MAHANAYAK
Vishwas Patil is one of the most acclaimed Marathi writers today. He has written iconic novels like Ranangan , Chandramukhi , Pangira , Zadazadati , Panipat and Sambhaji . He received the Nath Madhav Award and the Bhartiya Bhasha Parishad Award for Panipat ; the Priyadarshini National Award, the Vikhe Patil Award and the Sahitya Akademi Award for Zadazadati ; and the Gadkari Award for Mahanayak .
Keerti Ramachandra is an editor and translator. She is conversant with seven Indian languages, and translating works from Marathi and Kannada into English is more than a serious hobby for her. She has edited and translated many important books, including Home and Away , a collection of Kannada short stories by Ramachandra Sharma and Sleepwalkers , a novella by Joginder Paul. She was awarded the prestigious A. K. Ramanujan Award for translation in 1995.
First published in Marathi as Mahanayak in 1998 by Mehta Publishing House
First published in English as Mahanayak in 2004 by Mehta Publishing House
Published in English as Mahanayak in 2019 by Eka, an imprint of Westland Publications Private Limited, by arrangement with Mehta Publishing House
1st Floor, A Block, East Wing, Plot No. 40, SP Infocity, Dr MGR Salai, Perungudi, Kandanchavadi, Chennai 600096
Westland, the Westland logo, Eka and the Eka logo are the trademarks of Westland Publications Private Limited, or its affiliates.
Copyright Vishwas Patil, 2019
ISBN: 9789388689960
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously.
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
G eography is created by the Almighty, but the contours of history are designed by man. The embers of the 1857 rebellion, eighty-eight years ago, have turned to ashes. The Red Fort, pride of Delhi, is under the control of British rulers, and is now reduced to a mere arsenal of old weapons and ammunition. Today, Lal Qila has assumed the role of destiny and become the eye of a storm that has swept the entire country.
It has witnessed many events in its three-hundred-and-fifty-year existence. From splendorous coronations, bejewelled zenanas of indescribable beauty, caparisoned elephants swaying proudly, golden bells tinkling around their necks, foreign emissaries bent under the weight of their tributes of salvers piled with emeralds to flashing knives and murderous intrigues, bloodshed and treachery. Sometimes the walls have echoed the groans of a beleaguered emperor trapped in debt; at others they have resounded with the wails of his starving harem. So many victories and defeats. So much pride and humiliation. Delhi, the heart of Hindustan, and Lal Qila, its heartbeat. Yes, it is the golden-winged bird which soars with the dreams and aspirations of the people, but it also seats the bloody wounds of unfortunate rebels and adventurers. Only one other time had Lal Qilas heart skipped a beat.
In 1857, for the first time, a wave of protest washed over the country, breaking barriers of caste and religion, language and culture. It was the first united uprising against British arrogance. It was from Lal Qila that the rebels had proclaimed Bahadur Shah emperor of India.
The flag of revolt was soon soaked in blood. Tragically, this symbol, still in its infancy, snagged on the thorns of treachery and deception and was torn to shreds. The same palace, from where the imperial proclamations of independence were issued, now became a prison. In front of his age-dimmed eyes, Bahadur Shah saw his beloved consorts being shot dead. Lal Qila looked on as the frail emperors handcuffed hands feebly covered the coffins of his kin with fistfuls of soil.
What remained was a drama of deceit. A case was lodged to reiterate that all British actions were legally sanctioned. Bahadur Shah, who had fought for his motherland, now stood in the dock, charged with treason. False statements, corrupt witnesses and heartless yellow papers stained with lies snatched away his sovereignty. He was forever banished from his homeland. The Badshah was denied even two bighas of land for his grave.
Will Lal Qila ever forget that evening? Proclaimed guilty of treason, the emperor walked out of Lahori Gate. Overcome with grief, he glanced around at his remaining subjects. Helpless peasants stood in tears, their fists clenched in vengeful fury. His impoverished soldiers wandered around the country, feeling lost. Coins stamped with his image were no longer a valid currency. Strangers made off with his throne. As the broken Badshah took his leave, a gust of wind blew across the land. Suddenly his bowed head lifted and his bent back snapped erect. Fire blazed from his eyes. He turned towards Lal Qila. His arm rose in the air like a flag, and the poet broke into a cry:
Gazhiyon mein bu rahegi jab tak iman ki
Takht-e-London tak chalegi teg Hindustan ki
Time: Eighty-eight years later, November 1945.
Place: Lal Qila, Delhi.
Once again, the Lal Qila was to witness another drama, infinitely more sensational. The noose this time was not around one neck. Three senior officers of the British Indian Army were in the dock. They had been carefully chosen, to ensure that no religion felt any neglect. Shah Nawaz Khan was a Muslim, Gurbaksh Singh Dhillon a Sikh and Prem Sehgal a Hindu. They had been accused of declaring war on the British Sovereign and betraying those whose salt they had eaten.
Shadows spread across the Yamuna and an eerie silence descended on the fort. Winter crept into Delhi, but the British troops barred entry of everything else. Soldiers patrolled the streets while sentries manned the gates. In the mohallas and chawls, behind closed doors, people discussed the impending trial in hushed whispers. The stillness of the night was shattered by the cries of gurkhas, the clattering of boots, the harsh crackling of wireless sets and the screech of speeding vehicles. The whole city seemed to be one big military encampment. The walls of Lal Qila became formidable monsters in the dark, as if the devil himself had captured it and was reigning there. Soldiers ran zigzag along the ramparts throwing long, ghostly shadows.
Over the previous years, all sorts of stories had echoed off Lal Qila. But when truckloads of ammunition finally left its gates, ready for the Second World War, the fort shuddered. News arrived, filling some hearts with joy and making others miss a beat. All India Radio announced that Japan had attacked India. The country would be enslaved again. A few days later, the Azad Hind broadcasts began. People heard Netaji Subhas Chandra Boses exhortations, Chalo Dilli! Onward to Delhi! The words were sweet to Lal Qilas ears. Until then, in the past two centuries, no man had dared to openly defy the British. Netajis call set Lal Qila on fire. My brave warriors of the Azad Hind Army, I know you are impatient to see the sun rising, free and independent over the horizon. Come! Let us go to Delhi. Break the noose of slavery that is strangling thirty-eight crore lives. Tear down the Union Jack that flutters over the Viceroys mansion and hoist our beloved tricolour. Then we will conduct the drill of our victorious army at the Lal Qila itself. Theres no rest until then. No peace until then.
