The warlike pilgrimage of Ummeda had been interrupted by a tragical occurrence, which occasioned the death of his son, and compelled him to abide for a time at the seat of government to superintend the education of his grandchild. This eventful catastrophe, interwoven in the border history of Mewar and Haraoti, is well worthy of narration, as illustrative of manners and belief, and fulfilled a prophecy pronounced centuries before by the dying Sati of Bumbaoda, that “the Rao and the Rana should never meet at the Aheria (or spring hunt) without death ensuing.” What we are about to relate was the fourth repetition of this sport with the like fatal result.
The hamlet of Bilaita, which produced but a few good mangoes, and for its population a few Minas, was the ostensible cause of dispute. The chief of Bundi, either deeming it within his territory, or desiring to consider it so, threw up a fortification, in which he placed a garrison to overawe the freebooters, who were instigated by the discontented chiefs of Mewar to represent this as an infringement of their prince’s rights. Accordingly, the Rana marched with all his chieftains, and a mercenary [498] band of Sindis, to the disputed point, whence he invited the Bundi prince, Ajit, to his camp. He came, and the Rana was so pleased with his manners and conduct, that Bilaita and its mango grove were totally forgotten. Spring was at hand; the joyous month of Phalgun, when it was necessary to open the year with a sacrifice of the boar to Gauri (see Vol. II. p. [660]). The young Hara, in return for the courtesies of the Rana, invited him to open the Aheria, within the ramnas or preserves of Bundi. The invitation was accepted; the prince of the Sesodias, according to usage, distributed the green turbans and scarfs, and on the appointed day, with a brilliant cavalcade, repaired to the heights of Nanta.
Murder of Rāna Ari Singh.
A highly dramatic effect is thrown around the last worldly honours paid to the murdered king of Mewar; and although his fate has been elsewhere described, it may be proper to record it from the chronicle of his foeman.
The Obsequies of Rāna Ari Singh.
A single concubine remained to perform the last rites to her lord. She commanded a costly pyre to be raised, and prepared to become his companion to a world unknown. With the murdered corpse in her arms, she reared her form from the pile, and, as the torch was applied, she pronounced a curse on his murderer, invoking the tree under whose shade it was raised to attest the prophecy, “that, if a selfish treachery alone prompted the deed, within two months the assassin might be an example to mankind; but if it sprung from a noble revenge of any ancient feud, she absolved him from the curse: a branch of the tree fell in token of assent, and the ashes of the Rana and the Sati whitened the plain of Bilaita.”
Death of Mahārāo Ajīt Singh.
Mahārāo Bishan Singh, A.D. 1770-1821.
It affords an additional instance of Rajput instability of character, or rather of the imperfection of their government, that, in his old age, when a life of austerity had confirmed a renunciation which reflection had prompted, the venerable warrior became an object of distrust to his grandchild. Miscreants, who dreaded to see wisdom near the throne, had the audacity to add insult to a prohibition of Sriji’s return to Bundi, commanding him “to eat sweetmeats and tell his beads at Benares.” The messenger, who found him advanced as far as Nayashahr,[[27]] delivered the mandate, adding that his ashes should not mingle with his fathers'. But such was the estimation in which he was held, and the sanctity he had acquired from these pilgrimages, that the sentence was no sooner known than the neighbouring princes became suitors for his society. The heroism of his youth, the dignified piety of his age, inspired the kindred mind of Partap Singh of Amber with very different feelings from those of his own tribe. He addressed Sriji as a son and a servant, requesting permission to 'darshankar' (worship him), and convey him to his capital. Such was the courtesy of the flower of the Kachhwahas! Sriji declined this mark of homage, but accepted the invitation. He was received with honour, and so strongly did the gallant and virtuous Partap feel the indignity put upon the abdicated prince, that he told him, if “any remnant of worldly association yet lurked within him,” he would in person, at the head of all the troops of Amber, place him on the throne both of Bundi and Kotah. Sriji’s reply was consistent with his magnanimity: “They are both mine already—on the one is my nephew, on the other my grandchild.” On this occasion, Zalim Singh of Kotah appeared on the scene as mediator; he repaired to Bundi, and exposed the futility of Bishan Singh’s apprehensions; and armed with full powers of reconciliation, sent Lalaji Pandit to escort the old Rao to his capital. The meeting was such as might have been expected, between a precipitate youth tutored by artful knaves, and the venerable chief who had renounced every mundane feeling but affection for his offspring. It drew tears from all eyes: “My child,” said the pilgrim-warrior, presenting his sword, “take this; apply it yourself if you think I can have any bad intentions towards you; but let not the base defame me” [501]. The young Rao wept aloud as he entreated forgiveness; and the Pandit and Zalim Singh had the satisfaction of seeing the intentions of the sycophants, who surrounded the minor prince, defeated. Sriji refused, however, to enter the halls of Bundi during the remainder of his life, which ended about eight years after this event, when his grandchild entreated “he would close his eyes within the walls of his fathers.” A remnant of that feeling inseparable from humanity made the dying Ummeda offer no objection, and he was removed in a sukhpal[[28]] (litter) to the palace, where he that night breathed his last. Thus, in S. 1860 (A.D. 1804), Ummeda Singh closed a varied and chequered life; the sun of his morning rose amidst clouds of adversity, soon to burst forth in a radiant prosperity; but scarcely had it attained its meridian glory ere crime dimmed its splendour and it descended in solitude and sorrow.
Sixty years had passed over his head since Ummeda, when only thirteen years of age, put himself at the head of his Haras, and carried Patan and Gandoli. His memory is venerated in Haraoti, and but for the stain which the gratification of his revenge has left upon his fame, he would have been the model of a Rajput prince. But let us not apply the European standard of abstract virtue to these princes, who have so few checks and so many incentives to crime, and whose good acts deserve the more applause from an appalling honhar (predestination) counteracting moral responsibility.