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
Some Words:
Amidst the whirlpool of time lies a blood-soaked canvas upon which Eternity itself, dipping its quill in ink, continues to write the saga of a queen whose name remains a scar in the history of Kashmir. 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?
Kalhana, in his Rajatarangini, described her as a “witch queen.” Even today, countless tales — both natural and supernatural — swirl through the valleys of Kashmir about this enigmatic woman of the tenth century. The coins discovered from different regions of Kashmir bear testimony to her reign and lifetime. From 980 to 1003 CE, she ruled Kashmir — both directly and indirectly. Sometimes she governed in the name of her son and grandson, and at other times she wielded power herself, ruling the earthly paradise with an iron will.
It is said that even ten years after her death, the powerful resistance of the army she had built thwarted Sultan Mahmud of Ghazni’s plan to invade India through Kashmir. For twenty-two long years, Diddā ruled Kashmir single-handedly. Kalhana himself wrote that she had built numerous monasteries and temples. Yet this same Kalhana went on to describe her as a witch, immoral, and possessed by demonic powers. A century and a half after Diddā’s death, Kalhana composed his Rajatarangini.
By then, the collective memory of Kashmir had already been filled with countless myths and supernatural legends about her. Modern historians believe that Kalhana’s work was influenced by these tales. Through the ages, history has remained under the control of patriarchal societies. Whenever a woman rises above her time and her society through her own deeds, that same society brands her as a fallen figure in the pages of history. All attempts are then made to erase her contributions from the journey of time. Yet, beneath all this distortion, fragments of the true story always remain hidden.
Even today, in Kashmir, respected women are lovingly addressed as “Ded” or “Diddā.”
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
Episode 1
Within the mirror of time unfolds a living tapestry — where countless visions of the past, present, and future appear and vanish in fleeting moments.
In one dim, mysterious chamber, at the edge of shadows and silence, Mahakaal — the Eternal Time — gazes into this temporal mirror, inscribing upon his cosmic ledger the chronicles of a strange and haunting age. With each stroke of his pen, the forgotten chapters of a notorious queen’s life spring back to existence.
Before recounting the saga of this queen, one must first understand the circumstances that gave rise to her — the grim setting upon the sacred land of Sage Kashyapa, where emerged the so-called “Witch Queen.”
The canvas of time turns crimson — the twin valleys flanking the Vitasta River burn in furious flames, their villages engulfed in ruin. From amidst the inferno echo the cries of the tormented. The land resembles a vast cremation ground, where the howls of nocturnal, flesh-eating beasts and the stench of decaying corpses pervade the air for miles.
In such a nightmarish hour, the reflection of the blazing valley falls upon the stone walls of Maharaja Kshemagupta’s pleasure chamber. Yet the king pays no heed. Surrounded by courtesans, he remains absorbed in indulgence and revelry. Excessive intoxication has begun to distort his temperament and reason.
Immersed in women and wine, the king drifts further from the reality of his burning realm — when suddenly, the faint sound of footsteps, wrapped in leather, breaks the silence outside the pleasure chamber.
The corridor leading to the chamber is flanked by stone walls where torches burn fitfully, their flickering light mingling with deep shadow. A few guards move about, performing their duties half-heartedly — yet none dare to stop the approaching stranger. Instead, they bow their heads in reverence.
Amid the wavering light and darkness, nocturnal birds shriek from their perches within the palace walls — their cries echoing like the lamentations of restless spirits. As the chamber draws nearer… The stranger’s heartbeat grew heavier as he neared the pleasure chamber. Two guards stood posted at the entrance, but without paying them any heed, he struck the door firmly and called out,
“Your Majesty, I bear an urgent message. It is imperative that I see you at once.”
From within came only the sounds of women’s laughter and playful banter — no voice of the king could be heard.
With a steady, commanding tone, the stranger spoke again:
“Your Majesty, the course of action you have taken has thrown your subjects into turmoil. Villages upon villages have turned into cremation grounds. I beg you — grant me a moment of your time.”
Just then, the door of the pleasure chamber opened.
A naked woman stood at the threshold, hand on her waist, and upon seeing the stranger, burst into mocking laughter. Those inside joined her in derision. The stranger’s eyes fell upon the king — lying face down upon the bed, completely unclothed, snoring heavily.
A wave of disgust washed over the stranger’s face. The woman at the door staggered forward toward him, saying in a slurred voice, “Come, let me put you to sleep as well.”
As she reached out to grab his hand, he turned away and walked off. Moments later came the thud of the door closing behind him.
He paused, casting a brief glance back at the scene he was leaving, then resumed his stride down the dimly lit corridor.
Suddenly, someone called his name from behind. At that very instant, the nocturnal birds nesting within the stone walls cried out in unison. For a moment, silence fell again — then the voice called his name once more.
No, it wasn’t his imagination. Someone truly was calling him.
A short distance ahead, he discerned a shadowy figure. The torches were placed far apart along the stone passage, creating patches where light and darkness merged — enough to make any form appear ghostlike.
“Narbahan,” the voice said, calm yet chilling, “you have come here in vain. You should have come to me instead.”
The stranger — Narbahan — replied in a tone that mingled astonishment with resolve,
“And who has informed you of my movements?”
For Narbahan, the king’s childhood companion and dearest well-wisher, it was a grave moment. When he found the king absent in both body and mind, he had come seeking a way to restore his sovereign’s lost sense — yet now, something far more ominous awaited him in the shadows. “Do try, that’s all one can hope for,” the voice said with a hint of mockery. “And after all — a king is a king!” He did not finish the sentence, only smiled in a way that carried both irony and disdain.
“And listen,” he continued, “it’s only natural to keep track of His Majesty’s dearest friend’s movements — for even the closest of intimacies can be… dangerous.”
Narbahan stepped forward slightly. “You already know why I came to the king,” he said firmly. “I’m but a minor member of the royal council. This was supposed to be your duty — you are the Prime Minister!”
With the same sardonic tone, the Prime Minister replied,
“In times of peril, one must always keep a cool head. If I, as the Prime Minister, were to lose my senses and rush about taking counsel from a witless and deranged monarch, then tell me — who would be left to save the kingdom?”
Narbahan turned once toward the closed doors of the pleasure chamber. A deep sigh escaped him. The Prime Minister was not wrong — it was he, Narbahan, who had erred. Blind devotion to the king had driven him to this futile act.
How could a ruler who had lost all sense of reality protect his realm?
And yet, the Prime Minister himself was not beyond suspicion. Years ago, Maharaja Kshemagupta’s father, Parvagupta, had seized the throne through similar intrigue, rising from the rank of a mere minister. Now, taking advantage of the current king’s incompetence, Prime Minister Phalguna seemed to be walking that same path. Everyone in the court knew of his greedy, covetous gaze upon the throne. Still, in the order of the realm, the Prime Minister stood next only to the king — and when the monarch lost control, there was little choice but to rely on him.
In a voice that carried both despair and fatigue, Narbahan muttered, “Then what is to be done now?”
“What is to be done?” Phalguna repeated, smiling slyly. “I already have a plan, Narbahan. You’ll learn all about it at the royal council the day after tomorrow. For now, go — return to your chamber and rest. Too much strain clouds the mind and drives men mad. And if you too lose your senses, then who will remain to handle the king?”
Finishing his words, Phalguna stepped closer and placed a hand on Narbahan’s shoulder — then broke into a booming, sinister laugh.
Just then, from somewhere near the palace shrubbery, a fox cried out. The sound sent a chill through Narbahan’s chest; it felt as though Mother Nature herself had uttered an omen of dark times to come.
Two figures emerged from the pleasure palace and walked forward together. The dim torchlight mingled with the gathering mist, wrapping them in a shroud of haze. Nothing more could be seen — only the reflection of red, leaping flames danced faintly upon the white veil of fog. (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.
