The Legends of Amrapali PDF
Preview The Legends of Amrapali
The Legend of Amrapali An enchanting saga buried within the sands of time The Legend of Amrapali An enchanting saga buried within the sands of time Anurag Anand Srishti Publishers & Distributors S P D RISHTI UBLISHERS & ISTRIBUTORS N-16, C. R. Park New Delhi 110 019 [email protected] First published by Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2012 Copyright © Anurag Anand, 2012 All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Typeset in AGaramond 12pt. by Suresh Kumar Sharma at Srishti Printed and bound in India All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers. Dedicated to - The inhabitants of a land waiting for its resurrection to reclaim the lost glories from its illustrious past. Authors Note The human memory, much like the editorial staff of a renowned publication house, is a necessarily evil, proudly brandishing its sharp blades and scissors, pruning the occurrences and information relegated to its attic. While the cherished and happy moments and the bitter ones with disturbing intensity manage to seep through this filter with relative ease, there are numerous mundane and inconsequential underlying episodes that often get lost in transit. And when the memory in question is not that of an individual whereas a collective one for the entire society, such omissions are expectedly more widespread. One such fable that continues to echo within the walls of numerous households lining up the Ganga basin, the most populated river basin in the world, is that of Amrapali – the Nagarvadhu or Courtesan of the illustrious kingdom of Vaishali. Amrapali, it is said, was one of the most exquisite creations of the almighty to have dwelled on earth – a divine beauty whose glories transcended much beyond the frontiers of Aryavart. The longing for her companionship was such that it brought numerous young nobles of Vaishali, her suitors, at loggerheads with each other. It was to prevent the probable consequentiality of bloodshed that saw her being adorned with the title of the Nagarvadhu – literally meaning, ‘the bride of the city’. The price for witnessing her dance performance for an evening was exorbitant, way beyond the purse strings of the commoners, but the resolution worked in appeasing those who mattered – the influential nobles, landlords and merchants. Amrapali was no longer a lamp illuminating the confines of any one room but the pervasive sun whose rays touched every life, in this case of those who could afford the price. Though the elite rejoiced, unraveling the enigma of her beauty and dancing prowess, she ensured that she reached out to the masses through her benevolence and compassion. Her acts for the general good of society – construction of schools, temples, roads and digging of wells are still spoken about with no mean degree of reverence. To the general populace she was an image of motherly kindheartedness who would scale great heights to rid them of their difficulties. Her discreet but enveloping tenderness had woven an invisible web even around those who had not intended to be among her patrons. A testimony of Amrapali’s influence among the citizenry is the fact that even the names of the Lichchavi rulers from her time fizzled out from public memory and now remain untraceable even in the accounts of history. Though tales and accounts of her magnanimity, compassion, kindness and even of her splendor and magnificence are galore and can be heard as lullabies or as proud reminiscences of past glories among the habitants of the Gangetic plains, the real story of Amrapali seems to have eroded from their memories along the centuries gone by. Subjugated to the overpowering aura of Amrapali - the Nagarvadhu, Amrapali - the girl, seems to have been forgotten, leaving behind a barrage of unanswered questions. Was it such a simple choice for her to adorn the title of Nagarvadhu and agreeably invite the voyeuristic gaze of lusty eyes upon her, evening after evening? Or, was there a battered path, strewn with the corpses of her desires and dreams that led to the eventuality? In a society where, to put it mildly, women had to struggle to even earn their rightful place, was the shroud of influence and power that a mere lady brandished, achieved with ease? Or, does that path too conceal within its brooks, hitherto unknown tales of tribulation, suffering and even horror? Was Amrapali’s overriding authority an effortless outcome of her alluring persona or was it the conclusion of a sagaciously crafted plan? When I set out to answer these questions, armed only with my imagination and the so called ‘literary license’, I was amazed at the world that effortlessly emerged in front of my eyes. A world of curiosity and intrigue inhabited by a plethora of fascinating characters, converging to create a sequence of exhilarating events. A canvas spread long back in time and yet the shades emerging upon it – love, passion, sacrifice, greed, anger and revenge, mirroring those that we see and experience at an alarming regularity in the current times. It is this world of Amrapali that I welcome you to, with the hope that it enchants you as much as it captivated me when I was in its throes. There are many who knowingly or unknowingly have contributed to the eventual outcome that you now hold in your hands, but some whose names I can’t go without mentioning are: Dr Ashok Kumar Singh, my father – his enthusiasm on barely hearing about the subject of my next work left my own fervor significantly dwarfed. Neeru, unarguably my better half, whose constructive criticism reflects in every well articulated sentence that you shall read. Sending pages after pages of my writing to the confines of the recycle bin often got me to the brink of frustration, but the results usually corroborated the efforts. The sections which, you think, could have been presented better, if any, are those where I doggedly chose to ignore her advice, wielding the veto I enjoyed in my capacity as the author of this work. My grandparents and my mother, whose bed time stories were responsible for first introducing me to the legend of Amrapali at a tender age when I struggled even to pronounce the word ‘Nagarvadhu’. I would also like to express my gratitude to the renowned danseuse and social activist Ms Mallika Sarabhai for consenting to lend her image to ‘The Legend of Amrapali’. In the current times, if there is a name I can think of that comes even remotely close to the fabled grace and poise of the Nagarvadhu of Vaishali, it is you. Mr. William Dalrymple, not just an author par excellence but also a great human being, thank you for your kind words on the subject of my story. I would also like to thank my Publishers, Srishti, for sharing my zeal on the subject and their keenness to make the book a reality in record time. It is only the love and support of readers like you that defines any author. I thank you for choosing to splurge your precious time in my work and hope that it manages to live up to your expectations. As always, I shall eagerly await your feedback and comments. ONE I t was the melodious chirping of feathered beings that broke the spell of sleep and summoned her to the realms of reality. She was mildly annoyed at being distracted from the sleep induced reverie her mind had been conjuring, but it didn’t take long for the disappearing smile to return. The world outside her dreams was just as beautiful and enchanting as the one she had woken up from. The birds – the violet ones and the little brown ones – like every other morning, were engaged in a noisy revelry on her windowsill. As she stealthily walked towards them, she could hear an unusual melody strewn within their carousing. Not meaning to scare them away, she halted a few steps prior to the window and looked outside. The weather was more inviting than it had been for weeks with great puffball clouds tumbling through the sky. The sun - like a shy bride with reddening cheeks, was hesitantly attempting to make an appearance. Trees, swinging to the rhythm of a gentle breeze seemed to be conversing in a language of their own. It was indeed a beautiful day. After briefly soaking in the refreshingly divine air, she retreated and headed towards her father’s room. For as long as she could remember, her days started by touching his feet to obtain his blessings and of all days, it was today that she needed his blessings the most. She gently pushed open the door, expecting her father to be asleep, only to be greeted by an empty bed - the blanket neatly folded and placed underside. ‘He is up early today. After all, the day holds as much anxiety for him as it does for me,’ she thought, walking up to the empty bed out of sheer habit. As she sat on the bed, trying to straighten the non existent creases in the folded blanket, she slowly drifted away three days back in time to the unexpected conversation that was to change her life. His lips were dry, his breathing was heavy and he could hear his heart thumping away like the rhythmic beats of a drum. He used the stick in his hand to slash at the dense vegetation ahead of him and carve a path for his aching and bloody feet. Halting was not an option. Rays of light were seeping through the dense jacket of trees and he could now use his vision to negotiate the obscurity of the forest trail. This meant he could
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