From The Quill of Suranya

The child who promised his mother he would be home soon, the woman whose aged parents were waiting for her return, the activist whose wife had pleaded with him not to go that morning, the clueless merrymakers roaming the gardens; people. Old, young, clueless, unnamed. They didn't deserve it. Yet here we are, a hundred years later, still comprehending thousands of massacres, thousands of deaths, and several families destroyed. For the borders. For the ego of a nation that thought the sun never set on them. For humanity's loop of violence. Suranya.

February 1943, Vienna She always complained about how vague he was with goodbyes. Whether he was coming back in a few hours or in days or weeks, she could never tell. He would walk away as briskly as he did, as if he were going to the market. He laughed at her childish complaints, mostly because there was nothing he could do about them. All his life, he had assumed that having a family would tie him down to more worldly things. He wanted to be free of attachments one way or another. But who knew what fate had in store for him when she walked in through his office door with her innocent eyes and smiling face. In a life of war, it was when he truly felt at peace. He picked up his hat as the radio chattered on about the impending wars and damage of last night's air strikes. She was nurturing the baby close to her bosom, smiling down at her sleeping figure and whispering her name into her ears. The sense of being watched made her look up at him as he smiled, almost sheepishly, like a ...

There was a certain beauty in the forests. The rustling of leaves. The birds are chirping. The moon shone in its crescent shape, and the stars were slowly becoming visible as the sky grew a shade darker. She parted the curtains of the caravan. The light of a torch was visible at a distance. The dusk had just set in, and they were almost there. Or so she was told. On any other normal day, she would have noticed the rustling of leaves or admired a bird's song. But today was not any other day. Rumours were flying. She was summoned immediately to this hideout after ten days of the war and waiting. She had travelled alone, leaving the family behind in the Bhil village where they had set up camp. Her heart beat increased. Was it bad news? She said a soft prayer as the caravan stopped. Ranima." She heard her son outside the curtains. Come with me". The curtain parted, and her teary eyes met his disappointed face. "Where is he?" He had barely managed to point at the cav...

She was the eldest princess of the kingdom. Her childhood days were spent making garlands with her mother, singing praises to her lord, lighting the lamps and reading the religious books. At times, she would play house. At nine, she started her lessons. Unlike her brothers, who went to Gurukul, her Gurukul was at home. Because, unlike politics and war, her subjects were sewing. Cooking, calculations of groceries and at times defence. Unlike many of her sisters, who loved their swords, she preferred the sewing lessons. She waited patiently at the jharokha as her brothers and father finished their meals before she could have hers. Politics and discussions never caught her attention. At fourteen, her father had declared the wedding. Arriving at the new home, called the royal palace, married to the crown prince, things didn't change much. This was a test of all she had learned.  Each action was scrutinised. After all, she was the future queen. Some she passed, others she failed. On the...

History is doomed and cursed, Repeat itself it must! ~ Suranya

 "TOMORROW WILL BE A NEW DAWN, OF A NEW HOPE, AND A NEW BEGINNING. TOMORROW WILL BE THE BEST. BECAUSE TOMORROW, THERE WILL BE NO TOMORROW." ~ Suranya

IF WALLS COULD SPEAK, YOU WILL PERHAPS HEAR TALES, DIFFERENT FROM HISTORY. SURANYA

 Vaisakhi, 1919, Amritsar. "May you live a hundred years." The mother blessed her sixteen-year-old on his birthday. "I will be back soon." He ran out. "She is still waiting for me. I am sure." He saw the one who heard that laugh at his innocence. "I don't think she is, son. It's been too long." A hundred years later, a soul still roams the silent walls of the Jallianwala Bagh, waiting to go back home to his mother. ~ Suranya

What you see as brick and stone ruins tells tales of glory and grace of Kings who rode on steeds to battle, of Queens whose voice echoed in temples, of children whose giggles got lost in the cries of Jauhar. You see the soot walls, I see the pain and sacrifice. I hear them speak with the wind, feel goosebumps. Souls wandering through the corridors of the past. Someday, somewhere, their story is relived in the present or future. Because no matter how many lessons of bloodshed and cruelty History gives us, we always repeat our mistakes. And hence, History stands witness to mankind going around in a loop. ~ Suranya

When the moon shines on the waters of the Jal Mahal, in the silence of the night, it sighs. Perhaps thousands of full moons ago, even the moon was jealous when Rani Padmavati used to dress up in her grandeur in the Jal Mahal, which her husband had dedicated to her. Perhaps in her laughter, even the raindrops felt jealous. The moon peeps upon the Meera Kanha Temple. Perhaps on full moon nights like this, the saint poetess danced to the songs to her beloved. Today, the courtyard of the temple remains empty. The moon shines upon the Kumbha Mahal. Where, perhaps on one such moon-lit night in her simple giggles and laughter, a teenager Kunwar Pratap had found home in his beloved Ajabdeh Baisa. Today, the moon shines on Chittorgarh. Silent. With memories. And yet the ruins look as beautiful as did the grand palaces once upon a time... ~ Suranya

Her eyes stared in melancholy at him at a distance. He had ordered them to leave. It was not safe anymore at the fort or the villages nearby. The troops have witnessed rapid army movement. A war was inevitable. Just to make sure his family was safe, he had ordered his wife, Queens and children to move to Avadgarh with some trusted officials. It was time for they to leave with the rest of the villagers being evacuated from their homes. Her eyes fell on an old man wiping tears as he moved out of his house, and touched the soil to his forehead. She had seen it before, yet today, she felt like the losses were too personal. She walked up to him, standing in front of his tent, in silence. "Is this really needed... I..." "We have discussed this once, Maharani." His voice of decorum rang a bell in her mind. They were in the public eye. It was the king of Mewar she was talking to. Not her friend. Or her husband. Not someone she can force to let her stay. They had argued over...

"Will I ever find love? Be brave enough to hold on to it?" Her tears gave way to heartache. She had lost her heart to someone she shouldn't have. "What will the picture of a Chauhan Prince do in a Mughal Princess's room?" The words from his letter resonated in her ears in his voice. She never knew that he hadn't written that to her. Neither did her pleas reach him. She was tired. Tired of running from her feelings and emotions. Tired of being the perfect, composed, inspirational figure everyone looked up to. Tired of being only a princess. She wanted to be HIS princess.  But there he was, thousands of miles away in Bundi. Perhaps the news of her accident and recovery never reached him. Neither her pain nor her love. There he was, with his wife and children. Why would he remember her? The mere existence of her in his life was perhaps about the politics of the land. She didn't care about that. Her heart ached every time he was home. His home. His famil...

Some days give you a strange feeling. An emptiness. A sense of being absolutely cowardly towards life. It makes you ponder how small and insignificant your problems are. They always have been. Money, love, fame, success. That's all we know in life. With a pinch of selfishness. Greed. And lust. But is that it? 450 years ago, on this very night, Chittorgarh was in celebration. What were they celebrating? Their last day on earth. I must be joking, right? Well, I'm not. I once read a poem by Abu Talib Karim that said: The way of the world is not worth seeing a second time, not a man looked back when he left this heap of dust." But I still wonder. What about those who still had so much to see? That new bride who took the sword in her Alta-clad hands, the princess who perhaps dreamt of a prince. Those children were clueless. A leap of faith. A battle for blood. Of honour. And bravery. The Fire God engulfs it all. The human of flesh, blood and bones. What about the soul? The unna...

Jiwa was the luckiest bride. Or so her friends had said. She was getting married to the bravest of the brave. The chief warrior of Chittorgarh. Patta Singh Sisodia was indeed so at seventeen. She had caught a glimpse of him from behind her veil as she blushed to herself in between the ceremonies. The wedding night was an anticipated one for the new bride. And there she was sitting among her friends and relatives, who teased her endlessly. Then, there was a thundering noise that shook Chittorgarh. There was a commotion at one of the gates of the fort. People were running about. She was left alone by the ladies who went to check on the development, worried. All she could hear was "Coward... bombardment... Wall... War", and she had immediately got up and reached for her sword in a reflex. Some of the ladies gasped at the new bride as she made her way out to the corridor. Sword in hand, she stood at the door, her face still in the veil as she asked to no one in particular, "...

History is heartless. It doesn't remember a queen whose face and life remain veiled. It doesn't pay heed to the emotions of the thousands who perished in flames. It has no place for the emotions of love unless you build a monument for your beloved. It mentions warriors and kings only in success and triumphs. Not in pain or ill health. All the rest is left for the bards to finish. ~ Suranya

The historian saw carnage. The writer heard an untold story of sacrifice. The traveller felt something in the wind. The tourist found a perfect guide. The photographer clicked a perfect shot. The art lover witnessed some spectacular monuments. Then there was I. I touched the broken pillars and arches. And found a tear drop on my cheek. ~ Suranya

The sun sets on Chittorgarh. The darkness engulfed Mewar in fear of the Turk Invaders. But people often forget that every darkness is welcomed by a new day. The sun rise on Mewar's fortune was called Pratap. Her son, Saviour, the Maharana. Pratap. ~ Suranya (Written while witnessing a Sunset at Chittor)

 Timeless Souls, eternal and immortal. They needed no names to survive in History. ~ Suranya

The fort walls were coated with soot. The scene of an aftermath was not new to the warrior or the king. Then what was it that made all the warriors go numb? It was a small chamber, perhaps in the lowest basement of the most magnificent palace he had ever seen. Filled with thick black smoke rising up to the grey, gloomy sky, the warriors had struggled to breathe as they made their way into the chamber. Eager to search for what they were looking for. Shocked at the sight of thousands of burnt bodies, they stood numb. Ashamed of their own deeds. The king, who was rejoicing in his win, was dumbfounded. The beauty that led him to this war was now an unidentified corpse.

WHAT IS PEACE? THE WARRIOR IN TURMOIL KNEW NOT. WHAT SHOULD PEACE BE LIKE? THE FATHER IN HIM HOPED. HIS CHILDREN WILL KNOW. -SURANYA