This entry was submitted by a writer in a writing competition held by Vidhiya Saagar (December 2023). This piece was awarded 1st place. For more details, read the blogpost.

ੴਸਤਿਗੁਰਪ੍ਰਸਾਦਿ

The Cobra and the Buffalo

By: Upkar Singh

There was a cobra in the shed! It was coiled right under the udders of Tushayati’s father’s favourite buffalo, Kamadhenu. The buffalo had just given a calf that was a few steps away from her bleating in distress. Tushayati stared at the snake. It wasn’t fully grown. It was as still as a rock and seemed harmless as a measuring rope. The thundering steps of the frightened Kamadhenu could not bother the mysterious beast. Its beady eyes looked on as if they knew the secrets of all nature. Forcing herself out of the trance, the twelve-year old went to warn her father of the snake.

“Where did it come from?” Tushayatisaid to herself as she walked toward the hut her family lived in. This was the sixth time in the past year a cobra, a bhujang, was found near the cattle. Her father was a merchant baniya and remained busy with his wares and account books. It had fallen to her, as the eldest daughter of six, to take care of the few animals they had at home.

“Pita ji, there is a snake in the shed again. I’m too scared to get rid of it alone,” she said. She really wasn’t. She wanted to avoid the guilt that would come with harming an innocent creature. Tushayati’s father was slowly inspecting bags of grain and pots of milk he was to sell tomorrow in the market in Sirhind. “Useless child, how old are you now? Still afraid of snakes? I’m coming”, he replied grudgingly as he got up from the dirt ground.

They both walked a few metres to where the thatched shed was. There were no more sounds of distress animals. The snake was gone!

“Seeing things my dear? Why do you keep disturbing me for no reason? Useless girl!”, her father snarked.

*

“Wake up and perform your prayers. There are some dried chickpeas in the bag over there. Hurry up!” Tushayati’s father said as he shook her awake.

Tushayati quickly performed ablutions washing the grogginess away and prayed to Lakshmi for a good day at the market in Sirhind. It was still dark, and they had to reach the market and claim a good vending spot for the winter market. Her father’s shop assistant had been injured tending to a bull, so Tushayati had to accompany her father this time.

It was a three-hour trek in the freezing winter dark while pulling a cart filled with sacks of wares. Covered in bed sheets because that was all they had, Tushayati let herself fall into her thoughts to make the journey go by quicker.

The moon was close to realizing its full form. It followed her and her father as they passed hundreds of fields and tens of villages. Tushayati asked the moon to be her friend. It replied by splitting itself into countless reflections emanating from each paddy field. However, one moon had outshone the others. Even the real one high up in the sky. Within a pond at the end of the fork, under a banyan tree, were two lotus flowers laying on top of the reflective surface. In between the two lotuses was the reflection of the moon, donning the two flowers like earrings. What were the flowers doing in bloom in the middle of the winter?

The sight sang to Tushayati like the Naqshbandi ghazals of longing she heard echoing from her village masjid. It sang to her of innocence and of a beauty that was never to be seen again as she followed her father’s footsteps towards the city. She could not stop walking as the sight concluded. For if she had, her father would have scolded her, or worse, the darkness of the night would have absorbed her. She ran with her little legs to keep up with her father.

Still staring off in the distance in intimacy with the moon and its clones, Tushayati’s father pushed her off the road. Instantly, tens of horses rode by with metal clanking and yelling in a coarse language Tushayati did not recognize. Tushayati saw that they were warriors riding north.

“Uzbek mercenaries? I’ve heard that speech in Samarkand. They are probably joining the army up north to clash with the rebels, if they haven’t been defeated yet, that is.” Tushayati’s father remarked to himself. Her father kept to date with the political ongoings of Sirhind sarkar. Afterall, he was a businessman who needed to know the tidings of business which were carried across by who was at peace and who was at war and if the road to Lahore was safer than the road to Multan.

Tushayati remembered that a week ago, her father and her neighbours had discussed the recent troubles to the north. The followers of Nanak had built a city-state called Anandpur in the hills. This had troubled the Sirhind sarkar for a while and it was finally time for the rebellion to conclude.

“Well done,” said her father to the neighbours that brought the news back then. “I would feel safer sending goods to the hills now. I hope there are no followers of Nanak here in our village… Weren’t Chetan Mal’s in-laws followers?”

“How can you say that? Even after the great sacrifice!” cried the neighbour.

Tushayati could not help but feel sad and anxious. The serenity of the moon shining across the fields had been ruined. Bouncing in between the feelings of sadness were thoughts of the warriors riding off. She could not comprehend the deeds they were off to commit. War? Death? Cannons? Swords? Tushayati only heard of these things through tales and stories taught to her by the village pandit. She tried returning to her mental heaven, but she could only now focus on the pebbles that were stuck in between her toes. These were larger pebbles, not the ones you would pick up on the average stroll. Pebbles thrown up by violent and thundering hooves that were controlled by masters of life and death. In their quest for blood, they had harmed Tushayati in the smallest of ways. She dared not bend down and remove them. For if she had, her father would have scolded her, or worse, the darkness of the night would have absorbed her.

*

A few moments before sunrise, the two weary travellers arrived at Sirhind’s gateswith their wares. Once the towering red walls were passed, Tushayati was overwhelmed by bustling streets. She saw towering minarets and mausoleums of Sufi saints. In between, there were mandirs dedicated to every deity she could think of. The city was even more frightening than the dark road they had walked. She made sure to stay right behind her father to ensure she wouldn't drown in the wave of travellers, traders, shoppers, and street criers. Her ears were filled with the buzzing murmur of hundreds of voices. As they passed the Aam Khaas Bhaag, the royal caravanserai, much of the noise echoed across the gardens and inns contained within.

“How are we to find a spot now? If the crowd is already out so early, all the spots are probably taken!” her father whined.

As the father and daughter made their way to the centre of the city, closer and closer to the subahdar’s court, the buzzing murmur of the crowd grew more and more intense until it came to an abrupt stop. Intrigued, Tushayati’s father pushed into the crowd.

“The rebel Guru must have been captured! The market can wait. I want to see this.”

Forcing their way in, Tushayati caught a glimpse of what everyone was watching so silently. The crowd had gathered around a court in session. The judges and various important looking men sat in a semicircle of luxurious chairs donned with bright colours and elaborate cushions. In the centre was an empty throne soon to be occupied. It must be Wazir Khan’s, the subahdar, Tushayati inferred.

She was right. Wazir Khan and his black-clad bodyguards walked out of the courthouse and sat down on his throne. He looked at the important man sitting beside him and whispered. The other man immediately got up and rushed into the courthouse. He came outside again to speak to a fat man seated a few chairs down from Wazir Khan and went inside again after a quick conversation.

After a few moments, he remerged with his hands gently pushing two children donned in yellow princely garbs with turbans of the noble kind, unlike the messy one her father wore.

Tushayati thought they must have been witnesses relating to whatever was happening in the north. As the two children got closer to the judges and the crowd, Tushayati noticed how young they were. One still had most of his baby fat with short and stubby limbs. He reminded her of her little brother, four-year old Arjun, who she kissed goodbye before sleeping last night.

The other was a little taller and seemed a few years older, still much younger than Tushayati. The taller boy had a stern look on his face which worried Tushayati a little. She wondered what business they had with such important looking men in such exquisite looking chairs. They should have been out playing in the streets rather than attending this boring court.

Tushayati could not help but notice that the right shoulder of both children was wet. She wondered at the oddity but soon realized they must have been tears. Someone had held the two boys close while crying.

She was reminded of the two lotuses she had seen on the road to Sirhind. The shape of the courthouse outlined the pond. The lotuses were the two young boys who had stood out with their inherent innocence among the pretentiousness and pomp of the court. But where was the moon? Perhaps, like the gentle light emanating from the moon onto the lotuses, those tears carried a mother’s gentle love. Tushayati felt dread arise from the depths of her heart. She knew not if she wanted to stay here.

As the two young princes took their stand in the middle of the court, the stares of the crowd intensified. Tushayati felt a shift as many leaned forward as if they were willing to give their head to the executioner to know why the children were there.

“Your father has died in the siege, so have your brothers, and so have all your father’s companions!” bellowed the same man who retrieved them.

“Now no one can save you. You see the nawab here? He is the leader of all. Bow your heads and give your salaam”

A murmur in the crowd arose before those at the front began hushing those at the back. The taller boy spoke but Tushayati couldn’t hear what he was saying. Clearly, he wasn’t going to kneel. But she could see the look on his face. It was as if he was the nawab. No, it was as if he sat on the throne of the badshah of India himself. As if he was the son of Ram Chandar, ruling over Ayodhya. Wondering if the stories of the village pandit had come true, Tushayati felt her back fill with cold sweat. She realized that the children weren’t witnesses… they were the ones on trial!

Hearing the child speak, the crowd inched even closer. Many expressed their amazement at the bravery of a small child. A man a few feet ahead yelled that they were only children and that they knew nothing of the wars of men. Many in the crowd agreed and yelled for the children to be released.

Tushayati heard the fat man clear his voice and, in a calm, but loud voice, as if he rehearsed days before the trial, spoke, “these are the children of a snake, of a bhujang, filled with poison from head to toe. They will not kneel.”

The subahdar looked down with unease reminding Tushayati of her father attempting to swallow thick curd. She saw a quick procession of expressions cycle upon Wazir Khan’s face. From uneasiness to anger to determination. He looked up at the two boys standing with their chests out.

He said something to them. With a compassionate look he spoke to the eldest child”. Tushayati felt a sense of relief. Surely the subahdar had a better understanding of justice than the others. Besides, these were small children. They deserved love and compassion. Not accusations and insults. She remembered the frightened and guilty look Arjun had when he had done something naughty.

Tushayati looked up at her father hoping to gain a better sense of what was happening. However, he looked distraught with trembling arms. Seeing this, Tushayati felt her stomach drop as low as it possibly could. It was as if she had swallowed her father’s stone weights and they were burying her abdomen into the ground after scraping away her esophagus.

Tushayati did not know what was happening to her. But she had to watch. She wanted the two boys to know that she was with them. Maybe they wouldn’t feel so alone while surrounded by a sea of angry faces. No matter what, she would enshrine their story into her heart and tell it to the whole world. Hoping they could feel the intensity of her stare, Tushayati looked on, despite everything in her telling her to hide, to look away, to run away. In the meantime, the elder brother spoke to the littlest person standing in that gathering. The little one spoke as if he was four times his own size. Roaring like a lion cub masquerading as the father, he went on and on with fury. The subahdar looked astonished as if his master plan had failed. A few seats away, the fat man grew red with fury and shook.

The taller one replied with even further furiosity. Flashing lightning that did not belong in such a tiny body. If he spoke any longer, Tushayati was sure the little body would burst and take the form of a burly warrior.

Now even the subahdar shook with anger. Tushayati did not know what the two little ones said. She wished she did. She wondered what could make such high men in the sarkar so angry at these two. When she did something bad, she was shouted at, beaten, locked away, or given more chores to do. She could handle all of that, but not this. Never could she have expected to be scolded or punished by the subahdar of chakla Sirhind.

“Look at how these insolent children speak! I want them dead.”

Tushayati’s strength broke. The world around her spun like churning butter. Her once patient tears now burst. She couldn’t watch anymore. She dug her face into her father’s hip while sobbing uncontrollably. Tushayati’s father immediately grabbed her shoulder and held her tightly, as if he was scared that the tyrants would grab her too, being the innocent child she was.

Was it moments? Was it hours? She couldn’t tell. Emerging from the wraps of her father’s clothes, Tushayati could only make out trails of blood flowing from two small heaps of yellow fabrics, through her blurry vision. She could not comprehend what had just occurred. All she felt was a sense of emptiness. As if all the water in her had dried up in the summer sun. But it was a wet winter, not summer! The air held a chill. A deathly chill. One that she would never feel on her skin again. Tushayati felt the strength in her knees buckle and before she knew it, she was absorbed by the darkness.

*

Tushayati found light in her father’s arms. She awoke to see his red teary eyes under the midday sun passing by similar paddy fields.

“Pita Ji, I’m sorry.” Tushayati croaked.

“Nonsense, sweet girl. I’m sorry we watched that. Those wretched mlecchas.”

“Pita Ji, where are the wares?”

“I left them with a friend”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home. You fainted. You look feverish.”

“What happened to those children? – Why?”

“Hush, bachi, we will speak of this later.”

*

“Tushayati! Check on the buffaloes!” Bellowed her father from inside the hut, checking his account books as usual.

“I will, father!” Tushayati answered back.

Tushayati, still shaken up by what she saw in Sirhind a few weeks ago, entered the thatched shed to feed the buffalo and her growing calf. Tushayati called out for Kamadhenu, hoping the buffalo could smell the pasture grasses she held in a large basket, but she was met with a suspicious silence.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, Tushayati saw Kamadhenu lying on the ground as if she was petrified. Her calf sitting in melancholy in the hut’s darkest corner. A discarded snakeskin laying in the centre. It took a few moments for Tushayati to process what she came across– the bhujang had killed the buffalo. It had conquered death itself.

Bibliography

Alam, Muzaffar. The Crisis of Empire in Mughal North India: Awadh and Punjab, 1707-48. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2013.

Aulakh, Ajit Singh. Srī Gurpratāp Sūraj Granth Satīk: Bhāg Giarvan. 2nd ed. Vol. 11. 14. B. Chatar Jiwan Singh, 2012.