The Rajput Resistance

A.D. 1176 TO A.D. 1206





More than a hundred years had passed since Mahmud of Ghuzni's strong

grip had relaxed on India. During that time she had reverted, as she

always will revert, to those ideals of life which suit her dreamy yet

fireful temperament.



The fierce on-sweep of the Moslem scimitar had mowed down the tangle

of petty chiefships which had grown up in the Dark Ages, an so left

room for the spreading of four great kingdoms, Delhi, Ajmir, Kanauj,

Guzerat, which were all held by the representatives of certain Rajput

clans.



Now the Rajputs are born soldiers. They represent the second, or

military (called the Kshatriya) caste of ancient Vedic time; they have

provided India for long centuries with her warriors, her nobles, her

monarchs. Raj-putra means, in fact, a king's son. Their history is a

magnificent one. They have faced and fought every enemy which Fate has

brought to their native land in the past; they are ready still to face

and fight whatever may come to it in the future. They are the Samurai

of India, each clan led by a hereditary leader, and forming a separate

community, bound by the strongest ties of military devotion and pride

of race.



They claim to have sprung from the sun, or from the moon, or from the

fire; and between them lies ever the faint jealousy of a different

origin. Thus the Tomaras or Tuars of Delhi claimed the kinship of

flame with the Chauhans of Ajmir, while the Rathors of Kanauj stood by

their distant sun-cousins of Guzerat. For to this day the pride of

ancestry is the Rajput's most cherished inheritance. Often he has

little else; but he stills scorns to turn his lance into a

plough-share.



For the rest there is no people in the world whose history yields more

pure romance. The chivalry of Europe seems strained and artificial

beside the stern, straight-forward code of honour by which the early

Rajputs regulated their dealings alike with women and with other men;

and no roundel of troubadour or challenge of knight-errant could have

roused more enthusiasm than did the wild love and war songs of the

Rajput bards.



These, then, were the people whose resistance Mahomed Shahab-ud-din of

Ghor had to overcome, when, after an ineffectual attempt to reach the

heart of India through the sandy deserts of Multan and Guzerat, and a

further swoop on the country about Lahore (in which, by treacherous

stratagem, he seized on the persons who still prolonged the dying

Ghuznevide dynasty and sent them northwards to imprisonment and

death), he finally marched on Hindustan proper in the year A.D. 1191.



And here once more the pink-and-white mass of the huge fort of

Bhatinda heaves into view as our mise en scene. The flowers of the

dakh trees had long since been picked as dye-stuff by the village

women, when once more the hosts of hardy horsemen swept over the

horizon. For, as ever, the Toovkhs--as the peasantry learned to call

these wild raiders--came with the flights of winter birds. The fort

gave in at once to the fierce attack of the Mahomedans. The filagree

sugar-work on its battlements seems, indeed, to have infected the mass

of stone beneath it with frailty, for despite its apparent strength,

Bhatinda has been taken and retaken ofttimes. So, leaving a garrison

there, Shahab-ud-din commenced his return; for the hardy horsemen

always seem to have been more afraid of melting in the heat of India

than meeting the onslaught of her armies.



Ere he had gone far, however, news of recall came to him. The great

Prithvi-Raj, conjoint King of Delhi and Ajmir, with many other Indian

princes, two hundred thousand horse, and three thousand elephants was

behind him.



Here was challenge indeed! The heat was forgotten; he faced round to

the relief of the garrison he had left, and boldly passing Bhatinda,

paused to give battle on that wild plain between Karnal and Delhi,

where half the struggles for the possession of India have been fought

to the bitter end.



He must have awaited his enemy with anxiety, for the fame of

Prithvi-Raj had spread even amongst Mahomedans. To the Hindus he was a

demi-god: the personification of every Rajput virtue, the pattern of

all Rajput manhood. A bold lover, a recklessly brave knight-errant,

the story of his exploits, as told by his bard, Chand, fills many

books, and is still listened to of winter nights beside the smoke-palled

fires by half the men and women in India. It will be sufficient to

recount one here to show what manner of man he was, and how he comes

still to hold the admiration, not only of the romantic Rajputs, but of

all India.



Prithvi-Raj, then, was of the Chauhan, Fire-born race. Rajah of Ajmir

only, by father-to-son descent, the kingship of Delhi had come to him

by the death of his maternal grandfather without male issue.



But the Rajah of Kanauj was also grandson, and elder grandson, of the

dead king by another daughter. Hence arose envy and strife between the

cousins; the more so, because the sixteen-year-old Prithvi carried all

things before him with an elan not to be imitated. It was all very

well to match the young hero's Great Horse sacrifice (the last one, it

is believed, in India), with which he claimed empire, by instituting a

Sai-nair, accompanied by a Self-choice (also the last), for one's only

daughter, the Princess Sunjogata of Kanauj. Now the ceremony of

Sai-nair is a most august one. It is virtually a claim for universal

supremacy, for divine honour. Every one concerned in it, even the

scullion in the kitchen who helps to cook the feast, must be of royal

blood. So all India's princes were bidden to take their part in it,

excepting Prithvi-Raj, and in his place an image of clay was made and

set to the lowest job--that of door-keeper.



Thus the Rajah of Kanauj strove to save his dignity, for the rites

were equally old, equally honourable; but what man, even though he

were king, could calculate on what a young girl, just blossoming into

womanhood, would say or do?



As a matter of fact, the young Princess Fortunata (a literal

translation of the name) did a very distressing thing. No doubt

as she entered the splendid arena (decorated, possibly, in imitation

of the celebrated one, described in the Mahabharata as the scene

of Draupadi's Swayambara), where all the assembled princes of

India--excepting, of course, her wicked cousin, Prince Prithvi--were

eagerly awaiting her choice, she looked very sweet and innocent--quite

entrancing, briefly, in her fresh young beauty, about which every one

was raving; but who would have dreamed of the mischief which was

lurking behind the eyes down-dropped as she stood hesitating, the

marriage garland--which every prince longed to feel, even as a yoke,

round his neck--in her dainty little hands.



And then? Hey presto! Her dainty little feet sped determinedly over

the Court to the door, and there was the garland, not round any living

man, but be-decorating the misshapen image of clay which Jai-Chand,

her father, had caused to be put in absent Prithvi's place!



There must have been wigs on the green in the women's apartments that

fateful day, with papa cursing and mamma upbraiding, while all the

little culprit's female relations held up pious hands of horror. But

the deed was done, and there in broad daylight, on the wings of fierce

love and pride, awakened by the tale of that maiden garland on cold

clay, was the twenty-one-year-old Prince Prithvi himself, the flower

of Rajput chivalry, followed by youthful heroes, ready, like their

chief, for soft kisses or hard blows. The last came first in that

desperate five-days-running fight all the way back to Delhi, with

willing Princess Fortunata in their midst, her cheek paling but her

eyes dry, as one by one the dear, brave lads fell out from her cortege

dead or dying.



But the bravest, the dearest, the best, held her close, unharmed, and

so the soft kisses came at last.



For Prince Prithvi, though he lost some friends--lost, as the

historians put it, "the sinews of India"--kept his prize, and gained

for himself immortal memory in the hearts of all Rajput maidens even

to the present day.



This, then, was the paladin who took the field against the bearded,

middle-aged Mahomed Shahab-ud-din, and deftly outflanking his wings,

drove them back and back until the whole Mahomedan army showed a

circle surrounded by the enemy. In the centre the great general

himself, mad with passion at the counsel sent to him by his

subordinates to save himself as best he could. His reply was to cut

down the messenger, and calling on all who would to follow him, rush

out on the enemy, dealing reckless, almost futile death. To no

purpose. Prithvi's younger brother, marking down his quarry, drove his

elephant full against the burly-bearded leader of the desperate sally;

but Mahomed Ghori lacked no courage, and the charge was met half-way,

horse against leviathan, lance couched to lance.



And the honours lay with the Moslem, for Chawand Rao took the

lance-head full in his mouth, to the destruction of many teeth. But

Prithvi was in support of his brother, and a well-aimed arrow twanged

and quivered in the northerner's scimitar arm; he reeled in his saddle

and would have fallen, had not a faithful servant, taking advantage of

the wild, swift closing in of rescue for the wounded monarch, leapt up

behind him in the saddle, and turning the horse's head to the open,

carried the almost fainting king from the field. He was followed by

his whole army, harassed for full 40 miles by the victorious Hindus.



Princess Fortunata's kisses must have been sweet that night to her

victorious hero. But Mahomed Shahab-ud-din's calm had gone. Smileless,

he waited for the healing of his wound at Lahore, then, returning to

Ghor, publicly disgraced every officer who had not followed his

forlorn hope, by parading them round the city like horses or mules,

their noses in "nose-bags filled with barley, which he forced them to

eat like brutes," and afterwards flinging them into prison. So two

years passed in moody anger and sullen disgrace, crushed into

forgetfulness by reckless pleasure and festivity. Then, taking heart

of grace, he got together a picked force of 120,000 Toorki and Afghan

cavalry recruits, for the most part men of his own class and calibre,

whose helmets were encrusted with jewels, their cuirasses inlaid with

gold; and so off Peshawur ways.



"Since the day of defeat," he said to an old sage, "despite external

appearances, I have never slumbered with ease, or waked but in sorrow.

I go, therefore, to recover my lost honour from these idolaters, or

die in the attempt."



"My king," replied the wise old man, kissing the ground, "wherefore

should not those whom you have so justly disgraced likewise have

opportunity of wiping away the stain of their defeat?"



The plea struck him by its justice. He issued orders for the disgraced

officers' freedom, and gave leave for those desirous of redeeming

their character to follow his example. A picked force this, indeed,

with a vengeance!



And on the other side was haughty defiance, marked still by the

chivalrous sense of honour which, to such as Prithvi-Raj, was dearer

than life.



A proud acceptance of the issues met the curt declaration of war

should the Indians refuse to embrace the true faith, which the

Mahomedan general sent to Ajmir by accredited ambassador. A 'cute move

this; one to enhance the martial ardour of his men; perhaps to still

further inflame his own determination to turn past defeat to present

victory. Then ensued a pause for parley, in which the Princess

Fortunata had her share--a worthy share, as the following extracts

will show. Till then her kisses had lulled Prithvi-Raj to

forgetfulness of sterner things; now they were to rouse him from

his dream. For this was her reply when her husband, leaving his

War-Council to deliberate, sought wisdom where he had so often found

pleasure:--





"What fool asks woman for advice? The world

Holds her wit shallow.... Even when the truth

Comes from her lips men stop their ears and smile.

And yet without the woman where is man?

We hold the power of Form--for us the Fire

Of Shiv's creative force flames up and burns:

Lo! we are thieves of Life and sanctuaries

Of Souls. Vessels are we of virtue and of vice,

Of knowledge and of utmost ignorance.

Astrologers can calculate from books

The courses of the stars, but who is he

Can read the pages of a woman's heart?

Our book has not been mastered; so men say

'She hath no wisdom' but to hide their lack

Of understanding. Yet we share your lives,

Your failures, your successes, griefs and joys.

Hunger and thirst, if yours, are ours, and Death

Parts us not from you; for we follow fast

To serve you in the mansion of the Sun.

Love of my heart! Lo! you are as a swan

That rests upon my bosom as a lake.

There is no rest for thee but here, my lord!

And yet arise to Victory and Fame.

Sun of the Chauhans! Who has drunk so deep

Of glory and of pleasure as my lord?

And yet the destiny of all is death:

Yea even of the Gods--and to die well

Is life immortal---- Therefore draw your sword,

Smite down the foes of Hind; think not of self--

The garment of this life is frayed and worn,

Think not of me--we twain shall be as one

Hereafter and for ever.--Go, my king!"





So the fiery cross sped round Rajputana, and ere long Prithvi-Raj

could confront the enemy with an army of 300,000 horse, 3,000

elephants, and a large body of infantry. They encamped opposite and

within sight of each other on the old battle-field, with the river

Saraswati, which was soon to lose itself in the desert sands beyond,

running between the opposing armies. Despite the disparity in numbers

the forces were not ill-matched, for the Indians were hampered by a

thousand old traditions, old accoutrements, old scruples. The

Mahomedans, on the other hand, were full up with desire for gold, for

souls. But it was a holy war on both sides. The Hindus had sworn on

Ganges water to conquer or die, the Moslem had sworn likewise on the

Koran; so heads were bowed in humble prayer to the Lord of Hosts, and

human hearts beat high with murderous hope. Quaint conjunction when

all is said and done!



Thus far, well. Now comes Mahomed Shahab-ud-din's diplomatic

strategy, which some might call by another name, even though the

account of what occurred comes to us through the pen of an ardent

Mahomedan, and cannot, therefore, but put the best face on what

happened. Prithvi-Raj, then, facing his foe, so much smaller in

numbers, so altogether insignificant beside the splendid lavishness of

the Rajput camp, wrote a letter to Mahomed Shahab-ud-din. Whether

dictated by mere pride or martial honour, by contemptuous pity,

religious dislike to take life, or, as the Mahomedans aver, by mere

brag, the terms of it are worth reading:--





"To the bravery of our soldiers we know you are no stranger: and to

our great superiority in numbers, which daily increases, your eyes

bear witness. If you are wearied of your own existence, yet have pity

on your troops who may still think it a happiness to live. It were

better, then, you should repent in time of the rash resolution you

have taken, and we shall permit you to retreat in safety."





Not an undignified appeal, this first recorded attempt at peace with

honour. Its reply was, as the historian puts it, "politic." It

consisted in Mahomed Shahab-ud-din's assertion that he was only the

general of his brother's forces; that therefore he dare not retreat

without orders, but he would be glad of a truce until such time as

information could be sent to Ghuzni and an answer received.



A simple and admirable adjunct to the night-attack which followed, and

which found the Rajputs unprepared, in fancied security.



About the false dawning, when even the noise of revelry in the

opposite camp had quieted down to sleep, the Mahomedan army forded the

river in silence, and drew up in order on the sands beyond. Some

portion of it was actually within the Hindu lines ere the alarm was

raised.



Even so, the Rajput cavalry was to the front immediately, and checked

the advance.



For what followed, Mahomed Shahab-ud-din deserves unstinted praise. It

was good general-ship.



He formed his bowmen into four divisions, and placing them one behind

the other, ordered the first to come into fighting line, discharge

their arrows, and wheel to the rear, thus giving place to the second

fighting line, the whole army to retreat slowly, giving ground

whenever hard pressed.



All that day he fought, biding his time with such patience as he and

his twelve thousand steel-armoured horsemen could muster. The sun was

just setting when, judging the delusion of victory had done its work

in the hot heads of the Rajputs, he gave the orders for one desperate

charge.



It did its work!



"Din! Din! Fateh Mahomed!" once and for all overcame the Hindu war-cry

of, "Victory, Victory!" In the years to come success and failure were

to attend both; but only in detail. The great issue between Brahmanism

and Mahomedism was fought out on the vast Karnal battle-plain in A.D.

1193, when, as the chronicler of Islam says,





"one desperate charge carried death and destruction throughout the

Hindu ranks. The disorder increased everywhere, till at length the

panic became general. The Moslems, as if they now only began to be in

earnest, committed such havoc, that this prodigious army once shaken,

like a great building tottered to its fall, and was lost in its own

ruins."





How many thousand pagans "went below?" Who knows? But one is sure that

Mahomed Shahab-ud-din duly praised God from whom all blessings flow.

His subsequent atrocities prove that he must have relied on something

which he deemed Divine Guidance; mere humanity could never have been

so cruel.



Half Rajput chivalry lay dead under the stars, but the flower of it

was hiding in the sugar-cane brakes, stealing his way back to Delhi,

to the Princess Sunjogata his wife, who, as she had watched him go

forth, lance in rest, his sword buckled on by her own steady hands,

had said with foreboding courage to her maidens: "In Yoginapur (Delhi)

I shall see him no more: we will meet in Swarga." The tale of what

happened is almost beyond telling.



Prithvi Rajah was murdered in cold blood, murdered ignominiously. The

Princess Fortunata escaped a like, or a worse, fate by a funeral pyre,

and Delhi was given over to such hideous devils work as even that

long-suffering city has never seen before or since. The followers of

the Prophet wiped out their own and their God's disgrace in torrents

of blood, filled their pockets by the way, went on to Ajmir, enacted a

like tragedy, and so returned northwards when the pink clouds of the

low-lying groves of dakh trees began to blossom about the

battle-field where the sun of the Hindus had set for ever.



But Mahomed Shahab-ud-din left his pet Turki slave Kutb-din-Eibuk

behind him at Delhi, and he, assuming almost regal honours, "compelled

all the districts around to acknowledge the faith of Islam."



How many murders go to the making of a Moslem is a question which

might fairly be asked. Converts, however, hardly came in fast enough

for Shahab-ud-din's zeal, so the next year saw him back again to help

his slave in crushing the Rajah of Kanauj, who, doubtless, had not

been of Prithvi-Raj's host. Thence he marched to Benares, in which

hot-bed of idolatry he thoroughly enjoyed himself by smashing the

idols in a thousand temples, which he subsequently purified by prayer

and purgation, and thereinafter consecrated to the worship of the true

God.



This was his last real outing, for Fate--can it have been that she

dissociated herself from his doubtful use of the white flag--began to

play him false. His slave-viceroy showed inclination to plunder on his

own behalf, and though the master once more returned to India, it was

but a flying visit, apparently to check independence. To no avail, for

Kutb-din-Eibuk, "ambitious of extending his conquests, led an army

into Rajputana, where, having experienced severe defeat, he was

compelled to seek protection in the fort at Ajmir."



For the fighting spirit in the Rajput was not to be quenched by blood,

or burned out by fire. It was to flame up fiercely for many a century

to come, until the wisdom of Akbar won it over to his side.



Mahomed Shahab-ud-din's hands were, however, too full to permit of his

giving much attention to India. His brother, Ghiass-ud-din, the mere

figure-head of a king, died in A.D. 1202, and though Shahab-ud-din was

crowned in his stead without any opposition, bad luck seemed to attend

him afterwards. His army was literally cut down to a mere body-guard

of a hundred troopers in Khorassan, and though his fortunes were

recovered in some measure, his time seems to have been taken up in

quelling the rebellions of his favourite slaves whom he had promoted

to honour.



In India, Kutb-din, it is true, remained faithful in name, though his

power and prestige rose above his master's, and he was virtually king,

not viceroy.



Finally, in A.D. 1206, the leader of the last real raid of the

Crescent into India was assassinated by the Ghakkars of the Salt Range

upon the banks of the Indus.





"The weather being sultry, the King had ordered the screens which

surround the royal tents to be struck in order to give free admission

to the air. This afforded the assassins an opportunity of seeing into

the sleeping apartments. So at night time they found their way up to

the tents and hid themselves, while one of their number advanced

boldly to the tent door. Challenged by a sentry, he plunged his dagger

in the man's breast, and this rousing the guard, who ran out to see

what was the matter, the hidden assassin took that opportunity of

cutting a way into the King's tent.



"He was asleep, with two slaves fanning him. They stood petrified with

terror as the Ghakkars sheathed their daggers in the King's body,

which was afterwards found to have been pierced by no fewer than

twenty-two wounds."