Womanly Anguish.

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. ‘cotton!farmland!dowry! groom-search!marriage!cooking!’

‘Ayyo Rama!I wasn’t born for this!’ 6 year old Avi and Babar chimed her sentence for her, out of experience.

‘Ha! My little warriors! Come; pay your duty to the queen.’ Ila said, getting up from the rock which they deemed as her throne and sat on her haunches to hug the kids.

‘Hail Maratha!’ they shouted and kissed her with a love only a child could offer, one cheek for each. A unique mirth registering on her face, she scooped up their puppet bodies in a squeezing hug- the smile on their faces as natural and flowing as the river that flowed endlessly beside them. They both adored their cousin and spent most of their time stubbornly with her . They loved their leader; they were generals in her army.

They loved covertly sneaking out of their cotton farm, each day, as soon as their uncle left to the market. Ila would make them sit on stray goats, which was to be their war horse and they would run down to their territory. Their territory — a clearing along the river banks behind an abandoned well. Old Ram Bapu had drowned himself years ago in the well probably as an effect of his mental illness. Stories prevailed of his ghost wandering around the place, which seldom saw anyone coming there from then on. But the kids weren’t scared, they were warriors. Besides, Ila was by their side and she could handle a sword better than any man in the land.

The real excitement for Avi and Babur, though, was the stories she narrated to them from history. She would assign roles to each of them and they would enact the story together. She also made swords for them out of coconut-tree planks and assigned goats to them as their horses. It was fun being warriors and their day was made only after they defeated the mughal army and captured their fort.

On other days they would sit down quietly with their goats and watch her practice with her sword. It was true that she was named Ila, as advised by a soothsayer after the king in Ramayana who built the city of Paithan as per legends.Her father who desired a baby boy to sustain his property sought to bury her alive when she was born but stopped himself when the soothsayer warned him of grave danger if he killed the child.

True to the background behind her name, Ila showed keen interests in manly affairs and hated doing womanly chores. She learnt sword fighting, archery and horse riding from her uncle Bhimrao . He was part of the militia led by a young leader that had captured Adilshah’s fort. Bhimrao was commander in the army that warred against the sultanate’s fort at Kondana, when he was taken prisoner. A few years had passed and there was unofficial news that he was tortured and killed in prison.

It broke her heart.

But more importantly it lit up the fire in her to avenge the murder of her uncle, and a part of her craved for power and glory. Women before her were able to do it. And she took inspiration from them.

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The stranger had heard their voices from the shore. Being submerged in the water in deep meditation, he was hidden from them completely. He had risen slowly to gain his breath and had seen them- a woman with two kids. He took advantage of a moment when their backs were turned to him and ran to the rock where he had hidden his tunic and sword. The woman was narrating a story to the kids. He sat down to listen to her.It was the story of Devi Durga and touched a sad part in the stranger’s heart.He was reminded of his childhood when his mother thought him of the story.

He watched them thinking of his parents. His father whose death he was mourning and his mother who he hadn’t seen in a long time. The loss of his father had left him with great grief, and the Sultanate’s forces at his heels were weighing his heart with great worry.

He wondered if he could get a glimpse of the woman’s face and slowly turned towards them. He tried to peek above the rock’s height when his foot tripped on a pebble and he fell down making noise. He badly wished they hadn’t noticed him. But no..

‘There he is! Mahishasuran!’ little Avi shouted, pointing Babar to the stranger.

‘Charge!’ they shouted as they rushed towards him with their wooden bats to where he lay. He decided to play along with them. And so when Babar landed a blow on his shoulder with his bat, the stranger acted as if he was going to die. The kids landed blow after blow as he displayed his dying act and finally closed his eyes, hoping they would stop. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the sharp edge of a dagger pointed at his nose.

‘You are not from hereabouts.’ the woman said, her sharp eyes appraising him. ‘You must be the bandit they are searching for in Paithan! She inched her sword closer to his nose.

The stranger wasn’t bothered by swords pointed at him, of that he had seen many. But he was taken aback by the beauty that held the sword. Her brows were curved daggers giving shelter to the most beautiful form of Marathi eyes. And as she moved her lips ordering Avi and Babar to run back home, her expressions were most heavenly.

‘You are most beautiful, dear Marathi, to the measure of your knowledge’ He couldn’t help saying. ‘If I were a bandit, to rob a place in your heart I would take as my life’s endeavor.’ He could almost see acknowledgement, but it was short-lived.

The woman drove her sword forward grounding him further. He instantly recognized her stance and style. The very grip she had on her sword was way too familiar… so was the sword-it’s make.The stranger was intrigued- how could it be?

He swiftly pushed her hands up with his foot and rolled over. He took hold of his sword as he got up.

‘What is your name baheen?’ He asked, dodging a thrust.

‘Your painful death dear friend’ The excitement in her eyes made the stranger curse his disguise. The woman was serious now, and it was quite a struggle dodging her sword. ‘Fight! Coward!’ She shouted perturbed by the smile on his face. She was to be feared.

‘My sword never swung at any woman dear marathi’ Why would she think of me to be a bandit?! ‘Nor has it met any woman holding sword before’ maybe all she wants is for me to fight her..a little excitement perhaps…

He teased her with sloppy moves, never attacking.But watched her eyes closely as she swung, switched and pushed her blade in deadly moves. Someone had trained her well and more surprisingly…. someone he knew.

She swung with force at his head. He engaged his sword and forced her against a fresh gulmohar tree.

She was taken aback. There was surprise brimming in her eyes.

They stood there in silence,as she took time to assess him.He was young, very young.

‘To become a warrior, is that your life’s wish?’ He asked her.

Silence.

He disengaged his sword and walked away.

‘This land my friend has it’s legacy.’ She talked as he paused. ‘There is Khsatriya blood running in our veins. No Marathi grave sleeps in peace as I still hear their vengeance. At nights when they whine to break open and march against the tyranny that prevails in our land, I hear their lament. Mughals, Sultans, Nawabs- great confusion they have bought upon us-foreigners in our soil. I seek their vengeance. A warrior I shall live to be’

The stranger laughed aloud as he sat himself on a rock.

‘There is no place for women in battle my queen’ He smiled. ‘Times have changed….’ he stopped himself. The woman’s eyes were red now as she charged towards him.

‘Two hands to hold a sword and legs to trample enemies have I. Behold me or you would find yourself among the foolish’

He saw the face of future staring at him, the stranger. The fire in her eyes he knew most men lacked. She was quite tall, the woman. Her hair parted in the middle, ended in a bun and was hidden by her dhupatta.It veiled her face leaving only her fiery eyes visible to him. To see her form handle the sword with speed and skill bewildered him. He could see it in her, a future in warfare and politics.

‘Talwar uttao!’ she launched herself at him.He raised his sword just in time to cut her off.

It was a display of womanly anguish- she in pursuit of him, swinging, lifting and thrusting her sword. And him dodging,dancing and putting himself out of danger. Some might say it’s the same with the world, man dwindling out the rise of women, as womanhood kept fighting ancient instincts poised against them.

In a swift slow swing, the stranger’s sword end caught her dhupatta and pulled her veil away. And then for a moment, the world stood in silence, admiring.

The stranger and his sword froze. ‘Dear lord!’

She was a poem. Alliterations, personifications, and racy rhymes. She blinked her eyes as if acknowledging the world for it’s admiration and the stranger disappeared.

She looked around for him. It was something new she felt inside her in the presence of the stranger. An unknown force inside her, she realized, wanted desperately to prove herself to him.

Suddenly he appeared behind her and tossed something on her neck. She looked down at the garland he had made out of fresh water lilies, still wet and warm. He disappeared once again before she could look up. It was strange, she found herself searching for him, the handsome passer-by.

He came out of the shrubs and walked towards her, smiling. In his hand was a crown woven with pink flowers and twigs. She stared at his sharp face and kingly beard as he placed the crown upon her head.

He knelt in front of her and said ‘All hail the beautiful queen, the queen of Maratha!’

She smiled.

‘You can join my force stranger’ She said and placed her sword upon his head.

‘I’m humbled. I would like to pay my duty to the queen.’

She lent him her hand.

‘Sure’.

He kissed it gently and a unique mirth registered on her face- the kind that belongs to nature.

She looked into his eyes and said ‘You are not a bandit’

‘I’m not a bandit’

‘Who are you stranger?’

‘Who am I?’ He laughed to himself. He got up and walked towards the open, away from the clutter of trees and shouted ‘Who am I?’

‘Chatrapatthi!’ Shouted a voice from heaven. ‘Hail Chatrapatthi!’

‘Hail! Hail!’ A thousand voice from above.

Men came flocking out of their hiding, from trees above, from rocks ashore. They made calls and assembled their force as Ila stared with bewilderment.

An aide bought him his horse and he got upon it. He ordered his men to bring her a horse.

‘You can join my force stranger’ He told her.

Chatrapati. The hero of Maratha. The leader of the militia that was fighting against the sultan. The leader of the militia in which her uncle played his part.

She felt humbled and impressed. Especially at the great manners he tended towards her.

She felt her heart being stolen. ‘Tell me dear stranger, how did I deserve this honor?’

‘Your eyes milady, set straight at your dream’ He replied.

Everything she ever wanted stood right in front of her- revenge, glory and the life of her dreams. But behind her- a society that would spread rumors , a father who would kill himself , her mother who would become widowed and the two kids she adored, reality stood grim and grave.

‘Ila!!!! Betti!!!’ The voice of her father, as he came running towards her with some village men.

‘Fare thee well, dear Marathi’ She told him. ‘Hail Chatrapatti!’

‘They have named you with wisdom’ He told her. ‘I see much of the man king in your heart.’ She nodded at him, the young king, as he prepared to leave.

‘To Pratapgad men!’ He shouted. ‘Death to Afzal Khan’

‘Death to Afzal Khan’ They shouted. And with loud cheering they rode off.

They watched the men leave. And then she carried them back home, tears in her eyes.

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The year was 1679. The streets of Paithan was filled with excitement. The penniless lined themselves in queues along the side. Priests were in the temple chanting special prayers and making preparations.Young women stood in their balcony, ready to throw garlands at the king when he arrived.And as Ila stared through the window in her room, announcements of the king’s arrival was being made. People cheered,sound of trumpets, drums and songs filled the air. And then she saw him -the stranger.Chatrapatti Shivaji, King of Maratha.

‘Hail chatrapati!’ She uttered. For a moment she thought about the life she was denied. She would never forgive the world for the right she was never offered-her chance at making history.

Voices of young women laughing came from the room below, and the drunk ramblings of her husband calling names at her. Her eyes reddened-Womanly anguish.

How long?, she thought, for the world to change its ways with women.

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