I Am 5000 Years Old - A Rant

I Am 5000 Years Old - A Rant
thoughts that came to me as i watched Amu

I perpetrate the most inhuman atrocities on my own.
I try to kill myself, I plunder my own house, I burn one part of it,
and in the other part I throw a party.
My left hand tries to cut my right,
the right meanwhile is busy fighting with my legs.
My eyes dont trust my ears and my mouth I use only to bite.

I rape my own women,
and deny my daughters and sisters even basic rights
then go out and talk about how evil my neighbour is.
My children roam on the streets, naked, hungry,
while I spend millions on lifeless stones, and inarticulate wooden objects.
And for these again, I fight tooth and nail. I call these mother and father,
while the mother earth I plunder, strip her naked and spit on her.

My house is full of grain, that rots while my brothers and sisters starve.
I am careful not to feed them for I do not trust them to be my own.
I rather let the grain rot.
My tanks are full of water, and my neighbour dies with thirst
I take precaution lest even a drop escape my tanks, and he live by that.

I betray my brother and sell my sister
I stand by and watch as they come and beat my father
As long as my skin is untouched I bother not.
I scheme with them for my neighbours downfall. Or standby and watch
And then one day they come to enslave me and I am helpless.

I realise my mistake. But it is too late.
I have no ears, no eyes, no arms and no legs to fight.
No kith and kin alive, no neighbour around
the earth has abandoned me. And I am alone.

I see that 5000 years of history has repeated once again
and its time I died to be reborn, like a phoenix.
But as I die, a question haunts me.
Why do i have to be a phoenix?
Why cant I remember the lessons?
Even though I am 5000 years old.

Revenge of the Goddess

For baba, because he told me the legend when I was a kid
And for Anila Di, because she asked WHY


The Legend

In the medieval fort of Amer, home to ten generations of Kacchwaha rulers of Jaipur, stands the temple of Goddess Kali – known here as Sila Devi. The statue is carved out of a single rock of marble, jet black in color. From generations, the priests of the temple of Sila Devi are Bengalis, an absurdity, in the heart of Rajputana, hundreds of miles away from Bengal. Legend has it that the statue itself belonged to the Bara Bhuiyas (Bara – 12; Bhu –land; iya –owner) of Bengal.

There are many myths about how the statue of Sila Devi came to Amer from Bengal. The most popular one runs thus. After his successful campaigns in Deccan and Afghanistan, Raja Man Singh was commissioned by Akbar to expand the Mughal Empire eastwards. After overrunning Bihar and Orissa, the Mughal advance was halted at Bengal.

Bengal at that time was split into small fiefdoms, which were ruled by 12 Bhuiyas. These 12 Bhuiyas were not ordinary landowners, but small kings with armies of their own. Under the leadership of Isa Khan, the routed general of Orissa, they united and challenged the might of the Mughal Empire. 17 battles were fought, and the Moguls lost each time.

Then one day, the goddess Sila Devi, appeared in the dreams of Raja Man Singh and told him that as long as she sits in Bengal, he would never conquer it. According to the story, the goddess asked Man Singh to steal her statue from the temple in Bengal and install it in Amer.

The 17th attack of the Mughal army on Bengal, which happened after Man Singh, had stolen the statue, led to the fall of the Bhuiyas and Isa Khan. Mughal rule was extended over the entire East. After the conquest of Bengal, Man Singh had the statue of the goddess transported to Amer, where it sits till date, a silent witness to the turbulent events of history.

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The Fiction

Man Singh watched the sun disappear behind the fort on the hill. The pale red walls of the fort seemed to glow mysteriously, the sun’s red light adding color to them. From the small window of his tent, he could see the river, meandering on its course, disappearing into the distant horizon. Thick mango and bamboo jungles covered the opposite bank and stretched up to the hill. And he could see the fort of Bikramgarh on top of that hill. Impregnable, unconquered and defiant.

The greenery of the place hurt his senses, which were used to the dry, arid, brown lands of Rajputana. Bengal defied his martial understanding in more ways than one. Man Singh was puzzled and worried.

Inside the tent, Man Singh’s council of war stood in a semi-circle, waiting for their leader to speak, or command them to speak. Bound by the ropes of respect and tradition, they would not breathe if their leader willed them not to. Five men, brave warriors, able generals, mighty soldiers, each of them, stood like school children in front of Raja Man Singh, Commander in chief of the Mughal forces attacking Bengal.

Outside could be heard the myriad noises that are part of an army 50,000 strong. Neighing of horses, trumpeting of elephants, distant shouts of men on the watch, horses’ hoofs – messengers leaving and returning to the camp, clinking of metal as men removed their armors, an occasional laugh, a retort, a shout, groans, whispers – distinct yet miscellaneous. But this noise, combined in strength found itself weak and incapable of intruding upon the ominous silence within the tent. It just hung around at the edge of the tent, like a playful child that wants to make its elders aware of its presence and yet is afraid of the consequences.

Finally Man Singh spoke, his voice heavier than the sword he held, more powerful than his arms. “Twelve times Zorawar Singh. Twelve times we have been defeated by Isa khan and the Bhuiyas. The Mughal name is being laughed at across the world. Rajput valour is being doubted. In Delhi, the Jahanpanah grows impatient. The morale of our men is broken. We have more men, we have more cavalry and yet victory remains elusive to us. What magic or witchcraft is this? What erroneous strategy of war makes us fall every time?”

Zorawar Singh, trusted lieutenant, veteran of many battles, with more wound marks on his body than hair on his head, chose to remain silent. He had no answer to his master’s questions. No one in the room had any answer.

Six months ago, Emperor Akbar had decided to expand the Mughal Empire into the East. Mughal rule was at the height of glory, extending far into Afghanistan in the west and up to Sri Lanka in the south. The east however still remained out of reach and the province of Bengal, queen of the east, a land rich and fertile would be a key conquest. Man Singh was put in charge of the army, with some of the bravest Mughal and Rajput generals under his command.

But the campaign had proved to be an ill-fated one till now. The fort of Bikramgarh, which stood at the gate of the road to Bengal, proved to be impregnable. Battle after battle was lost to the united forces of Bengal’s 12 Bhuiyas and Isa Khan the Afghan general. The Mughal army, though battle hardened, was unused to the ruthless, wily, guerrilla tactics of the Afghans and Bhuiyas.

Man Singh recalled the last battle that they fought. Where victory had eluded them so narrowly and he had lost his son Durjansingh. The Mughal army, under Durjan’s command, had crossed the river and was attacking in full strength. They encountered the Afghans at the base of the hill. Durjan’s strategies allowed the Mughals to out-maneuver the Afghans. They fought with skill and bravery, avoiding previous mistakes.

The Mughals had managed to break the enemy formation, destroy its right and left flanks and were driving the center back to the gates of Bikramgarh. The battle had been pitched and fierce. The ground had become slippery with blood, and men were stepping on the bodies of their fallen comrades, killing, stabbing, and cutting without mercy. The Afghan army was bound to fall that day, and the Mughal flag would have flown on the fort. Durjan, the brave general was standing in the middle of the bloodbath, where the fighting was thickest, directing his men, cutting down the enemy like grass.

And then suddenly, an arrow, perhaps in a fluke, pierced straight through Durjan's left eye and passed into his brain. Durjan Singh died on the spot. Seeing their commander fall, the Mughals lost nerve and in an instant the tide of the battle was turned. The Afghan’s seized the moment, and attacked the Mughals with a renewed vigour. And now the victor became the victim, the slayers were being slain; the pushers were being pushed back. By evening, the last of the Mughal soldiers had scurried back across the river and the twelfth battle for Bikramgarh was lost.

“Something must be done to break the alliance of the Bhuiyas and Afghans. Bikramgarh must fall at all cost. Mughal prestige and Rajput honor is at stake” Man Singh’s voice, tempered with the turbulence within, shook the entire tent. He now had a personal agenda. The death of his son must be avenged. Rajput blood could not go vain. How would he return to his subjects in Jaipur if he could not win the fort for which their beloved prince had laid his life?

“Hukum, the goddess protects Bikramgarh. The fort will not fall as long as the goddess Sila Devi remains on her seat in the temple. That is the legend.” It was Himmatsingh, the younger brother of Durjan.

“Then we will fulfill the legend. The goddess will leave her abode. Bikramgarh must fall to us at any cost.” Man Singh was talking to himself. Then he fell abruptly silent. His generals, used to read their leader’s every move and motion, understood that he wanted solitude. They bowed and left his tent quietly.

Alone in his tent, he went and stood near his window, watching the silhouette of Bikramgarh with wishful eyes. “We must fulfill the legend. But how?”, and Raja Man Singh, farzand-i-akbari, lord of Amer fort, leader of the bravest warriors of Hindustan, had no answer to his own question.

Meanwhile, inside the fort of Bikramgarh, beyond the heavily guarded gates, past the massive watch towers, far from the encampments of the Bengal and Afghan armies, and the palaces of Isa khan and the 12 Bhuiyas, at the farthest corner of the fort, where the walls overlooked the sheer precipice of the hill, in an area so desolate and unapproachable that it was left unmanned, two figures could be seen silently approaching in the darkness from two different directions.

In the dark it was difficult to see their faces, but from their figures and their gait it was evident that one was a woman and the other a man.

“Good evening my Princess. How are you doing today?” as they met, the man bowed and said, his tone respectful yet amorous. And then with a suddenness of one used to it, he pulled her closer, removed her veil and kissed her on her cheeks.

At that moment, a pale light from the moon revealed her face. It was truly the face of a princess, strikingly fair, with large blue lotus eyes, jet black hair, curved eyelashes, a shapely neck and a graceful figure.

The man was tall, with broad well-developed shoulders and muscular arms, which were more used to handle swords and spears than princely damsels. An Afghan beard on his sun-burnt, martial face hid the numerous cuts, mementos of the battles he had fought.

“Tell me princess, why have you asked me to come now? These are dangerous times for all of us. We must not be seen together at this time.” The man said in a hushed voice, without releasing the woman from his embrace.

Princess Sheela laughed a slow, mocking laugh, which made a sound like crystal pieces falling on rocks. They echoed over the hills and died. The man was much disturbed at this, and tried to silence her.

“I am sorry my lord. But it is hilarious to see the brave and mighty Isa Khan, leader of the ferocious Afghans being scared of what what the world would think or say to him. Where are the promises that you made to me in our first meeting, that you will love me and come to me always, that you will protect me from everyone and everything and give me whatever I want? Has the Afghan blood lost its thickness? Have the heirs of Sher Shah Suri lost their prowess and become wimps with bangles in their hand?”

“Princess, do not make false accusations. Isa Khan will be dead before he breaks his word. I have not yet done anything that you speak thus. And it is not for anything else but for the sake of the Afghan-Bhuiya unity that I advise caution at this time. The Mughal’s sit at our doorstep, baying for our blood, and it is just our unity that stands between us and death.”

“This is not the time to indulge in personal matters. Allah knows I love you but I do not want to confront your brother right now. You are a princess yourself. Do you not understand the political implications of this relationship?” the Afghan urged her, his voice soft yet authoritative and impatient.

“My brother! I hate my brother!” the princess spoke with a sudden vehemence, and their was sheer hate in her eyes. “The blood of our beloved father is on his head. He should be hanging from the fort walls instead of sitting on the throne of Bikramgarh.”

Memories of her slain father flooded to her mind and brought tears in her eyes. Bikram Bhuiya, mighty king, able ruler and a beloved father of his own children and his subjects, had fallen prey to the ambitions of his son Rajan. Having treacherously slain his father, with the help of his henchmen, Rajan Bhuiya had ascended the throne of Bikramgarh and now ruled with an iron hand. He was powerful, yet shrewd and loathsome. He was hated as much as his father was loved, by the subjects. But he sat on the throne of Bikramgarh and ruled through treachery and sheer reign of terror.

Bikramgarh lay at the entrance of Bengal, near the river Ganges. It was the guardian of both the water and road routes into Bengal and farther east. Legend has it, that goddess Kali had appeared in a dream to Raja Bikram Bhuiya and directed him to the location where Bikramgarh stands today. Here the king had dug, and unearthed a black statue of the goddess. Here he had built a fort impregnable and strong, blessed by the black goddess – Sila Devi. The Bhuiyas and all people in the land believed that as long as the goddess sat in her abode in Bikramgarh, the fort would remain unconquered.

When the news of the Mughal campaign reached his ears, Rajan Bhuiya had called a counsel of the 11 other Bhuiyas, local kings, of Bengal. The other Bhuias knew of Rajan’s treacherous rise to power. They had no faith in him. But the defense of Bikramgarh was important for entire Bengal. And they had faith in the legend. So it was more to protect their own fiefdoms, and to uphold the legend, than to help Rajan Bhuiya, that the 12 Bhuiyas had united under one banner to resist the Mughals.

Then Rajan Bhuiya made another move. He invited the Afghan general of Orissa, Isa Khan to protect Bikramgarh for a fee. There was a huge uproar at the council of the Bhuiyas. The Afghans were an equal enemy as the Mughals. They were not to be trusted. They had no respect for Hindu women, desecrated temples and tried to ruthlessly convert Hindus to Islam. The other Bhuiyas had almost decided to overthrow Rajan Bhuiya and the alliance was threatened.

But Rajan Bhuiya was a smooth talker. In the council he argued forcefully and with the sly logic that was his forte. The Mughal army was strong and the Bhuiyas alone would not hold. The Afghans were hired mercenaries. They knew how to kill. Why not let them die, why not let them shed blood, for money. He was just trying to safeguard the interest of Bengal’s armies, even if his coffers were emptied. Let the Bengal armies be a second line of defense. They should trust him. He had the best interest of everyone at heart.

No one trusted Rajan Bhuiya, but the prompt arrival of Isa and his Afghan regiment resolved matters on their own. The Afghans would not have taken it nicely if their assignment had been cancelled. So Isa Khan stayed. And Rajan Bhuiya’s judgment, at least for the moment, proved good. The Mughal approach was halted by the combined strength of the Afghan bravery and Bhuiya strategy.

Isa Khan had his hands full, both on and off, the battlefield. He was not only an able and brave general, but also a pious Muslim and a gentleman at heart. His chief concern was winning over the trust of the local Hindu population within the fort. And for this he made strict rules for his regiment, ensuring that they never ventured outside their tenements and followed a strict code of conduct. But his efforts were treated with suspicion and the only hospitality that the Afghans received in the fort was a cold shoulder from the locals, and silent acceptance of their presence.

But where he made strict rules for his men and dared them to transgress these, he personally erred. He fell in love with a Hindu damsel. It would be unfair to blame Isa for this; if at all love is a crime for which some one is to be blamed. He had not taken any initiative. In the grounds behind the palace where he was staying, Isa used to exercise alone. Here he often found, a certain pair of blue eyes watching him. At first he paid no attention, but when this continued without fail, he became curious. The upshot of this entire affair was that Isa Khan found himself in the perilous position of being in love with his employer’s sister, the beautiful princess Sheela. The lady claimed that she had heard many lores of Isa’s bravery and wanted to see him in person. In her first meeting, she had given her heart to the handsome Afghan, irreverent of the consequences.

Isa was young and had a noble heart. His love and enchantment for the blue-eyed maiden was complete. And the princess made him promise everything that a young man of Isa disposition could and would promise. This was many weeks ago. In a short span their love blossomed and as it did, it troubled Isa more and more.

That evening, Isa had barely returned to his tent from the battlefield when a messenger had come with a note from the princess. His battle hardened instincts, on which he had trusted his life on numerous occasions, screamed at him not to go. But Isa was bound by his honor to come at the princess’s call. And so he went.

“Tell me princess, why have you called me here? It is late and I am tired after the battle. I have not yet washed my wounds.” Isa said uncomfortably.

“My lord, my life. I wish to ask something from you. Will you give it to me?”

“Princess this Afghan has promised you his life. Command and you shall have it.”

“No my lord, all I ask is for a token of your love. As long as this battle continues my heart is at unrest. I cannot see you, I cannot meet you. I need something that will give me company when you are gone. Your ring my lord, with your seal on it. Give it to me.” Sheela looked at Isa with water in her eyes and an expression of utmost helplessness in her face.

A loud voice inside him shouted NO. But Isa heard himself saying “Of course princess, what is the value of this ring, compared to the turbulence of your lovely heart. It is luckier than I for it shall forever be near you.” And as in a dream, he saw himself remove his ring, with his seal on it, and hand it to her.

The temple of the goddess Sila Devi was at the summit of a small hillock inside Bikramgarh. It was as if from her high seat, the goddess kept a vigil on all her subjects below. Activities at Bikramgarh revolved around the temple. People marked time by the huge bell of the temple.

Every morning at 4 AM, the auspicious brahmamuhurta, the king would bathe and then walk up the hill to start the morning pooja of the goddess. Bikramgarh’s day started after that. And it ended when high on the hill the chief priest sounded the gong signifying that the goddess was now going to bed.

The rulers of Bikramgarh were forbidden to touch their swords before performing the pooja each morning. Rajan Bhuiya understood the political implications of this ritual. Unlike his father, his subjects had a strong dislike for him. But they were deeply religious and superstitious. They would dare not rise against him as long as they thought that he was blessed by the goddess. And therefore he followed this ritual assiduously each morning, with twice the pomp and show than his father would have approved.

On the night that princess Sheela met Isa Khan, below in the Mughal camp Raja Man Singh lay awake, looking out into the black night. He was tired yet restless. Sleep refused to obey his orders. His mind worked actively, formulating and rejecting plan after plan of breaking into Bikramgarh. Without, all was silent and he could hear the measured footsteps of his guards. The faint glow of the fire that burnt outside his tent, threw an orange light which made his weapons gleam ominously. He could hear the logs break and make snapping noises as they burnt.

Hark! What was that? Did he hear a footstep out of measure? An extra movement close by? Battle hardened reflexes made him sit upright, one hand at his dagger.

But the sound was gone. Perhaps a figment of his imagination. But he still got up to check. And his feet hit an object on the ground. It was a wooden casket, evidently of royal origin, intricately carved, very feminine. Inside was a note:

“The goddess shall leave her abode tomorrow at the first stroke of the morning. She commands you to attack at the second stroke. Bring few but brave men. Move swiftly. The enemy shall be unprepared. Victory will be yours. This is the divine will, ignore this and lose your chance to win the fort forever”

Man Singh read it twice. And then he shouted for his council of war. The Mughal camp was thrown into a frenzy of hushed activity in the dead of the night.

Early in the morning, in the fort of Bikramgarh, everyone, including the Afghan soldiers, knew that something was seriously amiss. Instead of the sound of the conch and the bell, there was an ominous silence at the hill. And then suddenly, they could see a horde of Bengal soldiers ride down towards the palace of Isa khan, with Rajan Bhuiya and the 11 others at there head.

“Isa Khan, you traitor, you unfaithful bastard come out.” Rajan Bhuiya was in a fit of rage. Behind him there were 50 men in Isa’s courtyard and more were gathering. The news was spreading like wildfire across the fort. The goddess had been stolen from the temple. The unspeakable had happened. The mother had abandoned her children.

People whispered in each others’ ears in horror and sadness. And then, another news spread, with equal rapidity. Isa Khan’s ring, with his official seal had been discovered in the chamber of the goddess. Their worst fear had come true. They should never have trusted the Afghans. They should never have let these treacherous snakes inside. Temple desecration was their habit, it was in there blood.

The Mughals were forgotten. A bigger enemy was within the gates and he must be thrown out first. And the goddess must be recovered from him. Oh what shame had visited Bikramgarh. It was all Rajan Bhuiya’s doing.

Rajan Bhuiya realized he was in a very precarious position. He knew this, the instant he saw the statue missing and the ring on the temple floor. He could not believe that Isa Khan would do such a dastardly act. But right now there was nothing he could do. If he didn’t act fast enough, there would be an uprising against him.

Isa appeared on the verandah, “Why do you call me names, my lord. I am in your employment but I am not your subject.” He said in a dignified yet alarmed tone. He could not understand the reason for the chaos.

“You traitor, you eat our salt, share our bread and then you desecrate our temples. Now you ask me in cold blood why I speak to you thus? Isa Khan, you have challenged the dignity of our house. Return to us the statue and leave now. You are our guest and your life shall be spared.” Rajan Bhuiya glared at him, with affected anger.

“What statue. I know nothing of the matter.” Said Isa, completely perplexed at the sudden turn of events. He could not understand how they could even think that his soldiers would do such a thing. He was enraged by Rajan’s threat, “And do not threaten me my lord. You know that your threats do not hold against the strength of my Afghans. I pray I am innocent.”

“He is a liar. He is a thief. Kill him kill him”, the mob was becoming increasingly ferocious. Rajan held them at bay.

“You say you are innocent. Then explains this ring to us” and he held up Isa’s ring in the air for him to see.

Isa Khan recognized his ring from afar. The same ring that he had parted from last night. But how did it land up in the temple? Ya Allah, What treachery was this? The truth dawned on Isa khan with a sudden blow, as if a spear had passed through his heart. The many mortal wounds that he had faced in battle felt incomparable to the stab that he felt that moment. Nothing had prepared him for this searing pain of treachery.

‘He is a thief. The Afghan. Kill him kill him “The mob was growing bigger. The general resentment against Muslim presence, held in check for so many months, suddenly overflowed. There was chaos in the streets, mayhem ruled. Bengal soldiers and peasants surrounded the Afghan tenement. All memories of blood shed on the battlefield, of lives saved and battles won, were forgotten in one single act, unperformed.

And at that very hour, when the walls of Bikramgarh were unmanned because the men were fighting each other on the streets, when the roads to it were unwatched because the watchers were baying for Afghan blood and the gates were unguarded because the Afghan regiment was busy defending itself, at that moment, a small band of Mughals and Rajputs, crept silently up the hill. They had been moving slowly, for the better half of the past hour. Finally they made a dash for the walls of the fort. Mughal warriors scaled the walls silently, and threw the gates of Bikramgarh open.

It was an easy task for Man Singh and his men. He attacked with force and speed, and the enemy taken by surprise, unprepared, entangled in its own web was dead even before they realized what was happening. Mughal forces poured into the streets of Bikramgarh, and before noon, Bikramgarh had fallen.

In the courtyard of Isa khan’s palace, lay slain, soaked in each others blood, Rajan Bhuiya and Isa khan, the former succumbing to his own game of murder, the latter a mere victim of fate.

When Man Singh reached the palace, he found Isa khan’s eyes open. He thought he noticed a question in those dead eyes. As if they were asking “why?”. Rajamansingh, having heard much about the bravery and valour of this man, pitied that he died thus, and shut those eyes forever with his hand.

Below the hill of Bikramgarh, a little inside the woods, two young women stood watching. When they saw the Mughal flag on the fort, they started moving again, towards the river. One of them was carrying a bundle wrapped in clothes, apparently heavy and bulky.

When they reached the river, a boat was waiting. Princess Sheela turned around and told the woman carrying the bundle, as one used to giving commands “You have your instructions. Now go and leave me alone. My job is done. My father’s blood avenged. Today Rajan Bhuiya lies soaked in his own blood, like he once did to my father” and her eyes shone with a strange faraway look. There was an absurd mixture of victory and sadness in them. The lotus eyes that had enchanted Isa Khan looked like looked like black holes, absorbing light and not letting out any expression of the turbulence within...

When Man Singh returned to his tent that night, he was far from happy. They had won but it had not been through valour or bravery, which was what a Rajput’s definition of victory was. There were no wounds on his men’s bodies. It had been a massacre. And he was puzzled by the entire affair. Questions, hundreds of them, arose in his mind, ricocheted on the walls and then died.

As he entered, he again knew that something was amiss. And then he saw the bundle. Wrapped in white cloth. And without opening it he knew what it was. He knelt before it, the mighty general, in all humility, and prayed.

“Zorawar Singh” he called sometime later.

“Hukum,” Zorawaar entered and bowed.

“This is the statue of Sila Devi. Take it to Amer and install it there in a temple. She shall rule from there henceforth. “

“Yes, hukum” and Zorawar left with the statue.

“It is the will of the goddess. We are mere pawns on her chessboard. We must not ask questions. We must keep doing as we are told” he said aloud, perhaps to his sword and shield, or perhaps to his conscience. And Raja Man Singh closed his eyes. Bikramgarh had fallen. Sleep finally came to him.

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The Facts

This story has no historical authenticity. I have borrowed from history and legend these characters, incidents and events, to stitch this tale. There is no fort in the province of Bengal by the name of Bikramgarh. The number of battles that Man Singh fought before he won Bengal is unconfirmed. Elementary research showed the following events/incidents are true and have historical records.

Under the command of Raja Man Singh, the Mughal army attacked various provinces of Bengal, between the period of 1556 and 1560. Most of these ended in a fiasco for the Mughals. The 12 bhuiyas became famous in the history of Bengal for there ability to withhold Mughal expansion into Bengal for a long period of time.

Eventually, the Bhuiyas fell to the Mughals. In one of these struggles, Man Singh lost his son Durjan Singh. Also involved in these series of battles was the Afghan General Isa Khan Masnad-i-Ala. Isa Khan fought Man Singh a number of times, sometimes alone and sometimes alongside the Bhuiyas.

The statue of Goddess Sila Devi originally belonged to the Pala kings of Bengal. The most likely reason of its transport from Bengal to Rajasthan is the large-scale temple desecration that Afghan chieftains were indulging in, across entire eastern India, during this period. Historians believe that the Hindu priests of the temple of Sila Devi had singled out Man Singh for sanctuary, because of his unique religious and political combination.

There are records which show that there existed, during this same time, a very beautiful damsel, princess Sheela. She was the eldest daughter of one of the Bhuiyas. Not many details are known about her, except that she was a lady of exceptional beauty and intelligence. Princess Sheela committed suicide by jumping into the Ganga.

Far From The Ones We Love

All you who sleep tonight,
Far from the ones you love.
No hands to the left or right,
And emptiness above.

Know that you are not alone,
The whole world share your tears.
Some for a day or two,
And some for all their years.

 Vikram Seth

Part I

“It’s not about the name, Nafisa. It’s about being practical.”

“ Ah yes of course. How could I forget? The practical, down-to-earth Mr. Nakul Sood. Bull shit Nakul. It’s just about your male ego and your vain family pride. It was alright to marry a Muslim girl, but when it comes to your daughter, having even a non-Hindu name is unthinkable. How utterly hypocritical.”

“There. There you go again. Why do you have to bring the family into every thing? This has got nothing to do with it. Why don’t you realize Nafisa that I want a Hindu name for the baby because 20 years later it can make or break her life?”

“And why don’t you realize Nakul that 20 years later she won’t care a fig for any goddamn name, if she has anything of me in her. Nakul, I didn’t want to have the baby right now. But you forced me. Now, it’s my baby, and I will name her what I want. Bye.”

Nafisa banged the receiver with the force of her emotions. As if Nakul would be able to feel that force. She was determined not to relent this time. She had already given up a lot for this marriage and she refused to lose further ground. It was her baby and she had every right to name it. Nakul could go to hell.

If he forced her too much she would walk out on him. This would prove the straw that broke the camel's back. There was a lot on the camel's back already. It had just been a year into their marriage and all she could remember was intense disagreements, bickering and fighting. She found it hard to understand how one could have so many differences with someone whom you had known closely for two years before marriage. What does marriage change in people?

Aroha's cries broke her musings. She looked at the watch. It was time to feed the baby and put her to sleep. "Wonder what Nakul is doing right now", she thought, by habit, as she picked Aroha from her cradle. She realized that this was the first time in the past 1 year that they had been away from each other for such a long time.

1500 Miles away, at their plush residence in suburban Pune, Nakul Sood, CEO Sood Venture Capitals, sat in his drawing room staring blankly at the 29" TV screen and mindlessly changing channels. He could never understand Nafisa. Why did she have to be so stubborn about such small things?

"Damn that Woman!" he thought and flung the remote on the couch. He got up to fix himself a drink.

Without Nafisa, the house seemed empty. True they kept fighting all the time, but they always patched up. And he liked to pick fights with her and dominate her. She was a woman worth conquering.

He smiled at the thought. But their disagreements over little things had increased over the months and now they didn’t see eye to eye on anything. Nafisa had become increasingly difficult to handle and he had been glad when she had gone to his parents’ place in Jaipur, for the childbirth. That had been 3 months ago. Now he missed her and felt bored and lonely.

As Nafisa gently pushed the baby towards her breast, she felt a warm affection and sense of bonding which she had never felt before. She had not wanted to have the baby initially. But when she held Aroha in her hands the first time, she felt no other emotion except sheer joy and elation. Almost instinctively she named her Aroha - unconditional love.

"Nakul lets not have the baby right now. It’s too early and I don’t want a child to arrive in a home like this", that was her reaction when she first discovered she was pregnant, three months into there marriage.

"Don’t be stupid Nafisa. This child is a proof of the love that we have between us. And it’s perfect for it to arrive right now. I don’t understand how you can even think of such a thing.”

"I can think of it because I can think of the consequences. What kind of an environment do you think you will provide the baby? She will hear the sound of arguments in her cradle. She will go to sleep listening to her mother and father abusing each other. Her first memories will be of broken china and slamming doors. And what about the responsibilities Nakul? I am sure Mr. Sood will still maintain his 14 hour work schedule, party late into Saturday night and golf on Sunday afternoons. I will be the one stuck up at home, giving up job and social life. No way.”

Nakul had been surprisingly calm and collected. That had been an unexpected move on his part. She had wanted him to throw a huge fit, shout at her, maybe even physically handle her, the way he usually did. But his behavior came as an anti-climax. He held her hand, kissed her forehead, and made her sit on the sofa in the verandah. He sat near her on the ground and looked into her eyes. And she lost the battle.

Today when she thought about it, she was glad to have lost that battle, though she would never accept that to Nakul. For him, she had always made a big sacrifice in life. She could not let Nakul win this psychological battle. After all, he hadn’t been through anything in all this. It was she who had to take a break from work, it was she who had to sit at home in the evenings (although even Nakul sat with her), and it was she who had to undergo labor pains.

And after all this, instead of being grateful to her, Nakul was promptly demanding more. Men are such ungrateful hypocrites.

The memory her recent argument with Nakul embittered her sweet thoughts with a suddenness that made her wince. Next week Nakul would be coming to take them back to Pune. She resolved that she would settle things with him first. She knew that if she let the matter dangle till they reached Pune, she would lose the battle once again. And she also wanted to see which way the wind blew. 'I won’t let you grow up in a turbulent environment", she looked at Aroha and thought.
Ignorant of all this, Aroha slept the way that only infants can sleep. Pure and unadulterated, perhaps dreaming of heaven, from where they have just arrived.

"Ok if you are being so stubborn about it Nafisa, then I have just one thing to say. You can call her Aroha if you want to. But for me she will be Manasi. And since she will grow up in my house and you will also live in my house, I will choose what name to call the child by. Is that clear to you?"

Nakul gave her a saucy look and walked out of the house. She could hear the car roar in the compound as it left.

The sound of the leaving car helped her take the decision. She realized that Nakul wouldn’t change a bit. That her child would no longer be hers in Nakul's house. She would lose Aroha forever. She panicked at thought of losing another bit of her ground, and a precious one at that. A sense of urgency rose in her and she knew she had to act quickly. Do something before Nakul returned with the air tickets. She could not go to Pune. Not right now at least. She got up and went to pack her bags. It reminded her of the last time that she had packed her bags in a hurry. A year ago. But things were so different then.


Part II


Nakul and Nafisa refused to accept that they were in love with each other, until the last day of graduation. During their college days they were always together, both on and off the campus. But they always told each other and everybody else that they were best friends.

It was on the farewell night of the class of 2002 when they realized that something was just not right. Nakul was going to Pune, to manage his father's new VC funding business. Nafisa had got a placement in Hyderabad itself. They realized that there partnership was coming to an end. They would have to move there separate ways in life, and possibly never meet again. Things would no longer be the same for either of them.

The evening was coming to an end. People were strolling around in groups, taking contact details, congratulating each other for the placements, reminiscing about the day when they had just landed in college and nodding there heads on how fast time had gone by. On the dais someone was singing a song. "Chalte chalte, mere yeh geet yaad rakhna, kabhi alwida naa kahna,..."

Nakul and Nafisa were sitting in one corner of the lawn. As the lyrics floated to them from the dais, Nafisa got choked with a strange sense of loss and sadness. She had been expecting Nakul to say something about there parting since evening. But Nakul had been avoiding eye contact and kept cracking one or another silly joke. He didn’t really seem affected.

"I don’t think he feels for me the same way as I do. So why should I bother. It’s just a matter of few days and then it will be over. This stupid infatuation", thought Nafisa.

"I wish she would say something. I can see it in her eyes, but why doesn’t she speak. Why should I have to take the initiative. Isn’t it important for her to swallow the stupid ego of hers. I am not even going to show that I care." and Nakul realized what a superhuman effort this resolve had taken since evening. Suddenly he felt drained.

“Beech raah mein dilbar, bichad jaaye kahi hum agar, aur sooni si lage tumhey, jeevan ki ye dagar...” the singer continued, in a warm baritone. His choice of song had drawn people closer to the dais, and everyone realized the import of the lyrics. Eyes were moist, hearts were heavy and people tapped feet to accompany the singer.

"I will go get a drink", said Nakul. He needed a break from her. His mask was breaking away and he could not allow that to happen.

Suddenly Nafisa could take it no longer. The party, the song, Nakul's non-chalant, devil may care, I don’t give a damn attitude, the plastic smile that she had been wearing since evening, it all made her feel exhausted. She felt she would break down any moment. She looked around. No one was paying any attention to her. The singer on the stage had just finished singing and people were demanding an encore. Nakul had been caught by one their professors on his way back from the bar and they were talking something.

Looking at him from this distance, his profile outlined against the backdrop of the party, put a lump in her throat. Without saying anything to anyone, she picked her car keys and quietly left. She knew her batch mates would ask for an explanation the next day, but at that moment she didn’t care for anything.

The distance from Secunderabad to Banjara Hills is approximately 15 kilometers. When Nakul returned with the drink and found Nafisa gone, he looked at his watch; it was 11:45 PM. He was at her doorstep at exactly 11:53 PM. Later he would recall that this was the only time he had driven that fast, and try as he would to cover the distance in the same time, he never could repeat that feat. That night was different though. He was a man on a mission and he had realized that his entire life depended on the success of that mission.

Nafisa opened the door on the fifth knock. Her eyes were swollen and she refused to look at him. Nakul entered the room, with the familiarity of a person who has been used to coming and going at all hours on his own. "Why did you leave like that?" His voice was irritated and strained.

"I guess I was tired. I needed to get out of there." Nafisa's voice came almost in whisper.

"Yeah right. You feel tired suddenly. And you leave us all in the middle just like that. Like we are fools to be looking around where Miss Nafisa Siddiqui might be" Nakul was shouting now.

"Nakul, I want you to go now. Please"

"Ok. Right. I am leaving. I just came to tell you one thing. I am madly in love with you. I cant think of living without you. I thought for once you cared enough for me to say that, but I guess I was wrong. Anyways, I love you. And if you love me too, then say it now. Otherwise I will go and never show you my face again."

Nafisa looked up. Teas swelled in her eyes, but she smiled. "You could not have been more rude. You egotistic bastard! Is this the way you ask for a lady's hand?"

They made love that night. It happened naturally, without there even realizing it. And it had the pent up energy, passion and emotions of two years. It was as if there bodies had melted into one and there spirits were connecting at a spiritual level.
Nafisa felt herself melting in Nakuls arms, and she reached a height where the world seemed not to matter and she felt dizzy. She clung to Nakul tightly. Nakul wanted to give Nafisa everything he had. He wanted his soul to melt into Nafisa's and become one. He touched her body passionately yet gently. Finally, exhausted but enriched, they snuggled into each others arms and went off to sleep. An innocent smile on both there faces. Two tired children who had had a long and adventurous journey and whom Mother Nature had finally put to bed.

Hindu-Muslim marriages in India are few and far between. People like to recall them only as examples of communal harmony and hope it happens to the next door girl or boy. We like to cite the marriage of Akbar and Jodhabai, as an example of our greatness and our feeling of brotherhood and oneness. But if our own son or daughter tries to follow that path, we try to break their legs and set an example for the younger siblings at home. Hypocrisy is the psyche of Indians.

Mr. Mushtaq Siddiqui, Honorable Chief Justice, High Court of Raipur, promised to destroy Nakul and his family, if Nafisa married him. He told that in so many words to his daughter. He realized he was powerless to stop her. She was legally of age, independent, lived in urban society, and was correct in what she was saying.


"Abba, Nakul is smart, intelligent, and rich. He has everything you would want in a prospective son-in-law. And you know that too. You like him don’t you? Just because he is a Hindu and I am Muslim, a fact about which neither of us had any choice, I am not going to let you destroy my life." She had said this to him when he had met Nakul the first time. Nafisa had asked her to come down to Hyderabad immediately.

Mr. Siddiqui's worst night mare was coming true. Her daughter was getting married on her own. That in itself was a very bold step in their community. And on top of that a Hindu boy. He would be excommunicated. The Siddiquis were an old family of Raipur, much respected and honored in the community. Now his daughter was going to ruin it all, and he was feeing helpless.

"You are a whore. I curse never to be happy. Breaking you parent’s hearts and walking over family pride like this." That’s all her mother had said. And she had slapped her. Nafisa had never met her mother again. She didn’t wish to either. Her mother would never understand.

They got married at the office of the registrar of marriages in Jaipur, where the Soods originally belonged to. A small wedding party was hosted by Nakul's parents in the evening at there ancestral bungalow outside Jaipur. Nakul's parents had been easy. "They couldn’t care less", Nakul had said. The fact was that Mr. Anil Sood, having spent all his life in London, and having recently arrived in India, was completely disconnected from the issues that Mr. Mushtaq Siddiqui was dealing with.

In the first month of their marriage they realized the difference between a friend and a spouse. As friends they were willing to excuse a lot of things in each other. As spouses, they were doubly impatient, arguing about all little things. But unlike most couples who would rather sulk and crib to their parents or friends, they fought it out between themselves in the open and then patched up.

Then Nafisa discovered that she was pregnant. And it changed the world for her. Things went out of control from there. She became irritable, unhappy, and impatient. And Nakul ran out of patience, not being able to balance the pressures of work life with the constant bickering and quarrelling at home. He began to spend more time out of home. He had managed to talk Nafisa into having the baby, but now he felt wasn’t as sure as before.

Three months before her expected date, Nakul's mother took her to Jaipur. With the motherly instinct she knew what was happening between her son and daughter-in-law and she did not want it to affect the baby. Nafisa's parents had disowned her from the day of her wedding. To them she was dead. So Nafisa Nakul Sood, went to live in the ancestral Sood Niwas, where 4 generations of Soods had been born and grown up in royal luxury and splendor. For Nakul and Nafisa, life was never ever the same.


Part III

It was 10 AM, Monday morning and Nakul was busy preparing for the client meeting, due in 2 hours. He had barely slept for 5 hours in the past two days. They were on the verge of closing a very important deal. It could make or break the company's future and he was going through the details one last time. He simply couldn’t afford to make a mistake this time.

When his cell phone rang, he kept staring at it for three minutes. He had almost forgotten that he had that ring tone. It was the Nescafe ring tone and he had assigned it to only one person. That person hadn’t called in the past two years even once. He thought he was hallucinating. Drowsiness made his reaction slow. He missed the first call. Two minutes later the cell rang again. this time he jumped for it.

"Nafisa..." he couldn’t say anything else. His tongue felt like lead. He waited.

"Nakul", Nafisa was in tears, "Aroha is very sick Nakul. She is in the hospital. I am feeling very helpless. I don’t know what to do."

Cold sweat ran from Nakul's temples. He felt that his knees were failing. "Aroha was sick. Sick enough for Nafisa to swallow her ego and call him. What could be so wrong."

"Nakul I need you..." Nafisa cried.

"Yes, Nafisa. I am taking the first flight out of here. Which Hospital? Apollo. Ok, I will be there in 4 hours. I want you to get a hold on yourself. Yes meet me at the reception desk. Yes I am starting now."

Nakul disconnected the cell and dialed his secretary. "Jennifer, cancel all my appointments and get me the next flight to Hyderabad. Get a car ready at both ends. And please ask Rishi to handle the Leroy presentation and meeting. No, I cant talk to him right now. Yes he knows everything, and I will leave my laptop here. No don’t call me on my cell. I am not to be disturbed till I call back. Now hurry."

He didn’t let his mind relax until he was on the flight to Hyderabad. Thank god his name had enough clout to get last minute tickets on any flight to anywhere. He hadn’t been to Hyderabad since his graduation. He knew Nafisa was there. When she had left Jaipur that evening, without telling anyone, she had gone straight to Hyderabad. That was Nafisa. Running away from situations.
This time he hadn’t followed her. Not that he hadn’t wanted to. But his pride had stopped him. He had kept track of her without letting her know. But he had been waiting for her to call this time. Even if it took a whole lifetime, he wanted Nafisa to take the initiative. But he had never thought it would come this way.

Set in the lush, green surroundings of Hyderabad's Jubilee Hills, surrounded by sprawling bungalows of ministers, film stars and businessmen, lies the huge Apollo campus. For a hospital of its name and size, the road that leads to it is a disappointment. Branching off the main road, a small lane winds up into the hills. On both sides are architectural marvels, which some people have the fortune of calling their homes. This lane winds higher and gets narrower and suddenly takes a left turn. You find yourself surrounded by auto rickshaws, snack bars, STD Booths, medical shops. Here the posh ultra rich
neighbourhood of Jubilee hills, have yielded way to the common man's everyday needs when he comes to hospital.

As Nakul walked into the huge, crowded reception hall, his eyes searched for Nafisa. He couldn’t see her anywhere. It was dark inside and his eyes were dazed by the bright sunlight outside. Someone tapped from behind. He turned around and saw her. She hadn’t changed a bit from the last time he had seen her two years ago.

There eyes met and the next instant they embraced each other. "She is going to die Nakul, my baby's going to die. Please save her."

"Nafisa, control yourself. I am here, don’t worry. And tell me what’s wrong."

"Spina bifida, or the leaking of the spinal cord, is a birth condition characterized by an incomplete closure of the spine. It happens to two in every 1000 children. It can be very severe, but luckily in Aroha’s case it is a minor affliction, known as the Spina Bifida occulta. This means that by performing an operation on her spine, we can ensure that Aroha has a normal happy life in the future. The operation involves a incision at the lower back..." Nakul wasn’t paying anymore attention to what the doctor was saying. He felt tired and drained and he just wanted to know one thing, would Aroha be alright? His weary mind tried to find out the answer to this one question, from the tirade of information, charts and X Rays that the doctor bombarded him with.

As the lights of the operation theatre came on, Nakul felt a cold dread in his heart. "It’s a dangerous operation Mr. Sood, and the success rates are very low. But we have got to take a call. That’s her only chance. But don’t worry; we have the best doctors in the world."

He hadn’t seen Aroha at all in the past two years. His pride, his ego had prevented him from calling Nafisa up even though she was always in his thoughts. Oh why had he been so foolish? Why did he have such a big ego? He had wasted two years. "Please god. Please let her live." he prayed silently.

The operation lasted 18 hours. And for 18 hours Nakul and Nafisa sat hugging each other. Hoping against hope. Praying fervently. Counting on each other for strength. Nafisa would fall asleep in fits and suddenly wake up with a start in Nakul's arms. Those 18 hours had brought them closer than they ever had been in the past 2 years.

Finally the doctors came out. "Congratulations Mr. Sood. It’s been an extremely successful operation. Aroha will be a perfectly normal child now. No Mrs. Sood, we are sorry you can’t go near her for another 48 hours. It’s a very tedious operation for the child and her body needs to recover. But don’t worry, she is perfectly alright now."

Nakul suddenly wanted to hug the doctor, or jump with joy, or do something equally crazy. Instead he smiled funnily and thanked the doctors. Nafisa was too overcome with tears to say anything. She just kept crying and nodded when he asked if she was alright.

"Mr. Sood, I think both of you should go get some rest now. It’s been a long watch for you. We will take care of your daughter right now. You will need the strength once she is discharged from the hospital, so please conserve it", the doctor advised.

They drove to Nafisa's place. It was the same old apartment where she used to stay in her college days. They were exhausted beyond the point of sleep. Nafisa offered to get some coffee. Nakul sat in the verandah and switched his cell phone on. He hadn’t thought of his work at all in the past two days. Now he wondered what had happened to the Leroy deal. Had Rishi handled it well?

"Rishi, Nakul here. Yes I am fine. Yes Aroha is fine too. Thanks man. Tell me what happened. Ok. That’s good. Great. And he agreed to all the terms? Oh, that’s not a problem. Ok don’t worry, I will manage it. Just ask Jennifer to make my travel arrangements. And an immediate return too Please. Thanks a lot"

Nafisa came and sat beside him, coffee and sandwiches on tray. "So Mr. Sood. Off again?" She was smiling, and there was no complain in her eyes. That surprised Nakul. He had been dreading the explanations he would have to make.

Nafisa read his thoughts, "Nakul, you have been here exactly when I needed you. And I realized how stupid I have been. I have missed you in these past two years but I didn’t realize how much I missed you until yesterday when I was sitting besides you, with my head on your shoulders. I am sorry Nakul. I let my ego destroy our love. I promise I won’t let that happen again. I will never ever run away like that. Never."

Nakul got up and sat besides her. "Don’t be silly Nafisa. It was my fault. I made big deals of small issues. And I should have hunted you out. I missed you girl. I missed you every second of every day. And I missed so much of Aroha. I cant tell you how much I am looking forward to make that up as a father. Two years wasted. I cant curse myself enough"

"Why didn’t you call Nakul? Just one time. If you had called just one time, I would have come running." Nafisa was in tears again.

"Hey old girl, no more crying. The worst is over now. I am here and whether we fight or whether we make love, we will stick around till kingdom come. Deal."

"Now listen, I have to go sign few documents in Pune and return. I will be back by tomorrow this time and then we will go get our daughter together. Aroha. Honestly, I like the name."

"It means unconditional love." said Nafisa and they both smiled.

"Now you go to bed. I will take a cab and get going. I will call you once I reach Pune." They kissed each other passionately.
Long after Nakul had gone, Nafisa sat in the verandah sitting and thinking. It had been very tough time. After the initial sense of freedom and independence she had begun to miss Nakul terribly. For the past one year, she had waited for his phone call everyday. But her ego wouldn’t let her call him. Until the day she found about Aroha's dreadful illness. And she was glad that she loved Aroha enough that it had helped her overcome her ego and go back to Nakul. And now, finally, everything was alright. They were together again, Aroha was in their lives and it would be just perfect.

A distant sound woke her form her fitful sleep. It was her cell phone. She woke with a start and realized that she had fallen asleep on the sofa in the verandah. It was pitch dark outside. It must be Nakul, she thought. And ran to get the call.

"Hello"

"Hello, can I talk to Mrs. Sood?" the voice was not Nakul's. It was a stranger.

"Speaking."

"Mrs. Sood...this is Nakul's colleague. Rishi. Mrs. Sood there’s something I have to tell you..." he was sounding very hesitant, and it irritated Nafisa. What can it be. Why couldn’t Nakul have called.

"Yes go ahead please...." she said, barely able to mask her irritation.

"Mrs. Sood, Nakul had an accident on his way back from the airport. It was a hit and run with a truck. I am sorry to say this...he was found spot dead by the police...Mrs. Sood, Hello, are you there Mrs. Sood?"

She was no longer on the line. Mrs. Nafisa Sood had fainted.