We The Middle Class - Click on poster to enlarge

Lotus Blossom VI

‘No,’ sobbed the father.

‘Yes,’ said Time.

‘It was her beauty that drew so many men, women and children to their deaths. She wiped a dynasty out of the pages of history’

‘No,’ said Time.

‘She was my daughter,’ wept the father. ‘The sultan would never have been able to resist her. She had to be the cause of unnumbered woes for those that loved her. I knew it in that first moment that I cradled her in my arms.’

No old man. It was not your daughter.’

‘But it was my Lotus Blossom…my Padmini. Why was her husband so foolish? Why did he let the sultan lay his eyes on her?’

‘No. No. He never allowed anyone a glimpse.’

‘But he had glimpse of her reflection in a mirror.’

‘No. Not in a mirror nor even in a pond. No one ever saw her at all.’

‘Then,’ whispered the father, ‘how did the sultan of Hindustan become so besotted with her? Did he not enter the fort declaring himself a brother to my daughter? Did he not kidnap my son-in-law from before the very eyes of his men and demand my daughter in exchange?’

‘Old man, it was never about your daughter.’

‘It was my daughter that rescued her husband. If it weren’t for her presence of mind the soldiers could never have entered the sultan’s camp pretending to be highborn ladies escorting the beautiful Padmini.’

‘Old man, it was never about your daughter. It was the fort that the sultan was after.’

‘I should have killed her the moment she was born. It is I who have driven so many to their deaths.’

‘Neither you nor your daughter was at fault…for your Lotus Blossom was never queen of Mewar.’

The father looked astounded.

Then Time spoke very low. ‘There was never a queen called Padmini in Chittaurgarh during the time of Sultan Allauddin Khalji. No Padmini ever burnt in the flames of that first Jauhar…The bards…they made up the tale to soften the blow.’

The father’s eyes looked uncomprehending. He continued to mutter. ‘It was all because my brave and wonderful daughter was such a beauty. No one, not even Time will ever wipe away her memory.’

Interior view of Chittaurgarh sketched by Major Patrick Waugh in the early 1800s. Click to enlarge.

Lotus Blossom V

Mughal Miniature of a Jauhar in Rajasthan. Click to enlarge.

The hilltop lay swathed in curling black tendrils of smoke.

The bodies of Rajput men lined the eastern path leading up to the greatest of all Rajput forts.

Allauddin Khalji, the sultan of Hindustan, stepped over the last one to enter the Gate of the Sun.

The smell of burning flesh assailed the nostrils. He took an involuntary step backwards.

Disgust.

It was written all over his face.

Then he noticed the silence. There was not even the whimper of a child.

'Let the temples and the blasphemous art and architecture be destroyed.'

The vandals set to work.

Of the little that was left was a palace attributed to Queen Padmini.

Lotus Blossom IV

For two years the father’s heart remained at peace.

Then came the news.

The call had been sent out. The greatest and the grandest of all Rajput forts was under siege. The sultan of Hindustan led the attack personally. But he was no Hindu. Rajputs from all over the land rallied to the side of their overlord for the preservation of the leading family and the old fort was a cause closest to Rajput hearts.

There was no end to the bad news that kept pouring in.

The defenders were dying.

Why had the emperor gone after them in this manner?

The answer lay in the anguish of a father’s heart. It was her face. Her beauty was to be the ruin of them all.

The end was near.

Twelve-year-old Badal who had accompanied his aunt when she married escaped from the battlefield to be by her side.

She had been at her prayers all night long and now before the first light of dawn could break she had bathed and had dressed as a new bride once again.

She was calm and when she turned to look at him her eyes were unusually dark and lustrous.

The priests had been chanting through the night and now, as they recited from the Gita, the eighteen-year-old queen led the queens, the women and the children to the great fire that had been lit in the Mahasati.

She paused before the blaze.

‘Tell me Badal, tell me once again about my piya?’

’He was the reaper of the harvest of battle. I followed his steps as a humble gleaner of his sword. On the gory bed of honour, he spread a carpet of the slain, a “barbarian” prince his pillow, he has laid himself down and sleeps surrounded by the foe. Oh, mother! How further can I describe his deeds, when he left no foe to dread or admire him.’

The young queen smiled.

‘My lord will chide me for my delay.’

Lotus Blossom III

A dark skinned beauty has been crowned maharani and has taken her place beside her husband who is seated beneath the royal umbrella and the chatur changi with its golden disc emblazoned on the black ostrich feathers. Of all his wives it will be she who will rule the zenana.

It is her name that is to be immortalized in legend by the people of the land. The man who has made her queen will lose his identity to a series of historical blunders.

In her veins runs the proud blood of the Chauhans.

Chauhan clans from the north to the south of India rush to claim her as their own. The great Hamir Sank Chauhan, of the island known today as Sri Lanka, claims her as his daughter. But when the poet Malik Mohammad sits down to write the Padmavat he writes her down as the daughter of King Gandharv Sen and Queen Champavati.

But in the distant corner of the desert, a man who once had been king, knows deep down in his heart that this is the daughter that had been born to Jam Kanwar, his Chauhani queen.

It has to be Lotus Blossom; she would be all of sixteen now; no longer a blossom; rather a flower in full bloom.

Lotus Blossom II

The grand old fort crowned the top of an isolated hill. In its centre lay clear pools of water and on the banks of one such pool stood Lotus Blossom’s palace. It looked down upon the lush green plains that ran eastwards for miles until they were stopped by a formidable chain of mountains. Two sparkling mountain streams ran across the plains and along the base of the hill making their way north towards the great river.

To the west of Lotus Blossom’s palace stood the densely wooded plateau of central India where amidst the dark tangles abounded tigers and deer and wild boar.

Daughters...Lotus Blossom I

Picture a new born opening her eyes for the first time. Picture a father cradling his infant daughter in his arms. Feel the shiver that passes through his body, the goosebumps that make their prickly presence felt over his spine and his arms. Watch him as he shuts eyes in agony. A daughter has been born in a Rajput household.

Imagine the father’s plight for which man can be strong enough to shield such a beauty. The baby gurgles and kicks her strong little legs. She is determined to live.

What can the poor man do? He names her his Lotus Blossom and from that day begins to look for a suitable son-in-law.

The years are spent keeping the girl hidden from greedy eyes: eyes that belong to the most powerful, eyes that belong to those that are not from their community.

At last a prince finds courage and accepts her hand. She comes with no dowry, nothing but her tremendous beauty and her destiny. But her new family rejoices. Her prince lives beyond the sands, on the top of an isolated hill in the oldest fort known to mankind.

In the centre of his invincible fort he has built for her a palace that reflects onto a small clear lake of limestone water. In it lie huge crocodiles. But on the edges and on the roof of the palace are great flocks of grey herons and blazing flamingos. The fifteen year old princess settles in.

The father heaves a sigh of relief. He has done his duty.

The Probashi and memories of the kaalboishakhi

4 May 08: 5.30 pm: A dust storm whirls around the windows of the fifth floor whistling into the cracks. The countryside, usually visible for miles, loses itself behind a brown haze. The multi-storey that stands in front is the only thing still visible as the shadowy outlines of the silver-oaks that line the path toss their branches giving in to the wind. The rituals remain the same.

‘Aandhi!’ We rush to the window.

Thirty years ago it had been no different.

Windows slammed shut. Doors closed with a bang and latches slid into place. The evening would give way to sudden darkness. Light? Out of the question. The first gust had blown out the electricity. A dust storm was no nuisance in those days. It had great potential to be enjoyed.

Three little girls, all cousins but they weren't really sure what that meant, and a grandmother huddled in the dark. The storm was at liberty to expend its energy in the huge courtyard on one side of the room and on the lawns and in the branches of the mango trees on the other.

The pale green blossoms of the mango had given way to tiny fruit dark and …the mouth fills with saliva at the thought of the sour freshness. Not much flesh yet and the seed still soft.

Eager eyes peered through the window on to the lawn. The banana plant waved its leafy branches swaying like a man possessed.

Sweat prickled its way down the spine and hung in little beads along the neck. A little girl pursed her lips and blew. Her sister shuddered and smiled. The breath was cool on her hot little body.

The storm had come to an abrupt end. Doors and windows were thrown open and cool fresh air rushed into the room. Mothers and aunts were already on their way across the courtyard towards the kitchen taking stock of the situation.

The children rushed out onto the lawn…barefooted to catch the light drizzle that would not last long. The tiny mangoes lay scattered, hidden under piles of leaves shaken loose by the storm. Precious little piles lay guarded in each of the bunched up skirts. The grandmother moved about comfortably making a pile all of her own. She smiled as she inspected each little collection.

‘Go,’ she said. ‘Tell your mother to bring out the grinding stone.’

A child scampered off.

‘Bring the nicest banana leaf you can find.’

She made her way indoors.

Each little collection, deseeded and pounded to a pulp with a pinch of salt, a generous helping of sugar, a drizzle of pungent mustard oil and chilli flakes was stuffed into a neat green banana leaf cone. The triangular portion on top was tucked in to seal the packet. An aunt moved around with a pair of scissors snipping a little off the pointy ends.

‘Suck.’ She commanded.

The eyes crinkled with pleasure.

The grandmother’s collection went into a wok of hot spluttering mustard seeds. Her hands worked carelessly…effortlessly. A bowl of water, a scattering of salt and a pinch of turmeric…they all went in. As they bubbled up boiling and softening the little mangos in went generous handfuls of sugar.

The green mango stew? The aamer ombol?

That would not be on offer until it had cooled…until the fathers and uncles had all come home…until everyone sat down with the grandfather for dinner and finished every little bit that had been put onto their plates.

Mutiny Images

The Flagstaff Tower, Delhi, where the British survivors of the rebellion gathered on May 11, 1857
The reaction in the United Kingdom:

The British Lion and the Royal Bengal Tiger

The Mutiny comes to Delhi

Dilli, 1857.

A gun boomed somewhere. Ghalib went home and wrote in his diary:

'11 May 1857. Thursday. All directions are filled with the sounds of galloping hooves and scampering feet. After killing the Brits, the rebels camped in the city. They turned the gardens in the Fort into their stables…
The king emperor could not house such a large contingent nor provide for them, and as a fallout, he was swayed by its power.
The battle began and canon balls rained like pellets…’

The boom of a canon sounded in the distance.

From Mirza Ghalib, A Biographical Scenario by Gulzar

Red Fort Delhi.