The indian queens bob haircut (original story) 3

A man with a blackened sack covering his head entered the assembly. A
little while before, Rakshasaputran had sent for
Oviamedhai to be brought to the assembly. His intention was to have him
look at the scene of the beheadings that he shortly
expected to unfold and then have him create a grand mural of the scene for
his palace back in Malairajyam.
Then Rakshasaputran turned toward Queen Keshasundari. “Oh, great queen,
behold your husband who stands manacled and
unfit to protect your honor. But you are fortunate that I am here to protect
you and to share my throne with you. All you have to
do is to indicate your consent by word or action, and you shall have all the
riches of my kingdom at your disposal.”
The queen said nothing, but her Chief Maid of Honor spoke. “You vain and
miserable incarnation of an offal eating jackal! Our
queen, and indeed all of us, would sooner choose to die right here than to
become your concubines.”
Rakshasarajan looked at the row of women with his eyes spewing flames.
“Who was it that spoke?” he shouted, “let her step
forward and face us if she has the courage to do so.” The Chief Maid of
Honor stepped forward from the row of attendants and
faced the king with defiance.
“Murattukaattaan! Show this insolent woman the consequence of addressing
the king of Malairajyam and the conqueror of
Kadaloranadu in this disrespectful manner.”
The soldier named Murattukaattaan, a fierce looking savage with a huge
moustache and red bloodshot eyes, sprang forward with
sword unsheathed. Before anyone could grasp what his intentions were, he
seized the Chief Maid of Honor by her long hair and
hacked it off at the neck. A collective gasp arose from Queen Keshasundari
and her attendants.
The shocked Chief Maid of Honor was rendered speechless for a moment, but
her defiance was unabated. “You dog, you licker
of discarded food, you brainless brute, you foul refuse pile, who smell of
rotted corpses, do you think you can silence us by just
cutting our hair? We have come here ready to have our heads cut off.”
Murattukaattaan leapt at her. He swung the sword
through the air, as if he were going to cut her head. The sword blade almost
touched her neck, as it cut an arc in the air, slicing
down dangerously close to her. “Go ahead, cut my head,” dared the Chief
Maid of Honor, her voice charged with contempt.
“Eventually, but not quite yet,” Murattukaattaan let out a howl of laughter,
and grabbing hold of a section of the Chief Maid of
Honor’s hair, he pulled it straight up. Then he cut it in half. The crowd
roared in approval, as did Rakshasaputran. The soldiers in
the front rows unsheathed their swords, and raising them above their heads,
clicked them together in a gesture of scorn and
menace towards the woman. “Perhaps you like this better,” chortled
Murattukaattaan, cutting another clutch of hair off of the
Chief Maid of Honor’s head and throwing it at her face. The woman’s
beautiful hair was already pitifully disfigured, as
Murattukaattaan cut sections of her hair off with his sword. Then he
sheathed his sword and produced a dagger. Grabbing
fistfuls of the woman’s hair, he mercilessly hacked away at it with the
dagger.
“Do we have a barber here” he yelled, “who can rid this woman of all her
hair better than I can?”
There was no response. He shouted and repeated his question, indicating he
was serious. A figure stepped forward meekly. “I
am a barber of Malairajyam who
volunteered to go to battle for our good king.”
“And a good thing you did too,” said Murattukaattaan, “here, shave this
woman’s head. Teach her a lesson for defying our
mighty king. The barber took the proffered dagger and advanced toward the
Chief Maid of Honor. Holding the dagger in his left
hand, he ran its edge on the palm of his right hand to test its sharpness. A
thin red line of blood appeared on his palm. Satisfied
that the weapon would serve for his purpose, the barber stepped closer. The
woman was restrained by two of Rakshasaputran’s
soldiers, who held her arms tightly from either side. The woman squirmed
and kicked ferociously. A third soldier grabbed both
her legs and she was wrestled down to the ground. After some struggle, the
woman came to terms with the futility of resisting.
As she crouched down, someone emptied a big buffalo skin bag full of water
over her head. Drenched, the Chief Maid of Honor
lay still, curled on the ground like a small animal being tortured by cruel
children. Soon she felt the barber’s hands massaging
her wet hair. Then she felt the cold dagger gliding up on her neck. She
didn’t resist as strong arms turned her over on her other
side. Cold steel slid under silken tresses and began its grim work of cleanly
separating hair from scalp.
Soon it was over. The brute soldiers released their hold and the barber
withdrew quietly. Another water bag was emptied on the
shaven head of the Chief Maid of Honor. Wet, humiliated, she shivered
under the caress of the cold wind that began to blow
across the battlefield. Coils and little bits of her wet, black, cut off strands of
hair clung to her ankles, her slender wrists, her
shapely breasts, her graceful neck, and her broad forehead. Tears streaming
from her eyes, and her heart pounding within her
chest, she spat in the direction of Rakshasaputran.
“You vile son of a wolf and hyena, you blot on the masculine gender, you call
yourself a ruler? What kind of ruler are you, you
cockroach, you carcass gouging field rat, that would standby and witness the
humiliation of a defenseless woman?”
Tearful but undaunted, the entourage of Queen Keshasundari applauded her
outburst. Their defiance fueled Rakshaputran’s
anger even more. “Shave the head of every woman but the queen,” he
shouted, “Let an example be set today. Let it be
understood that it is not the place of a woman to speak before the king, let
alone hurl curses at him. Let it be seen what fate
awaits those who brave our wrath.” The women stiffened. A crowd of
soldiers closed in on them. Every one of Queen
Keshasundari’s attendants was led away, kicking and screaming. Water bags
were emptied on them as the crowd of soldiers led
them to the center of the field and forcibly arranged them in a circle. The
place was rent by derisive laughter, catcalls, and
hoarse voices hurling insolent remarks at the women. The crowd became
totally wild. Trumpets were sounded in discordant
cacophony. Drums were beaten as a gang of monkeys might beat them,
without rhythm, beat, or cadence. Some soldiers tossed
stones and whatever small objects they could find into the center of the
circle of woman being readied for their humiliating head
shaves.
The lone barber, poor fellow, realized that all eyes, especially
Murattukaataan’s and Rakshasaputran’s, were riveted on him.
Fear gripped him and made him tremble. He steadied his hands with an
effort. He worked rapidly, shaving each woman’s head
as quickly as his hands would move, as she was forcibly held down by
strong soldier arms. The handle of the dagger felt
slippery under his wet, bleeding hand, but he wielded the weapon with
caution so as not to hurt the women whom he secretly
applauded in his heart even as he discharged the horrid duty to which he
had been unexpectedly entrusted.
An hour passed this way. The chorus of catcalls around them was deafening.
All pandemonium seemed to have broken loose.
One after one, every woman had been forcibly rid of her long, flowing hair.
The ground around their feet became thickly carpeted
with their shorn off hair. Each woman drew strength from the fortitude
shown by her sister in suffering. Each looked at the other,
and they stroked each other’s shaved heads in a gesture of giving comfort
and support. Though the tears flowed freely from
every woman’s eyes, their courage was not subdued in the least. Pride
welled within their sobbing hearts even at this moment of
utter humiliation. They stood up in unison, and defiantly faced away from
the king, turning their backs on him. The sound of hand
claps mingled with the clangor of chains was heard from Nallarajan and his
manacled companions, as they tried to clap their
chained hands together and stomped their chained feet.
Even as he applauded the brave women, Nallarajan’s heart was being torn by
guilt and remorse. He blamed himself for this day
of ignominy. He closed his eyes and prayed to Lord Kailasanatha to forgive
him for having brought his Queen’s entourage to this
sad pass.
Suddenly, the sky grew dark. Bolts of lighting lit up the sky. Then thunder
struck, somewhere near by. The ground shook. Thy
rain fell in large, slanting strngs of water drops. Against the light of the sun
which still shone through the black clouds, the falling
rain looked like a volley of silver arrows being thrown down from the
heavens. Just then, there was a stir from the direction of
Queen Keshasundari. She had seized a dagger from a soldier who stood near
her, totally stunning him by the speed of her
movement. Caught in the frenzy of the
moment, and completely distracted by the spectacle of the mass head shave
that had taken place a little distance from him, the
man had let his guard down. Another soldier shouted urgently and tried to
grab the dagger from her hand, but it was too late.
The Queen had taken hold of her own hair and pulling it tightly down, she
had firmly drawn the edge of the blade just above her
hand which was tightly gripping the knotted hair. The dagger cut cleanly
through the clutch of hair, knot and all. She held her cut
off tail of hair high above her head for all to see.
“My dear attendants, do not grieve the loss of your hair. I am prepared to
join you in your hairlessness, in complete solidarity
with you. No one can subdue the fire of pride and valor that burns in
everyone who calls Kadaloranadu their home, be it man or
woman. Weshall show these mangy dogs, these illegitimate claimants of my
beloved Malairajyam, what we are made of.”
Rakshasaputran was aghast. He watched with his mouth open, as the queen
brandished the rope of hair over her head, twirling
it above her head like a whip.
“Oh, foolish queen, what have you done? Why have you cut off your most
beautiful hair? How often have I dreamed of running
my hand through them! Someone please bring Queen Keshasundari’s hair to
me. Let me feel its softness. Let me run my fingers
through them.”
As she ended her rousing exhortation to her companions, the queen had
hurled her hair into the crowd. It fell at the feet of the
figure with the blackened sack covering its face. He bent down and picked it
up.
“Allow me, great King,” said the figure with the blackened sack over its
head in a muffled voice, “allow me to approach you with
the Queen’s hair.”
“Yes, Oviamedhai, yes,” said the king impatiently, “bring it to me.”
The figure with the blackened sack moved forward taking rapid strides
toward the king. He held the hair by both ends and it
hung like a loosely fastened rope from his two outstretched hands. King
Rakshasaputran held out his right hand. Instead of giving
the hair to the king, the figure with the blackened sack, threw it over the
king’s head. Quickly stepping behind the king, the
figure tightened the noose of hair around Rakshasaputran’s neck. Before
anyone could realize what was happening, the figure
tightened and tightened and tightened the noose, such that
Rakshasaputran could not breathe. His eyes rotated in their sockets, but the
figure with the blackened sack held the king tightly
pinned by locking his legs around his and pressing his body firmly against
the king’s.
“Rakshasaputra! The end of your life is near. This coil of hair choking your
throat may well have been a cobra come to bite you
and fill your veins with its lethal venom. May it be a cobra whose mere
touch kills you! It is only fitting that you should die thus,
by the stranglehold of my beloved sister’s hair! Her whom you intended to
dishonor with your disgusting and shameful dreams of
lust. If you still wish to be spared, make a sign to your henchmen to keep
their swords sheathed and to not make a movement.
Two thousand of my men have circled this assembly. Escape is impossible.
Contain your men. And do it now!” Gasping for air,
Rakshasaputran, tried to nod his head all around. The figure in the
blackened sack gave him just enough slack to do this, holding
on tightly to the hair.
A hush fell on the entire assembly. No one moved. No one, except the twelve
“trusted” generals of Rakshasaputran who stood a
short distance away. “Well done, Prince Gunasheela!” their chief cried
addressing himself to the figure with the blackened sack.
We expected to see your sword action today, but this is equally impressive.
Thank you for ending the rule of this cruel tyrant.
Many a time we came within an inch of hacking his body to pieces as he
slept in the royal tent these past thirteen nights, but
our high birth and our sense of hindu dharma kept us back. We couldn’t
bring ourselves to attack a sleeping king. We waited for
the correct opportunity to engage him in a moral fight, but it never came.
Our just conduct was obviously wasted on this
heartless tyrant, who has shown no shame in presiding over the shaving of
the heads of these defenseless women. Their bravery
and valor impresses us immensely. It also puts us to shame. We should have
severed our allegiance to Rakshasaputran the day
he began this ill-intentioned and ill-timed campaign against Kadaloranadu,
just as Queen Keshasundari severed her own hair
minutes ago, but cowards, we followed him like helpless sheep. Yet, you
have come in the nick of time, exactly as planned, to
release us from the clutches of this monster, who is a black mark on royalty
everywhere.”