by S L Bhyrappa
The good thing about my newfound freedom was that it allowed me to meet Shyamala at will. I had already met her four times. I could arrange a horse whenever I wanted. Shabana Begum was only too happy to let me meet Shyamala. She took a curious joy in learning that this Tabassum actually had a husband, that this Tabassum who had managed to attract her husband with her raw, bounteous youth was actually another man’s wife. She took special care to arrange our trysts in the cattle shed. Not only that, she even sent us delicious lunch. She allowed the children to be with us. I developed a special affection for Ibrahim. I had promised her that I’d treat all her children with equal love and I demonstrated the truth of my words by petting them, holding them in my arms and playing with them. One day, I said, ‘Shyamala, I can pay money and get you released from your slavery. Or I can use my goodwill and ask Shabana Begum to release you. Either way, it should work. I can likewise get myself released and then we both can live somewhere as husband and wife. I anyway earn a salary now.’
‘How’s that possible?’
‘Why not?’
‘But…but…aren’t you a eunuch?’ she blurted out and then bit her lip, realizing what she had said.
There was nothing wrong in what she had said. It was the truth. I was a eunuch and I knew it but I made this proposal in a rash moment of intense emotion. There was no indignity, no humiliation, no debasement that both of us hadn’t undergone, and I reasoned that the physical expression of love wouldn’t be a barrier to our lives together again as husband and wife. I wanted to tell her as much but my heart had already sunk. No words came out. I left the place and didn’t return for three months. She was a slave, not a wife, but she still had two children from Dilshad Khan. She had experienced physical pleasure from him…she still did. She was a slave but led a relatively comfortable life. In a way she was right. It made no sense for her to abandon this to go live in poverty with a man who was really not a man. And why? Because of some relationship she had shared with him for a brief period in a time that was now only a very dim recollection? I felt very hurt but took solace in reality—I was a eunuch and nothing could alter that.
Some days later, I heard news about Shivaji. Everyone in the office…the whispers spread throughout Delhi. Investigation about his escape revealed many things. His illness was a ruse, an elaborate plot. He said his religion mandated him to make offerings of flowers and fruit to Brahmins so that he may be cured. And so every day he sent large baskets of fruits, flowers and sweets. One day, he slid his own body into the basket and coiled himself in such a way that he fit inside. And escaped! His pursuers, the swift horsemen who were instantly dispatched to get him, failed to detect even the faintest scent. Once he reached his kingdom, he began to recapture his lost forts one after the other. I recalled the sadhu’s words on the banks of the Ganga: Shivaji will soon be crowned, like a proper maharaja. Shivaji was shrewd. He had anticipated that the badshah would send his soldiers to the south to pursue him if need be, even to the heart of the Maratha country. And so he fled in the opposite direction: from Agra towards Mathura. In Mathura, he shaved his beard, moustache and head and donned the robes of a sanyasin. He travelled eastward until he reached Prayag. From there he headed southward and took twenty-five days to finally reach the Maratha country. Overnight, he became a hero to the people of Delhi. He was now a character to emulate. People who hadn’t seen him here began to make up tales. They said they had seen him in the badshah’s darbar. Even the badshah’s staunch loyalists couldn’t refrain from admiring his strategy, guts and presence of mind.
Another tiding reached my ears. Chattrasal from Bundelkhand had met Shivaji and asked to be part of his army. Chattrasal’s, father, Champakram was one of the vassals who had helped Aurangzeb Badshah in his battle for the Mughal throne. But in later years, the badshah had some misunderstanding with him and hunted him down with a large force, forcing him to commit suicide. It took Jaipur’s Mirza Raja Jai Singh to intercede and persuade the badshah to allow Chattrasal to join the Badshah’s army. This was the same Jai Singh who had cornered Shivaji into coming to Agra. Chattrasal had fought in that battle against Shivaji. But things changed after Shivaji escaped from Badshah Aurangzeb’s clutches. This was a courageous warrior who refused to become the feudatory of the Mughal Empire and subordinate his strength in the service of someone whose only goal was temple destruction. This raw display of courage won over Chattrasal, who approached him with a request to make him a commander.
Shivaji said, ‘We have enough warriors in the Maratha country ready to fight for freedom. But then freedom of the Marathas doesn’t mean that the entire Hindustan will automatically become free. You return to Bundelkhand and inspire your people to revolt against the Mughals. You have my complete support.’ It seems Chattrasal had returned to Bundelkhand. In the beginning, people had neither the courage nor the enthusiasm to rebel. But when Aurangzeb Badshah pulled down the Keshavaraya temple at Mathura, the Bundels’ tolerance was breached. Akbar Badshah had sent his most trusted and loyal aide Ab-ul-Fazal—the man who wrote Ain-i-Akbari and Akbarnama—to quell the rebellion unleashed by the badshah’s son Salim. When Salim learnt of this, he sent for Bir Singh, one of the Bundels to murder Ab-ul-Fazal. Bir Singh promptly had him murdered en route. Later when Salim became the emperor and took the title of Jahangir, he rewarded Bir Singh’s loyalty by granting him permission to build the Keshavaraya temple at Mathura at the spot where the Lord Krishna was born. And this, in a land ruled by Muslims where non-Muslims were forbidden from building any place of worship. The Bundels had a special reverence for this temple. And now Aurangzeb had demolished this temple and built a mosque on the very same spot and had used the pillars, idols and other material from the destroyed temple. The enraged Bundels united under Chattrasal and declared their independence. The badshah was now frantically busy readying troops to vanquish this rebellion.
Needless to say, Hamdullah Sahib as always was my source of this kind of detailed information. He continued to refer to Shivaji in the most derogatory language. Now he added Chattrasal to the list. He said Chattrasal was a dog, who was destined to be dispatched to eternal hell very soon. Something suddenly struck me when I slept that night. A fraction of a moment of weakness resulted in a life of unending humiliation. How many more years should I live like this? Why didn’t I have Shivaji’s courage? A man who, in spite of the badshah’s insurmountable security, not only escaped but rebuilt his empire and continues to grow from strength to strength? Besides, what is manhood? A mere ability to physically join a woman? I recalled the names from the Muslim history of Hindustan of eunuchs who had grown to become fierce warriors. Plenty of them.
Sleep eluded me that night. The next morning I reflected on my state: a eunuch who spent all his life in the zenana unexposed to physical hardship, pampered by rich food and protected from the harsh sun. What kind of courage could I have? Of course, I could console myself by resigning to fate. I spent two days in this manner. I was a dog that timidly tucked its tail between its legs when kicked. I made the decision a week later. It didn’t matter how many enemies I killed in battle or how many I protected. I had to be a free person if only for a day. Freedom. I could escape. Shivaji had set the example. Like him I could shave my head, beard and moustache and don saffron robes. Then nobody would pursue me. But if—and it was a real possibility—I was inspected and they saw that I was circumcised, I knew what would happen. Instant death was the punishment for a Muslim who tried to quit Islam. This was a bad idea. I found an easier way. I could easily obtain permission to travel. I’d tell them that I was desirous of visiting Alamgir Badshah’s fort and the Taj Mahal to admire their grandeur and magnificence. I could escape from there and reach the jungle. A few days of journey and I would be in Chattrasal’s fold. I decided not to go to the Maratha country. That was a country that ensured safety: safety that Shivaji provided. I didn’t want safety. I wanted to be a part of—to help and serve Chattrasal who was located so close to the Mughal capital and who was strugglin
g to establish an independent kingdom.
My decision carried with it a question. I wanted to—for the last time—find out if Shyamala preferred to remain Tabassum. But Ibrahim, he was born of my seed. If she refused to join me, I could at least take him with me. The sole survivor of the Devagarh dynasty. If he remained there, in Dilshad Khan’s home, he would become a soldier and one day, would partake in temple destruction and jaziya-extortion. I thought of saving him from this destiny.
I mounted my horse and soon reached the cattle shed. I then sent a message to Shabana Begum through a female servant. I waited. And waited more. Anxiety. Suspicion that became stronger with each moment. And with it, fear. I was convinced that she had decided that I was unfit for marital life. What if she had informed Dilshad Khan! I cursed myself for not considering this possibility. If that happened, my head would roll. It would be over before it started. I sweated and tried to pace the cattle shed. And then I saw her. A lapse of an agonizing hour. I decided to make small talk, enquire about her well-being and leave. But I noticed her expression as she neared me. She was clearly very worried. She said nothing as she sat opposite me. I searched for something to say. After a long, awkward moment, I said, ‘So, how are you?’
‘Six months. Isn’t that correct? You’ve come to see me after six months. I understand you’re angry. You should be. You asked me to be your wife like before and I said the first thing that came to my mind. Shall I tell you something? Dilshad Khan has four wives…he can pronounce talaq to one of the four just so he can marry another girl who catches his fancy. Or concubines, depending on his whim, wealth and ability. This is the setting I’ve spent most of my life in. I found it tough to conceive of a marriage without physical relations. Anyway, now I’ve told you the truth. Tell me, is your proposal still open?’
I couldn’t believe my ears. I stared at her with wide-open eyes.
‘Do you intend to test me with that look?’ she said.
‘It’s no longer about both of us living as husband and wife.’ And I told her everything from my journey to Kashi, and Shivaji and Chattrasal, and my decision to join him.
‘I’ll take permission from Udaipuri Mahal to visit Agra. Can you leave this place with the children? All we both need is permission to stay away for three days. That’s enough for us to cross Agra and enter the jungle. By the time they realize that we’re missing, we would’ve entered the Bundels’ territory. But life will be tough. And we’re not leaving this life so that we can live comfortably elsewhere. We’re leaving so that we can be free. To die, if necessary, for our freedom.’
She didn’t say anything for a very long time. Then, ‘Let’s not tell anybody that we’re leaving the kingdom to support the rebels in their struggle. All I need to do is tell Shabana Begum that I want to get out of here and live with you. She’ll pay any amount to get me freed. She stands to gain by losing a competitor. Dilshad Khan Sahib doesn’t have any real affection for the two children that were born to his seed. He has numerous such children from many different women. The begum will only be happy if my children disappear from her sight forever. You make your arrangements.’
15
His hair had fully grown, both in volume and shape, much before he returned from the United States, and after weeks had regained their former splendour. He got it dyed black, with small lines of white that peeked out from strategic locations. He was pleased. At his age, not too many people were blessed with such thick, luxurious hair growth. Most would be bald. He felt proud of his genes. With it the memory of his mother returned. His father had started to go bald quite early. But his mother? He felt this realization carried a deep insight—there was no connection between intelligence and baldness, he thought and chuckled as he looked at himself in the mirror.
He was scheduled to leave for Delhi. He reached the airport well ahead of time and spotted Lakshmi standing in line at the economy class check-in counter, awaiting her turn. As was customary, he travelled business class and there was no line there. He finished his check-in procedure, walked up to her and said, ‘Hi Lakshmi! Can’t you get a phone line drawn to your village? You have no idea how many times I’ve tried to contact you! I’m going to the same meeting as you.’ With a naughty twinkle in his eyes, ‘It pains me to see you travelling economy. You should’ve written, telling them that you can’t travel economy. I got it changed to business class.’
‘It’s just two and a half hours. How does it matter where I sit?’
‘Ah! But you miss the real point. We could’ve had some great conversation!’
‘Sure. But I’ll need to pay a lot of money to get my ticket upgraded to your class. The government won’t pay. But if you travel in my class, the airline folks won’t object.’
‘You know I never discriminate between classes. All are equal. Let the flight take off, I’ll join you.’
The economy class had plenty of vacant seats. Professor Sastri sat next to her shortly after the flight took off. She spoke first. ‘We waited for you. Why didn’t you come?’
He looked into her eyes and said in that intimate tone, ‘Frankly speaking, what’s all this atonement business about? I mean, I’m okay with sleeping in the temple if that’s the only place left on earth…but…’
‘You have an enormous ego…I mean, self-image.’ She couldn’t resist cutting him off, meeting his eyes with a determined intensity.
He could argue on this point but something in the way she looked at him told him that she would win. So he said, ‘Tell me, who all had come? The thirteenth day is supposed to be very special, I’m sure there was a quite a crowd. I’ll tell you the truth. I wanted to bear the cost of the funeral from start to finish but you know how it is—“who needs his money if he’s unwilling to do the rites for his own mother” and all that talk…’
‘You didn’t pay. Your son did. You didn’t do the rites. He did… Well, parts of it. He, his wife and child served food to everybody in the traditional way, took out the plantain leaves on which the guests had eaten and later, wiped the floor. His wife is an amazing girl. Everybody sang their praises for hours.’
‘Who told him the news? He had absolutely no contact with his grandparents! Did you tell him?’
‘He was in touch with them. Remember Jayaram? Your sister’s son who stays in Madras? It seems Diganth’s company does some business with his company. They met over some business deal, got talking and found out they shared the same mother tongue. And one thing led to the other and it was not long before they discovered that they were first cousins. That was enough. Their families became close really quickly. He stays at Jayaram’s place whenever he visits Madras and Jayaram does the same when he comes to Bangalore. Jayaram drove him down to Narasapura and introduced him to your parents. After this, Diganth visited his grandparents at least once a year. Each time he went, he would make an offering of dhotis and saris to his grandparents and he’d make it a point to have food there and prostrate before them the traditional way. It seems he also gave them ten thousand rupees. And then he sought out your other sisters and told them who he was. They’re all quite a well-knit family circle now. Remember, Jayaram had called you to inform that your mother had passed away? He rushed to Madras and on the same night called Diganth and told him the sad news. Diganth and his wife came to Narasapura the very next day. He spoke to his grandfather and your sisters and gave them fifty thousand rupees, saying, “Grandmother lived a full life. She deserves a dignified funeral. I’m sorry I can’t stay back because I must leave for Abu Dhabi urgently on business. I’ll be back on the thirteenth day…”’
The professor looked at her with a half-shocked expression. He didn’t pretend to remain unaffected by this saga of his own son backstabbing him. Why didn’t he tell me directly that he loved his grandparents? That he wanted to see them often? How did he conclude that I’d refuse to grant him permission? How did he think I was that cheap? I’m not a tyrant. Besides, he had full democratic rights to meet anybody he wished to meet. Then the professor recalled tha
t both husband and wife were very cordial with him. They had never said anything that would upset him. Ever. And they used my connections to grow their business. Lakshmi continued speaking, ‘…we’ve decided to have the Narasimha temple renovated in Granny’s name. We’ll get an architect from Bangalore. For now, we’ve estimated five lakh rupees. Don’t bother about the money. And they’ve put me in charge of supervising the renovation work. Diganth’s wife has greater devotion and faith in these things. It seems they go to the annual pilgrimage to Vaishno Devi without fail every year. Also to Tirupati. They drive down till the foothills, park the car there and climb all the way up…’
The mention of Tirupati reminded the professor of a conversation with his daughter-in-law. He had told her that the god of Tirupati was a capitalist god; that the majority of those who made that pilgrimage hailed from the middle, lower-middle and poor classes. She had smiled politely and said, ‘That means the pilgrimage is their way of saying that even they want to become capitalists.’
To which he’d replied, ‘…which is exactly what Marx condemned as the opium of the masses.’
She didn’t stop smiling, ‘And Russia lost its ambitious war against destroying this opium. So did China. And so did India, which has moved away from such opium-destroying adventures and embraced capitalism, which is what is letting us do our business. Am I right?’
He didn’t argue further. A woman. Way younger to him. It’d be a major blow to his pride if he lost an argument with her. Now he was unsure why they had concealed the fact that they were in constant touch with their grandparents. Was it because they were scared of him? Or was it plain diplomacy? They both were businessmen loath to talk about things that had even the smallest potential for argument. Rage welled up within him against his son but what could he chide him for? He felt as if somebody had ignited wildfire in his head. He angrily pressed the call button. When the air hostess appeared, he showed her his business-class pass and said, ‘A large gin please.’ He turned to Lakshmi. ‘You?’
