Sultan had sensed that Mir Jumla indeed needed them, though the fact was that they needed him more. The Mughal palace at Aurangabad was spruced up for the meeting, with a large new gilded chandelier and new silk curtains adding to the already decorous baithak.
Unlike other times, Aurangzeb was waiting for his guest.
Mir Jumla had entered with a swagger and then bowed slightly. After the initial pleasantries he had come straight to the point.
‘Shahzaade,’ Mir had addressed Sultan’s father as prince in chaste Persian. ‘I have served the Qutbshahi for the past twenty years, joining them as a military officer, and have risen to become the grand wazir. You need not worry about the Qutbshahi military commanders; they consider me their leader. I have led them to victory in battles of expansion and have annexed countless temple cities of the south.
‘The ruler, Abdullah Qutb Shah is a romantic man and lives in a fantasy world. He is not worthy of being the shah of the state that yields several lakh rupees a year only in land revenue. Taxes collected on the diamond and tobacco trades fetch him a few more lakhs,’ the ousted and angry Mir Jumla had put forth his strategy.
Sultan had known what his father was thinking. He wanted money to strengthen his army to fight the impending war of succession with his brothers. The Shia kingdoms of the Deccan had become the empire’s vassals twenty years ago but in recent days they had stopped paying the tribute money.
‘If Abdullah is a fool as you say he is, call him for a meeting and slaughter him. Lighten the burden of his head on his neck,’ Sultan’s father had eagerly suggested.
‘That may anger his as well as my followers. Instead we will march into Hyderabad. If he is in the city and offers resistance, we will kill him. If he is in the fort, we will besiege the fort later. Once the fort falls, the Qutbshahi sultanate is ours. This land is a gold mine. The villages to the north of Hyderabad are famous for high-quality iron ore that is greatly valued by blacksmiths all over the world. The weavers of the port city of Masulipatnam export chintz to Mecca. The carpet makers of Eluru have been renowned for their skill for centuries.’ Mir Jumla knew how to entice; it was one of his skills as a world-renowned diamond merchant. He had rolled his eyes and then, spreading his arms in the air, announced, ‘It is not just the diamond mines. Consider the forests teeming with herds of elephants, keenly sought by cavalry commanders, and also the trade of tobacco and toddy that brings in enormous funds in taxes for the ruler.’
Sultan had glanced at his father and noticed, just for the flicker of a moment, a glint of greed creeping into his eyes. He suspected that even Mir Jumla had noticed it.
Mir Jumla had not come alone. He had his own, well-mounted cavalry of six thousand horses, a fully armed infantry of fifteen thousand men, one hundred and fifty war elephants and regiments of modern light artillery of easy mobility that could fire modern explosives that Mir Jumla had himself invented. His army combined with Aurangzeb’s army was enough to destroy the Qutbshahi.
‘I will be with your son like a shield, my precious shahzaade,’ Mir Jumla had promised Aurangzeb.
2
With the help of the Qutbshahi’s ousted grand wazir, Sultan’s journey to the banks of the river Musi has been hassle-free. He is fascinated by what he has seen. Even in winter, the rambling meadows have retained a part of their post-monsoon lushness, dotted here and there by enormous rocks piled on each other with hues of brown and red. Sometimes they look like unstable hillocks, ready to tumble on to intruders. Sultan encounters man-made lakes, sweeping across the land till they merged with the horizon. The villages are surrounded by patches of cultivated earth with tall stalks of millet grass swaying in the wind. The army camps on the banks of the Hussain Sagar on the northern border of the city.
When Sultan moves into the suburbs with his large military, no one intercepts the army. They move unchallenged, setting fires to the buildings as they go. The fires still rage behind him, as the rising clouds of black smoke make the northern sky pitch dark. Soon, they reach the boundaries of the inner, walled city of Hyderabad without any trouble. To his left, on the western horizon, Sultan can see a faint outline of the Golconda Fort. But that is not his target right now, the city of Hyderabad is. Now, between him and the walls of the city it is only the river Musi flowing peacefully and its dark waters do not seem daunting.
‘The inner, walled city and the fort are separated by the Musi. The city is on its southern banks and the fort on its northern banks, four kos upstream. The fort is protected by a half-kos-long outer wall, six to twelve guj thick, twenty guj high and fortified with eighty-seven bastions overlooking a deep, water-filled and crocodile-infested moat. Unlike the fort, the city has only an outer wall,’ Mir Jumla had said.
Feeling safe with Mir hovering around, Sultan tells his ankush-wielding mahout to goad the animal farther towards the river. The high-arched bridge above the waters of the river is deserted, and the massive gate studded with steel spikes at the other end of the bridge is closed shut. The ramparts of the city wall do seem hostile, yet ripe for invasion.
He has been duly warned that in the darkness above the bastions near the bridge are archers waiting for his men to step on to the bridge. He looks around. His ears pick up the sound of splashing from the river. His scouts have slipped into the water to swim across, some of them carrying wooden buckets. He looks down from the howdah and can see a sea of horsemen around him. Mir Jumla has steered his horse towards the scaffolding they have erected to hold their cannons and stands waiting, ready to give his orders. His artillerymen, hanging like spiders on the scaffolding, are quite skilled and quick at loading the cannons with explosives. He has chosen the latest bombards, the European granados—iron shells filled with explosives and fitted with a slow-burning fuse. His gunners have already inserted the propellant explosives in the cannons that will soon start exploding one after another.
Mir Jumla knows his men are the best but he is also aware that only he knows how to design the fuse so that it burns at the right time and the shells explode at the right place. He has also added extra saltpetre to the gunpowder to make the explosions stronger and noisier. For him, it is not just about damaging the enemy’s property or killing them; the blast must coax their minds to yield to thoughts of surrender.
‘Take position!’ Mir Jumla barks at the artillerymen minding the cannons. The fire has to hit the gate before the scouts emerge from the waters.
‘Fire!’ he shouts and his men spring into action.
The earth shudders with each hit. Chunks of debris fly in all directions. The spiked gate catches fire. The explosions add muscle to the inferno. The horses neigh in panic and the elephants trumpet with fear but the explosions continue till the sky is covered with burning specks as dust and smoke billow from the burning ramparts.
Sultan sees a small part of the wall, adjacent to the gate, blow up. The flames rise high and the sky is lit with red and yellow flames. He notices shadows scurrying over the ramparts, the archers running away from the flames rising from the bastions. In the midst of the fire and noise, the scouts jump out of the river. Soaked, shivering in their clothes that have become heavier with the icy river waters, they scuttle and run zigzag to avoid arrows shot by the archers that are holding their ground. The Qutbshahi cannons mounted on the other, intact, bastions now start flinging fire from across the river. They do little damage, as Mir Jumla knows exactly where the cannons will strike, and has cleared away his men from the range of fire. He orders his henchmen to cease fire for the men to attack.
A scout manages to reach a gap in the wall, his soaked clothes protecting him from the still-smouldering slivers of explosives. In the trembling light of flames still rising over the charred gate, he can see the tree-lined avenue going towards the Charminar. He has heard about the monument with the four soaring minarets and arches built at the intersection of the city’s four major streets. The king’s palace is towards its west. He is aware that the grounds hidden behind the trees are teeming with
the enemy’s troops. Any moment now they will come marching out. Time is of great essence. He turns to his left and realizes that some of his men are following him. He has been told about the secret staircases leading to the ramparts. Armed with just daggers, the men climb the narrow, poorly lit, spiralling staircase tunnels. Once on the ramparts, they hide in the shadows of the turrets, waiting for the archers to pass by, before attacking stealthily. The archers fall silently, their quivers still holding unused arrows. Leaving behind his comrades, the scout runs further east to look for more archers but finds the ramparts empty. At the north-facing parapet, he pulls out a small trumpet from his belt and blows it hard, till he is gasping for breath.
‘Move in!’ Sultan orders his men as the trumpet sounds from the ramparts. A few horsemen around him take off to pass on his message to his commanders on their armed elephants a little distance away. Soon, they march over the bridge.
‘We will be safe on the bridge. They will not fire explosives there,’ Mir Jumla had assured them. ‘The bridge is their pride, a reminder of their past glory, built seventy years ago so that the then prince could visit his Hindu beloved who lived on the other side of the river Musi. He later married her and made her his queen.’
Several scouts are busy throwing buckets of water over the gap created by explosives near the city’s entrance gate to douse the lingering flames. Sultan’s army crosses the bridge; horsemen and foot soldiers jump over the gap and enter the city. Some take the avenue leading to Charminar. Some steer their horses to streets lined with mansions of the ministers and nobles, yelling ‘Deen! Deen! Deen!’ hailing the supremacy of Islam. They toss burning torches randomly on to balconies encased in wooden parapets, starting fires that flush out panicked residents. As the Qutbshahi’s soldiers watch in horror and the people run to hide, thirty thousand Sultan’s men enter the city of Hyderabad.
The Qutbshahi soldiers, distinct with their hair tied tightly in buns over their heads, seem overwhelmed by the waves of the Mughal’s men. The war-hardened Mughal soldiers cut through their shocked regiments like a blade through enemy flesh. And Hyderabad watches silently with stunned rage. The city’s soldiers are startled to see a fully armoured Mir Jumla, wearing his famous black tunic and golden sash, riding towards the palace. There is no mistaking him; he is their Mir Jumla, who had led them to success in so many battles of expansion. He is surrounded by several horsemen holding torches, throwing a bright glow over him, as if the torchbearers want to show him to them. The Qutbshahi archers gaze at him, forgetting to shoot, the commanders no longer sure whether to fight or not.
Mir Jumla kicks his horse and turns to face Sultan’s elephant, surrounded by one hundred horsemen protecting their prince who is barely twenty years old. Mir Jumla waves his hand to signal to Sultan. ‘Follow me, young shahzaade,’ he calls out.
Sultan has decided that this city is even more glorious than Agra. Never mind that its streets are right now littered with limbs, torsos and heads. As they move through a street lined with shopping arcades, he stares ahead in amazement. Four sky-piercing minarets with rings of balconies gleaming in the pale moonlight rise above the enormous arches and appear to be the city’s everlasting guardians. Oh! The irony! After crossing the major intersection through its archway, Sultan notices flames rising above the residential areas. The sky has turned dull with smoke. He can hear the faint screams of people when his elephant turns to the left and enters a wide road lined with columns of trees leading to the king’s palace. With numerous torches around, the pillared corridors of the palace amplify the darkness lurking across its arches. Its cupolas and domes are shrouded in smoke drifting from the burning city. The courtyard is littered with dead bodies. Small dark pools let crimson streams flow and meander randomly across the marbled floor. He climbs down with the help of a rope ladder as his guards fuss over him. He has to jump over the bodies and avoid stepping in the blood streams to enter the palace.
The court is more like a museum, filled with chandeliers from Europe, carpets from Persia, ceramic from China and many priceless artefacts of gold and silver studded with precious stones. The walls are covered with brass murals of parts of the world he has not even heard of. The windows are covered with fine printed fabric that he has never seen.
Behind the court is an enormous foyer with marble shelves. Sultan’s jaw drops as he stares at the opulence around him.
‘What must be done, young shahzaade?’ Mir Jumla asks with a smirk. His men have marched through the maze of courts and corridors, apartments and underground vaults. Abdullah Qutb Shah is nowhere to be seen.
Sultan looks at Mir Jumla unsurely. ‘Lock the palace and guard it,’ he orders, not knowing what else has to be done. The treasure is too huge to carry anywhere.
Outside, the plaza covered with polished marble is crowded with quivering dance girls. The Deccan, Turkish, Persian and Armenian courtesans have never seen a battle. The glimpse of the beautiful women makes the lice-ridden soldiers, who stink of sweat and grime, abruptly stop. They start encircling these women with long and lustrous hair and smooth skins, each trying to hide behind the other. The rustle of their silk skirts and the jingle of their anklets make the men laugh as if tickled. Some start whistling and some make lewd comments.
3
The evening sun has turned into a red orb and the western sky looks like an altar of fire. The waters of the river Mutha reflect the flaming colours in its restless waters. As the sun is swallowed by the hills of Maval, the sunset hills, the colours fade away into darkness. The forest-clad hills in the distance turn shell pink, indigo and then peacock green tinged with scarlet. Soon enough, golden sunbeams melt into a distant gloom and the hills turn dull grey, like heaps of ash.
‘What you have just witnessed is the magic of Maya,’ Shivaji says without glancing at Raghunath, his hands resting on the parapet. They stand side by side on the balcony of Shivaji’s palace, the Lal Mahal.
Fifty-year-old Raghunath Ballal Korde is Shivaji’s Brahmin diplomat and soldier. The political negotiator knows his master’s habit of being cryptic. He says softly, ‘Knowing that the world is an illusion, we still struggle, plan and fight wars . . .’
‘Because,’ Shivaji interrupts him, ‘many times the truth rips open its illusive cover and breaks free like a bee seeking to sting, especially when it comes from pangs of hunger and the pains of injustice. And this truth need not be seen but felt—like the sting that brings tears to the eyes.’
‘Raja, you called for me for something?’ Raghunath asks hesitatingly, quickly trying to change the subject. He knows there is no point in arguing. The young Maratha has his own definitions of illusion, life, war and dreams that sometimes make the logical diplomat in him disoriented.
‘Raghunathji, you are aware that our jagir is small. It is barely fifty kos from east to west and twenty-five kos from north to south, a few hill forts around the region of Pune, Chakan in the north, Maval in the west and Shirwal, Supe, Indapur regions in the south-east. We need to expand.’
How can Raja Shivaji expand his jagir? Raghunath wonders. The very ambition defies the laws of the land.
‘With our watandars, the agricultural revenue collectors like the deshmukhs and patils, tamed and with no subhedar to watch over us, it is time for some action,’ Shivaji insists.
Raghunath continues to search for answers. Raja Shivaji’s jagir is mainly hilly and secluded. It has never been rich enough to attract the prying eyes of the Adilshahi’s court officials. There are other reasons for the neglect. The estate was granted to Raja’s father by the Nizam Shah. The Nizamshahi was annexed twenty years ago. The region now belongs to the Adilshahi, and the king, Mohammed Adil Shah, has died just recently. He was bedridden for ten long years, too sick to look after his kingdom’s affairs, and his son, Ali Adil Shah, the present king, is too young and still learning. He is not yet thinking about the far-flung and remote regions of his kingdom. His mother, the recently widowed Badi Sahiba, is the de-facto ruler.
‘Wi
thout freedom, we cannot do what we want to and what we aspire to. Without freedom we die not knowing the very purpose of our life.’
Raghunath has heard it before. Raja Shivaji’s father is the Adilshahi’s regent and lives three hundred kos away. He has made Bendakaluru at the southern borders of the Adilshahi his home and has not visited his jagir in years. Fate has provided enough liberty to Raja Shivaji since he was just eight, enough to cherish his freedom, enough to hate being under any authority and enough to dream of a sovereign nation, the Hindavi Swaraj.
‘Jawali is the key to our dream, our first step to swaraj. If we cannot get the valley amicably, then we shall take it by the sword,’ Shivaji says, his eyes shining with inexplicable optimism.
Frontiers Page 2
