A BRAVE QUEEN
(Short-story)
SHAMSUDDIN
The
Pat Rani was expecting a child, her very first child.
The anxiety of the Hada Sardar
knew no limits as he sent messenger after messenger to the inner courts. The
frown between his heavy brows deepened as the last messenger sent by him came
back with a message from the chief midwife saying that the Sardar
would have to wait for a few more hours. He grunted, and kept walking to and
fro in his vast bedroom–decorated with thick carpets, big glass lamps hanging
from the ceiling, and several gold-framed pictures of the past Hadas glaring down from the surrounding walls.
The
Sardar thoughtfully fingered his long, curved
moustache, as he gazed at the pictures of his own father, his father’s father
and so on. A son, he thought, is what is needed to carry on the tradition, the
glory of the past. A smile touched his lips as he caught sight of a maid
walking fast through the long sunlit courtyard, that
separated his own apartments from the inner courts. He waited. She entered the
room, her hands folded, looking down. He looked at her as his throat contracted
with anxiety.
“Speak
up woman”, he said. He expected the worst...his Rani...he
thought, the girl he had married as a young boy and had shared his early youth
with. “Speak up!” he repeated tersely.
“Khama Ghani Hukum”
the pale-faced woman stammered…“A princess is born.”
She
stood trembling, expecting the wrath of the Sardar to
burst out any moment. The Sardar stood stupefied. He
h never thought of this possibility, of himself begetting a daughter.
“A
girl?” he asked unbelievingly. The woman nodded dumbly. She glanced up, as the
tense liner of the Sardar’s face relaxed in a
confused smile. The clever maid of the Rani quickly
took up the opportunity. She smiled broadly. “Anna-Data will kindly pay us a
visit. The little one has come exactly on my lord,” she
added.
The
Sardar stood outside the room, with closed doers. He
was not allowed to enter the room–not for thirteen days. A window was
opened in the gallery and the Rani turned her head to
look at him. With tear-filled eyes she whispered, “I am Sorry, my
Lord, terribly ashamed.”
The
Sardar’s heart filled as he said,
“Let me see the child.” A happy, grateful smile came to the Rani’s
face as she gestured to the maid with her eyes. The child, wrapped up in a
saffron cloth, was brought to the window. The Sardar
stared, fascinated. The infant gave a yell, but stopped short as it caught it’s parent’s eye. It stared back boldly, as if asking
him–forcing him to recognize her existence. His brows went up slowly; this was
unusual. He extended his hands for the child, but the maid backed away–no, not
for thirteen days.
From
the very first day, Hada Sardar
never treated the young princess as a girl. She was his only issue, and she
always retained her position as the top favourite
of her Royal father. “My eldest son,” he called her.
Temperamentally,
she had taken after her father; bold, aggressive, stubborn and outspoken–she
was a dominating character. Physically, luckily for her, she took
after her mother–a lovely woman. The
young Hadi had the typical high forehead of the Rajputs, bright,
expressive eyes, full lips and a tall, slim figure that was certainly not as
delicate as it looked.
She
swam like a fish. Even the most mischievous horse grew restless under the
strong clasp of her legs and there were very few who could stand up to her when
it came to archery. She was devotedly attached to the old Sardar,
who many a time caught himself wishing that she was a boy. Especially
so, when the Rani, mother of the young princess,
asked him, to find a match for girl.
“She
could easily wait for a couple of years,” he replied uneasily, looking away.
The
Rani, seated close to his feet, while he lay on his
high bed, put a hand on his feet, forcing him to look her way. She is sixteen,
my lord, another year or two could prove disastrous.”
The
Sardar frowned, and looked annoyed. What does she
mean! Rani replied at the unasked question, “The
times are not good–the mighty Emperor and his governors, scattered all over the
country, keep their vulture-like eyes open for any good-looking girl, be she of
Royal blood or a commoner. It’s no use inviting trouble, my lord; the princess
is grown up now–almost a woman.”
There
was wisdom in her words and in her eyes. Her eyes had become mellowed with
years. The Sardar noticed that the new expression
went well with the few stray grey hair on her temples. He felt overwhelmed. “We
can very well look after our daughter and her welfare, Rani,”
Sardar sounded hurt. “I don’t doubt my Lord’s wisdom.
I just offered my humble piece of advice,” the Rani
said, and the Sardar nodded thoughtfully.
The
fame of the young Hadi as a beautiful woman had
spread far and wide in Rajputana, and there was no
dearth of good matches that were offered for her. The doting father, however,
was choosy. He had nearly refused the proposal brought about by a mediator,
from the famous Chudawat Sardar,
thinking him too old for his young daughter, when a message sent in a
round-about way by the Princess herself, made him decide in favour
of Chudawat. Chudawat, the
handsome, brave captain of the Rana of Udaipur, had been a girlhood idol of the young Hadi. She had secretly hoped to marry this brave Rajput. Chudawat was senior to
her by many years. But in those hectic days, minor things like age difference
were of no importance, as long as a man could offer his woman security.
Thus,
amidst much pomp and gaiety, and after elaborate ceremonies, the young Hadi was married to the Chudawat Sardar.
As
Hadi’s gold-studded palanquin, along with it’s guard, entered the boundaries of
“I
bear important tidings; twelve hours may prove fatal,” the rider said in a low
tone. Screeching noisily, the iron gate opened, and
the lone rider entered. He jumped down lightly and entered the palace. Before
long he was summoned in.
The
Rana stood in the centre of the big, decorated room.
Apparently, he had gone through the letter sent in by the messenger. He looked
up. The rider, with his mud-spattered feet, and tired face, bowed low. “Juhar.” “How far are the Moghul armies from Bundi?” the Rana came straight to the point. “They are approaching fast,
Data” the messenger replied. The messenger was dismissed, as the Rana went in to don his formal garb. Thereafter, he called
an emergency meeting of his courtiers.
Seated
in the meeting hall on his high chair, he addressed his courtiers, ranged in
two parallel lines, on both his sides. “My courtiers,” he said, “this emergency
meeting was called for a grave reason. We have received a letter from Bundi–from Princess Charumati of Bundi,” the Rana looked down, “asking
fop help against the Moghul invasion.” “Moghul invasion?” the courtiers chorused.
“Yes”
the Rana nodded, “Bundi is
being attacked by the Moghul. The Moghul
Subedar has put a condition for peace.” The Rana paused meaningfully, “He wants the hand of the
Princess in marriage.” A shocked silence reigned over the lamp-lighted room. “The
Princess has sent a message,” the Rana finished
hastily, “asking our help–offering herself to us in marriage.” He became
silent. A man from among the courtiers rose. He was a young man, his face
flushed with anger. “We must immediately start for Bundi.
A Rajput girl’s honour is
at stake; there is no time to pause or ponder.” Affirmative shouts answered
him. The Rana looked confused. He looked at a man,
with grey whiskers; seated at his right. The man stood up. “My lord,” he said
in a grim tone, “facing the wrath of the Moghul
Emperor is not easy. The armies of Mewar are hardly
back from a prolonged struggle. Bundi should...” The
old minister could not complete his sentence. Another young courtier stood up.
He looked at the old man. “The Mahamantri has become
too prudent with age; he is forgetting his Rajput
duties.” He shouted, speaking on a higher note, “Today it’s the daughter of Bundi, tomorrow it could be ours.” Another young man took
out his sword, holding it naked, up in the air. “My sword is thirsty for the
blood of the Moghuls who dare insult a Rajput Sati. A woman has called out to us fop help, and we
must answer, your Majesty.”
The
Rana stood up. He looked pleased.
Hadi sat patiently, as
chirping, giggling maids gave her a rose water bath. She smiled at their jokes,
as they combed her long, lustrous hair, braiding them, and then adorning them
with trinkets. She readily gave out her hands and feet to be decorated with
intricate motifs of the red paste, Mahavar. She
helped them, while they put jewellery in her nose,
throat, ears and brow.
And
then, putting on her scarlet wedding outfit with elaborate gold motifs on it,
she got up with the help of a maid, who, staring at her loveliness, upturned a
Henna-stained palm and placed a big round Kohl mark, in the centre of it, a
safeguard against all evil eyes.
Outside,
in the palace courtyard, Naubat emanated shrill notes
and the drum beat wildly as Hadi, her face covered by
the scarlet veil, the anklets in her feet jingling, moved towards the
apartments of her husband.
She
heard the rhythm of the drum, as strong as the beat of a heart, as wild as the
dreams of youth; in that one moment Hadi
changed from the bold, pampered tomboy that she was, to the throbbing,
starry-eyed bride of Chudawat Sardar.
The Sardar’s smile was tender, and amused, as he stared at his beautiful young bride, seated on the decorated bed. He had heard much of her adventures, and her stubbornness as a maid. The lowered eyelids, however, now seemed to tell another tale. He smiled and turned his head, frowning slightly at the soft knock on the door.
He
got up, a little annoyed, and opened the door. The maid explained hurriedly, “A
messenger from the Rana.” “That
much of an emergency?” The Sardar asked, in a
mocking-tone. The maid, her face towards the Sardar, backed away, as the Rana’s
messenger was ordered in. Chudawat tersely
replied to his Juhar and asked what was it all about. The messenger looked tense. He readily
reacted to Chudawat’s cold behaviour,
telling him in a precise manner, that
“A
night’s delay...” the messenger hesitated, looking anxiously at the door,
behind which Hadi stood. “Don’t teach me my own
trade,” the Sardar shouted,
his face aflame with anger, “Go and tell Ranaji that Chudawat will start tomorrow morning.” The messenger had
almost stepped out, when Hadi’s cold voice rang out, “Tell
Ranaji that Chudawat will
start immediately; tell him he was Hadi’s word for
it.” The messenger bowed low at the closed door, and without as much as a glance
at Chudawat, went out. The infuriated Sardar went up to the scarlet-clad bride. He caught her
roughly by the shoulders, “What does this mean Hadi,
you don’t want me?”
Hadi’s eyes were bright with
unshed tears. “Help me, my lord”, she said, “don’t let me commit this
unforgivable sin;” she put her fair brow against his broad chest and said in a
low, husky voice, “Generations to come will spit on my name if I detain you at
this moment–help me act like a true Rajputni.”
Her
closeness effected him; still holding her shoulders,
he said, “I am not shrinking from the battle, God help me–if I ever do–but a
little delay won’t make any difference, I tell you,” he implored.
Hadi shot back, freeing
herself from his hold, her eyes outsparkled the
diamond in her nose. “Wear my bangles, and give me your sword and sit secure in
the circle of these four walls, and don’t ever call yourself a Rajput,” she burst out.
This
was too much, even for the deeply infatuated Chudawat.
He got up silently and walked away. Hadi, blinking
back her tears, ordered the tearful Dasi to prepare
the thali for the Arati of
the war-going Sardar. A lump formed in her throat, as
she looked at his handsome, uniformed figure.
Thrice,
encircling the lamped thali in front of him, she,
with her thumb, put a red mark on his forehead, then, taking up a pinch of
rice, she stuck it onto the wet mark. Two huge tears rolled down her smooth
cheeks as she whispered, looking up into his eyes, “bring back victory, my
Lord.”
A
curious expression crossed his face, as Chudawat
started to say something, then stopped short, and
abruptly turning away, walked out. Oblivious of staring eyes, Hadi ran up to her apartment. The adorned bed was still
waiting, unused. She collapsed in a heap, facing the tiny statue of Durga. Great sobs rocked her body, as she laid down her
head, repeating, “Give me courage Ma, give me courage.”
She lay there for half an hour. She tried to control her sobs as a knock
sounded on the door, then turning her head, said tremulously, “Come in.” A Dasi entered; she looked with tear-filled eyes at the bride
she had helped get ready, hardly three hours back. “Ranijee,
messenger from Anna Data stands outside asking for an audience with Hukum.” The Rani looked up,
surprised, “The Sardar–he’s not gone yet?” she asked.
“He is standing at the outer gates of the city, ready to depart,” the Dasi replied.
Hadi’s cheeks burned with
shame. She opened the door and stood facing the young soldier messenger, who
lowered his eyes reverently at the sight of the tousled, upset Rani.
Hadi’s eyebrows lifted
questioningly, as she looked at him. “My lord, the Sardar
asks for a remembrance from Hukum” the soldier said
slowly, “something that would assure him of your loyalty.”
Hadi felt as if she had
been thrown down from a great height. Her eyes filled and her hands went up to
her throat, as she whispered “No”. She was a Rajputni,
a Sati; nobody, not even her own husband, dare doubt her Satitva.
Why? What made him think she would betray him behind his back?
The
blood of the Hada Sardar
flared up in her veins. She would prove to him that she was a true Rajputni.
Wildly,
she pulled the sword hanging on the nearby wall, out of its case, “Take what I
have you to the Sardar, and tell him this is my last
remembrance,” she said between short breaths. The two servants stared agape,
unable to understand what she was about to do. A proud smile touched Hadi’s lips, she closed her eyes,
and murmured “Jai Durga.”
Like
lightning her own hand struck her neck. The scarlet-clad headless form stood
erect for a moment, before falling down a thump. The maid screamed, the soldier caught hold of the door to save himself from
falling.
The
Sardar visibly brightened at the sight of the soldier
carrying the big tray. In his eagerness to see what the big silver tray
covered, tray carried, Chudawat did not notice the
tears running down the cheeks of the hardy soldier.
He
ordered another soldier standing beside him. “Uncover,” and then the world of Chudawat Sardar stood
stock-still. The soldier, who carried the tray, burst out, explaining between
great, rocking sobs, and in incoherent words, what had happened.
The
Sardar looked at him with unseeing eyes. An old
captain, standing beside the Sardar, knelt down,
bowing low, to the dead Rajputni. The Sardar touched the blood-stained locks. They were his to
caress a few hours ago….now A grim smile touched his
lips, as he mounted his horse.
Chudawat’s chin rested on
his chest for a moment, before he pulled hard the reins of his horse, leading
his forces, flying to the battlefield, meeting his doom with both his hands
open.