A Dried Droplet

The first gleam of early dawn seeped through the wire mesh of the single window; though its radiance could hardly lift the gloomy obscurity of the tiny chamber. A narrow cot and a clay pitcher with a goblet on top were the only fixtures in the room that emphasised paucity rather than asceticism, patches of dented plaster on the discoloured wall only added gravity to it. On a closer look the waning form of an elderly man came in view lying on the cot listless; he looked almost ghostly with his unkempt beard, faded kurta (long-shirt) and threadbare summer quilt. He was in intermittent slumber, his sunken eyes deep shut in apathetic resignation.

‘Huzoor, it’s time for your Namaz’ a soft melodious voice brought him back from oblivion, he gazed at the delicate form stooped at his bedside; she looked surreal in the soft glow of sunlight. ‘Why are you up so early Jaan?’ unlike the appearance, his voice was strong and articulation elegant. ‘You would have missed your prayer otherwise’. ‘Allah is always in my thoughts, it is him who has bereaved me’ a faded smile appeared on his bony face.

He sat for prayer facing west; his distraught face gradually transformed into magnificence, an hour passed by.

***

‘Shekhu told me stories of Mullah Nasruddin, they are so funny Abba Jaan; do you know such stories too?’ Mirza Shah Abbas, the youngest son sat with his father at times, unlike the other son his beloved Jawan Bakht. Abbas, in his mid-teen was boyish for his stature, lack of opportunity to connect with the outer world could be the reason; like his father his world was also restricted to the enclosure midst an orchard at the outskirt of Rangoon city. ‘I have recently learnt one Son; where a king was tried for treason in his own kingdom by a bunch of intruders; isn’t it funny?’ His eyes shined in unusual spark, Abbas fell into reticence.

Life stood still in this small abode for a group of people tied not only by blood but destiny too; the world outside bore no significance to them anymore. It was a drowsy afternoon of mid-summer; everyone seemed absorbed in lethargic slumber except the old man who was lost in his own thought in his lonely confinement. All of a sudden, he fell into one of his many coughing bouts, ‘Begum Jaan’ he called for a few times couched on a bolster, a brass made hukkah was lying dozed off within hand’s reach. ‘Told you so many times not to smoke; adhi nind angrezo ne le li, adhi aapne (my sleep partially have been snatched away by the British and rest by you)!’ Zeenath Mahal, his beloved Padshah Begum retorted while rushing in. He looked up; they both fell into a stupor as aftermath. She handed him the goblet filled with water silently.

They Kal Jo Apne Ghar Mein Wo Mahman Kahan Hain,

Jo Kho Gaye Hain Ya Rab Wo Ausan Kahan Hain;

Ankhon Mein Rote Rote Nam Bhi Nahin Ab To,

They Maujzan Jo Pahle Wo Tufan Kahan Hain;

Kuch Aur Dhab Ab To Hamein Log Dekhte Hain,

Pahle Jo Ai “Zafar” They Wo Insan Kahan Hain.

(Where is that lodger who once stayed in his own abode? -

the one who is lost in the ruckus, my Lord.

Tears have dried out in those weepy eyes,

Where has the ferocity disappeared of once feisty storm?

People see me in different light now-a-days,

The Zafar of past is lost forever.)

The weary voice of Bahadur Shah II resonated in the chamber like mourning; tears rolled down Zeenath’s young face unconsciously.

***

‘Long live Shahenshah-e-Hind Bahadur Shah Zafar! May his Kingdom last for eternity!’ A boisterous troop of Indian sepoys of East India Company cried out while racing into the Red Fort on the easy afternoon of May 11^th in the year 1857. Slowly a large number of crowd started gathering around; the cry of rebels spread across, making it a mass uproar. The sepoys ultimately halted in front of Dewan-e-Aam; they formally declared the Mughal Emperor their leader, addressing the crowd of locals already incited with anticipation. In the evening, a private audience was arranged between their leaders and Royalty; the eighty two years old Emperor finally faced the rebel sepoys the next day. His mind cautioned him against defying the British, so did Zeenath Mahal and a few confederates, but he listened to his heart and gave his blessings.

‘How can I turn them in for the sake of my own safety? The Taimuri sword has rusted, but my dignity hasn’t’ he reasoned his beloved wife. ‘Do you want to jeopardise the chance of my Jawan Bakht to be your successor?’ Zeneth vented frustration. ‘Life is full of possibilities Jaan. Wasn’t it a chance that this Sufi scholar became an Emperor surpassing the chosen hair?’

For the next four months Delhi was in mayhem with looting, recklessness and mindless killing as the rebels took over Delhi and its surroundings. The Emperor remained a helpless spectator, sincerely disapproving the mass killing of British nationalities including women and children. The atrocity of this slaughter greatly disturbed his poetic mind and Sufi ideology. He engaged into continued prayers in the seclusion of his remote apartments. His heart sank when the sepoys and Royal servants pulled out fifty two British Nationals like shaken lambs from their Palace refuge and slaughtered under a Peepul tree in front of the Palace.

Yar tha gulzar tha baad e saba thi main na tha

Leyaqe-pa-bos-e-jana  kya hina thi main na tha

Hath kyon bandhe mere challa agar chori hua

Ye sarapa shokhi-e-rang-e-hina thi main na tha

Main ne pucha kya hua wo ap ka husn-o-shabab

Hans ke bole vo sanam shan-e-Khuda thi main na tha

Main sisakta rah gaya aur mar gaye farahad-o-qais

Kya unhin donon k hisse mein qaza thi main na tha

Ai 'Zafar' ki par tere, ye daag kaisa rah gaya

Kaun baaqi aadaygi arthi khoda thi main na tha

(In the garden of rose, under gentle breeze lazed my beloved, I wasn’t there

It was the henna dye that kissed her feet, not me.

Why my hands were fastened when the ring went missing?

It was the doing of a mischievous beauty, not me.

‘What happened to your youthful charisma?’ I asked

‘It was the glory of God, not me’, my beloved responded with a smile.

I kept sighing, but Farhad and Qais gave away life

Was death to be bestowed upon those two only, not me?

Hey Zafar, how come your deed remains tainted!

Who would repay the dues, your carcase is buried; I wasn’t there.)

His pen mourned the evasiveness of those blood thirsty mutineers who committed war crime under his name.

By the end of August British regained their foothold in and around Delhi; the Badshah could foresee the avalanche reaching him soon. About mid-September, the disheartened Emperor left Red Fort along with his close family to take refuge in Humayun’s Tomb at the outskirt of Imperial Delhi; none of the rebel troops accompanied him to provide protection. On September 20^th he was brought back to Red fort by William Hodson as prisoner on promise of clemency. His two elder sons Mirza Mughal and Mirza Khizr Sultan and grandson Mirza Abu Bakht were stripped naked and shot dead near Delhi gate the very next day.

***

The palanquin was lowered delicately in front of the trial room; Jawan Bakht helped his ailing father to get down. Unstable and bewildered the Emperor took a long time to reach to the divan assigned to him for sitting. The court room fell into absolute silence for a few moments in secret sympathy witnessing his humiliation; the proceedings started which ultimately continued for two long months. The prosecutor charged the Emperor with Treason; conspiracy and deliberate murder among many other war crimes; the entire arguments took place in English which neither the Emperor, nor his son understood. ‘Guilty or not guilty?’ he was asked several times, he remained silent, not knowing the implication. Days passed by in submission of documents and arguments in support of the charges; the emperor attended the trial every day, most of the time engrossed in his own thought and at times trying to figure out the situation, in vein.

‘Huzuur-e-Alaa, You should present your side too in the court, Angrez do give chance to their offenders’ the Emperor’s physician Hakim Ahsanullah advised. Confined in one of the servants’ quarters of the Palace the Badshah looked ancient and haggard. Hakim took his silence as consent and pursued further, ‘you are a magician with words; just pour your heart out, they will understand’.

Bhari Hai Dil mein jo hasrat, kahun toh kisse kahun?

Sune hain kaun musiibat, kahun toh kis se kahun.

Jo dost ho toh kahun tujhse dosti ki baat,

Tujhe toh mujhse adaavat, kahun toh kis se kahun.

Na mujh ko kahne ki taaqat, kahun toh kya alvaal

Na Usko sun ne ki fursaat, kahun toh kis se kahun.

Kisi ko dekhta itna nahin haqiiqat mein,

Zafar main apni haqiiqat kahun toh kis se kahun.

  

(Whom should I share with my sorrow?

Who would take the trouble to listen to it?

Had you been a friend, I would have shared intimacy with you,

But, you are in enmity with me, how can I share my thought?

Neither I have the energy to talk, nor does he have the patience to listen,

Whom should I confide?

I never bothered to check the reality,

Zafar, how can I divulge the reality to anyone?)

The Hakim left in taciturnity, with anguish of the nazm still hanging in the air.

After a few days, Bahadur Shah submitted a short statement in self-defence written in Urdu where he pleaded himself ‘not guilty’; it hardly helped his case though.

At the end of the trial which proved to be one of the biggest mockeries of legal proceeding in British India, the Emperor was pronounced guilty of all the charges and sentenced to lifetime exile in the city of Rangoon.

***

The chilly northern breeze of late afternoon hinted at the approaching winter, though winter in Rangoon wasn’t anything like Delhi; for that matter nothing of this faraway land reminded him of his homeland. He missed the evening breeze of summer at ‘Shawan Bhado’, warmth of Sun in mystique winter afternoons; above all he missed those night long Mushaiaras (musical soiree) resonant with nazm (poem) of Zauq, Ghalib, Mumin and so on.

The fading light of late afternoon wasn’t enough for his old eyes, he concentrated hard to scribble on the murky wall with a burnt stick; besides claim to the throne, he had lost right to possess pen and paper. The heavy puffing caused interruption, his trembling hands paused frequently; still the excellence of calligraphy was evident from the outcome.

His breathing was barely discernible, as the frail body rested on the cot; air was heavy inside the tiny chamber with anxious faces crowded in. The English doctor looked grim while leaving his patient. ‘What’s his chance?’ Commissioner Davies enquired at the doorway; ‘anytime soon’ the doctor gestured and left.

The pulsing sound of digging surged inside at the hours of darkness, an owl squawked somewhere near; Zeenath Mahal paled in apprehension; shadow of death overpowered the atmosphere. His heavy eyelids slowly opened with immense effort, a dazed smile appeared on the sunken face, Zeenath bent over. He looked at the wall beside, she followed his gaze; the scrawl remained obscure in the feeble light.

The first ray of Sun seeped in, Zeenath dozing in her bedside post woke up with the sound of a deep sigh; the Emperor looked serene in his eternal sleep, as he took his last breath. The Janaaza was carried to the back of the enclosure by his two sons and a servant; a quiet burial in an unmarked grave didn’t leave scope for engraving his Nazm meant for the cenotaph. His longing to be buried near Zafar Mahal at Mehruli remained trapped in the poem forever.

lagtaa nahin hei ji mera ujare dayaar mein

kiskii banii hei aalam-e-naa-paayedaar mein

Bulbul ko paasbaan se na saiyyaad se gilaa

qismet mein qaid likhii tthi fasl-e-bahaar mein

kaeh do in hassreton se kahiin aur jaa basein

itnii jageh kahaan hei dil-e-daaGhdaar mein

ik shaaKh-e-guul pe baiTh ke bulbul hei shaadmaan

kaanTe bichaa diye hein dil-e-laalaazaar mein

umr-e-daraaz maang ke laaye tthe chaar din

do aarzuu mein kaT gayee do intezaar mein

din zindagii ke Khatm huey shaam ho gayii

p'hailaa ke paaoon soyein-ge kuunj-e-mazaar mein

kitnaa hei bad-naseeb zafar dafn ke liye

do gaz zamiin bhii na milii kuu-e-yaar mein

‘My heart has no repose in this despoiled land

Who has ever felt content in this futile world?

The nightingale moans neither about the sentinel nor the hunter

Fate had decreed imprisonment at the outbreak of spring

Tell these longings to go and dwell elsewhere

What space is there for them in this besmirched heart?

Sitting on a branch of flowers, the nightingale rejoices

It has strewn thorns in the garden of my heart

I asked for a long life, received four days

Two passed in longing, two in anticipation.

The days of life are over, dusk has set in

I shall rest, legs outstretched, in my tomb

How unfortunate is Zafar! For his burial

Not even two yards of land were to be had, in his beloved land.’

Note: The Emperor died after four years of exile on November 7, 1862; his immediate family (Zeenath Mahal, her son Jawan Bakht, his child bride Zamani Begum and youngest son Shah Abbas) who were also confined with him were released finally in the year 1867. ‘Zafar’ the pseudo-name of Bahadur Shah II meant ‘Victory’; the defeated Emperor definitely earned victory on billions of hearts with his poetry and compassion. His grave remained lost in deliberate anonymity for almost 150 years, until in 1991 when it was discovered while digging for drainage and later converted into a Dargah. Zeanath Mahal his favourite wife and lifetime companion who died 20 years after his death, was also buried somewhere near his own grave. It was believed that Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose started his “Delhi Chalo” campaign in 1942 after paying his respect to the former Emperor.

©2015 ananyapal ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Changi Museum – a pantheon of undaunted spirit

Changi museum, a humble dwelling of WWII relics holds the colonial past of Singapore for history lovers and a unique sentiment for those who in some way connect to the havoc of WWII at Asian front. The Museum and the adjoining Chapel are situated at Upper Changi Road North, about 1km away from the Changi prison which was known for its notoriety during Japanese occupation of Singapore.

During my recent visit to Singapore, the museum topped my list of must-see places. I stayed at the Orchard Road; from there it took 20 minutes and 16 S$ in a taxi to reach the museum. I visited Singapore during Christmas, hence, the only day I could plan this visit was the day I returned, which was 27^th December. I had an evening flight to catch, so reached the place sharp at 10 in the morning. The Changi village area that came my way while reaching the museum was far less crowded and soothing to the urban eyes due to the lush green surroundings. As I approached the unobtrusive building, the Chapel appeared near the gateway, the entrance to the museum was at the right side of it. Quite in contrast to the mad rush at the so called tourist attractions of the port city, this museum was calm and near empty. A certain aura of melancholy hung in the air which was hard to explain. The lady at the counter cordially explained the rules of visiting the museum; ‘not taking photographs inside’ was one of them. I opted for an audio tour @ 6S$ per person and started my exploration.

The Gateway

The museum had 25 exhibit points displayed over the following zones:

1. Storyboard – This area contained the background, statistical details and maps of the WWII Singapore. Rows of information panels outlined wartime activities; that included invaluable photographs of marching Japanese and British Armies, the final negotiation for surrender by both army heads at Ford factory, Victory March after liberation of Singapore in 1945 etc.

In this section, few quotes attached to the photographs of significant people particularly attracted my attention. One such was by Lt.-Gen. Yamashita, commander of the Japanese forces that won The Battle of Singapore: ‘My attack on Singapore was a bluff – a bluff that worked. I had 30,000 men and was outnumbered more than three to one. I knew if I had to fight long for Singapore I would be beaten. That is why the surrender had to be at once. I was frightened all the time that the British would discover our numerical weakness and lack of supplies and force me into disastrous street fighting.’

Two other quotes were by two prominent British officials who were captured as POWs and put into the deathly camps that they eventually survived. One said, ‘We came to this place to make lots of money and never thought much about the natives. During my time in the camp seeing their friendliness and warmth I realised they are actually very nice.’ The other said, ‘This Japanese occupation made us learn humility.’ These words undoubtedly talked a lot about the past.

The display cases also contained wartime items including those of personal effects such as letters, postcards, diaries and photographs most of which were graciously donated by either the survivors or their family members.

Few of the items that needed special mentioning here were 1) a letter to a POW from home that informs the birth of his girl child, 2) a matchbox containing hidden transmitter made by POWs, 3) photographs of several make shift transmitters and the methods in which they were put to use by prisoners (showing there indomitable spirit). At this point the audio provided recorded voice of Mrs. Elizabeth Choy who was captured by Japanese force along with her husband for providing medicines to the POWs and passing out messages. Her depiction of the torture that took place in front of her husband by tying her with a pole and passing electric shock made me feel dizzy; but the highlight of the speech was her saying that she had forgiven her tormentors, though not forgotten, it was all doing of the war.

There were much disturbing photographs of mass murder of Indian Soldiers who refused to be disloyal to their master, the British and picture of beheading of Chinese nationals.

Many photographs along with wartime objects like drag chains, whip, Japanese bayonet portrayed the brutality at the infamous ‘Death Railway’ camps. The Railway track connecting Thailand to Myanmar (erstwhile Burma) that was constructed by Imperial Japanese Army utilising war slaves was termed as Death Railway due to the high rate of casualties caused by disease, starvation and exhaustion.

There were quilts on display; these quilts were embroidered by ladies of the camps at their free time. Each section of these artefacts depicted varied emotion of parted lovers, grieving mothers, worried daughter or wives that only can be felt while inspecting at close quarter.

2. Prison Section – This area conveyed a sense of what prison life was about, and included an actual sized floor plan of a prison cell, a rag uniform and utensils of prisoners. At this point a recorded voice of a lady, then a young girl at Changi prison talked of another aspect of horror in prison life; she along with few others were identified as comfort girls for Japanese Army and were forced to entertain the soldiers against their own wish. Her voice choked while talking about her years within the walls, she said, ‘The men got medals for their heroism, but the women remained anonymous despite showing undying spirit to fight all odds’, it numbed all my senses for a few moments, my eyes weren’t dry either.

3. Murals – This section replicated a small chapel with the walls adorned with re-creations of the original Changi Murals, a set of 5 Christian scenes drawn by a prisoner named Stanley Warren using improvised materials while in prison.

4. Wartime Artists – This section displayed paintings and drawings by the prisoners depicting wartime life who wanted to record their experiences. Looking through these pictures one could feel the aura of that troubled time. A picture in particular with its simple portrayal of 2 malaria patients carrying a dying cholera patient said a lot about the situation in the prison.

5. End of the War – This section includes a timeline of the events of the war, information boards with post-war stories told by survivors, and a display of commemorative plaques and pennants honouring the heroes.

The Changi Chapel is a replica of the Chapel that was created at the Changi Prison during WWII. The brass cross at the centre was made by Staff Sergeant Harry Stogden from 4.5 Howitzer shell. At a board in a wall several visitors, most of them descendants of the POWs left loving notes that were definitely an added attraction and touched a chord within.

The Chapel

The Cross

Note of Thanks

The loving notes

It took hardly half a day to visit the museum, but the experience was of a lifetime of exceptional courage, zest and above all the futility of war.

***

Atonement

A golden strip, gently emerging from the eastern horizon sparked fire on the pristine water of Chandrabhaga at early dawn. A man dressed in white pattavastra, majestic in his gait gradually entered the river to face the rising Sun. From the back he looked magnificent, his bare torso chiselled to the perfection suggested of extreme handsomeness. The radiant beam of dawn created a golden rim surrounding him. It was time for his daily ritual of worshiping the Sun God; a ritual that had been part of his life for past twelve years. Chanting of Surya Namaskar in his deep melodious voice reverberated in the air; a sense of utmost adjuration reflected in its resonance.

The Sun was already up by the time he finished his prayer and turned back to leave the water; in broad daylight his face looked shocking with severe lesions all over. The fine features that once mesmerised every bystander were now too appalling even to look at. He was Samba the coveted son of Lord Krishna from his wife Jambavati.

***

Samba was born under the blessings of Lord Shiva after months of austere meditation by his father to the Supreme Lord. ‘Born with many qualities, but he will cause destruction to your Yadu Vansh’ prophesied the departing Lord, being himself the God of devastation. True to the prediction, Samba was a prodigy, be it in his charisma or skill in weaponry; he was the undoubted hero for the Yadava youth and definitely the favourite within Royalty. As a result of this he grew up to be probably a little too self-assured for the comfort of Yadupati Krishna.

Like his father Samba was known for his boyish notoriety as a kid that occasionally created trouble, though his popularity among peers remained undaunted. His courage led to aggression, hero worshiping by followers resulted in mindless mischiefs.

Dwarka was often graced with the sacred presence of sages, as they preferred to seek advice from Dwarkadhish Krishna on spiritual intricacies; in one such occasion, the young prince dressed like a pregnant woman approached three visiting sages awaiting his father’s audience. ‘Hon’bles, could you please predict the gender of her unborn child?’ his enthusiastic friends contributed to the prank. With one look at the disguised Prince, the seers understood; ‘So, the descendants of Sri Hari have come down to this!’ the chief of the trio remarked. ‘Listen, this woman will deliver neither a boy nor a girl; but an iron club and that club will one day destroy the entire Yadu Vansh’ the sages pronounced in unison with glaring eyes. To their surprise the group of boys discovered shortly that the earthen pot they used to portray the womb had actually turned into a big club of solid iron. ‘It is your destiny that called for it’ Shi Krishna sighed when the boys went to him in nervous bout. ‘Grind it in powder and throw into the sea’ was his advice. The boys didn’t care to take so much of trouble, instead threw it into the sea as it was. Many years later the club floated back to the shore and became an instrument in annihilation of the entire clan; but that was a different story.

***

The court of Hastinapur surpassed even Indrasabha in grandeur on this special day; the mighty kings and crown Princes of entire Aryavarta even charismatic Gandharvas from heaven sat at the ornate main sanctum with much anticipation. The sages and Gods were present to grace the occasion with their blessings which was to be presided by none other than Lord Indra. It was the swayamvar ceremony of Princess Lakshmana, the glorious daughter of Kuru Prince Duryodhana.

At the predefined auspicious moment Kripacharya, the Royal Priest chanted praises for Brahma, Vishnu, Maheshwara and initiated the ceremony, father of the bride Duryodhana invited Lord Indra at the centre stage to preside the swayamvar. The bride was brought in along with an entourage; the gorgeous Princess with an intelligent face and gait of a true royal, formally sought for blessings from holy men and divinity. Lord Indra set mark of inauguration of the ceremony, prospective bride-grooms sat upright with renewed attention. As the proceeding started Samba, one of the contenders in the swayamvar jumped of his seat in a flash of moment and stormed out of the venue gathering the bride in his arms. The members of the court remained motionless in amazement for some time before comprehending the situation. Duryodhana along with his brothers and Karna chased after the runaway couple with nothing but revenge in mind. Samba finally faced them midway towards Dwarka, a fierce battle initiated between two most uneven forces. The volley of arrows continued to confront across the sky for the entire day tirelessly, the unbending spirit of the lonely warrior drew adulation from the veteran opponents, though Duryodhana remained vehement in his decision to destroy the audacious Prince. Little before Sunset, the outcome of the war became too apparent to both the parties; Samba decided to accept his fate with dignity.

A forceful sound of conch echoed around like a sudden thunderbolt; a great plough divided the earth across the enemy line and Balavadra appeared from distance to take the side of his nephew. ‘Duryodhana! If you are so eager to fight then accept my challenge; you need to defeat me for winning over Samba’ the great warrior roared. Duryodhana in turn laid down his weapon seeing his shashtra Guru (mentor for weaponry) in opponent side.

‘Dev, he has abducted my daughter against her will’ he complained to Balavadra. ‘Let us take Lakshmana’s opinion before deciding the fate of my nephew’ Balavadra suggested in the course of convincing Duryodhana about the marriage. ‘Bhadre, do you want to go back to Hastinapur with your father? Or do you accept Samba as husband? Think carefully before taking decision’ the elder Yadava approached the princess with fatherly affection. Lakshmana took her time to answer, ‘I was angry with him for depriving me to choose my husband and even hated him for the abduction’. With a pause she continued, ‘but, my feelings have undergone a change in these last couple of hours; no one among the contenders in the court could have been a match with Samba in terms of courage and skill’, her voice remained calm, though not cold. ‘I accept him as husband in my own accord’ she pronounced without hesitation, her celestial face blushed in the crimson of setting Sun most appealingly.

***

It was the lovely evening of Phalguna Purnima, romance floated in the air on the eve of Vasant Utsav. Every house in Dwarka looked fascinating with unique decoration of flowers and rangloli. Young men dressed in saffron and yellow, adorned in elaborate champak garlands roamed around the streets with phag (colourful powder) in hand. Especially made bhanga laced sweet and buttermilk were the favourites of the day at the public houses. Colour of clothes touched the yearning soul of young lovers, all too enthusiastic to meet in privacy of arbours in the public gardens; even middle-aged menfolk hurried back home with small treats to gain favour from wives.  

Samba specially dressed for the occasion looked at the tiara in his hand, the giant ruby at its centre dazzled even in the soft twilight; he thought of the exquisite face it will adorn, he thought of Lakshmana; his eyes softened in subtle tenderness. ‘There is a message for you from Dwarkadhish, Dev’ personal attendant of Lord Krishna approached Samba. With mild surprise he accepted the note that said, ‘An urgent political debate will cause delay to my visit to the ladies at the palace on this special occasion. I wish you to personally convey this message to the minor queens so that they don’t feel ignored’.

An ensemble convoy carrying elaborate gifts for the sixteen thousand junior wives of Lord Krishna followed Samba who took the responsibility of representing his father with the message. The private gardens at Palace courtyard flooded with bright colours, enchanting tune of flute resonated in the air, colour of Phag caught up in the sky spreading the most endearing radiance; among all these the young wives waited for their beloved Lord with ardent fervour.

His tall form reflected on the fountain water as he approached gently; those mesmerising eyes full of emotion, that enchanting smile, the chiselled torso graced with champak garland, all too familiar; the ladies held their breath looking at Samba. ‘Is that you my Lord? Welcome to the abode of passion in this Vasant Utsav, you are absolutely an image of Kamdev today, more endearing than ever’, few of the ladies greeted; their words mildly slurred under the influence of bhanga. Samba was too perplexed to react at the behaviour of his step mothers when Nandini the youngest of all came near and fastened him in a sudden embrace.

Like an unbended arrow he stormed out of the place in utter despair, the news reached his father at the speed of light. ‘You were so much driven by your desire that couldn’t even hold your dignity!’ Lord Krishna was more in anguish than anger while confronting his fallen wives. ‘After my death, you will be abducted and stripped of your dignity by a petty robber, it is my malediction!’ with these words he departed without giving any chance to his wives to plead.

Samba was crouched on a divan, his handsome face darkened in shame and agony; the room was obscured like his awkward temper, the soft beam of full moon being the only source of illumination. The shadow of Lord Krishna elongated inside the room as he appeared at the doorway, Samba looked up; his eyes carried the expression of a wounded deer, pleading for solace. ‘What is the point in hiding your face now, when you flaunted it to entice those lonely ladies?’ Lord Krishna lashed, a glimpse of jealousy passed through his hardened face. ‘I curse you Samba for bringing such shame to my name! I curse your handsomeness, your face that appeal so much will soon be full of lesions; you will turn into a leper’. ‘Father, my Lord!’ Samba’s voice choked in dejection, his eyes moistened in unfathomed emotion. Jadupati regretted his words, when the moments of resentment elapsed. ‘Take refuge to sage Kataka, he will guide you my Son’ he almost whispered.

***

The humble hut at Mitravana was very near to the bank of Chandrabhaga. The austere room in it with mud floor and walls of bamboo sticks was devoid of any furniture, yet it was neat and pleasing to the eyes. Samba entered the room with a few champak flowers in hand, his body still wet from morning bath. He kept those flowers at the reading corner piled with punthis on Vedas and Puranas. The fragrance soon filled the air, a cuckoo started tweeting from a nearby tree; he looked out of the window towards the bright sky. His eyes glittered with deep emotion thinking of a face he yearned for so long.

It was the tenth day of Shukla Paksha (waxing phase of moon), Samba completed twelve long years of his recluse life in devotion to the Sun God. Like every day he reached the water at Bramha Muhurta (God’s hour), the first streak of light touched his face as he took the first dip. A sudden sensation made him touch his wounds, he froze with numbness; a very handsome face long forgotten reflected on the surface of the water. Stream of tears found way first time in those years of solitude; he took another dip thanking the rising Lord. A heavy figurine came in his hands as he stood up, it was a likeness of the Sun God curved magnificently in black stone.

Epilogue

Samba built a Sun Temple near Mitravana at Mundira where he instated the statue believed to be curved by none other than Viswakarma.

Thousands of years later at the same place another Sun temple was built by Gangeya King Narasimha Deva I which was named as Konark temple.

***  ***

Note: Samba in popular belief is shown as an irresponsible and spoilt prodigy who suffered for his own rashness. I somehow could not believe that a child born under the blessings of Lord Shiva could be such a savage. Hence, I tried to depict my interpretation of the misadventures of his life without altering the basic facts.

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Nasik vineyards, a memory to be revisited

This was our last monsoon in Mumbai and it was the last weekend before we bid goodbye to our warm nest of past two years; we planned for a visit to Shirdi which was on wish list for long. We started quite early in the morning to avoid the traffic and reached before noon by taking a shortcut about a hundred km before Nasik. On the way back to Mumbai, I was kind of taken aback when the car took a detour to Nasik quite unexpectedly, since we didn't need to go via the city. The surprise turned to suspense when we proceeded beyond the city towards the lush hilly abode. It was the beautiful 'Beyond Sula' resort that proved to be our final destination for the day, some 3 kms away from the famous Sula vineyards and winery. That was a surprise gift for me, my husband revealed with a smile and twinkle in his eyes; the elaborate green surrounding dreamy at twilight and the golden lake beyond gleamed in adoration.

The Resort

 

The vineyards

The greenery and the lake

We were welcomed by the friendly reception staff with large smile and wonderful sparkling wine. The quiet dinner at the poolside restaurant accompanied by lovely food and some fine wine played the facilitator. My husband, a man of very few words said a lot in his quiet way through the silence of the romantic evening.

View from resort

Fellow vacationers

Next day we took a tour at the winery in a group led by one of the company staff. He showed and explained the entire wine producing process which ended with a wine tasting exercise. The tasting process was an experience in itself, as he explained the proper way of holding; swirling, sniffing and finally tasting of different varieties of wine (while sniffing few of the more matured red wines I almost passed out). We came to know that the 'James Bond' style of holding wine glass is quite incorrect; glasses should be held at the stem to avoid body contact with the fluid (Mr. Bond needs serious training on that front).

On the way to winery

Grapes crushing pad

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Tank Hall for collecting wine

Oak barrels for maturing red wine

Entrance of Wine tasting floor

Wine tasting ceremony

Post touring we had lunch at a French restaurant within the winery which was again a delightful affair.

Roses from the vineyards

Way back home

The way back to Mumbai was simply breath-taking, valleys covered with green vineyards on both the sides and the equally green hills surrounding it reminded me of the famous Tuscany region of Italy.

The valley

Like a dessert of a three course meal this last outing while staying in Mumbai will remain as a sweet memory to be cherished and revisited over time. Mumbai I will miss you my friend 'Alvidah'.