Prologue: Impulsive Hearts

1576 CE.

The dark clouds circled over the Haveli of the Chieftain at Avadgadh, one of the unimportant posts on the western borders of Mewar, Rajputana. It was the arrival of the rainy season, with occasional downpours over the green veil of the Aravallis on the horizon and the streams that often meandered around the hills now surged like rivers. The monotonous life in the little settlement was stirred by the arrival of guests in the Haveli. It was not usual for the old chieftain to receive so many guests, especially women, and it sparked curiosity and rumours among the villagers. Who were these people? Some of them looked like royal ladies, and some did not.

In the inner palace of Avadgadh, on a balustrade that was designed with Jali, nymphs adorning its pillars that looked over the Aravallis in the distance, covered with dark clouds, the gusty wind blew the new curtains, almost toppling a vase kept by the window. She caught it, alarmed, almost out of the force of habit to be alert about her surroundings, with her painted hands. She then stepped out onto the balustrade, drawing the blue dupatta over her face, exhaling something heavy in her heart as her eyes shone and the moisture hit her face. The Maharani of Mewar had her own fears.

After they arrived at Avadgadh, he was preparing to leave for the battlefield. It was not something new or different, yet this time he made sure they travelled to a safe distance away from the course of action. That bothered her. She could feel him entering the chambers, his presence not announced by the guards stationed outside, perhaps because he did not want the people of Avadgadh to be aware of his presence or that of his family. She stiffened, refusing to turn and acknowledge his presence, for she knew her eyes would speak of fears she dared not utter in words or sentences in front of him. He seemed a little perplexed as she did not move. Had he upset her? He cleared his throat once, running his rugged fingertips over his well-maintained moustache as he walked up to her and found the courage to speak.

“Do you also feel I am making a mistake?” His gruff, low voice made her turn. As she did, the dupatta slipped off her head to her shoulder, and he could see her thick braided hair, the hairline drawn with vermilion in his name, covered by the Mangtika that once belonged to his mother. She stared at him with a faint smile that did not reach her tired eyes. Her face looked dark. Like she had been sick for a long time. His gaze could not meet her eyes as a sense of guilt suddenly hit him. He had never been a good husband to her, had he? She could perhaps read his mind as she smiled a little wider, almost amused, forcing him to look up at her. They were now in their late thirties, parents, rulers, husband and wife. But once they were eleven and thirteen, young dreamers, friends, lovers. Yet in that very moment, she felt like he was that same thirteen-year-old boy she once met.

“Why are you having doubts, Ranaji?” She stepped up to him and placed her painted hand gently on his broad chest where his heart thumped. “This is not the first time you are listening to your heart.” He smiled at her words with a nod, and then it faded into a sigh as he held her hand over his chest. “You must have a lot of regrets for that, Maharani.” She shook her head. “You gave me everything I ever dreamt of and more. You fought for me, you gave me children to be proud of, a family to love and cherish… What more could I have wanted?” She held his hand in between hers as she drew her head closer to his chest, and he used his free hand to place it over her oiled hair. “Perhaps if you married into a merchant house, or that of a chieftain…”

“ Would they have been the bravest man I know?” She placed her head in his chest now, removing her hands from his and wrapping them behind his back. He felt her hug was tighter than usual. It was mid day and usually if they had a conversation in either of their chambers she would always be alarmed about the children walking in. But today was different. He embraced her tightly.

“You have been my strength through life, Ajbante. I ask you to believe in me this time, I need that.” He blurted. She nodded with her eyes closed, feeling his heartbeat.

“I have no doubt, Ranaji, that you will win this battle and free Mewar.” Her voice of faith was the only thing he drew his strength from. He knew she would wait for him the way she had for twenty-odd years, whether he won or lost, nothing mattered to her more than his life. To her, he was a hero who could never stoop in her eyes, even if he made the harshest choices in life.

“Ajbante…” Although he did not want to let go, he knew he had to. She understood. “I must make preparations.”

“I will count the days till we meet again.” Her eyes were teary. She tried in vain to fight back her tears as he wiped them off her cheek with his thumbs and forced a smile.

“And what will you do all this while?” He tried to lighten the mood, “Apart from praying for me?” She smiled coyly at her husband.

“Reminisce all the times I have been glad that I met you the way I did.”

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