Achin Bhunia

Yarn of Paithan

I want to dedicate it to my beloved parents and my teacher.

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

81669 Munich

Yarn of Paithan

A Historical fiction

By Achin Bhunia

Author's Note

“Aum Namah Shivai!”

Divine bow to lord Shiva. India is a country of the mystics, miracles natural bounties.

The golden pages of the history are still breathing silently in this fast-paced 21st century.

I have ventured my effort to weave a fiction, set in 17th century India, Maharshtra(a

state of India). The readers, who are fond of twist as well as history, will definitely love it.

A detailed glossary of the native Indian words are used in this fiction, are furnished at

the end. So happy reading…

Yarn of Paithan

ONE

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.

There was the silent lull in the ambience. The resplendent sun beam was pearling over the gush of the great Godavari, making an assonant swashing sound. The tender bounty of the nature was futile to calm down Ilaa. Neither she was lost in daydream nor in trance, but her consciousness was poignant to her.

„Why they cornered us in this way?

Why at the very end every woman has nothing to gain but to face this ordeal of

deprivation?

Why they put the taboos on every earthy aspect of women?‟

Maiden Ilaa was not at her first flush of puberty, though she was not bereft of the sensational and orgasmic ripeness. But she was not the being who could overlook all the mundane happenings all around her. No she was not as mighty as a male labourer, she was not having a baritone, she was a customary unassuming next to door woman of Paithan; who used to play with her female companions, collect the bales of cotton, do the daily household chores. The tenets of the society towards the antyajas and the

unofficial sudra-samana status of women were happened to be a big deal of fidget to Ilaa

from her very childhood.

„Why they imposed the dharmic sudhdhi like things if a woman gestates her child

during pregnancy?

Is it really a sin to be a mother?

Why every woman is regarded as taint during her cycle?

Are hard vows and fasting acts really got anything to do to cleanse the sin?

Sometimes I am sick with their view of sin!

Even they don‟t pardon the Brahmin widow to prove her purity with living her head

shaved off and to eat a single meal daily.

Are all the taste buds and sensory organs reserved for the patriarchs?‟

Ilaa clenched her fists, dragging the tuft of grass off the soil and fixed her gaze to the Godavari. The mild breeze played over her face. She placed her pallu over her bosom, started counting her Tulasi beads. Her memory was on an even keel. She was adrift in the recollection of her encounter with a Varkari saint, whom she met with seven years ago….

She sat in front of the saint. The saint was clad with yellow angabastram and a dhoti,

embellished with Vaishnava Tilakas, chanting the name of his lord Vitthala. He used to sing the abhangs recited by his guru Tukaram.

From her very childhood she felt deeply mesmerized to these abhangs. There was

nothing gibberish to her, when she was just a toddler. There was the pristine devotional recess, that attracted Ilaa to lend her ears to these extols.

She grew up; dejected, lonely inquisitive. Her father could not fathom about her passion, sometimes met with inept attempt to reprimand her, whereas her mother used to mollify her and alluded about the reality of women. Ilaa paid a visit to Pandharpur, chief temple of Vitthala to commemorate their annual Vaari trip, when she was about eleven years of age. She could still see the temple terrace; teeming with devotees, dip in the Indryani River, chant of Hari-kirtana, the clang of the cymbal, buzzing abhangs. A gentle hand touched her head. She took aback. A man with benign smile looked at her. She had never seen the man before. “Don‟t be afraid girl! Sant ji wants to meet with you.”

„Ilaa!‟ a husky voice broke her off the reverie. She stared back. Her friend Ketaki was

calling her name. “What‟re you doing here?” Ketaki enquired.

TWO

It was evening. The sky was at dusk. The setting sun was on exuberance, casting its departing splendor all over the sky. The flock of cows was guided by a nomad through the meadows. The group of artisans was on a returning spree from Paithan bazaar, bundling their equipments and products. All the workers and farmers of Sauviragram were huddled up, engaged in a joint discussion. The head farmers were flanked by a group of workers. At the brink of the cotton field a calf was nibbling the grass, ordinary village women were engaged to set aside their remaining tasks for tomorrow.

“This year is really a landmark for us!” said Ilaa‟s father, Manu, one of the head

farmers.

“Finally there is no curse of famine and invaders on our crops.” said a veteran old

worker.

“We gained a lot from Paithan this year!” said another farmer.

“I think there will be no trouble to pay the debt to usury.” said a subaltern worker.

“Now I can clear the dahej demanded by groom‟s family.” blurted out another worker.

Manu, the farmer looked at all with his wistful eyes. He was a devout follower of his lord Shankara. He closed his eyes, exhibited a pose of genuflection to chant „Om Namah Shivai!‟ He might not be the richest man of Sauviragram, but he was the integral part of it. Lots of villagers, belonging from elite class, farmers, artisans, porters, even the subalterns used to share their plights and life problems with him. From his childhood Manu adapted himself to be a munificent and gritty individual. The darkest phases, disapprobation of society, loss of the bereaved mother, escape, realization, uplift… were a sort of nightmarish consciousness to him.

“The great maharaja is on his journey to Paithan!” exclaimed a subaltern with his

glee. All the people engaged in that concourse looked in unison to the subaltern. He lowered his face. Manu looked at him with utter pleasure and fascination. “No need to be ashamed my dear friend Abdul!” said Manu softly. All the members, along with his co-workers and other farmers were at their wit‟s end momentarily. “This is going to be a lifetime opportunity for all of us. I heard a lot about the great maharaja!” exclaimed Manu with his beaming eyes.

THREE

The entire Paithan city was plunged into the urgency of festivity, engaging her every citizen to be a part of it. From a single shopkeeper to a wholesaler were busy to furnish the bazaar with new products and goods. Even the subalterns left no stone unturned to hone and clean every corner of the city. The tinge of beautiful Paithani sarees adorned the whole being of the city; glittering somewhere at the terrace of a house, hanging in a well assorted manner in the bazaar, some Paithani women were seen to be put their innocuous efforts to shape the sarees with necessary embroidery and ornamentation.

“Maharaja already started his rights ritual!” blurted out an old widow.

“Yes I heard he was on his journey to Jalna.” said a maiden.

“But maharaja encamped in Paithan with his troops to perform his rights.” replied the

widow.

“I heard a lot about his warfare and generosity.” said another woman.

“His mother is very fortunate to forebear the man like him in her womb.” mumbled the

old widow tenderly.

“As far I know his mother is not alive!” said the maiden, lowering her voice.

“But maharaja is not in his earlier age. He turned old now.” said another woman.

“His presence is a great honour for us!” said the old widow eloquently.

FOUR

To the north of the city, the riverside shrine was embalmed with the grandeur of royal consecration. Entire shrine area was teeming with people belonging from Paithan and other nearby villages. Some young teens managed to perch upon the hardest boughs of the trees, encompassing the area. Amidst the countless heads, majority of men outnumbered the women. Majority of women preferred to flock together; exuding a variance by the colour of the sarees, intermingling with teens, maidens, married, and widows; irrespective of their age, cast and creed. All the eager faces were set upon the happenings at the courtyard.

The great maharaja sat in front a burning pyre. A priest was sitting at the opposite side of the pyre, who was a Brahmin, invoking the stotras, directing the maharaja to perform his rights ritual in a sacramental way. The courtyard was flanked with his royal associates; garrison officers, Havaldars, close relatives, interlocutors, sycophants and subordinates. A small group of priests were sitting next to him.

The ritual ceremony was almost on the verge of end. The priests were preparing the

final offering to the lord. The maharaja was poised on his sitting posture.

“Some Paithani women are very eager to offer their gift to you!” said an informer to

the maharaja.

“Send them here.” said the maharaja modestly.

A group of women was approaching to the courtyard with the hint of assent from the maharaja. They were carrying a bevy of beautiful Paithani sarees, knitted and embellished

with their own hands especially for the maharaja.

“Don‟t accept any offerings from these women!” howled the main priest in a

reproaching manner.

“Again there will be the hassles of sudhdhi.” said another priest.

“Go back! You Paithani women. Maharaja is totally pure and bathed. Don‟t taint him

right now!” admonished another priest to the approaching women.

There was a conditional pause in the movement of the approaching women. A haze of despair and tremor of fear blew through their heart. A faint laughter and mockery arose

from the men including the priests, the royal members and the spectators.

“Soap may clean the body, but can it clean the mind!” blurted out a female voice.

“Who said this?” said a priest with reproaching.

“I am not anybody to tell this! Whole Paithani women want this.” replied the female.

“Why are you hiding? Come in front of us.” scowled the main priest.

“You made us to hide our every daily affair!” answered the female.

“I am angry now!!” screamed a priest.

“You made us angry from very long days. We have nothing to gain but to face the

trials and tribulations!” answered the female.

“Lord will never pardon you! You will get cursed with your sin.” ranted the main priest.

“The lord is not your own. We are also the devotees of the lord!” answered the

female.

“Your female body will be the temptation of other men. You will fall into the enigma

day by day.” said a priest sardonically.

“Do my organs alone make me a female and a moustache into a male? I may be a

female in form but male in spirit.” answered the female.

For a moment there was a long silence in the concourse. All the priests fell silent for a

while. All the spectators and royal members were exchanging a look of concern with each other. The maharaja was in his stoical patience.

The female figure came out from the gathering. She stood in front of the courtyard. “I

am Ilaa!” she said loudly. A long buzz was heard. Amidst the crowd her father, Manu came out. He was in the state of utter confusion and resentment. In no time he was ready to drag her daughter from that courtyard, a figure defended Ilaa. “I am Ketaki! Ilaa is my friend. You have to beat me first, and then you can beat her.” said the figure. Manu now got enervated. He was not that rude to react in situation like this. He knelt on the courtyard.

“Oh! Great maharaja please forgive my daughter. I want to take her offence of my

own!” implored Manu to the maharaja.

“These Paithani women stitched, darned and designed the sarees with earnest care.

They only longed to see you. Don‟t you accept their work?” said Ilaa to the maharaja.

The maharaja turned soft and tender. Tears materialized from his eyes. He came to

Ilaa.

“I am also a follower of Maa Bhawani! My own mother would have been very proud if

she met with you. But she is no more.” said the maharaja with his pure majesty.

“Don‟t you accept our gift?” asked Ilaa softly.

The maharaja accepted all the gifts from the Paithani women with his pure

munificence.

“That is why he got the name of Chattrapati Shivaji!” said an old widow.

FIVE

No! Ilaa was again nowhere to be seen. The finest corner in the bank of the great Godavari was her solitude. The gentle breeze was like her breath, which put her mind into the recollection of her pasts…

The annual Vaari trip to Pandharpur flashed in her mind again. A man touched her head. She had never met with the man before. But the mellow voice of the man put her in

the haze of amazement and awe. She followed him. They came to a secluded spot,

under a Banyan tree. A Varkari saint sat beneath the tree.

"Ilaa!" said the saint. She was astonished with the name, came out of his lips. "How do you know my name Sant ji?" she asked. He smiled modestly. "The man who took you here is my follower. I told him to do so." said the saint. "But I am..." she paused. “I know about your condition, that you have been dealt with." he said. Ilaa looked at him with awe. He closed his eyes and started to enunciate all the remarkable happenings that took place with her till now. She touched her feet with great devotion. Ilaa became an earnest disciple of that Varkari saint.

“Life is not about the sole sacrifice and action. It is a balance.”

“No divisibility actually exists between male and female. We are all female to that

ultimate Purush. Temptation is the driver!”

“Life is a duty. Go and realize your duty Ilaa!”

She could hear the last words; the Varkari saint spoke to her.

Ilaa was restive on her trance. She was at the juncture of the beginning and ultimate.

She closed her eyes again…

She was then just seven years old. She was walking alone. It was almost the converging time between day and night. She was unaware of the happenings at the hindmost side of the foliage. A clasp-bolt like hand grabbed her suddenly. She was almost out of her breath, panting desperately! Two male figures with their bloodthirsty and vicious face looked at her.

A sudden thud was heard! One of the two men fell to the ground. A club like weapon just hammered against his head. Another man loosened the grip off her and threatened the assailant standing as a silhouette against the backdrop of the foliage. But the man ran seeing something amiss about the reality of the assailant.

“Don‟t panic girl! They just ran out of fear. I am Ketaki. People call me a hijra.” said

the assailant to Ilaa. Ilaa was pampered by Ketaki, the hijra.

“What are you doing? Are not you coming?” a husky voice broke her off.

“Yes I am coming Ketaki!” screamed Ilaa.

Glossary

Abhang: Abhang or Abhanga is form of devotional poetry sung in the praise of Hindu

god Vishnu.

Angabastram: Angabastram or Thundu is a traditionally a white piece of cloth or stole, worn by men from the Hindu community, which is draped over the shoulders.

Antyajas: The last-born, low class people. Aum: Sacred word of Hindu Sanskrit chant. Bazaar: Market.

Bhawani: Another form of Indian Goddess Durga. Brahmin: A member of the highest Hindu caste, originally that of the priesthood. Chattrapati Shivaji: The 17th century Indian king (born in Maharshtra), known for

his valour, dignity, warfare, courage, majesty, kindness, kingship kindness. Dahej: Dowry.

Dharmic: Religious. Guru: Mentor.

Hari-kirtana: A sacred chant of Hindus. Havaldar: A non-commissioned officer in military. Hijra: Transsexual or eunuch.

Maa: Mother. Maharaja: Indian word for the „King‟. Namah: Indian word for „bow‟. Paithani: Belonging to Paithan.

Purush: Purush or Purusha is a complex concept whose meaning evolved in Vedic and Upanishadic times. Depending on source and historical timeline, it means the cosmic man or it means Self, Consciousness, and Universal principle.

Sant ji: Indian epithet of „Great Saint‟.

Saree: A garment consisting of a length of cotton or silk elaborately draped around the body, traditionally worn by the women from South Asia.

Stotra: Sacred chants of Hindu scriptures. Sudhdhi: Purification.

Sudra-samana: Sudra means low class. Samana means equal. Sudra-Samana means as equal as a low class.

Tilaka: In Hinduism Tilaka is a mark worn on the forehead.

Tulasi: Tulasi or Tulsi or Holy Basil is a sacred plant in Hindu belief. Vaari: Name of a pilgrimage on-foot.

Vaishnava: A separate religious sect of India (named as the follower of lord Vishnu). Varakari: A separate religious sect of Vaishnavas (in Maharashtra). Vitthala: A form of Hindu God Vishnu.

King Shivaji

Thanks for reading......@achin

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Publisher:

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Publication Date: September 25th 2015

http://www.bookrix.com/-es0fa096752cf55

ISBN: 978-3-7396-1525-7