The Bard

1150 AD

Rana made a final dash towards the Ghori invader. An attack, that if successful, would in one sweep of the sword, change the war and the history of the subcontinent. But Ghori was as vigilant as the Rana was valiant. He moved away with speed, back into his cordon of protectors. An Uzbek guard seized the reins of Rana's horse and unseated the mighty Rana.

Unfortunately for the chivalrous Rana, Ghori's ideals were decidedly more practical. In one swift decree, he declared himself as the master over all of Ranas dominions and declared Rana as a royal prisoner of war.

"Ah, so the great king of Rajputana and Hindustan is now a prisoner of a slave governor from Ghori. This is amusing indeed!", the Sultan was merciless in his taunts.
"Lower your eyes when you speak to me Rana, like every other kaafir commoner"
"A Rajput's eyes are never lowered, O Ghori. Certainly not to a raiding marauder", the Rana responded with the charactersitic defiance and disregard for prudence.
"Very well, burn them then."

The bard had accompanied the rana throughout his childhood. He and the Rana grew up together. He would compose poetry and paint, while the Rana learnt political science, economics and martial arts. The bard accompanied Rana to the battles and to the royal prisons.

The buzz of the upcoming archery context was all among the slave subedars of the court. Who would win the contest? The prize was bountiful, a hundred thousand gold coins and 'Amir-ul-Mara', the title of freedom. The bard was thoughtful.

There is great mirth among the subedars. The blinded kaafir king has entered an archery contest! A gazelle is being swirled around by a rotating post at a distance. The Sultan seats himself on a magnificent throne in the grounds. The show begins.

"Well Ranaji, what are you waiting for?"

The bard cleared his throat. 'Amir-ul-Mulk, a humble request. The Rana won't accept orders to shoot from anyone but another king. So if you please issue the command to shoot, the rana will shoot the gazelle right in the eye"

"Proud as a king, and proud as a slave, eh? Very well, O Bard." And then, with a voice as unctuous as he could manage, the Sultan spoke, "O mighty king, if you could please show your prowess in archery." Rana did not move.

"Hukm ki TAMEEL HO!", the Sultan shouted.

The Rana lifted the bow and pulled the string taut.

And then the bard whispered, ever so softly..
' Paanch kos, pachaas gaj, angul ashta pramaan,
ta par Sultan hain, chuke mat Chauhan'

There was a very small indiscernible pause, which went unnoticed by everyone except the bard. Then in a fluid movement, the Rana turned to one side and let the arrow fly.

The Sultans expression did not waver. He did not clap. He sat motionless for what seemed like an long time. And then ever so gently, like the swish of the fans behind him, he slumped forward, his head held a little above the knees only by the three foot arrow jutting out of his neck.