Dancing Girl of Indus

By Mirza Muhammad Shakir

The Indus Valley civilization is one of the oldest civilizations of the world, beginning in an area which is now part of the province of Sindh in Pakistan. Dating back five thousand years, Mohenjo-Daro was considered its biggest city.

 

While the Indian subcontinent is full of ancient tombs and fallen temples, Mohenjo-Daro was only discovered in 1911. It was a well-planned city with houses possessing toilets and baths, and streets a marvel of urban planning.

 

Just why the city was abandoned remains a mystery.

 

This novel posits an intriguing theory about the origin of its abandonment. With a cast of engaging characters, including lascivious priests, amorous temple dancers, architects, and free thinkers, the novel weaves an entertaining tale and breathes life into a historical era long deemed dead. It is at one level, a historical mystery with a fast-paced narrative that leads to a suspenseful climax. At another level, the book delves further into the nature of man and his destructive lust for power – political and sexual.

 

The story begins in Delhi. In 1934, Mr. Burton of the British Museum takes up the position of a cataloguer to the Archaeological Survey of India. During his tenure, a mysterious metal box arrives that creates palpable excitement among museum staff. The box is opened with fanfare and religious reverence by the Indian staff. The contents of the box reveal a terracotta head of a bearded man (a priest) and a bronze figurine of a nude girl posing as a dancer. The dancer seems erect, confident, and unashamed of her body.

 

JUST WHO ARE THEY AND WHAT DO THEY REPRESENT?

 

A skeptical Mr. Burton dismisses the idea of these figurines as God and Goddesses. Nevertheless, his curiosity is piqued when he hears of fierce gossip about an employee named Lala. Burton sends for Lala, and what he learns, forms the crux of the story.

 

A young and brilliant priest of the ancient Aryan temple had an affair with a young slave girl, when she became pregnant. She was married to a boy of her settlement according to tradition. The priest remained in touch with his biological son who turned out to be clever and wise beyond his years. He attracted followers and disciples among his slave settlement.

 

The priest senses dangers to his son's life, and arranges for him to flee with his mother, family, and followers to a once inhabited but now deserted place on the bank of river Indus, called "Kukutarma." There, he establishes a new settlement for his people.

He still recalls the priest's parting advice: to not become a king and not allow any political space to a group seeking to form a religious hierarchy. The son worked hard to make the city an economic hub that attracted immigrants from all over the world. After his death, his close associates assumed control but lost power over time. A new class emerged.

 

To control state power, the priests who were initially sent to fulfil death rites and administer prayers of the sick gain power for themselves Women known as "dasisi" are inducted to serve their sexual needs. Errand "dasisi" were punished for their perceived misdeeds.

 

The society is now a cruel and depraved system far removed from its founder's vision.

 

Who is to remove "Kukutarma' from its plight? Who will emerge to be its saviour?

 

Is it worth saving? I will say nothing. These questions will be answered in this book.

 

Write-up by Ghazala Akbar

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mirza Muhammad Shakir
• Release date: Oct 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215662663

Book preview

Prologue

It was 7 October 1934 , when Stephen Burton presented himself at the office of John Marshal, the man in-charge of the Mohenjo-Daro excavation. Stephen was there to join his duties at the Archaeological Survey of India. Stephen was one of the assistants of the chief curator of the British Museum, under whose guidance, he had learned the science of cataloguing artefacts. He got this job upon the curator’s positive recommendation to the foreign office for placement in the colonial civil service of British India; a prized posting for a young man from a working-class background.

Mohan Das, one of the two doormen at John Marshal’s office, opened the door and said in a thick Indian accent, "Sahib, a gora sahib has come to see you."

Send him in, he said, without lifting his eyes from the newspaper he was reading.

Go on in, sahib, Mohan bowed to Stephen and opened the door.

Folding the newspaper, John stood up from his chair and offered his hand for a handshake saying, Welcome to the department, young man.

Thank you, Mr Marshal. Here are my credentials, Stephen said, as he sat down on the chair he was offered.

How long have you been here?

A week and a day, to be precise. India is a strange place I’m afraid.

Yes, it seems so initially but you will come around to it gradually, just wait and see, John said with a curious smile, and pushed the call bell.

Mohan Das appeared in a flash, as if waiting for his call.

Das, go and send junior babu... I don’t remember his name.

Vikram Kumar, sahib.

Yes, whatever, send him here.

Vikram combed his hair, adjusted the knot of his necktie, entered the room and said, Good morning sir! in a babu’s English accent of colonial India. John nodded to accept the greeting; a typical gesture of British officers in India.

Mr Burton is here to join as a curator of the museum. He will catalogue the artefacts from Mohenjo-Daro. Show him to his office in the new block and complete his joining formalities, John said to Vikram.

He then said to Stephen, Mr Burton, please prepare a list of staff and furniture and hand it over to him. We will consider it.

This way, sir, the junior babu guided Stephen towards the new block. Sir, you know the two statues from Mohenjo-Daro? Everyone is talking about them in India.

Talking about what? Stephen’s tone was harsh.

"Sirji, people think that the priest king and the dancing girl are the lost Hindu god and goddess and they must be put in a temple."

What rubbish! he said.

"No sirji, it is true. Lala, our office munshi, lives in Larkana near those ruins. Some spirits talked to him and told him the whole story and we all believe it."

Stephen gave him a stern look and said, You Indians have so many supernatural stories! Somebody was telling me you have the longest religious epic in the world... I forget the name.

They reached the new block and got busy in official work.

After a year of hard work and good planning, the infrastructure of the section that would house the artefacts from the ancient civilization was now complete and boxes of artefacts started to arrive. Stephen carefully catalogued and stacked them in an orderly manner.

It was eleven o’clock in the morning and the office was having its first tea break of many during the day. The tea boy was busy making tea, all pens were dropped, and typewriters were locked. Tea was served with Indian savouries and with it, the gossip started.

Vikram babu, somebody was saying you took Burton sahib to watch Ramlila, a typist asked with a sarcastic smile.

Yes, I did. Burton sahib knows Mahabharata and Ramayana better than most desi sahibs.

How come he can speak Hindustani reasonably well, but sahib cannot read Sanskrit? said the other typist.

Vikram gave him a stern look and said, You all are ignorant fools! They are smart people. Everything important is translated in English with explanation. Marshal sahib can read and write Sanskrit and our sahib will follow soon.

Looking at his watch, babu announced the end of tea break and the tea boy cleared the table.

It was a historic day for Stephen and his team, as they received a special package by Mr D K Dikshitar and Mr Earnest Mackay in the presence of Mr Marshal.

Pointing to the metal boxes, Mr Marshal said, Mr Burton, this is a precious gift from antiquity to our civilization. Take good care of it.

Taking the keys from Mr Marshal, Vikram opened the metal boxes, took out the statue of the priest king and the dancing girl cast in bronze, and placed it on the table. All eyes lit up at the mystique and grandeur of their appearance.

Stephen opened the special vault and carefully placed them in their respective chambers and locked it.

To Stephen’s amazement, Vikram pressed his palms together, bowed in front of the vault, murmured some verses of prayer, and then said, Sahib, Lala is right... they are sacred! The spirits in his village told him.

Stephen smiled and said to himself, You Indians!

He locked the iron door of that room and went to his office.

Spending a weekend at the Lahore Gymkhana helped Stephen gain a new insight into the myths circulating there about the finds from Mohenjo-Daro; especially the dancing girl and the priest king.

Back in his office, he called Vikram and asked, Who is this Lala?

"Sahib, he is the munshi in our accounts office. Nobody knows his real name; he is a quiet man who keeps to himself. Those who know him well say he was quite a lively person but twelve years ago, his daughter died in an incident of honour killing by the verdict of the jirga, headed by his tribal chief. Lala’s younger brother axed her to death and left the body to rot, but the females of the tribe buried her under the cover of darkness. Lala visits his village every year to find the grave of his daughter, but men do not know, and women do not tell. Two years back, when he was sitting near the ruins, a spirit talked to him. The spirit asked for a favour and in return, told him the exact location of his daughter’s grave. Since then, he has permanently settled here with a vow never to return to his village or to meet his tribesmen."

Can you bring him to me this weekend? I would like to listen to his story, Stephen said.

At six o’clock, that Friday evening, Vikram and Lala presented themselves at Mr Burton’s palatial residence in the suburb of Delhi. The darban, whose duty was to stand guard at the door, said namaste to Vikram as he was a regular visitor.

Tell your sahib we are here, said Vikram, placing a one anna coin on his palm as a tip.

He thanked Vikram with a gleeful smile and went inside the house. After a few minutes, a house servant took them into the living room and asked them to be seated.

Mr Burton came out wearing his night dress and slippers and sat down on the sofa. A domestic servant placed a table in front of them while another one brought a glass, a bottle of scotch, and a bucket of ice and placed it on the table before him.

He lit his cigar, took a puff said, So Lala, they say some spirit told you the story of the priest king and the dancing girl.

Yes sahib, I was sitting by the mound near the excavation site, where I was looking for my daughter’s grave, when I heard an unusual sound. I looked around to see what it was but could see nothing. The voice came back again and it spoke to me in Sanskrit.

Do you know Sanskrit? asked Stephen.

Sahib, I am a Brahman Hindu and all our male members are taught Sanskrit at home.

If you’re a Hindu, why was your daughter buried?

Cremation is a rite only males of the family can perform. I was not allowed to go, and the women could not do it, so they buried her. Without last rites, the spirit is trapped between the earth and the sky and cannot go to its final abode for reincarnation. I had to find the grave to give her spirit the freedom to go. The spirit that spoke to me was also trapped and needed someone to help it win its freedom.

Well, said Stephen, Leave the spirit aside and tell me the story from beginning to end.

Lala narrated the whole story of the doom of that town.

Sahib, this town was known as Kukkutarma. It was established at the beginning of human civilization, thrived for thousands of years, and was destroyed by a massive flood in the mighty River Sindhu. It was re-established by the priest king, Puria, who migrated from the foothills of the great mountain to salvage his people from the bondage of the Aryan establishment on the bank of River Sarasvati.

This is the story that the spirit narrated to Lala.

Part I

Chapter 1

H ow many times have I asked you to not allow Puria to go to that saffron priest? Ketro scolded his wife. You never listen to me woman! Don’t you realize that Puria can be killed for what that stupid priest is teaching him?

I have forbidden him to go but he does not listen! Maybe the saffron priest likes him, Surni said, wiping the sweat off her brows by the cuff of her sleeve.

Of course, spitting a neat globule of saliva, he said, there has got to be a bond between them; it is natural.

She gave a nasty look to Ketro, shrugged her shoulders and went into the kitchen. Puria was the illegitimate child of the saffron priest; it was an open secret in the slave settlement.

Surni came out after a few minutes and said, You must go out and bring me some dry wood for the fire. We are left with none.

Without a word, Ketro picked up the hatchet and went out to collect some wood sticks. She does not understand a bloody thing, he thought. These fair-skinned people who came from the west, wave after wave, settled around our rivers and took over our land. The intelligent leaders of many of our tribes took their people southwards and they are reasonably happy, but our forefathers were stupid. They wanted to hang on to their ancestral land and we all are paying the price: we are now their bonded labour who faces the curse of slavery day in and day out.

The slave settlement was at the lower end of the steep incline from the hill where the sacred temple was built. The lavish living quarters of the gentry were on the other side of this hill, where a chain of small hills ran right up to the foot of the great mountains, where some of the gods and goddesses resided. The great Sarasvati flowed down from these mountains and ran down travelling great distances right up to the sea. This is what the learned priests were telling the gentry, inviting them to participate in the bathing rituals to please the river goddess. The slaves were to remain indoors till the ritual was over.

Ketro went up the incline and turned towards the patch of woodland where dry wood was found in abundance. The bank of Sarasvati was clearly visible from there. He picked a dead bush and started to chop it. After chopping enough for the day, he gathered the wood in two bundles. He then moved towards the riverbank to cut some hanging roots of trees, with which he would tie his bundles of wood. As he moved forward, pushing some thick bushes aside, he got a better view of the river. He was amazed to see the saffron priest standing in the river, teaching a child to swim. Out of curiosity, he went a little closer to see who the child was.

Ketro froze for a moment. The child happened to be Puria, and the saffron priest was playing with him in the passionate way that caring fathers do.

Ketro turned around towards the trees with hanging roots, cut two of them, and went back to tie the bundles. Before putting the bundles over his head, he turned around to catch another glimpse of the priest but he was not visible from that point. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, put the bundles of wood sticks over his head and started to walk towards the slave quarters.

Very strange, he thought. Why is he doing this? Teaching hymns, martial arts, mathematics, reading star constellations in the night sky, and now the most sacred thing of all, bathing in the Sarasvati. This priest must be mad. Puria is not the only illegitimate child here. There are others as well, in this very slave settlement and this practice has been going on for generations. Nobody is bothered; the child is adopted by the slave girl’s husband and it grows up a slave and is treated like one. This priest has surely lost his mind.

Ketro wondered why this priest was so revered by all. In the gentry, they called him ‘God’s Chosen One’ because he created the most powerful hymns. Maybe all great men are eccentric in some way. This was the only explanation that came to his mind.

He was genuinely worried for Puria because when he was born, Surni was his wedded wife and she was already pregnant. Traditions of the slave settlement made it binding for Ketro to treat Puria as his son in letter and in spirit. After reaching home, he kept the wood bundles near the kitchen, and went to the courtyard to take a nap.

Chapter 2

Most of the priests were sons of influential people of this or nearby settlements of the gentry, situated on the hills or on the bank of the Sarasvati. They were admitted to the temple monastery from the age of six to eight years. They were disciplined and taught to read and write, and then gradually trained in mathematics, astronomy, and mythological hymns. At the age of about eighteen, they could enter the temple hierarchy as junior priests and tutors for children in the monastery.

Some of these young priests were allowed to leave the temple and wander far and wide in the jungles and valleys to ultimately settle at a temple of their liking, never to return. But at times, some of these priests did send their students to their native temples. These exchanges enriched the monastery and the temple with knowledge. The saffron priest was also one of those wanderers who happened to come there searching for the source of the Sarasvati to pray at the feet of the goddesses, the creators of this sacred river. Almost all the wandering priests entered the temple by following the path that passed through the quarters of the gentry. They stayed for as long as they liked, and then they moved on with another journey to another land.

The saffron priest was in his early twenties when he came to that monastery. His name was Poshwa but everybody in the slave settlement called him the saffron priest and there was a reason to it. According to the tradition of the land, which was kind of an unwritten law, no person from the gentry or temple monastery was allowed to come towards the slave settlement; it was a forbidden area for them. The slaves would go to the gentry quarters to perform the tasks assigned to them and it was binding that they never enter the gentry quarters at or before sunrise and they must leave before sunset, as both these hours were considered sacred and were meant for prayers.

When Poshwa was entering the town, he intentionally skipped the path leading to the temple through the gentry quarters, and preferred the slave settlement route, turning to the right side. He took a dip in the holy river. The sun was about to set, the horizon was turning a beautiful golden yellow. He closed his eyes and started to recite some hymns quite loudly. His voice was deep and melodious; it seemed as though everything living and non-living stood still to listen to his music. When he opened his eyes, a beautiful, young brown girl was staring at him in disbelief. She knew he was from the monastery because of the typical saffron dress of the priest.

Young girl, you seem amazed, he said.

Yes, I am! What is a priest doing in these forbidden quarters at this sacred hour?

He smiled and asked, May I know your name, cute girl?

Surni, she said, and I am a slave girl, you know.

Yes, I know! he laughed. Come, let us sit on that stone and talk.

Surni was confused, because the only conversation she’d ever had was a command given by the people of the gentry. But there, a priest of the temple was not only talking to her but also asking her to sit beside him. She took a good look at him. Although he was much older