A few weeks ago, Bestselling Indian novelist Amish Tripathi had floated a ‘finish the story’ competition on TOI. It had to be less than 2500 words and had to be set in 17th century Paithan, centering around women empowerment. Now I was not eligible to participate since I am not an Indian citizen, but I gave it a shot just for my amusement and well, some short-story writing practice :)  – (bold part is written by Amish)

My premise: A very famous and revered 17th century saint was known to have 14 cymbal players in his team. What if one of them was a ……?

***

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. She gave a quick look on either side, ensuring there was no one within earshot. Relieved that she was alone, she stared at the sunlight as it sparkled off the surface of the Godavari. She dipped her hand into the river and immediately felt the sheer power of the current against her hand. No! Jumping into the river and ending her life sounded like the easy way out, but it would be a painful death.

She closed her eyes. A vision of her beloved brought a smile on her face. Before she knew it, she had broken into a song that seemed to simply flow from within her. The words and the lilting tune were being formed as she sang and the pure emotion in her voice lifted the song towards the heavens. Is that what true happiness felt like?

The previous year when the sales of cotton had been the best ever, it was meant to yield the happiest of times. Yet, it didn’t. She had learnt then that no matter how much gold and goods they stacked up, it didn’t translate into contentment. Instead, it made her family greedier, her father grumpier and she, sadder. The only peace that came to her was when she sang his name.

A tight slap across her shoulder brought an abrupt end to her song. She didn’t even need to turn around to see who had hit her. She would know those calloused palms anywhere.

“Father I…” she mumbled, trying frantically to come up with an excuse. But she had exhausted them all. Right from the believable to the ridiculous, she had tried them all over the years. And the usually sharp-tongued Ilaa, to whom words were no stranger, was for once caught short of speech.

“Father I-what!” the old man, with an unshaven face and a white turban on his head bellowed. “Here you are doing what I prohibited you to do, while I work like a donkey all day!”

Ilaa didn’t like to cry. It made her feel weak. But now her tears fought through any resistance she could offer. “It was just for a few minutes. I just wanted to sing for-”

This time it was a powerful blow across her face that brought her to her knees, forcing her to stop her sentence mid-way. “Sing! Is that why I brought you up!” He waved a threatening finger towards her, “Your sisters, all younger than you are already married, while you sit at home, living off me. And what is it that you want to do with your useless existence? SING?!”

Ilaa had had this conversation many times before. She felt a tooth come loose and a stream of blood form within her mouth. Her father had indeed hit her hard this time! Right from the first time she had started singing, her father had told her that women were not allowed to pursue music as a career. They were also not allowed to sing for the deities. Only the men, that too only the Brahmin men could do that. Courtesans? Oh yes, please, women were welcomed into that profession with open arms. Literally. Many fathers had eagerly allowed their daughters and even actively enabled it in some instances. Kings, and the rich of Paithan and surrounding provinces paid well in gold.

Ilaa had on previous occasions pointed out that Saraswati, the ancient goddess of knowledge that they worshipped, herself held a musical instrument in her hand. But her father had dismissed such arguments branding her a ‘rebel’.

laa meekly followed her father towards their field, wiping her blood stained mouth with the edge of her pallu. Her father had many vices – he drank the locally brewed liquor like there was no tomorrow. He beat his wife and kids mercilessly, not because he didn’t like them, but because he did not know what else to do with the various frustrations in his life. For all his shortcomings, he protected his daughters from the courtesan trade fiercely. His strategy was to marry them off as early as possible. While he had achieved it with the rest of his daughters, Ilaa was the stubborn one, refusing to get married.

Entering her field, Ilaa picked the cotton from the plants while replaying in her mind what her father had told her all those years ago. Her interest in music, especially singing, was dangerous, because it would put her in the spotlight. Yes, she only sang for the one she loved the most, but the Brahmins who took it as their right alone to display such godly devotion would not hesitate in forcing her into the business of pleasure. And this was her father’s worst nightmare. So for years, he kept her musical talent a secret, locked away from the rest of the world, while trying his best to pursue his daughter to give it up. At fifteen, she was past her ‘eligible’ age when it came to the marriage market and despite her father’s varied threats and pleas, she remained steadfast in her resolution to not marry.

She felt a hand tap her shoulder. “Ilaa, its me Madhav.” She turned around, trying to hide her face, lest he see the dried blood around her mouth. She covered her face with her pallu. “What is it Madhav?” Her voice carried a tinge of irritation.

“The Maharaja is about make his procession through the central streets of Paithan later tomorrow afternoon! Don’t you want to watch our great King in flesh and blood?” Madhav and Ilaa had been friends since the time they were born. A year older than her, Madhav had also managed to stay unmarried. Though his reason had been different – it was well known that Madhav was in love with Ilaa and was waiting for her to consent to their marriage. Unfortunately, Ilaa did not reciprocate his feelings and while she was fond of him, she had been clear that she did not feel the same way for him.

Ilaa stared hard at Madhav. “The Maharaja? You mean…?”

Madhav smiled at her. “Yes Ilaa. Shivaji Maharaja himself with his entire army is making his way through Paithan on his way to Sinhagadh.” Ilaa didn’t need a second invitation. She dropped the sickle from her hands and ran behind Madhav as they jumped onto a waiting bullock cart. Ilaa’s father’s attempts at a protest went unheard, as Ilaa’s bullock cart was quick to leave Sauviragram behind in a puff of dust.

Over the next day their cart entered Paithan and both Ilaa and Madhav joined the huge crowd in the commercial centre of Paithan. They were just in time to hear the royal bugles sound, as a teenage Shivaji Maharaja marched on a regal horse, waving to the citizens of his land.

Ilaa and Madhav, despite being late were lucky to find a high vantage point where they got an unobstructed view of the great King of their land! Ilaa gasped as the young man they all unanimously admired passed them amidst a spray of flowers and cheers. “Oh Madhav! I want to be loved, like he is. I want every house in our land to know my name, like they know his!” She said, dreamily.

Madhav studied Ilaa, the girl he loved. “Have you been practising playing the cymbals like I told you?”

She gave him a sharp, unforgiving look for bringing her back to the real world. “Cymbals? Do you want to know what my father did when he discovered the cymbals you gifted me?”

Madhav shook his head, considering various options, all of which her father was capable of, until Ilaa answered it for him. “He threw it into the Godavari!”

Madhav’s face wore a grim look. “I have been asked by Jagnade to join him as a cymbal player. He said there are two slots available.”

“But they always give these jobs to the men only! Who cares about girls like me?”

“Ilaa,” he said touching her hand for the first time, “I know you want to be known as a composer and a singer. The kind of songs you write, what people call abhangs, are very popular these days. But you need to take it step by step.”

“So what do you suggest I do?”

“Join our team. I will talk to Jagnade. He is a very practical man.”

“Who are we playing cymbals for?”

“For Tukaram Ji.”

Ilaa heaved a deep sigh. “He himself is being castigated by all the Brahmins. Being a man, even he can’t break through all the barriers. Who will accept me, a woman, as a musician?”

“Yes, but he is doing it the right way. And if you want to be a household name, you need to be part of his team. Become one of his cymbal players.”

Ilaa bit her nails. “Will they ever take a girl on their team? Will Tukaram Ji agree?”

“He and you desire the same thing. To use music to reach Vittala!”

Ilaa considered Madhav’s suggestion carefully. “Where will we meet Jagnade?”

“Here in Paithan. Both he and Tukaram Ji are in Paithan, as we speak.”

Ilaa gave him a mischievous smile as what Madhav had done dawned upon her. “You brought me to Paithan, not to see Shivaji Maharaja, but to meet Jagnade and Tukaram Ji!”

“Well, Shivaji Maharaja too. How many can claim to have seen him in their lifetime?” Madhav managed uncomfortably, at having been caught out.

Madhav took Ilaa to the temporary residence of Tukaram Ji. Jagnade welcomed them at the footsteps of the house. “So this is the girl you are talking about?” Jagnade studied Ilaa from head to toe. It was obvious to Ilaa that he was not impressed. Instead, he looked concerned and in obvious doubt over whatever claims Madhav had made on her behalf. “OK,” he said, seeming to collect his thoughts, “let us go and meet Tukaram Ji.”

On her way Ilaa thought about Jagnade. There had been strong rumours floating around that both him and Tukaram Ji were taking the state by storm through their demonstrations of bhakti through music. The Brahmins had strongly opposed it, condemning Tukaram Ji and his coterie of musicians and followers openly. But it was their young ruler, Shivaji Maharaja, who despite the pressure from the Brahmins was vocal in his praise of Tukaram Ji and Jagnade. The man she had just met and the man she was about to meet were not ordinary by any measure.

Tukaram Ji, about twenty years older than Ilaa, exuded a captivating aura of wisdom and calm, as he addressed Ilaa. “Ilaa, Madhav speaks very highly of you.”

That day Ilaa performed on the cymbals and sang her compositions while Tukaram and his entire team listened on in rapt admiration. But Shankar Nath, one of the musicians had grave concerns. “Tukaram Ji, I will adhere by anything you say. But will our people accept us, if we have a woman in our midst?”

“You speak of her like she is an unwanted rodent!” Tukaram Ji’s voice rose in anger. “Like you, me and the rest of us, she wants to reach Vittala through our songs. Vittala does not differentiate between men and women. So then, why should we?” He turned towards an anxiety stricken Ilaa. “Fear not, you are one of us. You will henceforth be known as one of Tukaram’s fourteen cymbal players.”

But Shankar Nath was still not convinced. “I agree Tukaram Ji. But the Brahmins are already on our case. They question our caste and our right to exhibit devotion. Crediting Ilaa, as talented as she is, with composing and singing abhangs, will only make things harder for us.”

Tukaram Ji was about to respond, when Jagnade jumped in. “I do see Shankar Nath’s point. We can’t alienate the masses; without their support we may not be able to stop the Brahmins from having their way.”

Tukaram Ji took a deep sigh before clearing his throat to make an announcement. “Alright! Until the time is right, we will hide Ilaa’s identity as a composer. I hope that’s alright with you Ilaa?”

Warding off the reluctance, Ilaa shook her head in agreement. Anything was better than being stuck on a cotton farm.

That night, Ilaa came to the realisation that she had effectively run away from home. In coming with Madhav, she had actually turned her back on her family and rebelled. In the matter of a single day, her life had taken a sharp turn. She went to sleep with a fervent prayer on her lips.

**

Over the next few weeks Ilaa became an integral part of Tukaram Ji’s group of fourteen cymbal players. She also doubled up as composer and created many abhangs with Tukaram Ji. With pressure from the Brahmins mounting, Tukaram Ji continued to play it safe and with great reluctance gave credit for one of the abhangs to Madhav, when in truth it was Ilaa who had composed it.

In private, Tukaram Ji and his men begged Ilaa for forgiveness and applauded her for the strength of devotion and melody in her compositions.

Almost a year after they first began spreading their music, having set base in the town of Pandharpur, Madhav informed Ilaa that they would be travelling to Paithan and Sauviragram. Ilaa was tense at first, but Tukaram Ji assured her by asking her if she truly believed in what she was doing.

After walking through the streets of Paithan and performing to the crowds, they finally made their way to Sauviragram. A huge crowd had gathered and fell silent the moment Tukaram Ji began to address the people of Sauviragram. “The abhang we will now sing is written by one of you. Your very own Ilaa.”

 A surprised and grateful Ilaa recovered, wishing Tukaram Ji had given some warning, and cleared her throat. Before she could begin singing, she saw her father in the crowd.

The tear-strewn face of his looked a few years younger than when she had left him. Convinced that she had seen an approving smile make its way slowly across his face, Ilaa began her song.

**