When Maharaja Jaswant Singh of Punjab north India after being defeated by the Mughal emperor of Delhi, Aurungzeb, fled for refuge to his capital. His wife, with Spartan haughtiness, refused him admittance, saying that this man is an imposter, for the brave never returned with dishonor. Her husband sleeps on the field of battle. She enquired whether anyone had heard that lofty pealing high and exalted prolonged sonorous sound upon the balcony very pleasant and mild all with exulting rejoice as in triumph, they proudly blow their trumpets and echo as If the clouds repeat their voice. She orders the citizen of her kingdom to go forward to the gates of the city and greet the laurelled honored with high merit visitors homecoming and bed the rejoice in all the realms domain and sphere.
All the poets in the kingdom must tune their golden harps and all the maidens put on their smiles from the bottom of their hearts. Both young and old should lay down their cares and stop to mourn for a while. What! Does not anyone hear their joyous din: a loud continuous noise or clamor; a rattling or clattering sound that misses alone the valley? The haughty plumes, disdainful and arrogant feather, when long and ornamental and their red in signs a flag or banner indicating the national standard are fluttering in the gate strong outburst of wind. Their helmets are cleft and their canvases are thorn, only to proclaim that the fighting is done. The riders on the neighing horse and holding bloody spears announced that the battle is won. However, the tide turns as the vision mocks her sight for she does not see any gall out throng: the returning multitude of the brave, daring and chivalrous and no trophies to meet their long eyes. So immediately she ordered the joyous song to stop.
When she saw her husband returning in a sigh of defeat, she declared that this retreat: unfaithful to a cause or a pledge, a false cravenly coward and a deserter: slave is not her lord. For the brave never returned home empty handed. So she ordered her errand boys to shut the city gates and to leave her by herself to mourn for her husband whom she had declared him dead. She says that she does not know this worn-out soldier who claims to be her husband. She never knew such a low ignoble: unworthy or degraded in character or quality lover for she believes her warrior sleeps upon the moon a tract of often elevated, rolling wasteland sometimes covered with heath of the battlefield, and his soul had soared above the skies of heaven. For he lies upon the battlefield with his garment stained with gore: blood after having been shed, when clothed or dried. He sleeps his eternal sleep with his sword in his hand after the fight in the battle is over. His shivered shield and his broken spear lie scattered all around him. According to her, the Mughal Muslim soldiers wearing iron breasted armor shook their heads to see her hero die.
For her warrior found his gory-bed: stained with fresh blood in the midst of the fierce battle where the fighting helmets rang and the sabers smote to strike a blow with a heavy one edged cavalry sword (that is often wore). One by one the mourners join and loudly raise the requiems: any musical composition or service for the dead, then she ordered her guards to expel yonder this corrupt, disgusting and loathsome imposter immediately, for she will not believe the yarn of his tale. Their warriors are in the midst of the crimson deep red color field and the loss of their chieftains is bewailed lamented. The torrents from the mountains come rushing down and its course can never be retraced. For the souls that speed on the path of glory must press onward forever. The brave will press onward to bleed and die, triumphantly in honor to meet their untimely deaths. Then finally she turns to him and addressed him as the impostor who must leave at once to go to other lands draw his cowards‘ breath.