The Legends of Amrapali

By Anurag Anand

“An enigma for some and a messiah for other, Anurag Anand’s
Amarpali is a brave, soulful woman”
— The Times of India
A fascinating enigma of godly grace and captivating charm, A contrasting
medley of motherly tenderness and ruthless acumen, A danseuse with
the elegance and poise of the divine Apsaras,And yet, just a humble girl
brimming with dreams, hopes and desires was…
— Amrapali-the Nagarvadhu of Vaishali!
Aryavart (around 500 B.C.) was a land of many prosperous kingdoms
and among the most prominent of them was the Vajji Confederacy – one
of the first democratic republics known to mankind. Vaishali, the capital
of the Confederacy and that of the illustrious Lichchavis was not only a
center of commerce and political activity but also the blessed motherland
of Amrapali.
The Legend of Amrapali is the story of mayhem and turmoil brought
about by the obstinate desires of one man – a man blinded by the intoxication
of power. It is a story of sinister plots and political wizardry, of chaste love
and unbridled passion, of naked ambitions and dogged loyalties that lead to
the transformation of an innocent young girl into one of the most revered,
even worshipped, and occasionally feared personalities of her times.
A gripping cocktail of fantasy, fiction, fable and history that retains its
charismatic appeal through the centuries gone by!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Srishti Publishers
• Release date: Mar 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9789380349473

Book preview

Authors Note

The human memory, much like the editorial staff of a renowned publication house, is a necessarily evil, proudly brandishing its sharp blades and scissors, pruning the occurrences and information relegated to its attic. While the cherished and happy moments and the bitter ones with disturbing intensity manage to seep through this filter with relative ease, there are numerous mundane and inconsequential underlying episodes that often get lost in transit. And when the memory in question is not that of an individual whereas a collective one for the entire society, such omissions are expectedly more widespread.

One such fable that continues to echo within the walls of numerous households lining up the Ganga basin, the most populated river basin in the world, is that of Amrapali – the Nagarvadhu or Courtesan of the illustrious kingdom of Vaishali. Amrapali, it is said, was one of the most exquisite creations of the almighty to have dwelled on earth – a divine beauty whose glories transcended much beyond the frontiers of Aryavart.

The longing for her companionship was such that it brought numerous young nobles of Vaishali, her suitors, at loggerheads with each other. It was to prevent the probable consequentiality of bloodshed that saw her being adorned with the title of the Nagarvadhu – literally meaning, ‘the bride of the city’. The price for witnessing her dance performance for an evening was exorbitant, way beyond the purse strings of the commoners, but the resolution worked in appeasing those who mattered – the influential nobles, landlords and merchants. Amrapali was no longer a lamp illuminating the confines of any one room but the pervasive sun whose rays touched every life, in this case of those who could afford the price.

Though the elite rejoiced, unraveling the enigma of her beauty and dancing prowess, she ensured that she reached out to the masses through her benevolence and compassion. Her acts for the general good of society – construction of schools, temples, roads and digging of wells are still spoken about with no mean degree of reverence. To the general populace she was an image of motherly kindheartedness who would scale great heights to rid them of their difficulties. Her discreet but enveloping tenderness had woven an invisible web even around those who had not intended to be among her patrons. A testimony of Amrapali’s influence among the citizenry is the fact that even the names of the Lichchavi rulers from her time fizzled out from public memory and now remain untraceable even in the accounts of history.

Though tales and accounts of her magnanimity, compassion, kindness and even of her splendor and magnificence are galore and can be heard as lullabies or as proud reminiscences of past glories among the habitants of the Gangetic plains, the real story of Amrapali seems to have eroded from their memories along the centuries gone by. Subjugated to the overpowering aura of Amrapali - the Nagarvadhu, Amrapali - the girl, seems to have been forgotten, leaving behind a barrage of unanswered questions.

Was it such a simple choice for her to adorn the title of Nagarvadhu and agreeably invite the voyeuristic gaze of lusty eyes upon her, evening after evening? Or, was there a battered path, strewn with the corpses of her desires and dreams that led to the eventuality? In a society where, to put it mildly, women had to struggle to even earn their rightful place, was the shroud of influence and power that a mere lady brandished, achieved with ease? Or, does that path too conceal within its brooks, hitherto unknown tales of tribulation, suffering and even horror? Was Amrapali’s overriding authority an effortless outcome of her alluring persona or was it the conclusion of a sagaciously crafted plan?

When I set out to answer these questions, armed only with my imagination and the so called ‘literary license’, I was amazed at the world that effortlessly emerged in front of my eyes. A world of curiosity and intrigue inhabited by a plethora of fascinating characters, converging to create a sequence of exhilarating events. A canvas spread long back in time and yet the shades emerging upon it – love, passion, sacrifice, greed, anger and revenge, mirroring those that we see and experience at an alarming regularity in the current times. It is this world of Amrapali that I welcome you to, with the hope that it enchants you as much as it captivated me when I was in its throes.

There are many who knowingly or unknowingly have contributed to the eventual outcome that you now hold in your hands, but some whose names I can’t go without mentioning are: Dr Ashok Kumar Singh, my father – his enthusiasm on barely hearing about the subject of my next work left my own fervor significantly dwarfed. Neeru, unarguably my better half, whose constructive criticism reflects in every well articulated sentence that you shall read. Sending pages after pages of my writing to the confines of the recycle bin often got me to the brink of frustration, but the results usually corroborated the efforts. The sections which, you think, could have been presented better, if any, are those where I doggedly chose to ignore her advice, wielding the veto I enjoyed in my capacity as the author of this work. My grandparents and my mother, whose bed time stories were responsible for first introducing me to the legend of Amrapali at a tender age when I struggled even to pronounce the word ‘Nagarvadhu’.

I would also like to express my gratitude to the renowned danseuse and social activist Ms Mallika Sarabhai for consenting to lend her image to ‘The Legend of Amrapali’. In the current times, if there is a name I can think of that comes even remotely close to the fabled grace and poise of the Nagarvadhu of Vaishali, it is you.

Mr. William Dalrymple, not just an author par excellence but also a great human being, thank you for your kind words on the subject of my story.

I would also like to thank my Publishers, Srishti, for sharing my zeal on the subject and their keenness to make the book a reality in record time.

It is only the love and support of readers like you that defines any author. I thank you for choosing to splurge your precious time in my work and hope that it manages to live up to your expectations. As always, I shall eagerly await your feedback and comments.

ONE

It was the melodious chirping of feathered beings that broke the spell of sleep and summoned her to the realms of reality. She was mildly annoyed at being distracted from the sleep induced reverie her mind had been conjuring, but it didn’t take long for the disappearing smile to return. The world outside her dreams was just as beautiful and enchanting as the one she had woken up from.

The birds – the violet ones and the little brown ones – like every other morning, were engaged in a noisy revelry on her windowsill. As she stealthily walked towards them, she could hear an unusual melody strewn within their carousing.

Not meaning to scare them away, she halted a few steps prior to the window and looked outside. The weather was more inviting than it had been for weeks with great puffball clouds tumbling through the sky. The sun - like a shy bride with reddening cheeks, was hesitantly attempting to make an appearance. Trees, swinging to the rhythm of a gentle breeze seemed to be conversing in a language of their own. It was indeed a beautiful day.

After briefly soaking in the refreshingly divine air, she retreated and headed towards her father’s room. For as long as she could remember, her days started by touching his feet to obtain his blessings and of all days, it was today that she needed his blessings the most.

She gently pushed open the door, expecting her father to be asleep, only to be greeted by an empty bed - the blanket neatly folded and placed underside.

‘He is up early today. After all, the day holds as much anxiety for him as it does for me,’ she thought, walking up to the empty bed out of sheer habit. As she sat on the bed, trying to straighten the non existent creases in the folded blanket, she slowly drifted away three days back in time to the unexpected conversation that was to change her life.

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His lips were dry, his breathing was heavy and he could hear his heart thumping away like the rhythmic beats of a drum. He used the stick in his hand to slash at the dense vegetation ahead of him and carve a path for his aching and bloody feet. Halting was not an option.

Rays of light were seeping through the dense jacket of trees and he could now use his vision to negotiate the obscurity of the forest trail. This meant he could increase the pace of his strides without worrying about stepping on a thorn, falling into a ditch or worse disturbing any of the deadly inhabitants of the wilds from their slumber.

The break of dawn also meant that the news of his escape would soon break, if it hadn’t already broken, and a massive search operation would be underway. If the visibility would help him tread faster, it would come in more handy for his pursuers who, aided by their sniffer hounds and agile horses would undoubtedly gain up on him in no time.

He looked up towards the sky – no, the stars were no longer there to guide him. He had to rely solely upon his instincts to steer him to his destination and he didn’t have much time. His hunters were possibly there already and perhaps would be busy laying a trap, waiting for him to show up. But he would worry about that later, once he was closer to his destination.

He hadn’t slept all night and his mind was numbing as was the rest of his body. It would have been about the third pehar of the night that he had put his plan to action. He had accomplished the task of hoodwinking the lone guard outside his cell by complaining of stomach cramps rather easily. The unsuspecting guard, disillusioned by sleep and the sudden cry for help had not been alert while rushing to his aid and was now holed up in the cell, safely fastened by the fabric of his own turban.

The prison walls had not posed much of a challenge either and he had deftly used the cracks between the layers of stone to climb up and facilitate his escape. The joy of freedom was only momentary though as he was now faced with the arduous task of making it to his destination, alive.

Taking the usual path was not an option since he could easily be spotted on the deserted roads by one or the other troop of patrolling soldiers. Instead, he had to use the safety of the nearby jungle to cover as much ground as he could before surfacing into the open. He looked up at the stars, charting an imaginary map in his head, and said a small prayer before entering the jungle. ‘God willing, I should be able to cover the distance in about ten muhurats,’ he optimistically murmured hoping to reach his destination within the protection of the night.

As he subsided into the insidious darkness of the jungle, his challenges began to mount. He could not even see his own hands and had to completely rely on his sense of touch for guidance. After he accidentally bumped into a tree and stumbled over what he thought was a stone, he groped around and found himself a stick that would increase his reach and warn him in advance of any impending hurdles.

The stick did prove useful but his pace remained challenged as he carefully treaded his advance into the colossal abyss. The starlit sky surfaced intermittently between the dense foliage and he paused to ascertain that he was heading in the right direction. This further hampered the tempo of his journey.

The jungle smelled of trampled leaves and moist wood and was clad in a deep eerie silence. Sporadically he could hear faint calls and animal cries at a distance, and more than once he thought he heard the snipping of twigs or a hustle of leaves at uncomfortably close quarters. The scene was chilling enough to cause a seizure in the weaker of hearts, but he continued unabated. He had bigger fears that needed to be conquered.

As he delved deeper, the air started getting heavier, making it difficult for him to breathe. His lungs whistled with every gasp of air he inhaled and the rest of his body was in no better stead. He had brushed against numerous thorny bushes leaving his clothes in tatters and stepped on something that had resulted in a piercing pain followed by a sticky wetness in his feet. He knew he was bleeding in more places than one but it was the strength of his inner resolve that kept him going.

He didn’t know for how long he had been walking but with the first glimpse of dawn he knew that he wasn’t very far from his goal. The heaviness in the air was dissolving and he was finding it much easier to breathe, only relatively though. He could sense faint smells that were explicit to human habitation – those of spices and oils and the combined emissions from a cluster of kitchen chimneys breathing out their first exhausts for the day. A sudden ray of hope kindled within him, resurrecting the pace of his strides as he followed his nose towards the now visible clearing.

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Three days back, her father had come home for lunch a little earlier than usual. She had cooked his favorite spicy gosht and was looking forward to his animated compliments, a repartee they had shared for long. However, when she served the delicacy on his plate, uncharacteristically he failed to even take notice. He was engrossed in thoughts of his own.

‘Pali! Come sit with baba,’ he said, gesturing for her to pull up another mat next to his. His tone was serious and with a quiet nod, she obeyed.

‘You and Pushpakumar have been friends for long and know each other well. He is a nice boy and I am sure he will be a worthy husband and keep you happy. I was going to speak with his father and I thought I must have a word with you first. So, what do you think of him as a prospective husband?’

All her life she had wondered as to how her father managed to recognize and fulfill every wish of hers without she having to utter a single word. And yet again, he had understood her hearts innermost desires and was seeking her consent before fulfilling them. She loved Pushpakumar and of course she wanted to marry him.

She could not meet his gaze and meaning to hide her blushing face, red with excitement, she embraced him tightly. ‘Baba,’ she uttered as he stroked her hair, before slowly pulling away. With a nod of the head she conveyed her accordance before running out of the room, her payal reverberating the tinkling within her heart.

The day seemed never-ending as she impatiently waited at the door for her father to return after meeting Pushpakumar’s family. He eventually returned with a packet of sweets which he handed over to her with a smile and a little brush of his hand on her head. ‘Day after tomorrow, the day you turn eighteen, is the day of your marriage,’ he announced.

Despite brimming with excitement internally, she noticed the somber tone of his voice. She had been his only steady companion for just under eighteen years now and the thought of her marriage was bound to be a disturbing one. Yet, like a dutiful father, he had traded all his longing and love against her happiness. She embraced him once again and this time to hide her moist eyes.

‘It is going to be a simple ceremony in the temple followed by dinner for both families at home. We have just one day to prepare, so go to the market with Prabha tomorrow morning and buy some nice clothes and whatever else you desire,’ he said, handing her a small satin bag containing about a dozen gold coins.

The next morning, she rushed to her friend’s house to break the news. The sudden nature of developments took Prabha by surprise, but soon both girls were completely consumed by the excitement. They spent a better part of the day haggling with garment and accessory merchants in the local market. The merchants in turn scrambled to adorn her with their merchandise, for, her surreal beauty could only add to the magnificence of their own wares. There could not be a better platform for them to flaunt their products and promote their businesses.

Exhausted yet excited, she returned home in time to cook lunch, only to be greeted by a flurry of activity around the household. There were people painting the walls of the house, cleaning the courtyard and decorating the house in general. The balustrade was decorated with flowers – pink orchids, white lilies, and roses of myriad shades, there were women painting rangolis with a mix of dry colors, vermilion and granulated rice and flour and another bunch were engaged in grinding a selection of spices to be used for preparing dinner the next day.

‘But you said it was to be a simple and private affair. What is all this?’ she confronted her father, who shrugged with a sheepish grin. ‘Nothing. I