In 1866,NandshankarMehta—a scholar from Gujarat and the headmaster of an English-medium school in Surat—published Karan Ghelo, his only work of fiction that draws heavily on bardic chronicles and historic texts. The story of Karan Vaghela, the last Rajput king of Gujarat who ruled over the region towards the turn of the thirteenth century, has occupied a permanent place in the collective memory of Gujarati people for over 700 years. As the first modern novel that was writtenin the state, the book was a landmark in Gujarati literature. It remained immensely popular right into the twentieth century and, until a few decades ago, was used as a textbook in Gujarati-medium schools. According to the lore, Karan Raja, the brave but hedonisticmonarch of Gujarat, abducted Roopsundari, the wife of his trusted prime minister—Madhav. Determined to seek revenge, Madhav went to Delhi and persuaded Allauddin Khilji, the second ruler of the Khilji dynasty, to attack Gujarat. Allauddin was successful; he conquered the land and married Kaularani, Karan’s chief queen.Subsequently, Devaldevi, Karan’s daughter, was wed to Allauddin’s son. In the backdrop of these events, Karan gained the epithet, Ghelo—foolish. In this extract from his book, Karan Ghelo that has been translated by Aban Mukherji and Tulsi Vatsal, Nandshankar Mehta describes a riot that broke out between Hindus and Muslims, after Allauddin took over Delhi from his predecessor Jalaluddin Firoz.
In days of yore, present-day Delhi—situated on the banks of the Jamuna, and adjoining Hastinapur of legendary fame—was ruled over by Rajput kings. When the last king of the Tomar dynasty died without an heir, Prithviraj Chauhan ascended the throne of Delhi and Ajmer. During his reign Delhi was attacked twice by the Musalman king, Shahabuddin Ghori. His first attempt ended in defeat, the second in a decisive victory. And with the capture of Prithviraj, Delhi fell to the Musalmans.
Padshah Qutbuddin was the first Muslim king of Delhi and he and his successors did their utmost to beautify the city, extend its frontiers and enrich it with wealth looted from the coffers of defeated Hindu rajas.
It was now the year 1296, and as Diwali approached the city wore a festive look. At night, bazaars and homes were brightly lit, and during the day people strolled about, decked in fine clothes. But in the midst of this gaiety, a cloud of foreboding loomed on the horizon. Just a few months previously, the mild-mannered, kindly and peace-loving Delhi Sultan Jalaluddin Firoz had been treacherously murdered. During Jalaluddin’s reign his subjects had been happy and content, justice was meted out evenly, and people were not arbitrarily oppressed or persecuted for their religion. But it was well known that the new ruler, Allauddin, was the complete opposite of his predecessor. He was renowned for valour and a love of warfare, and it was feared that his belligerent nature would result in a kingdom perpetually at war. The populace also feared for their lives and property, for the king was known to have a cruel, cunning and implacable nature and a reputation for iconoclastic zeal.
Allauddin’s treachery towards his uncle Jalaluddin Firoz was still fresh in the minds of the people of Delhi. They recalled how the old emperor had met his nephew by the river outside Kara; how Allauddin, with a show of loyalty, had stepped forward, alone, to reverently touch his uncle’s feet; how trustingly Jalaluddin had held his hand and bade him rise, and patting him affectionately
on his cheek had said, ‘From your infancy have I raised you like my own flesh and blood. I showered more affection on you than on my own son, that you would never have the slightest doubt
of my love.’ At that very moment the treacherous Allauddin signalled to his guard, and Muhammad bin Salam slashed the emperor’s shoulder with his sword. Shocked, Jalaluddin tried to escape in his boat, but the wounded old king was held fast by Akhatiyaruddin, hurled to the ground and decapitated. The heartless Allauddin ordered the impaled head to be paraded through the town and displayed in front of the army.
After Jalaluddin’s death, his queen Malekajahan, without bothering to consult the nobles, had hastily enthroned her younger son, Kadarkhan, alias Ruknuddin Ibrahim, and had sent urgent messages to Multan where her older son Arakalikhan, the rightful heir to the throne was encamped, urging him to send his army to support his brother. Not only had Arakalikhan refused to come to her aid, he had sent word that a river can be dammed at its source but its flow cannot be stemmed once it gains momentum. Allauddin’s army now arrived at the outskirts of Delhi. But when Kadarkhan collected his forces and prepared for battle, he found that many of his supporters and nobles had deserted him and gone over to the enemy. Accompanied by his mother and a few trusted retainers, Kadarkhan fled to Multan. Meanwhile Allauddin entered Delhi and immediately struck coins in his own name. He sent a considerable army under his brother Alafkhan and Zafarkhan to capture Multan and bring back the two princes. The siege of Multan lasted for two months. Finally, the civilians as well as the soldiers agreed to hand over the fort to Alafkhan on the condition that the lives of the two princes be spared. Agreeing to this and promising to uphold his pledge, Alafkhan took charge of the princes. Word was sent to Allauddin that the mission was a success.
The emperor was delighted at this long-desired outcome. There was now not a single claimant left to dispute his right to rule. He organized a lavish celebration in the city. Not only were his Muslim subjects kept happy with liberal gifts of money, even his Hindu subjects were commanded to pray to their gods for the emperor’s continued success and prosperity. Leading Brahmins were summoned and paid handsomely for the rituals. Angered by Allauddin’s patronage of an heathen religion, and fearing that prayers to false gods would enrage the one true God, many devout Muslims begged the king to desist. But Allauddin paid no attention to them—he was eager to win the goodwill of all his subjects and gain their affection. This act of the headstrong emperor was deeply resented by many Muslims. They bore their grudge sullenly, but waited for an opportunity to retaliate.
Allauddin ordered that Alafkhan’s proclamation of victory should be read out in all the city mosques on the holy day of Juma—which happened to coincide with the Diwali festival. At noon, as soon as the call of the muezzin was heard across the mosques of the city, the Muslim population of Delhi, decked in their finery, went to offer prayers. Meanwhile, in the Hindu temples, festivities were in full swing. Brahmins bellowed mantras, their voices rising in proportion to the size of the offering. Thousands flocked to the gaily decorated shrines. Around one of the more famous temples, where a large number of brahmins had gathered, the noise rose to a deafening pitch. At that moment, a procession of devout Muslims on the way to their mosque, enraged by the ostentatious celebrations and the great favour shown by the emperor to the infidels, began to curse their gods, going so far as to beat up some brahmins with sticks. But the Hindus had not yet been reduced to abject helplessness. They refused to take the insults to their gods, or to submit to the beatings like dumb cattle. Some of them struck back at their attackers, a skirmish ensued, and as the Hindus far outnumbered the Muslims, the latter were severely beaten up—a couple to the point of death—and forced to retreat. The news spread like wildfire, and from lanes and by-lanes, from every crossroad and mosque, armed Muslims spilled on to the streets to confront an equally violent sea of Hindus. Terrified people bolted their doors tight and anxiously wondered what this savage battle which was being fought with swords and daggers, sticks, stones, roof tiles and whatever other objects that came to hand, would lead to. In this free-for-all, Hindus viciously attacked men with beards, while Muslims showed no mercy to the clean-shaven in their midst. Both sides lost many men. Many were mortally wounded; some fell to the ground exhausted and were crushed underfoot by stampeding crowds. The screams of the dying and wounded and the din and uproar of the fighting deafened the ear.
An extract from Nandshankar Mehta's Karan Ghelo, translated by Aban Mukherji and Tulsi Vatsal. Reproduced with the permission of Penguin Random House.