“The heart is a sacred shrine, where you have been
worshipped since eternity.”
The silent land leading out of the forests
of Bhilwara towards the borders of Bundi was echoing with the rebellious sound
of tinkling anklets. She ran across the land, her maangtika swaying like a
pendulum over her careless locks that fell over her shoulders, her bare feet
red in the hot, barren sand of the afternoon, her heart thumping against her
chest. She ran breathlessly towards the camps that stood at the banks of the Bijoliya
Lake. She had no idea how long she had been running, perhaps an hour or longer, since she managed to escape from the heavily guarded palace complex. Her knees
were bruised against the thorn bushes on the path that often caught the corner
of her simply embroidered beige lehenga; her blue dupatta flew away from her
head in the afternoon wind. She held on to it as she ran. Worry swept across
her face, her doe eyes looked restless, perhaps teary, the kajal complementing her deep, dark pupil, while a small red bindi on her forehead was now smudged
with the sweat over her tanned, wheatish skin.
She didn’t have much time for this. Sooner
or later, her Maasa would get an inkling of her being missing, and her Daata
would send the troops. Bhagwati couldn’t make excuses for long. But today she
didn’t care. She didn’t care if she was caught or worse, attacked. She didn’t
care that the borders were threatened. Her dagger hung hidden from her waist,
enough to protect herself. She didn’t care that she could be severely punished
if caught. Moreover, she didn’t care what he would think if he saw her.
The news had spread like wildfire in the
afternoon. Her father and his troops had found Kunwar Partap wounded, but he
had managed to kill the dangerous Shams Khan, and his aide had run, injuring
Kunwar Partap’s right arm with his dagger. While her father sang the glory of his
immense bravery and how he had killed such a cunning man single-handed, all she
had heard was that he was wounded. Her father had failed to get him back to the
palace, as the adamant heir to the throne decided to stay back in camp and look
after the border safety issues until he was satisfied with it himself, before
moving to Sirohi with his work. Hansa Bai had been disappointed with her
husband’s failed attempt to bring the injured prince back with him.
“I will go meet him tomorrow, Raoji; he
can’t refuse me; I am like his mother.” She had said.
“You cannot step out of the fort until he
declares it safe.” Raoji shook his head, “That’s his orders.”
The festivities of Gangaur at the Mahakal
temple were stopped for emergencies. The ladies had now gathered at the
Fort itself for the rituals. Hansa Bai had sent her younger daughter, Ratan
Kanwar, to the chambers of her elder one, Ajbante Kanwar, with the required
ingredients and new clothes for the evening festivities. It was Ajbante’s first
Gangaur. Her eleven-year-old was growing up fast. But Ratan was stopped on her
way by Bhagwati. She insisted that Ajbante Baisa wanted to rest. The innocent
five-year-old had handed over her duty to Bhagwati, too pleased. Bhagwati shut
the door of the apartment behind her and sighed in relief. She placed the things
down before the idols of Issar and Gauri Ajbante had made that morning. She was
worried for her friend, who was fasting for the first time. But unlike her,
Ajbante Kanwar Baisa’s worries were about how he was rather than her own well-being. A strange urge to see him overtook her. She, who had been an obedient
daughter, had escaped her own palace in Bhagwati’s clothes, deceiving her own
guards. She stood breathless at the sight of the tents. A smile formed on her
tired, red face. Her unattended hair blew in the wind. She took a deep breath to
ease her heart thumping strangely inside her.
She was perhaps one of three when her
father had been invited to Kumbhalgarh by the Rana of Mewar himself to
acknowledge him. After all, Rao Ramrakh Punwar had saved his life in the war
with Banbir, and he had been busy with too much to appreciate it until then.
That was the only time she had visited the mighty fort, tucked in her mother’s
arm. Their future was decided there, and fate was sealed. Ever since the day
Ajbante Kanwar Baisa had understood the meaning of a relationship between a man
and woman like a woman does, she had placed him there in her heart, almost as
easily as she breathed. Her friends had often teased her.
“Many princesses dream of marrying Kunwar
Partap now. He is handsome, valiant, and like a dream. A true Rajput.”
“I saw him at Sirohi the other day, Ajbante
Baisa. I wish you were there.” They giggled at her red face.
“You all may be dreaming of him since the
tales of his bravery and deeds spread,” Bhagwati often took her side
defensively, “But she had placed him in her heart, since a time, she doesn’t
even know, and he was not a household name either.”
Ajbante Baisa would often blush red and run
to her chambers. Shutting the door behind her, she would often open the silver
box on her table. Taking out the Navratna-studded Bangles from it, she would
wear them and blush to smile at herself in the mirror. They were a perfect fit
now. Her mother had given them to her when she turned nine and had asked her in
her own innocence, “What is a husband, Maasa?”
A story and two bangles later, Ajbante
Kanwar Baisa had transformed into a lady from the innocent girl that she was.
Her mother had handed her the token of her future, written with Mewar’s heir,
by the bangles gifted by the Maharani of Mewar herself, when she was still one.
She had, in her excitement, told Bhagwati, who rolled her eyes at Ajbante’s
blushing face. Slowly and steadily, over the last two years, in all his
victories, triumphs and smallest achievements, she had in secret thanked her gods,
prayed for him and imagined his face like the bards described. Never had she
asked anyone how he looked. She had made a face in her imagination, that Kesar
Tilak, that sparkling intelligent eyes, in her mind and heart, he was all flesh
and blood.
Today, she stood, heart in her mouth,
worried and excited, a few feet away from the camp where he was staying. Had
she ever imagined him so close? Perhaps she had. In her deepest thoughts, she
had dreamt of him closer. Her feet stopped. What was she doing? She couldn’t just
go in there and introduce herself as the Princess of Bijoliya. Did he even know
her? She was unsure.
She sat down behind a huge rock, nervous.
She had come a long way, and she wouldn’t go back without inquiring about his
health and well-being. She stood up, her face covered in the blue dupatta,
carefully hidden. Her eyes scanned the tents. They had been set up in a circle, and the horses and soldiers stood at the centre. It looked like someone was
instructing them. Someone behind that tent guarded her view. She frowned, inching closer. Now, a horse stood guarding her view. She sighed.
She stood for a long time in vain, as the
soldiers dispersed with “Jai Eklingji”, and she shook her head, disappointed.
Perhaps not today. She turned to leave. The neigh of the horse made her stop
and turn, the dupatta falling from her head in the wind.
The horse was shifting restlessly at its
spot. Someone took hold of the reins from the other side. The horse was
pacified with pats. It neighed and moved away again, this time making the one
who held his rein visible. Ajbante Kanwar’s heart leapt, like a peacock
dancing in the first rains of monsoon.
The red turban had Mewar’s Royal Brooch on
it, his eyes, sparkling brown, intelligence on his face, and his royal blue
angrakha designed with gold. He wore armlets and earrings of gems that shone in
the sun, like his smiling face as he talked to the horse, softly, his pearl
garlands, moving over his stout chest and well-built body of a warrior. His
right hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked white cloth. He stopped and frowned, sensing that he was being watched and looked around carefully. Regaining her
senses, Ajbante Kanwar Baisa quickly covered her face with her dupatta and sat
behind the rock, unsure.
“Is there someone out there?” His voice ran
shivers down her spine. He was talking to her.
He frowned as she sat down suddenly
behind the rock and walked up to it. He was actually talking to her. She
stopped breathing, almost like a statue.
She stood up, her face hidden away in her
dupatta and tried to speak, but her voice didn’t reach his ears as he frowned
some more. He looked alarmed at the girl and the rock.
“Who are you and what are you…” He was
eager.
“I… I…” Ajbante Kanwar Baisa gulped. “Lakha
Ji sent me.” She tried to sound normal.
“Umm… you are sent by the Vaidji?” His
words made her gulp.
“Yes, I was sent for… umm…” She couldn’t
stare at him; his shoes looked too shiny for a warrior who had just fought for
his life.
“He told me he was going to send someone
with the…” Kunwar Partap stared away in thought.
“Y…Yes.” Ajbante Kanwar Baisa fumbled
walking past him quickly, her back to him; she could feel he was a few feet
away “I… Umm… am here to make the …umm… balm.”
“Great, the tent of medicines is right
there.” He tried to raise his right hand and stopped with a little moan. “Ugh!”
“Are you all right?” she turned, a little
worried.
“I am… fine, Baisa. That is the…” He did
not stare at her veiled face but away towards the tent, indicating with his
other hand.
“I… understood.” She walked away
reluctantly, watching him clutch his injured arm. She had noticed how he didn’t
even try to stare at her face while talking, like most men did. His eyes were
bowed, lower, at the soil beneath her feet. She got a sense of respect from his
body language, for women, no matter who it was. She smiled. Her friends were
right about his nature.
“Hai Eklingji.” She said a soft prayer
under her breath. “Forgive me for lying... and this.” She knew the medicine man
had told Saubhagyawati to go to the tents of the Royals and make him the balm
for his ailment. She had repeatedly warned Ajbante Kanwar Baisa not to step into her shoes as the Vaidji, Bhago’s grandfather, would be furious at her then.
She remembered how exactly she and her
mother made the balms for her father when he returned. The right proportions of
everything. She added the ingredients and started making a paste. Once done,
she put it in a bowl and called the nearest Sevak, “Tell Kunwarsa to apply this
twice daily and re-do his bandage. For a week.”
“Yes, Baisa.”
She nodded and ran out of the tent as fast
as she could. She looked around her eyes searching in vain, and was about to
walk away when she almost bumped into the horse, the same one he had pacified.
It neighed startling her, as she noticed him on it. He did look like a dream. Stop staring at Ajbante Kanwar Baisa, he can
make out you're eyeing him, he is a warrior, remember? She reminded herself
and got out of the way.
“S..sorry I didn’t see...” She apologised for coming his way.
He nodded, moving his horse a little out of
her way.
“Umm…” She stopped, unsure of his frown.
“Please do the bandage immediately to stop the blood flow.” She cursed herself
for saying that, as he stared at the blood-soaked bandage on his arm and back
at her, understanding that she noticed it too.
“I will. Thank you for your help.” He saw
her break into a fast walk. He looked around, wondering how the girl had come,
without a horse or palanquin in sight. His eyes stopped at something shining in
the sun's rays. He got down from his horse and picked it up with a frown.
A Royal Kundan Anklet? He stared at the
road through which the girl had disappeared. How did a simple Vaid’s helper
girl have a royal anklet? Was she a spy? He called on his nearest soldier.
“Check the balm that lady made immediately.
I don’t want to take chances today.” He ordered.
Ajabdeh
Punwar or Ajbante Kanwar Baisa (as she is locally called) was the Princess of the
small province of Bijoliya in Mewar. Born around the year 1542, not much is
known of her life before she married Kunwar Partap in 1557. Folklores suggest
that the two met often at Bijoliya while he patrolled the Bundi borders and
befriended each other. She was a wife and his chief consort and queen mother to
Amar Singh I, who was born in 1559. She perhaps had a daughter whose folklore name, “Champawati”, died in the forest during their difficult times. Her
youngest son was Kunwar Bhagwan Das, attributed as his eighth son. She died
after he established his capital at Chavand, probably of prolonged sickness
from a disease she encountered during their struggle in the forest. No dates of
either her birth or death are mentioned. She appears often in folklore, like
“The one where the wildcat stole the Roti” and “Hari Ghas Ki Roti” as the
“Maharani”.
