The Times of India initiated a Write India Campaign a few months ago. Eleven popular authors would participate. Each month, a given author would indicate a certain passage, and the idea was those interested in participating would include this passage and develop a short story and submit it. There would be 10 stories highlighted each month, and one winner declared, who would win a Kindle.
Amish Tripathy of the Shiva Triology fame, was the first author. The passage he specified is indicated below in red. There were some facts mentioned (as far as I can recall) about depiction of women as progressive in 17th century Paithan, and one was expected to research this.
The first month results are out, and while it is very clear that one is not amongst the talented top 10, and possibly, somewhere beyond 3 digits in rank, it has been a fun thing to participate in.
The second and third months submissions for Chetan Bhagat and Ashwin Sanghi respectively, based on their specified passages , have been done.
My Amish Tripathy specified submission appears below.
Ilaa's Story
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.
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.
The wind changed across the
river, and she had to hold her long tresses down with her slender
fingers, to stop them from covering her face.
She turned and began tracing designs in the sands where she sat. She was a natural artist, and loved drawing
designs on walls and floors with rice flour, but had run out of space in her
house. She was often confused about what
she wanted to do. She certainly did not
want to be a cotton picker all her life.
She composed songs, Powadas, in
praise of Shivaji Maharaj , and wrote them in secret. But she loved and respected her father, who
thought she should be helping the family in this yearly process. And so she would go to the fields from time
to time.
Her brothers had a person come by, thrice a week to help
them learn the three R’s. She would
stand behind the door, and listen, till one day her father noticed and allowed
her to join her brothers.
This was something unusual.
Baba Paithankar, knew she was special. Years ago, after he and his wife Bhama had
despaired of having children, he found
this little baby girl in his fields. Thankful
for this “prasadam” from the almighty, he took her home, and he and his wife
raised her. As if miraculously, they
then had children of their own, both sons.
But she, Ilaa, remained the eldest. Baba named her after King Ila, the
founder of the city, who , as story had it, strayed into Lord Shiva’s
forest one day and was “cursed” with
becoming a woman. Mediation by sages and intense prayers converted this, to a month as woman and a month as man, completely
messing up his/her psyche.
She picked herself up, brushed the sand of her skirt and ran
home. The idea was to be seen doing
something useful, by the time the family reached home for a meal break. Plucking the cotton was hard work, and they
would continue into the hot afternoon.
Ilaa Paithankar’s mind was
split. She probably carried the
methylated DNA of the old King .
In a conservative
powerful city with so many
patron saints and gods, her
mind would have
been forced to confirm to , what
was typically expected of a young
beautiful adolescent girl; it was sheer providence that she lived a bit
outside the city close to her family
fields.
An afternoon spent adorning the prayer room floor with her designs, and she sat down dreamily to pen her thoughts on
the leaves with one of the huge
collection of reeds that she maintained.
She now had a decent collection, and only one person knew about it.
Jairam Harshe. The son of the old priest in Paithan’s oldest
temple.
He was a friend of
her brother, and was himself trained in
the religious texts as well as a great
speaker and communicator, having liased between the city leaders, and the
merchants who travelled each year to Paithan to sell their wares. He admired Ilaa’s writings, and encouraged
her quietly, often wandering on the
riverbanks at sunset, when she would come by to fill water.
A shadow fell across Ilaa, as she straightened up after
filling the second handa . It was Jairam, and she smiled as he looked
at her, clearly unable to contain his excitement.
“I just heard.
Shivaji Maharaj is expected soon .
My father just received word. The
procession will reach by tomorrow, and there is to be an announcement. I have been told to be present. Will you be
there ?” he said, trying
not to reveal too much.
She adjusted the handas, smiled up at him . He had his answer. He walked a part of the way with her, and
then speeded up as the city path appeared .
Ilaa was excited. She had heard about Shivaji Mahraj. His exploits as a young ruler, his
magnanimity, his sense of justice, and his secular outlook. Brought up solely by his mother, Jijabai,
he grew up , immensely respecting women and their capabilities. His procession would pass by their farm on
the way to the city. And she wasn’t just
going to stand and gape. Not her
style.
There was something providential in why Jairam had told her
what he did.
The next morning she got up before dawn, and
rushed down to the roadside with
her red Geru powder and rice powder; one
would be made into a paste to color some
patches, and the rice flour would be used to do her designs on those patches.
She laboured on, inspired, as she
did design after design depicting
the reign of Shivaji, his mother , his childhood, nature,
flowers, temples, and Gods. The
family , not finding her at home, was shocked to find her there, but not too concerned. Her father was very appreciative, and her
mother came by with a bowl of rice gruel, to sustain her through the
morning. What they didn’t know, was that
wrapped in a piece of cloth along with the powders, was her entire sheaf of poems, inscribed on
leaves.
She would welcome Shivaji Maharaj in her own way.
A welcome sound of hooves, and drums woke her from a reverie
into which she had slipped. There was
dust flying up into the air in the
distance, as the sounds came closer. She stood up.
It wouldn’t do for the horses to ride rough shod over her
rice flour art. She stood in the
middle of the path, her leaf inscribed poems in her hands, folded in welcome.
The next hour was magical.
The approaching royal company slowed down , and the eminences got down to view her art. She bowed
in respect , and then uncovered her leaf manuscripts, and then , in a
voice full of emotion, sang the first
few notes of her powadas in a full voice, that even had the horses pay attention . It was as if the trees stopped to listen,
and the branches and leaves applauded
after every stanza.
As was the custom
then, the family served simple tasty
horsegram gruel to the travelers
to energize and welcome them; nothing
fancy, but just what they really needed.
None of this, was planned by the family as a team. Only Ilaa’s activity was
preplanned. It was a credit to her
father’s enlightened attitude that she was allowed to get on with
what she wanted to do, while the family
did everything else
in indulgent support and good rural hospitality.
Shivaji Maharaj appeared to be pleased, and he sent his aide
with a message for Baba Paithankar.
Maharaj would be pleased to have
Baba attend , with his family, the
session at the main temple in Paithan , the next day, where he would be holding
court.
Even the sun dawned early the next day out of sheer
curiousity, as a family, dressed in their finest , set out in
their bullock cart towards Paithan.
Ilaa had never been there ;
just once when she was a child, and she tried in vain to look for
landmarks as they approached the temple.
Brilliant decorations , flowers, silks, carpets on the paths, and a welcoming
committee were seen guiding citizens to
the sitting area. Some simply stood in awe.
Jairam was seen rushing around running errands for his father, now too
old to anything but the actual rituals. He stood on the podium, watching a sea
of faces , all agog and waiting for the arrival of Shivaji Maharaj.
The arrival of Maharaj, at the predecided auspicious moment ,
was heralded by the blowing of a conch
shell, and throwing of flowers and rice
confetti in his path. The Conch shells
were not intrinsically a Paithan custom, but thanks to the city’s prominence in the
traders’ world, and the
fact that traders from across the world came there, the
people of Paithan learned to appreciate auspicious customs and imbibed them.
Several prayers and blessing in honor of Shivaji
Maharaj having been completed, his chief aide, got up
to make announcements, in response to a look and a gesture from Maharaj.
“ We have great pleasure in announcing the new priest as the head of this temple complex. The incumbent , Laxmanrao Harshe , having served the temple and the people with
exemplary service ad courage, is getting
on n years, and had requested us to
appoint a successor. Shivaji
Maharaj has great pleasure to announce
that this post will be now held by
Shri Jairam Harshe, who
has proved himself worthy with
his scholarly activities, people connect, and
mastery of religious studies. “
Jairam slowly walked
forward, head bent in respect.
Presented with a shawl, a scroll
spelling out his appointment, and an
auspicious coconut , he walked backwards to one side on the dias and looked up, to see everyone
applauding and cheering amidst
slogans of Shivaji Maharaj ki Jai. He
saw Ilaa and her family off to one side, and smiled . It was meant for Ila.
But Shivaji Maharaj noticed it too. And he smiled. Not because everyone was smiling, but because of what he planned to announce
next.
His aide held up his hand, and the crowd quietened down
to a low buzz.
“Shivaji Maharaj takes great pleasure is announcing a new
appointment. That of the Poet Royale
of Paithan. A
life time post . Commissioned to write
the history of kingdoms, people, and in particular, women, through poetry and art. With great pleasure, we announce that the
first holder of this honored post will be Kum.
Ilaa Paithankar .”
For a while there was total silence. In the crowd, as well as on the faces of the Paithankar family. This was too sudden, too unexpected. Poet Royale, and that
too a woman.
But then , everyone
realized , this was Paithan, and here was Shivaji Maharaj. There was appreciation of capabilities, and
your gender did not matter. This was a
land of saints , both men and women, each so
special; of warriors, and mothers
of warriors. And the tradition simply
continued.
Jija, Jairam’s mother
, motioned to Ilaa to come, and led her up to the Maharaj, and stepped back
herself. A Silk saree
in 9 yards , a green cloth and
rice was offered and she accepted with
gratitude . She bent at touched the feet of the elders.
Baba Paithankar could
only stare, wide eyed, as his wife wiped the tears from her eyes. They always knew Ilaa was special.
It was their secret. The family
bent low and did namaskars to
Maharaj. Jairam looked on, a
pleased smile on his face. He hoped the
future would hold what he thought it would hold. For him and for Ilaa.
The special Court session having concluded, the city bid farewell to Shivaji Maharaj, at the gates
of the city, as he continued his tour.
The Paithankars, sans
Ilaa went back to their farm.
She would be an icon
in the years to come , with her sensitivity, her artistry and her
evocative poetry.
He family knew she
was special, she realized she was special,
but it took a century to realize
really how special she really was.
Long after she was gone,
she inspired Bahinabai Chowdhary,
a gifted Brahmin lady in the
throes of a dichotomy regarding society,
women, her marital status, and her
responsibilities, to compose some wonderful
soulful verses .
Special verses.
So valid even today………
