Hijr: Letter One

In these thoughts to my soul,

I know not what to write, yet I shall, for these ears are drawn towards your home.

It is the most foreign of lands that we call our home, where I and everyone who left the citadel have settled. A million graces of the heavens that before innumerable gnashes sheared away our desire to walk further, we found this sweet-smelling land by the Sarasvati, a river so full of life and plentiful. Although an envelope of sadness always wraps around our cotton, the conviction keeps the lamp burning.

By the grace of Lord Pashupatinath, I wish good health and happiness for you. Wish that is all I can muster for now, as I am well aware of how torn your heart must be, shattered into uncountable pieces of glass. Such is your grief, I know, your liveliness parched as a desert. We came with nothing, broke apart with nothing and slept with nothing; a bouquet of memories is all we have to share with our graves.

The sunset is strange, just like the day I had left and you stood by the Bath; your doe eyes, resplendent with the hues of setting dusk. Not a word escaped your lips, but I heard your sob, and you mine. That sunset continues to haunt me despite all these years. The gravel and silt from the hills have settled under the river, but my anguish has built a fort around my heart. Under the moonlight, when all fires have been extinguished and all speeches have been hushed, I sit in silence, watching the path towards you.

Oh! If only I could scribble in the wind. There aren't enough stones to inscribe my words for you. So, I shall keep it short.

The mornings begin differently than at the citadel. We have cows that I graze in the riverine pastures. The foreigners haven't yet discovered the beauty of this land, and we dare not dwell too far. We never knew the feeling of being imprisoned in freedom. Maybe we have to move again, or our grave will be dug on these very lands in the years to come. But, for now, our stocks are plentiful, the baths are brimming, the kiln is busy baking the bricks, and the priests mellow the fears of our kin.

In the past tide, waves of joy spread over our settlement as our boats returned with wealth and piles of riches from the sea lands. We rose from destitution, but know not how long we can sustain; the houses are lit with dances by the Bath, and we celebrate as we did at the citadel. We again found our appetite for jewellery, and the old potter's son now carves mesmerising pieces as lavish gifts.

All the world's wealth is in our thriving new settlement, yet there is a void. We are adorned in dazzling metal jewellery and cotton attire, but the poverty of our happiness wreaks havoc in our sleep. I hear the younger ones cry out with nightmares, and men spend the night watching the roads while elders patiently wait to be carried to the mound. We have everything, yet nothing.

And I? As the endless streams meet the sea, our streams will confluence in the sea of eternity. That shall be our home, where our souls shall light the night, and days will be spent in the cold embraces of our decaying selves.

I shall end here, for I fear a word more will burden you. I shall scatter the stone tablets on the way I took to leave you behind. I am glad that our trade led us to the Egyptian friends whose writing on tablets fascinated me. In the tenebrosity of this detachment, may my words illuminate your way to mine!

The ever-destitute in your memory,

𑀳𑀺𑀦𑁆𑀤𑀯𑀺

The Pashupatinath seal reveals a form of Shiva with a headgear surrounded by animals, indicating an overlord or God of the civilisation. As Indus Valley scriptures are yet to be deciphered, it is very difficult to understand the culture solely based on archaeological findings and assumptions.

The Legend of Maharana Pratap: An Introduction

Itihas ke Har Panne Ki Ek Bohot Bada Uddesh Hota Hai Jo Aap Aur Main Kabhi Samajh Nahi Paate. Shayad, Meera Bai Ki Bhakti Ki Panna Dhai Ke Sahas Ki Chittor ki Jauhar ke askon ki Ek Bohot Bada Uddesh Tha. Ek Pratap Ka Charo Or Phelne Ki Mewar Ke Suraj ki Roshni Ki. Mewar, a land in Rajputana, is nestled between the serene Aravallis. With its beautiful lakes and forestland, the yellow soil that witnessed warfare, and the mighty temples that stood as a testament to the Bhajans of Meera Bai, its history and folktales reflect stories of bravery, rebellion, and loyalty. Rana Sanga, the most famous of rulers who sat on the throne of Mewar, died unexpectedly, leaving Mewar in a state of uncertainty. Here is where this story begins. The year was 1535 CE, and Mewar's capital, Chittorgarh, stood invincible on the plateau surrounded by the Aravallis. The danger that loomed large after the king's demise was to the throne. Ratan Singh, the king's secondborn, was coronated rather quickly...

His Wife

" Where is the Kesar, Rama? And the Kalash?" Ajabdeh looked visibly displeased at the ladies who ran around. " They are at the fort gates, and nothing is ready yet!" She exclaimed. She was clad in a red lehenga and the jewellery she had inherited as the first Kunwarani of the crown prince. Little Amar ran down the hallway towards his mother. " Maasa Maasa... who is coming with Daajiraj?" His innocent question made her heart sink. " Bhanwar Ji." Sajja Bai called out to him. " Come here, I will tell you." Amar rushed to his Majhli Dadisa. " Ajabdeh." She turned at Jaivanta Bai's call. "They are here." " M... My Aarti thali..." Ajabde looked lost like never before. Jaivanta Bai held her stone-cold hands, making her stop. She patted her head and gave her a hug. The hug gave her the comfort she was looking for as her racing heart calmed down. Jaivanta Bai left her alone with her thaal. " Maa sa!" A...

Queen of the Heart

Kunwar Pratap was in the Dangal Sthal practising his moves. Ajabdeh decided it was fair to know his strength before she summoned him. Sword in hand, in a white female warrior attire with only her face visible, she hid behind one of the large watchtowers of the Dangal, watching him move. She heard Rawatji say, "Your left hand is still weaker than the right one with the moves. Both should be perfect." A smile curved her lips. Knowing an opponent's weakness always helps, which is one rule of war she always remembered. Kunwar Pratap swung his sword with his left hand and turned around. He could sense someone watching; his sixth sense was never wrong. He looked around. Ajabdeh again peeped at the grounds to see that it was empty. He had left. She walked towards the empty ground, sword in hand. Suddenly, the cold blade of a sword was felt on her neck. She stopped still. " So someone was spying on me." His voice had a hint of taunt. " No, I was ... walking by......

Happy Ending

Dheer had a sleepless night. Yes, she had killed the Maharani, but to seek revenge for her son. Jagmal was all she had for a dream, and Rana Pratap's first decision was to banish him. He had never been that tough with his other brothers, who went with Akbar, so why him? Just because he wanted to be a king? Just because they brought a false letter and bought a few witnesses? Her son died in Ajmer, so young. And she had always blamed Ajabdeh Punwar for Rana's hard decision. After all, ever since she came as a support for Jaivanta Bai, she had been like his shield, even though creating misunderstandings didn't help Dheer Bai Bhatiyani. Ajabdeh had done the impossible, showing him the real face of his Chotima. What bothered Dheer now was whether he remembered anything, and most importantly, if she did. Dheer had turned pale at the song and smile Pratap gave, but if he knew she had killed Ajabdeh, it meant Survi remembered her walking to a dying Ajabdeh and confessing that she...

Scheme of Things

The ousting of Shams Khan and his troops from Chittorgarh earned Kunwar Partap Singh overnight fame across the land as tales of his bravery made their way through the dunes and hills, across rivers and borders to lands far and beyond. At thirteen, he had commanded an army troop to take over the fort of Chittorgarh and restore Mewar’s borders to their former glory. People started comparing him to his forefathers, the great Rana Kumbha, who built forts across Mewar and his grandfather, Rana Sanga, who had united all Rajputs against external threats. As bards sang praises of the prince, gossip soon followed. Gossip was the most entertaining one could get in the mundane city lives and village gatherings, and it often travelled faster than the fastest Marwadi horse. So alongside the tales of his absolute bravery and how he hoisted the Mewari flag on the fort, were the stories of how his life was in danger, the king and queen did not quite get along and how he was made to live in poverty by ...

The Fear

Fatehpur Sikri was indeed a paradise in red sandstone. The more Rukaiya stayed in the fortress, the more she fell in love with Jalal’s dream city. Every detail of the curving on the walls and pillars, its domes and arches, gates and palaces, was well detailed and reflected Jalal’s thoughts and ideals. He was later a bit inclined towards secularism. He had built temples in the Rajput Harem. If it was from his soul or just for the sake of Politics that he preached secularism, Rukaiya Begum didn’t understand. All she knew was that she had never approved of him celebrating every festival of every religion himself. The zenana had many more festivities with the inclusion of his other queens, including Holi and Diwali, with the growing Rajput members, and she made sure they were celebrated with equal grandeur as much as Navroz or Eid. But never in these occasions had she or the Turk kins stepped out to celebrate like the Emperor. She woke to the music of Tansen’s melodious voice ...

Begum Sahib: An Introduction and chronology

Note to the readers: Women behind men in history fascinate me. I had been reading about the mothers and wives who changed men’s fortunes. But what about daughters and sisters? A few months back, I was looking for books on Mughal Ladies, mainly Noor Jahan and her work. In the bibliography credits, I had chanced upon “The Life of A Mogul Princess” By Jahanara Begum, the daughter of Shah Jahan. I had no idea about the book and thought it was another autobiography. Previously, I had read only about how she was imprisoned along with her father at Agra, and her involvement with Dara Shikoh, her younger brother, in connecting the two realms of Hinduism and Islamism and the establishment of Sufism. All of these and the chronological events of history can be found in various books. As I read each page of her diary, cross-checking each point with Jagunath Sircar’s “History of Aurangzib” and R.C. Majumder’s “Mughal Empire” as well as numerous other sources on the Mughal Harem, I discovered ...

Legend of Maharana Pratap: The Parents

The day in Kumbhalgarh started with grey clouds and the pitter-patter of the rain. The Kumbha palace entrance saw a movement of horses and soldiers. Palanquins, decorated with royal Rajput motifs, made their way through the Pol Gates. To an onlooker, the fort was going about its usual business in Kumbhalgarh. People were praying at the Mahakal Temple. Cowherds took their buffaloes out of the fort. Peacocks roamed the courtyards. The marketplace buzzed with people buying and selling things. The movement of the entourage towards the Kumbha Palace, horses, palanquins and soldiers, was unusual. The curious eyes of a fifteen-year-old princess peeped from behind the curtain of the palanquin. Her eager eyes spotted the domes and jharokhas of the Kumbha Palace with a smile. Jaivanta Bai was accompanying her father, Akshay Raj Songara, to a significant meeting she knew very little about. All she knew was that her father said it could change their political alliance with Mewar. Ever since Banbir...

My Everything

Kunwar Pratap stormed into the Mahal at Gogunda amidst uncertainty and chaos. Happy faces of the chieftains and soldiers welcomed him as Rawat Chundawat, and some other chieftains stopped the ongoing Raj Tilak. A visibly scared Kunwar Jagmal looked clueless at a visibly angry Kunwar Pratap. Rani Dheerbai Bhatiyani hadn't expected Kunwar Pratap to show up, that too, despite her conveying to him his father's last wish of crowning Kunwar Jagmal. Twenty-one days after Udai Singh's death, she was finally close to a dream she had dared to dream since Jagmal was born. He was not informed about the Raj Tilak as per Dheerbai's instructions. She eyed Rawat Ji. He must have assembled the chiefs to this revolt against her son, against the dead king. No one except them knew where Kunwar Pratap was staying. It was for the safety of his family. " What are you doing, Chotima?" A disappointed voice was directed at her. She could stoop down so low? For the first time, an anger...

Home

On the anniversary of the battle of Haldighati, I can't help but wonder what the war did and meant for all those waiting for the soldiers to return home. So, after almost four years, here's presenting Praja, and how they have always been. Rainy Season, 1633 Vikram Samvat. The palace of Avadgarh was eerily silent with the fear of impending doom. Nobody spoke of it, but everyone was aware of it, in their own silences and gloomy exchanges. The unspoken, uncertain future was here in reality now. She had never felt this unsure before when he had been at war. Something was not right that day. What was happening? How could she know? Was it the weather that made her feel suffocated? The sun too had failed to illuminate the room even when it was already an hour into the day. The clouds above Avadgarh were whirling grey, much like the state of her restless mind. These were signs of impending rain over the Aravallis. She had known these signs ever since the first time she had stepped int...

RAABTA

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