Mahadeb is not a historical character, at least not yet. Don’t assume his absence for permanence. He’s gone, but he isn’t history yet. One day, inevitably he will be, but that will be another day. Everything becomes history, even iPhones. A time will come when that time will be gone.
Before you reach the end of this sentence, the beginning and middle of it has become history. Written, printed, read. Or even unread, which is the case most of the time. It’s gone, it’s the past. Other things have happened meantime, far too many other things. And they are being recounted as they become history, between coming to be and being dropped into that dreaded bin: history. Arguments, agreements, allegations, submissions, revolts, elections, coups, encounters, deaths, babies, babas, babes, bosses, confidences, endearments, difference, indifference, books, reviews, prizes, dialogue, dissertation, quakes, epidemics, eruptions, conquests, surrenders, uploads, downloads, virals, accidents, arrivals, departures, delays, detours, engagements, disengagements, ends, beginnings, tweets, retweets, shares, follows, unfollows, surprises, snow, drought, fog, smog, winter, summer, spring, rain, highs, lows, rapes, murders, rows, rapprochement, balls, banquets, problems, solutions, assignations, takeovers, policies, pronouncements, victories, defeats, entries, exits, secession, mergers, separations, fires, floods, food, festivals, funerals, order, anarchy, decay, renewal, wellness, illness, cigarettes, malts, memories, cheers, jeers, empires, estates, colonies, czars, kings, queens, princes, paupers, knaves, dominion, revolutions, writers, counter-revolutions, conformists, collaborators, isms, idols, painters, vanities, disputes, lore, loves, regimes, routines, calamities, appointments, disappointments, friendships, enmities, strikes, surgeries, claims, disclaimers, vacancies, insurrections, scoops, scandals, denials, disruptions, admissions, dismissals, depths, summits, celebration, mourning, waking, shitting, brushing, bathing, commuting, attending, earning, spending, dispensing, treating, maltreating, embraces, betrayals, election, referendum, selection, promotion, demotion, slaves, masters, wealth, penury, habitation, devastation, misery, bliss, benediction, prosperity, adversity, morals, mores, stations, platforms, offices, desks, designations, eminences, parties, politics, power, profit, loss, illusions, delusions, nightmares, dreams, deceptions, leaders, misleaders, rogues, ragamuffins, beauty, beasts, democrats, dictators, bigots, liberals, demagogues, debauches, delinquents, intellectuals, saints, spies, sinners, healers, charlatans, swindlers, patricians, plebians, minstrels, storytellers, sagas, chapters, closures, contents, malcontents, adventures, collisions, horrors, delights, cash, cards, ATMs, stocks, markets, sales, records, statements, petitions, affidavits, judgements, bills, cheques, receipts, journeys, places, peoples, valleys, hills, rivers, dales, meadows, floodplains, lakes, leaves, trees, timber, trunks, mines, coals, metals, topographies, tide, tempest, crop, harvest, glory, ignominy, conciliation, corruption, credits, dues, dereliction, devotion, cricket, music, laughter, tears, tragedy, comedy, bathos, pathos, families, secrets, revelations, grouses, forgiveness, desire, disdain, fondness, fealty, forgetting, remembrance, primetime, news, broken as it comes to us, bit by insistent bit, falling into that bin as more news breaks and falls. Everything becomes history. All of this is happening and passing all of the time. All of this turns to history. Even time, as it ticks upon itself and leaves time gone dripping, Daliesque.
So will Mahadeb be one day. History. He is, and therefore he won’t be. Am I overstating myself? I would think not. For even what’s not history is becoming history. As Jalaluddin Akbar’s defeat at the hands of Maharana Pratap at Haldighati. As Akbar’s rollicking love for a void called Jodha. Or the raging Khilji obsession with Padmini, neither princess nor Rajasthani nor Rajput, but the caprice of an inventive poet scribbling away at a fair remove in Jais, Rae Bareli, Uttar Pradesh. Malik Mohammed Jayasi was real enough, but he wrote unreal things. He was no historian. He’s only making history as we go along.
Who is she,
And if she is she,
Then who art thou, O, Bharatmata?