raised the white flag and sent Raja Puraji Kika with a brief message to Malik Ayaz:

‘To the Honourable Malik Ayaz, General of the Gujarat Forces.

Greetings. His Highness, the Maharaj Kumar is seriously injured and wishes to sue for peace. Could he discuss the terms and conditions of surrender as soon as he has recovered?

Yours truly, Raja Puraji Kika for H.H. Maharaj Kumar of Mewar.’

Raja Puraji Kika had to do the honours because Rao Viramdev refused to put his signature to such a shameful document. He along with every commander, officer and soldier in our army felt that we could have fought at least another hour, if not two. It was true that our casualties were high but there was no need to panic. You never could tell, we might have yet turned the tables on Malik Ayaz and his hordes. At least, we would have proved our mettle. This was the first battle the troops were fighting under the Maharaj Kumar’s command. What kind of signal was the Rana’s eldest son sending to our armies and, more importantly, to the enemy? Who would ever take the Mewar armies seriously again? The Rana had spent a lifetime building a reputation which was the envy and awe of the most powerful kingdoms in the country. And now, with one thoughtless gesture, the heir apparent had brought down this carefully wrought edifice of determination and deterrence. Incidentally, the wounds the Maharaj Kumar had suffered were substantial but not really serious. And which territories was the Maharaj Kumar planning to cede to Gujarat as the price of peace?

‘Don’t go by his years’, Father had recommended me to our senior commanders in those cryptic words. They were coming true. I was proving to be as dependable as a flighty teenager. Flighty indeed, what an apt word. But neither Rao Viramdev nor his fellow-chieftains were in the mood for word play. By now, I had troubles coming to a boil in so many pots, I was having problems deciding which one to look into first. My brother-in-law, the insufferable Rao Raimul whose candidature Father must support for dubious reasons of policy and whose marriage into the family he must regret every time he thought of my poor sister, was busy canvassing support from heads of minor principalities, divisional commanders and the common soldiers for a petition to His Majesty informing him of my disgraceful conduct and asking him to replace me with Rao Viramdev.

‘Should I stop the rot, Prince,’ Raja Puraji asked me, ‘before he incites the army to mutiny?’

‘No, not at all. I’m interested in knowing how far he succeeds in his mission. That way we’ll get a good idea of the extent of the displeasure of our soldiery and how far it is willing to go. Keep a close eye on him, nevertheless. When the courier leaves with the letter tonight, I want him intercepted and relieved of it. Take the man into custody but make sure that no one learns of it.’

‘What game are you playing Maharaj Kumar?’ My good old friend Raja Puraji Kika asked me with the first smile of the day.

‘No game, Raja. I am in deadly earnest…’

There was no question of my saying more. I could hear Tej baying for me.

‘Maharaj Kumar, come out. I publicly accuse you of collusion with the enemy and challenge you to a fight to the death. Let me warn all those assembled here that the Maharaj Kumar is about to hand over Idar and a great big chunk of Mewar to Muzaffar Shah. What pact have you made with Prince Bahadur and his father to gain the throne of Mewar for yourself? You may as well confess for I will not let you leave except on a bier.’

What now? Must I spill my cousin’s blood or be killed by a crazed young bull who could not accept the loss of his brother nor let go of the man who had prevented him from taking vengeance? What would you have me do, Lord Eklingji? Will you not still the torment of this young man and make him understand that he is twice as dear to me now that his brother is no more?

‘Come out, traitor. Or I’ll set your tent on fire and you’ll never walk out alive.’

So be it. But by then he had already thrown the lit torch at the sloping roof of Father’s tent where I was staying. By the time Raja Puraji Kika and I had rescued the most important documents and run out, the fire was raging. Fortunately, it was a windless day and the rest of the tents were pitched at a distance from Father’s so the fire would not spread easily.

Tej who was clearly impressed by his own handiwork, laughed theatrically and brandished his sword in the air.

‘See how the rats leave a sinking ship.’ I was not quite sure of the implications of his maritime imagery but I went across and spoke to him peremptorily. ‘Tej, hold these records for me.’ He stretched out his hands almost as a reflex action to pick up the pile of documents. The papers were in his hands, my knee had rammed his crotch and I hit him hard in the face. Tej was in a state of shock, not so much from the impact of my blows, which were vicious enough, as by the dastardliness of my act. I pursued my advantage and did not give him a chance to recover. Before I knocked him senseless with a chop on the back of his neck, I whispered to him, ‘I need you alive, you fool – not as my enemy but as my friend and colleague.’ He was too drunk with the bashing he had received to comprehend my words. He rolled over. I could see that even if I had not risen in the estimation of my soldiers and my royal peers, I had certainly made a lasting impression on them. They were dumbstruck by how low I could stoop.

‘Lock him up,’ I said to no one in particular but at least seven troopers rushed forward to carry out my orders. ‘Rao Viramdev, may I retire to your quarters for a little rest?’

‘I’ll vacate them instantly, Your Highness,’ he said dryly.

‘I cannot avail of your hospitality if you are not there to receive me.’ I was not about to let the Rao fob me off with cold courtesy when I needed to spend some time with him.

‘I will not fail my duties as a host, Your Highness.’

‘That is kind of you. Mangal put up another tent for me and fetch me when it’s done.’

The Rao’s quarters were spartan and severe. He sat stiffly, unable or unwilling to make conversation. I was alienating people with such breathtaking speed, I would soon not have a single friend in the country. How was I going to make headway with the campaign – I found it difficult to persuade myself that it had already begun – without the active cooperation of leaders like Rao Viramdev?

‘I know that I haven’t done much so far to inspire your confidence but will you, in the privacy of these walls, grant that there was not much to be gained by continuing the battle this afternoon except escalate the casualties on our side?’ The Rao looked uncomfortable and tried to clear his throat but I had no desire to put him on the spot. ‘All that’s so much water under the bridge. Will you be patient with me and my occasionally unorthodox ways for a short while?’

‘I cannot answer your question unless I know what you have in mind.’

‘I would be less than candid with you if I told you that I had a plan of action.’ I was of course being less than candid. Right now I did not want to be pinned down. ‘Will you give me time to get my bearings and find my way? All the leaders and the soldiery will take their cue from you. I would too. If you believe in me, they will. And so will I.’

‘You are asking for a lot, Maharaj Kumar, and all of it on blind faith.’

‘When a newcomer goes looking for a job, he’s almost invariably told that they are looking for a man with experience. To labour the obvious, how is he to get experience if no one gives him a job?’

‘I too want to believe in you, Maharaj Kumar. It looks as if we’ll have to invent you by an act of faith,’ he smiled for the first time. His smile made my day. It was a passing thing but it lit his face up and it warmed my heart. I wanted to rise in the estimation of this fine old stalwart. He liked me but I knew that respect was a more mature and stable basis for a professional relationship. ‘What’s next on the agenda, Prince?’

I took a deep breath. ‘I was thinking of holding horse-races tomorrow, Your Highness, for our cavalry.’

‘For all twenty-three thousand of our cavalry?’ There was no surprise in his voice. He merely wanted to get the details right. The act of faith was firmly in place. It was my turn to smile.

That night Mangal intercepted my brother-in-law’s letter and brought it to me. Rao Raimul had been hard at work; three thousand soldiers had put their thumbprints to the letter. I was a coward, and an incompetent. I had stayed away from the scene of battle and just when the Mewar forces seemed to be in sight of victory, I had waved a white flag and sued for peace. I was now planning to hand over two of our most prosperous provinces and of course, Idar itself, to Gujarat. The P.S. mentioned that I had tricked the brave Tej who had fought the enemy so valiantly this morning and had, out of spite, attacked him violently and set his tent on fire. The letter ended with a fervent and urgent plea to Father to replace his bloton-the-fair-name-of-Mewar son lest he do further and permanent damage to the interests of the kingdom.

‘Do you think anyone in the enemy forces might be interested in this letter?’

‘Who knows,’ Mangal kept a straight face, ‘they just might.’

‘Will you arrange to auction it to the highest bidder?’

‘I could try but I can’t guarantee a sale.’

We both laughed. ‘Don’t sell me short, Mangal. And make sure I get the money. If I am going to be slandered, I might as well make some hard cash out of it.’

‘What happens then?’

‘Nothing. In due time, Sultan Muzaffar Shah will get a copy of it and Father will come by the original.’

‘Are you sure you want to risk the letter falling into His Majesty’s hands? Those three thousand fingerprints are difficult to ignore.’

‘That’s a risk I’ll have to take. But I cannot deprive Malik Ayaz of it. It will bring him great joy.’

There was a good deal of criticism and resistance to the idea of the competitions on the first day. But there was plenty of food during the day and drinks at night, not to mention professional nautanki plays, and soon everybody was having a good time.

It took four days of round-the-clock racing for the results to come in. There was a terrific festive air in the camp now. It was almost like the annual competitions at Chittor. Swimming, wrestling, archery, night maneouvres, target-oriented spear-throwing during the day and singing and tall-tale telling contests at night. The only variation we introduced was in hand-to-hand combats. Riders and foot soldiers charged headlong towards straw-filled dummies and hacked them. Each soldier got one chance and no more to sever the backbone of the dummy. It looked easy but there was a tough, four inch-thick wet bamboo inside the dummy which gave even the veterans a hard time. The results of all the contests were tabulated and the winners got prizes. We now had a record of who were our fastest riders and who our strongest and most vicious killers.

I stayed inside my new tent all those long, boisterous days and worked without pause. On the third day Malik Ayaz sent his emissary Liaquat Ali to enquire after my wounds and ask when we could meet to finalize the terms of the surrender. Liaquat Ali was kept waiting for four hours during which time doctors went back and forth. He wondered what all the merriment was about when the Maharaj Kumar was so unwell.

‘Better a merry army than a mutinous one,’ Mangal said laconically and then informed him that the Maharaj Kumar would go over personally to meet the great general the moment he was in better health.

‘What kind of injury –?’

‘First the terrible blow to the head from one of your soldiers,’ Mangal explained to him, ‘and then the wound in the stomach which Tej Simha inflicted on him because the Maharaj Kumar sued for peace.’

By the sixth day, I was getting impatient and ill with anxiety. The competitions were over. Liaquat Ali had been to see me again. I would perforce have to go and see Malik Ayaz soon, very soon. What terms was I going to propose to him? Would my brother-in-law Rao Raimul’s words come true? Would I be the instrument of Mewar’s dismemberment? The Rao had also been active on the rumour front. He was feeding our forces with scenarios of the end of Mewar and its allies thanks to their Maharaj Kumar. Morale was slipping once again. I had to put an end to the rot quickly but didn’t know how. Despite his gross insubordination, locking Tej behind bars had not gone down well with the soldiers. Locking up Rao Raimul for sedition was out of the question since he was the reason fifty thousand soldiers and I were here. Rao Viramdev was holding his tongue but I could see that I was trying his patience. Had he made a mistake putting his trust in me? Had I totally miscalculated the turn of events?

My one serious error was that I had not made any contingency plans. It was time I became realistic. I sat down that night and wrote a letter to Father explaining our ignominious defeat and the territories I was proposing to surrender to Gujarat along with all claims to Idar. All our towns and villages were equally dear to us. Even the most barren lands were priceless because of emotional and historical ties. But if we hardened our hearts and looked at the matter in a cold-blooded way, then strategically, politically and economically, the most expendable – that ghastly term stuck in my throat – were Jarrole and Beechabair. Did Father agree with my choice? I tried to weave in an apology for my dismal performance but it was no use. My words sounded either abject and piteous or hollow and flatfooted. I decided to stick to the bare essentials and leave it to his imagination to understand my terrible humiliation.

The next morning, that’s the seventh day after the fiasco on the battlefield, we got word that ten thousand Gujarat troops would be leaving for home that afternoon. This was extremely short notice but Malik Ayaz had little choice but to give in to the restiveness of his soldiers. I immediately sent a letter to General Malik Ayaz apologizing for the delay in seeing him and requesting a meeting the following day to discuss the terms and conditions of the instrument of surrender. I have rarely got such a speedy reply. The Gujarat General would be happy to receive the royal visitor at eleven thirty the next morning. Would we be so kind as to have lunch with him? As expected, it was obvious that Malik Ayaz was now in a rush to get back home. He had been away for more than nine months and could look forward to the triumphant welcome that awaited the hero of Gujarat.

We left around two in the afternoon. Raja Puraji Kika, Mangal and twelve others had gone ahead several hours ago. An hour after our departure, I put up my hand and brought the soldiers to a halt. Another couple of hpurs and it would be pitch dark.

‘There are two thousand seven hundred and sixty of us plus Rawal Udai Simha, your ten commanders and me. You have been chosen because you are the swiftest soldiers in our army. We are not even a tidy round figure of three thousand. The Gujarat soldiers who are going home today are ten thousand in number. Which means we are outnumbered three to one. I know that you are all brave warriors. But that’s not going to be enough. Each one of you will have to be at least thrice as brave as the enemy merely to survive.’ I let that sink in for a full thirty seconds. ‘Twenty years ago almost to the day, three thousand of our troops under our venerable Home Minister, the great Lakshman Simha were killed treacherously about sixty miles from here by the Gujarat armies. I don’t have to repeat the full story of the terrible and deceitful slaughter. You know it well. I want to know what vengeance means to you. Will you be happy if some day you killed three thousand Gujarat soldiers? I can see the gleam in your eyes. Bravo, you are easily satisfied. You are nothing but tit-for-tat men. If that’s all that three thousand of your brothers are worth to you, I suggest we forget Idar and this war, pull up our tents and go home.

‘Seven days ago, when I asked for the white flag to be waved, I heard a lot of brave talk. We were down by seven hundred and fifty men and you only wanted to be given a chance to turn defeat into victory. Tomorrow morning, at five thirty you have an appointment with the Gujarat forces. Let’s see what all your talk amounts to. I have but one piece of advice for you. It will hold true in the coming skirmish and in any other battle or engagement you are involved in. The secret of victory lies in numbers. Does it take you one blow to kill your opponent or three? If it’s three, two other enemy soldiers are going to have a shot at you while you are unable to defend yourself. Besides you are going to tire faster. If it’s one blow, then two other enemy soldiers had better look out. There will be those among you who will live to tell your children and their grandchildren how you wounded at least twenty of the enemy single-handed. Now we know who our enemies at home are. Anybody who wounds but does not kill is making certain that his friend and neighbour’s life is seriously in danger. If the left hand is injured, the right can still hold a sword and kill. My father, the great Rana Sanga, is living testimony of the man who survived seventy or eighty wounds to kill at least seventy men. We all know how deadly a wounded tiger is. Can you imagine how much more dangerous a wounded enemy soldier is? He nurses his hatred and lives with just one thought. He wants to get even. The only trouble is his vengeance is unquenchable. He can never get even. One more and then one more. And then one more. Think about it. A dead man has no enemies

‘One last word. If from now on any one of you decides to exchange a word with his neighbour, he is going to put two thousand seven hundred and seventy-three of his countrymen in danger. That I’m afraid the rest of us might find unacceptable. Surely you don’t want two thousand seven hundred and seventy three of your friends to kill you.’ They laughed. ‘Godspeed and good luck.’

We took the path parallel to the one taken by the departing Gujarat army. Raja Puraji Kika and Mangal had chosen a site twelve miles from our camp to bivouac. While the men settled down for the night, one of Raja Puraji Kika’s men brought Tej over. My cousin looked a little worse for his stay in solitary confinement but I was sure his mood would improve.

‘I’m dividing the men equally between Rawal Udai Simha, Raja Puraji Kika and you. That means you have a little over nine hundred soldiers under you.’ I turned to my Bhil friend. ‘Will you show us the sites, Your Highness?’

For mapping a territory, especially a hilly one there was no one I knew who could compare with Raja Puraji Kika and his men. There might be a forest of seven hundred thousand trees and the Raja would be able to point out the very peepul to which I had tied my horse Befikir seven years ago and under which tree we had had a picnic lunch. He had total geographic recall. Without him we would be lost tomorrow. I realized how confusing the terrain was when I discovered that we were barely a mile from the massive Gujarat encampment. We went up and down over seven low-wooded hills and suddenly the land turned flat.

It was an unbelievably peaceful scene, almost idyllic with the sun going down over the sands in the distance. The soldiers were playing cards, smoking hukkas, chatting with a senior officer who was having a haircut seated next to his tent. You could hear the nervous chatter of the scissors all the way to where we were lying on our bellies. A man has started singing, another joins him. No, the second man is giving a rejoinder to the first man’s question. It’s a sawaal-jawaab qawwali, a form of improvisation that I love. It’s full of wit, sharp comment, philosophical asides and humour. They are singing not a religious qawwali but its secular and lay cousin.

‘Why is the beloved more beloved when you are away from home? Why does one miss home only when one is away from home?’ The second man keeps the beat with superb clapping while the first singer asks his questions. ‘Is there music in the flute?’ It’s the second singer’s turn, ‘when you are not blowing in the hole? Is the octave on your lips or on your fingertips as they glide over the reed?’ A bulbul tarang accompanies the singers. People are gathering around them now. The first man’s response is ready on the instant. ‘Either way, who is playing the tune and who is dancing? When we sing who dances, us or the Good Lord himself?’ The strings of the bulbul tarang are a limpid cascade of sound, now thoughtful, now bubbling. All those around clap. Did they take classes, have they trained for years to achieve such perfection of rhythm? I look at my companions. I steal a glance at Tej, surely he hasn’t forgotten his avowed enemy, how can these unanswerable and timeless queries elicit such intense attention from him? ‘Tell me, my friend, what is the velocity of a sneeze?’ That evokes gentle laughter. ‘And if you know the answer, pray tell me, how many million times is a thought faster than a sneeze?’ Are these illiterate troopers or the gurus of sages?

The singing is suddenly drowned by the lowing and keening of cattle. It sends a serrated shiver up my spine. They are killing buffaloes for the evening meal. It is a dreadful and terrible sound, this wailing of animals who know that a horrific death with a ritual of bloodletting is at hand. What if the gate of the pen was not bolted but left wide open? Would they run for their lives? I suspect not. They are mesmerized by their own death. The goats have joined the ghastly chorus. The halal blood gushes out, the heart pumping it out in spurts. You wait for the agony to end, how much blood can one body hold? The animal is in a stupor, it has thrown its head back as if to open wider the single cut the butcher has administered and get it over with. Every once in a while, its lifeless body twitches as if at the last minute it is having second thoughts about dying. Why am I horrified? Will I not eat mutton with relish when I go back to our camp tomorrow? The singers continue undisturbed.

Across, near the centre of the encampment where the commandant of the troops, the much feared Bunde Ali has his quarters, a game of kabbadi has started. One of the youngsters is spinning through the other team with celerity while muttering kabbadi, kabbadi, and flinging his arms and toes all over the place. He flashes past, makes contact with two of the opposing players and gets them out. They have a tricky job here: stay away from him and yet pin him down, till he can no longer say kabbadi, kabbadi. I am making extensive notes of the enemy camp’s layout when I see Bunde Ali step out of his tent and join the game. He is a little old but what he lacks in speed, he makes up with cunning. It is evident that his troops are awed by his presence until a young soldier shrugs his shoulders and seems to say to himself ‘What the hell’ and grabs the great man’s leg. Bunde Ali tries desperately to reach the dividing line that will give him a new lease of life. But now the other soldiers are emboldened and fling themselves on him. They hang on to him till his breath has run out and no more kabbadi, kabbadis issue forth from his mouth. Tej is watching Bunde Ali intently.

‘Allahu Akbar,’ the muezzin calls the faithful to evening prayer. All activity ceases and three-quarters of the troops gather to the west. The cooks, their assistants and the cowherds join them. How beautifully they arrange themselves. Row after row of evenly spaced men, all of them kneeling down, their heads covered, palms raised to seek Allah’s blessings. Is the genius of Islam military? Perhaps that explains why it elicits such total obedience. Like sunflowers after the sun has set, the heads bend down in unison. The Hindus in the regiment seem a little lost and go about their business quietly. Only the hens and cocks are oblivious of the solemn proceedings. And the flies. There are thousands of them jostling each other, pushing and shoving, trying to get at the blood that has almost completely disappeared into the earth. Another thousand have settled into the open gash that is fast drying up in the buffalo’s neck. God Almighty, the wretched thing is still alive. It shakes its head slowly and they rise like a levitating beehive.

By the time we were back in camp it was getting dark. We conferred for the last time, Rawal Udai Simha, Raja Puraji Kika, Tej, Mangal, the platoon commanders and I. We went over every step, move and countermove, attack and defence tactic. Each commander was allotted a specific task and a specific geographical area. He was not to stray from it unless ordered to by me, King Puraji or Rawal Udai Simha or under the most exceptional circumstances. I was willing to bet that there were a hundred contingencies that we had overlooked. And yet, it was of the utmost importance to have a detailed plan and make sure that everyone knew his role and objective in it. I didn’t want to just choose the time and place of the confrontation, I didn’t want the enemy to have a say in his mode of retreat either. It was critical that we dictate just how, when and where he would retreat.

By nine fifteen the camp was quiet. I don’t know if the men were asleep but they had spread out the single bedcloth each one of us was permitted to bring along and covered themselves with a blanket. Dinner had been four big bajra ki rotis, congealed ghee, radish and garlic chutney so hot it would make you weep. You could change the order of the dishes but tomorrow’s breakfast and lunch would be the same stuff rolled up in a piece of cloth riding side-saddle along with the leather bottle of water. The wake-up call was for four thirty. There was no way I was going to get sleep unless I did yoganidra or shavasan. I lay myself down and took in the sky. It was flat and black and had holes pierced in it. Light leaked out through the tiny dots. I knew many of those holes. We had been taught to read them at school as an aid to finding one’s bearings but I didn’t think they would give me direction in a spiritual crisis. I closed my eyes and recalled the stars on the closed screen of my eyelids. They would be witness to my death. I started with my big toe, withdrew the sensation from it and the other toes, the heels were dead, then the knees and the thighs, my crotch and belly were a void, the lungs dropped out, then the hands, arms and shoulders. I had disengaged myself and now stood among the stars watching my lifeless body. My feet were a foot and a half apart and my hands had fallen by the sides. A dead man without a bier, flowers and mourners. My head is busier than bazaar-day at Chittor. What decision has Father taken about Vikramaditya? Sunheria’s bangles break. My mother is forcing me to eat. The scent of Kausalya’s vagina is in my nostrils. What will Father’s reaction be when he realizes that I have abandoned orthodox and sensible ways of warfare? Was the Gujarat commander, Bunde Ali, slightly walleyed? Who will take him on tomorrow? Images of my first debacle try to come centrestage but are sent packing by my wife. I erect a whirlpool mandala between my eyes and spin it. As it picks up speed, it draws all thoughts, images, colours, ideas into its vortex. It goes faster and faster till everything collapses in its vertiginous velocity. At its still epicentre is the third eye, the one that never closes and sees everything. Gradually everything comes to a stop. The occasional thought floats down my mind and is washed ashore. The lapping of the void is a soothing sound. It came to me then that we had passed the point of no return. The two thousand seven hundred and ninety-four of us would never be able to join the mass of humanity again. We may mingle with the others, break bread with them, go to mushairas with them, play holi with them, fornicate with their daughters but we would be forever outsiders. We would be bonded together by the unspeakable deeds we were going to commit the next morning.

We were up by four. The horses were fed and the business behind the trees done by twenty past four. Ten minutes for breakfast. At four thirty we had started walking the horses across the seven intervening hills. Perhaps we could have cantered over the first four knolls; the woods might have muffled the sound of the hooves but I was not taking chances. Within fifty minutes we were spread out and lying on our stomachs in the same spot where we had been last evening. We had long since got used to the darkness around us. I wondered why there were only seven sentries guarding the Gujarat encampment on the side closest to us. It took me a while to figure out the answer. As far as they were concerned, the war was over. They had defeated us and were going home. Raja Puraji Kika’s men, silent as the beasts they hunted in the jungle took care of those seven with their bows and arrows. They were among the cattle pens now and letting the cattle out. Some of the more stolid of the five hundred buffaloes needed heavy prodding to move. A small contingent of ten Bhils was making its way down to the left where about a half mile away, half the horses of the garrison were tethered. There was a downwind blowing and a dog picked up the scent of the intruders and started barking. In a minute the whole tribe of dogs in the camp would take the cue and alert their companions in Kashmir, Persia and China not to mention Bunde Ali and his armies. Raja Puraji Kika’s arrow cut short the dog’s alarm. From nowhere five other dogs had turned up. Something about the inert dog warned them and made them whine but not bark. The ground was heavy with dew and I was half-wet as I lay on the grass. There was a low mist rolling over the hills and would soon reach the encampment. The sky was bleaching out in a few places. Any moment now the birds would be up. The leaks in the sky had been plugged by a heavy cloud bank and for a few moments the density of the darkness increased. Who wakes up first when the women are not around? The cooks, the syces or the mullah? What an easygoing, lazy sight an army was when it was on its way home.

There was a bird call, an unseasonal papiha. It was one of Raja Puraji Kika’s men telling us that the horses were free. I had debated endlessly with myself whether I should lead the troops or sit back and coordinate the action. I guess at heart I knew all along that I had no option but to set an example in today’s treachery.

The troops were divided into three groups. Tej on my left, Rawal Udai Simha on my right. Each one of us commanded nine hundred and odd cavalry. My forces and I would lead the charge. It was Tej and Udai Simha’s task to prevent anybody from escaping to either side of us, thus forcing the enemy to retreat in only one direction: directly ahead of us. We wanted all roads to lead south-west.

It was time for me and my contingent to head down softly. When we reached the bottom of the hill, Tej lit the soaked cloth bandaged around the head of the arrow, aimed and stretched the string as far back as it would go. The rest of the officers did the same. At a signal from me the arrows flew forth to their various destinations. Tej’s arrow made straight for Bunde Ali’s shamiana. It lost altitude fast. I was sure it wouldn’t make it. I needn’t have worried. It sank into the frilled edge of the shamiana and torched the roof. There were flares whizzing past everywhere. The guard on duty in front of Bunde Ali’s residence must have got up to check where the comets were coming from. No one heard from him again. Raja Puraji Kika’s arrow had found the soft spot below the sentry’s Adam’s apple. The sky paled visibly. The seven horses of the Sun-god were in a tearing rush and churning clouds of pink and yellow overhead. The muezzin’s cry pierced the still quiet air. (And I thought I had factored in all the imponderables. Bunde Ali’s men would be up and headed for prayers in a minute or two.) The sun stuck its head out. I bowed down, did namaskar and said a prayer. Why hadn’t the muezzin noticed the pyrotechnics all around? Fires had broken out all over the camp as my heel dug into Befikir’s flank. By now the animals in the Gujarat camp were stampeding murderously over sleeping bodies. The deafening noise gave us a tremendous advantage. It spread the impression that a force of about ten thousand cavalry was sweeping through. Twenty of Puraji Kika’s men shot out and headed for the second series of stables at the other end of the camp. If they could let loose the horses and camels there, they would add to the pandemonium. My sword was out and I was bending low. I struck anything that woke up, rolled over, moved, stood up, screamed or ran. I hacked, I cut, I chopped, I smashed, I mutilated. The Gujarat soldiers, still only half-awake and bewildered, held up their hands as protection against our swords. The hands and the heads fell on the ground together. I set the pace and rhythm. My men followed. ‘Say a prayer for me,’ I whispered as I extended myself and smote a frightened and powerless soldier. A diagonal stroke from left of neck to right of waist. A crushing blow from the left shoulder blade that sank down to the thoracic cavity and cleaved the heart. An oblique cut of such grace and power that the head and torso were not aware that they had been severed. An elementary thought crossed my mind as if it were a revelation. An unarmed and unprepared soldier is nothing but a civilian. Rajendra, I promised you two men for every man that was treacherously killed by the Gujarat army under your father’s command. Start counting. I hope to pay you back with compound interest. I am any man’s equal in treachery and deceit. I don’t forget and I don’t forgive offences committed against Mewar. Expect the worst of me. I will always improve upon your expectations.

There are few things as infectious as fear, and fear paralyses. The poor helpless clods just stood there shivering and peeing in their pants waiting to be delivered. We did not disappoint them. Men poured out of the flaming tents, then ran back to collect their weapons. Half were asphyxiated, the others returned to put up token resistance. They did not know whether we were real or phantoms. Where had we come from? Wasn’t the war over? It was an unequal fight. They were stranded on the ground. We were riding horseback and momentum was on our side. There was a strange ululating sound mixed up in all the crying and screaming. Where was it emanating from, this high-pitched lamenting and wailing? It rose from within me and from all the Mewar troops. It was a ghastly howling, an incredulous and disbelieving cry for mercy, a plea for forgiveness from our prospective victims even as we pierced flesh and cracked bone and skull.

I saw the muezzin then. He was standing unsteadily, his left foot on a dead body, his head aslant to catch the drift of sounds. Every scream was a blow aimed at his person. I knew now why he hadn’t noticed the arson in the first few moments. He was blind. He stumbled and fell. I leaned over and gave him a steadying hand. He blessed me. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked me, ‘Is it Judgement Day?’ ‘Not for those who are slain but for the slayers, yes. Lie down quietly, old man, and no one will touch you.’ I was impatient to be gone.

Shaan-e-riyasat Bunde Ali was riding towards us at the head of around a thousand men. I eased the pressure on Befikir. We slowed down to a trot. The Shaan-e-riyasat’s tunic buttons were undone, his turban was a shade askew and he had not had time to lace up his armour. I had not realized how tall and erect he was. He leaned forward, his sword parallel to the ground. He and his men were a violent whirlwind. They were advancing so rapidly, it was almost as if they were stationary. The sound in my ears was shut off. All the wailing and weeping ceased. I couldn’t hear the pounding of the horses either. A thousand horses flexing their muscles and bodies. Black, tawny, dappled, amber, mahogany, the air and skin sparking in the early morning sun. And a thousand horsemen astride them.

The Gujarat horsemen were a tidal force that should have swept everything in its path. Yes, on most other days, they would have.

As rehearsed, my nine hundred men parted in the middle and let Bunde Ali and his men in like much sought-after guests into our homes. The perception of the Gujarat forces though, was that we had given way because they had broken through our ranks. Now my men pressed in upon them, relentlessly walling them in. They could have disregarded the Mewar warriors on their flanks and slipped right out by continuing on their earlier path and then reassembled and charged back. But their minds and thinking were set in a particular mould and they were caught in their rage and the compulsions of vengeance.

It was amazing what a tight little space a thousand riders could be fitted into if you had a mind to do so. They were collapsing in upon themselves. They had no room to move and only the cavalry in the outermost circle was in a position to take us on. They didn’t stand a chance. We began to peel layer after layer of the solidly packed Gujarat ball. Meanwhile the claustrophobia proved too much for those at the core. Confused about what was happening outside, they panicked. The outer forces had to now fight both the enemy and the explosive compression from within. At a predetermined signal, my men suddenly released the pressure by providing an outlet in the south-west. The Gujarat contingent pushed and shoved and clubbed their way to attain open space and make their getaway. We were waiting for them, a handful of my horsemen and I. Many escaped but the majority presented such easy targets as they came out single file, we went back to our hacking and chopping.

And what of Shaan-e-riyasat Bunde Ali? What of him? It would be nice to say that the two of us engaged in mortal combat. I would have to turn him into a man of extraordinary prowess and guile to make myself the greater of the two. But only a short-sighted leader can afford the luxury of that kind of petty aggrandizement. Bunde Ali got his four victims. Then one of my braves got him, an ignominious death if he had set his sights on me.

The Gujarat troops were fleeing wildly now, either on foot or on horseback, it didn’t matter which. They had lost their nerve as most armies do when blind terror takes possession of them. Horses, cattle, the men and the camels were all headed for the same place under our guidance. They were running for their lives, heading straight for the marshes and bogs in the south-west.

We had cleared a path along the diagonal of the camp. It was left to Rawal Udai Simha and Tej to take care of over two-thirds of the Gujarat forces whom my men and I had not engaged. There were still large pockets of resistance left in the encampment but within an hour from the time we struck the first blow, my colleagues had overrun the enemy and were herding them to the swampy lake of oblivion in parallel streams. Killing is an exhausting and thankless job. Any time our energies slackened, the enemy armies thought that we had had enough and were calling it a day. They instantly slowed down. A great many of them just gave up and sat or lay down. This was intolerable. It only doubled our work. We had to start hacking and slicing in earnest all over again. We could not afford to take prisoners of war. Our supply lines were already extended, and would not be able to bear the additional burden. Besides, we would play directly into the hands of Malik Ayaz and his formidable armies. More to the point, a soldier reprieved is an enemy reborn. It would be folly to think that the quality of mercy would make the defeated forces think kindly of us and treat us leniently at some future date. The idea, if anyone had lost sight of it, was to prove that the age of chivalry was dead among the Rajputs and we could no longer be taken for granted as gullible fools. My objectives were clear and simple: terrorise the Gujarat armies – and any of our friendly neighbours who cared to observe – to a point where they would think twice before they ventured to disturb Idar or any of our other territories. If our current campaign could achieve that limited objective, I would think that we had not done too badly.

One of the retreating soldiers got hold of my right ankle with both his hands and pleaded with me to spare his life. I swung Befikir around hard but the man would not let go.

‘Let me live, Prince,’ his granite face was pale and beads of sweat dangled at his earlobes like clusters of soap bubbles that a light breeze would send scudding. What is it that happens to human beings when they are in a crowd? They take their cues from the mob and not from the evidence of their eyes. He had enough strength in him to hang in while I dragged him through a full circle. Why did he not pull me down as my attention wavered when through a break in the mist, I saw Tej’s forces come riding at gale-wind speeds? I bent down to loosen his grip on my leg. I wish he hadn’t spoken. Now he was a person with a past and a present and a future. If he got a chance he would tell me the names of his children, three boys and four girls or vice versa. How could I possibly kill this man? I had a tough time loosening the fingers of his hand. When I was free, I turned and rode away in a hurry. The men were watching me and so was my old friend, Raja Puraji Kika. A few more sentimental fools like me in the Mewar armies and we would be in a fine mess. I galloped back. The soldier looked at me with puzzlement and then with undisguised terror as I raised my sword and brought it down.

Deception, diplomacy, intrigue, prestidigitation, machination, all these and many small and great things, the Flautist had taught me, were the tricks of a king’s dharma and trade. But where had I inherited this wanton cruelty from? I remembered then how the great warrior Arjun and his mentor, the Flautist – mine too till a few years ago – had burnt the whole of the Khandava forest and all its inhabitants without cause or provocation. It was one of the strangest episodes in the Mahabharata, one that I could not understand, nor make sense of, try as I might. Perhaps that is the point the great epic is trying to make, that life is not explicable, nor does it pass the test of reason; that some, if not much of it, is meaningless. No amount of culture and civilization can subdue or hide the wanton violence in man.

Why do marshes always attract mist and fog? Is there a relationship between bogs and fens and vapours? Thus far and no further. We had arrived. It was time to bear down hard on the enemy, push him over the edge but hold back oneself.

They disappeared, thousands upon thousands of Muzaffar Shah’s and Malik Ayaz’s braves into the mist. They went happily, relieved that the pursuit and the frantic slaughter were finally waning, if not ceasing altogether. In the twenty or twenty-five minutes that we were there, the fog opened up only once. The sun shone through and lit a couple of acres of the bogs for a minute or two. You do not have to pay for your sins in an afterlife. You start paying for them here and now. Would that the curtain of the low-lying clouds had not rolled back. No fiction can compete with the horrors of reality.

It was downright chilly near the marshes. Those who had gone in set up an infernal racket of screams, cries and bleating. Bodiless hands moved in the air. I saw a man buried up to his nostrils, the water and muck went into his nose, there was no way of knowing whether he was choking, then he sank out of sight. Most of the men thrashed around as if they were swimming for the shore and that only hastened their disappearance. There were no friends here, it was as if the Gujarat soldiers had never seen or known each other or fought wars together. They cursed anybody whose exertions made the sucking and hissing waters shift faster under their feet. I saw two men fighting, slipping, sinking, strangling each other until the lucky one overpowered the other. He hauled himself up on the dead man. He was jubilant as he balanced himself precariously on his victim’s shoulders. He was sure he had beaten the odds and would be able to make it safely to solid ground. He let out a triumphant yell. The dead man’s shoulders sank further. The man on top placed his right foot on his head. Soon the head was no longer visible and the exhilaration and glee disappeared in the realization that he too would follow his victim’s descent.

Elsewhere, when you saw water bubbling you knew that a head was still breathing underneath. As they went down the men cursed or swore or begged forgiveness. ‘Tell Fatima I loved her dearly though I scalded her hand with boiling water last year.’ ‘Tell Ammijaan that her son died a brave death. He killed seventeen enemy soldiers in three wars. Even when we were betrayed by the enemy, I did not once beg for mercy. Call the new baby …’ He was gulping the brackish water with small helpings of air by now.

I had taken it for granted that the last words of men on earth must somehow be profound or terribly moving. I realized how unfounded my expectations were. We are petty, vacuous or vindictive in life. We are not likely to be any different when confronted by death. ‘Promise me, Anjuman, promise me, you’ll never marry again. If you do, I’ll sit on your neck till ….’ They all babbled simultaneously. They wished others well or they wished them ill but most of all they cried for help and asked their God to save them.

Those who could have saved them watched in horror and fascination from the hard ground as a pair of legs thrashed and flopped and a man bent his head down with dignity and asked God forgiveness for not being able to turn towards the Kaaba in Mecca and say his last prayers. The saddest were the horses. Bewildered and frightened by the ground that seemed to slip and slither under them, they struggled hard for a couple of minutes craning their necks to see whether there was a way out and then waited silently and resignedly for the end to come. I can still see their forelegs kicking out as if trying to climb a vertical wall, the slow sluggish water fanning out in the air like powdered diamonds in the sun’s rays, floating undecidedly and then going down reluctantly, their manes swept from left to right, their handsome heads wondering why we did not help them or put them out of their misery. My men and I watched in silence. There are crimes against humanity and there are crimes against nature and then there are crimes so terrible they do not have a name and we had committed all three of them.

Seven thirty-five in the morning. It was time to leave.

He had abandoned Befikir some days ago. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he couldn’t now recall where he had misplaced one of his shoes. He sat down and scooped up sand with the remaining shoe and poured it out at the same speed he had seen it run down in an hourglass. There was a foot-high mound in front of him. He must have been playing Father Time for hours, maybe even a couple of days. Before that he had walked for a few days. At every step his foot sank irretrievably into the sand. He fought hard to pull it out but all that frantic activity only made the sand shift. There was a slow hissing sound and the foot was sucked in further. Was he getting a taste of what he had put the Gujarat soldiers through? Was this his final comeuppance? It couldn’t be. There was no way he would have an easy and swift end, of that much he was sure.

Something hard was poking sharply into his back. He stretched his hand behind him and pulled out the protruding object. It took him back to the beginning of the Gujarat expedition, to the night before they drove the Gujarat armies into the quagmire. One of Raja Puraji Kika’s men was working on a wooden cylinder. The Maharaj Kumar watched fascinated. He was curious about what the final product was going to be but he was damned if he was going to ask the soldier who, once he had acknowledged His Highness’ presence, had ignored him. The man was making intricate calculations and measuring out the distance between points on the wooden ferule. Was he a mathematician, a geometrical wizard, would he be able to foretell the movement of the stars with that divining rod? The Maharaj Kumar’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘If you don’t mind my interrupting you, what are you making?’

‘This?’ the man pointed at the stick. The Maharaj Kumar nodded his head. ‘You’ve been watching me for over a quarter of an hour, why don’t you tell me?’

Wise guy. Why would he ask if he had known the answer in the first place? The other soldiers waited expectantly for him to answer. The craftsman had gone back to his markings. The Maharaj Kumar would have liked to walk away nonchalantly, but something held him back. He tried to put on an insouciant face, forced a smile on his tight lips and spoke, ‘A magic wand, what else.’ Even as the words came forth, he knew he was coming across exactly as he didn’t want to: spoilt and ill-tempered. He was amazed to hear the long sound of applause his vacuous reply had elicited. Even the preoccupied artisan-warrior doffed his Bhil cap. The Maharaj Kumar thought it wise to make a getaway before he was asked to solve any more riddles.

Next morning a little before dawn, just before they were about to set out on their dire mission, the Bhil soldier walked up to the Maharaj Kumar. What does the wiseacre want now, he could barely suppress his irritation. He was tense. He was prescient enough to suspect that the day which lay ahead of him was likely to affect his career and fate in ways that it was not in his power to imagine. The Bhil bowed, ‘Highness, may the blessings of Eklingji Shiva be upon you.’

‘Upon you and all our men too,’ the Maharaj Kumar made brisk reply.

‘I beg your indulgence for a minute.’

‘Not now Bhima,’ Raja Puraji Kika spoke before the Prince could answer, ‘Later, later.’

They were the exact words with which the Maharaj Kumar was going to snub the man. He realized how uncouth and misplaced they would have been in his own mouth. ‘It’s all right, Raja. I know him. Speak.’

‘I have a small gift for you, Maharaj Kumar.’ He brought forward his right hand.

‘You were very perspicacious last night, Highness.’ It sounded like a put down but the Bhil’s face was innocent of double-meaning. ‘It is a magic wand. Don’t underestimate its powers. Breathe into it and it will come alive. It will work its magic on those around you. But more importantly, it will work its magic on you. It will soothe you and bring you peace of mind.’

He waited for the Maharaj Kumar to take the gift. The Prince wanted to break it in two on his knee; or should he hurl the cursed thing into the great unknown distance called space? But the very thought of touching it revolted him. He would rather shove his hand into the bleeding mess of a leper’s newly broken stump. Get it out of my sight, you damned fool, get it out of my sight. He was not looking for omens and yet an omen had been visited upon him. Not in a thousand lifetimes could he have thought of a more calamitous augury than the one the man held in his palm.

Fate. There was no escaping fate. Raja Puraji Kika had tried to save the Maharaj Kumar. He had told the man ‘Not now, Bhima. Later, later.’ But when your time’s up and there’s a good chance of giving fate the slip, you collar him and get him back.

‘Take it, Prince. I didn’t know who I was making it for last night,’ the man called Bhima was saying, ‘but it surely must have your name written on it.’

And yet the Maharaj Kumar would not take it.

‘Blow into it, Prince. There’s a void inside of it that you can turn into a note and then another and then another till it becomes a tune and a melody and then a raga that can move the very gods.’

It was getting late, his troops were waiting and King Puraji Kika was looking at him with not a little puzzlement. The Prince extended his hand and took the flute. He was about to slip it into his belt (he would break it and disperse the pieces later) when his childhood friend stopped him.

‘Your Highness, when you accept a new flute as a gift, you must always play it first.’

You, too, Puraji Kika? And I thought you were my friend. ‘I don’t know how to play the thing. I don’t even know how to make a hole of my lips to blow into it.’

‘It doesn’t matter. A flute is a friendly, accommodating instrument. Blow somewhere in the vicinity of the first hole,’ Bhima was instructing him, ‘and you’ll hear a clear note.’

The Maharaj Kumar clenched his jaw, lifted the flute and settled his lips over the first hole and clamped his fingers on the other holes. He inhaled deeply and then blew the air out through his lips. There was no sound. Suddenly a cracked, shrill note issued forth followed by a twin-note cacophony. He realized his fingers had slipped.

‘There, you are getting the hang of it,’ Bhima told him encouragingly.

‘You call that music?’ the Maharaj Kumar asked him as if he was to blame for the bleating he had produced.

‘It will come. One day the notes will come together and sing a song of enchantment. All you need is practice.’

Sure, the Prince said to himself, no doubt, after I throw that damned reed into the marshes.

Weeks and many upheavals later, he was sitting in the middle of nowhere and the flute was still with him. He was sure Mangal was looking all over for him, trying to divert all the nasty rumours about his disappearance that were bound to be floating around in the camp. He was smart, that Mangal, he would slip in the first rumour himself before the gossip mills ran amok. ‘Let’s not mince words, we all know that the Maharaj Kumar doesn’t have the happiest of marriages. So he has a glad eye and a wandering hand. Wouldn’t you? No, no, don’t call him poor Prince, not in front of me at least. That man, this is just between you, me and the tent pole, the Prince has the raunchiest member under the sun. Let’s get this straight, I don’t blame him. What would you do if your wife turned out to be… no point repeating what everybody knows. Just before we came here, Shehzada Bahadur told him of this tawaif from Champaner. He said, “This is no harlot, Maharaj Kumar, this is a jannat ki houri, an apsara, a celestial beauty. Her face is the moon after the rains, her tresses are the nights of longing, her breath is rose petals falling from the weight of the morning dew, in her armpits is the perfume of a thousand mogras, her breasts are snowy peaks with the cherries of Kashmir to nibble on for as long as you wish, and between her thighs,” he sighed deeply here, “between her thighs, Highness, is heaven itself, not the first, not the second, but the seventh heaven.” From the day we came here, all the Maharaj Kumar could think of was going to Champaner to see this woman. After we crushed the Gujarat forces, there was no stopping him.’ Mangal would get some such tale abroad, and let the troops stew in envy and lust.

Where would Mangal look for the Maharaj Kumar? His men would comb every town and village. The desert, Mangal would take upon himself.

The Maharaj Kumar threw the flute up in the air, then twirled it around as if it were a baton. When he had had enough of this juggling, he put it against his lips and blew into it. The notes were clear and well-formed but the tones were disharmonious.

He had had every intention of throwing the bloody reed to the winds on that first day but had forgotten about it in the crush and fury of the battle. When he lay down late that night, it was stuck under him like an extra backbone. From time to time, he wanted to pull it out and at least put it aside but he was dog-tired and couldn’t bring himself to make the effort. He knew he was going to get rid of it for sure, either today or one of these days but it had stuck to him like a pariah puppy.

A few days later, a courier had arrived from Chittor. There was a brief but personal letter from the Rana and one with handwriting he could not recognize.

Jai Shri Eklingi

Dear son,

May the blessings of Shri Eklingji keep you from all harm.

There was a fire in your palace but you’ll be relieved to know that your wife is safe. We have not been able to ascertain the exact cause of the fire but initial enquiries of the police department seem to suggest that it may have started in your wife’s room when the lamp in front of the image of Lord Krishna fell down because of a gust of wind. Her maid from Merta, Kumkum Kanwar, unfortunately perished in the mishap. We are all grateful to God that the Princess suffered no harm beyond some burns.

Your mother sends you her love and blessings. We trust that the war is going well with you and our armies. May the light of the Sun-god shine on you always.

Your Father.

Jai Shri Eklingji

To His Highness, the Maharaj Kumar.

Your friend Leelawati agreed to take dictation from me and write this letter. I will not beat about the bush but come straight to the point. There was a fire on the seventh of this month in the room of Kumkum Kanwar, maid to the Princess, your wife. It started after midnight. It was the Princess who woke up with the screams of her maid and the smell of the smoke and rushed into Kumkum Kanwar’s room. She tried to save her but by that time it was too late. The maid tried to keep her mistress away from her, pleading with her that she was past saving but your wife persisted in trying to wrap her with blankets to douse the fire. When the brave girl realized that there was no longer any hope but that her mere presence was jeopardizing the Princess’ life, she jumped out of the window. The fall, unlike the fire, brought instantaneous death to Kumkum Kanwar.

The Princess has been badly burnt especially on her hands and forearms. I was away looking after my business in the village when the mishap occurred. As soon as I came back, I discontinued the services of the Raj Vaidya and asked Raja Puraji Kika’s physician, Eka, to look after her. Luckily, Shri Eka was in Chittor to receive thanks from His Majesty for saving the life of Shehzada Bahadur. He assured me that herbal poultices will not only heal the Princess’ burns but restore her blemishless skin. The first four days she was in great pain but the worst is over and I am happy to tell you that she is now well on the way to recovery.

There are a couple of things about the fire that are puzzling. Kumkum Kanwar invariably went to sleep by nine. She was not in the habit of reading and she always put out the lamp in her room before she went to bed. That particular night could not have been an exception since, as the Princess says, Kumkum, who slept the sleep of stones, could never do so until she had put out all the lights. There was no altar in her room, so the question of the altar light keeling over does not arise. The other curious thing is that none of the wooden furniture in her room is damaged. The fire seems to have begun and raged in her mattress and blanket. The investigation into the causes of the fire is in the hands of the new Deputy Minister for Home Affairs, Prince Vikramaditya. We’ll have to wait for his report on the subject to know the facts of the case.

I want you to know that till you return, I will not leave Chittor and will keep an eye on the Princess.

Look after yourself, Maharaj Kumar. Your life is precious to me but even more so to Mewar. At no point can you afford not to be vigilant or put your life at unnecessary risk.

May the flag of Mewar fly high. May you and your armies triumph in this war and may you return safely to our midst.

Blessings.

Yours obediently,

Kausalya.

P.S. This bit is from me, your beloved Leelawati. Father wanted to stop my maths lessons. He said I could learn Sanskrit, history, geography and music and painting but what need did a future housewife have of maths? I went and complained to Dadaji. He said the maths of the heavenly bodies makes the earth go round and the maths of money is what balances the equations of commercial and daily life. Even a housewife must deal in the commerce of daily life. Besides, whether you like it or not, he told Father, maths is in her blood. Are you afraid because she calculates fractional interest faster in her mind than you do on paper? Let her study.

I am working on my presents for you. How about you? What are you getting for me?

Yours forever, yours and only yours,

Leelawati.

In his waking hours and at night the Maharaj Kumar had wished his wife dead. His imagination had run riot and plotted every kind of death for her. Death by drowning, small pox, falling off a horse, a cliff, every kind of accident, the overturning of a carriage, a landslide where a boulder crushed her ribs but kept her alive for a couple of days, death by halal, death by whipping, death by breaking one bone a day, death by hanging, and so on. But the most common form of death in his dreams was a fiery one. And yet when he heard that she had suffered burns and could have died in a fire, he went completely berserk. He was ready to abandon his armies, the war, and the terrible anticipation of the enemy’s next move. He would go back to Chittor. Back to his wife. He tied fifteen candles together and held his forearm for hours just above the point where the flames would singe him. What would he have done if she had died? No, that was unacceptable, he wouldn’t hear of it; quite simply he would not permit it. Because if something were to happen to her, he would have to put an end to his own life. Hadn’t he sworn to protect her the night he got married? He would stand guard in front of her room. He would eschew sleep forever. He would make sure she left the door open. And what if the Flautist came at night as he had seen him do that last night in Chittor? Kill her. Let the flames consume her. Was there a perfume more powerful and heady than the smell of burning flesh? He had a better idea. He himself would set both his wife and the Flautist on fire. Some erotic fire, what?

He went about the business of war with his usual eye for detail without losing sight of the larger perspective. He attended War Council meetings, planned alternate scenarios. He acted normally, he was absolutely normal. He knew he needed to be incarcerated instantly in an asylum.

He had been a judge at the Small Causes Court for years. You did not venture an opinion, let alone judge a case till all the evidence was in. And yet he had to admit that he found the discrepancy between the Rana’s and Kausalya’s versions disturbing. Neither had been at the scene of action. Whatever he might think or say of the Rana, he knew his father would not lie deliberately. Neither would Kausalya. But the Rana’s information was third hand. Kausalya, it was obvious, was conducting on-the-spot enquiries. Second hand reports were fine if the investigator was competent, unbiased and trustworthy. His brother Vikramaditya was not known to possess any one of the three qualities. Granted that the Maharaj Kumar had a jaundiced view of his brother but Kumkum Kanwar’s death was hard to explain. She was her mistress’s creature and too insignificant to arouse jealousy or rancour. The other possibility was suicide but that seemed unlikely. Her mistress loved her dearly and on the rare occasion when Kumkum Kanwar wanted something, she got it almost instantly. Besides, she was engaged to be married to one of the officers in the Rana’s personal guard and was in the throes of first love, hardly a time to kill herself. A fire cannot generate itself. An accidental fire, on the other hand, is always unruly and chaotic and would not limit itself to one person. The furniture and furnishings in the palace were excellent combustible material. It was not likely that they would escape untouched. Try as he might, the Maharaj Kumar could no longer play the objective and dispassionate jurist. He knew that someone had tried to kill the Princess. He may not know who it was but he had a pretty good idea and anyway he was willing to wipe out the whole of Chittor to get back at fate for daring to touch his wife.

Four and a half weeks later there was another letter from Kausalya.

Jai Shri Eklingji

To His Highness, the Maharaj Kumar.

I have failed you. I promised to keep an eye on the Princess but I wasn’t vigilant enough. From the day I returned from my village Rohala, I decided to be doubly cautious. After the food-taster had tasted all the dishes, I ate the food and only then served it to the Princess. A week ago, a full twelve hours after the Princess and I had had our lunch, both of us got severe pains and gripes in the stomach and acute diarrhoea. I sent for the Bhil physician Eka but within two hours both of us had lost consciousness because of dehydration and food poisoning. Our condition continued to deteriorate for forty-eight hours, according to Ekaji. Fortunately, he had been summoned at the very outset and had studied the colour and other signs of our faeces and was able to pinpoint the cause of our sudden and deadly illness. For deadly it was, according to Ekaji. A delayed-action poison had been introduced into our food. But for the Bhil doctor, we would both be dead now.

Both of us are out of danger and on the way to recovery. I assure you that there is no longer any cause for worry. For the time being, my daughter-in-law is cooking the rice soup on which the Princess and I have been living for the past five days. As soon as I have the strength to sit up, I will cook all the meals for your wife myself. I have also called ten of my most faithful and able men to stand guard round-the-clock in your and the Princess’ part of the palace. They’ll remain here till you come back. The physician informed His Majesty, the Rana, about the attempt on our lives and suggested that Kumkum Kanwar’s death may not have been an accident. His Highness has transferred the case from Prince Vikramaditya to Lakshman Simhaji’s jurisdiction. He has ordered the arrest of three servants and the cook. For some reason I feel far more safe now on behalf of the Princess. She is truly a brave woman and has not once complained about the terrible calamities that have befallen her since your departure. I’m ashamed that I have not been a better guardian to Her Highness. You are aware that I am not one to give false assurances but I genuinely detect a change in the climate in the palace since Lakshman Simhaji took charge. He has been to see the Princess and me every day and security has been far tighter here than it has been in a long time. As I had suspected, the cook who has been with you since childhood has been found innocent.

Yours obediently,

Kausalya.

P.S. Since you have not bothered to answer my previous P.S., I refuse to talk to you. Kausalya Ma has taught me to knit and I have half-completed a sweater for an unmentionable person.

Love,

Leelawati.

The Maharaj Kumar was in a great hurry. He had nowhere to go, no one was waiting for him but he had an appointment to keep. The desert was big, very big. It should be possible to get lost in it. It was also barren, which is but another word for nothingness. It was a state of mind and body that he desperately yearned for. He wandered about. He had much to do. The sand was crinkled like frozen waves on water. Each wave was precision-contoured and each ridge of a sand-drift was fine as a strand of hair and unbroken. It was breathtaking, the work of a mastercraftsman who must have spent hundreds of years creating this abstract image of perfection that stretched all the way to infinity. His life’s work was cut out for him. He had to systematically dismantle the work of art, botch it till it was unrecognizable, churn it back to primal chaos. He took the first step and smashed his foot into the crest of a wave. He would work his way to the horizon and then move to the next trough. It was hard work. Befikir watched him indulgently, then trotted off. At four in the afternoon he was hit on the head with a sledgehammer. He fell down and his brains spilt on the sand. When he came to, it was night. He should have turned to ice but he was running a high temperature and sweating and shivering alternately. He had not realized until now that the stroke in a sunstroke was a real and physical one and of such disproportionate and violent force. He was very thirsty but Befikir was nowhere around. He tried to stand up. His knees buckled and he collapsed.

A shrill cold wind was blowing. Sheets of sand, fine as sheer muslin flapped back and forth. The whole of the desert was in turmoil. Entire sandscapes were being forcibly evicted and were migrating to unknown lands. Tornado sands rose genie-like into the sky. Camels, birds, men and women, carriages, palaces and elephants flew up and slammed into each other.

The light was golden and through the crush of flying objects a golden woman strode towards him with such carnal and loping grace, he raised his hands to greet her. She walked past him. Her yellow chunni was in his hand. He yelled at her to stop but even he couldn’t hear himself in all the din around. She turned round and smiled. He thought he would die of her beauty. She ran towards him and fell upon his supine body. She unbuttoned his duglo with her teeth. Where had he seen her before? One of the buttons was in her mouth. She laughed as she shot it at him. It stung him on his exposed chest. He snapped her blouse open. Her hands were at his waist untying the knot of his trousers. He held her tightly as he felt himself come alive. He couldn’t get rid of her body-hugging pants. She laughed as her left hand slipped them off. She was sitting on top of him, his hands cupping her breasts. Any moment now she would slip him in.

‘Was it my brother Vikramaditya, Queen Karmavati or you,’ he asked her as he flung her back, ‘who tried to kill her?’

‘What difference does it make?’

Her breasts were once again an old pair of socks, her hair a grey nest of vipers and her edentulous mouth chewed upon the air. ‘You wanted her dead, didn’t you? Does it matter how or who does it?’ Bhootani Mata’s long, bony hand was playing with his crotch. He tried to throw her off but she was nailed upright to him.

‘No, I don’t want her dead. I want him killed.’

‘We’ve changed our mind, have we? You were willing to go any lengths to do away with her the last time we met at the Brindabani Temple. I counselled a little more patience, a little more time to think things over but you spat at me. Perhaps the time for vacillation is long past.’

‘Don’t you dare touch her, you bitch.’

‘Language, my friend, mind your language.’ Her fingers lengthened and became blades. They went through his heart and pinioned him in the sand. ‘Let’s not forget you are the supplicant.’

‘You are an ineffectual, inefficient and disgusting crone. You botched up everything. You couldn’t even get the right person the first time but bumped off poor Kumkum Kanwar. The second time you got Kausalya in addition to my wife but they both survived your singular ineptness. You are a bloody bumbling amateur, Bhootani Mata.’

The Mata caught him by the throat and shook him till his head snapped. ‘You ingrate, do you know who I am up against?’

‘Don’t tell me you expect me to commiserate with you for your failures,’ he managed to get the words out despite his broken neck. ‘If it was not a god but a mere mortal, why would I have come to you?’

She was gone.

‘Leave her alone, you hear, leave her alone.’

When he recovered from the sunstroke, he had no way of knowing how many days had gone by. He realized that he had survived without water only because he had either been in a stupor or unconscious. Befikir was standing near him. How had the horse managed to keep alive? Had he found an oasis or a shallow water hole? He didn’t look dehydrated or exhausted. The Maharaj Kumar caught hold of the stirrup and raised himself. He unstrapped the leather bottle that Mangal made sure was always filled with water and tied to the saddle. He could only take a few sips at a time. There had obviously been a heavy sandstorm. The sand puckered north to south now instead of east to west. And a button was missing from his duglo.

That was a long time ago. Befikir was nowhere to be seen. He could not find his other shoe either now. The sun would soon go down and he would once again freeze in the chill silver light of the moon. He placed the flute against his mouth. It was hard to form a hole with lips so drawn, dry and shrunken as his. He blew air out slowly. A crystalline ‘sa’ in the lowest register. A note of such clarity, depth and weight, it seemed to still the clouds in the sky and the tiny busy creatures weaving in and out of the sands. Sa, re, ga, ma, pa, dha, ni, sa. He went through the full octave and back. Each note was a pearl in the roundness and plenitude of its sound. There is only one art on earth which echoes the perfection of God. It is music. And in music, the most perfect and complete godhood lies within each note. You cannot add to it nor can you subtract from it. It has no reason and no rationale. It is sufficient unto itself. Memories of the ragas he had learnt in childhood flowed through his fingers. He had a gruff, narrow range to his voice. Now there was nothing to stop him from journeying through the three octaves and leaving memories of his stay upon the air and sand of the desert. And the music he made and the journeys he went on were a balm and an elixir and an unguent that brought peace to his battered mind and weary soul.

When the stars came out, Mangal gathered him to his breast and kissed him time and again. And the Prince held his friend Mangal tightly in his arms and would not let go of him.