by S L Bhyrappa
I circled the Vishnu temple once and worked out a solid defence plan. Three hundred foot soldiers would surround the temple in concentric circles. One hundred horsemen with swords drawn and ready would wait in hiding at strategic places both outside and inside the temple complex. Further inside the temple complex, another hundred foot soldiers would spread themselves out, concealed behind the huge pillars and various doors. The rest of the force would wait inside the sanctum sanctorum. Every inch of the temple was protected. The attackers would first charge on the foot soldiers but would be cruelly ambushed from behind by my warriors on horseback.
Minutes later, I saw faint streaks of grey smoke rising from the direction of the palace—jauhar had begun. The streaks gradually became thicker and darker and I could see stray sparks spurting up, along with shrill cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev’, which rent the entire sky and turned into a continuous stream of screams of heroism and agony, reaching a pitch where it was impossible to tell the difference between pain and sacrifice.
In my mind, the order was already worked out. The first to enter the pyre was the queen, my Beloved Mother, followed by the other women of the royal family. After this, the rest of the women in the fort followed suit. I could not take my eyes away from the sky, now a thick, black vaporous mass, which took with it my Divine Mother, my lovely young wife, my sister and my grandmother as it swirled upwards. I felt sick to my stomach. And with it came the realization that there was no turning back. Most of our women were either dead or dying. Even if we won, there was no meaning left in living life anymore. Victory was also death. Strangely, this last thought fired me. Kill them all!
Suddenly the air was rent with cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ emanating from the direction of the main gates. Ah! They’ve thrown the gates open! Just as suddenly there was silence. And then the explosion of war cries almost shook me. The enemy was in! I banged my fist into my palm. As much as I was compelled by instinct to rush over and unleash my prowess over those filthy dogs, I remained fixed at my position. I began making calculations in my mind. Their first target was definitely the main palace and then this temple. I mounted my trusted steed, his name synonymous with victory, Vijaya. I drew my sword from its scabbard, held its gold-crusted handle tightly and examined its deadly, gleaming length. Wait. They could very easily split their force and send contingents to take different parts of our fort. I waited for what seemed like hours, proud that my hands didn’t ache from holding the sword for so long while continuous shrieks emanated from the direction of the palace. The war was raging in full fury. I felt proud again. My heroic father, an extraordinary warrior, wouldn’t give up that easily. I had seen him in practice sessions. A mere swing of his diamond-handled sword was enough to make the opponent spit his heart out.
I heard the sound of hoofs to my left and turned as one of our messengers halted his horse next to me and conveyed the news. ‘Praise the prince! I come with good news. His Highness, the Most Esteemed Maharaja Jagavir Singh, gave a fierce battle to the enemy and attained the warrior’s heaven. The enemy has captured the palace. Jauhar is complete. All the womenfolk have attained heaven.’
I trembled inwardly and saw that he noticed my trembling lips. What do I do now? I slowly turned around and looked at the Vishnu temple that I had sworn to defend with my life. It was hopeless. Lord Vishnu, the Protector and Upholder of the Universe, had abandoned us. I could see the idol of Lord Vishnu fully. He hadn’t changed. He greeted me even now with the same calm smile from the sanctum sanctorum. Four arms—a conch, discus, mace, and lotus in each hand. Lord Vishnu with his serene smile was very different from his two other counterparts, Brahma the Creator of the Universe and Shiva the Destroyer.
And then the noise of hoofs coming from behind as well as from the rear of the temple thrashed at my ears. I spun around and an exclamation escaped my lips as I first saw those gigantic Arabian steeds, then the ferocious-looking Afghan warriors staring down at me from atop those monster-horses. Raw power oozed from these fine beasts of war. I hesitated for a very brief moment before I roared ‘Har Har Mahadev’ and charged forth. We fought fiercely but they prevailed because their war technique was vastly superior, their strategy precise and they had the obvious advantage of greater numbers.
On their part, their horsemen, not foot soldiers, charged upon us first, giving them a calculated first advantage. I don’t know whether it was a deliberate plan to capture me, the crown prince, alive or it was by accident, but I was hopelessly isolated from my men. My personal battle was over before it had begun—somebody lopped off my trusted Vijaya’s foreleg, toppling me on to the ground. I rose swiftly, drew my dagger from its sheath but before I could plunge it into my stomach, I felt numerous hands roughly grabbing me from behind, flinging my knife away. They saw my sword with the golden hilt, my necklace and headgear—enough to identify me as the prince—and took me prisoner instead of killing me. Resistance was pointless. They removed their grip on me when they sensed this and one burly bear of a man searched me all over and extracted my sword. I was completely disarmed.
Suddenly an ear-splitting noise came from the right and I turned towards it. So they had entered the sanctum sanctorum. I could visualize the indiscriminate slaughter inside. I was sure that our men would’ve butchered a few of theirs but…I lost sense of time. I stood rooted to the ground, listening to the screams that never seemed to stop. I don’t know how much time had elapsed before I saw the corpses and blood-dripping bodies being dragged out and piled in front of the temple in a heap. Some still alive were wriggling under the weight of the other bodies on them. All our men were finished. But they had managed to take about thirty of their enemies.
Suddenly, there was a terrible noise. About seven to eight enemy warriors were dragging a massive boulder towards me with astonishing speed. They looked almost alike—the same formidable physical build, prominent beard, powerful chest and uniform breeches. They placed it near the pile of my dead men in a sort of a vertical position. Suddenly, horrifyingly I realized what it was—the idol of Lord Vishnu, the deity of the Devagarh kingdom, and its protector. Vishnu, the god who ensured that there was stability and prosperity in the whole world. I wanted to vomit. Suddenly I felt a hand on my left shoulder, pushing me roughly. It was Ijaz Ahamad Khan—I didn’t know his name then—the leader of the contingent that had captured me. He was a mansabdaar, the commander of a unit of thousand soldiers, also a fact that I learned later. He was a stout, stocky man with a very wide chest, his cruel eyes full of hatred and bloodlust and with really thick eyebrows. As he pushed me, I noticed the enormous sword he wielded in his free hand. It was enough to chop off the head of a wild bison with a single swing. I was only seventeen but I had enough strength to free myself from the grip of this forty-year-old battle veteran. But the knowledge that I was already a prisoner surrounded by four armed soldiers sapped my courage. He dragged me near the idol, tightly gripping my right arm. Standing in front of it, he emitted a raucous laugh as one of his men handed him a giant crowbar. He looked at me meaningfully, lifted the crowbar high in the air and brought it down upon our deity in a mighty blow. The idol’s nose was smashed instantly as I shuddered at the sacrilege. Then he turned his attention to the huge arms, pounding them repeatedly till they fell away from the body in broken bits. Like a man possessed he stamped on the massive stone chest several times before standing on it triumphantly as his men cheered in hellish glee.
Looking down at me from that height he spoke in that strange Hindustani tongue used by everybody in the Mughal army. ‘You brought this upon yourself,’ he taunted, ‘by not surrendering to Islam when we sent the invitation to your foolish father! If you had accepted Merciful Islam before the war began, none of your people would have died. You would still have your life and freedom. Do you know your fate now? You are a prisoner! If you surrender to Islam, you will live, and you will not only become a Muslim, you will also become a slave! A slave, you fool! But if you refuse…here!’ he roared, pointing at his sword, ‘One
blow!’ and violently raised it high in the air in one swoop, ready to strike.
I didn’t know at the time that the gesture was a mere threat. I was groomed in the Kshatriya tradition—a proud warrior prince taught never to be scared of death, in fact, to welcome death in battle. I could expertly wield almost every kind of weapon used in battle—sword, scimitar, spear, knives—and I could use them tactically and brutally. Every teacher who taught me invariably preached: remember always that your next step could be death. I was unafraid and I was proud. But I still do not know how those words instantly rushed out of my lips, ‘I accept Islam!’
To this day, I’ve pondered what unconscious prompting made me say that. And one thought keeps coming back to haunt me. When the Preserver and Protector of the World, the serene-faced Lord Vishnu…oh, how grand He looked in diamond-studded ornaments and yellow pure silk with exquisite lacework on it…this protector of the world, revered and worshipped by everybody, was violently uprooted from the innermost sanctum of His own temple, dragged and thrown beside the bloodied mass of dead bodies, disfigured. His chest stomped upon with slippered feet—yet, nothing happened! He just lay there helplessly before them, suffering the ignominy? And I was a mere mortal. What was the point in giving my life up for Him?
Did this reasoning work in the deep, dark recesses of my unconscious? Or did I, a prince trained strictly in Kshatriya Dharma, faced with the reality of certain death, choose life simply because I obeyed my survival instinct at that moment? Or was I fundamentally a coward, unworthy to be born as a Kshatriya? Whatever it may be, in that decisive moment I cast off the religion of Brahma, Vishnu and Maheshwara, the deities of Creation, Preservation and Destruction, and disowned my ancestors. Only one impression was clear as I faced the sword—I knew instinctively that Islam was a very virile faith. And ever since, I’ve been convinced that strength is religion and that nothing that is not strong can be called a religion.
By evening, the few who were still alive in the fort had joined the fold of Islam. Our conquerors rounded up the men and children separately, and away from the women who didn’t commit jauhar. I learned later that these women were carted away to far-off places like Delhi and from there to other places. But I wasn’t bundled with the men and children. I was taken to the mansabdaar, Ijaz Ahamad Khan’s camp, located about three to four miles outside the fort. Surprisingly, I was taken on horseback…perhaps because I was a prince? Or was it a concession because as a prince I had instantly accepted Islam upon seeing the raised sword? Then I was given an elaborate bath, after which I was anointed with exquisite perfume. This was followed by a lavish spread. I couldn’t bring myself to eat. I refused. Who can persuade himself to eat after witnessing his entire world slaughtered?
‘The mansabdaar’s order! You must eat. He’ll arrive in a while,’ said the soldier who supervised the entire ritual of my being pampered. I caught a hint of naughtiness in the way he smiled but I didn’t understand its meaning. I ate as best as I could. A few moments later, I began to feel drowsy. I sat on the bed and allowed myself to doze.
Gentle movements all over my body jolted me awake. It was the mansabdaar’s hands. I looked around. The tent was dark except for the soft light of oil-lit lamps. The mansabdaar was sitting very close to me, his thighs touching mine. Startled, I stood up and then sat down slowly, feeling scared. The full horror of my situation dawned on me.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said gently running his fingers through my hair. ‘You saved your life by accepting Islam. It was the right thing to do and I like that. But I will tell you a secret. Not everybody who accepts Islam and saves his life will have the privilege of sleeping on the cushion of the mansabdaar, his body touching yours. If only I had ability of writing poems in Farsi…’ he sighed, ‘I would’ve composed love lyrics on your delicate beauty. How pretty you are! And what youth! Like a bud on the verge of blooming! Sixteen? Seventeen? How old are you? Oh! But I am the most blessed, for I have been bestowed with the fortune of enjoying your perfect face! Have you seen how it’s adorned with thin wisps of hair?’ He pressed his hands in mine and whispered urgently, ‘You’re mine, you’re mine always! I won’t forsake you ever. I swear!’ And then he put a heavy gold necklace around my neck and whispered again, ‘This is yours. Come now. I’ve waited long enough,’ and pressed himself upon me. I couldn’t hide the gross disgust and horror that overwhelmed me. He merely smiled. I wrested myself away from his arms. That seemed to greatly amuse him. I yelled and punched and kicked and tried to prevent the inevitable, like a girl fights to protect her chastity, but he seemed to enjoy my violent protestations. He was never angry—a consummate artist who knew that anger diminishes the rhythm of amorous sport. To him, my protests were like those of a ripe young woman who is smitten with desire but hides it under the pretence of denial. My mind went back in time to relive the tender moments I had shared with my sweet Shyamala. She was fourteen when she married me and I was sixteen. Shyamala…both her body and mind were soft, exquisite and so full of feeling. The full year I spent with her was heaven. How easily she won me over on the very night of our wedding with these words: ‘Please don’t address me as devi when we are alone. Call me Shyamala. I’m yours forever.’ She was very shy and not very skilled in the erotic arts. But she opened herself up completely to me.
But this experience with the mansabdaar was perverse and new. With her…she…she was the woman as nature had made her. But now, how was I supposed to be the mansabdaar’s woman? I had for over a year experienced the tender undulations and pleasure peaks that only a woman’s body is capable of giving…isn’t it disgusting for a man to be a woman and participate in this marauding aberration? I felt thoroughly violated.
But since when has a lust-intoxicated man thought about the feelings of others? I felt vomit well up inside me.
~
Ijaz Ahmed would leave his camp very early in the morning. He would go to the fort and personally supervise the back-breaking work of taking control of the political and administrative affairs of Devagarh. He estimated that the task would need two more weeks to complete. It was monotonous but very rewarding. He had to confiscate the gold, diamonds and silver that belonged to the erstwhile royal family, prominent courtiers and rich merchants, and inspect the royal seals and documents. Every day he sent his men to raid the homes of wealthy citizens to loot their wealth. Simultaneously, a small army of men was engaged in counting this wealth that poured in by the hour. Another group of men deposited the already accounted-for loot in large wooden trunks. He would return late in the evening. After dinner, he would enter my tent and my ordeal would commence. After he was done, he would lie down and almost immediately start snoring.
The mullah sahib who accompanied him said that two weeks was ample time to finish the pending task—the one ritual which would complete my conversion into Islam. I knew what it was and each time I heard the mullah sahib remind the mansabdaar of the urgency of carrying it out, my terror was renewed. But in retrospect, my fear was unfounded—pain wasn’t new to me, I was battle-trained and I knew how to withstand the most intense pain. This ritual was painless in comparison but fear continued to haunt me.
‘Don’t be afraid. All the Muslim men all over the world have this ritual done to them. It is very good. And it will be better for you because it is the final, indelible proof that you are one of us! Imagine your torture if you don’t pass through this ceremony. You will be inspected at every step. So…be brave,’ the mansabdaar coaxed me. And so, that Friday after Zuhr was over, I underwent khatna. The circumcision did leave me in some pain but the mansabdaar gave me opium and asked me to chew it daily for a few days to deaden the pain. I did accordingly. In a few days, I began to feel a strange sense of kinship with other Muslim men. I came to regard them as brothers. We shared the same mark. We were from the same Deen, we followed the same lifestyle to the last letter. We belonged to the strongest race ever on the earth. We partook in the same noble goal of spreading Holy Islam to the corners of the earth. I f
elt elevated when I realized that every Muslim living in some faraway place shared the same thoughts. He was one with me and I was one with him. The barber who did my khatna had reassured me with these words: ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll tell you a benefit of circumcision that mansabdaar sahib hasn’t probably told you. Your masculinity will increase. You can drive forty women to exhaustion in one go! I’m not lying. Why do you think the Most Holy Ibrahim made this ritual mandatory for all Muslims? Actually, the full name of this sacred ritual is Sunnat-e-Ibrahim, named after the Prophet Ibrahim.’
After his work in Devagarh was complete, the mansabdaar took me to Delhi. In the beginning, that region of my body ached because I was continuously on horseback almost throughout the day and my wound was still healing. It healed completely in a couple of days and the pain was gone. Throughout the journey, the mullah sahib repeatedly told me how delighted he was that I had undergone the Sunnat ritual. He reassured me many times over and over throughout the journey not to grieve over the death of my family because they all belonged to a period of my life, a period I had spent in ignorance. Gradually, the fort, my father and mother and the rest began to fade from my memory. At night I had grand and elaborate dreams of the time when I would exhaust a slew of beautiful women with my newfound power. At other times, this dream was clothed in different attire—once in Delhi, I would ardently appeal to the badshah’s kindness and plead with him that I was previously a royal prince. He would then grant me the position of a sardar. I would take at least four women and lead a life of plentiful pleasure. The culture of Delhi was one of unlimited enjoyment of the zenana life—the pleasures of relishing the choicest of beauties in an extensive harem night and day. Even a lowly courtier in the badshah’s service earned handsomely through jagirs—vast swathes of land under his control. Every courtier had built a huge mansion for himself with separate quarters that housed the zenana. The Shariah law allowed a man to take only four wives. But if a man so married desired to marry another beautiful girl of a tender age, he could pronounce talaq to any of his four wives and marry this new girl. It went beyond this. The culture of Delhi also allowed a man to keep as many concubines as his rank, status and wealth permitted him. The zenana of every courtier was filled with tens of women. The majority of these were usually the spoils of war. And then there were other women, belonging to the families of poor peasants who were unable to pay land taxes. The tax collectors took the virgin girls and young wives of these peasants and put them in the zenana. These women became the servants of the wives of the courtier who owned the zenana and he could pull them to his bed anytime he wanted. But any amir or jagirdar or mansabdaar, however powerful and wealthy he was and no matter how large his mansion was, always knew what would happen after his death. His entire property, all his gold and diamonds and his whole zenana became the property of the government, of the badshah. The badshah’s men would visit his home the very next moment after his death and seize his jewellery, clothes, elephants, horses and weapons, all the way up to the last utensil. His wives and children got nothing unless the badshah showed some mercy and provided whatever little for them. If he didn’t, they were on the streets instantly. The amirs and jagirdars were well aware of this brutal final outcome. It was why they built lavish mansions one after the other and hoarded women and wealth and indulged in every form of sensual pleasure as long as they were alive. The older they grew, the younger were the virgins they sought, so that they could be aroused to the same pitch as before. Doctors who both concocted and distributed aphrodisiacs were in great demand and were compensated generously. Several of these noblemen wanted young girls as well as boys like me, and such noblemen were accorded a special place by their peers—I used to see how in lavish parties, a naughty wink or smile signalled hearty approval for this dual propensity for pleasure. This shocking perversion was met with acclaim, not repulsion.
