Glimpses of the Untold History of the Indian Freedom Struggle - Part 21

Motibai was heading towards Kashi in the guise of an elderly Maharashtrian Brahmin widow. Every single person in the group was keen on accompanying her. But Motibai had put her foot down and refused. It was imperative that the rest reach Tatya Tope failing which the plan was that they quietly live in a village in the hills of Bundelkhand and then return home over a period of time. 

On her back, Motibai carried on her back the sacred ashes of six persons in six sacred urns tied in a bundle of silk. A sack carrying her clothes and her rosary was tucked under her arm. She had deliberately decided against carrying a weapon on her person, for an old widow found with a weapon would have triggered suspicion proving detrimental to her mission which she obviously did not want.  

Supported by a walking stick, Motibai made her way all alone through the forest and reached a Dharmashala in a village nearby. It was noon by then. As she set foot in the village, the first thing her eyes fell on, was a temple of Shreeram. Standing outside the temple, she offered the namaskar and prostrated before the idols of Shreeram-Laxman and Janki mata that stood inside the sanctum sanctorum. She then prayed in silence – ‘O Prabhu Rambhadra! May my mission of travelling to Kashi and immersing these sacred ashes in the Ganga be fulfilled. These souls have not received any conventional last rites with mantras. But tradition tells us that immersing these remains into the waters of the Ganga from its banks in Kashi renders all rituals redundant.  

O SwayamBhagvan Rambhadra! Your arrow never fails and your blessing does not either. It was uttering Your name that Hanumanji traversed the immense ocean. What indeed is impossible for Him! As for You, ‘Dindayaal’ (compassionate towards the miserable) is the pledge You assume. I have complete and firm faith that You alone will lend support to the lonely woman that I am.”  

The bundle still on her back and her bag under her arm, she sat down under a huge banyan tree right in front of the temple. Recognizing her as a Marathi Brahmin widow, a few Brahmin men of the village, accompanied by their wives, approached her.

 Among them were, Bhaskar Bhat, the poojari of the Ram temple and his wife Narmadabai, who were originally from Madhya Pradesh and so spoke fairly good Marathi. Narmadabai came up to Motibai and asked sympathetically, “Mavshi! (Aunty) Where are you headed for all alone with all these urns of sacred remains? You have no close ones accompanying you. We do understand your sorrow. Would you like to share what has happened? The two of us will certainly help you out. The other villagers too are kind-hearted.” 

Motibai replied in Hindustani, “I too lived in Jhansi. Originally I belong to Pune. These six relatives – three men and three women -lost their lives for no fault of theirs in the British attack on Jhansi. My grandson is the only survivor now in the family. I have left him in my sister’s care and I am travelling to Kashi. Poor Brahmins that we are, who would accompany me on such a long journey? As she uttered the words ‘my grandson, the only survivor’, Motibai saw before her eyes, Damodarrao, Rani Laxmibai’s adopted son. 

Motibai continued, “The British launched arson attacks in the entire city of Jhansi and that was when this happened. I came here travelling in stages. If you know of anybody travelling to Kashi, I will have company. I am no longer in the mourning period. So the question of following norms of the mourning period does not arise. It is just that I did not wish to enter the temple with the mortal remains. I will stay back here tonight and rest.” 

Motibai’s words wrenched the heart of every person present. Many of the villagers had kin in Jhansi. Motibai purposefully let out a sob and began to weep. Three or four women came forward to console her. One of them said to Motibai, “Some person or the other will definitely accompany you as we have all lost one or the other dear one in Jhansi. The pujari of the Ram temple Bhaskar Bhat and his wife Narmadabai were in fact in Jhansi at the time of the attack. They did share the entire account of what happened. Besides, if there is nobody to accompany you, I will because I have lost my entire maternal family to arson. When you immerse these ashes in the waters, I too will offer the ‘arghya’ (offering or oblation of water) to the Ganga in the name of my dear ones.” Tears were streaming down Subhadrabai’s eyes. She held Motibai in a tight embrace as she gave vent to her grief for her family.    

 Motibai was relieved that she was indeed going to be accompanied by others as she was so very sure that British spies were looking for her. Travelling alone would have attracted the attention of the traitors. Although it was impossible to recognize her as Motibai, every urn contained a significant object that was a very telling indicator of the identity of the deceased and that meant a risk. 

Stroking Subhadrabai’s back with a comforting and reassuring hand, Narmadabai said, “Do go with her! The two of us can surely send at least four or five persons along with her.” Narmadabai too could not stop her tears as she spoke. Motibai sensed that Narmadabai and Bhaskar Bhat were trying to conceal their sorrow. Their sorrow evidently had to do with Jhansi. But Motibai was quiet. She had introduced herself as ‘Chimabai Acharya’.  

Arrangements for Chimabai’s stay were made in the Dharmashala of the temple. Narmadabai and Bhaskar Bhat brought food for her. This time they were not accompanied by anybody. “Ten or twelve of the villagers are willing to accompany you as they too have lost some or the other relative”, they informed her.   

Motibai glanced at the ‘shikhar’ (spire) of the Ram temple, but for a moment and prayed – ‘O my Lord of the Lords! Please do not send anybody who might cause hindrance or might arouse the suspicion of the British.’ 

Barely had she uttered the prayer when a squirrel entered through the window of the Dharmashala, jumped onto Motibai’s bundle of silk and scampered inside. For fear that the squirrel might break the earthen urns, Motibai hurriedly untied the knot of the bundle.  

Prabhu Ramchandra had done His job. Lalabhau bakshi wore a particular kind string of pearls with a certain symbol on the pendant. This string tied to the urn carrying Lalabhau Bakshi’s ashes caught Narmadabai’s eye. 

Narmadabai lunged forward and eagerly held the pendant in her hand. Gazing at the symbol on it, tears rolling down her face, she asked, “Chimabai! Who are you in reality? This is Lalabhau bakshi’s string of pearls and he was my real elder brother. All I know is, he was a commander in Rani Laxmibai’s army. This is indeed his pendant and the symbol on it was in keeping with his horoscope. Look carefully. The ornate work on the pendant even has his name inscribed in it. I am going to accompany you.” 

Pacifying his wife Bhaskar Bhat said, “We have to handle the situation with a calm mind. The items on other urns identifying the others could be recognized like we recognized the pendant on Lalabhau’s urn. 

Lady! Do tell me your real name. Lalabhau Bakshi was not just her real brother but also my very close friend. The fact that you have his ashes means you must be close to Rani Laxmibai too!”

Without any hesitation, Motibai then narrated the whole story. Overwhelmed with emotion listening to Motibai, Bhaskar Bhat held the urn of Laxmibai’s ashes to his forehead and whispered, “Rani Laxmibai was the daughter of my mother’s sister and also the daughter of my father’s brother. We belong to the same family. Now on, I take all responsibility.”

At the break of dawn 50-60 pilgrims had gathered in the premises of the Ram temple. Bhaskar Bhat, Narmadabai and Subhadrabai were to accompany Motibai as her near ones. Every single one of the pilgrims gathered by Bhaskar Bhat, had a former soldier of Rani Laxmibai’s army and was well aware of Motibai’s original identity and authority.

The journey to Kashi had begun. Motibai walked on disguised as a widow with her head shaved. The urns carrying the sacred ashes could safely be hidden in the belongings of the large group. Each of them on the journey had in the heart, the gratifying feeling that a role serving the great, noble purpose had indeed come their way’.

At the end of an eleven day journey, the spire of the KashiVishwanath temple became visible in the distance.  

….to be continued