Ever since I was a child there have been three rather facetious questions that loomed over the relationship between my father and grandfather.

Whom did Ranjit Singh kill when he was seventeen? Who killed Mai Malvain at the age of seventeen? How old was Ranjit Singh when he killed Mai Malvain? (For those less inclined, Mai Malvain is a popular name for Raj Kaur, Ranjit Singh’s mother).

The pattern of this matricidal accusation of my father’s takes a leaf from the great Pakistani humorist Ibn-e-Insha. That Ranjit Singh killed his own mother my grandfather refutes without fail and with vigour. And, without fail, my father’s undying attempts to get under the old fellow’s skin continue, in the shape of many such routines as oft repeated in our house as time itself.

On the occasion of Ranjit Singh’s 177th death anniversary recently, I decided to look into this matter and, perhaps, close it once and for all.

To give a little context, the one-eyed ‘Lion of Punjab’ is my grandfather’s favourite historical figure -- bar none. His grandkids have grown up peppered with stories of the Third Sikh State and its valiant conquests in unifying the Punjab. By becoming the first ethnic son to rule the land after eight long centuries of foreign rule he continued the broken tradition of Raja Jaipal and Raja Porus (the latter of Alexandrian fame).

By writing on the topic I risk his scrupulous scrutiny and, perhaps, ire if there is even a scent of irreverence. But as with all inquiries mine led me astray soon enough.

I found myself standing on the side of a fatherless twelve-year-old boy from Gujranwala waiting to come of age to inherit a wealthy estate. But unbeknownst to him this land -- divided not just by rivers but also by the complex network of tiny kingdoms and chiefdoms within it -- was being eyed from all sides with greed -- from the North by the Gurkhas; from the West by the Afghans; from the East by the English.

The first to move were the Afghans, under Shah Zaman who was eyeing the throne of India in Delhi. But he could only get as far as Lahore, from where he was made to retreat by the forces gathered together under the then teenage Ranjit Singh. By cutting the food supplies to the city and burning all standing crop around Lahore, the Punjabis forced a retreat by attrition. Thereby nullifying, in the words of the British Resident at the Mughal Court at the time, the Afghan boast that the grass never grows where their horses have once trodden.

Ranjit Singh entered Lahore on July 7, 1799 at the slender age of eighteen and took residence at the Fort from where he would rule the Punjab for the next four decades. His first public act was to pay homage at the Badshahi Masjid. This effort was, perhaps, to announce to his newly acquired subjects that this was not to be a Sikh kingdom, but a Punjabi state.

In many ways, his was a secular government. On Diwali, all public buildings including the palace were illuminated, at Holi he was to be found on the streets in the company of colour and merriment. At Basant Ranjit Singh would honour the Mela Chiraghan with his presence at the shrine of Muslim saints such as Madho Lal Hussain. His prime minister was a Dogra, his foreign minister was a Muslim, his finance minister a Brahmin, his generals European. He is reported to have said that god gave him just the one eye so he could see all religions the same way.

But the survival of a prince, especially one who does not have legitimacy by birth, is dependent not on kindness and openness but on acquisition. It was Ranjit Singh’s campaigns, which he led from Multan to Ladakh, Peshawar to Patiala, that give Punjab the shape it takes today. The swiftness of his armies, and perhaps their barbarity too, merit their own discussion.

To me, however, his cunning lay in knowing the extent of his power. He engaged with the English as an equal but understood that what lay east of the Sutlej River was a far superior force that was not to be meddled with.

But the English too recognised that lay on the west of the river a man not to be trifled with. So soon after his death was Punjab annexed by the Raj that one wonders whether Ranjit Singh was the only one standing in the way of the redcoats and their Army of the Indus.

It is strange then to think that his memory is lionised east of the Sutlej where he never truly ruled, while west of the river his death anniversary passed with little fanfare. Our textbooks are bereft of, or at least hard pressed to bear mention of this storied one-eyed ruler.

But circling back to the original itch, did Ranjit Singh kill his mother at the age of seventeen? In searching for the answer to this question I dived into dusty books, often having to wrinkle my nose to suppress a sneeze. I learnt about Ranjit Singh’s conquests, his treaties, his harem. I found a story of a hero too easily forgotten on our shores.

As for the matter at hand, I did find an answer, but I would be remiss to share it. Instead I will spend my energies concocting a line of questioning similar to my father’s, this time to irk both the elder Chimas.

Perhaps, by doing so, someone younger than I too can be led on a journey through this amazing chapter in the history of our land. And I feel he or she too might suppress the answer for then the fun would be lost.

In the meantime, our dinner table will continue to play host to musings over the ifs and buts of history.