Devi

Afghan War Camp, Somewhere in North India, 1765

They came from the Khyber Pass. There was no one to shield the villages of Hind. Death, destruction reigned in all directions, settlements reduced to ash and smoke. Thousands made slaves to be sold in the slave markets of Bokhara. The men were slain, women and children herded into pickets in war camps, to be branded, chained and sent back trudging through the blood soaked routes of the Hindu Kush.

In one such camp, a child asked his mother for water. She was mute, a mere body with no soul, now dead to the cries of a child whose every step she had watched with trepidation before. Devi heard the crying. She smiled at the child who looked back in bewilderment through a mud-caked face, two golden stripes of glistening tear-streams on his quivering cheeks.

She had heard some Hindustani in the camp before, so she spoke as loud as she could despite her own parched throat.

‘I call on any who understands me. There is a child who begs for water. Do you not hear him, cry, my brothers?’

She called again. And again. Nine Times. Each time, it felt, every cry seemed to drain a little life out of her.

When Devi strained to call again, she felt a shadow come over her. No, it wasn’t the final shade yet, a man had stepped before her.

‘Why do you make such a nuisance, woman? Won’t you let a man rest, in this noon heat, that is all a man wants, eh, right, right… why do you wail like a mad bitch?’

‘My brother, the child, he …’

‘Brother! Brother to a mad bitch! One more word and …’

‘Manna Khan! Why do you talk to the prisoners,’ a commanding voice sounded from behind the soldier.

‘This woman… Sir! She… she wants… water,’ the soldier said slinking to a side.

Through bleary eyes, Devi was able to see the man who had called was a commander. He eyed her.

‘Water, brother. Allah will bless you!’ she managed to cry.

The man was silent for moment. Then he spoke -

‘In that case… Manna Khan, let the prisoner out.’ The slinking Manna, did as he was told. Devi noticed the leery eyed man gaze at her ruffled clothes. She walked, proudly, out.

Men gathered around her. Maintaining their distance. But watching. Her head held high she spoke -

‘I thank you, brother. I …’

‘Go! There. You see the bucket. Go. Get your water,’ the commander said.

She hesitated. Then began to walk. But stumbled, pain from a days old injury spiking through her leg, into her back – and fell.

There was jeering laughter.

‘Go, get your water, woman,’ the commander shouted.

She tried to get up, but couldn’t. A soft voice sounded behind her. ‘Masi, I am not thirsty.’

Devi looked back and gave the boy a smile. She closed her eyes. Mother! Maa. Hold me. Give me strength.

‘The kafir bitch is praying! Do you not know your gods have forsaken you? Watch. All around you. The sword of Ahmad Shah has laid waste to your land. Where are your gods?’ She heard Manna Khan.

Devi said another prayer and crawled towards the bucket of water, at first ignoring then embracing the shooting pangs of pain that shot like lightning through her body.

A sharp sting stuck her back. She had felt the whips of the Afghans before. She fought on. At every breath, a whip, a breath, a slash. Every inch of her being sparked with white hot pain. But Devi fought on still, getting closer and closer to the bucket of water.

The dust of the patches ground rose, enveloping her, making it even harder to breath. The sun was getting high in the sky.

‘She has some fight in her, the kafir bitch, does, eh, my friends,’ Manna Khan came close to her and shouted into her face.

‘Get back, soldier,’ the commander shouted and whipped her again.

She felt a trickle of sweat… no, blood… in her face. She fell back on her knees. Strained to stay up. There, the bucket. Water.

Blood pooled beneath her. She reached out… a little more… and stood. With a few final steps, she reached the bucket of water. She peered down, looked into the half empty bucket. The sun, right above her head, glistened like a halo around a silhouette from the centre of the sky.

She looked down and laughed. And laughed.

‘Have you gone mad, woman!’

She laughed. And laughed. A cry of joy rising through the noon silence.

‘My gods… my gods… look up… the sun… it is… time.’

A cloud of dust rose in the plain just outside the Afghan war camp. A cry, distant, but resounding with power, filled the air, the sky.

Akal.

*