Who was this queen — the one whose own father cast her into the jaws of death at birth, simply for being born with a disability?
- If Diddā was indeed a notorious queen of her time, why then does Kashmiri society still utter her name with such reverence? This novel unfolds the saga of that mysterious queen’s rise amid the political, social, and economic landscape of tenth-century Kashmir.
Debasree Chakraborti
On the banks of the Vitasta River stands a centuries-old, gigantic chinar tree. The local people worship this tree as Mother Bhavani. With its vast, spreading branches, the tree stands like a reflection of all of Kashmir itself — a sheltering, nurturing mother. In its branches live countless birds and reptiles, families who carry on their daily lives there. In perfect harmony — whether natural enemies or instinctive allies — they all coexist under its shade.
Beneath this mighty tree lies the temple of Mother Bhavani. The stone-built shrine is held tightly within the chinar’s branches and roots, as though the tree has embraced it in a firm, protective clasp. Inside the sanctum, a medium-sized idol of Bhavani, carved from black granite, is enshrined. Amid the tangled branches and roots penetrating the sanctum, a brass lamp burns continuously.
The local women have vowed that until their troubles are resolved, they will keep this lamp burning without interruption — meaning they will not allow the Mother to rest. The sanctum has no door, for as the tree grew, it became impossible to close off the entrance. Dry chinar leaves, blown in by the river’s fierce winds, collect inside the sanctum. Yet although the flame of the lamp flickers in the gusts, it never goes out. The villagers believe that Mother Bhavani herself is present here in living form.
It is after her that this village has been named Bhavanipur. This village of the Damars is the only one that still remains intact. The Damars are a deeply peace-loving community; they wish only to live quietly in their own way. For years, although the king’s men repeatedly plundered their harvests and wealth, they endured it silently. But during the reign of Maharaja Kshemagupta, the honour of their families came under attack. And from the time of Parvagupta onward, they began to be wronged in various ways…Attacks on them continued, but during the reign of Kshemagupta a new horror began — the daily abduction of girls from the village. When the honour of the Damar families was violated, they finally began to protest. Their method of protest was entirely peaceful, yet even so, village after village was burned to the ground.
Their leader, Brajeshwardev, narrowly escaped with his life and went into hiding. But in this time of great calamity, it was his duty to protect his community. And so, at midnight, he invited the villagers to gather in the courtyard of Mother Bhavani’s temple. Men, women, and even children of the village waited there, anxiously hoping for the arrival of their beloved leader.
Just then, a tiny light flickered on the river, like a small firefly. No one had noticed it earlier, but as it came closer, it grew brighter and brighter. An elderly man spotted it first and spoke with unease, “Could it be the king’s spy? Look — that light approaching us. Get up, all of you, and see what it is. I don’t like the look of this situation.”
A middle-aged woman added, “We are unarmed. If the king’s troops attack now, our only escape will be to jump into the river.”
A young girl, trying to soothe the infant in her arms, stepped forward and said, “It will start snowing any day now. In this terrible cold, if we jump into the water with the children, they’ll all die. What do we do?”
While speculations rippled through the villagers, the boat reached the shore. A man stepped out, holding a torch. All eyes turned toward him. Torch in hand, he climbed from the riverbank and walked up to the temple courtyard, where he finally sat down. He held out the torch, and another man took it from him and fixed it into the torch holder carved between the temple pillars.
Only then did the villagers realize that the man was none other than their revered leader, Brajeshwardev.
A middle-aged village woman offered him a small vessel of drink. He drank from it, let out a long sigh, and said, “We have very little time. The king’s spies are spread all around us. We must. The first thing we must do,” Brajeshwardev said, “is to send our mothers, sisters, and children safely out of the valley. In the land of Rishi Kashyapa, unrighteousness has taken over. There is no escape from this wicked ruler.”
An elderly man spoke up, “How can we move so many people out of the valley overnight? And besides, who will protect these women if no men accompany them?”
Brajeshwardev replied, “We cannot send everyone in a single night. I have been hiding in the fishermen’s village — the village of the Dheevars who live along the banks of the Vitasta. They have several boats. They have agreed to help us. Using those boats, we will gradually send our mothers, sisters, and children to safety outside the valley. And no, they will not travel alone. There will be one male member in each boat. Each of them must carry something for self-defense. All our kitchens have knives, cleavers, and tools for cutting vegetables, fish, and meat — those will be enough.”
An elderly woman interjected, “But why have the Dheevars agreed to help us? They must have some personal gain in this!”
Brajeshwardev nodded. “Yes, Mother, they do have a reason. King Kshemagupta and his father Parvagupta are their sworn enemies.”
The old woman asked in astonishment, “Enemies?”
“Yes, Mother, enemies indeed. The Dheevar community had once received great kindness from Maharaja Yashaskardev. He had a compassionate heart. He had granted them tax-free land and several special privileges related to their livelihood. In the final days of his life, when the Maharaja renounced his royal duties and awaited voluntary death at the Yashaskara Swami temple, that temple stood right beside the fishermen’s village, on the riverbank.
“In the darkness of night, they would guard the Maharaja in shifts, out of their own devotion. For once he renounced the throne, everyone was waiting for his death — yet he simply did not die. One such night, three fishermen were guarding the temple from three sides. Suddenly, they saw a man emerging from inside the shrine. Since the front of the temple was empty at the time, they had not noticed when he had entered.
“It was a full-moon night. When one of the fishermen, carrying a torch, came around from behind the temple toward the front, he saw that Startled by the torchlight, the man turned around — and at once the fisherman recognized Parvagupta. For even during the king’s lifetime, Parvagupta’s influence had spread everywhere. He interfered in every royal matter. Within a short time, he had become a very familiar face. So even in the darkness of that night, no one had any trouble recognizing him.
After this incident, the king was found dead. Everyone realized that Parvagupta was the king’s murderer. From that moment onward, the fishermen waited for the downfall of this sinful lineage. Later, during the difficult times of the Damars, I entered their lives — and because we shared a common enemy, they chose to stand beside us.
While Brajeshwardev was still deep in discussion with the villagers, the boundary of Bhavanipur suddenly lit up in flames. Every village had been burned in the same manner. First, the outer border was set on fire, and then the attack came from the river’s direction. There had been a royal spy among the Damars themselves. It was he who had informed the prime minister three days earlier of the exact time and day when Brajeshwardev would arrive in the village.
For days, Phalguna’s forces had searched tirelessly to capture Brajeshwardev, but they had failed. The real reason was that he had taken shelter in the fishermen’s settlement — something he had not told anyone. In truth, there had been no means of communication, and because of that, he had remained safe for so long. But with his people being attacked every single day, hiding in safety with eyes closed would be nothing but the height of selfishness.
So he sent a representative from the fishermen’s village, disguised, to a flower seller in this village — a man who regularly crossed the Vitasta by boat to fetch flowers from the gardens on the opposite bank. At the same time, the fisherman too would be out on his own boat catching fish, and thus the two had become acquainted. When Brajeshwardev spoke of Bhavanipur, the fisherman mentioned his connection with the flower seller and assured him that news could be passed through this trusted acquaintance.
But no sooner had the message reached the village than it also reached the prime minister’s ears. From the direction of the river, something like a burning spear shot through the air and struck the chinar tree. Within moments the living tree burst into flames. The fire spread rapidly through the branches, and the creatures living in the tree — birds, reptiles, and others — began to fall to the ground, shrieking in agony as they burned. A massive spear, coated with large quantities of flammable material and set ablaze, had been hurled at the tree.
To the Kashmiris, the chinar is not merely a tree — it is a symbol of Mother Bhavani. The prime minister’s forces struck directly at the heart of the villagers’ sacred devotion. They had received information that rebels were gathering in the courtyard of Mother Bhavani’s temple.
Within moments, a roaring sound rose from the river. It was late at night, and in the darkness the villagers could not at first understand what was happening. The attack was completely sudden. Soldiers entered the village and fell upon the defenseless people. Whoever they saw, they beheaded on the spot. Small children were cut in half and killed.
A mother, clutching her nursing infant to her chest, ran desperately toward the river. Soldiers surrounded her from all sides. They tore the baby from her arms despite her pleas. She fell at their feet and begged, “Do whatever you want with me, but do not harm my child. He is innocent.” The infant too cried out loudly, as though sensing the danger.
One of the soldiers said, “They say the bodies of Damar women are very delicious. Tonight we will all taste you, one after another. After that, your child will be freed.”
To save her child’s life — dearer to her than her own — the woman submitted to the brutality inflicted upon her. As she lay half-unconscious, her vision blurred, she heard her baby crying — the sound came from the direction of the river.
She looked there and saw her child being carried by a soldier, upside-down, legs held upward and head downward, as he walked toward the river. A moment later she heard a single splash — and the infant’s cries ceased.
The young woman somehow managed to rise. Staggering, she walked to the riverbank. Turning once to look at Mother Bhavani’s temple, she then leapt into the water. The soldiers had been ordered that Brajeshwardev must be killed by Prime Minister Phalguna himself. The towering physique of the Damar leader — his long hair, beard, and eyes shaped like bilva leaves — made him unmistakable, as though Lord Mahadeva Himself stood before them. He could always be identified among the crowd.
That night, Brajeshwardev tried to fight back with a staff. For an ideal leader never abandons his people in the face of danger. He was highly skilled in wielding a staff, and he always carried one with him. Though he managed to strike down several soldiers, within moments a massive spear pierced his back — he had been attacked from behind.
Unable to withstand the blow, he fell forward onto the ground.
The spear drove into the earth beneath him. Then Prime Minister Phalguna approached from behind, grabbed Brajeshwardev by the hair, turned his face upward toward himself, and bending slightly, said:
“Brajeshwar, you must pay for your treason — with interest.”
With that, Phalguna severed Brajeshwardev’s head from his body. Realizing that death was inevitable, Brajeshwardev cried out “Victory to Mother Bhavani!” offering his final breath as the last oblation to his deity. Blood spurted from his decapitated body, splashing onto Phalguna’s face and clothes. Phalguna lifted the severed head in his left hand, wiped the blood from his own face with his right hand, licked it off his palm, and burst into a loud, triumphant laugh while staring directly into Brajeshwardev’s lifeless eyes.
At that very moment, the great chinar tree split down the middle, its two halves crashing apart, and the temple of Mother Bhavani also fractured into two. Thus the last trace of the Damars was annihilated that night. All around lay scattered body parts of the dead, and a burning village. Though the chinar tree and the temple were cleaved in two, the idol of Mother Bhavani remained unscathed, sitting like a silent witness to the brutal massacre.
With dawn, the light touched the waters of the Vitasta, turning the river crimson. Dead bodies floated on its surface — a reflection on the canvas of time of the reign of Maharaja Kshemagupta. (Continues)
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Debasree Chakraborti is a renowned novel writer of Bengali language. Based in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, she has done Master’s in Modern History from the Kolkata University, and authored some thirty books, mostly the novels, with historical perspective and themes. Her novel is ‘Maharaja Dahir’ that covers the history of Sindh from 662, the year of first attack on Sindh by the Arab armies till date, was published last year and translated by Nasir Aijaz into Sindhi language.
