The first author as part of the Write India campaign is Amish. His competition was based on historic fiction, and revolved around women empowerment. Read on for the short story I wrote for the same. Do leave feedback in the comments.
The following short story was written based on the competition held between 7th July and 30th July as part of the Write India campaign, about which I have talked here. Apart from the regular rules of the Write India campaign, Amish Tripathi himself had set the following rules:
- The story has to be set in the 17th century, not in Ancient Vedic India.
- Remember, India had changed a lot from its ancient mores by the 17th century. But some still remembered the ancient days, when women were respected.
- The story must be set in reality and not have fantastical or mythical angles to it.
- I want the story to be written using the historical information available now about 17th century Paithan. But use your imagination to fill in any holes in the research. Just don't resort to fantasy, keep it plausible.
- The heroine of the story will be Ilaa - a woman who lived in 17th century Paithan (in what is modern Maharashtra), and who remembered the ancient Vedic days (when women were respected in India) and demanded equal rights as any man.
- A story which, while entertaining and fun, must deliver a message on women's rights. Something that many of us in Modern India could learn from.
* * *
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.
Only the frolicking waters of the Godavari gurgled in response. It was fitting, she supposed, talking to the river like she could change matters. The river fed all the villages next to Paithan, not just Sauviragram, but it could not feed her need. Her passion burned in her belly in the form of frustration. She took a deep breath and resumed the posture of calm meditation to cool herself.
The first thing that she had been taught by her mota bhau was to calm herself. A warrior needed calm, and an acute awareness of her surroundings. She focused her mind, distancing her frustration, her fear, even her determination; and listened to the wind as it whistled past her. She heard the gurgling of the river as it flowed past the boulder she sat on. She heard the rustling of leaves, deliberate and slow, and smiled. "Is it time already?" she asked, without turning to see who the newcomer was.
"How do you do that?" Binti asked, abashed at being caught again. Ilaa smiled. She might not be sure of herself, but she was better than the rest of her band. Their training was still incomplete. "Focus, Binti. It will get you through a lot of problems. Answer me now, is it time?"
"Yes. The Chattrapati will be arriving today. They say he plans to stay the night, pay his respects to the saint tomorrow and then continue on his journey towards Jalna." Binti replied, head held high.
"Perfect. Then we must be ready by dawn tomorrow." Ilaa said, adjusting her nauvari as she got up. "It is past time we went back to the farms, no?" Binti snorted in response, and put her arms in hers. "Why, yes of course. So much to do on the farms." They laughed as they walked back towards the village.
The village, directly on the road going to Paithan, was always bustling with a lot of activity, and no one paid attention to two women gossiping and laughing. In between the jokes, Ilaa communicated her instructions to Binti, who simply nodded. The plan was already worked out, and they had all gone at it from every possible angle to find and eliminate any flaw.
At an intersection, Binti went the opposite direction and Ilaa continued. Bending into the right homes, she sought out others of her band, and said just one word. "Tomorrow." Elsewhere in the village, Binti would be doing the same. Often she needed the pretext of talking about village gossip, or spices for food, or the harvest to get through to the right person, but Ilaa was used to this, and it gave her enough time to think. Unfortunately, that also meant it gave her time to be frustrated.
The whole situation made her want to bite someone. She was a grown woman, seventeen years old. Most women her age were married and carrying their own child by now. She had escaped that plight though, thanks to mota bhau. Till a month back, anyway. Her elder brother was always there for her. Daga had taught her how to fight – with her bare hands, with a dagger, even with a bagh-nakh. To him, fifteen years her elder, she was a kid, and yet he understood her passion for fighting, her yearning to join the Maratha warriors. He had stopped her getting married off twice – once when she was seven, and again when she was twelve. He had protected her from her father’s drunk beatings, and taught her how to defend herself. And yet when he left – a proper soldier in the Maratha army, she could only see the others in her life live her dream.
She had controlled her anger every year, when the recruiting officers laughed at her request to join. She kept silent every year they picked out boys her age and took them for training in guerilla warfare. I'm better than them, Ilaa fumed. Mota bhau taught her whenever he came home, but she was alone, with no one taking her seriously. She had even bit her tongue when her father had dragged her to see Sant Tukaram at Paithan to get her ‘treated’. But then just last month, when Daga left yet again, her father had declared he was getting her married off the first opportunity he got. Ilaa stamped her foot in the middle of the street in anger before she realized what she was doing. A little boy playing with stones jerked back at her expression, and ran away as fast as he could, stones lying forgotten. As Ilaa walked back to her home for what she hoped was the last time, she had only one word on her lips.
"Tomorrow."
"What is your name, daughter?" Sant Tukaram asked, breaking the silence instead. "I am Ilaa, from Sauviragram. My brother is a soldier in His Majesty’s army." Ilaa replied proudly, never looking away from Shivaji.
Shivaji turned away from her without a single word, and announced to the crowd, "These women here are absolved of any guilt whatsoever! They are also drafted into the Maratha army, as part of our Guerilla regiments. This day forth, the military is open to any woman who is a true Maratha, and willing to fight and die for her country!”
Ilaa's eyes teared with joy, her pain forgotten. She opened her mouth to thank Shivaji, but he moved to her first, lifting her up by her shoulders. "Do you know what your name means, sister?"
Ilaa blinked in surprise. She had never thought of her name. Her expression must have betrayed to the Chattrapati her ignorance, for he smiled genially and spoke loudly so that everyone could hear.
"Ilaa is the name of Manu’s daughter, sister to Ishvaku, who is the father of the Suryavanshi Kshatriyas. Ilaa was special in that she lived every alternate month as a man, Suddyumma. Through marriage to the Mercury God, Budha, she mothered Pururavas, thus became the progenitor of the Chandravanshi Kshatriyas. She made her capital here at Paithan, which was then known as Pratishthanapura. Remember your glory, brothers and sisters. There is manly courage in the women here. Remember Ilaa! Remember Pratishthana! Jai Hindava!"
"Jai Hindava! Jai Ilaa! Jai Maratha!"
The first thing that she had been taught by her mota bhau was to calm herself. A warrior needed calm, and an acute awareness of her surroundings. She focused her mind, distancing her frustration, her fear, even her determination; and listened to the wind as it whistled past her. She heard the gurgling of the river as it flowed past the boulder she sat on. She heard the rustling of leaves, deliberate and slow, and smiled. "Is it time already?" she asked, without turning to see who the newcomer was.
"How do you do that?" Binti asked, abashed at being caught again. Ilaa smiled. She might not be sure of herself, but she was better than the rest of her band. Their training was still incomplete. "Focus, Binti. It will get you through a lot of problems. Answer me now, is it time?"
"Yes. The Chattrapati will be arriving today. They say he plans to stay the night, pay his respects to the saint tomorrow and then continue on his journey towards Jalna." Binti replied, head held high.
"Perfect. Then we must be ready by dawn tomorrow." Ilaa said, adjusting her nauvari as she got up. "It is past time we went back to the farms, no?" Binti snorted in response, and put her arms in hers. "Why, yes of course. So much to do on the farms." They laughed as they walked back towards the village.
The village, directly on the road going to Paithan, was always bustling with a lot of activity, and no one paid attention to two women gossiping and laughing. In between the jokes, Ilaa communicated her instructions to Binti, who simply nodded. The plan was already worked out, and they had all gone at it from every possible angle to find and eliminate any flaw.
At an intersection, Binti went the opposite direction and Ilaa continued. Bending into the right homes, she sought out others of her band, and said just one word. "Tomorrow." Elsewhere in the village, Binti would be doing the same. Often she needed the pretext of talking about village gossip, or spices for food, or the harvest to get through to the right person, but Ilaa was used to this, and it gave her enough time to think. Unfortunately, that also meant it gave her time to be frustrated.
The whole situation made her want to bite someone. She was a grown woman, seventeen years old. Most women her age were married and carrying their own child by now. She had escaped that plight though, thanks to mota bhau. Till a month back, anyway. Her elder brother was always there for her. Daga had taught her how to fight – with her bare hands, with a dagger, even with a bagh-nakh. To him, fifteen years her elder, she was a kid, and yet he understood her passion for fighting, her yearning to join the Maratha warriors. He had stopped her getting married off twice – once when she was seven, and again when she was twelve. He had protected her from her father’s drunk beatings, and taught her how to defend herself. And yet when he left – a proper soldier in the Maratha army, she could only see the others in her life live her dream.
She had controlled her anger every year, when the recruiting officers laughed at her request to join. She kept silent every year they picked out boys her age and took them for training in guerilla warfare. I'm better than them, Ilaa fumed. Mota bhau taught her whenever he came home, but she was alone, with no one taking her seriously. She had even bit her tongue when her father had dragged her to see Sant Tukaram at Paithan to get her ‘treated’. But then just last month, when Daga left yet again, her father had declared he was getting her married off the first opportunity he got. Ilaa stamped her foot in the middle of the street in anger before she realized what she was doing. A little boy playing with stones jerked back at her expression, and ran away as fast as he could, stones lying forgotten. As Ilaa walked back to her home for what she hoped was the last time, she had only one word on her lips.
"Tomorrow."
* * *
At dawn, as the first rays of sunlight chased the darkness away, shadows moved outside of Sauviragram and resolved themselves into women in nauvaris ranging from ten to twenty five years of age. Within five minutes of her own arrival, Ilaa counted all twenty seven of her band. Mota Bhau always said punctuality and discipline was paramount to the success of an army. Chaos was a weapon the Maratha used to their advantage often. The women silently lined up with meagre belongings. They looked fresh, ready, and most satisfactorily for Ilaa, determined. She turned and started walking up the Paithan road towards the town.
Two hours of walking brought them to the gates of Paithan, yet no one suspected women of anything, and hence were let in without any fuss, even with the Chattrapati's soldiers at the gate. Ilaa silently gave final instructions to all the women one by one, and they all melded into the morning crowd milling around the markets on the town edge. Ilaa herself went towards the parade grounds, trying to look as though she was roaming aimlessly through the market. Watching Binti slip into the next alley, Ilaa reflected on just how lucky she was that there were like minded women around her. She had no doubt she would never have decided to do this alone. She would have given in, and married like her father wanted. Likely each of the others would have given in to their own life struggles as well, without each other. Reaching the parade ground, where only a paan seller lady sat in the shade of the peepul tree. Ilaa squatted next to her, and began chatting with her about anything and everything. Mota Bhau often said that soldiering was mostly waiting. So she would wait.
The sun was past overhead when the drums sounded, announcing the coming of the Chattrapati's entourage. Within the hour the parade ground was filled with people anxiously waiting to see the king. As the entourage from the street behind Ilaa sparking murmurs of awe, Ilaa silently edged to the front of the crowd. From this close vantage, she would see the Chattrapti come and leave. Sant Tukaram and his disciples were the first to enter, with the town priest Kawale trailing behind them, walking with a man boxed in by soldiers, resplendent in his orange and white coat and dhoti, with the signature red turban wrapped around his head, encrusted by a single ruby that marked this man as the Chattrapati Shivaji. The man looked bigger than in stories, his temple winged by graying hair, muscular build, and an erect posture that demanded obedience.
At the centre of the parade grounds, the Sant Tukaram raised his wiry old hands for silence. As silence fell, Ilaa caught sight of four other women from her band in the crowd, all right in front, taking position. The Chattrapati then spoke, and her eyes were pulled by his regal tone, "Brothers and sisters! I bring glad tidings from the west. This past month we have besieged and won the fort at Kandheri island from the firangi invaders. Our navy has now fortified Kandheri! Jai Hindava!"
The crowd erupted around Ilaa with cries of "Jai Hindava!", "Jai Maratha!”, "Chattrapati Shivaji ki Jai!" Again Sant Tukaram raised his hand to silence the crowd, but this time it took longer for the volumes to subside for Chattrapati Shivaji to be heard again. Smiling genially at the crowd, the fifty year old man continued, "On my way to Kandheri, I prayed at your temples, and that is what has ensured our victory. As a token of appreciation, I, after discussion with Sant Tukaram, appoint Kavale Yaajak as Royal priest for the kingdom!"
Whatever the man said after that was lost to the cheers of the townspeople. People started throwing flowers at the royal entourage. Shivaji removed a ring from his left hand and handed it to Kavale, who bent and kissed the Chattrapati's fingers before receiving it. Ilaa watched the entire spectacle agape. She had not known this would have been such a big event. If she moved now, she would spark riots. The mob would tear them to pieces. She looked to the soldiers, fourteen of them in all, and of them two were officers on horses. Her band outnumbered the soldiers two to one, and yet, they were not trained. Ilaa's eyes met expectant eyes from across the crowd, each one in position just like she had told them. She resolved herself. She would do what needed to be done. Marriage or death, both were same to her anyway.
As Shivaji turned around to present Kavale to the crowd, she leaped into the entourage, pushing a startled soldier away and grabbing the Chattrapati from behind. The man was strong, surreally so, he merely stiffened, and Ilaa couldn't move him an inch. But her dagger was at his throat, and she heard gasps and shouts from around the crowd. Blood rushing through her, she spoke into his ear, "You should ask your soldiers to stand down, Chattrapati. We only want to talk."
"Somehow I don't think that will be an issue. Take a look around you, sister." Shivaji replied. Absolutely at ease, the man sounded amused! Shiva! Ilaa cursed, but then looked around without taking the dagger off Shivaji's neck. Her band had their own daggers on each of the officers and the soldiers. Only Kavale and the Sant Tukaram stood unaccounted for, too shocked to even move. The four women who were nearest to them still stood with a stunned crowd, waiting in the shadows in case they were needed.
Immediately Ilaa took her dagger away from her king and knelt with her head bowed. She heard the rustling of nauvaris to know the rest did the same. She spoke with all the heat in her belly, "We apologize, your majesty. We are willing to accept any punishment for our crimes here today, but we wish to be heard before our sentencing."
A minute's silence stretched as Ilaa stared at the dirt in front of her. "Rise, sister", Shivaji’s regal voice then rang clear, "And tell me what message could be so important you would take a dagger to a fellow Maratha?"
Rising slowly, Ilaa cleared her throat. This was the moment that they had planned. After this there was naught but luck. "I wish to challenge your best soldier, Chattrapati, to a duel." A deafeningly loud silence ensued for a few moments as Shivaji studied her face. And then he barked a laugh, and said "A Maratha, you are, sister, through and through! I have no doubt you could best the champion I choose. Tell me your wish, sister!"
Ilaa stepped up and raised her voice so it could be heard by everyone.
"We wish to fight by our brothers' side for the goal of Hindava, Chattrapati! We see our brothers and fathers and sons go to war, while we sit and sew their wreaths. No more! We will have the right to fight. This cause, our cause, is as much our right as it is you men's."
"We men fight for your safety, sister" An officer snapped, "Everyone has a role in this fight, even you. Do not disrespect that role." Shivaji simply looked at the officer, and he quietened, looking chastened. Ilaa retorted, "Did we ask you to keep us safe? Who told you we are weak? Would you fight me now, brother?"
Turning to the crowd, she spoke to the king instead, "You claim honourable victories through sleight, through guerilla warfare. Who goes undetected everywhere? Who reached this blade to your neck today, undetected? Would you ignore half the army you could have, Chattrapati?" She turned to the king, and raised her arm. Behind her, so did twenty seven others. "The same blood that boils at seeing foreigners rule us that runs in your veins runs in ours, Chattrapati! Let us shed that for our motherland. That is all we ask." With that Ilaa went down on one knee, arm upright, and slashed her wrist with the dagger.
She did not wince as the blade cut her skin, or the crimson spread out. She did not look away from Shivaji's face, as his eyes bore into hers. Silence stretched out, not even a breath heard from the crowd. This was her moment. She drowned or she flew. One or the other. Shivaji never looked away, and neither did she. He had to see her passion!
"What is your name, daughter?" Sant Tukaram asked, breaking the silence instead. "I am Ilaa, from Sauviragram. My brother is a soldier in His Majesty’s army." Ilaa replied proudly, never looking away from Shivaji.
Shivaji turned away from her without a single word, and announced to the crowd, "These women here are absolved of any guilt whatsoever! They are also drafted into the Maratha army, as part of our Guerilla regiments. This day forth, the military is open to any woman who is a true Maratha, and willing to fight and die for her country!”
Ilaa's eyes teared with joy, her pain forgotten. She opened her mouth to thank Shivaji, but he moved to her first, lifting her up by her shoulders. "Do you know what your name means, sister?"
Ilaa blinked in surprise. She had never thought of her name. Her expression must have betrayed to the Chattrapati her ignorance, for he smiled genially and spoke loudly so that everyone could hear.
"Ilaa is the name of Manu’s daughter, sister to Ishvaku, who is the father of the Suryavanshi Kshatriyas. Ilaa was special in that she lived every alternate month as a man, Suddyumma. Through marriage to the Mercury God, Budha, she mothered Pururavas, thus became the progenitor of the Chandravanshi Kshatriyas. She made her capital here at Paithan, which was then known as Pratishthanapura. Remember your glory, brothers and sisters. There is manly courage in the women here. Remember Ilaa! Remember Pratishthana! Jai Hindava!"
"Jai Hindava! Jai Ilaa! Jai Maratha!"
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