I should have seen it coming but my vaunted prescience was malfunctioning or has it been just a matter of guesswork and some luck posing as clairvoyance all these years? Political considerations alone should have forced me to go back to my second wife but I felt as disinclined as Babur was with his first. His mother, he says in his diaries, cajoled him to visit his bride at least once in forty days. My mother lived in a world of her own and was not overeager to engage with life. She was aware that I had recently remarried but it would not have occurred to her to ask me how things were between me and my second wife. I had a severe case of conscience but try as I might I could not bring myself to visit Sugandha.
Any new wife in the Palace is treated as an antagonist by the zenana. (Perhaps it’s the same in any royal family.) What she faces is the equivalent of ragging at the military academy. Not a day passes in the first few months when you are not snubbed, humiliated and made a fool of. Sugandha could have easily weathered all the needling and found that, like most underdogs, she too had her champions. But thanks to the example set by the Little Saint, the women of the biggest club in Chittor, the seraglio, cut her dead. Sugandha is naive, spoilt and comes from a family that has made much of her – perhaps because she is the only one who did not inherit the Medini looks – and she went to pieces when she was left alone.
My second mother stepped into this vacuum of extreme isolation and took Sugandha in hand. She did not fawn or fuss over her. She made her part of her entourage. She was firm and supportive and made her feel wanted by giving her a role in the scheme of the royal firmament. There was an inevitability about what happened next and yet I kept watching as if I were a spectator at a dark comedy of errors. There may have been some truth in the rumour that the Queen had played procuress in this instance but there was no denying that I had driven my wife into Vikramaditya’s arms.
Vikramaditya had come back from Ranthambhor, to use his own words, because he was fed up with the backwaters and needed to be revitalized at the fount of Chittor. He was never a private person and the thought of keeping a confidence was alien to him. The conquest of my wife, Sugandha, was not exactly a rare victory but it was ample ammunition against me, and he was certainly not about to underplay his victory or my lack of manliness. Chittor had indeed worked wonders on him. He had drunk long at the fount and decided that he could never have enough and had extended his stay indefinitely. He was in great spirits and so was Sugandha. Scandal seemed to suit my second wife. People had suddenly begun to take note of her and it restored her self-esteem. Queen Karmavati knew she was playing a dangerous game but it was clear that it was part of her plan to raise the stakes and underline her independence from His Majesty.
My own response to discovering that I was a cuckold a second time round was mixed and did not entirely do me credit. Sugandha was young, she was having a good time and I wanted to root for her because she had had the satisfaction of getting back at me. I also felt protective towards her. Our poets never tire of telling us that life is short and I wanted to warn Sugandha that my brother’s fancy for a woman is even shorter. Besides, did she not understand that she was a mere pawn in the devious hands of my second mother. But somewhere I was also relieved. Hem Karan, who had only a few months ago begged me to allow him to stay behind in Chittor and train under me, had become frosty after my marriage to his sister. His sneer was aimed as much at himself as at me. How could he have worshipped me as his saviour when I was not even man enough to do justice to his sister? Now that Sugandha had got even and dishonoured the house of Mewar (carrying on with your brother-in-law was nothing special in the royal household, flaunting the relationship was), Hem Karan did not have the courage to look me in the eye. I could now absolve myself of guilt or at least pretend to. Hem Karan’s discomfiture was balm to my soul. The more egregious and shameless Vikramaditya and Sugandha were, the cleaner my conscience.
I was seeking martyrdom, nothing less. I wanted my forbearance and quiet dignity to be perceived as heroic and turn the whole of Mewar against my brother and wife. Humiliation was not a new sensation for me. Few people in Chittor have had my experience and expertise in it. And yet, despite the fact that I had crystallized my objectives so clearly, it took hours of coaxing myself in the morning before I could muster the courage to show my face to the members of my extended family, or worse, make a public appearance.
Let me not, however, downplay the other unfortunate side effects. 1 was growing progressively more ineffectual in my work and in the chain of command as the days passed by. I had proven my worth on the battlefield repeatedly but nobody was in the mood to recognize that. If you are no good in bed, you are no good. End of matter.
The marital bed is where people think your kingly capabilities are measured and proven. I had been given a second chance and I had failed to make good once again. What use are your administrative or military gifts if you can’t take your pleasure with your wife nor control her?
About a month ago, I heard an altercation between brother and sister in repressed voices. Or rather the brother was trying to have a whispered conversation while Sugandha made it a point to take the town of Chittor into confidence.
‘You are not going on the hunt, if your husband’s not there with you.’
‘I’m not? Watch me.’
‘Think of the consequences, Sugandha. We are allies, we are related and we are beholden to them for our lives, for our freedom and for Chanderi. If we are ever again in trouble, no Rajput rao or rawat, certainly not the Maharana, will come to our help.’
‘The Maharana needs our help against Babur, not the other way round. Besides, I’m not about to sacrifice my life either for you or Father. Father got me into this mess but only I can get myself out of it.’
‘In that case I have no alternative but to accompany you.’
I heard a hearty unmistakable laugh then. ‘Chaperone a married woman, not a bad idea at all.’
Vikramaditya was warming up to the thought. ‘Will you watch while we…’
Hem Karan left in a huff. He kept his word though and for the sake of the proprieties, whatever they were in this instance, went to the hunt with his sister.
One night, soon after the hunt, Sugandha packed her bags and left. Greeneyes was waiting for her at the door leading out of our suite of rooms.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Where do you think I’m going?’
‘I could hazard a guess but I’d rather you told me.’
Sugandha could have left in the forenoon or even in the evening when I was at work and the Little Saint was doing arati at the Brindabani temple. But that wouldn’t have served her purpose. She did not wish to do things behind my back, or to put it uncharitably, she wished to make me privy to all the sordid details of her newfound private life.
‘I’m moving in with Prince Vikramaditya.’
‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, my dear.’
‘Don’t “my dear” me.’
‘What you do with your time is your business but your place is in your husband’s home.’
‘What husband? That man who can’t…?’
‘I believe we share the same husband. I will not have you speak ill of His Highness, the Maharaj Kumar.’
‘You are welcome to him. I’m off. I would rather be honest than a hypocrite.’
‘Kingship is an institution. Content is of the essence. But in its absence, form will have to do in the hope that content will follow. Leave your things where they were.’
‘And pray, what will you do if I don’t?’
The Little Saint’s voice was matter-of-fact. ‘I’ll break your leg and lock up your room from outside.’
‘That won’t stop me. When I’m recovered I’ll leave.’
‘No, you won’t. I’ll break your leg again.’
My second wife refrained from testing the Little Saint’s resolve.
* * *
We had celebrated our victory over Malwa but in the press of events, Father had kept putting off the thanksgiving ceremony that the Rana must perform in Pushkar. Lord Brahma is the most benign and low-key of gods but nobody dare forget that he is no less than the Creator of the universe itself. The visit to Pushkar is, however, a little more than the obligatory obeisance done at the site where Brahma carelessly dropped a lotus blossom as he was wondering where to perform a yagnya. The Pushkar lake is not just one of the holiest places in the country, second only to the Mansarovar waters in the Himalayas for its sanctity and cleansing powers, it is a truly enchanted arbour in the desert and a great favourite with my family.
Father and I had planned to ride by ourselves when Greeneyes decided to join us.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, since we plan to ride non-stop and be back within a week to prepare for the War Council meeting.’
‘I can ride with the fastest,’ my wife had made up her mind on the subject. ‘Ask the Maharaj Kumar. I beat him in a race to Ranakpur.’ I was about to protest and tell her that was not true but thought the better of it.
Suddenly Pushkar has become the event of the year. By the next day anybody in the Palace who had a horse with two and a half legs and could sit on it, was coming along with us. Father tried to put his foot down and tell the women that we were not going on a picnic but on holy duty, but by this time things had gone well beyond his control. My mother, the Maharani herself was going and so were Queen Karmavati, her son and his mistress.
Nobody officially asked her but Greeneyes took charge of this extended outing. A caravan would leave with our luggage before us. Four days of travel, the fifth and sixth day in Pushkar and four days for the return journey. There was a dress code for each day for both the men and women. Dhaka, Paithani, Ikkat and Balucheri in the evenings on the first four days, white on the first day at Pushkar and purple on the second day. Trust the Little Saint to raise the temperature of what was turning out to be a mammoth picnic by these impromptu ploys and rules that had no point to them except to put the palace ladies into a frenzy of preparation.
You would imagine that the royal women were not exactly impoverished as far as clothes were concerned. But suddenly there were no purple blouses, Dhakas, whites or Balucheris in the harem and it was impossible to have a conversation or a few hours of sleep at night. The place was a madhouse. The whole of the cloth market at Chittor had taken up residence in the Palace and cloth merchants visited the seraglio round-the-clock. Tailors, maids, eunuchs, along with Queen Karmavati and the rest of the ladies were cutting and sewing, opening up cholis and letting down hems of ghagras. My only consolation was that by the day of our departure, most of the ladies and their menfolk were bound to drop out. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.
We take it for granted that crises bring people together. A Rajput state is in a perpetual state of crisis and by that logic, we should be the most closely-knit people in the world. But the bonding of war and calamity has its source in fear. And fear is the most destructive of human emotions. It corrodes the soul and the camaraderie it breeds is a false and forced one. I do not know whether the bliss of those first four days will stay with us and make us more tolerant of each other but one thing I’ll vouch for. Pain may be the only reality but if mankind had any sense it would pursue the delusion called happiness. All the philosophers and poets who tell us that pain and suffering have a place and purpose in the cosmic order of things are welcome to them. They are frauds. We justify pain because we do not know what to make of it, nor do we have any choice but to bear it. Happiness alone can make us momentarily larger than ourselves. Not always, but at least occasionally, it can break our obsession with the self.
The trip to Pushkar was idyllic. There were a hundred and seventeen of us. The women sang in the evenings, the children played and gambolled, the sunrises and sunsets were a little beyond sensational and my wife Sugandha carried on with Vikramaditya.
I wrote that last paragraph and paused. It has just the right degree of urbane aloofness, quick brush strokes and images laced with a slight world-weariness. The romantic setting and resonance are nicely undermined by a lighthearted realistic detail in the last clause of the last sentence. But it’s a pose. And if there’s one thing Pushkar brought home to me and perhaps to all of us, it was the devastating barrenness of the roles we play.
However much we may deny it, we deal in the currency of stereotypes. We do not see people, leave alone our wives, children, secretaries, mistresses, ministers, we only have converse with our preconceptions of them. On the way to Pushkar, I accidentally discovered my family, my extended family.
We were sitting around the campfire on the first evening when I heard a startlingly authentic imitation of my voice.
‘I’m afraid I can’t take any credit for our victory over Malwa. His Highness, Medini Rai was the Commander-in-Chief and it was his leadership that made all the difference. Part of the credit must also go to Prince Hem Karan. He is young, committed and a brilliant fighter. I would be doing a disservice to Mewar and its allies if I didn’t mention the gallantry, the tactical ingenuity and ferocity of my friends, Shafi and Tej. It would be unforgivable on my part if I didn’t bow my head before the valour, speed and single-mindedness of our soldiers. Last but not least, how could we possibly have won the great battle without the help of His Majesty, the Sultan of Malwa? If he hadn’t lost, what victory would we be celebrating today? Under the circumstances, I’m constrained, nay, I’ve no option but to return the greatest honour Mewar can bestow on a warrior, the triumph we call Veer Vijay.
‘I beg of you not to misunderstand me. I’m not ungrateful nor do I wish to insult the great people of Mewar or His Majesty, the Maharana.’ My sister-in-law, Rattan Simha’s wife, paused then. When the audience finally stopped laughing, she said, ‘Long live the Maharana and may he prosper for ever. As an earnest of my gratitude to you all, I would, however, like you to know that under duress I will accept the Crown anytime.’
Could this be the shy and stammering Deepmala, my first brother’s fifth wife, to whom I’ve never said more than ‘hello’ perhaps seven times in the last four years? Surely she must be one of the sharpest observers of the political scene in Mewar. No, not just of the political scene; she next did a devastating portrait of Queen Karmavati lending money to a concubine after taking over her property, which was worth at least a thousand times the amount borrowed, as security and then charging some unheard-of interest. She followed that with a dialogue between a maid and Vikramaditya. The maid pleads measles, menstruation, her husband, her duties as maid-in-waiting to Greeneyes, brain fever, a visit from a mother-in-law and several other reasons for her inability to meet the Prince in the rose garden and is delighted when Vikramaditya overcomes every obstacle and seduces her.
Poor Vikram, he’ll make fun of the whole world but becomes apoplectic when he himself is targeted for some ribaldry. He went through all the colours of the spectrum and snarled ‘never, never’ when his sister-in-law touched his feet and asked for his forgiveness. His mother was far more diplomatic and blessed her step daughter-in-law.
‘Ah Highness, you laughed the loudest,’ Deepmala whispered when she came around to me, ‘forgive the impertinence but do you really like being made an ass of or are you the biggest hypocrite in this gathering?’
‘Both, Princess, both,’ I told her as I handed her my ruby ring.
‘Stick with the second, Highness. It will take you far.’
I doubt if there’s a better impresario in Mewar than the Little Saint. Deepmala was just the first of her surprises. On the second day, she lined up Tej as a magician (he cut up Greeneyes with a saw, threw up her bleeding limbs in the air and at the audience and put them back together) and believe it or not, my second wife.
What was Sugandha going to perform? After she sat down on the stage along with a concubine, two servants brought a veena and a pakhawaj. The veena is an unwieldy instrument with its large and small hollowed-out resonating gourds and I had a malicious vision of my second wife sitting astride the central beam and playing horsie, horsie.
Let me come clean and confess that I love the veena more than most musical instruments and I did not wish her to ruin my pleasure by playing indifferently.
Sugandha, however, was no longer diffident or defiant. Her opening meditation was short but she made up for it by a subtle and sinuous vilambit. It took me a while to get the hang of what she was doing. She was not a purist the way zealots tend to be. Since her teacher was from the south, her training and discipline were evident in her conception and her phrasing but the natural bent of her mind resisted the ironclad Karnataka format. The tension between the two impulses was a liberating one. She did not always succeed in what she was trying to do but that was because she was young and inexperienced. What was important was that she could create an air of mystery and excitement, so that you were curious to see whether she could make it worth your while to stay.
She did not disappoint me or the rest of the audience.
There were two shows in the evenings, the one presented by Greeneyes and the one in the sky. If you are Brahma, the Creator of the universe, you can spit on all the laws of aesthetics, tell the theoreticians to stuff their mouths with all their talk of the balance of colour and the painterly palette. In the evenings, Brahma dipped his palms, palms wide enough to hold the entire universe in them, into a cauldron of raging colours and flung them helter-skelter at the horizon.
I’m a classicist by nature. My own life, writing and other excesses may give the lie to that claim but that does not alter the bent of my mind. Austerity, clean lines, wide vistas and, above all, clarity and going to the essence of things is what I respond to. The god of Pushkar is an exhibitionist, he’s garish, profligate and prodigal, he can’t stop showing off, he’s tasteless, he’s self-indulgent, he exaggerates beyond the farthest limits of hyperbole, but none of it matters, not at all. Because, however disparate and contrary his palette, the only thing that matters is, does it work? The answer is yes, yes and yes again. It shouldn’t but it does. Don’t take my word for it, come to Pushkar and see it for yourself.
He does black sunsets, this god, the poisonous black that dripped from the serpent Vasuki when the gods and the demons churned the oceans in search of ambrosia. In a span of twenty minutes, he starts multiple interplanetary fires and douses them with the most gentle and soothing of unguents; whips up sandstorms that turn into rain and flash floods. It is a seamless transformation, the texture of Chanderi cotton becomes the heavy silk of Kanchipuram, ochre pales to azure. Now you know where all the Rajput contradictions, extremes and cliches come from: fire and ice, rock and fluid, arrogance and extreme politeness. Yes, at Pushkar you can get sunsets in black and white too.
Did my wife know something about the desert light that I didn’t? Was that the reason why she made everyone wear white the first day at Pushkar? Perhaps it was the interplay between the sun and sand that made all things translucent: men, women and temples. Mirages had more substance than any of us. The slightest breeze, I was sure, would make us disintegrate and waft us into the holy lake.
The Pushkar waters. Now there is a mystery. If they can purify us and cleanse all our sins, then reincarnation is a lie or at least redundant. We could all snap the cycle of rebirth and achieve moksha with just one dip in the Pushkar. The trip to Mecca achieves something similar for Muslims, and the Christians, I’m told, can draw a veil over their sins by the mere act of confession and repentance. I sometimes think that Buddhism is the toughest religion in the world. It not only eschews all talk of god but does not allow any instant remedies. Responsibility for one’s own acts is its only metaphysics.
So did I forgo the immersion in the Pushkar? Would you? I may be a doubter, a frequent one at that, but I am hypocrite enough to play it safe and take my chances with the sacred waters. No, that is too facile an answer. Washing one’s sins is wishing them away. Yet I’ve never doubted the healing and cleansing power of the lake. I held my breath and stayed underwater till my mind had gone dead.
When the Sun-god touched the red spire of the Brahma temple, Father and I entered the gate where the swan of Brahma keeps an eye on all his devotees. We lay prostrate in front of the Creator. I was grateful to Brahma for the life he had breathed into me, for Hem Karan’s escape from Gagrone and the victory he bestowed on us against the Sultan of Malwa and yet, even as I thanked him, my thoughts kept wandering to the Padshah in Delhi. Would that I had Babur’s total faith and confidence in his God. When he lost, did he say ‘God made it come wrong’ or did he consider defeats the price he had to pay for his sins? Would my hesitation to ask my Creator to intervene in the war that we must surely fight with the Moghul one of these days and make it come right, affect the outcome of the war itself?
His Majesty and I stood at the head of the stairs of the temple for a moment. The lake had the sheen and stillness of milk on which the cream was congealing. The family was out now and along with the summer pavilions, was dressed in radiant white. The light and air seemed to be filtered through gauze and Dhaka muslin. Barring a lecture in the morning, Greeneyes had set the day aside for a long and lazy picnic by the lakeside.
I was in two minds about going for the talk. There are two topics that I scrupulously avoid, not always successfully, but I try. One is the weather. Mewar is either singeing dry and hot or corrosively dry and cold. There’s nothing more to say about it.
The other subject is the eunuchs in the Palace. I’m physically uneasy in the presence of eunuchs. This is not their fault. They are certainly more sinned against than sinning but they are a dangerous lot. They bring a steamy, hothouse air wherever they are. They scheme, intrigue and machinate not with a purpose but as the end-all and be-all of their lives. Where they are, there is trouble, often grievous trouble. Today’s talk is by Bruhannada, the most powerful, arrogant and devious of the breed at Chittor. It may perhaps tell you something about the man or whatever gender you wish to assign to him, that as Rani Karmavati’s chief eunuch and closest confidant, cabinet ministers as well as visiting rajas and rawats seek an audience with him. I have resolutely eschewed his company all these years and am inclined to do so today but the subject intrigues me: Self-denial in the Mahabharata.
The shamiana was full by the time I got there. I forgot to mention that while Bruhannada’s looks may not appeal to me, he is singularly goodlooking and can be delightful company when he wants. Bruhannada knew his Mahabharata better than most of us and he had a thesis to propound. He chose Bhishma, the greatest celibate in the epic as the symbol of an abstemiousness that is not of one’s own choosing. This is of course a bit of a grey area. As you are well aware, Bhishma’s ageing father Shantanu fell in love with the beauteous Satyavati but she would not agree to the marriage unless her son and not Bhishma inherited the throne. Shantanu would not ask his son for this terrible sacrifice, yet Bhishma not only renounced the throne but took a vow of eternal celibacy.
Without saying it in as many words, Bruhannada seemed to suggest parallels between Bhishma and the eunuchs. No, he went even further. He hinted that they shared a common lineage. Both must suffer a neutered fate. He did not of course stop there. It is what you make of this imposed condition that brings the question of choice into play. You would be entirely justified if you spent your entire life railing against your misfortune. But there is another option. Rise above your fate. Internalize your calamity and give it a heroic dimension as Bhishma did. It was a thoughtful disquisition and its central insight applied to all of us since there is no man born who is not handicapped in one way or another. So it is up to us to make the best of a botched job.
After breakfast we went to the Mrikanda Muni Kund which grants the boon of wisdom. It is close to the most wooded spot on the rim of the lake and also the most secluded. I knew that it would be a long time before I spent such a quiet day again and I wanted to make the most of it. My brothers Vikramaditya and Rattan and their nine children, Tej, Mangal and I played seven tiles and peet-pitai. After the games I swam for a long time and then lay on my back on the bank. There’s no more soothing sound in the world than the slow, unintrusive, soft swish of water against the shore. Every now and then I would turn on my side and look at the ladies in the distance. Was this all my family? I had rarely seen so many beautiful women together. They were playing hide-and-seek, some of them were making garlands while others chatted or scolded the children. The sound of their voices seemed to come from a long way off. I let my hand fall drowsily in the water.
‘Which ... which ... which-whee-whee-which?’ No other bird but the black-and-chestnut crested bunting, the pathar chidiya could be so cheerfully inquisitive about life. If there’s a pond or a river nearby, there’s bound to be a red munia around. The munia reminds me of a child. It is a musical bird which is always short of breath. This one too sang a discontinuous and feeble song. Where had I been all these years? How could I have ignored a world that Raja Puraji Kika had opened up for me when we were at school together and would go bird watching on holidays? That black and orange chestnut bird pecking at spiders and insects is, I think, a redstart. It’s too busy eating to call out its sharp and short whit ... whit ... whit. I was watching that shy winter visitor, the blue throat feeding on caterpillars and beetles in the reeds when I must have fallen asleep.
I don’t know how long I had been dozing. The sound of voices in the background had almost completely died down. Everybody must have had lunch and lain down for a siesta. I did not want to open my eyes but I had the strange feeling that somebody was watching me. It was Sugandha. She was on her knees, crouching, with her arms tightly wound around herself. Every half a minute or so her body jerked, her throat and tongue worked hard to release some deep and unmentionable grief and yet could only let out an occasional hiccup-like sound. But it was her eyes that held me. They wouldn’t look at me. There was a terror in them that made them dart and flit from the trees to the lake to the sky and then to the rise and fall of my belly. I sat up slowly and gently, very gently placed my hand on her shoulder. Her body tensed at my touch and I thought she would roll her eyes and fall to the ground in a fit of epilepsy or hysteria.
Whatever it was that was on her mind, why would she want to come to me? Vikramaditya was her friend, no sarcasm meant, and she should have gone to him. I stroked her back barely touching her at first and then firmly. The spasms that were shaking her to the very pit of her stomach had reduced in intensity but she still could not speak. She took my hand in hers and we walked for a minute. Some terrible urgency seemed to take hold of her then and she began to run till we came to a break in the trees around a slight detour in the line of the lake. A body with its head resting on its chest was immersed three-quarters in the shallow water. A watery red had spread all around it and the white of the clothes had gone a dirty brown. I lifted the head. It was Bruhannada.
I pulled him out with some effort. His right leg had got stuck in the mud and he was heavy with all that water soaked into his clothes. There were multiple stab wounds all over his chest, none in the back, and his privates or whatever passes for them in eunuchs had been slashed repeatedly. Why would anybody, I wondered, want to mutilate the genitalia of a eunuch? His lips were the ashen grey of the dead and I couldn’t get a pulse on him but when I put my ear to his chest, I thought I detected a faint but erratic heartbeat.
‘Will you stay with him while I get some help?’ I asked Sugandha.
‘Don’t leave me alone.’
‘He needs medical help urgently.’
‘He may be dead by the time you get it.’
‘That’s a chance we’ll have to take.’
When I got back, my second wife was no longer there.
* * *
Greeneyes had planned for two days at Pushkar. We had all been so happy and carefree, Father was even considering extending our stay by another day. Perhaps paradise is always short-lived. The water at Pushkar had suddenly curdled and the summer pavilions had lost their exuberance. The women were huddled together around the Little Saint. She had taken charge as usual and had already given orders to pull up the tents. Father appointed Rattan to oversee the journey back while Mangal, he and I took off for home.
‘Mangal will handle the investigation,’ Father told me as we were about to enter Chittor, ‘while you will conduct the trial.’
‘Mangal’s not in the Home Ministry, Your Majesty, and I’m merely a judge in the Small Causes Court.’
‘I’m aware of who’s in what department, Prince. This is a Palace matter and I want it to stay within the Palace. I also want the culprits brought to justice speedily. You had better do a good job.’
‘I beg of you, Majesty. I’m part of the family. The purposes of justice may be served better if an outsider was appointed.’
‘We need to get to the bottom of things. It’s because an outsider may be intimidated that I’m appointing you. Now will you get on with the job or will you continue to tell me how to do mine?’
They are afraid of us, there’s no question about that Why else would Babur recall his son Humayun to Delhi from Junpur?’ Silhadi asked the question of no one in particular at the War Council. He was in great spirits and seemed to have forgotten the uncalled-for tantrum he had thrown the last time he was at Chittor. (It was also likely that he did not find this an opportune moment to ask why and on whose authority the Sultan of Malwa had been sent back to his own kingdom with an escort, a week after the Rai’s departure.)
‘Would you not recall your right hand man to be with you,’ my wife’s uncle, Rao Viramdev, asked Silhadi,’ if this Council decided that we should march against the Padshah?’
‘I would, naturally.’
‘Should Babur then conclude that the Rajputs fear him?’
The Prime Minister changed the subject before Silhadi realized that he had been trapped by his own words and became nasty.
‘Did you know that both Babur and Ibrahim Lodi, the Delhi Sultan, had solicited Mewar’s help before the battle of Panipat? I think we are all agreed that the loose confederacy which holds Mewar and its friends together is today the mightiest power in this part of Hindustan. Let us strike while the iron is hot. Let us give battle to Babur as soon as we can.’
The War Council, it appeared, did not wish to debate the matter of war or weigh the advantages and demerits of putting off the confrontation for a while, maybe even for a couple of years. They were impatient to go and finish off Babur.
‘Before one takes such an important decision,’ I asked a little hesitantly, directing my query to Rao Viramdev in the hope that he would consider the issue on its merits and not in the heat of the moment, ‘would it not help if we investigated how so small a force as Babur’s defeated the numerically vastly superior armies of Ibrahim Lodi?’
‘Why is that such a puzzle?’ It was Lakshman Simhaji who fielded my question. ‘Hadn’t you told us for years that the Delhi dynasty was a spent force and ready to crumble?’
‘Besides,’ Prime Minister Pooranmalji had a broad grin on his face, ‘did you not but recently prove beyond the shadow of a doubt how a tiny band of dedicated warriors lead by Rao Medini Rai and you could defeat the combined armies of Malwa and Gujarat?’
‘I mean no disrespect to the courage and valour of the Rajput armies but ask a mere hypothetical question. What is to prevent Padshah Babur from repeating the same feat as ours and giving a drubbing to the combined Mewar armies?’
The Prime Minister was patient with me. ‘Because unlike Delhi and Malwa, Mewar is at the peak of its power. Never have the Rajputs been so united and their hegemony so undisputed.’
‘You were trying to tell us something, Maharaj Kumar,’ Rao Viramdev revived my earlier point. ‘The Lodi empire may have been in bad shape but the Sultan undoubtedly had a formidable war machine. What would you say were the causes of his defeat?’
‘Four reasons. The Moghul bows are better designed and their steel arrows have greater penetrating power. Unlike us, they make extensive and routine use of matchlocks. One can shoot from a greater distance and yet be far more accurate and deadly than with arrows. They don’t just come with superior conventional arms, they build fortifications on the battlefield itself.’ I drew the diagrams of Babur’s battle plan at Panipat and explained how his strategy worked. ‘Fourth, the Padshah uses new deadly weapons called field-cannons which discharge huge flying stone balls at high speeds from great distances into the midst of the enemy. The cannon balls played havoc long before Ibrahim Lodi’s forces could engage Babur’s cavalry or infantry.’
‘You call wagons tied together, ditches and walls of packed branches fortifications?’ Silhadi asked me disdainfully. ‘Our elephants will trample them down.’
‘Ibrahim Lodi had a thousand elephants.’
‘How many cannons does the Padshah have?’ Rao Viramdev again.
‘Three or four, I’m not sure about the precise number. But he has employed a Turkish master artilleryman and cannon-builder called Ustad Ali-quli who has recently cast an enormous mortar. It is calculated that the new cannon will lob its stone shots sixteen hundred paces.’
‘And what do you recommend should be our course of action?’ Rao Viramdev kept the discussion on course.
‘Play for time.’
‘To what purpose?’
‘We have been making enquiries. There seems to be a good chance that the Portuguese may sell us four field-guns within a year or year and a half. That will give us time to buy at least a couple of thousand matchlocks and work out a strategy that will bypass Babur’s portable fortifications.’
‘What kind of strategy would that be, Maharaj Kumar?’ Raja Puraji Kika pinned me down. ‘You have obviously given it some thought.’
‘Eschew all confrontations. If hostilities cannot be avoided, harry and harass. Strike at the flanks and disappear.’
‘We thought you had grown out of your fun and games phase when you fought a conventional battle with the Malwa Sultan. Time to get serious, Maharaj Kumar, this is war we are talking about.’
Raja Puraji Kika ignored Silhadi’s dig at me. ‘How long could you carry on with these tactics? The Padshah, as you’ve convinced us, is nobody’s fool.’
‘We would fall back on this evasive strategy only as a last resort. I am fully seized of the fact that at some point, not in the immediate future but as soon as our arsenals are on par, we must meet the Padshah head on.’
‘I keep thinking that it couldn’t have been just four cannons and a thousand matchlocks that ran Ibrahim Lodi to the ground,’ Rao Medini Rai spoke as if he had been puzzling over the issue for some time. ‘There was a serious problem of morale amongst the Sultan’s troops. He had alienated the majority of his people and most of his amirs and generals were at odds with him. I believe that with us the Padshah will face a united army whose leaders are acting in concert and share common goals and aspirations’
‘I cannot gainsay the truth of the points you have made, Highness. We are a large, strong and united force. Cohesion and compactness will come with extensive drilling and practice as we discovered on our last campaign. What harm could ensue from some procrastination that would also make us stronger in small and big firearms?’
‘And how will you hold off the Padshah till then?’
‘By a diplomatic offensive. We send an embassy to Agra bearing gifts for the Padshah, Shehzada Humayun and others in the royal household. We congratulate Babur and make friendly overtures; if need be, even discuss boundaries and borders with him. It will throw him off balance and he’ll be confused about our intentions.’
‘Are you suggesting that after months of a hostile build-up, the Padshah is going to be fooled by your transparent ploys?’ Silhadi was perhaps rightly scornful.
‘It’s worth a try. He has so many revolts, rebellions and other problems on his hands, I believe Babur too would be happy to get a respite from what he calls the infidel problem of Mewar.’
‘You are right, Maharaj Kumar, time is of the essence. The best time to attack an enemy is when his house is not in order. If we don’t engage the enemy now, he’ll gain the upper hand. If we are the paramount power in the country, surely we must behave like one?’ Pooranmalji reasoned patiently with me.
‘Is it settled then,’ it was the first time Father had spoken that day, ‘that we move swiftly against the Padshah?’
I should have known better. His Majesty had made up his mind before calling the meeting of the War Council.
* * *
I saw Rao Medini Rai and Raja Puraji Kika off that afternoon.
‘Why is it that half of Chittor is always dug up?’ Medini Rai asked me as we rode down.
‘We are trying to set up an aqueduct system like the one they have in Vijayanagar.’
‘That’s the reason why he doesn’t want to go to war, Highness,’ Raja Puraji Kika told the Rao. ‘Because he thinks funds will get diverted from his pet project.’
‘I hadn’t thought about that but you are right. Everything will come to a standstill till we get back.’
‘So you think this is going to be the big one?’ Medini Rai asked me.
‘I suspect it is. What do you think?’
‘This new man in Agra is like a fever that keeps rising higher and higher. I hope all of us are not going to be delirious by the time we get to the battlefield.’ Medini Rai was right. We could think of nothing but Babur. ‘Our allies seem to be raring to go. That kind of excitement and confidence can’t do us any harm. Why didn’t you mention the fanatic frenzy with which Babur’s approaching this war?’
‘I was hoping to slow down the pace of the discussion from excessive patriotism to a rational level. Any talk of Babur’s extreme stance would have made them want to go to war today.’
‘That doesn’t answer the question of how we are going to combat it.’ Medini Rai stopped me short.
‘Do you have any ideas?’
‘Perhaps we too should make it a religious war?’
‘And lose the support of the Muslim kings and populace?’
‘So what do we do?’
‘There are only two checkmates to a Holy War. Enlist as many Muslims as we can on our side. Make merit the only criteria for advancement and not religion. Secondly, and that’s what I was holding out for throughout the meeting: technologically, we have to be, if not ahead, at least on par, and militarily, we have to think and move like a single unit instead of ten companies moving in ten directions.’ The Rai listened intently but it was what I had to say next that made him frown grimly. ‘Do you know what Babur says about us? “Swordsmen though some Hindustanis may be, most of them are ignorant and unskilled in military move and stand, in soldierly counsel and procedure.” We have to prove him wrong.’
‘It would appear that I was in error to suggest that Ibrahim Lodi was as much to blame as Babur’s brilliant management of the limited resources at his disposal.’ I was glad to see that Medini Rai had the courage to have second thoughts. ‘It also diverted attention from Babur’s technological superiority in arms.’
‘Only slightly, for everybody at the Council thinks the field-cannons and matchlocks will not do serious damage to our forces.’
‘I owe you and His Majesty the Rana an apology for another matter. It is long overdue. I believe His Highness, Silhadi, got carried away the last time when we met to decide the fate of the Sultan of Malwa. I am not lacking in appreciation of what I owe you, Highness. Without you I may have lost my son and Gagrone and we certainly would not have won the battle.’
‘You need not have worried on that count, Highness. I am not likely to confuse Silhadi with you.’
* * *
I was working late at the office (we all were, there’s so little time before we set off) when Father came to see me.
‘I think a clarification would be in order. I did not write to the Moghul Padshah as his diary suggests. It was he who asked me.’
‘It doesn’t matter who asked whom, Your Majesty. What matters is that Babur feels betrayed because you wrote to him that we would support him and attack Agra from the south. He is the kind of man who does not forget a grievance easily. I suspect he’ll bring an extra degree of malevolence to this conflict not just because we are pagans but because he wishes to settle other scores with us.’
‘My calculations were based on a different set of assumptions. I was counting on Ibrahim Lodi beating Babur’s lesser forces but in the process suffering unacceptably heavy casualties. On the other hand, if Babur defeated the Delhi Sultan, he would collect a huge sum and at best, annex a province or two. Either way, I felt that the ideal time for us to attack Ibrahim Lodi was after his brush with Babur. Who would have guessed that Babur would occupy Delhi?’
It never ceases to amaze me how we disregard people’s avowed intentions. Copies of the translation of the bits and pieces of Babur’s diaries had been sent to all the cabinet members. Surely Father knew that Babur had announced a long time ago that he viewed the Delhi Sultanate as his since his ancestor Timur had conquered it some generations ago.
‘Perhaps we were a shade naive.’ That’s about as close to admitting a mistake as His Majesty had ever come.
‘You did not stop there. After the battle of Panipat, you made Ibrahim Lodi’s brother Mahmud, who’s next in line for the succession of the Delhi throne, welcome in Chittor. Then you took Kandar which belonged to the Delhi Sultanate and which Babur considers his territory since he beat Sultan Ibrahim Lodi. As if all that was not enough, you’ve also surreptitiously occupied another hundred and ninety or is it two hundred other towns and villages that Babur thinks belong to him. We cannot deny, Father, that we have given Babur grave provocation.’ I laughed then. ‘I suspect that was your intention.’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to quite put it that way.’
‘It’s of no consequence now, Father. The Padshah is in Agra and there is no avoiding the conflict, but if you will forgive my harking back to the same point, will you even now reconsider postponing it?’
‘If I didn’t know you as one of the toughest generals in the history of the Rajputs, I would say that you’ve lost your nerve. This excessive caution is making you faint of heart. The more we delay, the stronger he’ll get. Now is the time to strike while the Padshah is still unsettled and the Lodi vassals are busy fomenting revolts everywhere.’
