On the outskirts of the stupa, surprised guards offered the first resistance of the night, but it was futile despite their courage. Soon back-up sentries arrived and their resistance was indeed formidable, even though it was a surprise attack that they faced. Fierce fighting followed. But Veera did not lose heart and did not let himself remember that there would be further reinforcements protecting the relic. All he heard was the clamour of clashing steel and the thud of metal on body, the screams of pain and cheers of joy when an enemy fell.
Veera rushed into the vihara with just Akshayan following him, leaving behind a cacophony of noise outside. A few monks with shaven heads and saffron robes rushed to stop him. The devout priests wielded whatever they could muster in the monastery as weapons – sticks, stones and even metal utensils.
Veera stifled all stirrings of sympathy for these hapless monastic defenders. For him, they weren’t monks but those who stood between him and his destiny. He saw his stepmother, Sundara and the Pandyan hierarchy in them. As he attacked them, many collapsed in heaps of saffron. ‘Nothing harder than a knock on the head,’ said Akshayan to soften any qualms Veera would have about harming the holy men.
Veera seemed to know his way around with a strange familiarity. When he saw the stupa, he remembered how the Buddha himself had showed him his inverted begging bowl as an architectural plan of the temple. He chided himself for thinking about the Buddha now. The success of his plan depended on pretending the objective of the raid was an inanimate object rather than the remains of a god.
They had crossed the foyer into an anteroom, where they came across a few more men in saffron, and Akshayan stayed behind to tackle them. Veera rushed into the inner sanctum, where lamps bathed the room in an ethereal glow. The smell of incense overwhelmed him. There sat a bhikku, his back to the entrance, meditating in front of the immense idol of the Buddha. Veera looked over the bhikku’s shoulder and saw the yellowish-white casket. It seemed as if all the lamps were projecting their flames onto the ivory box. He hesitated. He had no qualms about killing the men outside, but to kill this head priest and that, too, in the sanctum of the relic was different. The bhikku shivered slightly and awoke from his meditation. He turned and smiled at Veera. A sad smile, but a smile nevertheless. The inviolable sanctum of the vihara had been defiled by a non-believer and a thief at that. Yet the bhikku was smiling at him. Why was this old man conceding defeat without even a semblance of a fight?
‘Welcome.’ The voice cackled and echoed in the semi-lit sanctum. The bhikku was old, and his face was like crinkled leather. His face was very familiar and so was his voice. Where had Veera met this man? The seconds that elapsed seemed like eons. Veera’s head swirled at the thrust of time. Ages, generations – even different births – seemed to shrink into these moments.
‘Come and take the casket, Your Excellency,’ the bhikku said, his slow words punctuated by a hush that seemed heavier, gesturing towards the casket. His words were soft but scathing. ‘The gods have decided every action of ours, Your Excellency. They have decided you must come back here to take this,’ the monk told him. There was an emphasis on the words ‘come back’.
He lifted the casket and Veera, as if spellbound, stretched out his hands. The bhikku kissed the casket and placed it in his outstretched hands. A blend of regret and happiness enveloped Veera as his hands grabbed the casket, expecting a flash of lightning to strike him. Was he sinning against the gods by stealing the tooth? Must he bear the consequences in this lifetime?
Two teardrops glistened on the casket. Veera opened the casket more out of curiosity than a need to check on its authenticity. The tooth seemed red at first glance, perhaps due to the trickery of the flames. Blood raced through his arteries. There it was – his prize. The tooth that had survived the cremation fire of Buddha would quench a thousand fires tomorrow. It was yellowed, ancient and bigger than he thought. Veera felt a strange feeling of love and a pang of familiarity gnaw in his brain. He looked around and he somehow knew he had been to this place before.
‘Does it look familiar, Your Excellency?’ the bhikku asked him unexpectedly. ‘You have been here, you have met me too, but your memories last only one lifetime. Would you believe that in your last life you carried this relic on the caparisoned elephant every year till you…’ the bhikku paused, ‘…you chose another life?’
Veera shivered. The story seemed to awaken something in his consciousness. But was there a life before, and a life after? Was this cunning man trying to weave a cobweb of misleading thoughts to confuse him?
‘Those fools outside do not realize,’ the bhikku continued, as he looked sadly towards the entrance, ‘that today is the last day the teacher’s remains will be here. But they want to fight against fate and its will.’
‘I hope it will return soon, Your Holiness,’ Veera said in all sincerity.
‘It will return to this country, young man, but never again to this place. Without him,’ – there was no doubt the old monk venerated the relic as Buddha himself – ‘this place is nothing.’ The monk sighed. ‘You may leave, young man. Buddha is the universal teacher. He never claimed to be a god. Perhaps he will teach you many things.’ A teardrop slipped out of his eye.
Suddenly, the monk looked up, his mind made up. ‘Leave, we have to grieve now.’
Veera walked back and as soon as he reached the anteroom, he heard the wail of a man mourning the passing of an era.
CHAPTER 12
THE ROYAL HAREM
Malik was escorted directly to Ulugh Khan’s tent, where he instinctively knelt before his master-to-be. It had been years since he had exhibited such a show of reverence – and it certainly hurt.
The tent was devoid of any decoration; it looked like it had been hastily done up. Ulugh Khan, the brother and trusted lieutenant of Sultan Alauddin, had refused to occupy the palatial home of the merchants, for many of them held substantial grudges against him. Malik hid his surprise at encountering the Khan. His appearance was far from his reputation as a fearsome warrior whose very name struck terror in enemy lands. Ulugh Khan was rotund, his bulging body straining his dress at several spots, and his face looked pink and puffed.
What Malik did not know was that Ulugh Khan was also a bully. Unlike in the past, when he conquered with a sword in hand, he now detested battles. He preferred sieges, where a starved enemy surrendered, or a lightning attack where the enemy was forced to flee. His barbarity was revealed by the utter coolness with which he committed brutal deeds in conquered territories.
Ulugh looked at Malik with immense curiosity. The slave’s appearance did not match the tales he had heard of his achievements. When Malik replied in fluent Turkish to Ulugh’s query about his name, the general was impressed.
‘How many languages do you speak, slave?’
‘Seven, my lord.’
‘And I presume you are a eunuch.’
‘Yes, my lord, I was castrated seven years ago.’
‘Not as a child?’ Ulugh asked.
‘It was a punishment meted out to me by the nobles of Rai Karan,’ Malik said.
Ulugh called for another slave. ‘Take him to the eunuchs’ tent and have him inspected.’
The easiest way to get into a harem was to be disguised as a eunuch and an inspection was mandatory. Malik realized he would have to resume the hateful duties of the harem once again. As his inspection proceeded, he could hear weeping and screams from inside, perhaps from those who had not been accustomed to the harem yet.
Once the inspection certified his castration, his new master sent for him. ‘I am told that your master was richer than all of his competitors put together. His wealth must have been immense, but we found nothing at all. We even dug up his garden and floors. The other traders insist he had transported his entire wealth to Arabia. And that was before we even took Gujarat. He, too, seems to have escaped in one of his boats.’
Malik stood silently – he was not supposed to answer unless a question was addressed to him – but he w
as glad that Sheikh Hassan had escaped the clutches of the Turks.
Ulugh continued, ‘I have a feeling that you had a hand in transporting the wealth, sensing our arrival. How did you know?’
‘Only through the obvious, master,’ Malik replied modestly.
His humility was wasted. ‘I should flay you alive for allowing the merchant to escape, but I won’t. Start your duties at the harem tomorrow and let us see whether you can serve me better than your first master.’
*
The Sultanate army slowly wormed its way into the wilderness, as it struggled under the weight of the booty and the captives who had to be coerced to move along. Ulugh Khan was entrusted with moving the invading army towards Delhi. Nusrat Khan, the other general, had parted ways with his unit to move towards Rajasthan.
Two days later, Ulugh Khan ordered his troops to set camp at Jalore. His quarters were elaborately set up. A tent, harem and toilets had been placed within a hastily convened palisade. The soldiers, tired from the day’s march, made an early night of it. But an important problem warranted Ulugh’s immediate attention. Nusrat Khan had returned to discuss an unexpected development: their Mongol generals had disappeared.
The Sultanate army had several of the Mongol nobility in its ranks. Every time the slit-eyed invaders from across the Himalayas invaded Hind, some of them, tired of their perpetual nomadic movement, would defect to the Sultanate. They were welcomed because they provided an insight into the Mongol way of warfare. When a few high-ranking Mongols defected during the last invasion, they were showered with treasures and to curtail a return to nomadic lives, the nobility of Delhi married their daughters to them. Muhammad Shah, Khabru, Yalhaq and Burraq were the four high-ranking Mongols in the Sultanate army. But they had now conspired to take all the booty under their control. Ulugh Khan had asked the Mongols for a detailed inventory, and in reply, the four had vanished into the wilderness with three thousand horsemen.
Nusrat and Ulugh updated each other and decided that with the gold in their hands, the Mongols would prefer a greater distance between them and the parent army. Ulugh said, ‘A team of scouts will have to be sent to trace their spoors. They must be miles away by now.’ He could not have been more wrong.
After Nusrat left, Ulugh Khan wanted to enjoy a leisurely and unhurried toilet. He was unhappy. He would have to explain to the Sultan the loss of three thousand men and immense treasure. To add to that, his night meal had not agreed with him and his recurring bowel problem had cropped up again. The lamb had been so undercooked that he could almost hear it bleat. His teeth had rebelled when he tore into the pieces and now there was a churning in his stomach. He kicked the slave at his footrest, ‘Go and prepare my toilet.’
*
Malik could not sleep on the damp hard floor, which had been a millet field just two nights back. He had managed to secure a moth-eaten pillow but he still could not manage any sleep. He was not happy at all. The experience at Khambayat had been a mirage encountered by a parched wanderer in a desert. This would be his reality from now.
It was then that he heard the sounds. His first instinct was that the citizens of Khambayat or the Gujarati army had attacked the Turks. But both had been neutralized, so the only alternative was a mutiny. Luckily for him, it was pitch-dark, and he began groping his way towards Ulugh Khan’s tent.
He saw the whole Turk camp in disarray, the sentries running helter-skelter to save themselves from soldiers on horseback, whose sharp swords glinted malevolently in the moonlight. He shouted to one of Ulugh’s sentries, ‘What’s happening?’
The sentry screamed, ‘The runaway Mongol generals have attacked the camp! They caught us by surprise.’
But the Mongols did not seem interested in the harem or the loot. They were looking for Ulugh to take him as hostage. He would be their insurance from the long arms of the Sultan. When they entered Ulugh’s tent, on top of which flew a green flag with a golden crescent as its pennant, they found two men in a deep slumber. Neither of them could be Ulugh, they realized, yet hacked them both to pieces. Ulugh’s associates – one of whom was Nusrat Khan’s brother – did not even wake up from their drunken stupor.
The Mongols, however, forgot to check the tent completely or they would have found the Sultan’s brother in a very embarrassing state of undress in the backyard. Men had been saved by many tricks of chance before Ulugh Khan’s sliver of luck. It was perhaps the first time in history that a general was saved by his irregular bowels.
Leaving in haste, the Mongols clambered onto their horses to search for Ulugh in the other tents, while the general sat trembling on his toilet. When the noises faded, he felt relieved, but only for an instant as a sword poked through the tent and slit the cloth. Ulugh Khan jumped in terror. The gentle voice of Malik whispered, ‘It is only me, Your Excellency. I have two saddled horses. We should leave immediately lest they return.’ He pointed his hand west towards Nusrat’s camp.
When Malik repeated the warning, Ulugh’s tired and muddled brain saw the wisdom in such a departure. A relieved Ulugh exited in disarray with his clothes hastily pulled over him. Malik turned his head away, so that his master would not be embarrassed. He guided a still-trembling Ulugh by the arm down the passage. He prevented the general from losing his balance when he clambered onto the horse and hoped that he would not be thrown off its back. Malik gently tugged the reins, and holding the reins of Ulugh’s horse along with his, they quietly rode into the night.
*
Despite his fears, Ulugh could see how well the slave rode his horse. At dawn, they saw a huge contingent of horsemen riding towards them. They cautiously hid behind a rock but were relieved when they saw that the soldiers held the standard of the Sultanate. Ulugh had always thought that his camp had been penetrated by Nusrat’s spies; he was thankful for them now, for they must have ridden for help. Nusrat and Ulugh embraced each other in a hurried customary hug. Nusrat, though upset about his brother’s death, felt relieved that he did not have to explain Ulugh’s death to the Sultan. They returned to the camp and saw the destruction. Four hundred corpses – not one of them Mongol – had been laid out in the open.
The two generals sat by each other as the junior officers related the night’s events. A sense of shame ran as an undercurrent. The Sultanate’s armies were used to people running away in panic at their very sight. But the tables had turned. Ulugh told Nusrat the tale of his trip to the toilet and the slave’s effort to save him when they were alone. Nusrat whistled, ‘So the new slave saved you.’
Ulugh glumly thought that he would never live this down. He was a humourless man, one who had never indulged in a witty word and couldn’t bear being an object of ridicule.
The next day, Ulugh thought about the slave. The stories about him in Khambayat were no longer suspect. Malik had already saved his master’s life just a day after his capture. Such qualities were not inbred – some people were attracted to situations in which they always emerged as heroes, somehow managing to be where their skills were needed. Such people had success written on their foreheads. Malik’s track record freed Ulugh from some delusions about the nature of slaves. Had not the Khilji sultans inherited Delhi on a platter from a dynasty started by slaves?
The military procession started off to Delhi again, winding its way along serpentine paths, flanked by the naked trees of autumn. Ulugh Khan never referred to the incident again. The act of saving his master – for which the Khan should have been in eternal debt – at least got Malik better quarters as a reward. He could now snugly settle at the base of his master’s bed, who felt much safer with his newly acquired slave within his sight.
The march was long and difficult. Though nights were cold, the sun was unforgiving in the mornings. Its heat had baked the dirt-packed tracks to hard rock. Sandstorms lifted the sand from nearby deserts, blowing showers of it on the procession.
When the Turks reached Delhi at last, the strange sights that the capital offered stunned the captives of the Turk army. Mos
t of the recently acquired girls were amazed at Delhi’s edifices and opulence, which dazzled the eyes. It was a lodestone not just for the politically zealous, the warrior seeking a windfall, the merchant and the devout, but also for the Mongol marauder. But to a eunuch slave, it meant nothing at all. For Malik, it only gave him hope that it would be a home that lasted longer than Khambayat.
The most important landmark in Delhi was the imposing tower, the Minar that Qutbuddin Aibak, the first Mohammedan Sultan of Hindustan and a former slave, had built. One could climb up the winding steps to get a breathtaking view of Delhi. The red sandstone tower’s dimensions contributed to its magnificence, and the intricate carving on its exterior made it look splendid. It took forty people holding hands to encircle the tower.
Ulugh’s retinue paused a distance away from the Minar, an off-shoot of the land scratching the very sky. A barb came from behind one of the veils of the harem palanquins. ‘It reminds me of something but I have never seen it in the morning. It must have been Malik’s; they cut it off and put it here.’ Everyone dissolved into peals of merriment behind the veils. The giggles turned several heads in unison. Ulugh guffawed. There was finally something to needle the slave with.
*
Three weeks later, Ulugh came to an important decision: Malik was too much to handle, even for him. It was clear that the slave had a chosen purpose in his mind, which was why he was able to do what others could not – which was also why he was always in the middle of action. Many slaves had the drive, the determination to achieve what they wanted and the Sultanate’s history was replete with examples that seemed to illustrate how slaves had risen up from lowly positions. Qutbuddin, the person who firmly entrenched the Turks in Hindustan as rulers, was but a slave.
Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai Page 18
