The Land of Kings

A trip to Rajasthan

India is a land filled with innumerable cultures and traditions, any of which, if it were to be in another country or continent, would stand supremely unique. In this sea of history and culture, the Rajputana culture stands out as especially exotic, which is a no mean feat. The name Rajput derives from the Sanskrit Raja-putra, “son of a King.” Indeed, Rajasthan, the post-Independence name of Rajputana, means the land of Kings.

“Do or die,” was their motto, as our guide, a demure, traditionally clad middle-aged Rajput lady, who spoke halting but clean English reminded us. “No retreat. No surrender,” I interjected helpfully. She nodded, pleased with my studious enthusiasm, and added, “No treaty. Never treaty.” The Rajputs of Mewar were one of the many clans that created city-states in the lands adjoining the desert around the turn of the first millennium. These pre-date Venice, Florence and Milan, the great European city-states, by two to three centuries. There were the Mewadis of Udaipur, the Marwadis of Jodhpur, the Shekawats of Bikaner, the Bhatis of Jaisalmer and the Chaumannas or Chauhans of Jaipur and the Solankis who migrated to Gujarat, and many such clans which sprung up in the land at the beginning of the second millennium.

Why were these Rajputs who are so prominent from 1100 CE onwards, so conspicuously absent in the history of the first millennium? Who are the Rajputs and where did they come from? There are no clean answers. No one knows. “We are Aryans. People say we came from here and there. But my grandmother tells me that we have always been here,” says Mitesh, another guide, who is twenty four years old and proudly claimed to be of the same caste as Narendra Modi, the wildly popular Prime Minister of India.

Legend has it Bappa Rawal, the founder of the Mewar dynasty, acquired Chittor, their capital, around 728 CE. The locals provide wild accounts of Rawal’s exploits. He ruled “all the way from Gujarat to Iran and Iraq,” proudly said Vijay Singh, yet another guide of ours. There is no historical evidence for such claims but I did not have the heart to deny a Rajput man his pride. It’s neither right nor wise to do so. Even so, Rawal was quite definitely a martial hero with many conquests, and the city of Rawalpindi in modern Pakistan bears his name till this day.

Undoubtedly, the Rajputs of medieval India were fierce warriors, who built magnificent forts, fought with a deep sense of chivalry and honor, and ruled their kingdoms with great wisdom and compassion. “Maharana Pratap was born here,” proclaimed Vijay Singh proudly at the Kumbalgarh fort. The fort is of such marvelous construction and situated so strategically on a peak in the middle of the Aravalli hills that it was never taken once. Rival Rajput clans and later the Muslim invaders tried seventeen times. Each time they failed.

The scene is decidedly more mournful at Chittorgarh or the Chittor fort, which is an astonishingly large 692 hectares atop a mesa, which houses 5,000 people today. We had to drive around the fort in a car. Over 50,000 lived in it at the peak of the Mewar power. Three queens committed jauhar here, the most famous of whom is Rani Padmini. The queen willingly entered a funeral pyre along with sixteen thousand other Rajput women, on hearing that her husband, Ratan Singh, had been killed by Alauddin Khilji. Khilji was the Turko-Afghan sultan of Delhi, who dredged up bodies of Rajput women after they had killed themselves by jumping into lakes, and desecrated them. So the Rajput women began entering fire. “Khilji was not a Raja. He was a barbarian. Kings don’t behave like this,” said our woman guide in almost a choked voice. Emotions run deep and high atop the Chittorgarh.

In 1192 CE, the most decisive battle that would shape India’s future took place in Tarain in Rajasthan. On one side was Mohammad of the Afghan Ghorid clan with 120,000 horses. On the other was a twenty five year old Prithviraj of the Chaumanna (Chauhan) clan, who had miraculously united the incorrigibly fratricidal Rajput clans into a 300,000 horses strong force. Startled by the show of unity, Mohammad pretended to retreat. His deception had the intended effect. The Rajputs, delighted at an easy victory, spent the night in riot and revelry. When dawn came, the Ghorid army struck. The unexpected rout of the Rajputs in Tarain in 1192 CE provided the key to the Delhi gate and indeed the whole of Aryavarta to the victorious Mohammad Ghori and his Turkish army. The history of the land would change forever.

The pain and the agony echo to this day. “Sir, we Indians are not a united people. Even today, we cannot unite against Pakistan or the Muslims. There are traitors everywhere,” said our car driver, Kailash, who drove us around Udaipur for four days. He is a fierce right winger, who reveres Narendra Modi, and longs for a return to Aryavarta. I keep silent. I am a bottom-line kind of guy. We lost to the invaders when they came. There is little to be gained now by ruing the distant past. All I can do in this moment is feel the pain of the women who jumped into funeral flames five hundred years back. After independence, the Chittorgarh grounds were dug up, and the ashes of the queens and their companions in death were collected and strewn over the Ganges.

All past grief aside, Rajasthan today is on the move. Udaipur today is a city that gracefully mixes modernity with tradition. We had lunch at a wonderful restaurant “1559” run by an ex-army man and operated out of an old British bungalow. 1559 is the year Udaipur was founded. English is the currency to the future. Every one we met - guides and car drivers - learned English on their own. Silver mines and marble quarries in and around Udaipur provide employment. “Those who can’t get jobs in the mines end up as tourist guides,” said Mitesh self-deprecatingly. Abhijit, another guide, said, “I was not a good student. But I learned English and got into tourism.” Our woman guide in Chittorgarh started out with, “I learned English all on my own. So, I will speak slowly. If there are mistakes, please correct me.” I said, “It’s okay if you want to switch to Hindi. I’ll adjust.” She replied with a typically fierce Rajput pride, “No, I will speak only English.” She spoke slowly but near flawlessly throughout.

India is a land with an ancient and complicated past. Pushpendra Singh, a Solanki Rajput whose family worked for the Maharaja for centuries, guided us around the magnificent Mehrangarh fort of the Jodhpur Marwari clan. He said, “Our history books are filled with lies and nonsense, sir. Come talk to us Rajputs in Rajasthan. We will tell you what actually happened.” I stare blankly at him. I’m a lover of history, but I don’t know whether knowing “the real history” helps or hurts us any more.

As we check into our swank hotel in the old city quarters in Jodhpur, the hotel manager tells us, “Please note that we have provided you with ear plugs in your room. There is a mosque right behind our property, and you will hear prayers coming over their loud speaker. There is nothing we can do about it, sir.” Indeed, as I write this at 9pm, I can hear the call of the muezzin in my room. This battle has been going for a thousand years, and no one is winning. I look around for the ear plugs. I’m going to need them when the man calls out at five in the morning.