Opinion: Searching for Padmavati's voice

This excerpt is taken from the upcoming book, Padmavati: The Queen tells her own story.

About the book Padmavati

Mrinalini Rao, a journalist, is visiting Chittorgarh to discover the truth about the existence of Queen Padmavati of Chittor. She meets a local girl who divulges a family secret. Eventually, Mrinalini uncovers an astounding story. Princess Padmavati of Singhaldweep was famous for her beauty as well as for her wisdom and integrity. When Rawal Ratan Singh of Chittor fell in love with her and brought her to Chittorgarh, the New Queen entered an unknown world rife with political intrigue. How she used her perception and prudence to navigate her way through these dangerous paths, survived assassination bids, escaped the claws of a lustful despot and yet left a legacy for posterity is what this novel, Padmavati brings to its readers. It is a tale told in the splendid cadences of a legendary queen who was larger than life. Nevertheless, it is a complete work of fiction narrated against the backdrop of historical events that took place in the 13th century.

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Excerpt 1

It had been raining steadily for two days. Stormy winds had twisted trees and felled massive branches. Filled with sloshing, muddy water, the deep trapezium-like shaft, spread over a thousand square yards and referred to as the Kund or sacrificial fire cavity, could not be used for the pyre. Yet, any further delay would be disastrous. The sand in the hourglass trickled down steadily and the enemy was hammering at the gates.

The subterranean cavern would have to do, she had said. Bullock carts loaded with bundles of hay, wood-chips and numerous pots of clarified butter began drawing up to the mouth of the dark underground tunnel. Men, whose tears mingled with the rain, carried grist and fuel for the conflagration into the centre of the wide cave.

The queens, along with their ladies, maids and young girls, bathed and attired themselves from head to toe in gorgeous garments, jewels and ornaments. Married women bedecked themselves in their crimson-and-gold wedding finery. Some women held baby girls in their arms who smiled beatifically, unaware of their fate.

After offering veneration to the deity and consuming a sacred meal that included a drink of whey and basil mildly laced with marijuana, the women began to approach the cavern. Men lined the path, hands folded, heads bowed in salutation to the satis. Husbands and brothers, fathers and sons, unmindful of the rain, were each searching for a beloved face.

In the enclosed space, the air was becoming scarce as the women surrounded a rude platform erected amidst mountains of hay and wood, liberally doused in clarified butter. The temple priests, having completed the rituals, stood by, chanting verses from the Vedas. Everyone waited for the senior queen to lead, but she seemed to falter. The New Queen gently slipped past her and ascended the platform.

She sat down in the centre and folded her palms. Instead of closing her eyes, she looked ahead calmly. The other royal ladies clambered up to sit in a semicircle around her. Some had to be helped up by their maids; because they were infirm or they were trembling with terror. The girls, maids, noblewomen and their female attendants stood behind the seated ladies, facing the priests. The baby girls in their arms looked around curiously as if this was a new game.

The chief priest held up a flaming torch. Calling out, ‘Jai! Ek Linghji Ki Jai!’ he lit the pyre.

Whoosh!! The hay, wood and butter sprang into a wavering pillar of fire. The priests ran pell-mell to the cave opening to escape the brute firestorm. The flames spread quickly, encircling the platform, sucking out whatever little air there was in the cave. The women clutched at their throats, desperate mouths agape.

Shrill screams echoing down the tunnel were abruptly choked off. Some mothers smothered their children to save them from the agony of burning. A few girl infants escaped the laps of mothers who were already alight. Tiny limbs spewing flames, they ran around, shrieking at their unexpected torment.

Other women clutching babies, young girls and maidens attempted to jump off the burning platform.Though they had voluntarily embraced the idea of grace through fire, their instinct for survival rejected the terrible death facing them. But their leaps for freedom landed them right into fiery, blazing, scarlet hands that enveloped them lovingly. Burning bodies rolled on the rocky floor, already dead. Orange and blue tongues licked greedily at human skin, making the royal ladies screech uncontrollably.Some jumped up, beating their burning garments with bare hands in vain.

Flames whirled around them until each became a separate bonfire reaching out to ignite more panicked women. All of it turned into an inferno of figures gyrating in agony. The roar of combustion growled within the cave, punctured by the hiss of sizzling skin and the sharp cracking of bones. A nauseous smell of burnt hair rose with clouds of thick grey smoke.

Once the pyre was burning merrily, the conflagration began to seek more air. Bellowing like an animal, the fire squeezed left and right through the narrow tunnel towards openings on both sides. The weeping men, still gathered just outside, were swept back as flames burst out of the tunnel.

In the centre of all the chaos, only one figure remained serene and motionless. As the gold, saffron and blue blaze made rings around her, rising higher and higher, slowly enclosing the New Queen, she was like a sculpture, absolutely still. Nothing seemed to touch her; not the torment, not the grief, not the fear. It defied all principles of logic.

Where did a girl find such strength, not garnered even by the meditation of ascetics, to tolerate the torture of being burnt alive? Her dark silhouette, in lotus pose, palms folded, was a sublime sight. When the great white heat reached the core, her body exploded in a shower of sparks. The tremendous blast ricocheted against the red, hot rocky walls sending horrific echoes floating out to the listeners.

The jauhar took hardly a few minutes to extinguish Padmavati’s living mortality but gifted her with indelible immortality; a significant niche in the history of India. Time could not dim her charisma nor age wither her stunning beauty. For centuries to come, the supreme sacrifice of this legendary Queen of Chittor would attain a place of undying pride and honour in the hearts of all her country’s people.

Excerpt 2

Padmavati had hurried in her bathing because she wanted to be out of the place before Prabhavati’s group completed their bath. As she came out of the Kund, she had noticed the huge basket of flowers guarded by two eunuchs on the top of the steps and idly wondered what it was for. If it is for the evening prayers, it should be at the temple and not here, she had thought, climbing the wet stairs.

The princess was about to put her foot down on the second step from the top, when she had happened to look down. She had given a loud gasp and instantly withdrawn her foot. Ambika who had been just behind her peered downwards and screamed. ‘Snake! Snake!’ A thin, black reptile had been coiling and uncoiling on the wide stone step. It was a venomous krait. One bite from it was fatal and Padmavati had been about to step on it!

Ambika’s screams had brought Koki running. With a stout stick, he had given a hard blow to the snake’s shiny black head that splattered into a mush of flesh and blood. The princess, who had recovered by then, quickly skirted the dead reptile and climbed the last step. She was now safely on the platform. Her ladies had surrounded her and all of them walked up the slope to the temple.

They had spoken among themselves agitatedly; how had the reptile had slithered to this area, which was completely paved. There were no trees or snake holes nearby.

‘Almost as if somebody had brought the snake here,’ Ambika had remarked loudly. Her voice carried down the steps. Prabhavati’s ladies had also risen from the Kund and were chattering excitedly about the incident. A deathly silence had fallen on everyone at Ambika’s words. In one accord, as if the same idea had struck each one at the same time, all eyes had gone to the large basket of flowers.

Had the snake been concealed in the basket? And brought here on purpose? If so, what was the purpose? The answer had been as clear as crystal. Somebody had wanted to hurt Padmavati and hurt her seriously, even fatally. Who could be so malicious but her rival, Rani Prabhavati?

Suddenly, the senior Rani had felt the heat of many pairs of speculative eyes on her. Instantly, she began climbing energetically towards the platform seeking escape through the passage, ordering her entourage to follow her. Padmavati had stared at her retreating back; quite sure that she was the culprit.

Yet, when Ambika had beseeched her to tell Ratan Singh about the incident, she refused, explaining, ‘I have come here to be accepted as part of the Rawal’s family, Ambika. Prabhavati didi is my senior. How can I complain about her, or even worse, accuse her?’

Ambika had not been convinced. ‘It is a matter of your safety. She tried to kill you.’

‘No, my dear friend. We don’t know for sure how the krait got there. We have no proof that Didi was responsible. Our suspicions may be wrong. And by complaining what will I get? I will only make the Rawal angry and alienate Prabhavati didi even more.’

‘But she may make another attempt.’ Ambika’s voice had cracked with fear.

‘No, Ambika. What have we learned in our land? If you give love and forgiveness, it will be returned double fold. Don’t be afraid, my friend,’ Padmavati had said gently.

‘But these are not Singhas, Padmavati,’Ambika had cried. ‘You cannot trust them. Everyone has told me how spiteful Rani Prabhavati is.’

But the princess would not be swayed.

Disclaimer:The author writes here in a personal capacity.