Copyright © Chandrapal Khasiya
1679 A.D.
Close to the city of Paithan, in a small village called Sauviragram, which lay along the banks of the great river Godavari, lived a woman named Ilaa. Being cotton farmers, her family was well to do, but not among the richest in their area. It was the harvest season, and cotton had to be picked from the plants. The wholesalers and traders from Paithan would be arriving in just a few weeks, carrying gold and goods for barter. They would exchange what they carried for the cotton that the farmers grew. The bales of cotton had to be ready in time! Work was at its peak!
But Ilaa was not to be found in the fields. She wasn't working. Instead, she was sitting by the banks of the great river Godavari.
'I am sick of this!' she grunted loudly. Tears welled her eyes and the dam of her swirling emotions was about to break, when someone hushed, annoyed.
Ilaa, fighting back her tears, rose and whirled toward the stranger. The sword at his waist and a round shield in one hand indicated he was a guard. A guard of some cotton merchants, she thought. But a doubt formed in her mind. Not even a single merchant had yet arrived. Then who was he?
Scared, she tightened her grip over the handle of her sickle.
The guard seemed to notice her insecurity. “Mugali,” he said, his voice laced with respect. “Don't afraid. You have no danger from me.” He took a step ahead.
Ilaa stepped back, her gaze holding movements of the man, her sickle trained toward him. Deep down she knew her simple harvesting tool was no match to the sword he possessed. “Don’t you dare to move ahead,” she said, her hands trembling, “or else…”
The guard laughed. “Mugali, I…”
Before even he could voice his thoughts, Ilaa swiftly shifted the razor edge of the sickle on her neck. “…or else I’ll kill myself, you scum! Dead woman won’t fulfill your desires!” She threatened, her shouts reaching over the opposite bank of Godavari.
Confusion and fear masked the guard’s face. Then he did a mistake. He took a step further.
“Away!” Ilaa cried.
“Listen.”
“I said away from me!” She shut her eyes tightly. A storm of thoughts swirled inside her. But among them, one was stark clear. Forgive me, Aai, Baba. But, I’ll be not next Menakshi. Steeling her determination she pressed the sickle against her neck. Her skin prickled.
Then she felt someone’s vicelike grip over her hand, ceasing her suicide.
Her eyes shot open. Curses almost reached at the tip of her tongue when she realised her grasper was not the guard, but a different person. For few moments she was lost in his eyes. Was it her fantasy or fear, she was uncertain, but the pair of eyes was gleaming with brilliance.
“Bahin,” the newcomer said, his voice rich with politeness. “Please, do me a favour. Your life is more precious than you think. Leave your sickle.”
And she obeyed. The sickle fell between them, clattering on the stones. Clunk!
As her frantic heartbeats paced to normal, she realized he had released himself and was staring at her. The anger and fear she felt moments before had melted into awkwardness.
The guard interrupted. “I apologize if I’ve scared you.” He bowed.
Ilaa, unsure how to respond, just blinked.
“I assume your silence as your forgiveness, Bahin,” the man said, crossing his arms. “He is one of my loyal guards. You obviously had a misunderstanding. Though he looks like a bad person - don’t take it to your heart, Madhav - but he is one of the kindest person I’ve ever met.”
Ilaa threw a quick glance at Madhav. The guard still looked terrifying to her.
The man spoke. “It happens. People often judge a person with their appearance.” He then whirled around Madhav, his hands clasped behind. “Didn’t I send you to usher Kawaleji?”
Madhav hesitated. “Yes, I’ll be on my way.” Bowing to the man, he left them.
“Kawaleji?” Ilaa asked.
The man arched one of his eye brow in surprise. And in that instance, Ilaa for the first time saw the full feature of him. Muscular body donned by richly embroidered shirt, a dhoti wrapped around his waist, and a peculiar type of turban on his head added more nobility. What Ilaa found the most fascinating was his face. Bordered with thick beard and mustache, he looked more handsome . “Do you know Kawaleji?”
Adjusting the pallu of her Nauvari saree - the nine yard long saree - Illa’s gaze fell down. She tried, however, she could not meet his eyes. Those eyes, she thought, how could she felt so safe in the company of a stranger. He is just a rich merchant.
“What is your name?”
The question from the man jarred Ilaa from her enigma. “Ilaa.”
The man smiled. “Great name. It reminded me of King Ilaa who founded Paithan.”
“Great?” Ilaa barked a fake laugh. “I am named after the cursed king. A fool who dared to intrude Shiva’s forest. And what did he get? A curse. He transformed into a woman.”
“But,” the man interrupted, “as far as I’ve heard legends, he persuaded Mata Parvati and succeeded to turn into a man.”
“You are wrong,” Ilaa cut him in. “Even Gods couldn’t take back their curse. King Ilaa suffered a life of gender transformation. Every alternate month he morphed into a woman then into a man. Unfortunately, he could not remember anything once he changed into another form. Or else he could have been an example for men to say that life of a woman is not a jolly ride.” Her last words were white hot with anger.
For a long minute no one spoke save for the rushing current of mighty Godavari. Guilt began to bubble inside Ilaa. “Thousand apologies. I shouldn’t have shouted upon you.” To her surprise, the man was staring over her shoulder as if he had noticed a beast crawling among trees. She was about to turn when…
“Don’t move,” the man warned. “We aren’t safe here. Follow me.”
“But…”
“Trust me, Bahin,” the man assured, “Just walk with me and don’t look back.”
Resisting the urge to have a glance over her shoulder, Ilaa began to walk with the man. Fear began to bubble inside her, but something told her she would be safe with him. Why am I blindly trusting this man?
“Keep talking,” the man urged.
“What?” Ilaa was baffled.
“We are being watched,” the man said. “A spy from enemy.”
Ilaa tripped over the big stone. Fortunately, the man seized her by hand saving her from tumbling.
“Careful, Bahin.”
“Thank you.”
The man smiled. “So why were you shouting at Godavari?”
The man smiled. “So why were you shouting at Godavari?”
Ilaa stopped. Like an avalanche sliding over the snowy mountain slopes, the forgotten anger rolled over her. “Because no one listens to me! No one listen to any woman!”
The man’s, this time both, brows arched in surprise. “Keep walking. And tell me everything.” His voice sounded concerned.
Ilaa burst. “They killed her! Meenakshi is no more!” Tears streamed over her cheeks. “And what the bloody society did? Nothing!”
The man took uneasy steps. “Who killed her?”
“Her husband!”
The man’s feet froze. “Are you certain about it?”
Sobbing, Ilaa nodded. “She was my friend. She was married forcefully to that goon! Why? Because he deflowered her dignity! Damn this society!”
The man began walking, keeping pace with Ilaa.”That’s injustice.”
Ilaa flashed a deadly look at him, then calmed her emotions bit. In a croaky voice she said, “No good man would marry her. She became a topic of gossips. People made her life miserable. But she was strong. She tolerated everything. My Meenakshi…” She broke into sobs.
The man put his hand on her shoulder. “Then what happened?”
Ilaa’s jaws tightened. “Someone suggested her only salvation is to marry that devil! Now she should serve her for lifetime! And her parents agreed. And she was forced to marry her criminal, all for to maintain her parent’s honour in the society.” Ilaa shut her eyes. “I was helpless. While decorating her for marriage I told her to flee and all she could reply was ‘this world is far worse than my husband. Don’t worry, Ilaa. I’ll be fine.’ She was not! She was lying! They all says she ended her life by herself, but I know, she was done with sufferings. Poor Meenakshi.”
“Maa Bhavani,” the man whispered, “let her soul be at peace.”
Ilaa’s eyes shot up. “Maa Bhavani? You worship a goddess yet you fail to respect woman! You men are sick!” Ilaa realised she just rained her raw rage over the faultless stranger. “I am sorry. I am just asking why the world couldn’t be again like ancient times. Times when men and women were equal. Times when women were respected. Those times…those times are gone.”
The man remained silent. “I am aware about those times, Bahin. This whole universe is balanced because of two celestial divine powers. Shiva and Shakti.”
“Then why would the world treat us like a curse. A couple of months ago, one of my neighbours drowned her baby into the milk. Murderers!”
The man revealed his shock. “Aren’t those people educated?”
“In our world, women don’t enjoy the luxury of education.” Ilaa wiped away her tears with pallu.
“Then how do you know so much about myths and legends?” The man was surprised.
“Kawaleji used to visit Sauviragram at weekends.” Ilaa said, pointing toward a banyan tree. “He used to teach me and Meenakshi here, away from our homes.”
The man nodded. “Bahin, I promise you. Meenakshi will get justice.”
Ilaa didn’t speak much then and they kept treading their path, aware about the pair of eyes watching their steps.
They finally reached under a banyan tree, its branches spreading wide like a thick foliage umbrella.
The moment Shiva Linga appeared to her among the uprooted roots of the old tree, she bowed. When she opened her eyes and lifted her head, Ilaa noticed a large tent was raised near the bank. Dozens of guards, all equipped with swords and shields, made a periphery around the tent. Ilaa even noticed few villagers from her town, Sauviragram, were preparing something at the edge of the bank. He must be one of the richest merchant of Paithan, she thought.
“You are here for Pitru Moksha, right? That’s why you called Kawaleji.”
The man nodded. “This place is pious. It is said that from here the soul can be liberated from shackled existence.”
Ilaa was impressed. Never in life had she expected that she would meet someone who shares and respect Vedic knowledge.
The man ushered Ilaa inside the tent. “Bahin, stay here. I’ll be back in few moments.” And he disappeared, shutting the linen flap of the tent. She surveyed her surrounding and shock stabbed her heart. A cot, a chair and a carpet – she had expected, but a trunk full of tools of war made her heart to skip a beat. A horrible truth hit her hard. He is no merchant!
Whoever this man was, Ilaa processed her clumsy thoughts, he was far more dangerous than anyone. Other part of Ilaa resisted. No. She heard her own voice rebelling in her ears. He is a kind man. He heard all my misery, my sufferings. Even my own failed to understand me, but being stranger he listened to me.
But the negative feeling flooded toward her. She whirled on her heels to get outside the tent. A silhouette appeared behind the flap. Ilaa tried, but her feet were rooted to the ground. The man had returned.
And then the flap shifted.
“Kawaleji!”
The royal, old priest, draped in saffron, looked puzzled. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Help me to get out of this place. I don’t feel this place safe anymore.”
Kawaleji smile. “This is the safest place for us. You are under his shelter.”
“But who is he?” Ilaa demanded.
Kawaleji scowled. “You don’t know him?”
Ilaa shook her head.
“Come with me.” Saying this Kawaleji led Ilaa out of the tent and gestured toward the man, who was prostrating before Shiva Linga. “Isn’t this sight marvelous. One Shiva is bowing to other Shiva.”
Like pieces falling to the perfect places in a puzzle, a realization struck Ilaa. She shook away that thought, but it stayed. “Is he…”
“Yes,” Kawaleji nodded, smiling.
With pride and new respect she bowed her head to the man, to her king. To Shivaji Maharaj.
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