“You know them personally, Pratipanna. It is time to summon them,” she said. For a split moment, a crack in time, Pratipanna thought to himself. I work to get paid, woman. Matangi heard this thought, as did the sages who ignored it. Her eyes narrowed and Pratipanna collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain. Fine, I’ll do it! Matangi loosened her grip on his nether regions and he somewhat regained his composure.
“They are already outside, Dearest Goddess,” said Pratipanna. Abhiseleka released her leg and walked over to the flap. Before anyone could stop him, he had raised it. Outside the door was a group of sages with torches. Their spokesman stepped forward.
“We are her in the service of the Kingdom of Delhi, and her rightful ruler, Sultan Shaams-Al-Iltmush. Victory! Truth!,” he said. The last part was chanted by the entire crowd, which consisted of about one-hundred individuals. Abhiseleka allowed the flap to drop back down, and ran to Matangi, hiding behind her leg and again holding it tightly.
“How can they be trusted?” Asked Shaams. He looked straight at Matangi. She looked at the Sages, who looked at Pratipanna.
Pratipanna said,”They care nothing for money. The reason they are here, and they can be trusted, is Her.” He looked at Matangi, and Shaams sighed audibly. Matangi was the only factor in his life that he had ever risked trusting. Beyond that was always his own cunning and brute force. They all worship her. They all know her. Matangi had visited each one of the crowd in their meditations and had pre arranged this entire episode. Even Pratipanna, upon seeing her, had the recollection. She reached for young Abhiseleka’s hand and went out to the crowd. As she opened the flap, their torches burned brightly. They stood in organized rows, as if soldiers awaiting command. This was how Matangi had been envisioning it.
“For the children!” She said, and paused, pulling Abhiseleka to stand in front of her. He was terrified. “For the children’s sake, for the next generation. It is not for ourselves that we now undertake this battle. It is for the people here in this kingdom, who have no voice of their own,” she said. “How can they beat us? Only if we let them,” she said. Shaams listened to this speech and wondered. He was implicitly guilty for allowing the Ulaamas to do his dirty work. He was not the ruler Matangi said he was. She was that ruler, and that was what the Ulaamas could not tolerate. The time she had forseen was now transpiring. They would all have to be exiled, and a new type of army created. From the sounds of the crowd of sages outside, it was well on it’s way.
Shaams stepped out in front of the tent with Matangi. The crowd roared with affirmation, and yet Shaams knew, their approval was not because of his actions. It was for Matangi. Shaams was merely a man caught in between two political ideologies, two religions, belonging to neither one. Yet this was his moment to make a stand. he had absorbed Matangi’s teachings. However foreign they were to him, she made sense. The only prospect that would come to fruition with the Ulaamas in power would be more chaos and treachery. It was not that he trusted these people, it was that he had to. He believed in Matangi. He spoke.
“My friends, by fortune or fate, I am the Sultan of this land. I understand the atrocities that occur daily here. Until now, I have opposed them to no avail,” he said.
The crowd groaned and grumbled. Matangi raised her hand and they all fell silent again. “We are brothers here. I have taken the Sufi vows. I believe in the oneness of God and his creatures,” he said. “Now, seeing you assembled here today, I have faith that the Orthodoxy can be defeated. They will not be defeated by brute force, but by freedom of the mind. That is where the war is waged; you must see that! Together, and behind Matangi, we can unify the various factions that are now divided. The division is our greatest weakness, and it is not your invention. It is the invention of those who have come before us.”
Shaams had learned as a young boy in Turkestan the forbidden doctrine of the great Persian emperor, Cyrus. Through private instruction, it was none other than the Sage Moinuddin, who was still meditating in the tent, who had lit the fire of liberty in the young Shaams. He was told stories of how conquered countries would cheer and applaud Cyrus’ entrance into the city. In his mind, he had finally realized a boyhood dream as he spoke to the gifted and boisterous crowd.
There was a scroll surfing over the people, being handed upwards towards Shaams. As it moved towards them, there was a low murmur echoing. Shaams’ moment was interrupted as he wondered what he could do about the inevitable traitors that dwelled within the ranks of the sages. Matangi pinched his side, leaned into his ear, and whispered.
“Shaams, let it go,” she said.
When the scroll reached him, he opened the cylinder, removed the document, broke the wax seal and unrolled it. The writing on the note was in a language he did not know, Sanskrit. He handed it to Matangi, who held it in her hands for a moment. A smile came over her face. She, as many had already experienced, could feel the message on the scroll. It was most fortuitous. She whispered in Shaams’ ear.
“Let’s peruse this message within the tent,” she said.
They went inside.
“What does it say?” Asked Shaams.
“What does it say, Mata?” Asked Abhiseleka. She ignored them, but they all watched her face for any subtle hints that would give away it’s contents. She read over it carefully, once, then began to translate it for Shaams.
“To the Sultan Shams-ud-din Iltutmish, may he rule Delhi for a thousand years. This note is to inform you of the going’s on at your palace. The rebellion has been quashed, and the traitors have been captured, bloodlessly. The prisoners are now in the dungeon, and I, your Lieutenant General, Pratipanna, await further instructions,” she said.
“Lieutenant General Pratipanna?” He asked. For the first time, they noticed he was no longer present in the tent. “Matangi, is this authentic?” He asked.
She looked at him, took his right hand and placed it on his heart.
“You listen to your self and answer your own question,” she said. He closed his eyes and began to see his answer for himself. Pratipanna had appeared back at the palace in the midst of the Ulaama who had paid him to orchestrate Iltmush’s assassination. They were convened in his interior court, already quarreling amongst themselves regarding the division of power in the new Sultanate. When the doors opened and Pratipanna entered the court, the discussion abruptly halted.
“Pratipanna requests permission to address the kind ministers,” he said.
The Ulaama with the biggest hat, Shayk Mohasim, responded, “Yes, go on,” he said.
“Shaams Al-Iltmush has been captured and is being held for ransom by the Chishti Sufis,” he said. There was an outrage amongst the Ulaama. Some thought that Pratipanna ought to be beheaded for his failure. Iltmush was supposed to be dead. “They have assured me, however, they have no loyalty to him. They only want a certain measure of gold and jewels, and he will be yours,” he said.
“Bring the jewels,” said Mohasim. He clapped his hands twice and two eunuchs were sent to retrieve the trunks loaded with jewels plundered from the treasury, previously plundered from places like Assam and others. When the eunuchs had brought the trunks, Pratipanna clapped his hands twice, mocking Mohasim. They all gasped when they saw the two men who brought in another trunk. They were both Pratipannas. He had replicated himself!
They set the trunk down in front of Mohasim and opened it.
“The finest hashish from Khorasan,” said Pratipanna; “Let us celebrate!”
Some of the Ulaama hesitated, thinking it was an inauspicious time to celebrate and knowing it was inappropriate to become intoxicated. When Mohasim was handed the large hookah and began to smoke the hashish, however, everyone else followed suit. Pratipanna and his two doubles also smoked, not to rouse suspicion. He remained unaffected, while the Ulaama, every one of them, were fast asleep in a short amount of time. He then walked to the exterior door of the court and brought in the sages, who relocated the jewels to a safe place, and systematically carried the Ulaama to the dungeon.
Iltmush opened his eyes and did not believe his vision.
Matangi said, “That’s exactly how it happened, Shaams.”
“If that’s the case, let us make haste back to the palace,” he said.
