Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  With a shake of his head he collects his thoughts and concentrates on the present. At the end of the northern skyline, a shadow of Junnar’s outer wall is clearly visible. They are already fifteen kos into the Mughal terrain. It is strange that they have faced no resistance yet. No one seems to have heard the hoof beats. But Shivaji is not surprised. His scouts have been roaming the terrain for months. The Mughals have become smug and confident. They fear no invasions and even believe that their region is too sacred to be attacked. At last, Shivaji notices an outline of a wall over the horizon to the north. Beyond the wall, the night sky glows pale yellow. The morning star shines bright in the east when they reach the base of the wall and gallop along its shadow. The outer wall is not fortified with a moat and there are no drawbridges to cross. As his scouts have already informed him, there are no archers or guards on the ramparts. He senses Tanaji slowing down his horse. They halt near a gate facing east. The tired and thirsty horses have started snorting. The animals are quickly taken away by caretakers who have ridden with Shivaji. Men with iron hooks and ropes are already at work. He waits as Yesaji hovers behind him. The ropes are flung. In the light of a single flickering torch held by Tanaji, the shadows of his men look like spiders busy scaling a wall.

  ‘Clear,’ Shivaji hears Tanaji call softly as he moves towards the wall. The wall is not high and the ropes are thick, easy to hold and grip. The ramparts are soon crowded with his men. Some of them begin to scale down the wall on the other side to enter the town. Shivaji jumps over the flat terrace of the western bastion to scout; he likes to do that, see for himself even though his men consider it as a security hazard. Below, between the market and the gate, a few men, probably guards, lie flat around the dying fires. They are very still, probably passed out on wine. The plaza is deserted and shops shut but the place is well lit by a number of torches placed in sand-filled iron baskets. Beyond the market, residential buildings stand clustered, dark and aloof. A few minarets and temple spires rise above them and glimmer in the faint moonlight.

  The shadows of his men move across the plaza, noiseless, like predators. It is time to enter the wealthy town, now a part of the imperial territory. Tanaji is waiting for Raja Shivaji to descend. Shivaji scales the wall swiftly, facing the wall and taking short backward leaps. A shiver runs through his body as he puts his feet on the ground. Junnar—the town his father loved. His eyes wander eagerly. He notices a beggar standing with Salim at the market entrance. The beggar waves his hand and darts towards him, pointing at the eastern gate. Shivaji wants to know what the beggar implies. He notices gatekeepers scrambling to get up, their minds still in a drunken stupor. Some have started yelling. Tanaji along with a few swordsmen runs towards the unsteady guards. The yells grow louder while the imperial dust gets sodden with the blood of their own guards for the first time in history.

  Shivaji waits with the beggar while Salim joins them. He marvels at how his scouts have seamlessly transformed into a beggar and a Muslim guard. The beggar is Bahirji, the master of Shivaji’s spy network; his men have performed what was expected of them.

  Tanaji and his men return, their swords dripping with blood. The beggar disappears with them. He seems to know the shops of the cash-rich merchants in the market. The men from the Maval region are in their element. They break open the wooden shutters and go straight for the iron vaults. The town seems to have woken up and the air vibrates with screams of the residents. The beggar turns up again, wielding an axe, and gives Raja Shivaji a signal. Shivaji wrenches out his sword from his scabbard and runs behind the beggar as Yesaji follows them. They stop in front of a large shop, its wooden doors closed shut. Before they can kick the door, it is opened from inside as a few men jump out brandishing swords. They are not trained swordsmen and seem to have never fought real fights. It takes only a few moments for them to fall. Shivaji enters the shop that is lit by a small oil lamp. With his axe, the beggar breaks open the trunk to spill across the floor countless ashrafi mohurs of high-quality gold.

  Behind the market, two hundred Arabian horses are taken from the stables. Such fine horses are hard to come by. Tonight the fine animals will be used as the carriers of the plunder. Stolen Mughal horses will carry the stolen Mughal wealth to Shivaji’s terrain.

  CHAPTER SIX

  1

  ‘Ma sahib!’ Jija bai hears her son call out to her.

  Her frail body shivers as he touches her feet. She stares at him—he has become thinner and darker. His face looks more angular. She notices fine lines under his eyes. Her stomach churns. While she lives a comfortable life, mostly within the walls of their hill forts, he stays in the wilderness of enemy terrain, sleeps in the open and spends his days galloping under the sun, with the shadow of death looming over him.

  ‘You have plundered the terrain of the Mughals!’ she says with some pride and some trepidation, her eyes welling up.

  Shivaji remains silent with his eyes fixed on his mother who had recounted to him the stories of the invaders. He remembers what she had said a long time ago while her eyes had shone with rage and helplessness, ‘They have two weapons: one, their mind—pitiless, remorseless and empty of scruples; and the second, our mind—servile and fearful.’

  ‘How could you not think of the consequences?’ she asks. He had not told her about his plans.

  It was easy to tell him about creating new frontiers when he was a small boy, safe under my wings, she thinks.

  ‘You have sowed the seeds of new frontiers in my mind, Ma sahib, and they have turned into golden cobs of fearless dreams. They are steeped in ideas of freedom.’ Then, as if he has read her mind, he says, ‘Will the armies of the empires and the kingdoms not be aggressive and brutal if I refrain from doing that which I have?’ he asks softly.

  She fidgets uneasily and wraps her shawl around her shoulders. She knows what he means. Once she had told him the story of eastern Kabul, ruled by Maharaja Jayapala of the Hindu Shahiya dynasty six centuries ago. The Turks had started gnawing at his borders. His cavalry of countless elephants had crushed the marching armies. Then Mohammad Ghaznavi had arrived with his fifty thousand soldiers. Jayapala had declared truce, paying heavy ransom. Within a few years, Ghaznavi had returned. He had stormed, pounded and seized coins worth seven crore rupees and seven lakh carts of gold and silver. The bloods of men, women and children had flown into every stream, river, well and lake. There was not a drop of water to drink.

  ‘If you fight them, they kill you; if you declare truce, they deceive you; if you kneel, they behead you. Now you choose your option,’ she had told him a few years ago.

  ‘After Maharaja Jayapala’s fall, the dice of destiny was thrown against Hindustan. The invaders had arrived. They did not need provocation to be rabid,’ her son whispers.

  ‘I am worried about the present. The Mughal may not waste time. They may soon come—within days,’ she replies.

  He points at the sky. ‘Mother, look at those dark clouds. They are on a mission. It is pouring in the valley. The rivers and streams are flooded. The trails and tracks have disappeared under water. They will have to wait for three long months to enter this region.’

  Jija bai smiles nervously. The temple priest seems to have finished his ritualistic prayer. He emerges crouching from the small door of the temple and comes towards them. His salver has a silver lamp, its flame flickers with the wind. She holds her hand above the flame of the lone lamp and then touches her forehead, seeking blessings from the fire used in worship. As the priest turns towards her son to offer blessings, she glances at the sky; the clouds indeed seem ready to pour. She quickly enters the small temple. It is warmer inside, and smells of flowers and incense sticks. The lingam, adorned with freshly plucked mountain flowers, glows in the light of several earthen lamps. The power of God Shiva, of destruction and creation, has turned tangible in that small space. It is almost as if Jija bai can touch it or even take some of it away for later use. Her son has followed her. Raja Shivaji kneels, his hands folded, his eyes c
losed.

  I have done what I had to do. They will do what they have always been doing. And you do what must be done, he prays.

  When they step out, he tries to hold her hand to support her on the steps, but she is quick to jerk her hand away. He smiles, and knows that she has always cherished her independence. Her freedom and her self-reliance have been and continue to be her most prized possession. He stares at her—the large pearls in her nose ring and the red kumkum on her forehead makes her face look small, like it has shrunk. The lines around her eyes have become deeper with strain.

  She has not finished her talk. ‘After the monsoons Aurangzeb will unleash his squadrons. Our small region will soon burn in fires of arson. Peasants will flee. Women and children will be taken as slaves,’ her voice cracks and her eyes shine with tears.

  ‘The Mughals think that it is their imperial right to invade under the patriotic title of war of expansions. They do not need any provocation. They would do it anyway,’ Shivaji says, his eyes showing shadows of a steely finality she has not seen before.

  ‘Your father left us to serve the Adilshahi twenty years ago. We, you and I remained here to look after the estate. Meanwhile your father’s rival in Bijapur court, Afzal Khan, killed your brother by not sending him reinforcements, on purpose. Shiva ba, I cannot lose you,’ his mother tugs at her last defence.

  ‘Death is final yet fickle. I do not have to be in the Mughal territory to die. I can die here, in the safe confines of Purandar—of snakebite!’

  Jija bai winces. She does not like her son’s definition of death. ‘But offending Aurangzeb is like knowingly stamping on a snake. It is suicidal!’

  Shivaji can see his mother losing her temper. ‘Do you think that living like a coward will make me immortal? Mother, think, what will happen if Badi Sahiba and Ali Adil Shah renew the old peace treaty with Aurangzeb?’

  Jija bai does not say a word. She knows. The alliance between the Mughal empire and the Adilshahi sultanate had once proved disastrous.

  ‘We plundered the Mughal terrain because we needed the money for expanding our military. Also we wanted to kindle the fire of courage in the hearts of the Adilshahi rulers. We wanted to show them that one can fight the Mughals,’ he says softly. ‘And, despite our efforts, the renewal may take place. Peace at one front promotes war at the others. And if that happens, guess who may march in to get us?’

  ‘Who?’ Jija bai asks anxiously.

  ‘Either Khan Mohammed, the general of the Adilshahi, or Afzal Khan. Ali Adil Shah has grown up into a clever man. He will take the enmity between Afzal Khan and Abba sahib into consideration. Afzal Khan is also the subhedar of the Wai province to which Jawali once belonged. Once the peace prevails at their north-eastern frontiers, Afzal Khan is free to war with us.’

  Jija bai stares at her son intently.

  ‘But I am prepared, Ma sahib,’ Shivaji says and smiles.

  And together they walk to the place where the bearers wait with her mena and his palanquin.

  As the bearers climb another hillock called Rajgaddi, he muses quietly. He has his own laws of war and they say that the imperials are not gods and their terrain not sacred! But some things are forbidden, like mocking the religions of the defeated or slaughtering Muslims just because of their faith. His fight is different; his fight is for the freedom of his people.

  ‘I want you to meet our very special guest. We had sent a message about his arrival when you were in the Mughal terrain,’ Raja Shivaji hears his mother’s words. They have reached their private apartments on the Rajgad hillock.

  Shivaji’s heart jumps up to his throat.

  It is dark inside the stone buildings, and warm. It smells of burning incense and ajwain seeds. Seeing them enter, the maids busy with their morning chores quickly cover their heads. A few disappear into the inner chamber. Two are back within moments, holding a bundle. Excitement runs through his body, and it is divine, akin to seeing thousands of little lamps in a temple. He is scared to move, or even make any sound. The maids move nearer. Jija bai takes the bundle in her hands. She gently shows what she holds to her son.

  He stares at the small face of his son, his first son. Tiny, as if carved by a sculptor out of fine, alabaster marble, using a toy hammer. A short mop of curly hair grows on his head like a crown. His tiny lips quiver as if he is about to smile or cry. His eyes are closed. There is a big dot of soot on his cheek—to ward off the evil eye. Shivaji gingerly touches the boy’s face with his index finger and is shocked by the tenderness of the skin. The twenty-day-old boy starts to smirk and opens his eyes at once; they are not brown like his. The boy has black, limpid eyes, like his mother’s.

  ‘Go meet his mother,’ Jija bai nudges him.

  Shivaji enters the ‘birth chamber’ and several maids sitting around a bed scramble, bow to him and exit hastily. The yellow light of a few oil lamps fails to reach all the corners of the room. Mercifully, a sudden burst of rain starts pounding on the roof, driving out the stubborn stillness piled up around his wife. Pillars in the middle of the room stand in breathless anticipation, like shameless intruders. In that large foyer meant for women to deliver their babies, his Sayee sits on a huge mahogany bed, wearing a peacock green sari, the colour he likes. He removes his turban and stands in front of her, letting his hair fall on his shoulders. She looks up and stares at him unbelievingly; he looks handsome, his brown eyes, his gently curling tresses and the corded muscles of his shoulders visible through his angirkha. Her heart fills with enormous pride, and she feels scared that it might just burst. It has been months since she last set her eyes on the man she has loved ever since they got married.

  ‘Did you see him?’ she asks, smiling.

  He looks at her. What he has heard is true. Not only does she look ill but also she is very ill indeed. Her doe eyes have dark circles under them and her collarbones jut out from near the hemline of her blouse. To him they look like sharp mountain ridges reeling under an attack. She has not bothered to cover her head. He notices that her long curls are all gone, taken as pillage by her illness. He takes her hands in his own, they have lost their softness. He raises them to inspect them closely; they look as if they belong to an old woman. The skin has shrivelled, making the bluish veins look swollen, like rivers in the valleys seen from the hill forts.

  ‘He is beautiful and he has your eyes,’ he whispers, looking into her dark, moist eyes shining with mysterious happiness.

  She frowns and says, ‘I hope he is born with your vision.’

  ‘And your wit,’ he intercepts, and asks, ‘Have you and mother decided on his name?’ It feels good to talk about their son. It reconfirms his existence.

  She hesitates and says, ‘I thought Sambhaji will be best. We have lost your brother, respected Dada sahib. Our boy might fill that void in Ma sahib’s life.’

  Shivaji stares at his young wife. She wants to name her son after his slain brother. He draws her closer. Sayee rests her head on his chest. Her eyes slowly fill with tears. She does not want him to know that during childbirth she had bled excessively. The fort midwife has warned that such bleeding could lead to something far more serious called the ‘childbirth malady’. It claims half the women before their baby is two years old. But he knows much more. The fort medic suspects tuberculosis. Shivaji is utterly helpless while trying to hide his knowledge and feels as powerless as a soldier who has lost his sword on a busy battlefield.

  ‘I am glad our son has been born in Purandar. This fort has taught you that you could stop them,’ she murmurs.

  ‘It is true,’ he says, remembering Muse Khan’s defeat.

  ‘You need to go, we shall meet later in the day,’ she whispers, trying to push the sobs down her throat.

  She is right. Today’s meeting is crucial. The pillage from the Mughal territory has been brought to Purandar. They need to plan how to put the funds to use. The construction of Pratapgad has been costly. After Jawali’s capture, the number of his horsemen has risen to over ten thousand. The
y are being directly paid from the state treasury. He also plans to expand his infantry.

  ‘Are you worried about the Mughal attacks?’ he asks her softly.

  ‘The Sahyadri Mountains offer divine protection in the monsoons. No one can enter this region. You have time,’ Sayee responds. Her words render him speechless. Lying here, while her life is drained out of her slowly, she contemplates his military problems and their solutions.

  ‘Sayee . . .’ he whispers holding her close to him, ‘you surprise me.’

  ‘I cannot do anything else but think. And I cannot think of anything else but you,’ she admits candidly. ‘Please do not have doubts. Earnest and truthful karma is pregnant with wonders. Do you remember Mukta bai’s poem? Isn’t it so relevant even centuries after it was written?’ she asks softly, as her lips quiver with memories. ‘When we were children, we used to sing it often.’ She pauses for a while and starts humming: ‘An ant has flown to the sky and swallowed the sun. A wonder has happened; a barren woman has borne a son.’

  Her words bring a smile to Shivaji’s face and tears to his eyes. Sayee has this habit of saying what she wants to say through verses of famous saints. And she has memorized the writings of Mukta bai, the younger sister of Saint Gyaneshwar who had risen above superstitions and rituals of Hinduism.

  ‘You live in my heart, Sayee,’ he says softly.

  Pointing upwards, Sayee responds, ‘Mukta bai says, His spirit lives in our soul and only He is the abode of our hearts.’

  Shivaji knows. She is preparing him for her death.

  He is reluctant to leave; there is so much to say. But men are waiting for him. Today he is to announce the names of his central ministers. Pinglay will be rewarded with the prime ministership, and will henceforth be called the peshwa of the Maratha kingdom. Niloji Sondev will continue to be the muzumdar, and look after the financial matters of the state. Anna Datto, the scholar of mathematics, will assist Niloji Sondev and be the surnis, the man responsible for the revenue collection. Yesaji Kank will be the commander of Maval infantry. Tanaji Malusare will head the infantry garrisons at Konkan. Sonoji Dabir continues to be the dabir and look after the external affairs. Raghunath Ballal Korde will be elevated to the position of the state subnis, the paymaster general who will work with the peshwa. And Netoji Palkar will be the sarnobat, the commander-in-chief of the Maratha army. Most of these men will also command Maratha squadrons in battles and defend the state in times of war. Shivaji remembers that Netoji Palkar has to meet Murarbaji, the new fort commander of Purandar, to orient the new qiledar.