Dark clouds heckled the fair moon and warring winds stirred up restlessness in Ellora’s heart. She longed to see the world, to have adventures that would thrill and exalt her, to meet a tall man, with muscles and a sword, who would sweep her off her feet and win her heart with chivalry and kindness but then, she sighed, dreams and desires were just that, dreams and desires.
She leaned upon a silk cushion with a joba flower tucked behind her ear and tried to obstruct intruding odours with her dupatta. Her howdah was ornately decorated and fringed with muslin curtains so plush that one could almost forget one was atop an elephant but for the smells: the stink of dung, the wafts of soldier sweat and worst of all, the oppressive stench of her despicable husband, inching closer by the minute.
It was a political union. Her father, having just lost all his territory to a Mughal invasion, made the match without once asking her how she felt about it. The entire town was fed spiced mutton and musicians were paid to perform for weeks. Everyone seemed to be celebrating, except her.
Ellora was raised to be fiercely independent so the prospect of marrying an unattractive bore was intolerable for her. She begged her father to take pity but years of warfare had left him detached and insensitive to her emotions. She could not oblige him to call off the wedding.
With a small retinue of thirty soldiers and a dozen horses and elephants, her husband carried her and her hand maids off from her father’s home towards his small kingdom in Maharastra. Two trumpeters accompanied them, waving the Mondol dynasty banner over their heads. Behind them followed baggage camels and wagons of food.
From a howdah atop an elephant, Ellora drank in the beauty of the land and nurtured her melancholy. Was this to be her destiny, a loveless marriage to an asinine man? By the second day of their voyage, she lost interest in her broken heart and abandoned herself to an intense appreciation of life around her.
The unfamiliar landscape danced outside her window: moist Mother Earth succulent with fruits blooming in shades of pistachio, olive and parakeet green. Sun-kissed fields ripe with spring. Ruby-faced gibbons and saffron foxes. She realized there was much of Hindustan she had never seen and at least marrying Mondol Raja had won her a journey beyond the walls of her father’s
fortress.
On the third day, they reached the gaping mouth of a ghostly forest where the road was so narrow that foot soldiers had to clear space so the elephants could enter without knocking the howdahs off. A thick fog enveloped them, obscuring all visibility. It became apparent they would not make it to the next village by nightfall. Owls howled, cicadas lamented and bullfrogs wailed. They skulked forward invoking the Gods. ‘Ram nam satya hai,’ sounded from a hundred throats. Their skittish steeds were difficult to rein.
Ellora could sense her husband’s fear as he rubbed the jade ring on his pudgy finger, appealing to a deity for protection. She offered him a caustic smile. The pusillanimous pig she had married was timid and superstitious.
Outside, a drizzle. Their howdah was built by the best carpenters in town with artistic images of the Mahabharatha etched into it but though aesthetically pleasing, it was not practical for the monsoon season. Ellora crouched under her veil to stay dry.
With the rain, their progression slowed even further then sputtered to a halt. She could see her husband eyeing her to gauge her reaction. Her face was stolid, a trick she had learned from her father.
Mondol Raja called out to the captain of his soldiers, ‘Boy, why are we stopping?’
‘Raja saheb,’ replied the captain, drawing his horse to their howdah. ‘The men are frightened. This forest is haunted. Perhaps we should stop for the night?’
‘What? A bit of wilderness and my men are unnerved? I’ll execute every last one of them if they do not pick up pace this instant!’
‘As you command,’ said the captain, off to deliver his orders.
Ellora smiled. How brave he pretended to be from atop his howdah.
Mondol Raja scrutinized her expression then cleared his throat. ‘Do you know the duties of a respectable wife?’ he asked.
Ellora was about to deliver a derisive reply when the rain began to beat like battle drums on their wooden roof. Ellora wondered if the forest was really haunted as the rumours claimed. She had no weapon on her apart from a small khanjar with a steel blade and an ivory handle in the shape of a horse. The Raja shuffled in poorly concealed discomfort, jumping at every noise.
Only a complacent fool would set out on an expedition on such a night. A shiver crept up the young bride’s spine as she stared at the fresh henna on her hands. How could she live with this geriatric who smelt like coconut grease and cowered at every sound?.
The path was treacherous and in the distance, a hungry wolf howled. Mondol Raja snivelled and tried to nestle into her but she pushed him away as nausea threatened to overcome her. The elephant bearing Ellora’s howdah stumbled into a muddy pothole and lost balance. The carriage lurched forward, sending her crashing into its wooden frame.
A scream from outside launched an uproar. Mondol Raja cautiously parted the curtains of their palanquin for a peak. Ellora caught sight of his captain approaching, white as a ghost. The news he gibbered was bad.
A tiger had taken one of the men. The unfortunate sepoy had stepped off the clearing to urinate. The others witnessed the beast dragging him away but no one had the courage to rescue him.
Ellora parted the festoons to catch a glimpse of the tiger. Foot soldiers banged pots and shouted mantras to frighten it away though it was nowhere to be seen. Drenched in fear and rain, the entourage inched forward in a tight huddle, no one wanted to be the last man.
They soon arrived upon a river they would have to cross. The men sang with joy, relieved to be clear of the dense forest. They once again requested the Raja for permission to camp out the storm and darkness, promising faster progress come dawn. This time the Raja had no choice but to agree.
No sooner had they put down their weapons and tethered their horses, the forest started charging towards them. Whooping cries surrounded them and suddenly they were ambushed by a dozen horsemen with swords and muskets, pale-skinned pirates riding upon steeds with small cannons tied to the saddles, camoflauged in twigs and branches.
The pirates leapt out of the bushes so quickly, the Raja’s outer layer of guards died before they could unsheathe their weapons. A handful of loyal soldiers attempted to form a blockade around the royal howdah. The rest fled, choosing to brave the tigers rather than the white devils.
Mondol Raja drew the curtains of the howdah shut and muttered prayers. Pandemonium continued outside: gun shots, screams of agony, galloping hooves and unfamiliar battle cries. Ellora reached for the curtain.
‘Don’t!’ the Raja snapped. ‘Hiding is our best chance.’ His lips drew tight in fear.
‘What about your men?’ said Ellora. He pretended not to hear.
As the attackers came closer, they fired their canons. Two elephants came crashing down, including Ellora’s. The beast fell onto its belly, spilling the howdah onto the floor. Mondol Raja ran off into the forest, a stench of shit trailing him.
Ellora whispered a prayer then cursed her husband under her breath. She swore she would kill him and renounce her religion rather than burn at a widow’s pyre after.
Ellora had never encountered bandits before but if the cries outside were any indicator, these men were vicious, molesting women, killing children. She weighed her options. She was decked in gold, dressed in a flimsy choli that barely covered her bosoms. Her brocaded ghagra was covered in gems and she wore heavy gold anklets on her feet. Any attempt to escape would be futile. Ivory handled blade in hand, she crawled out of the howdah.
Men on steeds gathered around the fallen carriages, collecting loot. One pirate towered above her, bearded and masked, a silver hoop in his ear.
‘I don’t need any treasure. I’ll take the jewel of Hindustan,’ he yelled. With a raucous laugh, he dismounted his steed and approached her, musket in hand.
Ellora’s heart pounded. She jabbed her khanjar at him. He caught her wrist and twisted it till the weapon dropped. She screamed and kicked. Her choli, snagged by a bush, tore, leaving her breasts exposed. He slapped her across the face with the back of his hand and threw her over his horse.
Slumped over her captor’s horse, Ellora saw a hooded man approaching them like a fierce gust of wind. The pirates tried to stop him but he razed through them.
Her captor turned to face him but before he could spark his weapon, Ellora saw the silver gleam of a sword shimmer in the moonlight. Her captor’s head fell at the horse’s feet.
The pirates frightened by the sight of their beheaded captain fled into the forest with whatever booty they had grabbed. Ellora wondered who her cloaked saviour was: an apparition, a god, a demon? As quickly as he arrived, he turned to depart.
Ellora slid down from the horse swiftly. ‘Wait,’ she called. ‘Don’t leave me. There are tigers and Ishvar knows what.’
‘Who are you?’ asked her mysterious hero.
‘I’m a princess,’ she said. ‘I was on my way to my husband’s kingdom.’
‘Where is your husband?’ he asked, coming closer. He smelt of attar and smoke.
‘The coward fled!’ she said indignantly.
‘Do you want me to take you to him?’ the man asked.
‘No!’ said Ellora. ‘I will never go back to him. He left me to die!’ She scanned the carnage. Her retinue and soldiers were either dead or had fled.
‘Shall I take you to your father?’ asked her champion.
‘No,’ said Ellora. ‘I shall never return to him either.’ He had cast her off to the Raja as if she were cattle.
The hooded man was bewildered. ‘What shall I do with you?’
‘Take me with you, wherever you are going.’ She held her hands up for him unaware of her bare bosom gleaming in the moonlight.
Her knight looked at her and could no more deny her than he could stop the sun from sinking in the west. He lifted her from the ground with an arm around her waist and placed her on his stallion behind him.
As they galloped off, she wrapped her arms around his barrel-chest tightly, as much to ensure she did not fall off as to still her wildly thumping heart. She could feel his steely muscles and that created strange sensations of excitement she had never experienced before. The bravery of this man, the ferocity with which he had fought, his total disregard for his own safety, and the way he treated her ... this man had to be Arjun. She fell headlong in love with him.
Ellora was stunned when they arrived at a manicured garden and a luxurious haveli guarded by at least a hundred armed men on the periphery of Lal Mahal, a fort she knew well.
The hooded rider helped her dismount, holding his hand for her to step on. Despite his immense muscles, she could barely feel him when he touched her. He led her to the entrance of the chateau and ordered the woman who answered the door to look after her. She looked at her with eyes like saucers and threw a shawl over her nakedness.
‘You’ll be safe here,’ said her hero. ‘Tomorrow, we will take you home.’
‘But I am already home,’ said Ellora. ‘Who are you?’
The man just smiled.
‘You saved my life,’ she said.
‘Think nothing of it,’ he replied and left.
The matron of the house was a compassionate lady known as Didi Ma, both the dance instructor and the governess of the dancing girls. Didi Ma fussed over Ellora like a mother hen. She bathed Ellora herself, cleaning the blood off her with heated water, admiring her with glowing eyes.
Over a spicy rabbit stew, Ellora learned from the girls that it was the Subedar Shayista Khan, the Mughal viceroy of Maharastra, who had saved her. This was the man Ellora’s father was fighting, the man to whom they had lost their fort. How sad, she thought, that her father never knew his chivalry.
The girls were both in awe and fear of the Subedar. They claimed he patrolled the roads of his subha late into the night with a sword and side-dagger tucked into his belt, killing criminals by the dozens. He was irascible and tempestuous but he believed in justice and he loved music. He was not the type to dally with promiscuous princesses. He did not bed his dancers. These details seemed to be common knowledge. The fact he himself had brought Ellora bare-breasted on his horse inspired many more sessions of gossip.
That night, Ellora could not sleep. She had grown up on tales of the Subedar too: Kinslayer, Hindu-hater, taxing the poor to indulge the rich. This did not match what she had seen, the gentleness she had experienced. Reality, she remembered, was a selective act of interpretation. Perhaps the stories she had heard were lies. Perhaps everything she had known was a lie, and only now, she was rising from the illusion.
When Shayista returned to the chalet the next morning and offered to take her home, she refused to leave. She swore she would rather slit her throat than return to either her father who had forced her to marry or her husband who had abandoned her to pirates. She went so far as to challenge Shayista to a duel for her freedom. In the end, he made the mistake of letting her stay.
Shayista extricated himself from the memory. He stared at the joba petal in his palm. An overwhelming loneliness washed over him. The red had dried up into a dark brown. Ellora was dead. What hope was there for happiness?
For Shayista, Ellora was everything Nasim was not. She was dark and sultry where Nasim was fair and frigid. She was a monsoon of passion, mighty Ganga gushing with love, beauty set loose upon a cyclone, while Nasim was calculating and ambitious. Nasim was obsessed with the past while Ellora had revealed no details of her history but bore instead her heart and soul and luscious body.
Most intoxicating of all was Ellora's scent: a mixture of sandalwood and attar that she learned from the pages of the Kama Sutra. She studied the manual of love with earnest vigour and applied what she learned upon Shayista. To her, sex was a spiritual act of a natural order. She approached it shamelessly, as an art to be explored and mastered, not a sin to shy away from. With coy enthusiasm, she stretched Shayista’s body and imagination to new lengths.
Shayista had been living a cold and cruel life for decades. For the first time since the death of his sister and Dara, he felt his soul dance. He found sublime joy in ordinary things. But then, joy and grief are never far apart. His fate was soon to be disrupted by destiny, so what use was it remembering it now, twenty two years later?
Shayista wiped his eyes with his kerchief and headed towards the Diwan-i-am. Two steps in, he felt the cold edge of a steel blade against the soft skin of his throat.