BAPPADITYA
As the years rolled on, the Rajput kings who followed Goho began mistreating the Bhils, till like a fire lit in dry grass which flares up suddenly towards the end, the anger of the Bhils became a forest fire which fanned out across the mountains.
For eight generations, the Bhils had quietly borne all the tyranny of the Rajput kings, reminding themselves in their times of sorrow of Goho’s sweet face, his indomitable courage, his limitless compassion. When some prince, out hunting for sport, would throw his spear at a Bhil who chanced unknowing by his path, the Bhil would look on his bleeding body and comfort himself with the thought of Goho and how the King had once saved his forefather from the claws of a tiger, and how he had wiped with his own hands the dark bleeding breast. When some pervert king would, on a whim, order village after village of the Bhils to be set on fire, the mountain-folk would recollect a time of great famine when their hunger-stricken forefathers were received with open arms into Goho’s palace and provided with food and grain throughout the year. When some cowardly Rajput prince, on being defeated in battle, would blame the Bhil soldiers calling them dissenters and unfaithful and ordering their heads to be crushed under elephants’ feet, the entire Bhil army would wipe their tears and think of Goho, and how he had tended them like a brother and protected them like a mother and led them like a brave in battle.
Through all the tyranny and all the insult of the Rajputs, the humble hearts of the Bhils clung on to the faith and belief in their rulers for eight generations. But then, Bappaditya’s father, Nagaditya, came to the throne. Nagaditya was not satisfied with burning villages of the poor Bhil peasants. He distributed thousands of Bhil girls as slaves to the Rajputs. He could not sleep without thinking up some new torture for the Bhils each day. And finally, when he passed a law barring the Bhils from hunting – the one sport they loved more dearly than their lives, the dams of their patience broke.
Nagaditya slept content after passing this law. He woke early next morning and looking out of his window, he thought to himself, “What a fine, cloudy day. A cool wind blows. There is no dust in the air – an ideal day for hunting.” Then he called for his hunting party, ordered his elephant to be saddled and set out for the forest. There were no Bhils with him that day – only Rajputs. Group after group of Rajputs on tall stately horses. It crossed the King’s mind that the Bhils in their homes would see the hunting-party and feel like caged cheetahs which thrash about, but can do nothing at the sight of prey. This thought gave the king immense pleasure and his cruel heart beamed with joy.
Sounding the great bugle, Nagaditya and his hunting party proceeded up the mountains. At the thunderous roar of the war-horn, buffaloes drinking at the lake would run, wild birds would leave their nests and fly, fear-blind deer would run into a waiting wall of hunters, sleeping lions would awake, and tigers would roar in reply. The hunters would chase buffaloes with spears, lions with scimitars. But today, Nagaditya blew his bugle till he was breathless; his men shouted till their throats were hoarse; but no flutter of birds’ wings, no scuffle of deer feet, not a single tiger’s roar disturbed the soundless sleep of the mountain.
Nagaditya’s eyes reddened with rage. He shouted to his men, “Turn the horses. The ungrateful Bhil subjects have chased all the animals to some other hill. Come let us proceed to the Bhil settlements. Let us hunt the beggars like animals in their villages.”
The king’s elephant, swaying its trunk, flapping its ears, turned around to face Idarpur. On its back, the howdah of gold and king’s seat of golden brocade glittered suddenly like a bed of diamonds. Around it, two hundred spear-tops flamed up lit by the morning sun. Nagaditya cried,”Move on!” Suddenly a deep growl shook the mountain and a black, panther-like figure leaped from the shadows and fell in front of the king’s elephant. With great joy, Nagaditya bent over readying his right arm to hurl his spear. But his spear remained in his hand. An enormous arrow, dressed in black hair, whizzed right through his chest. The tyrant Nagaditya fell dead, killed by a Bhil. Then thousands of black Bhils emerged from bushes and trees and fell on the Rajputs turning the mountain slopes red with their blood. Not a single Rajput was left alive.
Just one black mountain horse, saddled with gold brocade, sped through the swirling black sea of Bhil soldiers like a gust of storm-wind and disappeared in the direction of the king’s palace.
It was nearing evening. The queen of Rajputs, wife of Nagaditya, with her only child, the baby Bappa cradled in her arms stood on the roof of the royal palace at Idarpur. The evening breeze played with her hair as every now and then she turned to look in the direction of the mountain where her husband had gone. Suddenly, she saw a stir in the mountains. Soon there was a commotion, and then she spied the king’s black horse speeding like an arrow down the mountain path and moving towards the palace. Behind it, in thousands came the dark children of the dark mountain, some with spears, some with bows and arrows. She saw the gleaming white froth spilling off the black horse’s mouth like pearls in all directions. Blood issued from his heaving chest leaving a red trail on the dusty earth. Then she saw an arrow dart like a flame through the air and pierce the beautiful, arched, bow-like neck of the horse, forcing it down and pinning it to the ground. The horse fell with its face towards the palace, and struggled in the throes of death. Just then a heavy spear flew over the queen’s head and fell like a swooping eagle on the castle roof. The queen covered the sleeping Bappa with her shawl and ran down the stairs. All around she could hear the clang and clash of weapons and cries of battle. The sun descended behind the western ridge of the Maliya mountains.
A black night of terror engulfed the castle. A handful of Rajputs fought for their lives against thousands of Bhils, while in a dark lonely room, Nagaditya’s widow sat, clutching her child to her heart. Many a time she called out for her maids, anxious about her husband. Many a time she called out for the soldiers. But nobody seemed to hear her. Soldiers ran through her room, but paid her no heed. All were too busy with battle.
Then, after a long while, her heart palpitating, she covered the child with a camel-skin blanket and unlocked the huge sandalwood door of her inner room with a golden key. Pulling the door slightly ajar she peered outside – the night was dark, the castle was dark. She opened the door wider. Against the enormous stone walls the sandalwood doors with gleaming ivory carvings stood agape not a soul in sight, not a sound to be heard.
Holding Bappa in one hand and the bunch of golden keys in the other, the queen stood at the door. For a long time there was silence. Then suddenly, the sound of footsteps was heard in the dark. But this was not the crisp sound of a Rajput brave’s leather shoes, not the sweet tinkle of a royal maid’s anklet, not the clackety-clack of the seventy-five year old royal priest’s wooden sandals. This was a sneaky barefoot shuffle like the movement made by a thief or a snake. Fear grasped at the queen. The shuffling noise came closer – and soon the black demonic form of a Bhil warrior faced her! The queen asked, “Who are you? What do you want?” The Bhil warrior growled, “Know you not who I am? I am that broken-hearted Bhil whose daughter has been sent as a slave to the king of Chitor by your husband. What a great day of rejoicing it is! Today, these hands of mine have shot an arrow through Nagaditya’s heart. Today, these hands of mine shall tie Nagaditya’s widow and child with ropes and herd them to the Bhil settlement as slaves!’
Hearing this, the queen shivered from head to toe. “God, protect me!” she cried, and hurled the heavy bunch of keys at the Bhil’s forehead. With a scream of “Mother!”, the Bhil reeled and fell to the ground.
The queen clutched Bappa tightly to her breast and ran out of the castle. One half of her heart cried out for her lost husband, while the other half grew firm and aware as there awoke in it the mother’s protective instinct for her child.
The queen walked along the mountain path. The stone chips cut at her tender feet, her hands froze into nervelessness and darkness made her lose her path several times. But, somehow, each time she found her way and kept walking. Far, down the mountain path she walked. All sense of time was lost. She had only her numb feet to tell her that she had walked a long way. Yet, the path seemed to have no end. She trudged on through the vast star-lit night.
Then slowly, the dark skies lightened to dawn. A few houses belonging to Brahmins appeared, scattered on either side of the path. The queen then knew she was nearing Birnagar. Under a pale sky, the ice-cold mountain wind cutting into her flesh, at a time when even the birds were reluctant to awake from their nests, Nagaditya’s queen with child in arms, knocked at the door of a Brahmin’s home at Birnagar.
This was the house of Kamalabati. One day, eight generations ago, Shiladitya’s queen had trusted her new-born child Goho into the hands of this Kamalabati; and now ages later, Nagaditya’s queen put her son Bappa into the hands of the old royal priest, grandson of Kamalabati’s grandson, and then leaped into a flaming pyre.
The priest gave shelter to the prince that morning and in the evening, he gave shelter to a Bhil woman and her two little brothers. This was the woman whose forefather had drawn the blood-tilak on Goho’s head. In dire anger against the Rajputs and all who had anything to do with them, the rebel Bhils had burnt her home, and had banished her from the mountains along with her two brothers.
The Brahman priest left Birnagar with Bappaditya and the three Bhils, and lived for a little while in the fort of Bhadwir where there ruled a Bhil king of the Yadu dynasty. But here too, was the same fear that had tracked the old man from Birnagar – the fear that some Bhil might kill the motherless Rajput prince. The Brahmin had vowed to the queen to protect Bappa through all danger. So he left the land of the Bhils altogether and took residence in Nagendranagar.
Nagendranagar was a little town flanked on one side by the Trikut peaks which rose like three ocean waves, and on the other by the dark Parashar forest. Near the town, stood the palace of a Rajput king of the Solanki dynasty. The old Brahmin built his hut close to where the Brahmin community of Nagendranagar lay huddled.
Like a little family, the four of them lived. The Bhil woman would look after the chores of the house, and the prince Bappa would roam the fields and the forests with his Bhil brothers, Baliya and Deb. They would take the cows out grazing and would play all day long with the cowherds of the fields. The old Brahmin kept Bappa’s identity a secret. He made an amulet in which he wrote out the boy’s lineage and tied it around his neck.
He lived in constant fear that some Bhil recognizing Bappa might do him harm. But as the years passed and Bappa grew, the Brahmin’s fear gave way to a confidence and pride in the boy. Bounding up and down the mountains and running across the flat, open fields, Bappa’s body hardened till it grew tough as steel, till he could hold back an angry buffalo with his hands, till the simple cowherds, though they knew him not to be a prince by birth, revered him and served him as though he were their king.
As Bappa’s physical prowess grew, the Brahmin thought it fit to help him in the growth of his mind. Every evening, the old one would sit in his room with Bappa and tell him tales of the Maliya mountains. One by one he told him the tales – the story of the Bhil rebels, the story of Pushpabati, of Shiladitya, Goho and Mandulik. Listening to the stories, Bappa’s eyes would sometimes fill with tears; sometimes his face would be flushed; sometimes his body would shiver in fear. Every night, Bappa would dream of the stories – of the Sun mantra and of war; and when he awoke he would think to himself, “When will I be like the brave kings? When will I too, go to battle?”
Months passed like this. One day, in the month of Shravan, Bappaditya had set his cows to graze on the fresh, new-grown grass, and had gone wandering into the forest. It was Jhulon day, a day of great rejoicing for all Rajputs. On this day, many years ago, Radha and Krishna, the Divine Couple had played together on a swing in Brindavan. From early in the morning, the Rajputs of Nagendranagar, with friends and relatives set out for the palace of the Rajput King. A fair was held here every year on this day.
Bappa roamed the forest alone. His Bhil friends had called out to him, “Brother, won’t you come with us to the fair?” But Bappa had only shaken his head and said,”No, I shall not go.” Maybe, he thought, “I am fatherless, motherless, brotherless, sisterless – an orphan with no blood-relation in the world. Whose hand shall I hold to the fair? For what joy shall I go to the fair?”
But after Baliya and Deb had run laughing off, and after the sun had hidden its face behind clouds; after his only cow went grazing into the forests; and when he was left with only the murmur of leaves and the drone of crickets for company, then a great loneliness came upon him. He sat down with a heavy heart and played on a little bamboo flute, a mountain song he had heard on his Bhil sister’s lips. The forest-tune wove itself into the cloudy sky and the wet rain-wind and became a haunting lullaby that floated like a dream around Bappa. A vague memory seemed to return to him. There, towards the west, where the sun peeped in a golden line from under the clouds, where the black clouds were masked like rocks on a mountain: there he felt, there under the dark skies, he had a home. There on the roof of the house, in the light of the moon, he would toddle holding his mother’s hand. How beautiful was that house! How beautiful the rays of the moon! How beautiful the smile of his mother. There, little fawns would graze on the green grass; lush green parrots would sit on trees; bunches of flowers would bloom on the mountain. How sweet were the songs of the birds! How beautiful the colour of the flowers!
His eyes wet with tears, Bappa gazed at the clouds and played the Bhil melody on his bamboo flute. The deep and sad lament quivered and wept throughout the forest.
In the same forest, the daughter of the king, princess of the Solankis played with her friends. Hearing the soul stirring notes of the flute, she said “Listen, friends; the cowherd king plays his flute in the forest.” Her friends said, “Come, let us make ourselves a swing on the champa tree, and let us play the Jhulon game.”
But there was no rope for the swing. The forest was like the deep grove of Brindavan; the clouds rumbled; the sweet flute-song of the cowherd king sounded in the distant woods; the beautiful princess sat like Radha among her friends. Everything today was like the first Jhulon that Krishna played with Radha, ages ago in Brindavan. On such a day, a swing must be put up, thought the princess. She rested her cheek against her palm and thought deeply. Again, the same flute-note rang out like the song of a magic bird through the forest, flooding it with strangeness. The princess then loosened a bangle set with pearls from her wrist, and handed it to a friend. “Go”, she said, “give this to the cowherd boy and get some rope from him in exchange.” The friend of the princess found Bappa and said, “Can you give the princess some rope in exchange for this bangle?” Bappa laughed out loud. “Yes, I can,” he said, “If the princess marries me.”
That day, in the silent forest, prince Bappa slipped the pearl bangle onto the princess’s wrist, set up the swing on the champa tree, and sat down on it, holding the princess’s hand in his. The friends of the princess surrounded the couple on all sides and danced around the swing, singing the Jhulon song “How full of joy we are today! How full of joy we are today!”
Evening fell. The game ended. The princess returned back to her palace, married to a forest cowherd, and Bappa, sitting under the flowers of the champa tree gazed at the full moon and thought to himself, “How full of joy I am today!”
Suddenly, a gust of east wind flew westwards, making the champa leaves shiver and spreading the sweet smell of champa flowers in its wake. Two large drops of rain tumbled onto the green leaves of the champa tree. Bappa looked at the sky – a black cloud moved slowly eastwards, sometimes rumbling deeply, sometimes flashing silver. Bappa got up quickly. He remembered that he had to go home. His milk-white cow was still rambling the forest. Undoing the rope from the tree, he set out in search of his cow. In the forest night had fallen. Groups of fireflies looking for insects glowed like jewels on tree-tops and the sweet smell of wet earth wafted in the cool breeze. Among trees and bushes, Bappa searched for his white cow. Suddenly, behind a clump of bamboo, Bappa saw the seated figure of a rishi in meditation. In front of the sage, like Nandi, the devotee of Mahadeva, stood his cow. The white cow stood still over a white Shiva-lingam and thick rivulets of milk dripped like nectar down her udder onto the God’s head.
Bappa watched the spectacle with awe and wonder. Slowly, the eyelids of the Maharishi stirred, then gently opened like the petals of a lotus in the morning. The sage bowed before Mahadeva, and then cupping his palms, collected some of the offered milk and drank it. Then he turned towards Bappa and said, “Listen, son. I am the Maharishi Harit. I give to you my blessings. You shall live a long life. You shall be Emperor of the world. Today, I am very happy with the milk of your cow. It is the day of my Mahaprasthan. I shall dissolve into the Imperishable today. What more shall I give to you on this my last day? This is the scimitar of the Goddess Bhabani; this is an indestructible arrow. This scimitar can pierce mountains. This arrow can conquer the world. Take these. And son, take this white stone idol of the Lord Eklingaji. Pray to him always. From today, you shall be known as Eklinga-ka-deowan. All the kings of your dynasty shall rule under this title.” The yogi tied a sacred chord of leather around Bappa’s neck. Then he closed his eyes in Samadhi. Soon the power of Agni flamed through his pure body, reducing it to ashes. Bappa turned homewards with his cow in front, the scimitar at his waist, the arrow in one hand, the stone-idol held on his head. Overhead, the vast canopy of the sky rocked with white thunder, as though the gods, played on their drums.
It was nearing dawn. The revellers from Nagendranagar were returning home, tired at the end of the fair. Bappa walked back with those people.
A few days later, Bappa had to leave Nagendranagar. After the secret marriage of Bappa with the princess, a Brahmin came to the king from some distant land carrying a proposal for his daughter’s hand. That evening word spread through Nagendranagar that the Brahmin occultist had seen the princess’s palm and announced that she was already married to one from another country. The king’s agents were searching for this man. The king wanted his severed head. This news made Bappa restless. He spent the night in thought and made ready to leave next morning. He explained all to his foster-father, the eighty-five year old royal priest. Then he asked for his leave. “Father, let me go”, he said. “I have now grown up. Why should you fall into trouble for my sake?” The Brahmin replied, “Son, you do not know who you are. You are a Rajput prince. Your mother has left you in my charge. How shall I leave you alone in this world at your tender age?” Bappa pointed to his scimitar and his arrow. “Father, these will be my only friends and protectors in foreign lands; these, and the great Eklingaji.”
Then the Brahmin blessed Bappa, saying “Go, son. You are the child of a king. You have weapons befitting a king. Take my blessings – you shall be king of the world. If anybody asks for your identity, open the amulet which hangs around your neck. Let him see the name of the great throne on which your forefathers sat. Go, my son. May happiness be with you.”
Then, Bappa took leave of his Bhil sister, but this was more difficult. Shedding many tears, she said, “Bappare, if you must go take your two brothers Baliya and Deb with you. O, how my heart weeps to leave you alone in this world.” Then, she handed three burnt chappaties to each of the three boys and wiping her tears, bid them farewell.
Bappa entered the deep woods with Baliya and Deb. Enormous tree-trunks pushed towards the sky like huge stone pillars. Among these trees the three boys went. Bright peacock couples step-danced past them, lighting up the forest. They would wander past some enormous python deep-sleeping after a full-lamb feast. The roar of tigers shook the dumb darkness. The songs of birds wove moving melody. In places the gold sunshine rolled merrily on the grass; at places blue collyrium lined the musing depths of darkness. Through beauty and danger, the three moved on, fearless, Bappa leading the way with Babhani’s scimitar in his hand.
It took three days and three nights to cross the Parashar forests. The boys lived on one chappati a day. Then passing village after village, town after town, through rain and cold, Bappa reached Chitor, the capital of Mewar, the kingdom of Maan, ruler of the Maurya dynasty. When Bappa reached the city, arrangements were being made for war against the Muslims.
Arms, food and tents were being piled on to the backs of elephants, camels and cows. Water for drinking, ghee for cooking were being stored in large vats. Rajput soldiers with turbans on their heads and spears in their hands roamed the streets. The king’s agents nosed through the houses, smelling out Muslims. King Maan himself attended to the arrangements, flanked by his warrior chiefs. The entire city was teeming with noise and activity. Bappa had never seen so many people, so much hubbub, such a large city, such enormous stone houses. The houses in
Nagendranagar had mud walls, the temples in Nagendranagar were so small as compared to these! Bappa stood at a street corner and gazed all around in wonder. Baliya and Deb stood near him, staring at the elephants with their mouths agape. Suddenly King Maan rode into that street. The golden trappings on his regal white horse trailed down to the ground. The silver umbrella above his head shone so brightly that it dazzled the eyes. Two courtiers rode on his either side, fanning him with peacock feathers. Bappa thought “This is the right time to meet the King.”
He rushed immediately to the middle of the road, holding Baliya and Deb with his two hands. Then he bowed low before the King, touching Babhani’s scimitar to his forehead. King Maan asked, “Who are you? What do you want?” Bappa answered, “I am the son of a Rajput King. I seek protection and a rank befitting my ancestry from you.” The warrior-chiefs surrounding the king turned their faces and hid their laughter. “This beggar claims to be a king’s child!”, they thought. But King Maan, seeing Bappa’s strong body, his beautiful face, his arrow and his scimitar, realised that the lad was no ordinary beggar. He realised that God, in his great mercy had sent this brave warrior to him at this time of distress and danger.
Maan immediately took off the golden shawl from his back, and put it around Bappa. Then he ordered a black horse to be brought for the prince. Bappa said, “O King, please send for two more horses for my Bhil brothers.” Then when the horses came, Bappa, Baliya and Deb mounted. Bappa’s tall and enormous body towered from his chest upwards above the Rajput warriors like a huge mountain in the midst of a sea. The people on the streets looked at him and said, “here is a brave indeed. What a beautiful face, what a powerful body!” Greetings, hosannas, congratulations poured in from all sides. Only the warrior chiefs were unhappy. Behind smiling faces, they hid their anger and dissatisfaction at the king and the beggar boy with the king’s shawl on his back.
As the days passed, the king’s love for Bappa grew and along with it grew the jealous hatred of the warrior-chiefs. Finally came the day of the battle. That morning, all the chieftains surrounded King Maan and offered a challenge. “Great King”, they said, “we have fought many battles for you, staking our lives because you loved us, because you trusted us. Today you love us no more. You have placed an unknown beggar above us all. If Bappa is so near to your heart that you can forget us all, then what need have you for us? If Bappa be so great a warrior in your eyes, place him at the head of the army. You have seen our bravery in many a war. Let us see the bravery of the new chief.” Hearing these cruel words from the lips of his most trusted chiefs, King Man sat speechless, as though struck by lightning. Then the fifteen year old Bappa walked up to the centre of the huge hall. “Listen, O king. On this day of danger, on this day of battle, the foremost chiefs of your army have proclaimed, ‘Let Bappa lead the army.’ So be it. I am ready.” King Maan looked all around like a drowning man. Then, softly, he said, “So be it.” Then the shocked King staggered to his private chamber, supported by a servant, and Bappaditya set out to prepare for war.
The rebel chiefs lowered their heads in shame. They had never imagined that the fifteen-year old Bappa would take courage to lead the army. They thought he would be insulted in their midst in that hall. But when the brave lad accepted, fearlessly, with a smile on his lips, their challenge to lead the army in this great war, then they were filled with consternation. And even greater was their consternation, when one day Bappa marched back victorious into that crown of all Rajasthan, their beautiful city of Chitor. How great was the joy of all Rajasthan that day!
The day the new chief, Bappa, returned to Chitor, victorious against the terrible Mussalmans, that very day the old chiefs of Mewar left the king’s council. King Maan begged them to return, pleaded with them and even sent the royal Guru to call them back; but they were adamant. They sent word through a messenger”You have looked to our needs for many years, O king. For one year you shall not hear from us. Then you shall meet us in war on the battlefield.” How terrible was that year of truce! It was a year of cunning, ofbehind-the-curtain moves, of diabolic lies. At the end of that year, simple Bappaditya, misled by the dirty lies of the chiefs, marched at their head against king Maan, the king who had loved him with all his heart.
When Maan heard that Bappa had come at the head of his enemies to take his throne, he wept profusely. He thought of the day he had lifted the orphan from the dust, the day he had covered up the boy’s tattered rags with his shawl, and tears flowed freely from his eyes. The old king went to battle with his few loyal warriors. This was his last battle. He lost his life at the hands of Bappaditya.
Then the sixteen year old Bappa married the princess of Debbandar, took the title of Hindumukut, Hindusurjo, Rajguru and Chakuya, and sat on the throne at Chitor. Baliya and Deb, the Bhil brothers drew the blood-tilak on Bappa’s forehead, and were presented two villages. Bappa passed the order that all kings of his dynasty would have to wear the Raj-tilak at the hands of the descendants of Baliya and Deb before they could assume the throne. Bappa’s subjects thought this was some new whim of the new ruler but the court pundits wondered, “Is this some descendant of Prince Goho? Only Surya dynasty kings are known to follow this custom. Is this then that Bappa, son of Nagaditya, nephew of Maan? Has he then murdered his own uncle, his mother’s brother, in greed for a throne? Shame, shame on the king! It is sacrilege to live in the kingdom of such a man!”
One by one all the pundits left Chitor and settled in other lands. If only they knew that Bappa was completely blameless. Bappa hadn’t known that Maan was his uncle! He had heard all the stories of his ancestors from his foster-father, but little did he know that he was the son of that Nagaditya, that cruel tormentor of the Bhils. Bappa had thought that he was the son of some petty Rajput ruler.
When king Bappa returned after marrying the princess of Debbandar, he brought with him a golden statue of the Baanmata Debi. Everyday at dawn and at sundown, he would worship the idol. Many years passed. Bappa was getting old. Then one day, as he stood up after worshipping the Debi, the thread securing the brass amulet to his neck broke and the amulet dropped. Bappa had forgotten all about the amulet! When it fell, he thought, “Here is the long forgotten amulet that contains my identity. Let me see who my forefathers were!” Then he took the amulet to his queen and asked her to read from it. Bappa didn’t know how to read! Sitting at Bappa’s feet, the queen scanned through one side of the amulet – “Residence, Trikut mountains, Nagendranagar, Parashar forests.”, she read. With a smiling face, Bappa placed a hand on his queen’s shoulder. “This was the land of my youth. Many a game have I played here. Those Trikut mountains, that somber face of that eighty-year old Brahmin, that lustrous full-moon Jhulon night, that nectarous smile of the Solanki princess still float like dreams through my memory. How many a time have I tried, how many a man I have asked to show me that mountain. But alas the world is full of three-peaked hills! If only I knew that those cloud-like waves in the sky were called Trikut, that small city at the foot of the mountain was called Nagendranagar, that those deep woods where I played with the cowherds, where one night I married the Solanki princess were called the Parashar; If only I knew – . Hai, hai, alas. If only I knew how to read! So many years have passed. Will I ever find that princess or my old foster-father now? Read on. Let me see what else is written in the amulet.”
The queen turned the amulet over and continued, “Birthplace: Maliya mountains; father: Nagaditya; mother: Chitor Kumari; Name: Bappa.” The large eyes of the Maharani grew larger with consternation and wonder. She sat speechless, amulet in hand, on a carpet as beautiful as a bed of flowers; and above her on a bed of ivory, Bappa sat gazing at the large ring laid with ruby, sitting like a huge drop of blood on his finger, and thought to himself, “Hai – hai, what have I done! Instead of avenging myself on my father’s murderers, the Bhils, I have instead, murdered my uncle with this hand, and now sit on his throne!’
“Queen,” he said, “I am a great sinner, not worthy of the throne of Chitor. I vow, this moment to spend the rest of my life, avenging the murder of my father, and making amends for the sin of killing a relative.”
That very day, Bappa set out from Chitor with an army of ten thousand warriors. All his wrath fell on the Bhil kingdom in the Maliya mountains. Bappa conquered the Bhils and ransacked their kingdom. Then he marched further and annexed Kashmir, Kabul, Ispahan, Qandahar, Iran and Turan to his Kingdom. Only then did he rest.
By destroying the Bhil kingdom he felt he had avenged his father. By annexing half the world to the throne of Chitor, the guilt of having killed his uncle was much diluted. Yet he had no peace of mind, no happiness in life. When Bappa would rest after a tiring day’s fight, when the battle-field would be flooded with the light of the moon, he would think wistfully of the swing on the champa tree and the smile of the Solanki princess. When, after conquering a new land, Bappa would rest on a golden bed in his new palace, listening to the sweet song of some minstrel, he would fall asleep with the Jhulon song of the princess’s friends floating through his mind.
At last he reached Nagendranagar. But when he found that the Brahmin’s mud home had turned to dust; when he found that the Solanki palace lay soundless, dark vacant, with neither the princess nor her friends, Bappa’s heart seemed to break. Like a man turned mad with sorrow, he roamed the country with his army, looking for peace. The huge palace at Chitor brooded alone with an empty throne and a lonely queen.
Bappa reached Gayninagar in Ballabhipur, the place where Gayeb and Gayebi took birth. A long while ago Bappa had freed this very city from the clutches of Saleem, the Muslim ruler. He had fought, then, as the chief of king Maan’s army. And now, when grey streaks peeped from his once black hair, when dark curves cradled his once bright eyes, when wrinkles showed on his once tight skin, when the world was no longer a thing new and full of wonder to him, Bappa returned to Gayninagar. As he set foot in the city, he was reminded of the story of Gayeb and Gayebi. Bappa went to the great lake and prayed to the Sun God. The sun sank gently. Then Bappa retired into the white Marble sleeping chamber of his palace at Gayninagar. In the deep of night, Bappa suddenly awoke to the strains of sweet melody! He walked out onto the stone terrace. In front of him, the great mosque of the Muslims glistened under a crescent moon. All around was silence. In the soft light of the moon, Bappa stood and listened. The song sounded familiar. “I feel I have heard this song sometime, somewhere”, he thought. Then a whiff of the south wind passed by and the words sounded clear. “Aaj ki anondo”; it said, “jhulata jhulone shamar chando.” How full of joy we are today, Shyama, our sweet lord swings on the swing.” Bappa was shocked with surprise. “This is that same song, that very song! The Jhulon song of the Rajput princess of Nagendranagar!” Bappa bent over the edge of the terrace. On the street, a beggar woman sang ” How full of joy we are today.” Bappa immediately called in the beggar-woman. She stood before him on the terrace under the moon. Bappa asked her, “Who are you? Are you the Solanki princess of Nagendranagar? Did you marry a cowherd boy one full-moon Jhulon night?” For a long time the beggar woman stared at Bappa’s face, then she smiled a little and said, “Lord, in the middle of the night, what kind of a joke do you play on a beggar girl?” Bappa said, “Then you are not the princess?” The girl heaved a sigh. “A princess I was a long time ago. Now I am but a beggar maid. Lord I am the daughter of Saleem, the Muslim king. When I was but fifteen years old, you came one day and snatched away our kingdom. I watched you that day from this balcony. What a beautiful face you had, what a vast body! And, today, your body has sagged, there is no smile on your face. Who is this Rajput woman whose memory moves you from land to land, like a mad man?” “That does not matter”, said the king. “Sing that song again”; and the woman sang, “Aaj ki anondo; jhulata jhulone Shyamar chando.’ Bappa forgot all his sorrows and stared at the beggar-woman’s face, absorbed. The song ended. Bappa asked, “Princess, tell me, what can I give you?”
The woman answered, “If I had a kingdom, I would have asked you to marry me and make me your Begum. But this is a vain hope. I am a beggar now. Make me your slave and keep me near you.” Bappa said, “Princess, how can I make you a slave? Stay with me as my Begum. Sit by me always, and sing that song.”
The next day, Bappa married the Muslim girl and left for Khorasan. Who can tell whether he found peace of mind, standing by the rose-fountains in the gardens of Gulbag, and listening to the sweet Arabian and Hindustani songs of his Begum.
Bappa died at the age of one hundred. In the east, in Hindustan, he left his Hindu queen, his Hindu subjects. In the west, in Iranistan, he left his Muslim Begum, his Pathan subjects. The Hindus wanted to burn the body of their king. The Nawsera Pathans wished to place him in a Muslim grave. Finally, when the brocade covering with Sun Mantras written on one side, and hymns to Allah on the other was removed, the people were surprised to see no sign of Bappa’s body. Instead, millions of roses and lotuses lay scattered where he had been laid. The queen of Chitor preserved the lotuses in some water from the sacred lake, Manas-sarobar in the temple of the Baanmata Debi. The Begum of Iran buried a single red rose at the centre of her beloved garden of Gulbag by the side of a rose-water fountain. And that very day, in the land between Hindustan and Iranistan, on top of a mountain in the Hindukush, the bejewelled body of a Rajput king was burnt on a funeral pyre. A sanyasini stood before the fire and said, “Friends, let us sing that song.” Four sanyasinis stood surrounding the body and singing, “Aaj ki anondo! How full of joy we are today!”
The sanyasini near the fire was the Solanki princess, and the body on the pyre was that of King Bappa. Unceasingly, the two had searched for each other, but were kept apart for their entire lives, not destined to meet in this world.
