Two soldiers came to where he lay and lifted him by his shoulders. His blood-stained face was now soaked in sand. They dragged him once more to the leader who had dismounted by now. Ram scowled at him, and the soldier lashed out again – harder. Three or four others joined in. If their leader had not restrained them, Ram would have been beaten to a bloody pulp. But he had strict orders and knew that if he killed Ram, it would be his head on the block.
‘Stop it, you idiots, you’ve almost killed him.’ The angry tone of their superior officer wrested the soldiers’ attention away from Ram.
‘Where is the girl, you bastard? Tell me before I skin you alive,’ the leader snarled at him. Ram slowly opened his swollen eyes and saw the priest point to the hut. ‘Chaula, run!’ he wanted to yell. But no sound arose from his throat. In a second, the soldiers moved towards the hut. With a hefty kick, the first soldier broke down the door. There goes the silver coin, Ram immediately thought.
A soldier dragged Chaula out by her arm. As her captor held her tight, she struggled to break free and fought back viciously. ‘Get away from me!’ she cried. She pounded his chest with her small fists. Ram was overwhelmed with helplessness as he saw his beloved being handled by these brutes. He hated the soldiers for hurting her, and he hated himself for being unable to prevent it.
Chaula’s eyes fell on Ram in his bloodied state. She wrenched away with all her might and ran towards him. She took him into her arms, crying. The patrol leader growled again. He was naturally incensed, seeing the fellow with his master’s woman. The infuriated soldier walked towards the couple and slapped Ram, but he was surprisingly not rough with Chaula, but held her by the arm and led her to his horse. He threw her across the saddle, and after mounting the beast, took out a small silken bag from a saddle pocket and threw it to the priest. ‘Maharaj, the Rana will be in eternal debt to your kindness. This gift is for you and your temple.’
Through the slit in his swollen eyes, Ram watched helplessly. The tinkle of the coins within the purse could be clearly heard in the silence. The priest walked away nonchalantly, back into the temple. Then with a collective sigh, the crowd retreated to their homes, the silence of the night once again overpowering all other sounds.
*
Ram did not know how long he had been chained to the mango tree in the Rana’s garden. He had been left alone, the inordinate delay in exacting the Rana’s punishment giving him some hope. Ants were feasting on the sores in his body. He remembered being tied to a horse, and the last thing imprinted on his memory was the moon shining on the temple’s towers, where the saffron flag hung limp with no wind to ruffle it. Cacti had torn into his feet as he was dragged along. After a while, the soldiers had realized Ram would delay the march, and tied him to the back of a horse. The throngs of hide they secured him with had cut into his flesh.
Ram wondered whether his father’s wealth would save him. Maybe my father could plead with the Rana, he thought.
When they untied him at last, he shielded his face instinctively with his arms to ward off any more blows. But the three burly soldiers released his bonds and began dragging him. He hoped a bargain had been reached and he was to be released. He clung to whatever little hope he had, like a drowning man would a bunch of reeds. Would he be released with a rebuke, with the Rana richer and his father poorer? Could his father muster the resources to procure his reprieve or had his father also turned his back on him?
The soldiers dragged him towards an arena, where Ram knew men wrestled, roosters fought and women danced, and the Rana watched from a patio, lording over them all. He felt a deep terror. He looked around the arena, only to find Chaula dressed like a bride gazing desolately into his eyes. She sat on the floor next to the Rana’s seat on the patio, her legs folded beneath and the pallu of the sari over her head. Though her face was stained with tears, make-up glistened on it and she was dressed in an elegantly embroidered dress, which must have taken the tailor a year to stitch. Her face seemed softened by grief and her eyelids were fluttering like a fledgling that had fallen from its nest. Her emotions welled to the surface when she saw Ram in his state, and she nearly toppled over the patio, almost losing her balance. Time froze, their eyes locked, and the unspoken message was clear. She still loved him, come what may. Ram felt an irresistible urge to touch her one last time. She nodded, trying to convey some consolatory words but had perhaps been warned not to do anything at the risk of an even sterner punishment.
The click of military heels nearby alerted him. Everybody turned to look at the Rana who had entered, erect and stiff-backed. Ram shivered. The Rana had known him for years and always had a smile or a kindly word for him. What would he do now?
The Rana was dressed only in a white dhoti, with a towel over his shoulders. His balding head shone, since he was not wearing a crown. Fashioned by military training, his chest was broad and muscled, as were his arms. Prodded on by the guards, Ram stood with all the strength his legs could muster and the self-respect he could gather. His legs were unsteady and trembling. The Rana scowled at him, his face stony. This rascal is the cause of all this trouble, he seemed to be telling himself.
‘We have brought the captive, Your Highness,’ the soldier said. His tone was respectful. The leader of the soldiers gave Ram a shove, causing him to fall in a crumpled heap just in front of the patio. Ram looked up at the Rana, his face a collage of blood and fear, pain and tears.
‘So this is that upstart,’ muttered the Rana, his voice carrying across the empty silence, icy and aloof.
True to his reputation as a bully, the Rana was known to insist that the populace followed his dictums unquestioningly, however whimsical they were. For centuries his forefathers had held their subjects in a tight grip, but the Rana surpassed them in enforcing the serfdom they were trapped in. He reached towards Chaula and stroked her cheek, then put his arm around her neck and pulled her roughly towards him. She defied him with all her strength and tried, in vain, to break free. He smoothed her thick hair with his hands, then took her hand and gently kissed it while watching Ram’s face intently. Any show of anger from Ram would force him into the rage he wanted to whip up in himself. Years of debauchery had made his senses silent and slow to react.
Ram did not fail him. He tried to rush at the Rana. That was precisely what the men were waiting for. They held him back, and as if on cue, the soldiers started to beat him. The guards who had failed to prevent Chaula’s escape were forced to face the Rana’s temper, but now tried to make up for it by kicking Ram viciously, each blow a show of undying allegiance. Ram doubled over and groaned in pain. They started raining blows on his already torn body. With infallible aim, every stroke of their hands and feet found its mark. Soon, his body was badly gashed.
As he lay prostrate, the tormenters continued their assault for a few minutes. To Ram, it felt like eons. He lay limp in a pool of blood and did not attempt to ward off the blows after a while. Chaula could hear every cry of anguish that emanated from his lips. I should have been the one to be punished, she thought, the pain must be unbearable. She heard the Rana clicking his tongue in a sound of phony pity. For one fleeting moment, Chaula considered the consequences and then decided to act. Her love for this innocent boy overwhelmed all her restraint, and suddenly she rose with a cry that sounded like the wail of a hunted bird. She broke free of the Rana’s grip and ran to Ram. His tormentors stood stupefied as she fell over Ram’s limp body protecting him from further assault.
The Rana’s face flinched, as if stung by a bee. He followed her immediately, pulled her to her feet and almost flung her away. He shook violently in his wrath, frustrated that he had lost ultimately. Like somebody who could no longer wait or suppress his ire, he kicked out at Ram’s inert body. The kick hit Ram on the jaw and like a fish flipping backwards, the boy somersaulted. Those watching almost expected to hear his spine crack.
The Rana was not just angry at the fact that someone had stolen a girl from his harem, though it hurt to not have that vivaciou
s vixen in his bed. He had kept many women captive to quench his lust, even if they were other men’s wives. But this was the first time somebody had stolen a girl from him. He was furious, the rage exhausting him. He slowly walked back to his divan, full of shame that the girl – before the gathered audience of his underlings – had expressed her preference. It had always been drilled into the people that the Rana was indomitable. Now, he had the sinking feeling that the power he possessed over his people would wane.
How would he find a replacement for Chaula? Killing her or disfiguring her beautiful face would only be his loss, not hers. But he would deal with her later. For now, his thoughts turned back to Ram.
There were plenty of reasons to punish this upstart, but then he thought he should consult his council of ministers. He hurriedly called a meeting and asked them what punishment he could give Ram. One wise, old minister quoted the Manusmriti, the universal code of law that governed all Hindu kings. Adulterous men and women were to be punished by shaving them bald, cutting off two fingers and then publicly parading them on a donkey. But, he pointed out, ‘Manu’s specifications of these punishments were for married women and Chaula was not officially married to you.’
The Rana silently cursed the dictates of the Manusmriti that placed such constraints on him. He was sure that Manu would have provided a different code if his women had been stolen.
Then the minister who had put forward the proposal of bartering the boy in exchange for the wealth of his father said, ‘The boy had been punished enough, Your Excellency, let him go. Let us not blow up the matter. We may yet end up as the laughing stock.’
The Rana was quick to retort. ‘No, that would be too dangerous a precedent. That boy stole a future wife of mine,’ he complained to the demurring minister.
‘Boys will be boys,’ the courtier said.
For a moment, the Rana was quiet. Then a revelation dawned on him. The Rana lifted his head back and laughed. The people around were surprised, for the Rana had not as much as smiled for the period of a week.
Suppressing his raw desire for revenge, the Rana said quietly with a cryptic smile, ‘But boys need not always be boys.’
*
In a prison cell in a dark basement, vivid scenes from the previous two weeks washed over Ram like brine on festering wounds. His body and mind had endured too much pain. How cruel the beatings that had almost flayed him alive were, and how wonderful it had felt to be held in Chaula’s arms and to be pressed against her warm body.
The pain did not cease long after the beating had stopped. He checked up on the damage. A couple of teeth had cracked, his cheeks were so swollen that they hindered his vision and his legs could no longer hold him upright. And now they wanted to take him back to the palace. He sighed deeply. Yet, in a corner of his heart, he felt some hope. Fury could subside overnight and he resolved to banish all thoughts of Chaula from his mind, if only they would let him go.
Surprisingly, they had fed him the previous night. He was ravenous and gorged on the food as best as he could. If they were going to chop his head off, why waste a meal on a dying man? Perhaps his father had negotiated a ransom. His teeth ached when he chewed his food.
Despite everything, it was a delicious meal – better than what he had eaten all his life. Perhaps they were leftovers from the Rana’s table itself. Ironic, he thought, that Rana wants Chaula, my leftover. Serves him right. The thought increased Ram’s appetite.
When he woke up, he hoped he’d get breakfast – not that he was hungry, but it would be a glimmer of hope that he had been forgiven and his punishment was over. He was almost sure that his father had managed to bail him out. He would have promised to send his son away, never to poke his nose into the affairs of the nobility again. He would also have had to pay a fortune.
Ram’s reverie was abruptly broken. The Rana’s men came to the prison and escorted him out. Once again, he was pushed into the arena where they had beaten him up. When he recovered from the hard shove, he tried to gauge his surroundings. It was when his vision cleared that he noticed Chaula. He frowned in puzzlement. Why had she been brought here again? Surely they were not going to send her with him. With some trouble, he kept his eyes on her. There she was, prettier than ever. Her face was as pale as a pearl. When their eyes met, tears welled in her enormous eyes and spilled down her cheeks. It certainly helped to ease a little of his pain. He wanted to reassure her that he’d be all right.
The soldiers did not beat him again. Was it a sign that he was being released? If he was, why was the girl here? Her face betrayed the tension she was feeling. No, her presence did not bode well. And then it struck him: they were not going to let him go.
Chaula was torn when she saw his battered body. They had been but actors on the stage of fate and they had played their parts to perfection. Grief tore at her heart. Her body would not be touched, she knew, but it would be in her mind they hoped to punish her. She knew what was going to happen to Ram. The Rana had told her a little of what to expect – the devastating news had left her breathless. But if she protested, it would cost him his life, the Rana had told her.
Ram noticed a crowd forming along the edges of the arena. So whatever his humiliation, it was going to be made public. The audience had been commanded to come to the palace and they waited in suspense. The Rana had made sure that men from all levels of society were called to witness the punishment because he wanted to see their reactions. After today, nobody would talk or snigger. Revenge had never tasted sweeter.
The arrival of the Rana had an arresting effect on the crowd. People stood up in respect when he strode in, though he did not acknowledge their presence. The Rana’s eyes met Ram’s. Studying the boy for a reaction, the Rana’s face soured. The boy had not lost his defiance. He wanted the captive to scream and try to escape, and like the bully he was, he felt cheated when he did not. The Rana was certainly unhappy to shorten the duration of the punishment. But a smile crept onto his face; at least the upstart would be punished for the rest of his life – every minute of it.
The Rana was a cruel ruler and he made no false pretence about it. The opinion of the populace now, his spies reported, lay perilously close to contempt and the Rana had to stem the tide. He turned to the invited audience. He wanted to pronounce the judgement himself.
His words rang out, ‘If the boy wanted so badly to get inside the harem, let him go there.’ The crowd was perplexed. But a shiver ran up Ram’s spine like a squirrel up a tree.
Ram looked around, more so because he could not bear the intensity of the Rana’s unflinching gaze. A wizened old man and a small boy stood near him in readiness so Ram knew they had been assigned to carry out whatever punishment lay in store. He wondered, Aren’t they too frail to beat me? But they stood like actors on a centre stage. The old man’s presence within a circle of soldiers ruffled Ram. He stood isolated from the crowd, yet he had brought a small boy along. Who was he?
The old man now opened a leather bag – a dozen small knives glinted from inside it. Some were curved, some serrated, but most were smooth. It took him a while to select the one he wanted to use. He turned to the boy, who was now swatting flies, and handed him a long, thin knife. Without much questioning, the boy started sharpening the knife on a small grindstone turned by his left hand. The blade is only as wide as a finger, so they are not going to cut off my head, Ram thought. The boy patiently sharpened his knife, rubbing its edges on the stone rhythmically. A set of sparks emerged from the point of contact like a cluster of shooting stars. When the man took the blade from the boy and tested the sharpness on his finger, sunlight reflected from the blade painting his face in a gruesome fashion.
Ram’s heart raced like a wild horse. He could not collect his thoughts. Should he make a dash for it? He knew his limbs would not cooperate. He was rebuking himself for the simpleton he had been. Why hadn’t he realized they would not let him go? His jaw tensed. He tried vainly to stifle his shaking. He knew his destiny would be decided within the h
our – he had at last come face-to-face with his fate.
One soldier came near him and whispered without a trace of emotion, ‘The Rana has spared your life.’ Relief jumped in his heart. But something was wrong. Why else the man with the knife? Why is Chaula here?
The guard who was holding him ran his rough fingers through his hair, now matted in grime and dust. His coarse hand smelt of horsewhip leather and sweat. It was nauseating. He whispered hoarsely, ‘You look so feminine that you would have made a proper harem girl. That’s what the Rana has decided to grant you – a life in the harem...’
For several seconds, Ram stared at the man. Then it came over him, the realization, like a wave crashing over his senses. Battered and sore, what resistance could he offer? His face was contorted as if he were about to cry. His lips moved, but he didn’t make a sound as his mind screamed at them, urging them to leave him alone. A feeling of utter helplessness passed through him.
In horror, he realized Chaula had been brought to witness the deed as a lesson. To castrate him before her would be degrading both of them. The numbness spread over him as he remembered the meal last night. He realized that they had fed him so that he could endure the surgery the next day.
The soldier roughly pulled away his lower garment. When his tunic was pulled away and he lay nude, the soldier ordered the old man, ‘Remove the object that caused all this trouble.’ Ram began to struggle and cry out for mercy. But no words emerged from his mouth. Even if they had, the Rana would not have listened.
The Rana snapped his fingers. The old man walked close to the Rana to get some instructions. His voice dropped to a whisper; people strained to hear the conversation in hushed tones and so did Ram – after all, it was his life they were deciding about.
‘Who cares? It’s just a small piece of flesh. He won’t die,’ the Rana spat out the words.
The old man dutifully explained that only a tough man could escape this procedure without much ado; many died from the loss of blood and shock. He would do his best to see that it did not happen, but he could make no guarantees. The Rana had not permitted the old man to give Ram anything to minimize the pain. But the man had insisted that the shock coupled with the pain would kill the convict. He did not want a man’s life on his hands. The Rana shrugged and waved the man away.
Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai Page 8
