Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  It is common to drag caste issues into political meetings.

  Raghunath keeps cool, and secretly prays that his men are at their job. The timing needs to be perfect. Even if the fortress looks formidable, there are no archers on the ramparts. The watchtowers rising over the bastions are empty. The main gate is guarded only by a few but the courtyard is full of armed men. Raghunath tries to reflect on his men to draw some comfort. These men Raja Shivaji has given him and their captain do look like a squadron with their uniforms—a pair of tight breeches and pleated angirkhas of quilted cotton. While on their way to Jawali he had looked at them with admiration, comparing his own troops’ uniforms. These men had covered their heads with Turkish turbans with one fold passing tightly under their chins. Their dhop swords, fixed to their belts, were not ordinary. Raghunath was told that the blades of these dhops are more than one-and-a-half guj long. They are pointed to pierce, and are lengthy enough to cut a man even from horseback. The lower edge of the blade is sharp all through its length, making the sword an extraordinary chopping machine. The upper edge, called the pipala, is the most lethal, jagged to tear the flesh with ease. If the enemy ducked and avoids the swordsman’s forward blow, he gets chopped by its backward blow. All this happens in the blink of an eye. The bottom end of the hilt has long nails tapering to make its lower end pointed enough to kill. If the enemy is too close to use the long blade, hilts can be held vertically above the enemy to hit the head to crack the skull or use horizontally as a dagger to tear through the enemy’s viscera.

  ‘Have you lost your voice?’ Prataprao is shouting.

  Raghunath responds reluctantly, ‘Raja Shivaji had no choice.’

  ‘But we have a choice! Do you have anything more to say?’ Prataprao sounds as if he has reached the edge of his patience.

  Raghunath glances at his captain for a brief moment before he turns to Chandrarao Morey and says, ‘We, Sambhaji Kavji and I, think you deserve to know the truth.’

  ‘What truth?’ Chandrarao demands and glances at his estate manager, Hanumanth, who shrugs and shakes his head helplessly.

  ‘Say it,’ Prataprao throws a challenge.

  ‘I need privacy. Some truths are not meant to be revealed in public.’ Raghunath is resolute. The vakeels frequently asked for a private talk—it was not unusual.

  Chandrarao takes a deep breath and thinks rapidly. It is the first time that the vakeel has been assertive. Years of wealth and authority have made Chandrarao presumptuous. He feels one is assertive only when one is being honest. And the vakeels have always been good sources of information. He nods while the others seem shocked by his affirmation. He ignores them and dredges his brains for answers. ‘What can it be?’

  ‘It is important for you to know what we know. Also, we must maintain its confidentiality. Raja Shivaji must never know that we have shared this information with you,’ Raghunath says softly.

  ‘Do not play tricks!’ Prataprao yells.

  ‘Why would we? What do we have to gain? And if you do not want to know, so be it,’ Raghunath says coolly.

  ‘What would you get by telling us the truth?’ Hanumanth snaps.

  ‘Now stop it. Let’s go to my den. I want to know what this truth is.’ Chandrarao staggers to his feet.

  Four men exit the chamber and head for the staircase. It is well lit with tiny earthen lamps kept in alcoves carved in the wall. Prataprao keeps his right hand on the hilt of his sword and stays close behind Raghunath. Raghunath walks behind the ruler who struggles and pants while climbing. The vakeel notices how obese Chandrarao Morey has become. Sambhaji Kavji remains at the end of the file, his face solemn, his eyes watching Prataprao’s hand on his belt.

  Chandrarao’s den is a small room with arched windows. Pale outlines of hills are seen as an inky blue sky is illuminated with sparkling stars. There are no chandeliers here, only a few tall brass lamps that burn in the corners of the room. Their flames quiver as a gentle breeze blows in from the windows.

  ‘My apologies for the trouble,’ Raghunath says, trying to be polite.

  ‘No pretences, out with your truth,’ Chandrarao clamours at him; anxiety flickering in his eyes.

  ‘The truth is that my master has formed an alliance with Ali Adil Shah. He has promised the king the valley of Jawali if they offer him protection when and if the forces of Aurangzeb come marching towards his jagir,’ says Raghunath without any fuss.

  ‘I will kill you and feed you to the jackals roaming in the valley if you are lying!’ Prataprao threatens Raghunath who stays mum.

  There is silence for a while. Prataprao caresses his beard and regards Raghunath intently. But the hush is soon broken by yells from the courtyard followed by the clinks of swords clashing.

  ‘I knew it!’ Prataprao screams and rushes to the window. He shudders in shock. Chandrarao is left alone for a moment. He notices something sinister in Raghunath’s eyes. The vakeel’s narrow face has become mean. His jaw is tight and the veins on his forehead look swollen under the horizontal lines of sandalwood paste.

  Chandrarao opens his mouth to shout.

  There is no time to waste. Raghunath glares at Chandrarao’s open mouth and pulls out a bichwa, a dagger, hidden in his sash, its long blade shaped like a scorpion’s stinger. He has to go for the jugular, as the cut needs to be mortal for a quick and noiseless death. Kavji has slunk behind Morey and is holding the fat man in a tight grip. Raghunath darts forward and slits Chandrarao’s throat in one stroke. The cut is clean and precise. The dying man’s eyes are filled with astonishment. He tries to say something but his voice is lost to him. Only a guttural sound leaks through his bloody throat. Kavji lets go of his grip allowing the Jawali ruler to fall on the floor, limp, like a rag doll. Blood splutters out from the gash on to the carpet. Prataprao turns back to tell Chandrarao what he has seen. Instead he starts screaming like an animal at the sight of his dead brother. However, before Kavji can catch him, he is gone, and so is Hanumanth.

  Raghunath looks at his hand that still holds the dagger: it is bloody right up to the hilt. Kavji has pulled out the dead man’s sword from the scabbard. They rush down to Chandrarao’s darbar. Morey’s clansmen are running around like mad. Hanumanth and Prataprao are missing. Chaos reigns supreme, commotion fills their ears. They rush out. The chamber entrance is littered with twisted bodies of the guards, they have been beheaded, and the place is messy with blood. The main gate is wide open. The courtyard echoes with the sounds of clashing blades and the screams of those dying. In the light of the torches fixed on the outside wall, the vakeel can see shadows of men, some fleeing, some charging. They remain near the entrance till calmness dawns on the scene, then they enter the courtyard. Their men are standing in small groups. The vakeel quickly unties the strings of his angirkha, pulls out a small trumpet and starts blowing; Kavji does the same.

  The valley around them vibrates with the calls of their trumpets.

  2

  The forest between the banks of Koyana and the foothills of the western hills is raven dark. Shivaji strains his eyes to see as one horseman after the other appears from the forest around him. It is impossible for any army to march into this valley. One has to make way through too many narrow passes. It is impractical to form multiple columns as a maze of passes open up in different directions. For a month, all of his two thousand soldiers have roamed Jawali, as goatherds, cattle herds or farm hands. Each one of them had learnt the hideouts of Morey’s garrisons. Each one had figured his own way to come to this place, a few kos north of Jawali village. Five smaller squadrons comprising two hundred men each have stationed themselves at various locations in the valley.

  Under the canopies of the trees, dirt tracks fill up with Shivaji’s horsemen. The forest ahead swarms with tribals who work for him as scouts. He is aware that they, at this very moment, are hacking the wooden vines of liana to clear the way and also scanning the hills to spot human movements. He notes their signals as they hoot like owls and snarl throatily like tigers, thei
r animalistic sounds rising above the never-ending drone of cicadas. The time has come to move on. He signals and the shadows of his horsemen start moving southwards. The earth is uneven. His horse trots like a mountain goat under him, stretching its front legs to climb and raising its haunches to climb down. The gusty wind rattles the upper branches of the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a real tiger growls, its sound echoing through the valley. A lapwing flies over them, screeching ‘tcheeit, tcheeit!’ The ear-piercing call of the bird pumps energy into his blood. Then there is another sound carried on the wind, the call of the trumpet that has travelled through the woods and the hills. It is time to head directly to Jawali.

  Chandrarao Morey is dead.

  ‘Raghunathji and Kavji have done it,’ Shivaji hears Tanaji Malusare screaming in sheer excitement. As per the plan, Tanaji has kicked his horse to a canter and has gone ahead. Yesaji Kank follows him.

  Their vanishing shadows bring the memories of how he had met his best swordsman and his best wrestler after a night of utter disappointment, a time at the end of his first voyage when he had just discovered that there was no kingdom waiting for him.

  Shivaji was eight and had already learnt his lesson. Their long journey from Shivneri Fort had ended. They had reached a village. Icy winds had started blowing, carrying the smell of wood smoke. A few torchbearers had joined them on foot, lighting their way. A Brahmin with a stern face had come on a horse to greet them. ‘He is Sonoji Dabir; he used to be your Abba sahib’s adviser,’ his mother had informed him. The man had smiled and said, ‘This is a part of your jagir, your kingdom.’ He had seen Bijapur and had thought that kind of city would await him. But there were no streets teeming with trundling elephants, scurrying palanquins or galloping horsemen here; instead, there were gangs of muscular wild dogs, their reddish coats gleaming in the dim light of torches. Their eyes had shone like embers as they had looked for food, waiting for their chance. He gazed at them, their tilted heads, raised hackles, exposed fangs. Their bold grunts had made him hold his mother tighter. But the torchbearers had not been perturbed. They had finally arrived at a small stone house with red tiles on its sloping roof. It had been enclosed in a short fence made of flat stones piled on each other. Beyond, the stars had blinked in the darkened sky, aloof and distant. Someone had lifted him from the horse and carried him inside the compound. He had not protested. There had been something more urgent on his mind. As he had relieved himself behind the house, he noticed a large hole in the fence wall. Looking through, he had caught glimpses of silhouettes of tree trunks at the edge of the dark skyline. The moon had been unusually large and hung over a lone boulder like an orb of silver, a little away from the house. A shadow moved stealthily in the dark. A wild dog again? Narrowing his eyes, he had realized that there were many out there. One had climbed on to the boulder, raised its head and let out a long howl—a deep, reverberating sound. It had certainly been a wolf, its shadow against the moon terrifying to the little boy. He had run to the front yard, his heart beating louder than the howls. He had stayed put in the front of the house for a while to quieten his fear, watched men tie their horses to the nearby trees and draw water from a well. Another man was busy hammering pegs into the ground to pitch tents in the compound. Finally he went inside the house to find his mother. His mother’s maids had lit the firewood to make dinner. The rooms were clean. The floor was covered with soft quilts. He had just wanted to sleep.

  In the morning, when he had stepped out, he was jolted by the sight of the barren land and leafless trees. He recalled the sigh of the wolf he had seen last night and shuddered. He had to live here. Instinctively, he had gone to the backyard to see if the wolves were still there. The darkness, the looming moon, the wolf had all vanished. Instead, golden sunrays swept across the parched earth. Even the large boulder had gleamed in its light as two boys ran around its girth laughing and jumping. One of them was Tana and the other Yesa, both older and taller than him.

  3

  The morning star appears in the east. A few kos south of Jawali, sitting on the charpoy, Murarbaji, Morey’s lieutenant, sniffs his tobacco, holding it in his palm. Suddenly, his ears pick up distant sounds. Trumpet calls are coming from the direction of his master’s fortress. There can only be one reason.

  ‘Tuzya maila!’ he swears under his breath for remaining complacent. He jumps out of his bed and strides out of his barracks built on the banks of the river Koyana. His men, sitting and chatting around small fires, look startled, straining to listen; they too have heard the calls. Never before has anyone blown trumpets in the valley. And tonight, at this late hour, someone blows persistently, as if giving out a signal. He thinks about their garrisons scattered all over the forest and wonders if these calls would jolt awake the men from their drunken trance. Else, it would be only he and his men to face whatever lay ahead. He remembers Shivaji Bhosale’s vakeel. The Brahmin was to meet his master tonight. But he had come only with a few horsemen. The trumpets are surely a signal, but to whom. Has Shivaji arrived in the valley with his squadrons?

  ‘Move!’ he shouts at his men, and knows that the time has come to unsheathe his sword. The shack is lit only by the silvery moonlight falling in through the open windows. A pata sword, kept on a soft cotton cloth on a far shelf, shimmers and smells of the clove oil that is used regularly to polish it. It is more than one-and-a-half guj long. Its straight blade has ridges that taper to sharp, lethal edges on either side, thus making it difficult to break or bend. Its metal arm guard is long enough to protect his arm till the elbow. It also allows the sword to be a part of him, an extension of his hand. Once fixed, he can use the muscles of his arm with full force. He picks up the sword, and eases it into the scabbard. Before exiting, he fetches a leather shield hung on the wall.

  Guilt overpowers Murarbaji as he hastens. He should have stayed behind for the meeting with Shivaji’s vakeel. It was the question of his master’s life. His men are ready to follow him. As they jump over the nettles and sprint through the dirt tracks towards the village, time seems to keep stretching like a never-ending path.

  A raucous sound travels on the wind. It is the jackals on their edgy hunt for food. The sound pervades the hanging darkness of the forest. It lingers, dies away, only to rise to a crescendo and then to die again. On a nearby tree, a lark awakes from its slumber, letting out shrill whistles that rattle across the woods. Murarbaji’s ears pick up faint sounds of hooves from the direction of the village. He tries to clear his mind; whoever is waiting for them near the village can be handled by his five hundred men.

  He looks back and sees his men. In the dim yellow light of their torches, their faces look grim, their hurriedly worn angirkhas balloon behind them, the blades of their swords gleam. He wishes he had wings to fly. The narrow trail has finally ended. Scaling a small hillock to scout the northern expanse, he peers down into the valley. The enormous spiked gate of the fortress is ajar. From inside the courtyard, a dim light filters out to form a long, yellow patch on the dark earth. The village is quiet. The surrounding forest is a mass of moving shadows with moonlight falling over the swaying canopies. The faint sounds of hooves can no longer be heard; still he senses unusual movement in the forest. He fears that some of them have barged into the fortress. He must rush before they shut the gate. And he must take his men through the narrow lanes of the village, because he is not sure what’s hiding in the woods. Even if there is a wee bit chance to save his master, he will grab it.

  ‘To the fortress,’ he says in a hushed voice to his men and leaps across the slope to reach the main gate through the village. The gate is closing on them. His heart starts pounding. The enormous doors are inching closer. He grits his teeth and leads his men to punch their way through the closing gate, like water through the falling wall of a dam. The courtyard is well lit by torches hanging in iron baskets near the main house. He spots long shadows of horsemen on the floor—not one, not two, but countless.

  ‘These are the notorious men of Shivaji,’ he
shouts to warn his men but his words dissolve into the sounds of hooves. Instantly, he knows. The trumpet calls were from the vakeel, a signal for Shivaji Bhosale to advance towards the fortress. It can mean only one thing—Chandrarao Sahib has been killed.

  Murarbaji watches helplessly as his men run blindly into the arms of a powerful enemy. The horsemen move ahead swiftly, striking slashing blows of their dhops on Murarbaji’s men who have arrived on foot, carrying shorter and curved swords. The courtyard is filled with sounds of whooshing of blades and the splatter of blood. Shivaji’s men seem to know how to hit footmen from horseback. Their strikes are so powerful that their blades run deep into his men. The swords are easily wrenched out by holding the hilts with all their might as their horses keep sweeping past.

  A little away from Murarbaji, Tanaji Malusare rides through the carnage, brandishing his pata and occasionally slaughtering an enemy who has dared to wander in his path. ‘Har Har Mahadev!’ he screams the battle cry hailing the might of Lord Shiva, his dark face flush, his muscles bulging under the tight sleeves of his short angirkha, his cries sparking valour in the hearts of his men. Soon the ground is covered with bodies and swords. Yesaji hovers around his master, scanning the fortress and its open windows for archers.

  Shivaji watches with interest as his men wipe out their enemies, striking the forward and backward blows with equal ease, chopping off heads and torsos. This battle is their military test. Then he notices a man with a pata sword, his right hand fixed into a gauntlet and his left holding a large leather shield. The blade of the pata is long and moves in slightly elliptical movement as he swirls, leaping over the dead and avoiding the ground that is sodden with blood. The blade moves like a tongue of flame, gleaming and then fading. The man spins in the midst of the horsemen like a wasp. His movements are rhythmic, creating an unbeatable fence with his ridged, killer blade. Soon he starts reaching Shivaji’s horsemen who in turn struggle to reach him with their swords. But they are confused and are unable to use their dhops. Instead some get hit by the pata and collapse, dead or writhing in pain.