How Green Was My Valley

Akhtar Rasool, a well-built man of forty five, woke up early as usual. After a quick shower, he changed into a fresh set of shalwaar-kameez, said his morning namaaz dutifully and then, without disturbing anyone, quietly opened the front door and just pushed it back as he walked away at 5.30am. There was never fear of anyone entering another’s house in this sleepy town. It was raining heavily and his folding umbrella was of not much use. By the time he reached the furniture factory he was almost fully drenched. There was quite a large number of workers who had arrived and were all walking into the shed. The shed was buzzing with activity as all the men there were changing their regular casual clothes into police uniforms. Rasool’s family, like his other colleagues’, hardly knew where they worked for it would be difficult for them to understand and accept anyone working in the J&K Police or in the Indian Armed Forces. Life for such a man and his family would become unbearable. They would either be ostracized or brutalized by the people claiming to be fighting for independence. The furniture factory was a good cover up for people like Rasool who told the people about the long and awkward working hours.

Rayaz, a young budding cricketer in his teens, too, woke up early at 6am, much earlier than is regular time of 9 to 10am. He quietly brushed his teeth and put on his wind cheater, smart looking sneakers and a check scarf that hung loosely from his shoulders.  He put in two apples in his pockets and slid out of his house from the back door, leaving it slightly ajar as he left. As he stepped out, some of his team members also joined him in his walk towards the Dal Lake.  All the kids looked very enthusiastic as they galloped their way to a huge structure on the outside of which hung a board of a flower store where, possibly, workers like Riyaz would come and decorate the shikaras with flowers. There was flower all over as Riyaz entered the place but he went by into an ante-room where another white board was put up and a bearded man stood looking at his watch impatiently.

Fatema woke up at her usual time. Made herself a hot cup of tea as she went through the morning chores of kitchen and cleaning the house. By around 8am she was out of the house, heading for the make shift medical unit. Fatema always wanted to be a doctor but somehow due to the turmoil in the state, she never got the chance to prepare well enough for the exams. She then set her eyes on becoming a nurse but having been married off early, her dream remained unfulfilled. After the birth of her son she got all the more tied down but once he began going to school, Fatema found enough time to go to the emergency ward in the local hospital where the injured always outstripped the hospital staff, who were only too happy to get additional help from people like Fatema. She slowly learnt many a thing of hospital care especially bullet injuries and stone injuries to people of the town. With the growing tension in the state, which just wouldn’t die out, patients in uniform and in casuals were always there and Fatema never distinguished between the two warring sides. For her, a patient was a patient…nothing more, nothing less.

By 7am the police forces gathered and stood at attention, chests out, guns held tight by the nozzle as the base rested on the ground below. As the Commandant gave the orders, the Indian tricolour was unfurled and in hushed tones the men sang the national anthem. After 52 seconds the song ended and the Commandant now spoke, “Today is 15^th of August, our Independence Day.  All across the state Section 144 has been imposed as we know for certain that the separatists will cause trouble today. We have to be on a tight vigil. We will not let these handful of man men destroy the peace of our land. Each one of you will observe extreme caution in handling the situation. While you have pellet guns in your hands as well as regular guns, do not use them unless the other party gets violent and uncontrollable. There are enough people from the media and Amnesty who think we are the sadists and brutes who enjoy killing and maiming our citizens. Caution to a point but not at the cost of your own safety and security. All the Best. Jai Hind!” Rasool heard everything carefully and instinctively his eyes looked at the gun in his hand.

Riyaz stood with the other youngsters as the man with thick black beard started speaking, “Today is an important day for you. You are the chosen one for showing your love for Allah and many brothers who have perished fighting for independence from India. With curfew at all places, you will split up into groups of 3 and you will be joined in each of the locality by others coming from various camps. The bags you carry will be used for inflicting maximum damage on the imperialist forces. Show no mercy to anyone who sides with India.” Riyaz’s hand slid into the bags that had been given to them as they entered the room. He could feel the coldness of the stones and his eyes lit up as he was eager to step out and start the pelting. He was a fast bowler of his cricket team and batsmen feared his beamers and bouncers. Today the ball had been replaced with stones big and small but the target still was the head of the person 22 yards away. The bearded man spoke again, “For our Azadi we have to make their azadi  hell. In your teams will be one senior who will be in constant touch with us through a walkie-talkie and they will also carry hand grenades and a pistol. Whosoever amongst you tries to run away from your goal of freeing Kashmir, these seniors will shoot you down and the blame will of course be on the security forces. Go out and give them hell today. Jannat awaits you.”

“Today we will have many casualties.”Fatema stood listening to the medical unit head of Sisters of Humanity speak to all the doctors, nurses and helpers like her. “The locals will surely cause trouble intermittently and the security forces will try and quell the problem. We can expect a large number of people with injuries to their eyes and other bullet injuries. We will also have injured policemen as well. We have got in extra bandages and medicines. We must not discriminate. Our religion is service and we shall give it to all those who need it. We have but one religion and that is of service to all. Ameen!”

Till about 10am, the city looked like a ghost town with no movement other than the police and army columns doing flag marches and red beacon cars with hooting sirens driving in great speed. It was an uneasy calm, everyone could guess. Even birds seemed to have sensed something about to erupt and were quietly sitting on branches or holed up in their nests. The main government function was happening at the Sher-e-Kashmir Cricket Stadium where the governor was taking the salute along with the Chief Minister and other dignitaries. Security was at its tightest here. Even roads remotely leading to the venue had been sanitized and every person, be it on bicycle or foot, was subjected to multiple layers of body and metal detector search. After all, the Home Minister from Delhi was the chief guest at the function this year.

At 10.30am sharp, suddenly the bolted doors in the Hazratbal Mosque area near the Dal Lake opened up and a large number of youngsters with their faces covered with scarves were seen running out. And then it started raining…not water but stones. Stones of all shapes and sizes. Each of the youth had a bag slung across his shoulder and in it were the stones, big and strong. Stones, sharp and heavy. Each selected to deliver a deathly blow on whosoever it hit. Today, these arsenals were being aimed at a small battalion of state police forces who were stationed at the heart of the township. The police had their heads covered with helmets and netted visors in front of their eyes. On their legs were strong pads upto the knees, smaller than the cricketing ones, but not as sophisticated. Some of the security personnel had fibre glass shields and long batons and some others, like Rasool, had guns that could fire pellets at rapid succession which could incapacitate the person on the other side without killing. Then there were others who had shot guns that fired tear gas shells.

There was never a more fearsome battle on the streets of Srinagar. Bullets, pellets, tear gas and batons on one side and stones and stones and more stones on the other side. The youngsters had been well trained to quickly pick up the tear gas shells and throw them back at the policemen causing much discomfort to them. Stones were there in abundance and the bravery of the youth was never in question as they fearlessly kept moving ahead, some got hurt and they were quickly carried away on shoulders of the able ones. Others, like Riyaz, fought like David with a sling in hand fighting the Goliath of government machinery. In the melee no one could see where one was shooting or who was getting hurt.

Rasool and his fellow policemen had been surrounded from all four sides and the number of stone pelting youngsters kept growing in strength by the minute. The Commandant asked for additional help from the base camp but since most of the personnel were keeping vigil at the stadium event, he was told that no one could be spared. The Commandant saw before him many of his men bleeding profusely. Helmets had cracked and stones were pouring on naked heads. He could see complete slaughter of his men before his eyes so, in desperation, he ordered his men to break out firing their guns without any concern for lives on the other side. The police did just that and in an instant they started firing at will with their automatic weapons and began running out of the circle of death. Only a few made it past the marauding crowds. Most of them were caught and hammered to death. Some were thrown into the flowing river after breaking their hands and legs. Surely the coldness of Jhelum would be their watery grave.

Fatema and the Sisters of Humanity had their hands full. One youngster after another was being brought in with injuries deep and deadly, each looking more painful than the other. Bodies were getting piled on top of one another and it seemed a lost cause. As she was cleaning the wound of one of the boys, Fatema saw another lad being stretchered off. “Riyaz,” she shouted loud and ran after the stretcher, stopped the wheels and looked at the boy lying atop. Her worst fears had come true…her son Riyaz was bleeding, his face was covered in blood….”Ammi”, said a weak Riyaz who identified Fatema with her voice. His eyes wouldn’t open. The cursed pellets had pierced both his eyes. As Riyaz was wheeled inside the make-shift OT, Fatema took out her mobile phone and dialled for her husband. The phone went on ringing. She tried many times and each time she would get a recorded voice speaking from the other end, “The number you have dialled is not answering. Try again later.” Fatema went back to work and when the doctor emerged from the OT, she knew it was all over for the boy, her loving Riyaz. He will never see the beauty of the valley ever again.

When there was no news of her husband, Fatema went to the ‘furniture factory’ he worked in only to find there was utter gloom. She told the guard at the entrance her husband’s name and she was immediately ushered into the small open enclosure. She was surprised to see the police force there in full uniform. For once she thought she had come to the wrong place. The Commandant walked up to her and with his hand motioned her to follow him till they reached a place where Fatema saw over 20 Indian Flags wrapped on to wooden boxes. Against each box was written a name. the Commandant walked her to one where it was written in bold ‘Sub-Inspector Akhtar Rasool (Body Untraced)’. She stood there in silence as she saw many women like her, most of them younger, some crying aloud, others on their knees bent over the box and some, who were getting hysterical, being comforted by the police women stationed there. A band played a soft note, guns were raised and fired in the air, the tricolours and the uniforms were packed and handed over to women there. Fatema slowly walked back home.

Riyaz was waiting for Fatema. He needed her for everything, from feeding to giving him a bath. Today Fatema continues her work at the Sisters of Humanity. She gets a monthly widow pension which helps her run her house. Riyaz will never come to know that his father was a policeman and that he had died the same day at the same place that he had lost his vision. Whether father and son had come face to face, no one can say. As Riyaz waits for his Azadi and Jannat, Fatema and many like her in the vicinity who, too, had lost their husbands and family in this War for Independence, wait endlessly for a moment of joy in the sea of gloom. Many a Rasool has perished in this War of Independence un-cried for, un-cared for, un-traced and lost as the Jhelum quietly flows by. The whole valley is turning into a valley of widows, a ghetto of the lame and the blind.

Whose independence is this we are protecting? Whose independence are they fighting for?  When will this madness ever end? They once said about the Valley, “Agar Firdaus Bar Roo-e-Zameen Ast, Hameen Ast-O Hameen Ast-O Hameen Ast.” Today, it is the Valley of Death and a Paradise Lost.

SS

Of Saints & Sinners

“If I ever become a saint, I’ll surely be one of darkness.I will continually be absent from heaven…to light the light of those in darkness on earth”--- Mother Teresa

As a college student, in the mid-eighties in Calcutta, I often visited Shishu Bhavan run by the Missionaries of Charity. I did not do it out of any desire to obtain a social services certificate, as is usually the case these days with youngsters who join NGOs for a very short while in order to flaunt their certificates while securing admission in universities in the US. It serves as a passport to fulfilling the Great American Dream. Those days were different. I started by accompanying a friend who, being an adopted child herself, was instinctively drawn to these children, but gradually I started enjoying the company of these children, singled out by Fate and abandoned by their own.

They were little kids, from a few days old to teenagers, but what always struck us in every group was the one irrevocable fact that most of them were girls. You could see very few boys among them. Obviously, parents or mothers or their relatives were pretty selective about whom to abandon. They craved for love and, therefore, the not-so-shy-ones immediately ran up to you with arms wide open. The others took a while to warm up as most children do. There was this beautiful girl, a cherub who seemed to have come out from one of those Renaissance paintings and live for a while among us, who would just run into your lap the moment she saw you with the most disarming smile. Later, one of the Sisters told us that she was deaf and dumb.

We didn’t contribute much, just played for a while and gave them company .The nuns let us play with the toddlers and the slightly older ones. The infants in the nursery we were allowed to see only through the glass doors from outside. They lay in spotless little cribs, covered with clean pastel sheets. Not a spot on their sheets or a grain on the floor. Every hour they were cleaning and scrubbing and disinfecting. Once we even saw Mother entering Shishu Bhavan, getting off a car and walking inside. Within seconds the Mother was surrounded by her brood.

I remember coming home and telling my people that the nuns kept the babies as well as the older kids far better than what we ever managed to do  in our own homes.

One of the sisters narrated to us how a couple adopted a baby boy and within a few months came to return the baby saying that he was suffering from some developmental abnormality, which had come to light only recently, and therefore they wished to choose another baby in his place. The nuns had asked them what they would have done had he been their biological child. Where would they have gone to return the baby?

Those of us from Calcutta are all too familiar with these Sisters in the white saris with the thin blue borders draped in the Bengali style, the pallu pinned over their heads completely covering the foreheads, feet covered in blue strapped flip-flops, walking through the streets of the city doing what they can for the dying and the abandoned, the diseased and the decayed, the old and the young. What I didn’t know was that all these saris are woven at the Titagarh leprosy centre. We have all gone past Mother House, Shishu Bhavan, Nirmal Hriday on innumerable occasions. Did we ever give a thought to the fact that Mother herself lived in a small room 12ft by 8ft with a cot, a table and small stool? She did not even have a fan in her room.

 Yet , I was taken aback to hear some people even pointing out on the day of Mother’s canonisation that the Sisters of her Order did not lead a life of poverty but moved around in vans donated to them. Can we be so mean as to deny these women that much luxury given to them by someone trying to reach out? How can we forget that these women were once young girls who gave up everything, friends and families, loved ones, the little joys and luxuries of life to help and serve those who had been left to die or perish by their very own flesh and blood? How can we stoop so low? It is not easy to give up everything and serve another. They are cleaning the sick, the diseased, the dead, and the mutilated when we find it difficult to even clean our own children and parents. We hire people to do the same.

On the 4^th of September 2016 these Sisters must have shed tears of joy to see their Mother canonised as Saint Teresa of Calcutta. Not just them, many of us must have felt proud and happy to see one of us, an Indian by choice, and a Calcuttan, rise from the ranks of ordinary men, shrug off the criticisms and barbs being aimed at her by some, and fly out with little wings to take a place in that haloed seat reserved in heaven for the Saints. I am sure it is one of those rare and great moments when, even if for a short while, we pause to think, to feel and to have our faith restored in the goodness of Mankind and greatness of Faith.

However, it is not to be so. Sinners that we are, we choose that particular moment to run our commentary on measuring her true worth. Many of her detractors choose that very day to question her contribution to society. That is the moment we choose to vilify her, denigrate her. Our national TV channels and their anchors, who judge one and all, the wise men that grace their panels and the more vociferous ones who enthrall the social media decide to question whether all that she had done was right or wrong. You may not agree with Mother’s views on all matters- abortion, contraception or mode of treatment meted out to the sick and the dying. Every person is entitled to his views. But that was not the day to question. Also there is no one who can question what she has done for the poor and the destitute and to do that kind of service you had to have unquestioned Faith and more-than-human capabilities. That is exactly what drove her- absolute, unadulterated, unquestionable faith. And that is why we are nobody to question her.

 Not just that, what irked me most that day was that many national TV channels were busy playing and replaying a sleazy video of a debauched politician and his sexual escapade. They were all so concerned about protecting the dignity and identity of the woman in the video that in their urge to do so they continued to repeatedly show that clipping in which she was being dishonoured. Could anything be more hypocritical? Could there be anything more shameful? Could they not have forgotten about their TRP for a few hours and not harped about being the only channel to have in their possession such a recording?

 If nothing, at least, we could have kept quiet for a while and paid our respects due to the dead and the great.

Perhaps, Khushwant Singh once gave it back to one such critic of Mother by saying that if anyone spits at the sky, it’s his face that gets spat down upon.

Yes Mother, even though you are St.Teresa of Calcutta, to many of your most ardent admirers you will always be Mother, the Saint who lived among us even before being canonised.

Whenever I listen to  Debabrata Biswas’s rendition of Tagore’s ‘Boro asha kore eshechhigo, kachhe deke lao….” there is only one face that comes before me and my head bows down in reverence on its own. I can think of no one else.

Tagore’s Original

Boro asha kore eshechhi go kachhe deke lou,

Phirayo na janani||

Deena-heene keho chahe na tumi tare rakhibe jani go|

Aar ami je kichhu chahine charanatale boshe thakibo

Aar ami je kichhu chahine janani bole shudhu dakibo

Tumi na rakhile griha aar paibo kotha, kende kende kotha berabo-

Oi je heri tamasa ghanaghoro gahana rajani||

English Translation:

With a high hope I have come up to you, Hold out your arms,

 O Mother don't you send me back.

 Nobody likes to care for destitutes, You will give refuge I know well I know,

 I have no other desire in me, But to remain seated at your feet,

 I have no other craving in me, But to call you O Mother dear,

 Unless sheltered by you, Where else shall I get a home, Where else shall I go about weeping.

 There behold, there behold,

There's a deep and very thick darkness of the night,

 With a high hope I have come up to you, Hold out your arms,

 O Mother don't you send me back.

DS

Salsal & Shamama

It was the March of 2001, a teenage boy, Zulfi, and his little sister, Rabya, were lying on their bed with thick quilts over them. Sleep eluded the children as they saw the elders sitting around a fire and talking in soft voices, looking worried with hands at time clasping their heads or pointing heavenwards in prayers. This was no ordinary night. Loud explosions outside were common for all and they never bothered the family. Zulfi and Rabya were so used to the sound of bombs of varying intensity all through the days and nights since they were born. Afghanistan had not seen a night of peace for decades. The country had been ravaged in one war after another but things had gone from bad to worse in the 90s since the Taliban had occupied the land.

Zulfi’s family had lived for generations in the Bamiyan Valley which fell on the Silk Route which linked the markets in China to the rest of the western word. All around were the mountainous Hindu Kush region and most of the valley remained rocky, dry and barren but this small patch of land belonging to farmers who, surprisingly, always had bountiful rains and grew two crops a year.

There were a few houses in the hamlet and there lived a handful of children. Their favourite games were running around in the hills which had caves and playing hide and seek. There were many small and large caves and some of them were brightly decorated with frescos. No one told them much about the pictures, what was depicted other than these being more than a thousand years old.

On the face of the mountains two enormous statues stood prominently. They were of Salsal , who appeared a male and larger of the two, and the second was of a female known locally as Shamama. The children often wondered who could have made such huge statues. Once every month there would be a ritual around the statues when the elders would come together and for nearly two full days they would clean these stone works. They had created a strange contraption which worked like a pulley. One person would be seated on a small base of wooden plank which would be hung from atop the hill and slowly lowered till the person would touch the statue with his hands. Then, with a duster made of soft camel’s hair, he would wipe the statue. Great effort was taken to ensure every speck of dust was removed after which water would be sprayed all over. The statues in these two days almost came to life.

Rabya loved listening to stories from her mother, Hamida Bibi. One night Hamida had told her the tale about the statues. She said, “These were built about 1500 years ago by men who inhabited this area. They were not the shalwar-kameez wearing Pathans like us but little people who wore a funny dress. These people were a peaceful lot and spent most of their time in praying to their God and in the rest would work with their simple instruments to make statutes and paintings. Then came hordes of barbarians under a famous chieftain called Genghis Khan who drove away these people from this land. The chief tried to destroy the statues but failed. Many others who tried to destroy them including the Great Mughal, Aurangzeb, also failed. These statutes are the protectors of our lives and as long as they are there we will always get food, water and shelter.” Rabya listened to everything and then smiled knowing fully well that her mother was a master story teller and this was one of her favourite fairy tales, not one to be believed yet was fun to be heard about over and over again.

While the elders went on talking, Rabya and Zulfi dozed off after some time only to be woken up very early with the commotion in the house. The sun hadn’t come out and cold winds were blowing outside yet their parents were rushing out of their house leaving the door ajar. The kids too got out of the bed and draped woollens and jackets before walking out themselves to see what was going on. Outside they saw the largest contingent of Taliban soldiers but more than that was the vast array of armaments they had assembled- tanks, anti-aircraft guns, explosives and mines.

Abdul Waheed was the Taliban commander of the area and he himself was seen taking lead in the operations. The big guns were being put in position and shells were kept close to them, easy to re-load at quick intervals. Waheed was heard giving instructions to his men to aim at the statues and fire rapidly till the statues were obliterated from the face of the earth. Zulfi’s father, Amanullah, was the village headman and he walked up to Waheed with folded hands pleading, “Spare the statutes for they bring us luck. We do not pray to these idols, for us Allah is the Greatest. We do our namaaz five times a day without fail, keep roza as given by the sharia, don’t shave our beards, our children don’t go to schools, our women stay behind their hijaabs….we are proud to be Musalmaans. Just being in the shadow of these stones for centuries, our village has lived in peace and our children stay happy growing up playing in the hills.”

Waheed replied, “Although 400 clerics across Afghanistan had declared these statutes to be un-Islamic, I did not want to destroy the same for long and that is why they have survived for so long. But some time ago some foreigners came to me to say that they would provide us money to repair these statues which had got slightly damaged due to rains. This shocked me. These callous people have no regard for us Afghans who are dying of hunger but they are concerned about non-living objects like these statues. This is deplorable and that is why I have now ordered its destruction. Had they come for humanitarian work, I would not have ordered the destruction of the statues.”

Zulfi’s father and many other elderly men of the village went down on their knees and were pleading with tears in their eyes. Zulfi and Rabya found this hard to understand but stood some distance away and kept seeing the drama unfolding. Waheed heard them for some time and then walked away and ordered for the guns to fire. Simultaneously tens of anti-aircraft guns started firing, all aimed at the two statues holed up in the hill. They kept pounding for hours together till the shells got over and there was smoke all around. When the firing stopped and the smoky haze cleared, the statues stood almost as they were before the firing began, just some holes had been made on the face and the bodies of the statues that stood tall with faces that were calm as ever.  The Taliban looked dejected, the villagers looked in awe and tried hard to keep their joy in check. They went back to their homes.

Zulfi and Rabya too followed their parents. That night all in the family slept well. They were woken up with loud knocks on the door that terrified old and young. These were knocks the villagers feared more than anything for it usually meant that the Taliban had got some news about some un-Islamic act by someone. Judgement in such cases was swift and nothing in defence was ever heard, just the clatter of the Kalashnikovs and the bodies were left to rot in the open. Amanullah slowly walked to the door, signalling others to remain in bed. As he opened the door, four soldiers rushed in, two held Amanullah’s arms and two stood by his side and walked him out with all four shouting expletives.  Seeing this, everyone including Zulfi and Rabya rushed out of the house to see where their father was being taken away.

Outside, they saw all the males over a certain age had been rounded off and Commander Waheed was seen talking to them which no woman nor children could overhear from the distance they were standing. Once more Amanullah and a few others were seen pleading with folded hands but Waheed was in no mood to listen. Suddenly the commander took out his pistol from his belt and …bang…bang…two village men standing with Amanullah were shot at point blank range. The other men stood frozen while women started wailing from behind the burkas. The commander had made his point and his diktat had to be followed unquestioningly.

Amanullah and the men folk started a slow march towards the hills. Under the complete supervision of the soldiers, they were seen to be using their manual contraption. On the wooden plank stood a villager and a couple of soldiers. Every hole in the statues were filled with dynamite sticks and the bases were laid with anti-tank mines of highest intensity. For once the villagers were not cleaning the statues but helping in its total cleansing. The operation took quite some time as the Taliban did not want to bear the brunt of Waheed’s anger at another failed operation. Explosives and mines were placed in abundance, quite enough to blow up an entire city. Finally on the orders of the commander, the bombs were detonated. The earth shook, the mountains exploded, rocks flew in all directions….when the dust settled after sometime, and just holes remained in the hills where the magnificent Salsal and Shamama stood for centuries.

The Taliban soldiers raised their hands in unison and shouted Allah O Akbar and then took the guns slung on their shoulders in their hands and fired in the air non-stop till the magazines lasted. The idols had been smashed and the soldiers of God were victorious. The villagers stood still, not knowing how to react. Sadness was in their eyes but held back their emotions. Slowly the victorious army left the village. The dead villagers were buried and then all walked towards the hill and kept staring at the holes left behind for hours. It rained that night but the villagers stood the ground in the cold till the headman convinced them to return to their homes. Soon the village was abandoned. They took with them their bare necessities and a handful of ruins of the statues they had collected a day after the destruction.

March 2016: A handful of young men and women gathered at the foothills of Bamiyan. Some came from different parts of Afghanistan while some came from abroad. Among them was an archaeologist, Rabya, who was now studying in the USA and her brother, Zulfi ,who had turned a doctor having done his education in India and was working at a government hospital in Kabul. These were the children of Bamiyan who would come every year in March for two days. Very little was spoken but a walk in the hills with brooms in their hands they would clean the site where the statues once stood.

And for two days the mountains echoed once again.

SS

A Tale of Two Kings

In 1542 in a Rajput fortress of Umarkot in Sindh a boy, Jalal, was born to Hamida. His father had been driven out of his kingdom and was now living in exile. History states that the boy’s parents had lived the last few months before his birth running across the Thar Desert in the hottest time of the year. All the wells had been filled with sand to deny the fleeing couple and their entourage of water.  The boy grew up in the house of his paternal uncles in Kabul where he learnt the skillful art of sword fighting, hunting and horse riding while his parents went off to Persia seeking refuge and help. However, the boy never learnt how to read or write.

As the boy grew up into his teens, the father’s fortunes turned around and he once again ascended the Mughal throne of Delhi but his reign lasted a couple months only. The boy was thirteen when Emperor Humayun fell of the staircase and died and he was anointed Shahanshah in Kalanaur in Punjab.  What followed is history and well known to all, the era of Emperor Akbar dawned which saw the Mughal Empire grow in size from Afghanistan in the North, Sindh in the West, Bengal in the East and River Godavari in the South. Akbar had the bloodline of Chenghez Khan and Timur Lane.

Around the time when Akbar was establishing control over India, in a faraway land in Abyssinia (Ethiopia) a young lad, again thirteen years old then was sold off as slave by his impoverished parents. Chapu, as the boy was called was sent off to Yemen and then to Baghdad where he was enslaved by Kazi Hussain who recognized the intelligence in him to educate him in finance and administration. He also gave him the name Ambar. Upon Hussain’s death, Ambar was sold off to another slave trader who took him to India and sold him to Changhez Khan, the prime minister to the king of Ahmednagar.

The Deccan in this period had a lot of these Abyssinians who were in the ranks of many Indian royals as they were known to be professional to their tasks as military slaves. Abyssinians were in Arabic known as Habshis. Changhez Khan was also of African origin. Under him Ambar learnt about military and administrative affairs. This coupled with his past education in Arabic and intellect led Ambar to become highly respected among the Habshis. Changhez in some time gave Ambar a position of authority among the military slaves.

On the death of Changhez Khan, Ambar was sold off to the Shah of Golkonda and later to the King of Bijapur. The king, impressed by Ambar’s intellect and talent, gave him the title of Malik (like a King). In Bijapur, Malik Ambar became the military commander but became a deserter with his troops when the king refused to grant additional funds. Gradually, Malik Ambar built up a force of mercenaries who provided military service to various kings of the region. In 1595, the King of Ahmednagar hired Ambar and his troops to join his army in their fight with the Mughals who under Akbar the Great were increasing their presence in the Deccan. This is where Ambar and Akbar crossed swords.

Akbar’s forces were edging southwards trying to capture the Deccan. They laid siege to the fortified city of Ahmednagar, the capital of Nizam Shahi Kingdom. When the city fell, Malik Ambar daringly escaped with around 7000 men. For the next three decades Mughals failed to take control of the Deccan from Malik Ambar.  He was able to attract other Africans and Indians to his side to wage guerrilla warfare, something our man mastered and later adopted by the Marathas. His forces grew to about 50,000. In 1610, he captured the citadel of Daulatabad. Akbar failed to defeat Ambar.

Akbar’s son Jahangir inherited his goal of crushing the Ethiopian and some say his preoccupation bordered on neurosis. Frustrated in his attempts to defeat Ambar, Jahangir cast his rival as one with a dark and cunning heart. He even got a picture of his commissioned by Abu’l Hasan of him standing on a globe atop a bull and fish as the ruler of land and sea releasing arrows into the disembodied head of Ambar.

Akbar started building the red sandstone buildings around forty kilometres west of where the iconic Taj now stands at Sikri in 1571 to mark the birth of his son Jahangir. He had originally wanted it to be a religious place for his spiritual mentor Shaikh Salim Chishti. Around the mosque, a city soon came up and soon became the capital for Akbar after Lahore and Agra.  Akbar took great interest in the building of the city and dictated its architectural design. It was a mixture of Persian principles and Indian influences. Among the better known places at Fatehpur Sikri are the majestic Buland Darwaza built to commemorate his victory in Gujarat, Jama Masjid, Dargah of Salim Chishti, Diwan-i-Aam and Khaas and Ibadat Khana, a house of worship where Akbar laid the foundations of Din-i-Ilahi. The Imperial complex was abandoned in 1585 shortly after its completion due to exhaustion of the small lake that supplied the city with water. Water proved death knell to Akbar’s dream city.

Malik Ambar was also an architectural genius who built the city of Khidki which was later renamed Aurangabad. The city was famous for its water canal and was known as Nahr e Ambari. Water was supplied to Khadki from the famous Panchaki which drove the water down the canal from the stream. Even more imposing than the Nahr was the establishment of Fort Murud Janjira on the west coast attributed to Malik Ambar and his allies, the Siddis. The fort in its full glory had 572 cannons and the fort in the middle of the sea remained unconquered despite multiple attempts by the Marathas led by Shivaji, his son Sambhaji, Portuguese and the British. The beauty about the fort is the two water tanks of cold and sweet water in the midst of saline water. Water was the strength of Janjira.

The world appends the title of The Great when referring to Akbar but hardly anyone knows about Malik Ambar. It is difficult and incorrect to judge people after five centuries but Ambar’s achievements, seen against his background as a slave compared to Akbar, do need to be given his due place in the sun. 

Here’s a picture of Ambar, The Great.

SS