‘Maen ra babaekhsh,’ Dabir asks Aurangzeb for forgiveness in fluent Farsi. The vakeel continues to speak the language of the high and mighty with ease. ‘I am just a humble vakeel of my master. It is not in my capacity to answer your question, my respected prince. I am here to carry your esteemed message to Raja Shivaji.’
It takes a while for the two men to get over the shock.
‘Aaghel, aaghel,’ an irritated Shaista Khan calls the vakeel wise in throaty Farsi, his tone sounding an insult, and waves his hand in the air to show annoyance. ‘Stick to Urdu,’ he orders and continues, ‘if your Raja wants to serve us, he will have to join our military ranks and become our mansabdar.’
Dabir smiles at the irritated Shaista Khan. Men who like to tease do not take kindly to being teased. But that is the least of his problems. Shaista Khan’s proposal has put Dabir in a quandary. A jagirdar in the Deccan is like a lion in the forest, and a mansabdar in the Mughal army is a circus lion. Potentially defiant mansabdars are sent on the most difficult campaigns at perilous frontiers like the extreme north-eastern or north-western borders. Thus, they remain at the empire’s mercy for vital supplies. Aurangzeb may do the same with Raja Shivaji.
‘And there is another problem. The Jawali massacre is still fresh on everybody’s mind. We need time to think,’ says Shaista.
Dabir’s face turns red. Shaista Khan’s comment is utterly shameless. What about the Hyderabad and Bidar massacres? Siddi Marjan, the jagirdar of Bidar, and his sons have been killed by Aurangzeb’s artillery attacks. All his family members have been hounded out of their palaces, chased and slaughtered. Thousands of women from the city have already been dragged out of their homes into the Mughal camp. Aurangzeb is known to keep away from women, but his soldiers are granted the lease to please themselves.
‘Meanwhile, tell Shivaji Bhosale to behave, and not to leave such an incriminating bloody trail like he has done in Jawali. The Deccan will soon be the empire’s terrain. And the rebels and their supporters will soon be dead men. He will be responsible for the deaths of thousands,’ Aurangzeb mutters.
Dabir wants to laugh out loud. Is that a threat? Men have always died in battles. Does Aurangzeb not hold himself responsible for the deaths of his own soldiers? Or are the rules different for him? When Dabir had entered the Mughal camp just a few hours before, he had seen countless bodies of the soldiers covered with bulky rodents feasting on dead meat.
‘We shall let you know further . . .’ Aurangzeb says, his eyes half shut as his fingers move over the beads of his tesbih. ‘Technically, the territories of the Deccan Shia kingdoms are already a part of the empire. And we do not need anyone to protect us from our vassals.’
‘Remind Shivaji that in the long history of our empire, no one has dared to cross our borders and attack our terrains,’ Shaista lashes out.
The vakeel bows deeply, hands over the letter to one of armed guards and asks, ‘What must I tell my master?’
‘Tell him that capturing the valley of Jawali and killing its ruler was criminal. From what we have heard, it was an act of premeditated, cold-blooded murder for personal gains—not pardonable since it was not done in self-defence or on an impulse because of a heated argument. How do you think we can take such a criminal into our folds, even as a mansabdar?’
The meeting is dismissed. Sonoji’s old frame quivers as he steps out.
Aurangzeb knows what jabs the vakeel’s head. The pesky intellectual! He knows how to hit them without warning, and leave them feeling humiliated. When the Mughals kill to annex, it is war of expansions. But when others do it, it is crime! Aurangzeb is not ashamed to tell that to the world.
Aurangzeb has all too soon forgotten about the Maratha vakeel, and is now thinking about his full bladder and empty stomach. But he decides to get over with the meeting that has been arranged with Mir Jumla before taking a break. Shaista Khan, eyes closed in a state of bliss, holds the metal pipe of his hookah in his hands and hurtles rings of smoke in the air. A strong smell of mint envelops the tent.
When Shaista opens his eyes, he notices Mir Jumla standing in front of him, grinning from ear to ear. The Persian seems to be in an exuberant mood. His family is safe in Dilli and he is the new mir atish of the entire imperial army. The new artillery adviser has shown how the latest cannon can be pulled by a single horse on to the field as opposed to the old ones that required at least sixteen horses or oxen. The new weapons-of-fire are changing the war game, especially when enemies, like that of the ones at Bidar Fort, enjoy advantages of many-kos-long ramparts and countless strong static cannons.
‘Wallah!’ Mir Jumla throws his hands in the air and cries, ‘The time has come for my prince to enter Bidar as a victor.’
‘The victor’ and ‘the vanquished’ are Aurangzeb’s favourite words. He smiles for the first time. There is one more reason. The vaults of Bidar Fort are filled with gold and silver. The throne in the court of Siddi Marjan is made of solid gold and laden with precious stones. The estimated cost of the throne is not less than four crore rupees. With these riches, he can buy thousands of Adilshahi soldiers.
2
It has been just a week since Dabir’s return from Bidar and Raja Shivaji has suddenly called for an urgent meeting in the land fort of Chakan, just a few kos away from the river Bhima.
As the summer night descends like a waterfall, the land fort disappears in the darkness. A waning moon appears in the inky sky as ashen shapes of its light cut through the trees. The fort’s massive walls look dark and distant. The drawbridges have been raised over the moat and the gates are closed shut. The archers move silently on the ramparts. Scouts, assembled on the surveillance turrets built on the bulging bastions, try hard to scan the surroundings, as the loud droning of countless cicadas sweeps across the forest floor.
Adjacent to the dark, sprawling courtyard is a sadar, the official meeting place. It has a room hidden from prying eyes. It is a khalbatkhana, a den for secret discussions, and is lit by two torches hung on its walls. Now, men fill its every corner. They sit on a thick jajum and watch Raja Shivaji who stands near a wooden platform. Sonoji Dabir, his son Trimbak Dabir, Tanaji, Yesaji and the fort-keeper Firangoji Narsala look puzzled, almost confused. Cavalry captains Minaji and Kashirao prefer to stand near the lone window. Moroji Pinglay has come all the way from Pratapgad. Where do I begin? The strategy that may shock them, Raja Shivaji contemplates. I shall take it forward slowly, step by step, he finally decides.
‘After Jawali we are moving towards Konkan. The campaign requires one thousand warhorses. We also need battlefield allowances and supplies ready. We had hoped that the Mughal would fund our campaigns against the Adilshahi, but Aurangzeb has refused to form an alliance with us.’
Dabir nods in affirmation.
‘We can still make the Mughals pay for our campaigns,’ Shivaji announces cautiously. There is a flurry as a few straighten up, some lean forward, eager to hear more.
‘How?’ Dabir is confused.
Shivaji deliberates for a moment before he speaks again. ‘Aurangzeb has deployed all his military at the north-east borders of the Adilshahi, leaving his other territories in the Deccan exposed and vulnerable.’
‘Who will dare attack their territory?’ Yesaji questions, glancing at Dabir for approval.
‘We shall!’ declares Shivaji.
‘It is banditry!’ an obviously nervous Pinglay protests.
‘Then all of them are bandits!’ Dabir retorts. ‘The shahis of the Deccan have destroyed the remnants of Vijayanagara empire and looted the temple cities of the south. Twenty years ago, the Mughal had attacked the Deccan kingdoms. The Nizamshahi was destroyed and the other shahis became the tribute states of the empire. Now Aurangzeb has plundered Hyderabad for funds to support his army. And if you had seen the devastation of Bidar, you would never have said what you have just said.’
‘The imperial terrain is regarded as sacred,’ Moroji Pinglay persists.
‘By whom?’ Shivaji demands ans
wers. ‘Bidar is one hundred and fifty kos east of us. The imperial army is busy invading deeper parts of the Adilshahi. The region around Junnar and Ahmednagar is without sufficient military protection,’ he declares and starts pacing. His gaze on the ground he announces, ‘Tanaji, Yesaji and I will lead our men to Junnar while Minaji and Kashirao will go further north to Ahmednagar.’
Shivaji persists. ‘We need to grow strong to retain our liberty. Ali Adil Shah will attack us eventually. The reason they have not done so is because Mohammed Adil Shah was bedridden for ten long years before his death. His son Ali was too young to take military decisions. In the recent past Ali was too anxious about the imminent Mughal invasions to bother us. At present he is busy battling them.’
‘You mean to say we have just been lucky to escape because the Adilshahi has had its own share of problems?’ Pinglay asks wryly.
Shivaji watches his men. They know the truth as well as he but no one wants to admit it. It is the right time to put it in words. ‘What else then? This kind of luck may not last for long. Politics is like a chameleon, it changes colours to survive, and in the Deccan, it may turn bloody for us—in an instant.
‘To begin with, I have stopped thinking of myself as a mere jagirdar. And you must stop thinking of us as rebels. A rebel is one who defies an authority and undermines an establishment. Against whom or what do we rebel? Against the ghost of Nizam Shah or Ali Adil Shah or Emperor Shah Jahan?’ Raja Shivaji asks sardonically. ‘They are the invaders, the intruders. We fight for our land, our freedom and our people’s freedom from their raids, from their killing us under the name of religion, from their abductions of our women and children, from their deliberate destruction of our homes and farms.’
‘The invaders have ruled us for centuries . . .’ Dabir utters.
‘Only because we have let them. Emperor Shah Jahan has blinded or killed six of his stepsiblings. Our king, late Mohammed Adil Shah, had captured his older brother, Darvesh, and gouged out his eyes. To disqualify his younger brothers from kingship, he had ordered amputation of their ring fingers. I definitely do not want to bow to such men or the sons of such men!’ There is a shadow of finality in Shivaji’s eyes as he hits his right fist on the palm of his left hand. ‘We must now prepare for an offensive before they do.’
Dabir looks worried. It is not as simple as Raja Shivaji makes it sound. All the native Hindu kings have perished while defending their kingdoms. He remembers that the aggressions of Muslim invaders riding high on jihad were opposed tooth and nail by the Rajputs for centuries, but eventually they had to give up. History has repeated itself in the Deccan. The Hindu kings have perished as well, one by one.
‘We must beat them at their own game,’ Shivaji says and pauses for a few moments to watch the effect of his words on his men.
‘Our need of funds is just one reason. The mighty fort of Bidar has fallen. The Adilshahi’s north-eastern frontiers may soon lose some more military strongholds. Aurangzeb is arrogant and evasive; he will either swallow the Adilshahi or form an alliance with them. If one situation is death-by-fire for us, the other is a funeral pyre.’
Dabir agrees. Aurangzeb’s letter for Raja Shivaji was given to him just before he left the ruins of Bidar. He had written:
For now, we let you retain the territory that is in your possession. This is the time to show your loyalty. As you are aware, Bidar Fort, which was hitherto regarded as impregnable, and which has opened the path to conquering other parts of the Deccan, has been reduced within weeks to ruins by us. For any other man, it would have taken a year to do that. Soon we will blind the Adilshahi rulers with fear. We will either flatten their kingdom or turn them into our eternal vassals . . .
‘We will be safe only if the Adilshahi forces keep fighting with Aurangzeb. If they do, they will be too busy to think of us. If we attack the Mughal terrain it may infuse courage in the minds of the Adilshahi rulers. But as per our intelligence, Ali Adil Shah is ready to sign a peace treaty with Aurangzeb, offering him the entire Nizamshahi territory as well as one-and-a-half crore rupees.’
The men gape.
‘That money is equal to more than one thousand ser of gold,’ Shivaji says, shaking his head with dismay. ‘But that is not the real problem. Once the treaty is signed, our terrain will belong to the Mughals and they are far more powerful for us to handle, so somehow we must convince Ali Adil Shah to keep fighting with the Mughals.’
‘You are playing with fire,’ Trimbak speaks for the first time. He looks like a younger version of his father, Sonoji Dabir—fair, with sparkling eyes full of wisdom.
Shivaji stares at his childhood friend and says, ‘This fire is for light. In the darkness, only fire shows the light. One must light it, kindle it, fan it, fuel it, or even play with it to keep it burning.’
‘You are opening up dangerous frontiers; they can burn our world to cinders,’ Moroji Pinglay warns.
‘As I said before, our people are, till now, living either with death-by-fire or funeral pyre. Now let them use fire for light. Perhaps the new frontiers will scoop out dying sparks from within the heaps of ash,’ Shivaji sounds optimistic.
‘So you will again cross the waters of the Bhima?’ Dabir asks. He knows that it is just the beginning of a long war.
Outside, the moon has reached the middle of the star-laden sky and the air has turned frosty. It smells of wood smoke. The midnight wind blows fiercely across the forest. The howling of the wolves has stopped.
3
The scorching heat of the summer morning remains trapped between the hills around Junnar. Standing near the western gate, Salim and his men check the oxen carts, horsemen and palanquins entering the town. It is past lunchtime and the last cart has finally gone in. The carts come from the imperial cities of Agra, Dilli, Gwalior, Ujjain, Aurangabad and Ahmednagar. Salim is already tired, but his duty will end only in the evening, after several hours.
‘I envy the night guards, bloody haraamis,’ he grumbles. He is new but has managed to join as the head of the morning watchmen of the western gate who guard the town of Junnar.
The others chuckle, the night guards are indeed bastards. At night, with the market closed, they play cards and smoke their chillums. Most of them drink, and snore the rest of the night. The merchants who illegally smuggle in alcohol into the town at night bribe them with drinks. Salim looks inside—the plaza is teeming with people. The famous market in the Deccan is bustling. Today is a particularly busy day. The horse traders have arrived from the port of Cholamandalam. Loaded carts try to find their way through the moving throng; their drivers shout abuses at the people blocking their way. It is noisy, with children running about, screaming. Beggars yell for alms while some sing praises of a merciful God in throaty voices. Coolies, bending with loads, move behind traders. Richly attired buyers cluster around stalls showcasing carpets, jajums, shatranjis and pashmina shawls. Beyond the textile market is the jewellery souk. Behind the souk stand rows of stables, where horse traders gather to sell their animals.
‘He is here again,’ Salim hears one of his men say.
A beggar, in an oversized grimy robe torn and darned at places, walks in slowly. The sores on his face ooze with whitish fluid. His fingers are bandaged. He stinks like a dead rat. A whiff of that smell has already reached them.
‘Is he a leper?’ Salim has already planted doubt in his men’s minds. They remain away from him, too disgusted and terrified to go near and ask questions.
The beggar moves on. He has noticed the reaction of the gatekeepers. He does not bother to look at them and is happy with the alms he gets. For the first few days, he just begged and got enough coins to buy food; it was later that he made friends. The beggars here are a jolly lot. They accepted him when he told them that his wounds are not leprosy. He had removed his bandages and shown them his fingers, whole and healthy, not stubby and fallen. At night, they gather and gossip especially about rich merchants, their daily collections and places they hide their cash. Today, under the
scorching sun, he trots from shop to shop, dragging one of his feet. A tiny copper coin or some leftover food from the shopkeeper’s lunch or even a piece of a duster will do. He accepts everything with a smile. Some shoo him away, but he still keeps smiling. He moves towards a lane full of Turkish shops, overflowing with carpets hung on wooden stands. Their floral and geometrical designs overshadow the vibrant colours of their wool and silk. He stops in front of a particularly large edifice and stares at a rich-looking customer, an African wearing a long white robe. He wonders whether the man is new, as the owner talks to him about the genuine items and the fakes. His assistant unfurls one carpet after the other, first flinging them in the air with ease and then letting them fall on the floor with flamboyance. The beggar moves his eyes away from the customer and the carpets. He turns to watch the shop accountant shoving pouches filled with coins into a large trunk.
The accountant notices the tramp drooling at his pouches from outside the door. He feels uncomfortable, jumps a step towards the beggar and gesticulates, asking him to vanish, and then spits at him saying, ‘Let your eye that casts a spell on our collection go blind!’
The beggar disappears, dissolving in the milling crowd like sugar in water. He is not seen by anybody even as night falls and the shops start closing.
And nobody misses him.
4
Shivaji leads his horse carefully as the waters of Bhima whirl around his feet before flowing downstream. One thousand Maratha cavalrymen follow him. He and his men mount their horses and kick them to a canter. A crescent moon hangs overhead as Raja Shivaji and Tanaji lead their men to Junnar. Within a few hours of riding in the dark, Shivaji finally spots it—the silhouette of a hill rising above the plains. As if eternally waiting for him to come by, it creates an illusion of a massive ship mounted on a steep rock. No one can really guess that Shivneri Fort is perched on the hill’s crest. A strange pain cuts through his heart. He was born there. His earliest memories are of his brother’s face, mischievous yet smiling.
Frontiers Page 9
