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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 into Kumbhalgarh. The rains looked beautiful over the green forestlands and forts back home, at her native place. But then, the rain looked a different kind of beautiful over the palace Jharokhas of Chittorgarh when she was married there. It was raining that day when her fate was sealed with the vermillion he had dragged over her hairline. The rains always made her feel at home. It gave her a sense of belonging. Like the warm embrace of her mother, it engulfed her unfamiliar surroundings as the aroma of petrichor gave a familiar feel to her vagabond soul. Perhaps it was her way of coping with the constant moving. Did she ever have a place called home?
She remembered his promise the day they faced defeat at Chittorgarh. No more Jauhars, Ajbante, I promise. His eyes were fiery that day. She was always so proud of his determination. But what would become of her if he didn’t return? What could become of the people? Of Mewar? Shuddering at her own thoughts, she shook her head firmly. The goddess of knowledge resides in our minds and mouths, Ajbante, her mother always said, she can hear our thoughts and grant them all, saying Tathastu. Scared of the same, her hand trembled a little while lighting the lamp at the feet of the Lord. Whatever she thought of could become the truth. She had to control her fears and win them over like her mind was her battlefield. She sat staring at the flickering lamp at the foot of the stone-cold statue of the Lord. How she wished those eyes staring back kindly at her could speak reassuringly back to her? Answer her prayers. She suddenly remembered the legends of Meera Bai’s Lord, who spoke to her and heard her speak. How lucky she was.
The sound of anklets at her threshold made her compose herself. Being his queen demanded her bravery. Being the Maharani of Mewar demanded her command. It all came with a price. The price that had once ripped her off her innocence, and now her human demand of being scared for the man she loved. She had to be the fearless queen of his people first. She half glanced over her shoulder at the woman who had arrived and bowed. Her face looked grim. Was it bad news? With great difficulty, she lifted herself up from the stone-cold floor. Something heavy in her chest seemed to have tied her down to the floor. She nodded as the woman spoke. The battle was lost in a matter of hours, and Kumbhalgarh has perhaps fallen. She waited for the lady to finish. What about him? The lady shook her head in silence. Her heart skipped a beat, and there was an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. Where was he?
Miles away, amidst the lap of Aravalli’s valleys on the other side, the clouds had gathered at midday. It was terribly hot and humid, but the village life was otherwise unaffected by the feeling of discomfort that loomed in the valley. The remote village, otherwise unaware and away from the clutches of politics and war, had sheltered many displaced villagers throughout the past few months. War, which they had only heard of in the Veer Gathas of the land, was now a reality that meant losing their homes and farmland. The children were, however, still unaware of what a war could cause. All they knew was that only the bravest of the brave were chosen for this honour of fighting for their motherland. Wasn’t that what the legend of Hamir said?
The children were playing with pebbles down the road, where the winding hillside had made a wider bend as if to create a viewing point for them. In front of their eyes spread the Aravalli peaks playing hide and seek in the clouds. The otherwise quiet afternoon was interrupted by echoes of horse hooves. A single one. The children lifted their eyes up eagerly, just in time to spot a rider on a horse galloping by like a flash of lightning. His silhouette quickly disappeared into the cloud that had climbed up the sides of the Aravallis and again reappeared in the winding roads at a distance.
“Neela Ghoda Ra Aswar!” one of them gasped. The legendary rider of the blue horse.
The others stood wide-eyed, deserting their pebbles and playing. Indeed, he looked blue in the mist at a distance. Little did they know who he was, not a legend nor a myth, but a man in flesh and blood.
By the time he had managed to reach a safe cave they had marked on their way, his wounds were more open, and his blood-soaked white robe was. He could see the stream trickling down his body onto the yellow soil, turning it red. Was the same red painting on the battlefield he just escaped? He groaned as a man helped him lie down on the stone-cold slab. He could now feel the pain. The pain of losing loved ones, oh, his most faithful companion. His vision blurred with sweat and tears. He had perhaps successfully lost his home. His motherland. Was it even worth it? He closed his eyes as the man cleaned his wounds. Another rushed to bring medicines. But he was breathing, wasn’t he? Was it a punishment on the part of the Lord or a boon? A gift of life, a second chance to take back what was his? He couldn’t think anymore. It pained his entire being even to try and think straight. The moment he closed his eyes, he could see her face. Teary, tensed, and perhaps still hopeful and praying. What had he managed to give her in this lifetime? Tears, insecurity and a lot of pain, perhaps. If he died now, what would she be left with? How did he even deserve a woman like her? She could have been married elsewhere and led a better life. What irony, that the life of the queen of Mewar was perhaps more dreadful than that of a commoner. What about their son? Was he alright? What if he wasn’t? Would she ever forgive him for abandoning the battlefield? He needed to live, to know the answers, but being alive seemed like a weighing sin on his soul today.
The news had spread like wildfire. The king was dead, killed by the mere foot soldiers of the rival army. Did anyone ever imagine such a Braveheart to meet such a terrible end? The ladies gasped and wailed. What was to happen now? Where would they go? What would happen to Mewar? Avadgarh had turned into a crematorium of wailing loved ones by midnight. Like a statue, the queen sat alone on the floor in front of the Lord. Her eyes seemed to glitter in the light of the flickering lamp. Yet not a tear could be seen in her eyes. Did she not believe he could meet such a simple end? Or she was too numb to feel anything? She tried to stand up but suddenly felt a weight on her soul. As if she were being pulled back to the ground. She stumbled. It did not make any sense. She had hoped it would feel lighter, being lifted off the bodily being, the chains of attachment finally free if he was gone. But she didn’t feel any less restless. Where was he? When would she see him again?
The first time he caught a glimpse of the palace from his horse, something felt terrible in the pit of his stomach. It seemed like the entire Avadgarh stood to catch a glimpse of the legend. Did he even deserve such a welcome after the terribly humiliating defeat? The people folded their hands, welcoming him with hopeful eyes as if he had risen from the dead. A Messiah whose purpose was yet unfulfilled. His eyes scanned the crowd of familiar worried faces. Some smiled back, relieved. Others worried about his injuries. His eyes stopped at hers. He had dreaded this moment. No defeat would be more painful than the defeat in her eyes. But there she was, in her usual calmness, staring right back at him from behind the veil. Like always. She was proud. Prouder than all the hearts that had welcomed him back. How could he even loathe in self-doubt all this while she trusted him so blindly? He felt a sudden guilt stab him deeper than the wound on his chest. He would rise again, as he always has. She knew he would. The sun can’t set on Mewar till its son is alive. His mother used to say that. He had felt the touch of her fingers on his forehead as she put the saffron tilak with glittering eyes, not leaving his face even for once. He was home. He had never lost it, had he?
Ajbante’s restlessness faded as soon as she caught a glimpse of his weary, injured face. His eyes glistened as he avoided the glance of everyone around him. Did he fear being judged by his own subjects? His eyes had stopped on hers. Ajbante was overwhelmed with relief. The feeling of unfamiliarity with the place and the people disappeared into the background as he stepped up to face her. With trembling hands, she put the Tilak on his forehead, fighting back her tears in a profound realisation. It didn’t matter where she was. Whether it was the carefree childhood of Bijoliya, the adolescence of Chittorgarh, the duties at Kumbhalgarh, the uncertainties of the Aravallis or the harsh life at Chawand, every place would be unfamiliar without him. The home was always in him.
