A guard tower, Chittorgarh
Maharana Ratan Singh leant against the thick stone walls, surveying the host surrounding the bottom of the hill. His scouts numbered them at almost twenty thousand infantry and ten thousand cavalry. To make it worse, Khilji had not sent one of his generals but had taken it upon himself to make a personal appearance. The two storied tent near the front was flying his personal standard. Their flags and banners fluttered in the wind and faint sounds of laughter and other little noises of a large army floated up to them.
The guard tower, in comparison, was deadly quiet. They had not expected such a large host. The Prime Minister wore a look of disbelieving awe. General Gora’s lips were pressed together to form a thin line and General Badal’s eyes had a glimmer of steely determination. The Maharana let out his breath slowly between his teeth.
“I take back my words, Sire. I would place the odds at fifteen to one,” said General Badal.
“What should we do?”
Some of the ministers shuffled around uneasily but no one said a word.
“Well, Prime Minister?”
“Sire, I think we should sue for peace. Accept the terms Khilji offers.”
General Gora shifted uneasily. “There is no honour in that.”
“You think we should fight?” asked the Maharana.
The Prime Minister exhaled. “No, Sire. He slaughtered twenty four thousand civilians in Ranthambore. This man came to power after mercilessly murdering his uncle. Do you think honestly think that he will not kill the citizens of Chittorgarh? You have a duty to your people, Sire. You cannot subject them to the tortures that Khilji will surely carry out if blood is spilled before he enters the fort. Better to sacrifice honour in the best interests of your people.”
The Maharana’s face set itself into a scowl while he debated what to do. Should he preserve his honour and fight it out against the seemingly never ending host? Chittorgarh had yet to fall and Rajputs had strived against greater hosts and Victory had favoured them. Should he try his best to protect his people, something he was sworn to do?
“And if the terms are outrageous?”
“I think you already know what the answer should be, Sire.” It was the quiet little man who had told them the true extent of the slaughter at Ranthambore. Ratan Singh caught his eye for a moment. This was one of his most trusted advisors and the man had served his father before him. Ratan Singh’s respect for the man could not be measured against anything present in this world. And then man knew him inside and out. Ratan Singh sighed.
“We will accept the terms.”
“Without even knowing what they are?” Gora was incredulous.
Ratan Singh eyed him. “We have little other choice. Or were you not listening?”
Badal came to the rescue of his colleague, “Even so, Sire, it would be better to know what we are getting ourselves into.”
“Well,” said the Maharana, turning back to the parapet wall. “I have a feeling that we’re going to find out soon.”
A lone messenger was galloping up the narrow, zig-zagging path to Chittorgarh.
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The durbar, Chittorgarh
The Maharana rested against the open jaws of the pouncing, golden lion that made up the back of his throne. One hand rested on the armrest shaped like a gigantic paw while his fingers tapped lightly on the outstretched talons. His elbow was employed to prop up his chin while he looked down at the messenger in front of him.
The durbar had been designed to impress. Open on three sides, a cool wind blew through the hall at all times. Silk drapes festooned the walls, along with hunting trophies and murals of the victories of the kings of Chittorgarh. The ceiling was painted in the form of a blooming lotus and the gods surrounding it looked down with benevolent eyes as matters of state were discussed.
The splendour of the durbar paled in comparison to that of the throne. A huge pouncing lion’s mane and maw made up the back while its extended paws formed the armrests. The Maharana sat easily in his seat, filling it with his bulk. He seemed to belong there and seemed as immovable as Mount Kailash itself.
The gathering was dressed in rich brocades and silks. If the messenger felt a little underdressed in the face of such finery, he did not show it. He stood erect and proud in the centre of the room, a smug expression on his face. A herald was reading out the message that he had delivered to the ruler of Mewar.
“His Majesty, Alauddin Khilji, Sultan of Delhi, Lord of Gujarat, Master of Ranthambore does hereby request Maharana Ratan Singh of Mewar to grant his dearest wish. Alauddin Khilji regards the Rani Padmini, Queen of Chittorgarh and wife of Maharana Ratan Singh, as a sister and would meet her and look upon her face as a brother. In return, the Sultan promises to withdraw all his troops from Mewar and recognise Maharana Ratan Singh as the sovereign ruler of Mewar.”
A gasp rose up from the gathered nobles. The terms were too little and too great. They had expected the Sultan to ask for land or gold. Instead, all he had asked was to look upon the face of their queen.
Yet that request held other, more sinister implications. No man save her husband or those related to her through blood could look on a woman’s face. It would be considered a slight on the Maharana’s honour and on that of his queen. Rani Padmini would never let it happen. There seemed to be no choice but to meet Khilji on the field of battle.
“What you ask is too great a price,” the Maharana boomed.
“Then my lord and master commands me to tell you that we will raze the walls of Chittorgarh and soak its stones with the blood of your men.”
The court gasped at the open threat. Ratan Singh scowled. It would be so easy to have the man impaled and then have his body thrown over the wall in full view of Khilji’s army. He resisted the temptation. It would only be an open declaration of war, something he must avoid at all costs. Besides, it was not honourable to kill the messenger.
“You are suggesting that I destroy my wife’s honour for a whim of your master.”
The messenger shrugged. “The previous statement still stands.”
“Very well. I must discuss this in more detail with the people involved before I can give you your answer. Give him food and arrange some lodging. He has a long wait.” With that the Maharana swept out of the hall, giving the court no time to wonder at the sudden change in their king.
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Glossary
Mount Kailash: One of the holy peaks of the Himalayas, Mount Kailash is the abode of Shiva, one of the Holy Trinity of Hinduism and known as the Destroyer. The story is that Ravan, a king from Sri Lanka, lifted the mountain with his bare hands. Shiva, feeling the tremors, planted his foot firmly on the ground and the mountain sank down, trapping Ravan’s hands beneath it.
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