Members of the Bhat jati maintained genealogies (vansavali) for particular Rajput families, with whom again they had hereditary relationships of service. The vansavali recorded “the names of ancestors reaching back to clan founders or to the immediate founders of a particular line.” For members of the lineage in the more recent past, genealogies also recorded “information on grants of land, battles, or service for a local ruler . . . often with dates supplied.”74 Patrons’ concern for maintaining status often shaped the particular genealogy’s treatment of conflicts within the lineage, and its emphasis on individuals prominent in state affairs. In telescoping some sections of a lineage and elaborating other segments, the Rajput genealogies, composed from the sixteenth century onward, reveal their basic premise: the importance of the kinship network as it entered into relationships with the state, rather than the neutral recording of an entire lineage for its own sake.75
Further, both batan and vansavali inevitably gained layers of interpretation in their transmission during this period, as the socio-political norms of later periods were superimposed upon narratives of earlier events.76 This makes it virtually impossible to date such accounts accurately. Thus, the genealogical Chitor Udaipur Patnama was probably first composed in the late seventeenth century, since its authors recorded that they received gifts and grants of land from their Rajput patrons from this date onward.77 Internal evidence supports this date of composition, as Alauddin Khalji’s palace in Delhi is described as the “Red Palace,” with public and private audience halls, invoking the Red Fort built by the Mughal emperor Shahjahan. Further, two of Padmini’s defenders in the Patnama are Baghela Rajputs—a clan that rose to prominence under the Mughals.
Any discussion of Charan “bardic” traditions, genealogies and chronicles must also consider the narrative genres in which the past was comprehended. Literary and historical genres in the early modern period reveal both shared tropes and differentiating conventions. Blurred boundaries between the genres of katha (tale) and khyat (chronicle) enabled both genres to be deployed in narrating the Rajput past. Contemporary readers and audiences then interpreted these Rajput traditions about their past as the authoritative history of the region.
In medieval and early modern Rajasthan, shastric disciplinary boundaries (inherited ultimately from Sanskrit poetics) governed the production, reception and transmission of knowledge.78 As in Sanskrit aesthetics, narrative (katha, itihas, prabandh) was distinguished from the “sciences” (shastra). In the domain of narrative, two kinds of classification are apparent. The first was based on distinctions between verse and prose and their precise blend: thus the raso, prakas, vilas, rupak, and vachanika were distinguished from each other. All these forms focused on a central character (nayak) and derived from the charit and prabandh forms of Apabhramsa. A second order of classification was based on metrical differences and on the use of music. Thus the nisani, jhulana, jhamal, git, kundaliya, kavitt, duha, and vel were distinguished from each other.79 Character-centered and verse-centered labels could both describe a single narrative like Labdodhay’s Padmini Charit Chaupai. By the early fourteenth century, Jain prabandh narratives in western India began defining themselves around historical characters:
Ancient stories (kathaha puranaha), because they have been so often heard,
Do not delight so much the minds of the wise,
Therefore I compose this Prabandhachintamani book
Out of the life-histories of men not far removed from my own time.80
Within such “life-histories” of historical figures, miracles and encounters with the supernatural occurred frequently. Equally, the “events” narrated in folk epics (katha, gatha) were seen as having transpired in reality, both by the communities that possessed them and by the writers of dynastic chronicles: Nainsi included an extended account of Pabuji, the deified hero of a folk epic and devotional cult, in his khyat (c. 1660).81 Other narratives about the past, whether construed as fictive or historical, were also described as katha.82 Thus, Hemratan described his narrative about Padmini as sachi katha (true tale). Such instances reveal the substantial interplay between “folk,” “literary,” and “historical” genres in this period, in terms of both shared characters and shared tropes (such as miracles and curses). By the seventeenth century, clearer distinctions between “literary” and “historical” narratives are apparent in the emergence of the khyat—with its concern to record facts about lineage and entitlements—as a significant regional genre for narrating the historical past.83
Mughal chroniclers applied their own criteria of historical plausibility to the Indic narratives they were reading.84 Abul Fazl regarded the Mahabharata as describing the great antiquity of the world and its inhabitants, but also saw it as “out-stepping the bounds of the possibilities of physical existence.” The epic was regarded as more akin to the stories (dastan) of Amir Hamza, containing “numerous extravagant tales and fictions based on imagination.”85 Similarly, Badauni regarded the Ramayana as “not true at all and nothing but tales of pure fiction and imagination like the Shahnama and the stories of Amir Hamza.”86 At the same time, however, Mughal chroniclers based their accounts of the Rajput past on the latter’s traditions of heroic poetry. Thus, Rajput legends were Abul Fazl’s source for the career of Prithviraj Chauhan in the Ain-i Akbari, while the Padmini story figures in his account of Mewar’s history.87 Similarly, the compilers of the Tarikhi Alfi wished “to compile an authentic history based on reliable sources,” so that “interested and perverse parties” would not be able to “make interpolations among the facts of history.” The authors of this definitive “history” of a millennium of Islam relied upon Rajput traditions and recounted the Padmini story, even though they would have found no corroborative evidence in the Persian histories of the Sultanate period.88
It would seem then, that on the one hand, historiography in Rajasthan was adopting new norms of historical veracity, though somewhat unevenly. On the other hand Mughal chronicles appropriated the Rajputs’ continuing reliance on legendary narratives, particularly in narrating the region’s early history. The trend is best exemplified in the circulation of raso verse narratives, throughout this period, that constructed a heroic past for the Rajputs and provided a heroic tradition within which to comprehend contemporary battles. The rasos are a striking instance of how the domains of “literature” and “history” offered a continuum of genres for narrating the past. Further, while the poems of Hemratan and Labdodhay followed different conventions as katha, they were still described as truthful narration, while following a different set of protocols that licensed the use of “adornments.” I argue therefore that different contexts of patronage shaped the Padmini narratives in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Rajasthan more significantly than differing conventions of narrative genre.
The Narratives of Padmini: Kings and Chiefs
The accounts of Padmini in chronicles produced under royal patronage were broadly similar (see Appendix 1) in their concern with the rulers of Mewar, their ancestors, achievements, and lineal succession. Thus, all these narratives consistently emphasize two sets of details. First, they assert Lakhamsi’s valor in defending the fort to his death; second, the Khyat and Vansavali assert the continuity of the lineage by insisting on the survival of one son. The figure of Padmini thus seems a pretext for these other, primary concerns within royally sponsored narratives of the past that were concerned to legitimize kingly authority in the present. Mewar genealogists from the sixteenth century onward traced their Sisodia patrons’ descent from a junior branch of the preceding Guhila dynasty, by locating the segmentation of the Guhila lineage some generations before Alauddin Khalji’s conquest of Chitor. Thus, they asserted a continuity of lineal descent between what may actually have been two distinct ruling lineages, separated by about half a century after the Khalji conquest.89
Contemporary evidence about Mewar’s ruling lineage is sketchy until the reign of Mokal in the early fifteenth century. This contributes to the hazy
contours of the figure of Ratansen: in a narrative like the Amarakavyam, he is not even the ruler of Chitor but a younger brother and lesser chief under the king, Lakhamsen. The seventh canto of the Amarakavyam (dealing with Alauddin’s conquest of Chitor) celebrates the triumphs of King Lakshmasimha. His younger brother Ratnasi joins the service of the mlecchha king of Mandav, is received with honor, and pleases his new overlord by killing two enemies and presenting their heads in court. In return, the mlecchha king bestows on him the fort of Chitrakut and the title of Raval (7.8–10). Ratnasi goes to Singhaladvip and asks its king for his daughter Padmini’s hand. Rana Lakshmasimha also gives an undertaking that Padmini will be protected from the Yavana danger (7.12). When Alauddin first lays siege to Chitor on hearing of Padmini’s beauty, he is repulsed by Gora, Badal, and their valiant warriors. The Amarakavyam then lists further triumphs for Lakshmasimha, not for Ratnasi. When Alauddin returns to besiege the fort for twelve years, Lakshmasimha and Ratnasi are both killed in battle. Lineal continuity is established through Lakshmasimha’s sons, not Ratnasi’s. This account reveals the ambivalence attaching to the figure of the Rajput who was unable to defend his kingdom, in the royally patronized “histories” of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Mewar.90 Such unease with the figure of Ratansen may have been heightened within the late-sixteenth-century Mewar court after Akbar’s sack of Chitor in 1568.
This ambivalence toward the defeated king is articulated differently by the Jain poems. As Hemratan’s invocation indicates, his tale is focused upon the virtuous (guni) Goru Rawat and the strong Badil. In contrast to these two truthful (sattavant) and enlightened (savivek) heroes (guni), the king is somewhat gullible, deceived by a huge trick (ati chhek). Hemratan is concerned with the subject (bat) of Gora and Badal, who win fame (jas) throughout the earth (vasuha hua vikhyat) by defending Chitrakot in battle (verses 7–9). His invocation ends without having mentioned Padmini at all; the beautiful queen and her husband are shadowy pretexts in a tale about the valor of the Rawats Gora and Badal.
Labdodhay’s poem opens with a slightly longer description of the king. Ratansen is foremost among all rulers (sab rai mai sirmaur) and matchless among kings (ja sam bhup na aur). Evil men (durjan) flee his illustrious reputation just as darkness flees sunrise; the sun image gains added force from its being the Sisodia emblem. Ratansen’s edicts are law on earth (avichal agya avani pari); destroyer of the enemy’s elephants (arigaj bhanjan kesari), he defends the kshatriya path (khitrivat). In his court are 200,000 proud warriors ready to serve him; countless horses, elephants, chariots, foot soldiers, and cavalry stand ready for battle day and night. While this is an extended description, it is still an entirely conventional catalog of the attributes of kingship. When compared with the celebration of the chiefs Gora and Badal, the description of the king is bare and only just conforms to the literary and political decorum of courtly narratives.
In the Jain narratives, Ratansen’s quest for Padmini is triggered by a quarrel with his favorite queen over food. The protagonist embarking on a quest upon being taunted by a female relative, is a motif more familiar in oral epics from Rajasthan such as Pabuji and Bagadavat. Its deployment in the Padmini narratives suggests the Jain poets’ familiarity with non-Rajput regional narratives. Unlike the courtly chronicles, however, the king’s quest in these Jain narratives of Padmini is not geared to kingship or conquest, but arises instead from a domestic quarrel. The contrast with Gora and Badal, as they define heroic norms in defending their queen, honor, and kingdom, is notable. Ratansen now vows to obtain a padmini woman,91 or spend the rest of his life in mountain caves. Eager for success, the king leaves the city secretly on horseback with much treasure and a lone attendant (khavas). The contrast with Jayasi’s Padmavat is notable. There, 16,000 princes join the king as news of his impending departure spreads. The narrowing boundaries of the Rajput jati in Rajasthan during this period may have precluded the ascription of Rajput status to such large numbers of followers in these narratives. Further, consistent with the originating domestic quarrel, Hemratan does not cast the king’s journey as a military expedition; his Jain successors follow his precedent. His marriage to the princess does not depend on tests of personal ability; Ratansen owes his success to his status as the Mewar king and not to his personal prowess. The Padmini narratives in Rajasthan thus articulated the marriage practices of their Rajput patrons, in which the relative status of the negotiating clans was more significant than the personal attributes of a prospective groom.
In Hemratan’s narrative, Ratansen’s journey is preceded by renunciation. The poet explains that this renunciation is meaningless unless accompanied by suffering (v. 44). Such epigrammatic formulations echo Jain monastic ethics, but sit uneasily upon Ratansen’s quest for a padmini woman—an endeavor in which renunciation is merely a convenient means to success in a worldly quest. Ratansen also does not know where such a padmini woman can be found; he intends to scour the earth and hopes to find someone who will direct him to her. Again, the quest seems to be incompletely fleshed out: the journey is initially directionless, only vaguely southward (maram pakhe). This is in contrast to the well-defined route in the Padmavat, from Chitor to the Orissa coast through the Dandakaranya forest, and then across the sea to Singhaldvip. Once again, such journeys to the South may well have been familiar to military elites in the Gangetic plains who constituted Jayasi’s audience; they would not have been as resonant for the Rajput and Jain elites of Rajasthan who were the target audience for Hemratan and his successors.
In the Jain narratives, Ratansen’s kingly status shapes his negotiations with the ruler of Sanghaldvip. In Jayasi’s narrative he was disguised as a Nath yogi and imprisoned, and almost lost his life before his identity was finally revealed. That trajectory, as argued in Chapter 2, encoded some of the risks involved in the pursuit of upward mobility by military leaders and groups in the Avadh region. Here, by contrast, Ratansen’s quest is not in pursuit of upward mobility; so his very appearance reveals his identity: “Handsome as the god of love, dressed attractively, this is some powerful king” (Hemratan v. 82). In fact, the precise stakes involved in this quest are never clarified. Ratansen does not don the guise of a Nath yogi (as he did in the Padmavat). Instead, a Nath yogi with miraculous powers transports him aerially to the island of Sanghal and vanishes after performing this task. The incompletely fleshed out quest narrative and the presence of otherwise redundant figures such as the Nath yogi suggest Hemratan’s familiarity with Jayasi’s narrative, composed half a century earlier.92
When Padmini declares that she will marry only someone who can defeat her brother, the king of Sanghal, the latter tests prospective bridegrooms with a game of chess. All the Jain narratives follow Hemratan’s precedent in repeating this trope. The game of chess may well operate as a deflection of real battle (suggested in passing), as the precondition for winning Padmini. Such tests of skill are familiar from other narrative traditions in the subcontinent, including the epics. Further, it is worth recalling that vanquished Rajput kings during this period also offered their daughters in marriage to their victorious opponents. In the Jain narratives, Ratansen’s victory at chess establishes his superiority over the Sanghal king; the winning of Padmini in marriage, with half the kingdom of Sanghal and half its wealth as dowry, confirms the pre-eminence of the Chitor king (Hemratan verses 71–84). This pre-eminence is spelt out at length in the Chitor Udaipur Patnama, composed by Bhat chroniclers of the Mewar Ranas. Here, Ratansen declares his superiority to Padmini’s father Samansi: “I have no hunger for half your kingdom; I have so many jagirdars, who are the equal of your entire kingdom of Sidhal; one hundred jagirdars.”93 Elsewhere in this narrative, Ratansen indicates that his quest for Padmini is comparable to his thirteen other marriages, all of which strengthen his network of alliances.
Once the quest is completed and Ratansen returns to Chitor with Padmini, he does not have much of a role left to play in the Jain narratives. He expels the Brahmin Ragho Chetan for violatin
g the rules of purdah in the palace. The latter then brings Alauddin, the emperor of Delhi, to Chitor in revenge. The battle is inconclusive and Alauddin offers terms that Ratansen first refuses, later accepts: a glimpse of Padmini as she serves the emperor a meal. Ratansen is then tricked by Alauddin and captured. Hemratan contrasts the malice of Alauddin with the guilelessness of Ratansen and compares the king’s capture to the sun’s eclipse by Rahu (verses 337–9), again invoking the Sisodia emblem. All that is left for Ratansen to do is to rebuke Badal for his supposed plan to surrender Padmini in exchange for himself (verse 550), and then be rescued in a palanquin. He watches the battle between Alauddin and the forces of Gora and Badal from the safety of the fort and later rewards Badal for his bravery (verses 584–5).
In contrast to this hazy figure of the king, the chiefs Gora and Badal define the heroic norm. Hemratan asserts in his invocation that he is redefining the conventional nine rasas in this katha. After enumerating the conventional rasas of vira, singar, and hasa for his audience’s edification (hita hej), he asks that they pay special heed to the rasa of sami dharam. This is the essence of duty to one’s lord, an appreciation of which will also bring luster (tej) to the listener. The next couplet locates this new rasa among the conventional rasas:
The Many Lives of a Rajput Queen Page 11
