The Burning Lotus

13. The Burning Lotus

The gates of Chittorgarh

The Maharana and his army waited at the gates in the light of torches. The light flickered on the wood of the massive gates as the men waited patiently for it to open. They knew what waited for them on the other side.

Each face was set with rigid determination. It would be a fight to the death and the prize would be the fort. They had already bid farewell to all those they loved when they donned the saffron robes of sacrifice. All that was left was to see how many of the enemy they could take down with them.

The first attack had come just before dawn. It had been repelled by the archers positioned along the walls and the barrels of hot oil they had dropped on the enemy below. Now there was no more oil and no more arrows. There was only steel.

The first rays of the sun diffused slowly across the heavens as the stars his themselves in fear and anticipation of the slaughter that was to follow. At a signal from the Maharana, a lone conch was blown calling his men to battle. Just like the Panchjanya, reflected the Maharana.

The gates slowly opened to allow the warriors of Chittorgarh to enter the battlefield.

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The Main Palace, Chittorgarh

All the women had gathered in the vast cellars of the main palace. Each was clothed in her wedding dress, in flared red skirts with intricate mirror work and embroidered in gold. Heavy necklaces of precious gems set in gold and arranged to resemble a multitude of shapes, from flowers to peacocks hung around their necks and covered their throats. Large nose rings held up by gold chains pinned to their perfectly coifed hair and large earrings that sheathed their entire ear set off by carefully placed veils. Many of them had little children who peered shyly from behind their silken skirts.

Padmini sighed. They were all looking to her for guidance, even Nagmati. The older queen had left everything to her as she had washed and dressed her child for the last time. The atmosphere was one of resignation. They were all waiting for the inevitable. Soon it would be time.

Padmini led Nagmati and her husband’s heir to the far wall. It had been plastered with wet clay a few minutes ago. Aware of all the eyes focused on them, she reached out her right palm and gently pressed it into the damp surface. The three of them drew their hands back together, leaving a small print flanked by two larger ones.

They stood back, allowing the other women to approach the wall. Each silently pressed her hand and her child’s hand into the clay, leaving behind a unique print. The scent of sandalwood from the pyre mixed with the smell of damp clay.

As the last of the women left their prints on the wall, the sound of a solitary conch reached Padmini’s ears.

It was time.

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The battlefield, outside the gates of Chittorgarh

Alauddin Khilji, the Sultan of Delhi, allowed himself a small smile as the gates of Chittorgarh swung slowly opened. By tonight Mewar would be his, as would the Jewel of Hindustan. The only obstacle in his path was the destruction of a seriously weakened army.

The men of Chittorgarh swarmed out of the citadel’s gates, their unblemished swords glittering in the morning light. Their war cries filled the air as they charged towards their assembled opponents. Khilji was going to enjoy this. He was going to enjoy cutting his way through their ranks.

He waited till they had covered almost half the distance between them. Khilji stood in his stirrups, his legs on either side of his huge stallion and yelled, “Charge!”

The command was repeated by his commanders at regular intervals up and down the line. The horses broke into a gallop as they sped towards the enemy followed closely by the ranks of infantrymen.

There was a brief moment of silence punctuated by the jingle of gear and the pounding of hooves. And then the two armies crashed into each other at breakneck speeds. Swords flashed with the intensity of lightning and shields crashed into each other with the sound of thunder.

The slaughter had begun.

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The Maharana hacked his way towards Khilji as the Sultan made his way towards him. The burning waves of anger sent the blood rushing through his veins and the roar of it in his ears drowned out the screams of the dying.

The two kings sized each other up one last time. They each gripped their weapons tighter and flew at each other’s throats.

Thrust. Parry. Stab. Duck. Feint. Blow. First blood to the Maharana of Mewar.

Cut. Deflect. Thrust. Duck. Thrust. This time, the Sultan of Delhi earned a cut and was rewarded with the sight of red blood flowing from the wound.

The deadly dance continued. They were evenly matched but the Maharana was older. He was tiring quickly and felt a little light headed after losing to much blood. It was tempting to faint, leaving Khilji to kill him. No! He must pull his thoughts together and control himself just long enough to kill his opponent. To make him pay for everything.

Then Ratan Singh made his last mistake. He tried to swing his sword at Khilji and missed. The manoeuvre left his guard wide open. Khilji was quick to take the advantage. His sword flashed once.

Maharana Ratan Singh, King of Mewar, lay sprawled on the battlefield, his torso cut wide open.

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The Main Palace, Chittorgarh

The scented smoke of burning sandalwood filled the cavernous cellars of the Main Palace. The flames crackled and burned with increasing intensity as the priests chanted ancient slokas.

Padmini watched the flames. Soon they would be warm enough to destroy human flesh.

This was the only way to save themselves from the invading army. Who knew what would happen when the gates of Chittorgarh allowed the foreigner in? They would become mere objects of pleasure, to be bought and sold as easily as the goods in the bazaar.

No. Better to die this way, with their honour and dignity intact.

Children started to wail as it became unbearably hot. Their mothers hugged them close for the last time. Everyone waited for Padmini to lead them.

She had come a long way. She was no longer the girl who had married the victor. She was no longer the young woman who had tried to be nice to everybody. She was no longer the wife who spent her time playing harem politics. She was now a queen about to lead her people into the fires of suicide. No matter how much she wished for the days of her innocence, they would never return.  The dreams of her future meant nothing in these last few moments. Only the open arms of Agni Dev were left.

Padmini took a few steps forward and allowed the flames to embrace her.

The heat of their burning flesh seared the wet handprints into the walls for evermore. They would remain as the last reminders of the women and children who gave themselves to the flames rather than suffer dishonour at the hands of foreign invaders.

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Glossary:

Panjanya: This was the name of the conch in Hindu mythology which was blown at the start of the Dharam-yudha (sacred war for the righteous) between the Kauravas and Pandavas at Kurukshetra.

Slokas: Ancient Indian poetry, dating back to Vedic times that are chanted as prayers during auspicious occasions

Agni Dev: The Hindu God of Fire.