Frustrated once again with another
failure in her spiritual pursuit, Shatvari opened her eyes gradually. Coming
back from her trance she instantly locked stares with a jackal who was sitting
outside the circle made of human bones wedged in the ground. On that
no-moon night Jackal’s eyes were two bright embers like the burning pyres
around in the crematorium. Shatvari looked deep into those amber eyes as if
seeing there a reflection of the fury that was smouldering inside her. In the
deep realms of middle-aged Shatvari this fury still hummed as strong as ever
now, ignited long ago by the lusty seekers of her youth and beauty. Shatvari
was of an average height and build. Extra layers of fat increased her waist and
belly size now. Her thighs and arms also lost muscular tone with age. She had a
slightly wheatish complexion, which, as if, got mellowed with time from the
blazing, golden hue she carried when she was young. Her face, which glowed with
the aura of a full moon in her youth, lost its vibrancy too. Bright eyes gave
way to a pair of tired-looking dark spots. A single cloth made of lion-skin
covered her lower body and breasts.
Shatvari
was looking deep into the eyes of the Jackal, delving deep to rescue a drop of
hope. It was well past midnight. A nimble-footed young man of about twenty walked up to her. The young man of
average build and height had a simple personality. He could have looked
attractive had he been well fed. An animal skin was draped around his thin
waist. He had tied a worn-out piece of cloth to cover the lower part of his
body.
Shatvari
looked sharply at the young man. ‘Seems like another futile day.’,
she thought observing the disappointment written large over his face.
However, she asked him while fiercely probing his eyes, “Did
you find out anything about the ‘Yantra’ (Magic wand)?”
He
simply nodded in negative and kept looking down with his bowed head.
“Do
you have the faintest of idea how important it is for us to find that Yantra?”
Her voice turned a bit harsh.
“Yes,
I know that Yantra can help you attain extraordinary powers.” replied the young
man mustering all the courage to raise his head to face her.
“The
word extraordinary pales in comparison to what that Yantra can enable me to
attain. Its miraculous powers are beyond human perception. It can empower us to
avenge all the miseries heaped upon us by the wily coterie of priests, men of
riches and the ruling class.”
The
young man remained silent, but a little agitated. He clenched his fists to
express his resolve to fight the wily coterie, which according to his mother,
had driven them to this sordid state.
Shatvari
closed her eyes and tried to calm down. She remained silent for a few minutes.
After regaining her composure, she looked at him affectionately. She spotted a
small bundle of cloth tightly kept by him under his left armpit.
“What
are you holding there?” asked Shatvari looking at the bundle.
The
young man showed her a neatly folded sheet of raw silk and a blanket.
“Where
have you brought them from?” She asked again, sternly.
“These
were removed from the dead body before putting that on the pyre.” The youth
meekly replied.
Her
eyes moistened and asked softly, “No, my son! You should not have even touched
these clothes.”
“You
are not a Chandaal.” screamed Shatvari almost without intention.
“What
do you mean? My father was not a Chandaal?” The so far calm voice of the young
man rose in rage.
“No,
neither was he a Chandaal, nor I an untouchable outcaste.”
The young man stood puzzled. His eyes
widened with surprise.
“So how come I became who I am today?
Why was I expelled from the society to live here among the dead bodies? What
was my sin?”
“You
did nothing wrong. Your only fault was that you took birth from my womb - an
unfortunate Brahmin woman.” said Shatvari with moist eyes.
The young man also felt the emotions of
her mother’s words. His eyes narrowed down.
“What
is it that you have been hiding all along? Please tell me if you are a Brahmin
then why have been we living here in this crematorium among the untouchables?
What happened?”
“Do
you have the courage to hear the anguish of a Brahmin woman who was forced to
relinquish her family to seek refuge amongst the Chandaals? Do you have the
heart to hear out the gruesome tale of your mother’s life?”
“If
you can muster courage to recall it, I will hold my breath to hear it out.”
replied the young man trying to hold tears within his eyes.
Shatvari gathered herself to untie the
knots of an old tale which, even though, was always on the periphery of her
conscience but never allowed to come this near to her lips.
Chapter 2
Neel
knelt to greet and to feel the pure silken water of Narmada, revered as the
only virgin river in India. Using both his palms, he drew a handful of water to
soothe his parched lips. In the calm water of the Narmdakund, he could clearly
see a reflection of himself. An unkempt and tired-looking sullen face, tresses
of overgrown hair tangled loosely on the shoulders, lines of stress drawn on
the forehead and estranged eyes looking blank and nervous. A spate of
unfortunate events over the past year had transformed this tall and handsome
twenty-one-year-old youth who could mesmerise any Mekal girl with no effort,
into a distrait man, unaware of the impact of the stress and anxiety that were
left on his attractive persona. It had been fading the gleam of his eyes,
snatching the charm from his face and taking away the spring from his strides.
Bringing
his palms closer to his lips, he took a sip, feeling the soothing effect of the
cold water in his lungs. A current of freshness ran through his body. The cold
and fresh water did not just quench his thirst, but also helped to calm down
his raging nerves. Getting back on his feet, he again bowed to pay his thanks
to Narmada. Looking at the serene stillness of the water, he only wished if his
disturbing thoughts could be stilled even for a few moments.
Neel
started walking towards the east. The picturesque valley of Amarkantak was
endowed with flowering shrubs of the most beautiful colours and kind. Herbs of
miraculous medicinal value were blooming there in abundance. Hovering over the
flowers were countless butterflies, appearing as if to be treated to every nip
of nectar until the last ray of the sun faded away into the
dark night sky. Soaring from within the shrubs were towering Sal trees eagerly
waiting to bid good night to the sun sinking into the lap of the Vindhya.
Envying the tall Sal trees, stood mango trees of average height unaware of the
fact that their own fruits’ sweetness was the envy of every other being. The
melodious singing of birds returning to their nests was adding new tunes to
gamut of the evening.
But
Neel’s heart wasn’t in harmony with the surreal surroundings. He restlessly
glanced at the serene backdrop. Amarkantak was a major town of the tribal
kingdom of Mekal, nearly as important as a state capital. He had spent all 21
years of his life in these mountains and the valley. Playing in the mango
orchards, learning to hunt with other boys of the Nishaad community, running
around in the thick but familiar jungle valley; these marked the happy days of
his childhood and adolescence. The flora and fauna of this valley had nourished
him into a strong and shapely youth. His father was the king of this tribal
kingdom of Mekal and the chief of Nishaad tribe. After his father’s untimely
demise, Neel had been made to shoulder his father’s responsibilities.
Ambling
through the valley, Neel found himself mesmerised by the beauty of Amarkantak.
On one side, Narmada moved towards the north-west, caressing the bosom of the
Vindhya. On the other from Sonmuda, Sone River leaped north-east to fall into
the arms of the Riksh Mountains. Down in the far south spread as far as the
horizon, the defiant dark forests of Dandkaranya were daring the champions and
warriors of Aryavart to combat. In the southeast beyond the wild valleys, the
lowlands of Mekal were kissing the borders of the great and mighty kingdom of
South Kosala—the birthplace of Kausalya, daughter of Emperor Bhanumant and
mother of Raghukul’s emperor Rama. Rama was the epitome of human dignity and a
sea of compassion. One who taught the lessons of highest empathy towards one
and all. He embraced Nishaads and other downtrodden communities to fight
against the tyrannical rulers. His elder son Kusha had expanded the kingdom of
South Kosala, and established a substantial empire. The descendants of Raja
Rama and Kusha had given new dimensions to the empire’s opulence and might. The capital of South Kosala, Shripur had a splendour
and glory that was the envy of the several kings of the Aryavart. The same
South Kosala was now under siege of Yaduvanshis. They had captured the villages
of the lowland areas of the Mekal. Mekal’s youth were made their captives;
Mekal’s women were their maids.
A
flurry of disturbing thoughts crossed Neel’s mind: How would they be
treated there? Would they be demeaned to the level of animals? Would they still
be alive? The thought of the plight of young girls made him tremble
with alarm and determination. His fists tightened, arms strained and a stream
of perspiration flowed enormously.
Neel
took a deep breath to regain his composure. He took off the white cloth wrapped
around his neck and wiped the back of his neck and shoulders. Putting it back
around his shoulders, he again drifted into the stream of his thoughts: Has
that time arrived where loss of righteousness was presaged? Are virtues
really failing in Bharatvarsh? What is happening to the Aryans nobility? Do
Aryans care anything about the Nishaads anymore? It is thanks to the dense
forests and vicious valleys of Mekal that our kingdom is not under the
possession of Yaduvanshis? Would Mekal too eventually meet this fate? What’s my
responsibility as a king? Is it not my duty to protect my populace? Is it not
my utmost responsibility to free my villages and people from the clutches of
Yaduvanshis? But, are we ready to face the mighty Kosala? Do we have a trained
army that can stand face-to-face with Yaduvanshis in a dire battle and defeat
them?
The
sun had set. Calls of birds were nowhere to be heard. Moths and bees were
making their humming dance around the flowering shrubs. The buzz of butterflies
had taken a pause until the next morning. Glimmering fireflies flickered from
far away. Neel decided to call it a day. His small strides moved westwards to
take him back home.
“How
long will you take to get dressed Shatvari? Aditi has been waiting for you
outside”, Gautami, the mother of Shatvari shouted towards the room where Shatvari
was busy getting dressed.
“Just the last bit of kaajal
left to put on Ma.”
Shatvari
pried upon her appearance in the mirror while dabbing an extra bit of kohl
under her eyes. She blinked a few times to let it set in. New-born youth spends
more attention in beholding the beauty than embellishing it further. A slight
dash of kohl on two starry eyes set perfectly within the round full-moon face,
a bright red bindi sitting right in the centre of converging eyebrows,
slightly moist and tender, rosy lips, open dangling hair braided with fresh
jasmine flowers, earrings of shining gold, and a pendant round the neck studded
with rubies—she felt as if some vagrant clouds had descended upon two lakes in
a valley of flowers.
Shatvari
was barely of eighteen years; she had a wheatish complexion, was of average
height, and of slender build. Adding the final touches to her make-up, she
slightly adjusted the silver chain worn round her thin waist below her navel.
She smiled at herself in the mirror and ran outside.
“Oh,
Aditi must have been waiting for long now. We must get going for our music
lesson from Pandit Achyut Acharya. He is very punctual and expects discipline.”
thought Shatvari while
running out to Aditi, who was waiting in a bullock cart all set to go.
“You
took so long to get dressed Shatvari, as if you are going to learn music from a
Gandharva and not from our Acharya ji.” teased Aditi.
“You never know, we might come across a
Gandharva on our way.” laughed Shatvari enjoying her own comment.
The
bullock cart made of wood and metal was designed like a carriage. The cart had
two large wooden wheels and a back seat wide enough for three people. At the
front was a seat for the coachman and two more seats behind that. All the seats
had cotton cushions, covered with a red-coloured cloth. A roof made of dry
twigs covered with a brown cloth was there to save passengers from the sun.
There were two white oxen, tied together and restrained with a rope that went
through their nostrils that was in the left hand of the coachman. He had a
wooden stick instead of a whip in his right hand.
Shatvari
motioned the coachman to move as soon as she took her seat beside Aditi.
“To
Pandit Achyut Acharya’s house?” asked the coachman while moving on.
“Yes,
he teaches us music.” Shatvari replied while trying to hold her pink dupatta
slipping off her slender shoulders. In her quest to look beautiful, she had
even forgotten to cover her arms in choli (a sort of blouse).
“You
are really fortunate that you have got Acharya ji as your teacher. There is
nobody as good as him when it comes to classical music in the entire state.”
said the coachman whilst pulling the reins of bullocks.
“Yes,
it’s a matter of pride for us that we are Acharya ji’s disciples. He is a good
friend of my father Pandit Aditya Shastri and that’s why he accepted us as his
students, otherwise it’s very difficult to gain his blessings.” covering her
arms with the dupatta, Shatvari adjusted her silken blouse pulling it a
little down.
“Shastri
ji himself has earned great respect from every villager. His mastery of Vedas
and Shastras is matched by none.”
Shatvari
felt good to hear her father being praised. A tinge of brightness lit up her
face with pride.
“Listen...”
Shatvari called out but was interrupted by the coachman even before she could
finish, “My name is Gunjan.”
Gunjan
was a dusky young boy of barely twenty years. His build was slight but
muscular. A light beard on his long face looked very
attractive. Shoulder-length hair were tied together behind his neck, making his
high forehead look bright and lustrous. A white loincloth covered his waist and
legs and one part of the cloth rested on his left shoulder. He wore a black
thread with a silver coin threaded in it around his neck. His earlobes were
pierced with small silver earrings that dangled as he talked.
“Gunjan!
Your name itself is so lyrical.” Shatvari said and smiled, “My name is Shatvari
and she is Aditi, my friend.”
“Do
you know any music?” Shatvari asked after a short pause.
“Our
music falls into the tradition of holy Vedas. I am a Shudra from a lower caste.
How will I learn music? Where from?” asked Gunjan. An element of sadness
surfaced on his face.
“Music
doesn’t follow any tradition, if at all it’s bound to the breath of every
living being. Knowing Vedas can be helpful in understanding music but is not a
requirement for sure. Music is also in the calls of cuckoos and in the humming
of bees.”
“You are
right in a way. I might not know the correct notes and ragas but I do
enjoy singing folk songs with my friends. I have learnt some music that way
over the years. Also, the priest of Sheetala Mata mandir in our locality plays
beautiful flute and he has taught me too to play it.” Gunjan recounted his
interest of music. A sweet smile had replaced the poignant look on his face.
“Very
nice, then let’s hear your song and see how good you are at music. Moreover,
the passage will go by swiftly,” said Aditi jumping into the conversation.
Gunjan
was taken aback by this abrupt request from Aditi and embarrassingly said “You
both are Acharya ji’s students and must know the nuances of music very well.
You will make fun of me.”
“Don’t
say that, music should come from the heart and nobody should laugh upon a true
heart’s song.” said Shatvari to encourage him.
Gunjan
felt at ease by Shatvari’s comment. A smile passed upon his lips feeling
lighter at the intimacy shown by Shatvari.
‘What’s the harm in singing anyway, Shatvari
might like it and get impressed.’ thought Gunjan.
Gunjan
struck up a tune in high note and started a folk song appropriate for the wet
season. Listening to the first few notes emanating from his throat, both
Shatvari and Aditi realised his superb voice quality and mastery over the
musical notes. Gunjan soon got lost in the tempo and music of the song like a
bee sipping nectar from a lotus filament. Shatvari tapped her feet and the tiny
tinkle bells from her silver anklets added to the beat. The intoxicating,
moist, monsoon breeze and earthen fragrance spreading out from the
freshly-ploughed fields added to the melody of Gunjan’s song; it mesmerized
Shatvari and Aditi. By the time the song had concluded, they had arrived at
Acharya ji’s house.
“Wow!
Gunjan, you sing so melodiously and you have a great voice. I am sure if you
learn classical music, you will become a renowned singer.” Shatvari exclaimed
as she seemed overjoyed, rather than surprised.
“You
are joking, aren’t you? Who would teach classical music to a Shudra like me?”
“Will
you like to learn from me, if I were to teach you music?” asked Shatvari
leaning forward and soon Gunjan was besotted by a scent of jasmine emanating
from Shatvari’s silken hair. Gunjan was engrossed in the sweet aroma when he
was suddenly interrupted by the same voice of Shatvari. He turned around to see
both Shatvari and Aditi walk towards Acharya ji’s house. He couldn’t help but
notice Shatvari’s seductive gait and lost himself in thoughts. No girl as
beautiful as Shatvari had come so close to him and talked to him the way she
did. An unknown incense effused from Gunjan as if flowing forth from moist soil
after the first showers of monsoon.
“Is
Shatvari impressed by me? Does she like me?” thought Gunjan.
Gunjan’s
heart fluttered with emotions. He wanted not to let the waves eroding inside
him run amuck.
“Is
it proper for a Shudra like me to have amorous feelings for a Brahmin girl like
Shatvari? My mother who was a Brahmin herself had to break ties with her
relatives for loving my father who was Shudra. A
relationship between a Brahmin girl and a Shudra boy will never be tolerated by
this society. This is the time to clip the wings of this bemused dream. The
right thing to do would be to politely decline Shatvari’s proposal.”
Chapter 4
Neel’s
house stood not far from Narmada’s furrow. It was fifty yards away from the
western main entrance of town. Supported by wooden pillars, the brick walls of
the house met the roof made of wooden beams and bamboos. Dried twigs and reeds
filled the rooftop to make it impregnable from sun and rain. A wide wooden
double-door made of Sal wood stood at the entrance of the
house. The door had a triangular top. Both parts of the door had fantastic fine
engravings.
The
night was almost over but it wasn’t dawn yet. The moist breeze was cold and
spread the Tuberose fragrance around. The crescent moon was waxing towards the
first quarter. With drowsy eyes, guards greeted Dhananjay with a bow. Dhananjay
accepted the greeting with a courteous smile and a little bow. The guards were
tall and broad chested, holding big spears in their hands. Hanging from the
leather belts tied over their dhotis were long iron swords, sheathed in
carved wood. One guard immediately opened the left door of the gates to
let Dhananjay in. The respect that Dhananjay got from the guards suggested that
he enjoyed a high status and was quite close to Neel.
Dhananjay
went in and made his way towards a large room on the right. He tapped gently on
the wooden door and waited a few moments. There was no reply from inside. He
tapped again, this time a little more intensely. There was no response yet. He
wondered if Neel was fast asleep, as he needed to wake him up for the worship
of the Sun god. The whole town would gather for the occasion soon. He knocked
again with intent. Neel opened the door rubbing his eyes.
“What
is it Dhananjay that you had to wake me up so early?” asked Neel while still
rubbing sleep off his eyes.
“This
is what I want to know, your Highness—what’s troubling you so much?”
“You
are one strange man, you woke me up at the break of dawn and you ask me what’s
the problem?” Neel got a little irritated.
“Your
Highness, you obviously seem to be in some grief. Sleeping late at night and
forgetting important state business. All this generally points to a man bitten
by a love bug.” said Dhananjay with a mischievous smile.
“Yeah,
whatever you say, my friend.” Neel tried to avoid his mischief.
“Really!
I am sure these are sure shot symptoms of Cupid’s touch.” Dhananjay still had
the same impish smile on his face.
“There are other serious emotions than love,
such as, hatred, anger and malice.”
“But
hatred...that can really poison the breath of the beholder, can it not?”
“Those
who know how to handle poison can consume it like a potion.” said Neel in a
measured tone, “Well, leave it and tell me what made you knock on my door at
this hour?”
“Oh,
so I have to remind you that today’s the day for Sun worship.” Dhananjay said
as if he opened a secret on Neel.
“Ah
right, I remember now. What a sin! Anyway, you get in and sit while I quickly
get dressed.”
Neel
walked hurriedly to get dressed. Dhananjay went in and leaned back on his
couch. He looked around the large, royal chamber and noticed deerskin rugs and
stag’s horns put on one of the walls as a prized hunter’s trophy. The sight
carried him to the past when he and Neel used to enjoy the stress-free days of
game hunting in the Mekal’s forests.
Shatvari
and Aditi entered Acharya ji’s house and went straight to the study on the
left. It was a three-room modest house made up of earthen bricks. Acharya ji
sat there in his usual poise. Both the girls bowed and greeted their teacher.
He accepted the greetings and smiled in reply. He was a medium built man in his
fifties. Fair complexion and a certain aura on his face marked his personality.
Long wavy hair rested peacefully on his shoulders. He was wearing a white
loincloth and white body corset.
“Meet
my son Damodar,” Acharya ji introduced his son, who was standing on his left.
Damodar looked barely of twenty-two years and was a tall young man, “He has
returned from Shripur only today after finishing his studies. He has been
learning music since an early age and he is now no less than a master musician
himself. He will assist you in learning as well.”
Damodar
joined his palms to greet both the girls. He looked at Shatvari‘s beautiful
face and couldn’t resist himself saying, “You are Shastri ji’s daughter
Shatvari, if I am not mistaken? One could tell that you would turn out to be a
pretty lady when you were just a little girl.”
Shatvari
smirked at Damodar’s comment. She wondered how a young man can start a
conversation with a stranger girl in this manner. She replied, “Thank you. You
really are an expert in judging young beauty. This art definitely comes from
long practice.”
Damodar almost blushed at
Shatvari’s retort.
Acharya
ji was visibly unhappy at the dialogues between Damodar and Shatvari. He took
charge and said, “Today we will talk about Rasas used in classical music and
dance forms. Please take your places, all of you.”
Acharya
ji took his place on a small cushion over a cotton sheet spread on the ground.
Shatvari, Aditi and Damodar waited until Acharya ji was seated comfortably.
They also sat down. Shatvari realised that Damodar sat
rather closely beside her. She elbowed Aditi, who was sitting on the other
side, to move further so that she could move away from Damodar.
Acharya
ji raised his face to grab everyone’s attention. He started by saying, “Rasa,
in artistic context, means quintessence—the absolute fundamental essence of an
entity. Like essence of flowers, the essence of life is also contained in some
Rasas.”
“But
how does that have anything to do with music?” asked Aditi.
“Well,
it has direct relation with life itself and music is an important part of life.
Rasa and music have a deep bond. We can say that Rasas define the finer
emotions of human beings. Music too does that. Music preceded the creation of
Vedas and ragas. Music was born as soon as God thought about the
creation. The world itself came forth from naad, a sound. The whole
creation reflects the presence of music everywhere; it’s in the flowing streams
of rivers; it’s in the wildness of storms; in the drizzling of monsoon; and the
roar of pregnant clouds. Different styles of music depict different aspects of
life, as do different Rasas, with which these emotions are attached. It’s
paramount for a musician to understand these Rasas, to be able to portray these
emotions in the music. If music is played without the inherent understanding of
these Rasas, it will be dull and lifeless. Just like a human being without
emotions and sensitivity.”
“Rasa
can be classified in eight categories. The most vital and popularly known is
Shringaar Rasa. It entails adornment, love and softer emotions. Rati, the
Goddess of love, symbolises all that Shringaar Rasa means. In simpler words,
Shringaar can mean enjoyment of love between couples of opposite sexes in a
sensual environment. This might make it sound simply erotic and confined only
to sensual pleasures. That is not so. Love encompasses a lot more beyond the
sexual feelings. To understand this deeply, we must know that nature is the
master creation of Brahma in the dichotomy of male and female, spirit and
nature, Shiva and Shakti. The present universe as we know it is a result of the
spiritual play, leela of these opposites immersing
themselves in Shringaar. Shiva is the supreme consciousness and Shakti is its
driving force. When they come together, creation begins. When a man and a woman
come close in love and they become one in unison, they create a cosmos within
themselves akin to Shiva and Shakti. The lovemaking that brings the two
together remains not simply an act of erotic nature but becomes an exercise of
surrender to Brahma.”
Meanwhile,
Shatvari realised that Damodar had been looking at her throughout the whole
lecture from Acharya ji. She could feel his eyes literally caressing her body.
She adjusted her dupatta and moved slightly farther away from Damodar.
“But
the meaning of Shringaar as we know is to embellish our appearance and beauty.”
asked Aditi.
“That’s
true. Beauty is adorable. Love and beauty have this amazing relation. Whatever
that is beautiful becomes adorable. On the other hand, whatever that is dear
becomes beautiful. For a mother, her son is the most beautiful creature alive.
A father thinks his daughter is most pretty,” replied Acharya ji.
Acharya
ji suddenly realized that Damodar was paying more attention to Shatvari than
the lecture. He thought it best to stop the day’s session right there. Damodar
must be made aware of his thoughts before the next class. He announced, “So
that’s it for today. How Rasas are employed in music, how they can enhance the
reach and popularity of music—all this we’ll discuss tomorrow.”
Shatvari
and Aditi got up and bowed to Acharya ji. They walked out of the house. Damodar
quickly followed them to the front of the house and said, “I have brought a new
horse cab from Shripur. If you don’t mind, I can drop you home.”
Shatvari looked at Aditi,
who smiled back.
“No,
thank you, we have brought our own cart today. Maybe some other day.” Shatvari
said with a sharpness steeped in her smile.
Damodar
was a tall and attractive young man. He had an irresistible charm enough to
impress any young lady.
Shatvari
carefully judged Damodar’s antics. She knew what he was up to. She preferred to
sit on the fence to see what to make of him as time passed.
Sitting
at the back seat of Gunjan’s bullock cart, Shatvari asked him, “So what have
you decided, will you learn music from me?”
“You
are a Brahmin girl and I am a Shudra. Will it be proper for me to learn from
you? Will the society tolerate it?” replied Gunjan.
“This
is the same society where Shudras like Valmiki and Vedvyas became great saints.
So, don’t worry about all that.”
“That
was long ago. Now society has changed. The caste system is much deeper. I doubt
people would like it.”
“Society
is always changing. If it changed from that time to this, why can’t we change
it for the better again? Don’t worry too much about all that, just tell me if
you want to learn music or not?” replied Shatvari with the tone and authority
that partly came from her own judgement but also from the broad-minded
teachings of her father.
“Okay,
if I say I am willing, will your father be ready to let you do it?” asked
Gunjan.
“My
father is not a hypocrite. He is a learned man with a true understanding of
religious texts. Unlike other Brahmins, he does not interpret holy texts as per
his convenience. I am sure of him.”
“What’s
the harm in learning music? After all, Shatvari would be my teacher. A teacher
should be respected and revered. I was unnecessarily getting carried away by
emotions.”
Gunjan
thought and confirmed his willingness to Shatvari. “Then it’s final. I am now
your guru and you are my disciple. Remember you have to give the guru’s fee
sooner or later.” said Shatvari.
“Yeah,
and that would include touching her feet every day.” teased Aditi and glanced
at Shatvari and they both laughed together.
“I
heard that you are going to teach Gunjan?” asked Shastri ji.
“Yes
father, that’s right. I hoped you have no issues with that. I believe you are
not concerned that he is a male and a Shudra?” Shatvari
replied, trying to assess what her father was thinking at that moment.
“No, I
am not concerned. I am happy that you are sharing your art. What I must tell
you, though, is that one must judge whether the disciple is able enough to
receive the gift of knowledge from an able teacher.”
“Father
I have heard him. His voice is melodious. He sings well. All he needs is some
knowledge of classical music.”
“Well,
if you have judged his abilities, fine.” He paused for a second, as if looking
for right words to continue.
Shatvari
guessed her father’s dilemma and asked, “Father you look unusually worried,
what’s wrong, please tell me?”
“No,
nothing like that. I just hope you understand that a teacher-student relation
is considered very holy in our tradition. It is similar to a father-daughter,
or a mother-son relation. It is important that the decorum of such a relation
is always
maintained. Can you promise
me that you will take care of this?”
“Do you not trust your
daughter, father?”
“I
trust you Shatvari, that’s why I am asking for the promise. There is no point
in getting a promise from a person who can’t keep it.”
“If it
comforts your mind, I promise you that I will respect that tradition and
decorum of the teacher-disciple relation.”
“I am
sure you will my dear.” replied Shastri ji and walked out of the room.
Pandit
Aditya Shastri had an indomitable personality—both in his physical form and in
his spiritual prowess. He was tall, fair, wide chested, and glowed with the
aura of a yogi. He was a renowned expert of Vedic texts and therefore had the
title of ‘Shastri’. He had complete command over the whole canon of Hindu holy
texts—both under Shruti and Smriti categories. Apart from that he
was well versed with the day’s religious rituals and state traditions of the
present. Although Shastri ji reflected broad mindedness in his interpretation
of ancient Vedic text, on certain topics, he liked to agree with the
conservatives, caste-wise classification in the society was one such topic. He
believed that this system was necessary to bestow a balance on the society.
Still he was against all forms of discrimination based on the caste system. For
him caste system should be based only on a man’s profession
and it should be confined to that. But it was a fine line to walk. He would
oppose the atrocities done in the name of caste, but he never revolted against
the tradition wholeheartedly. He was well respected not only in the village but
all around the state. People from all over the state would come to get advice
on matters— religious, political, social, spiritual. His financial state was
not sound. The major source of income was the alms and donations he received in
return of performing Vedic discourses at people’s houses. He was always aware
and steadfast about his reputation. He allowed Shatvari to teach Gunjan because
he was liberal in his thoughts about caste system, but somewhere deep down he
wasn’t sure. Shatvari’s promise, however, relieved him from his worries.
Chapter 6
“Wake
up, mate! You pushed me out of bed and now you’re snoozing away yourself.” Neel
said tapping lightly on Dhananjay’s right shoulder. By his tone it was evident
that his mood had improved.
“Excuse
me, your Highness! The moments of waiting are felt longer than the moments of
toil.” said Dhananjay waking up from his slumber.
“Yeah,
you can blame me. Maybe you think that I take longer than young women while
getting dressed. And why do you keep calling me ‘your Highness’, you are my
childhood friend and have always been calling me Neel.”
“That
was a different time. Now you are our king and the chief of our tribe.”
Dhananjay tried to make his point clear.
“Change
in rank should not change personal relations. It’s better if you call me Neel
from now on.” Neel insisted. But his tone lacked command.
“As
you wish your Highness.” Dhananjay said with a cheeky smile.
Neel
glanced at him and soon a natural smile appeared upon his face.
Neel
adorned special attire for this year’s Sun worship festival. A white loincloth
with a thin black border, a sturdy pair of black shoes, a deer skin cloth
covering his wide chest and a sidelong white cockade turban. A white pearl and
silver necklace round the neck gleamed with sunlight. Both arms had beautifully
engraved silver armlets that made his biceps look robust and strong. The man
who walked back home last night under the spells of gloom
was nowhere to be seen now. Neel portrayed a leader with poise and command.
Both
friends walked out to proceed to the festival ground. Neel himself took the
reins of the horse cart waiting outside. It wasn’t unusual for Mekal leaders to
do their own chores wherever possible. Neel held a rein made of strong, jute
rope to control the lone horse pulling the cart. In his other hand, he held a
leather whip to guide and control the muscular beast.
The
dawn was broken. Sky mellowed with orange sun rays. Birds were starting to
leave their nests to begin another bright and breezy day. Butterflies emerged
out from their night shelters to hover around the fresh morning flowers. Neel
and Dhananjay’s carriage galloped towards the east part of the town.
The
thirty feet wide main passage built of sand and stones divided the town in
roughly two parts. The town of Amarkantak was not designed to be a state
capital. It was almost an afterthought. No architect or Vastu expert was
probably consulted. Most of the houses were modest huts at best. The bigger and
brick houses were also scattered there, amidst the wooden huts and cottages.
The town wasn’t planned to segregate people in terms of their caste, creed, or
financial status.
The
carriage stopped at Narmadakund ground, which was the designated venue for this
year’s Sun worship. Neel felt a sense of pride at seeing the enormous crowd
congregated for the event. He felt satisfied to see that the Nishaad people
still valued and respected such religious and cultural events. He looked around
to quickly assess the arrangements made at the ground. Even though it was a
religious ceremony to worship the Sun God, the whole event was planned to
celebrate the beauty of human life and nature as a festival. A huge idol of the
Sun God was placed on one side of the ground in a large carriage. A large area
was cleaned and rolled out flat and painted with cow dung and yellow earth
paste. It was barricaded using a rope leaving only some space for the entry.
Outside this perimeter, there were some marked places to seat the special
guests. The rest of the crowd stood around.
Neel
and Dhananjay arrived with some other important town members. They first came
and bowed to the Sun idol. Then Neel grabbed a bow and an
arrow placed at the feet of Sun idol. He placed one of the arrows on the
string, flexed it backwards, pointed to the sky and let go of the arrow. It
pierced up into the sky and disappeared. The ritual was to pay tribute to Sun
as the source of all energy and strength to mortals on earth. As soon as the
arrow was shot, the crowd burst into the sound of ‘Jai Suryadev’. Everybody
joined in and then saluted the Sun God once again. Neel and his accomplice took
their seats. The festival was about to begin.
A
group of young men and women dressed in special attires came to the ground.
Some of the men carried a percussion drum called Mardal. Some had
cymbals—a round, small cymbal in each hand. The drums and cymbals started to
play a rhythm and the rest of them throbbed into dancing to the beats. The folk
music and dance created an amazing atmosphere. The steps of the dancers
complimented the beats of the percussion. The whole crowd was engulfed by the
musical melody. Neel and Dhananjay were enjoying themselves and swaying with
the folk beats.
The
festival was at its peak when two armed soldiers suddenly appeared on their
horses. They pierced the crowd and came straight to Neel.
“What’s
the urgency? Any trouble?” asked Neel standing up from his seat.
“Yes,
your Highness! Our south-east camp has been attacked by an infantry from
Kosala.” replied a soldier nearly out of breath.
“So,
the evil demons have reached this far!” Neel clenched his fists and turned to
face the two soldiers, “These Yaduvanshis have flayed all the rules and ethics
of war. They knew we would be occupied here in the festival today, so they took
the opportunity to sneak in like the cowards they are.”
“Yes,
my lord, we were taken by surprise. Some of our soldiers have already died and
the rest are losing courage.” the second soldier added.
“Don’t
insult the martyrs by using such expressions, my dear soldier.” retorted Neel.
“My
apologies, your Highness,” replied the soldier keeping his head down realizing
that the new ideals put forward by Neel as a forward-thinking king must be
respected.
“We
will give a befitting reply to this cowardly trickery of Yaduvanshis. I call
upon all young men present here, who are trained in warfare, to join me to
teach them a lesson.”
Realizing
that the festival might get disrupted by this sudden unfolding, Neel announced
to the organisers to keep the festival going unhindered. Nobody needed to know
what was happening out there on the periphery of their state. Neel subscribed
to the idea that the warfare should be limited to the army and its soldiers,
and the general populace should remain unaffected by it.
Around
two hundred armed men were ready to join Neel for the attack. Dhananjay was on
his horseback waiting for instructions from Neel. Neel knew that their number
wasn’t enough to beat the Kosala army. He thought for a moment and addressed a
soldier, “We are going to support the camp that has been attacked. You go to
our north-east command camp and pass my orders to move towards the south-east.”
Neel
kicked his horse and quickly galloped towards the battlefield, followed by two
hundred brave Nishaad warriors.
Neel
slowed down after a few minutes. He stalled his horse and turned around to
address his cavalry.
“We
will have to accept that we do not have enough men to face them in a man-to-man
battle. We will have to plan smartly. I have an idea I just conceived. We will
split in two units. One group will go ahead and reinforce our battalion
fighting the Kosala army. You will join them and keep attacking the Kosalas
from the north. After some time, you’ll withdraw so that they will think that
you are running away. They will chase you, and you will draw them towards the
dense forest. As you know the forest’s terrain would confuse the enemy, then
you can spread out and make their composition haphazard. The second unit,
headed by me, will be waiting for you there and we will strike them from south
taking them by surprise. With no exit option and no knowledge of the forest,
they will be baffled and we can easily overcome.”
Dhananjay
was listening keenly to Neel’s plan. As soon as Neel finished speaking, he
asked, “Your Highness do you think this plan aligns with the
ethics of war that we Nishaads have pledged to stand by under your leadership
at all times? Is it right to attack from behind?”
“Dhananjay,
I see your point. But we did not strike first. We are simply responding to
their shrewdness and trickery in their own unethical way.” replied Neel.
Dhananjay
as well as all the soldiers present nodded in affirmation. They realized that
their king was not simply an idealist talking of ethics and morals. He knew the
war games and how to use tact and plans.
As per
the plan, they split into two units. Dhananjay was leading one of the units and
Neel the other. All the soldiers galloped towards the battle zone. They knew
the importance of reaching as soon as possible to help their dwindling
battalion. Dhananjay led the unit that were to go and assist the fighting
soldiers. Neel took his soldiers towards the forest and settled in camouflage
waiting for the right moment.
Dhananjay’s
unit stormed with the passionate slogans of ‘Jai Suryadev’ and ‘Jai Mekal’. The
soldiers who faced an enormous Kosala army were losing hope with every passing
minute. As soon as they noticed the rising dust and slogans coming to aid them,
a newfound wave of energy infused their bodies and weapons.
Dhananjay
sprang forth and struck a Kosala soldier on his right shoulder taking him by
surprise. As he turned around to assess his attacker, the Mekal soldier who was
fighting with him attacked him on his chest. This toppled him over his horse
onto the ground. As soon as the Kosala soldier fell on the ground, a foot
soldier pierced his heart with a sharp and unforgiving spear. It was clear the
traditional ethics of war were not being followed here.
Dhananjay
rode around the battle zone with a surprising agility and purpose. Rather than
meeting any Kosala soldier for a face to face duel, he sneaked around here and
there and attacked them from behind or just by rushing past. Slicing one here,
gashing one there, piercing a chest of a horseback soldier running towards him,
darting a spear from behind, drilling daggers into foot soldiers obstructing
his path. It took Kosala soldiers by surprise who were still
engaged in man-to-man duels.
Soon
one of the Kosala soldiers took the initiative to try and stop Dhananjay’s
mayhem. He challenged Dhananjay for a duel by coming right in front of him
purposefully stopping him. Dhananjay took the challenge. He knew this was
inevitable. He struck the first blow on the left shoulder of the soldier. The
blow was skilfully tackled and a counter attack off-balanced Dhananjay. They
exchanged a few swings of their swords. Dhananjay moved and fought like a
champion warrior. Soon he deliberately took one of the blows on his left
shoulder. It looked like he was slashed by his opponent’s sword. Dhananjay
looked back at one of his soldiers and winked. It was time to make the tactical
move. Dhananjay took another body blow and made it look more severe than it
was. He had to appear defeated and scared enough to run for his life. He
quickly kicked his horse around and ran in the opposite direction. The Kosala
soldiers realised this. They also noticed that all the Mekal soldiers were
withdrawing from the fight. An order was shouted around Kosala soldiers to
chase the cowardly Nishaads running away from the battle ground.
The plan was working.
Dhananjay lead the tactical withdrawal. His horse galloped towards the trap
that was waiting for the Kosalas in the dense and dark forests in the south.
Two armies raced towards one destination. The web was already cast and the
spiders were waiting.
