Aavarana- The Veil

by S L Bhyrappa

  Begum Sultana Banu used to visit the badshah’s zenana once every four months or so. Every single visit was strictly by invitation from that zenana, a matter of immense pride as well as a powerful symbol of status. The begum’s palanquin was completely covered with a silk cloth with small windows on either side. Each window was covered with flaps, which she could lift and peek outside but the outside world couldn’t see what was inside. Eight well-built eunuchs, four on the front and four at the rear, carried the palanquin on their shoulders. An additional rear guard comprising soldiers holding swords and bows and arrows followed the palanquin. A troop of about ten female servants, covered from head to toe in black, shapeless garments followed the guard.

  One day, the begum sahiba ordered me to come along with her to visit the badshah’s zenana. Upon reaching the main entrance of the fort, our entourage was thoroughly inspected by the guards there. They confirmed for themselves, beyond doubt, that I was actually a eunuch. Female guards inspected the female servants. The palanquin-bearing eunuchs and the rear guard were not permitted to enter the fort. After passing this scrutiny, we entered the fort and some distance later, we turned left and stood outside the main entrance of the zenana. Now the begum sahiba herself was first examined by female guards and allowed to pass. Her servants went next while a well-muscled eunuch examined me and declared that I was fit to enter the zenana. Moinuddin’s zenana was a tiny hut compared to this sprawling world. Uncountable mansions built completely of marble, each a palace in its own right, and each mansion belonging to a begum. Every mansion had gardens of various sizes and small canals around the periphery. You could count the number of Moinuddin’s begum’s servants on the fingers of your hand but here, every begum had an entire army of servants who wore shiny dresses made of red and green and orange. Their golden necklaces and bangles shone in the sun and created the illusion that they were princesses. But my zenana-trained eyes instantly detected their true rank and status—actually, it was not difficult. Spending four years in the zenana had taught me to recognize the rank of a person by just looking at the face.

  Sultana Begum was a personal friend of Aurangzeb Badshah’s third begum, Rani Udaipuri Mahal. The friendship though was on the rani sahiba’s terms. I learned much later that Rani Udaipuri Mahal was a slave who originally hailed from Gurjistan. Dara Shikoh, Aurangzeb Badshah’s eldest brother, had brought, her into his zenana. Subsequently, a fierce power struggle for the Mughal throne ensued between the brothers. It ended in the defeat and death of the eldest brother at the hands of Aurangzeb Badshah. Rani Udaipuri Mahal’s matchless beauty won Aurangzeb Badshah’s heart. She shrewdly sensed the change in fortunes and switched her affections to the new Badshah. She commanded a special place in his life and it was said that the badshah indulged her like he indulged no other begum. Rani Udaipuri Mahal was prone to excessive drinking and her drunken behaviour, obnoxious to the extreme, caused major embarrassment to the badshah and everybody present. I have seen with my own eyes how the badshah, himself a thorough teetotaller, overlooked her inebriated excesses. I could only imagine the plight of anybody else in her place.

  It was normally the custom for lower-ranking people, when they visited a superior-ranking person, to get gifts befitting the status of the superior, a very old custom that the Mughals kept alive. In turn, the higher-ranking person would bestow a similar baksheesh, a tip, to the visitor. Sultana Begum usually gave an expensive necklace or bangle or rubies and pearls to Rani Udaipuri Mahal. Even then, this was not enough of a gift for Aurangzeb Badshah’s favourite queen. Actually, she was not his legal wife but she commanded a higher place than his legally-wedded wives. And now, standing in one of the inner quarters of the badshah’s zenana, I heard Sultana Begum’s voice summon me. I felt the mahal sahiba’s eyes all over my body as she examined me. Sultana Begum turned to me and said, ‘I have told the Most Esteemed mahal sahiba many good things about you. She is very pleased with you. Your life is truly blessed now! I have gifted you to her. Show her the same loyalty, obedience, dedication and good behaviour that you showed me all these years. Drink poison from her hands, thinking it to be elixir.’

  Rani Udaipuri Mahal was pleased. She nodded lightly, signalling her acceptance. I briefly looked at her. Her body was almost buried in dazzling jewellery.

  I felt special…I mean, I was special to serve in the badshah’s zenana! I basked in this newfound exhilaration for two full days. This was an alleviating escape from the murderous monotony of Moinuddin Sahib’s zenana. On the other hand, I knew everybody back there and I had made many good friends. I was the confidant of many kanchinis and servants and other eunuchs. I felt good that they trusted me with their intimate problems and they trusted me because I listened with infinite patience and I kept secrets. But in the end, their problems were the same. Pettiness. Jealousy. Backbiting. Anxiety.

  But this zenana was different. It was a whole world, which you could never fully discover, where it was easy to get lost in a directionless maze. But it was an exciting…a special world. This world decided the fate of the entire Hindustan. It was the sea into which the numerous rivers of political gossip merged. Political and military decisions were always made in highest secrecy in the Diwan-e-Aam or the Diwan-e-Khaas—the forbidden secret chambers of the badshah. However, news invariably leaked into the zenana. Select groups whispered political tides into each other’s ears, despite severe strictures to the contrary. It was common for the same eunuch to be part of the whispering sessions of multiple groups. This way, everybody knew everything.

  7

  I suppose it’s my fault. An ideal wife should wash her husband’s clothes, press them, cook the food he loves and give him pleasure in bed. Either she should do all this or get them done by a maid…well, all except the pleasure-giving bit. But why does a wife need to be an ideal wife in an age when she works out of home like men do—in offices, construction sites, buses and hospitals? I know women who demand that their husband share the workload at home: cook, wash, clean and the rest. I’ve never been the demanding sort but just as he expects me to go there and satisfy his needs, why hasn’t it ever occurred to Amir that he could come to Narasapura just once and satisfy mine? Barely two hours of driving. His excuse that he is a Muslim and that the villagers here won’t take kindly to him is not credible. There’s a more fundamental reason for Amir’s obstinacy but… The very notion of going to Bangalore just to satisfy his need, because it’s supposed to be my duty, disgusts me. What happened the last time I went there has sucked out any desire for making love to him.

  I guess the real reason he refuses to come here is because I didn’t write the script for the Hampi documentary. And I suppose I rubbed salt on his already-wounded pride when he asked my feedback on the script, which Ramamurthy, his assistant, wrote.

  Your documentary is no different from what other self-proclaimed intellectuals produce. It follows the same disgusting tactic—suppressio veri suggestio falsi—and reeks of the same deceit. Frankly, it’s a wretched piece of work. The forces that destroyed the temples and idols at Hampi have a long history of wreaking the same devastation in Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Arabia, Turkey and Egypt. They merely continued this tradition, a fact which you’ve shamelessly glossed over to please your political patrons. And I was right in refusing to write the script according to your directions: I cannot prostitute the truth. I don’t grudge the fact that you got it done by Ramamurthy. I hope your patrons are happy, and they’ve given you more assignments and lots of money.

  Was my letter more acidic in tone than usual? When you’ve decided to tell the truth as it is, considerations of tone and niceties have no place.

  ~

  I stopped reading newspapers since I made Narasapura my home over the past year. The reason was more practical—there was no newspaper agent here. I’d forgotten about newspapers but when I casually read some old issues on a recent trip to Bangalore, I realized that I was solely immersed in the history of the past and blind to what was happening in the pr
esent. On my way back, I stopped at Kunigal, went to the newsstand at the bus stop and spoke to the agent there. He agreed to send me three Kannada and one English newspaper through the Brahmarambha Bus Service. I had to pick up the newspaper from Rajanna’s hotel. I paid the newsagent some advance and sealed the arrangement.

  I began to read newspapers cover to cover like before. It didn’t take me long to make an assessment of what was happening in the country: three years after the mosque standing on the Ramajanmabhoomi—the place of Rama’s birth—was demolished, political parties, more than Muslims themselves, continued to compete with each other to keep the incident alive. Oh well…not just political parties but intellectuals, writers, litterateurs and artists. I could almost hear their refrain: now is the precise time in history, now is the time, which calls upon every Indian to prove whether he is Progressive or not! Most newspapers were filled with long articles and opinion pieces and editorials that relentlessly chanted this refrain. The test of Progressiveness was rather predictable: whether or not you supported the effort to rebuild the mosque on the same site. In parallel, they wrote fiery pieces that sarcastically labelled those that supported the effort to rebuild the temple as ‘Rama devotees’.

  The Karnataka Litterateurs and Performing Artistes’ Association published an advertisement in all major Kannada newspapers. It must have certainly cost a lot because it took up half of the front page and continued on to the middle sheet. The Artistes’ Association thundered against the shocking lack of progress in apprehending the perpetrators of the mosque demolition even three long years post the incident. The culprits were still roaming around untouched because they had successfully exploited the loopholes in the investigative and judicial processes of the country. It was therefore the moral duty of the Artistes’ Association to publicly protest this state of affairs by staging a play entitled Brick in the open-air theatre in Bangalore on 6 December. I read the credits. Concept and script was by the ‘renowned Progressive intellectual and academic’ Professor Ramamurthy, direction by the ‘equally renowned’ Kantaraj Hemmaadi, lighting by the ‘well-known’ stage artist Tejanath, and the star cast was an impressive line-up of ‘popular and socially-conscious actors’—Anuradha, Meena, Venkat and others. This was followed by an elaborate paragraph that liberally quoted from Professor Sastri’s recently-concluded press conference on the nature and relationship of and the social, moral and political responsibility of artistes.

  I decided to watch it. I was once part of the same crowd that ‘Progressive’ Professor Ramamurthy, Kantaraj Hemmaadi and the rest belonged to. No, that’s not entirely correct, they used to be my followers. And I knew precisely why they were staging this play. Far from any noble intent, they wanted to perpetuate—well, Hindus called it the Ramajanmabhoomi, the birthplace of Rama while Muslims and the entire band of intellectuals called it the Babri Masjid—the memory of the destruction, to keep the controversy kicking. I knew the exact situations the play would create and the techniques they would use to hammer home the conclusion they had sewn beforehand…I had written several such plays in the past. But now, as I think about it, watching the play will serve another important purpose. I can find out first-hand the exact nature of the charade they’re sure to enact on stage and compare and review my own thoughts on the relationship between literature and activism, between art and commitment and see how my novel (as it stands, it’ll probably end up being at best a long short story) measures on similar parameters. It was an opportunity of sorts for introspection—was my work faithful to historical truths? I was confident the play would help me find out. Besides, it was more than three months since I had seen Amir. I felt guilty. It wasn’t right to completely neglect him.

  Upon reaching Bangalore, I went home directly. Amina Banu told me that sahib had gone to watch a play. I quickly finished the toast she had made, had tea and before leaving, told her to cook for me tonight. I took an auto rickshaw and reached the open-air theatre. It was half full. Most in the audience were familiar faces. I sat alone on one of the steps and slowly glanced around the theatre. I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up behind me but before I could speak:

  ‘Razia? Ah! I suspected as much! Look at you! What happened to you?’

  Ratnamala. About my age. Lecturer of English in BES College. Academician. Regular in the stage circuit.

  ‘What happened to me?’

  ‘I…heard…news about you. You’ve permanently shifted to some village. Reminds me of my grandfather’s village. I’d been there long ago. They’re so…backward. Filthy, swampy and the damn toilets! Yuck! You know, I had to stay there for two miserable days and I decided to hold my shit in my tummy rather than…you know how it is, right? I mean, how do you stay there?’

  ‘Just like the rest who stay there.’

  ‘Okay, I mean, this is not just about hygiene, okay? Look at your hair. You haven’t trimmed it or dyed it. And your face shows wrinkles. Why did you go there?’

  She rattled on without waiting for my response. I let her and when it began to annoy me slightly, I stopped her mid-sentence and asked, ‘But why don’t you have a part in the play?’

  ‘Oh! You don’t know Ramamurthy’s clique? Bloody dictator sacks anybody who doesn’t lick…I mean, he can bully the kids. I walked out. And this when he’s not even…oh! And I’m sure you must know this. Your husband is the actual director but you know how it is. If “they” find out that a Muslim has directed it, they’ll start the anti-propaganda. Kantaraj Hemmaadi is the director only on paper.’

  ‘Who funded this?’ I whispered, leaning close to her.

  ‘Asks she who belongs to the inner circle!’

  ‘Well, you told me yourself that I’m marooned in a remote village,’ I said in mock jest.

  ‘Does this mean you’ve separated from Amir?’

  ‘No! It simply means I’m no longer in the inner circle. Okay, just tell me what you know.’ I put my palm in hers and warmly squeezed it, as if the gesture was an oath of secrecy.

  ‘Honestly, only Professor Sastri knows about the funding. He simply thinks of a programme, and money flows in on its own.’

  And then we heard the drumroll indicating that the play was about to begin. Simultaneously, the lights began to dim where the audience sat while the stage lit up brightly.

  A couple of minutes down, I quickly realized the technique they had chosen—a courtroom-style cross-examination. This technique was still new, almost in the experimental stage. Ramamurthy was not a playwright. He was not even a creative person. He could at best stitch: give him a ready-made script and tell him the technique, he’d neatly stitch the two together. It wasn’t a difficult task when the subject is already written and the technique of the play is predetermined; it doesn’t take a genius to join them together.

  The play opened with five characters slowly making their entrance on stage in order: a historian, Mahatma Gandhi, a Hindu pontiff, a middle-aged woman and a Dalit. These five prosecutors came to a stop and stood at one end. And then, just like in a court, the court announcer loudly proclaimed the arrival of the judge. Presently, the judge arrived, sat on his seat, and then said,

  ‘May the accused be presented before this court!’

  More characters from a right-wing political party and right-wing organizations made their entrance on stage escorted by policemen, who presented them directly in front of the judge. The judge read out the first accusation from a pad he had in front of him.

  ‘The chief accused has been charged with having disturbed the communal harmony of the nation by taking out a procession, and inciting people to carry bricks so that he could achieve political popularity. Subsequently, he inflamed the passions of ordinary citizens, which resulted in the destruction of the mosque that the Mughal Emperor Babar built. Can you explain to this court whether it’s possible to create new history by destroying the foundation stones of history?’

  As the judge’s speech ended, about fifteen to twenty people silently assembled on the stage an
d stood behind the judge’s seat. Ordinary citizens. Simultaneously, eight actors fully dressed in monkey costumes stood behind the accused. Their tails were stiff and upturned and resembled Hanuman (Rama’s trusted aide and friend in the holy Hindu epic Ramayana) in the play Lankadahana.

  Now it was the turn of the prosecutor—the Hindu pontiff—to speak.

  ‘The essence of Hinduism is tolerance. But you,’ he pointed to the accused in turn before continuing, ‘have tarnished this noble religion by sowing seeds of animosity in the name of Lord Rama. You are not true Hindus. Not just that: you have committed an irreligious act in reducing Lord Rama, the Divine Spirit that resides in all of us, to a mere brick!’

  And then the prosecutor donning the part of Mahatma Gandhi spoke, ‘The Lord Rama whose name I took on my lips when Nathuram Godse shot me was the lord who resided in the recesses of my heart. And you, my brothers, want to imprison that lord by building a temple for him? I bore no ill-will towards Nathuram and I bear none for you, my brothers, but I will fight and remove the force of evil that lurks in your heart. The same evil force that motivated Nathuram is now clothed in your form. It has motivated you to demolish the house of worship of your brother-religionists. Introspect, my children. Root this evil out of your hearts. Forgiveness is the only punishment you deserve. If the Honourable Judge pronounces a harsh sentence, I shall appeal to him and force him, if necessary, to seek your forgiveness.’