WATERS of victory - II

The face plagued his memory causing him to look. And, there just above him stood the man...the one who had changed his life forever.

July 26, 2018 04:27 pm | Updated 04:27 pm IST

 The Queen’s Well

The Queen’s Well

The story so far...

Filled with anguish, Rana walks towards the well. Two things happen simultaneously — he sights someone he knows, and a cry of discovery comes up from the dark depths of the well — surprised, he loses his footing and hurtles headlong into the well.

Day 15, Month of Jyestha (corresponds to May-June);

1029 CE The Queen’s Well, Anahilapataka, Capital of the Chaulakyas, (today’s Patan, Gujarat)

T he past flashed before Rana’s eyes as he plummeted into the blackness. Legs flailing, he remembered that he’d been standing at this very spot, four years ago. Gazing at rank after rank of enemy lines, with the most hated foe, their leader, on a horse directly ahead of him. A man who was rampaging through Hindustan, ravaging cities, towns, people. He would destroy Anahilapataka too, no doubt. But Rana would die before that happened. Die guarding the city.

But, that was before an envoy thundered up to him. Bearing a message from his beloved wife. “Our meagre forces cannot withstand an attack of this magnitude,” she’d counselled. “Fall back. Take refuge in Kanthkot. For my sake. For the sake of our son.”

He’d shuddered with mingled outrage and humiliation, but he’d retreated from the battlefield. Looking back at the face of the enemy. At that rugged face, distinct even from this distance, with its hooked nose, glittering eyes and scarred cheek; a face he would never forget, not till he died; a face he never thought he’d see again...until this very moment. He looked up … to see it staring down at him.

It was only then that Rana realised that before he could plunge into the depths, the stranger across had grabbed his hand, and was even now holding it in a crushing grip. Smiling down at him sardonically.

Saved?

Shouting and confused screams smote his ear and Rana realised that around him, people were terrified at his near-fatal plunge into the well … until they saw that he’d been caught at almost the last moment. A gusty sigh of relief blew through the crowd; willing hands lent support and soon he was on the surface, gasping for breath, gulping water, surrounded by his people as his saviour blended into the background, an amused smile on his lips.

When the milling crowds had dispersed and Rana had soothed his distraught wife, he strolled to a large banyan tree, the only one around for miles … and in whose shade the stranger waited. He’d covered his face again.

After a long pause, Rana turned to him. “Why are you here?” He demanded abruptly. “Not to be discourteous, but...

“You are.” The stranger snapped. “But you have every right to be. I am not from here, though I have had occasion to wander among these parts.” He directed a keen glance at Rana. “They are much recovered.”

“From death and devastation?” Rana twisted his lips. “After being bathed in blood? Certainly. Cut them down again and again, and we will still rise up!” He paused. “No matter the number of attacks.”

The stranger raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You know who I am, then”

“I guessed the moment I set eyes on you, but you still haven’t told me why you’re here.” Rana’s eyes scanned the horizon.

“I am alone.” The stranger paced a few steps. His fists clenched. Then, he coughed harshly. “I was told that...that the new well being built here offered healing waters to the sick.” He darted a glance at Rana, and coughed again. “My lungs have been troubling me.”

A bark of laughter was surprised out of the younger man. “Good God, after all you’ve done, you seek remedy here for your ills...”

“I have done nothing that others haven’t done,” the stranger said staunchly. “I was the first to bear the title of “Sultan,” in my line. The wars I won; the lands I conquered — Gwalior, Kannauj, Ajmer and Ujjain; the honours I received...”

“Should’ve guaranteed you a hale and hearty life, surrounded by your friends and family; after all, they benefited most from your victories,” Rana said, caustically. “Instead, you’re here. Why?”

“I have conducted military campaigns almost every year of my rule,” the stranger admitted. “My father’s kingdom — he’d chosen someone else as successor — was mine only after a hard-pitched battle. But I won. And I kept winning. Until I was defeated by … disease.”

“Your victories; your wealth and your allies should have guarded you, treated your condition. But here you are, wandering in enemy territory...”

“A lifetime of war has broken my defences,” the stranger said defensively.

“A lifetime of slaughter; destruction and murder.”

“Surely I have the right to seek a cure?

“By helping the very man you tried to kill, once?” asked Rana.

“Only because I thought it might benefit me.” There was silence for a long moment. “I thought my wife was wrong,” Rana said slowly. “I believed that I should have died on the battlefield, butchered by a maniac. Instead, I saved myself, because she asked me to. I tortured myself about my life’s choices. But now, I find my nemesis right at the well she builds in my name, hoping for health. For life.”

“I’m the mightier king, Rana Bhima of Anahilapataka,” the stranger’s voice wobbled. “I’m the greater conqueror; the most feared. I won.”

“But you will be known forever as a tyrant; a man who ruined everything for the sake of it. As the bringer of destruction. History will murder you … but I will live, for having done just a little something to improve the lives of my people. I understand my wife’s wisdom, now. Because, in the end …” Bhima smiled finally, a weight off his heart. “It is I who won, Mahmud of Ghazni.”

Historical Note: Mahmud of Ghazni and King Bhima never met in real life, but the latter’s words came true: after 17 harsh looting campaigns in India, Mahmud of Ghazni was tarred by history, dying of illness, while the step-well built by Rani Udhayamathi in honour of her husband still exists, and is now a UNESCO’World Heritage site.

The End

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