Aavarana- The Veil

by S L Bhyrappa

  There was a long pause before he spoke. The surprise was very evident in his voice. ‘What…what historians are you talking about?’

  ‘In your letter…remember, sir? You asked me not to trust the sentimental stories of the communal historians…’

  ‘Oh! Lakshmi, Lakshmi! So this is the thing. You’re an artist. How could you do this? Imagine what’s going to happen if all artists immerse themselves in research and stuff? Art will wilt and wither. And you are a very gifted artist. It’s good to know you took pains to research but do you realize that your creativity has withered over these four months? It’s tragic, personally…I mean, my favourite student murdering her creativity with her own hands! Look, I’m sorry, but I have to catch a flight for Berlin in the evening…some conference. And look at me! I’ve not even started packing. We’ll talk in detail when I’m back. You take care, okay? Goodbye!’ He disconnected the phone without waiting for her response.

  ~

  She went to Narasapura directly. She wanted some time alone, to think.

  Father’s notes make sense, now that I’ve studied most of the volumes in his collection. I guess I needed this preparation to fully understand the scope of his study, to comprehend his questions and doubts in the same sense. What has he accomplished and what have I? He worked hard to improve his English. And he’s not used a single English word incorrectly—precise, sharp, accurate in usage and meaning, like a dictionary. His Kannada, his language of thought, speech and writing is flawless…She felt a stab of shame. Razia Querishi. Feminist. Progressive. Egalitarian. Potent combination of courage, rationality, scientific temper and the rest. Labels, all of them. Given by people who assigned it to themselves and doled it out to their followers and peers. Like me. How many rallies and demonstrations and marches and slogans? Every one of them shriller than the previous…showpieces…only we had the keys to history and the secret to change the course of the future. Intoxicating…empty. Despite all this, why couldn’t I study history like this? And suddenly it struck me. History is not tied to slogans and ideals and reform movements. It is to rid ourselves of notions of doctrines and movements and look at the incidents of the past as they actually happened. And this can’t happen unless we allow our minds to be cleared of the illusions created by the present. The past reveals its true self to us through…books, signs, symbols and mutilated relics and yet we insist on seeing only a twisted version of it, because our eyes are jaundiced by the present. Especially at the present time, when a historian needs to fight with others belonging to his creed, instead of focusing on the actual subject of his quest. Things like the ‘goal of history’ is something that stems from arrogance and those who claim to provide answers to this question are doubly arrogant. Enormous and rapid advances in science and technology have reshaped societies across the world, which is becoming smaller, narrower every day. The basis of ethics, thought, behaviour and conduct are undergoing reinterpretation. Several countries are armed with nuclear bombs, people are exploring the possibility of settling on other planets…and our Professor Sastri still talks about the goal of history.

  She laughed at the last thought.

  I can’t write the book that Father had planned to write. It’ll be a different book; it’ll be my book. I’m his daughter but it still won’t be the same book. The choice of details, interpretation, reasoning, emotions, expression—everything will be unique because we give them the shape according to how we’ve digested our learning. Besides, there’s a fundamental difference between us. I don’t have his dedication to undertake steady, scholarly work. His mind was methodical. It carefully weighed and analyzed events, facts and people. Where he lacked imagination, creativity, I see stories… I can leap through imagination and inject feeling into seemingly meaningless symbols through images and metaphors. It’s why I became an artist and I’ve done this all my life and I know no other way… My world is the world of feeling. And I’ve wasted my life mortgaging this talent in the service of some social reform movement that no longer makes sense to me.

  I can’t write a scholarly work of history complete with references and footnotes. At best, I can write fiction. Or if I had the money, make such a movie. But I need to prepare more. I need to read more, travel to every corner of India, take photographs and do fieldwork with only this intent.

  And I began to write furiously…

  6

  Rage burns like an inferno inside me. I find no peace if it doesn’t burn. It burns when I’m awake and it takes the shape of searing dreams when I’m sleeping and if the dream ends abruptly, I wake up and I can’t sleep again. What has happened to me? Is my mind diseased? I must ask the all-knowing Haji Hamdullah Sahib. He has the history of the whole world from the ancient times till the present day on the tip of his tongue. He recites everything from memory…tales of Arabia, Egypt, Syria, Iraq, Turkey, Palestine, Khurasan, Iran, Turan, Afghanistan…many, many more lands than I can possibly hope to know about. No other scholar is equal to him. Badshah Aurangzeb recognized Hamdullah Sahib’s value and appointed him as the custodian of archives, which are securely preserved in a heavily-guarded fortress. But Hamdullah Sahib extended his labours beyond official duties. The subaas and spies brought all kinds of secret information from every corner of the imperial Mughal Empire that was spread across Hindustan. The badshah examined each report meticulously, set aside only such information that didn’t present any danger to his empire and then sent them to Hamdullah Sahib who in turn read all of this and classified them subject-wise. Hamdullah Sahib has exceptional affection for me. His mercy is immense—I can walk into his room at any time I please and no guard dares stop me. Each time I meet him I see how his eyes shine the moment he sees me. But the burning doesn’t go away. I remember his words the last time I met him, ‘Burning means fire. Fire means hell. So it is actually the fear of hell that haunts you in all your three states—when you are awake, when you are sleeping and when you dream. And if the fear of hell haunts you, it means the Prophet’s (sallallahu alaiyhi wassallam) bountiful grace is not yet fully upon you. Do your namaz with greater devotion. Read the Koran with more faith and read it more often. Can you read Arabic? Oh no, I know you can’t. And that’s why I think you are unable to fully understand the Koran. Anybody who doesn’t know Arabic can’t claim to fully understand the Koran…not just understanding its meaning…to fully understand the Koran means to understand its essence, its sentiment. See, Farsi maybe the imperial language but Arabic is God’s language, the Prophet’s (sallallahu alaiyhi wassallam) language. But I think your problem is more fundamental. You still have some roots of your original ignorance, your Hindu beliefs and until you burn them completely to ashes, your fear of hellfire will continue to torment you.’

  I had listened to him, looking at his face intently, my respect for him growing with each line he uttered.

  ‘I’m convinced that what you say is very correct, Haji Sahib. I will tell you the visions that come to my mind each time I am consumed with fury. I see the temples and the temple towers and the idols of the gods and goddesses and the rituals conducted by the priests, and I hear the sounds of the prayers and many other things from my previous faith.’

  ‘Why do you call it your previous faith? If you call it a faith, it means you are comparing it with Islam, and that means you are insulting Islam, the Only True Faith! It is correct to call them ignorant practices and dark beliefs.’

  He was right, of course. This is the true reason for my anger. I’m a slave. I was captured in the battle and I had converted to Islam to save my life. In spite of converting, I became a slave and I continue to be a slave and not just merely a slave…I am…I am…worse than a slave…and I’m ashamed to admit to myself what I really am. And my previous faith is responsible for my present state. Hamdullah Sahib is right. It is a weak faith. If it was powerful, would it be defeated so easily? Hamdullah Sahib is very kind and very patient. He never loses his temper when he talks about faith. How methodically he explained on another occasion: ‘Khwaja
Jahan, it is true, Islam came to Hindustan from outside. Hajjaj, Ghazni, Ghori, Mamulk, Khalji, Tughlaq, Sayyid, Lodi, Mughal…the list is very long…when every single one of these kings invaded Hindustan, what did your Hindus do? They died like flies…well, I said “your Hindus” but I was wrong—I meant to say “Hindus” because you’re our own now. It is true they all came from outside and waged war in a very large country with great manpower, military, resources and money. The Hindus challenged them with all their might in hundreds of battles but they all, one after the other, were defeated and captured and lakhs of Hindus were slaughtered and their kings subjugated to Islam. Their gigantic stone temples standing tall all over Hindustan and all their god-idols were razed to dust. Why? Because the faith that stands on the foundations of ignorance is not a true faith. Just like the sun melts away darkness when he rises, all their power, and their gods and their temples burned down in the face of the brilliance of Islam. Their ulemas—the ones who roam around with heads shaved except for a few strands of hair in the middle and wear thin bands of vermilion and saffron on their foreheads say—“Truth alone wins in the end…” What is that in their language?’

  The Sanskrit verse had emerged from my lips involuntarily, ‘Satyameva Jayate Naanrutam’.

  ‘Kafir! Kafir! That is the kafir tongue and only kafir tongues can pronounce it!’ He had paused for a bit before continuing, ‘Anyway, those kafir ulemas are correct. Truth alone wins. Because Islam is Truth, it could conquer this vast Hindustan and establish its rule here. Do you understand now?’ He had smiled broadly as he slowly stroked his silvery beard.

  It wasn’t just Haji Hamdullah’s narration of Islam’s history that had convinced me—it was the concrete expression of the truth of my own experience. To save his kingdom, the powerful king of Amber married off his daughter to Akbar Badshah and agreed to become a general of sorts to Akbar Badshah. This mighty Mansingh was then deputed by the Badshah to launch an attack against the valiant Maharana Pratap who refused a similar offer to make his kingdom, Udaipur, a feudatory of the Mughal Empire. Mansingh personally met Maharana Pratap and tried to dissuade him: Akbar was invincible. He hadn’t lost a single war and the enemy that would defeat him was not yet born and wouldn’t ever be born. Maharana Pratap listened to his counsel, treated him with great respect, but refused to agree to become a mere underling under Akbar. In the Haldighati battle, Maharana Pratap was severely defeated and he escaped into the surrounding forests, where he lived with the tribals almost like one of them.

  Akbar Badshah’s rule was everywhere… The whole of Sind and Malwa and Gujarat were already under Muslim kings since long past. Despite this, tiny Devagarh hidden inside the impenetrable Aravali had escaped notice of the Muslim kings and generals till then. Densely forested mountain ranges hid it from view. It wasn’t near any highway and it wasn’t strategic to the defence of any other fort. I guess this was why Muslim kings and generals were unaware of its existence. Until Aurangzeb Badshah sent a hukum, the Imperial Order, to my Most Respected Father, Maharaja Jagavir Singh. It was an ‘invitation’ to surrender Devagarh and accept Islam as the Only True Faith. What was left unsaid was happening outside our fort. Hordes of men on battle-trained mammoths ramming the entrance repeatedly and cannons aimed at our fort blasting away at the walls from all directions. My Respected Father was a very skilful diplomat who knew how to give a nuanced response to a monarch like Aurangzeb Badshah, saying something like he was a mere ant living under the graces provided by the badshah. But even to him, a pure-blooded Rajput warrior, it was unthinkable to ponder on nuanced responses when it was clear that the badshah was asking him to throw open his fort gates and surrender without a whimper. I noticed with great shock that the badshah’s army, which was now throttling Devagarh’s fort from all sides, consisted mostly of Hindus—our own Rajput peasants, Jats, and Malwas. I wondered at their complete lack of commonsense—they were helping the Muslim army fight and take down one of their own. The badshah’s sword-wielding horsemen were Rajputs. Their commanders were Rajputs. The rest—at least half of the army—consisted of Afghan Muslims. I learned only later that these Afghan warriors were sent to ensure that the loyalty of the Hindu cavalry really lay with the badshah. The foot soldiers didn’t actually know why they were fighting this battle but they were helpless because they had been forcibly rounded up like cattle by the badshah’s men and compelled to fight. We couldn’t hold out for long against the badshah’s imposing and seemingly endless supply of forces. After all he was the badshah of the whole of Hindustan.

  My Most Respected Father called an immediate assembly of his ministers, generals and prominent citizens. He spoke in a firm, decisive tone: ‘The western side of the fort has cracked. By evening it’ll break completely and their men will surge inside. We have three options. The first is to throw the door open, charge forth with our army and kill as many of them as we can and then attain the certain warrior’s death that will be our fate. The second is to wait till they get in and then give them their fiercest battle yet before we embrace glorious death. The last way is to throw the door open, go down on our knees, surrender and convert to their faith and save our lives by betraying the faith that has sustained us from very ancient times. You’re free to choose what you think is the best option, but let the decision be one by which we all will abide. Let not each man pick his own way. It will lead to confusion and avoidable deaths. We fight and die together or live together or surrender together. We don’t have time for a detailed discussion. Let’s reach a decision quickly.’

  The commander-in-chief, Vijayendra Simha, stood up and thundered, ‘We understood the purpose of this meeting when His Highness called for us. We have, amongst us, reached a decision. If His Highness permits…’

  My Most Respected Father gestured him to continue,

  ‘…the womenfolk will commit mass jauhar by jumping into lit pyres. The men wielding naked swords will throw open the main gates, and with a thunderous battle cry of “Har Har Mahadev”, chop off as many enemy heads as possible before surrendering to a death befitting heroes!’

  ‘Have all the womenfolk agreed to commit jauhar?’

  ‘Her Highness, the queen, has already assented. We know what the enemy will do to the women they capture in war. They will enjoy women according to their rank—their high-ranking generals and commanders enjoy our women of royalty and their foot soldiers take our ordinary women. And eventually all our women will become their slaves, maidservants and prostitutes. Our women are ready to embrace death rather than be dishonoured. Our men, whether they surrender or are captured, will undergo the same fate—they will be converted to the faith of our enemy and they will live the rest of their lives either as slaves or as foot soldiers. Many will be carted off to be auctioned like cattle. From there, they will follow the person who buys them and become his slave for life. I have heard that they travel to far-off places and some even cross the Hindu Kush Mountains to go to even farther lands. Sometimes, they are sold again in slave markets in those lands. Your Highness, it is far more preferable for us to give battle and die. Everybody agrees with this.’

  And so a final decision was reached: we wouldn’t charge out. We would just open the main gates of the fort to encourage entry and from strategic locations, slice their heads off. Each strategic location would be manned by an independent commander with a dedicated unit, free to take his own decision. This, we knew, would not ensure us victory but we had a very good chance of killing as many as possible. We would open the main door after the womenfolk had committed jahuar. My Venerable Mother, my elder sister, my wife, all the women of the royal family—all the women in the fort were preparing themselves for jauhar. There was more than enough dry wood stored inside the fort.

  And then the wartime responsibilities were assigned to each. I was in charge of guarding the temple of our kingdom’s chief deity, Lord Vishnu. My Honourable Father would guard the palace. But the thought of my mother, sister, and my new bride Princess Shyamala Devi jumping into the pyr
e made my blood boil…my Shyamala Devi, with all the innocence of a fifteen year old girl. I was supposed to be the guardian of all these women. A prince is a representative of the king, a father figure responsible for protecting the lives of everybody. My rage turned to anguish when I realized that I was not actually protecting them, but merely following the king’s order to stand watch as the women willingly burned themselves to death. After witnessing this, I had to go forth and give battle and eventually join the women by dying at the hands of the enemy. It made me feel like a eunuch.

  This enemy was determined and infinitely powerful—he would take us at will, either by demanding our submission or ensuring our total annihilation. We had no allies. None would come to our aid. And then I recalled what we had done over the past three months: we had sat and sort of expected their arrival. This inertia in itself appeared now as a sort of eunuch-like behaviour. But then, I had also heard stories of how every fort and tiny kingdom like ours reacted in similar situations. The same inertia. The same helpless anticipation of death, like goats lined up at the sacrificial gallows.

  I debated the idea of one last visit to the women’s quarters. To prostrate at my Divine Mother’s feet one last time, to make a last salutation to my elder sister, to seek the final blessing from my grandmother…to lock my sweet bride in a final embrace, to experience her sweetness one more time… But this thought seemed so absurdly ridiculous that I felt slightly ashamed of being overcome with sentimentality unbecoming of an heir apparent. It didn’t matter that I was just seventeen. I was proud of the military training I had undergone ever since I could remember. Wasn’t Abhimanyu just sixteen when he fought seasoned veterans and died a hero’s death? If I died in this war, I wanted to die Abhimanyu’s death.