When the doctor arrived, Akshayan was shifted to the guesthouse with four people carrying him, as in death. ‘Be thankful to those last four,’ all the scriptures said. ‘Have at least four friends, who will outlive you to carry your corpse,’ they added. Veera brushed aside such negative thoughts.
‘Should we not shift him to his village? He might want to die amongst his folks,’ the doctor spoke for the unconscious man. Tara turned questioningly to Veera, who was in no mood to listen. She took the cue and said, ‘He will not get the treatment he gets here. Let’s wait. The goddess Meenakshi will not fail him.’ Tara took charge of the situation, and sent everyone off so they could rest. All their energies would be required in the morning and her tone was stern enough to forestall any further protests.
For two whole days, Veera spent all his waking hours next to Akshayan. While he stroked Akshayan’s head, he thought of the last decade and the friendship that had marked it. Akshayan’s sacrifice humbled him. Would he have done the same? Veera was ashamed at the answer his subconscious mind gave him. He knew he couldn’t have been as selfless as his friend.
Akshayan had almost been a part of him. He, with his undeniable patience, had handled every little facet of Veera’s life. What will I do without him? Veera thought. First Vikrama, then Sunanda, and now Akshayan. A wave of helplessness engulfed him.
The flames of the various lanterns placed in all corners of the room flickered in a soft breeze. The room was filled with weapons; antlers and bison heads – hunting trophies – stared down from the walls. Shadows on the walls performed a violent dance, and the ensuing drama of darkness and light seemed like a war between the regiments of radiance and the forces of Cimmerian. A final strife between death and life, each trying to better the other.
Veera had always visualized death as a monster with a blood-bespattered chest and a carnivorous smell, and the imagery came back to him. He had just fallen into a slumber when what seemed like the clammy hand of terror woke him up.
Akshayan’s face was calm, like the surface of a pond on a windless day, but beneath it his life was slowly ebbing away. His eyelids twitched, as if he was tormented by the netherworld’s ghouls. Finally, after three days of fever-driven sleep, he woke up. As if on cue, the entire royal party gathered at his bedside in that very moment. His eyes made a full circle before resting on the prince. Akshayan looked at Veera’s grief-stricken face and smiled. It almost seemed like he was enjoying a joke at Veera’s expense. A thought flitted across Veera’s mind, Will I be smiling when I die?
Akshayan’s eyes closed for a moment as he struggled to come to terms with his pain. His face began contorting as life slowly drained itself away. Then he composed himself in a mammoth effort and focused on Veera. Veera could almost see the light in Akshayan’s eyes receding. Akshayan’s voice faded away, and he spoke between gasps. Veera knelt beside his dying friend to listen. ‘It seems I will not be coming with you to Madurai. A pity.’ He parted his lips in a painful smile and waved aside the drink the doctor brought him. ‘I don’t want to sleep before I sleep in permanence. I want to go out fully awake.’ Veera ordered all of them to go out.
‘I loved you, Prince.’
When he saw the look of surprise on Veera’s face, he murmured playfully, ‘Not in that way, idiot.’ He was taking a liberty with death so close. ‘I loved you as no friend will ever love you hereafter.’ Akshayan was now speaking hurriedly, as if he wanted to convey his last words while he was able to. He paused as if in a dilemma. His words were coherent despite the strain. ‘I also loved another.’ Jealousy overtook the curiosity within Veera. ‘Find her. Find Radhika. You are a warrior, Prince. You can bear my passing. But let her not suffer.’ Despite his sadness, Veera could not help but smile that the puritan Akshayan was himself ensnared in love for a woman.
‘I may not go into history with a king like you, though God knows I have tried – but I am proud to have lived in your times, Prince.’ Akshayan’s face was getting darker, his life was draining out. His eyes darted from side to side. And then they remained still.
*
A party of soldiers had pursued the assailant deep into the forest. When it seemed he was about to escape, they trained their bows on him and killed him. His identity went with him to the grave – they would never know who he was, or who had sent him. Veera was furious. He had wanted the man alive for different reasons, to kill him slowly with his bare hands.
Veera never wept again for Akshayan. But the chasm that Akshayan left behind created a void he could never fill. He sent his mother back to Madurai and decided to go to Akshayan’s village, a week’s march away, accompanying the embalmed body of his friend to the village. However, the news that their son was returning as a corpse preceded the procession, and after the initial disbelief, his family made preparations. Akshayan’s body was laid out in the courtyard of his house, a lamp lit behind his head. Incense burnt all around and his sister sat weeping and waving a fan to keep the flies away.
Relatives came in large numbers to meet the dead, and the women’s wails rose every time a new group entered. A couple of old women sang the oppari, the song for the dead. It was written extempore and each line was dragged, giving the singer time to compose her next line with words comparing the dead man with Lord Indra in beauty and Arjuna in bravery. Among the paeans were ‘one who saved the prince’s life’.
After all the relatives had gathered, they took Akshayan’s body to a cremation spot full of thorny bushes, broken pots, dried garlands and mounds of ash. One of Akshayan’s brothers, a young boy not more than twelve, lit his pyre. He made three circles around the bed of firewood and cowdung mats that Akshayan had been rested on – a bed for a warrior.
A pot of water was perched on the young boy’s shoulder, which the caretaker struck with a curved knife for every circumambulation. It was said that a child lives in a pot of liquid in the womb, which is why a man’s last rites included a similar motif.
Those who wanted to have a last look at Akshayan were asked to see him before a cowdung mat was placed on his face. Everybody turned to look at the prince but Veera did not move. His ashen face looked steadfast. He wanted to remember Akshayan as a living vibrant entity, not as a corpse, so he just raised his hand signifying that he did not want to. The pyre was lit, the acrid smell of flesh, bone and coagulated blood rising after their contact with fire. It was nauseating. His friend was vapourizing into the ether with the ashen smoke that spiralled towards the sky.
When the cremation was over, everybody expected the prince to return to the capital immediately, but Veera went straight to Akshayan’s house. He sent back most of the soldiers and expressed his intention of staying for three or four days.
After spending two days offering his condolences, Veera went about making arrangements for Akshayan’s parents. He called the village headman and made provisions for land and an annual payment from the Pandyan coffers to be given to the old couple. Akshayan’s sister’s marriage was fixed to a cousin and a rich dowry was provided for her by the prince. He wanted to lighten the load on Akshayan’s family and even went to the extent of summoning the boy who was to marry Akshayan’s sister. He stammered nervously when he faced Veera, and after making his obeisance to the prince, he would have fled if his neighbours had not restrained him.
But these matters did not take his mind off the girl his friend had spoken about. A subtle undercurrent of rivalry ran within him, along with curiosity and concern. His eyes had searched the groups of people who visited Akshayan’s home, expecting to see a girl who cried more than the rest, but he could not identify her in the crowd.
When matters settled down a little, Veera set out on his next course of action. He called Akshayan’s sister, as she would be the best person to tell him. When she came, she stood a few feet away as any serf would before her master.
‘Yes, my lord,’ she said.
‘In the last two years, Akshayan had vanished regularly, saying he wanted to visit his village. It must h
ave been because of a woman.’
She stammered. ‘I don’t know anybody.’
‘Well, let me rephrase the question. Where is Radhika?’
She now knew the prince had done his homework properly.
‘Did she come to your home?’ Veera asked.
‘No.’
Surprising, Veera thought.
‘Could I meet her?’
‘She is not well.’
He was tired of the evasive excuses. ‘What happened?’ His tone was exasperated.
She hesitated.
‘Don’t hide anything,’ he said, placing his hand on her head.
‘She had a miscarriage when she heard the news.’
It was as if a thunderbolt had hit him in the chest. Veera was shaken. All along he had been wallowing in self-pity, when there were tragedies taking place all around him. At first, he was angry with the girl. She had carried the last remnant of his friend and had lost it. Then he realized, if he could love Akshayan so much, how much would Radhika have loved him? ‘I would like to meet her,’ he said.
Veera was taken to the orchard behind Akshayan’s house. He had expected to see a girl with a grief-stricken face and dishevelled hair, signs of anguish and the miscarriage she had suffered. Instead, Radhika seemed unusually calm, but he knew her eyes were swollen with tears. Veera felt empathy towards her – it was one empty soul recognizing another.
But she looked at him with hatred and seemed to find his very presence unsavoury. Here was the man responsible for her present predicament and her bleak future. Was this prince so much more important to Akshayan than her? She hated his condescension. When the prince had expressed the wish to see her, she was not surprised. She knew he would come to make arrangements for her and her future, perhaps offer her a job as a maid or marry her off to some relative with the expenses being charged to him. Her emotions were not lulled by the tragedy, like Veera’s. Unlike him, she had not been insulated all her life from the day-to-day vagaries of fate.
But Veera did not offer any condolences. He started cautiously, ‘I would like you to come with me to Madurai.’
If she wanted to settle her grudge, there would be no better opportunity, Radhika knew. She retorted in a voice full of malice, ‘No, Your Highness, I am too old to start learning to be a maid.’
The virulence in her voice shook him. But Akshayan’s life and death had taught him patience. He paused and drew in a long breath. ‘It is never too late to start learning to be a wife,’ he replied softly.
Radhika was stunned for a moment. ‘You are a sentimental fool, Your Excellency.’ She laughed wryly and turned her face to Veera. The prince did not feel insulted – Akshayan had called him an idiot only last week, just before he died.
‘I see nothing foolish in my suit.’
‘Your friend bedded me. How can I be a good wife to you?’ Her love for Akshayan had in no way dimmed with his death.
‘Many actions don’t matter in this world, Radhika. We all do many foolish things. Akshayan didn’t think twice when jumping before a spear. Not many live to learn from such blunders. But my proposal is in no way a mistake,’ he asserted.
‘I am deeply touched at your royal concern. But I will have to say no.’ She turned to examine his face. He was as emotionally depleted as her, if not more, as if both of them had been leaning on Akshayan all along. His features were obscured by signs of sorrow. They will not recognize him back home, I’m sure, she thought. She was restrained by the realization that she should not take advantage of a fallibility born out of grief. ‘You don’t have to repay him by marrying me,’ she said ruefully. Her unabated grief over the last two weeks now seemed overshadowed by his. She had always been assaulted by a wave of envy whenever Akshayan spoke of Veera, even during the limited time they had together. Now she understood why.
He would not let go easily. Veera explained to her that he wanted to live his life on his own terms and Akshayan’s death had taught him what he had not managed to learn in his lifetime – that selfishness should be curbed as much as possible.
Radhika couldn’t deny his sincerity, so when Veera asked her to give him an answer, she quietly nodded, and as their eyes met, it seemed an invisible bridge had been built between them.
Back in Madurai, many were happy that Veera had decided to marry Radhika – for other reasons. By choosing a wife of peasant stock, it seemed he had already discarded the notion that the throne was made for him.
CHAPTER 14
MONGOLS AT THE GATE
The winter wolf was regarded as the ancestor of all Mongols, and those who fought them realized just how brutal and feral they were before being killed by their arrows.
Half a century before Alauddin became Sultan of Delhi, Mongol incursions into India were strikingly regular. Such a pattern of repeated attacks on their prosperous neighbours was due to the nomadic way of life of the Mongols, distinguished by its incompetence in accumulating material surplus. Their invasions often took place after periods of personal hardship. Mongol armies depended on large herds of grass-fed Mongolian ponies, as many as six or eight beasts to a warrior, and their invasions were excursions to keep their hordes and ponies well fed.
Now the Mongol king Qutlugh Khwaja of Transoxiana had set his sights on the land of Hind once again. He had ridden a full six months on horseback, followed by an entourage of a hundred thousand kinsmen that included women and children, to take on the Delhi Sultanate.
The Mongols boasted a history of sack, rape and plunder, and their lightning raids had been etched in the memories of the local population. With utter contempt for civilization, the Mongol left behind no remnants, except pyramids of skulls, to speak of. Throughout history, sedentary people had tended to ignore the dynamic qualities and culture of the nomads, viewing them instead as barbaric, and had paid the price for it. Sleepy little villages were emptied overnight as soon as news that the Mongols were on their way reached them. People quickly gathered their possessions and fled towards Delhi. If the ramparts of Delhi could offer no defence, there was no place in the world to hide. If Alauddin could not protect them, nobody could.
But the Mongols behaved differently this time. They skirted towns en route to Delhi, not stopping to lay siege to any fort. They had not even touched the villages that were on the way. The battle-hungry nomads rode through predominantly agricultural areas that could support their forces with food and fodder. Forage was important to the Mongols because their lives were interwoven with their beloved horses. The strongest chief got the best grazing lands and it was often necessary to obtain and keep them by force. Each Mongol soldier had several ponies so that he could ride them turn by turn while marching to save them from exhaustion. This practice allowed Mongol armies to travel fifty miles a day, several times the distance that any other army could travel.
The first major settlement Qutlugh Khwaja’s forces attacked was Multan. Qutlugh did not want a fort in his rear when he attacked Delhi. Leaving behind a skeleton force to maintain a siege of the fort, his forces continued marching in the direction of Delhi. The Mongols had a different plan for their invasion this time.
*
Zafar Khan, one of the four Khan generals of the Sultanate and the governor of Samana, a two-day march from Multan, was the highest ranking general of Alauddin’s army. Zafar had been practising his archery when news of the first wave of refugees reached him.
Zafar had never missed a target in war or practice, yet he never tired of training. To him the bow was like an additional limb. Though a Turk, he was an ardent fan of Arjuna, the Hindu epic hero, a man whose mantle of archery Zafar claimed to have inherited. The Prophet had once said, ‘Angels attend no human sport save archery. Therefore, one should regard going to a shooting range as going to a mosque.’ Zafar believed in this fully. His hardened clean-shaven face, the perfect planes of his cheekbones and a straight nose were ample proof that he had once been a handsome youth. The scars showed he was a weather-beaten warrior, a veteran of coming close to
death many, many times.
The general’s slaves were bored as they threw up balls stuffed with cotton for Zafar to aim at. He struck the target almost every time with precision, whether it was moving or stationery, and yet he showed no emotion.
Suddenly, the sounds of hooves broke the silence and Zafar Khan, who was about to release an arrow, turned to see a messenger on horseback. His face was flustered and he ignored protocol by not even alighting from the horse as he said urgently, ‘Your Excellency, the Mongols have invaded!’
Zafar released the arrow a second too soon, but the slave had already thrown the target, and he missed. He cursed. The messenger had broken the governor’s concentration and he should have been punished. But there was a gleam in Zafar’s eye. ‘How far are they?’ he asked, as if the Mongols were guests to be welcomed.
To those who knew Zafar well, they indeed were.
The messenger managed to convey in words that tumbled out that the main Mongol army was moving south-east towards Delhi. They obviously planned to travel along the banks of the Yamuna to reach the capital.
‘It’s for the grass,’ Zafar whispered to no one in particular. Within a second, he had charted the route the enemy would take, showing his brilliant martial qualities. Alauddin’s practice to pick worthy people from the lower ranks of his army had been immensely successful and Zafar was a living example of that stroke of genius. He would have ended up a retired soldier with a lost foot or an arm if he had not been personally chosen by Alauddin, but at just thirty years of age, he had risen to head a third of the Sultanate’s army.
Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai Page 22
