Some of mankind's biggest wars, history tells us, were fought over celestial beauties. Cleopatra. Helen of Troy. Sita. Draupadi. It's a context that takes the 'make love, not war' adage to the cleaners. Because, what of wars fought over love – and lust – or a love that blossomed amidst bloodshed? Nowhere is this more pertinent than Nandshankar Mehta's Karan Ghelo. This 149-year-old citadel of Gujarati literature has seen nine reprints, several stage adaptations and a celluloid outing in 1924 by vaunted silent-era filmmaker Shri Nath Patankar. It was but imperative for such a work to be translated into English (by author-researchers Tulsi Vatsal and Aban Mukherji) instead of being relegated to oblivion, as is the plight of many indigenous, vernacular Indian texts.

Set in Anhilpur-Patan (now Patan) – home to the Patola saree – Karan Ghelo charts the life of the doomed Karan Raja or Karan Vaghela, Gujarat’s last Rajput king who ruled between 1296-1305AD. The impulsive, self-entitled raja abducts his Prime Minister Madhav’s breathtakingly-beautiful wife Roopsundari because – forgive the crassness – he can’t keep it in his pants. The reckless act, which results in Madhav’s brother Keshav dying trying to protect his sister-in-law, transforms the loyal, staid Madhav into a man consumed by revenge. His wrath takes him to the Delhi Sultanate, where he persuades all-powerful Allaudin Khilji to invade prosperous Patan. Khilji’s eventual victory over Karan Raja not only seals the fate of the Vaghela dynasty – chief queen Kaularani and daughter Devaldevi too are lost to the Sultanate – but ends Hindu rule in Gujarat for another five centuries. For his deeds that culminate into a domino effect, Karan Raja earns the moniker Karan ‘Ghelo’ (Gujarati for ‘crazy’).

A Rajput warrior

Karan Ghelo is more than a historical account of Gujarat’s last Rajput ruler or a classic tale of love, lust, fiefdoms and betrayal. It reflects the collective medieval Indian psyche. It must be noted that Nandshankar Mehta, who took three years to write the book, was a member of organisations like Buddhivardhak Sabha (Bombay), which condemned casteism and female subjugation. He was a reformer when India’s reformist movement was at its peak, and this comes across in the book. Not by way of commentary – Mehta draws from Gujarati bardic lore, Persian texts and Jain accounts – but through intense descriptions of sati, widow segregation, untouchability, feudalism and jizya (tax sought from non-Muslims under Islamic law). Particularly chilling is the sati of Gunsundari, wife of Keshav, and the hordes that gather to venerate and watch her succumb to the flames of her husband's pyre. It is almost as if Mehta wanted the 19th century reader to stop and think: “Why are we still doing what was acceptable in the 13th century?”

Allaudin Khilji

But his need to haul readers into a world gone by is a double-edged sword. Perhaps, sensing the impending significance of penning the first Gujarati novel, Mehta set out to make his work a reservoir of musings on philosophy, governance and love. Examples include the exhaustive debate between Jain munis and Brahmin priests performed before Karan Raja, and the ill-fated love between Devaldevi and Maratha prince Shankaldev. Tangents like these – which go on longer than they should – disrupt the narrative. This is the bookish equivalent of watching a film whose sub-plots or dialogues go helter-skelter before finally returning to the main story. It's an exercise in patience.

Rani ka vav patan

Even then, the importance of Karan Ghelo can't be undermined. In choosing to tell the story of an unpopular Rajput, Mehta inadvertently probed sanitised versions of history on either side of the left-right spectrum. He questioned the much-vaunted 'Rajput valour', bringing to light the line between kshatriya dharma and foolhardiness or obstinacy. Mehta cocked a snook at how their women were treated and expected to behave, drawing parallels with lower caste women – who, unlike their more privileged counterparts, could roam the streets (relatively) freely since they had mouths to feed. He also wrote about the excesses of Alauddin Khilji and his military general, Malik Kafur. Brilliant strategists and warriors they may have been, but Mehta, who also drew from Sufi poet-scholar Amir Khusrau's masnavis (poems), chronicled the rampant corruption and forced conversions under their watch. No one was spared.

In our quest to be politically correct and avoid the ire of the rabid right and lunatic left, we embellish our collective history – and its significant players – with little more than platitudes and lip service. This book urges you to do otherwise. And that is perhaps why Karan Ghelo remains such an epoch in Gujarati literature.