‘Sayee Bai Sahib is in trouble,’ the maid whispers, her teeth chattering in the cold.
Without a word, Jija bai follows her to the chamber of her son’s first wife. They walk through an open corridor joining the women’s quarters, and are almost blown by the wind by the time they reach. It is warmer inside; a few earthen lamps burn in the alcoves of the stone walls. Jija bai is alarmed to see Sayee sitting on her bed with her hands clasped around her stomach even as three little girls wrapped in woollen mufflers fidget at the far end of the room, almost on the verge of crying.
‘Your mother is fine, I am here now,’ she whispers keeping her voice as calm as possible and signals the maid to take them away.
Sayee moans in pain. Jija bai rushes to her bed.
The young woman raises her head, and looks up as tears roll down her cheeks. ‘Ma sahib,’ she says sobbing, ‘I don’t want to lose this baby. I know it is a boy.’
Jija bai sits on the bed facing Sayee who has grown far too thin. It is her fourth pregnancy. The lustre women acquire when heavy with child is distinctly missing. Her eyes have sunk into dark circles and her face looks gaunt as of a starving human. How playful was she when I brought her home as a bride! And how seamlessly she had grown into a beautiful young woman, Jija bai thinks with regret and mutters, ‘Sayee, the astrologer has told us that you will carry this baby full term. Have faith.’
‘These spasms take my breath away. Only when they became unbearable did I ask the maid to call you.’
Jija bai misses her son and feels guilty somewhere deep in her heart. In the past her loneliness had made her jittery. She had sought eight marriage alliances for her Shivaji even before he was fourteen. She had made her home full with eight brides: Sayee, Soyara, Putala, Laxmi, Kashi, Saguna, Gunwanti and Sakwar. This had brought eight politically strong families into her fold: the Nimbalkars, the Mohites, the Palkars, the Vichares, the Jadavs, the Shirkes, the Ingales and the Gaikwads. But she knows that her son loves his first wife, Sayee, and she is his true friend. The others do feel neglected. And now, all of them are compelled to live in the residential quarters of Purandar Hill Fort for their own safety. Despite Jija bai’s pleas, Sayee has been fasting, eating only one meal a day as atonement so that a son is born to her. Jija bai sighs. She remembers her home in Pune, the warm, red-stone building surrounded by temples and rice fields.
‘Ma sahib, do I worry you too much?’
She gently pats Sayee’s stomach and says, ‘Worry about him. He is your priority.’
The corners of the room are shrouded in darkness, as the light from the lamp fails to permeate the clinging, enveloping gloom. Jija bai’s gaze falls on a lamp and its flame. She wonders if her life has been like its wick—one end dipped in oil and another burning itself away, just a medium to transport volatile fuel. Her son, the light of her life is struggling, fired by the dream she had made him see.
‘We will get through this, will we not?’ she hears Sayee ask.
Jija bai does not reply. Shivaji is busy at Pratapgad, his military base in Jawali. ‘Without military strongholds, you will share the futile destiny of your warrior father,’ she had once said to her son.
‘My son, he will be fine, won’t he?’ she hears Sayee repeat her concern.
Jija bai feels anxious and uncertain as she thinks about the destiny of the child growing inside Sayee. Will it be a son as Sayee believes? What has happened to the men of her family in the past—will it happen again in the future? Some have died fighting battles for their Muslim rulers, some have been murdered and some are serving the Muslim kingdoms. Her father and brother were beheaded in Nizam Shah’s court.
Jija bai looks at Sayee who has fallen asleep. The lamp has dimmed and the room has turned darker. She covers her daughter-in-law with a quilt and goes back to her thoughts.
Till today, for the past twenty years, her husband has served the Adilshahi like a loyal warrior. He is responsible for annexing the remaining parts of the Vijayanagara empire for his Muslim master and has become popular in the Bijapur court. His fame has created a political lobby against them. The head of the lobby is Afzal Khan, subhedar of the Wai province. The man has devastated Jija bai’s world. His prying eyes had fallen on their son Sambhaji, who had grown into a strapping young man who lived with his father. Afzal Khan had ordered him to annex the kingdom of Kanakgiri. Her firstborn son Sambhaji had led his men to the trenches near the fort and had waited for the reinforcements that had never arrived. During the ensuing battle, her twenty-five-year-old firstborn was killed. A cannonball had struck him, crushing his face to pulp. People say that Afzal Khan did not send help on purpose. Some even say that Afzal had bribed the king of Kanakgiri to kill Sambhaji. Her husband had not dared to ask questions. Who could he approach? The king was on his deathbed. There was no case and no justice.
‘Freedom—’ she had told Shivaji when he was a young boy, ‘—serving them means the end of it.’
She would ask young Shivaji to note the hills, pointing to the surrounding mountains while in Pune, and say, ‘There are forts up there. You will need several such military strongholds and thousands of men trained in swordfight and archery before you can even lift your eyes to challenge the old order.’ Her warnings had rung clear. ‘You must change the definition of your karma and fight at frontiers never encountered by your father or his father or even my father. These new frontiers will define you, the frontiers of your karma,’ she had told him several times, always deliberately maintaining a steely expression in her eyes, unsure if her young son understood her words or not.
CHAPTER FIVE
1
One hundred and fifty kos east of Pune, the fort city of Bidar that stands on a high plateau is regarded as the north-eastern stronghold of the Adilshahi kingdom. It is surrounded on all sides by a wall that has a circumference of more than half a kos, cut in solid rock and strengthened by bastions loaded with huge cannons. The city boasts of mosques, palaces, Turkish baths and a mint. It is believed to be impregnable to assault. But the Mughals have proved it otherwise. The city is burning and is surrounded by ugly trenches dug by Aurangzeb’s diggers. The last of the trenches is wide enough to pitch tents. One of them belongs to the prince himself.
‘If only . . .’ mourns Shaista Khan, sitting on a wooden platform and studying a map, holding the paper close to his face to see properly.
The map has been clearly drawn. For more than two hundred and fifty kos, the river Bhima flows from the north-west to the south-east. Its roaring waters cut through the Deccan till it meets the river Krishna. The Krishna is the Mughal empire’s southern border and regions of Maharashtra and Karnataka, north of Bhima, belong to the empire. The Adilshahi’s north-east stronghold, Bidar, has already fallen. Only Gulbarga needs to be axed away from the kingdom.
If only the emperor had allowed them to take Hyderabad as well as the Golconda Fort, the entire Deccan north of Bhima would have been a part of the imperial dominations, Shaista thinks regretfully as he glances at Aurangzeb.
The entrance to the pavilion is wide. Aurangzeb, sitting on a high divan, can see Bidar from his dugout, its protective walls fallen at places and two bastions turned into mere rubble. Inside the fort, some of the buildings still burn with a raging intensity. Enormous clouds of black soot have gathered in the morning sky above the inferno. His job is done, despite his brother’s manipulation to prevent him from annexing the Shia kingdoms. Aurangzeb had argued about the illegitimacy of Ali Adil Shah’s rule, since Ali is an adopted son of late Mohammed Adil Shah, and sought permission from the emperor to annex the Adilshahi. Initially his father had refused, but later he had had a change of heart after Mir Jumla had gifted him the priceless Koh-i-noor at Aurangzeb’s behest. Funds and reinforcements had arrived in time. Mir Jumla too, who, after the safe release of his family from the clutches of Qutb Shah, had turned an Aurangzeb loyalist, has now returned to the Deccan with the latest artillery recently bought by the imperial army.
‘Shiva Bhosale’s
diplomat is here,’ Shaista hears Aurangzeb murmur.
It is rather early in the morning. Winter is long gone but the air has remained cool. Darkness still lingers in the tent. Mutamad pours more oil into the cups of brass lamps. His master has a long day ahead. Local landlords who have assured the third prince of their support have been called for the meeting. Some of Aurangzeb’s military officers who nurture new ideas of battle tactics have been called in the afternoon. But before anything else, they need to meet Shivaji Bhosale’s vakeel, an elderly Brahmin called Sonoji Dabir.
Shaista follows his nephew’s gaze. Outside, a little away from the entrance of the tent, a thin man wearing a red turban emerges from the fog and walks towards them briskly, business-like. Two armed guards follow him. One can never be sure of the Marathas.
Aurangzeb glances at his uncle and smiles mockingly.
Sonoji, Shivaji’s dabir, the man assigned to look after the external affairs of the budding Maratha kingdom, does not miss the scornful smile. He bows deep, slyly glancing at Aurangzeb. The third prince sits very straight and busily counts the beads of his rosary with eyes half-closed. In the yellow light of oil lamps, Aurangzeb’s features appear sharp; he looks virtuous in his white brocade robe and his embroidered patka turban. It is hard to imagine that this man is responsible for the Bidar massacre. Dabir is proud of the fact that he can judge people’s characters just by looking at them, but until now he has not seen such a contrast—a refined facade masking a dangerous mind! The truth shines through when Aurangzeb opens his eyes. A shiver runs down Dabir’s spine. At first he thinks Aurangzeb’s eyes are empty, but then he realizes that they have pale grey irises.
For a while, silence reigns.
‘I, Sonoji Dabir, the adviser to Raja Shivaji Bhosale, bow to Your Imperial Highness. I stand here with a humble heart,’ Dabir says in Urdu tinged with a slight Deccan accent.
Aurangzeb does not respond, filling the silence with invisible yet physically tangible impatience.
He speaks slowly, ‘Say what you want to. And don’t linger.’
‘Raja Shivaji sends his humble greetings and a letter to Your Imperial Highness. Raja looks forward to serving the empire in the capacity of a regent and helping the imperial forces conquer the rest of the Adilshahi sultanate. In return, all he wants is a formal recognition of his right over the land and forts in his possession,’ Dabir speaks unhurriedly but emphasizing each word clearly.
Aurangzeb feels an uncontrollable urge to laugh loudly. These uncouth mountain folks! He, the subhedar of the Mughal-occupied Deccan, does not need any Shivaji, and men like Shivaji will not fit in the Mughal system. He wonders if Shivaji knows the rock-solid structure of the empire. The head is the emperor, followed by his sons and the wazir, the prime minister. Decisions regarding the military appointments are taken by the mir bakshi, the army chief, and the mir atish, the artillery chief. Provincial heads, the subhedars, are assigned military officers called the mansabdars. High-ranking mansabdars are given jagirs. But they are liable to be transferred. Every once in a while, their old jagirs are taken away and they are given the new ones. This is to ensure that they do not remain at one place for a long time and develop alliances with the local populace, a sure-fire formula to become a rebel. Rajputs are the only exceptions to the rule. They are allowed to keep their ancient kingdoms but are always kept busy at far-off frontiers, thus preventing rebellion from their end.
‘Why doesn’t your Raja Shivaji go to Bijapur instead? It is easy to get an assignment as a regent with them,’ Shaista says with a serious face. It is his way to deflate the man’s price and ego.
Dabir blinks. He cannot think of a proper answer.
Aurangzeb’s countenance does not betray his thoughts. Jagirdar Shivaji wants to rebel against his own king Ali Adil Shah! Aurangzeb knows that in the Deccan jagirdars are independent of any king, even when these estates fall into the terrain that officially belongs to a kingdom. These jagirs are also claimed by inheritance, like Shivaji sitting on his father’s jagir. They are allowed to have their own little courts and even thrones. The king is regarded as a mere overlord. Some of the jagirdars avoid paying revenue. Some become wealthier and more powerful than their kings. Mir Jumla is an example.
‘Say in brief what the letter says,’ Shaista demands.
‘The letter says that Raja Shivaji wants to help the imperial army as an independent regent. He is already in possession of the districts of Pune, Supe, Chakan, Indapur, the valley of Jawali and the hilly Maval, along with the hill forts of the region. North Konkan is a part of the Adilshahi. If you allow him, he will wrench the region from them.’
Shivaji thinks that we are retarded, intellectually compromised humans! Aurangzeb fumes.
‘Shivaji Bhosale has, over the years, mustered more than ten thousand horsemen. He has created a fast-moving light cavalry, a perfect war machine for the hilly regions of the Deccan. He could even offer protection to the empire’s Deccan territories,’ the Maratha vakeel drags on.
The old man is all business. Aurangzeb searches for the vakeel’s hidden motives. Shivaji wants imperial protection to his jagir that, as of now, falls within the Adilshahi’s territory. He is securing his jagir’s future, when and if the entire region comes under the imperial rule or the old peace treaty is renewed between the Mughal empire and the Adilshahi sultanate. Shivaji also wants to expand his jagir, take the coastal Konkan that as of now is in the Adilshahi’s terrain. The region has markets like Kalyan where wealthy merchants operate to feed supplies to sea freight, and salt to the rest of the country. Shivaji wants to collect those taxes as well, all under the imperial protection and with the help of the imperial funds. Not bad at all!
‘The benevolent Mughal prince, Your Imperial Highness has recently taken a regent of Hyderabad. That has kindled hopes in the heart of Raja Shivaji.’ The fidgeting vakeel persists with an expression of optimism lathered on his face.
Aurangzeb’s fingers work furiously on his rosary beads. The clever vakeel is referring to Mir Jumla. What do these dimwits know? Mir Jumla had a weakness. His family was languishing in the dungeons of Golconda Fort. To ensure their release, Mir had been ready to do what Aurangzeb had wished for. Shivaji’s case is different: he has no weakness. Shivaji comes with strengths like his hill forts, repaired and strengthened for battles. Once Shivaji garners power under the imperial protection, he will surely bare his fangs. One needs special skills to hunt leopards that have the expertise to climb trees.
‘How is Shiva’s father?’ Aurangzeb asks with blank interest.
‘As my esteemed Mughal prince must be aware, Raja Shahji Bhosale is serving the Adilshahi as a regent,’ he responds nervously.
‘It is a good reason for Shivaji to serve Ali Adil Shah!’ Shaista says derisively while Aurangzeb jerks his head to show disgust. The action is involuntary. Petty jagirdars like Shivaji and Shahji call themselves Rajas, the little kings without real kingdoms! Even the rulers of the Deccan sultanates are not allowed to call themselves emperors or kings; they are just shahs, that is, overlords. The rulers of the Deccan humour the likes of Shahji who call themselves Rajas because they are at their jagirdars’ mercy in times of war. The entire military system of the Deccan kingdoms is in a mess. Men like Shivaji Bhosale must be made to feel like scorpions without their stingers, and tigers without their carnassial. It is easy, if, like his father, Shivaji is removed from the hills of Maval and made to work in the flat regions of the Adilshahi—he will be like an eagle without its talons.
‘The old Bhosale has wizened with age. His son must learn from him,’ Shaista says while rolling the maps.
Dabir stares at Shaista Khan; he is a handsome man with a white beard wearing a headgear laden with jewels. Looks like this man has a habit of taunting and inciting people, to make them say what they do not want to say, so he can catch them in words, he muses. It is tricky to challenge him. Shaista was the ex-subhedar of the Deccan, he also belongs to the imperial family and wields considerable power
over the Mughal policies of the region. Dabir has never taken such insults laying down and always given a piece of his mind to those who’ve been cheeky. But the two men standing before him are the two most powerful military men in this part of the world. And he must focus on his mission as has been clearly outlined by Raja Shivaji. ‘History may repeat. Our king, Ali Adil Shah, is in the process of losing his north-eastern strongholds like Bidar. He is likely to buckle under the pressure. He may renew the old peace treaty and surrender some regions to the Mughal prince that may include our territory. He may form an alliance with Aurangzeb or declare total defeat. Such situations may prove dangerous for us. But if we get the support from Aurangzeb, we will be safe for a while, till we gather some more strength, some more manpower,’ Raja Shivaji had said.
‘Moshekeli, moshekeli!’ Shaista murmurs in Farsi, his eyes shining with glee.
Dabir understands what the khan has whispered and why he is delighted. Moshekeli means ‘difficulty or problem’ in Farsi. Shaista thinks that they have managed to shut him up. He has heard that the imperial royals always revert to Farsi or Arabic in the Deccan if they do not wish the others to understand them. It is time to beat them in their own game, without hurting his objectives.
Frontiers Page 8
