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The bastions are made of black stones, one a little bigger than the other. When Murarbaji had approached the bastions for the first time, he was surprised to discover that a gate to enter the fort was hidden between them. The ramparts of the fort wall run above the gate where a few archers march up and down with large quivers on their shoulders. They know that he has come to the fort just the day before and that he might be their new chief. They wave at him, smiling. A few drops of rain fall on him. It is a good omen, he thinks, looking at the sky. Dark clouds have gathered. The wind has turned gusty, making it difficult for him to stand still. For a moment, his eyes blink; a streak of lightning flashes across the sky. The clouds thunder, making the hills tremble, as sheets of rain start falling on the steps between the bastions. He runs for cover and stands under the massive stone arch of the gate along with a few gatekeepers stationed there to mind the entrance.
Jawali was his past. The moment he had collapsed unconscious on the battlefield had been the end of his old world. He had woken up with a huge gash on his shoulder and unbearable pain. It was Raja Shivaji who had come with the medic every morning for several days. The young man with brown eyes had watched without showing any revulsion, as the medic washed his wound and smeared it with clarified butter. Every day before they left, Raja had said to him, ‘You will stay alive. I can read the invisible lines written on your forehead. I can see you fighting for me, leading my men to success.’
It was not an easy decision to make. He had lost his parents in a pox epidemic. He was small and weak, his brothers even smaller. The Morey family had given them shelter and food. His corded muscles were brimming with the rice, bread of pearl millets, soups of lentil that had come from Morey’s kitchen. Someone had once commented about his natural talent and it was Chandrarao Sahib who had put him up for training. He had tried to repay his master by being loyal and obedient, complying with his wishes without ever asking questions. But when he had seen Pratapgad being constructed, his mind had changed. His master Chandrarao Sahib had never thought of building one such fort despite the mountains and the money. A hope had sprouted in his heart: to live for a bigger cause, and die for one.
Murarbaji is brought back to the present as rain lashes him from one side, carried in by the strong winds. The rain turns into a downpour. While he thinks of ways to remain dry, he notices a tall figure standing to his right.
‘Scared of the rain? Let’s move,’ says Netoji Palkar gruffly.
Murarbaji shakes his head, but Palkar is impatient. He has already moved inside the fort and has turned left. Murarbaji’s ego is slightly hurt. He runs behind to keep pace with Palkar’s long strides. To their left, he can see a hill rising high. A hill above a hill! One can see quarters on its crest, partially blocked by a bastion. Palkar stops abruptly. Murarbaji almost bumps into him.
‘This hill is called Rajgaddi, the king’s seat, and the large house hidden behind the bastion is Raja Shivaji’s home. Let me brief you about the fort first. Less than eight kos south-west of Pune, from the point of Kondana Fort, a branch of the Sahyadri Range turns towards the east. The same extension of the range is known as the mountains of Bhuleshwar. These hills are named after the innocent avatar of God Shiva. This range has many hills, and on one of the hills stands this fort.’
‘Which is the nearest town?’ Murarbaji asks, stopping Palkar’s barrage.
‘The fort is barely a few kos south-east of Saswad. It is a famous market in this region,’ Palkar replies.
‘How far is Purandar from the Adilshahi’s borders?’
‘Forty kos east is Indapur, our last eastern region. Fifteen kos south of Purandar is the Adilshahi’s Wai province. Jawali was once a part of Wai, before it was given to the Moreys a hundred years ago. I hope you know that much,’ Palkar is curt. He wants to stick to his agenda.
Murarbaji knows about the Wai province and its subhedar Afzal Khan. His late master was afraid of only one man. Chandrarao Sahib used to say, ‘If we can save ourselves from Afzal Khan, even God cannot touch us!’
Palkar has now moved towards the east but waves his hand pointing northwards. ‘As you will later see, it is easier for the enemy to enter from the north despite the steep slopes. The cliff drops to a short distance. The wall fortifications are stronger here. Remember, the watchtowers need to be manned at all times.’
Murarbaji listens with keen interest, no longer bothered by the rainwater that rolls down his face. He has heard about Palkar. This tall and middle-aged man with heavy brows, giant whiskers and a grim face loves very large turbans. He has been a military officer of Adilshahi. It is said that he rides a horse as if the animal is his slave and the earth his carpet. His swordfights are legendary, as if the blade of his sword is an extension of his hand, or sometimes, he is an extension of his sword. Palkar, the master of guerrilla tactics, is Raja Shivaji’s guru. He and his men cut off the enemy’s food and water supply and kill thousands by sheer dehydration and starvation.
According to the recent news, Raja has chosen Palkar as the sarnobat, the commander-in-chief of the Maratha army.
While on the move, Murarbaji is told about the chowkies or the check posts dotting the hill, and about the watchtowers built in stone, called Nishana Burj, Shendri Burj, Hatti Burj and Konknya Burj. The rain’s fury is over, it is now content being a drizzle. He is taken to a large stone chamber near the Konknya Burj. It is bare and has just one huge window. The wind barges in through it, strong and shrieking. A dark man armed with a large cleaver guards the window. Murarbaji peers down and immediately feels dizzy. The window opens on to a cliff, smooth and vertical black basalt plunging down into the valley. He cannot see the valley now as a rain cloud floats between him and the abyss.
‘Criminals sentenced to death are thrown from here. They are rolled in blankets, but their heads are not covered, on purpose.’ He hears Palkar’s chilling words.
‘Which crimes are punishable by death?’ Murarbaji is curious.
‘Mainly treachery, but recently two of our soldiers were thrown down for molesting women,’ Palkar answers with a blank face, and before Murarbaji can recover he finds himself running behind the sarnobat-to-be. He is shown some more chambers of granaries, ordinance depots and stockyards.
The rain has completely stopped now. So has Palkar. Murarbaji shivers with cold as mountain winds invade his drenched angirkha. It has been months since the Jawali war, but the wounds, though dried, still hurt with constant rain lashing on them.
‘Remember, we have decided to hand over Purandar to you. You are its qiledar, the fort commander. This fort is hardly twenty kos south from the Bhima. Beyond the river is the Mughal terrain.’ Palkar’s dark eyes, surrounded by webs of wrinkles, bore into his eyes.
Murarbaji’s chest swells with pride. Raja has given him a strategic fort!
Palkar notices shadows of pleasure fleeting across the newcomer’s eyes. He says tersely, ‘You are not the only man in charge of the fort. Three men are assigned to manage each of our forts: a qiledar, a subnis, usually a Brahmin to help the qiledar in clerical work, and the karkhanees, primarily a commissary of grain and stores. There will be other officials responsible for gate passes, patrols, watchtowers, stores of ammunition and weaponry. They will report to all three of you.’
‘Who guards the foothills?’ Murarbaji clears his throat and asks cautiously.
‘Tribals are our foothill sentinels. The outcast Balutes, who do village work other than farming, are our foothill guards. Raja calls them gadkaris, the garrison men. And remember, under Raja, nobody is allowed to treat them as untouchables; they must be treated with utmost respect. They are on permanent assignments in Raja Shivaji’s army. They have been given rent-free lands between the forts to till and make a comfortable living from.’
Murarbaji has never heard anything like this before.
‘If you and I are the ramparts and bastions of the fort, they are the foundation. If you and I are the branches of the trees, they form the roots.
We are more expendable than them.’
He just nods quietly. Palkar continues, ‘There are a number of temples and lakes on this fort. The temple caretakers also have the hereditary right to mind the temples. A fixed amount is given to them. The fort may change hands but they are and remain the oldest inhabitants of the fort. These watandars and their families are directly under the care of the fort commander. This fort is a world in itself, equipped to face months of enemy besiegement.’
Murarbaji starts feeling the pressure of the enormous responsibility. Palkar once again walks towards the east saying, ‘We need to climb a hillock. I need to show you something.’
Murarbaji is eager to ask something that is not related to Purandar. He gathers enough courage before they reach the foothills. ‘Have you been to Dilli or Agra? Are these cities real?’
Palkar turns back and glares at this rustic man with large eyes who speaks Marathi in a strange accent. A real idiot from the ghats of Jawali. The man is as stupid as a mule, he thinks to himself, barely concealing his smile. The hills are full of village idiots like this one.
‘I have not been to Dilli and Agra, but I lived in Bijapur for a few years,’ he snaps. What did Raja see in this man? Just the dhop swordsmanship?
They come to the foothill of a large rock rising above Purandar Hill. Palkar climbs a slushy path holding on to the liana vines hanging down from the cliff like ropes. Murarbaji follows him gingerly, his clothes soaked and heavy. It is very slippery as even the rocks jutting out from the muddy earth are covered with moss. It takes them a while to reach the top of the hillock. At the end of the trail is a watchtower. The wind is at its strongest at this point. He sees a bastion over the hillock and notices a few archers pacing the tower.
‘This is the Kandakada. From this watchtower you can see the fort called Vajragad protecting Purandar.’ Palkar is shouting to be heard over the shrill wind.
Murarbaji looks down towards the north and notices a ledge. It is hardly four guj wide and is strengthened by two watchtowers at its north-east corner. The towers rise high above the wall. One is painted white and the other black. Between them, on the rampart joining the two, is a large cannon mounted on a platform.
‘These towers are vital to launch an attack if the enemy does reach the smaller fort. Below those towers is an underground vault to store cannonballs and explosives.’
Murarbaji glances at another hill beyond the watchtowers. It is separated from Purandar Hill by a shallow ravine.
‘If the Mughals come from the north or the Adilshahi cavalry marches in from the east, they will first encounter Vajragad. The hill of Vajragad seems easy to climb so if they reach the top of that hill, they can bring down the black and white watchtowers with explosives. Then it is just a matter of crossing the shallow ravine and reaching one of the gates of Purandar,’ Murarbaji rattles.
‘That’s a remote possibility,’ Palkar replies hesitantly. I guess the idiot is not such a simpleton after all.
‘Vajragad terraces are at a much lower level than the Purandar fortifications that are at a much higher level. It is not easy to bring the towers down,’ Palkar wants to have the last word.
‘But it is not impossible either, if the enemy is clever enough to put the cannon on scaffolds. Purandar’s weapon can turn into its weakness.’ Even as Murarbaji muses, an unknown fear grips him. His eyelid has started twitching, and that is not a good omen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1
The Dilli monsoon has been delayed. Afternoons in the imperial capital have turned unbearably hot. Khus curtains have been taken out from the attics, sprinkled with water for coolness and fragrance. The poor are seen heaving carts on the roads or carrying loads at the city’s numerous construction sites with waterskins tied to their backs. The rich prefer to be indoors in the afternoons. The capital wears a deserted look as its lonely streets languish under the listless trees. Above the canopies the gilded minarets and dome pinnacle bear the brutality of the sun. Its reflections hurt the eyes that dare to glance up at the sky. Mirza Raja Jai Singh’s mansion in the elitist area of the imperial capital is surrounded by a lush garden. It is hedged with woody shrubs, covered with clusters of white tubular flowers, blooming and verdant as if the long-drawn summer is not allowed to touch it. The sweeping building with arched corridors and a massive, enormous dome stands on the banks of a placid lake. The courtyard seems busy. A rider has arrived from the Qila-e-mubarak, the blessed fort. Emperor Shah Jahan wants to see Mirza—now!
As the house servants fuss over him, the rider waits in the courtyard sipping sweetened milk laced with crushed almonds. The gardens, the arabesque marble statues, the fountains and the flowerbeds—he has seen it all. But what surprises him is the temple in the courtyard. Its spire rises high over the carved marble patio resting on two gold pillars. Atop of the gilded pinnacle a saffron flag ripples fearlessly with unnerving pride. Mirza Raja Jai Singh is the blue-eyed mansabdar of the emperor. He is even allowed to hoist a saffron-coloured flag, regarded auspicious by the Hindu Rajputs.
Inside, on the second floor, Mirza is in a hurry. The fifty-year-old descends the stairs and into the courtyard with the agility of a young man. A servant appears with a stallion. Leaving behind the wide, tree-lined streets of Jaisingpura, a suburb named after him, he gallops behind the rider. He is concerned; all sorts of rumours about the emperor’s illness have been floating in the city—like vultures encircling the sky above a battlefield, sinister yet sure. Agra’s social grapevine is buzzing with gossip. Some say the emperor’s illness is terminal. Mirza has not seen his master for a while. What worries him is the sure-shot sign that the emperor has not taken out state processions for a long time. Shah Jahan loves to show off his wealth and military might.
The fort’s walls are made of red sandstone. Its turrets and bastions gleam in the golden light of the afternoon sun. The arched watchtowers with intricate cupolas rising above the wall look graceful. The gate and the path leading to the courtyards are well-guarded. As they enter, the sight of the many-pillared diwan-e-khaas reminds Mirza of the emperor’s court in progress where Shah Jahan sits on the peacock throne, in the shade of a pearl-fringed canopy, supported by gold columns glittering with diamonds and rubies. The princes, the grand wazir, the mir bakshi, the mir atish, the clergy, the mansabdars and the ambassadors from far-off countries stand with their eyes downcast, reluctant to look directly at the emperor. But Mirza loves to gaze at his master whom he considers as his father. Emperor Shah Jahan’s fair skin shimmers with health and his fetching features gleam with confidence while he bestows titles, promotions, honours and awards.
It has been quite some time since the last court was held.
Mirza is intrigued. The rider takes a right turn towards the private apartments of the emperor. Shah Jahan never holds meetings in his quarters. A contingent of tartar women encircles the royal quarters. The muscular women belong to a warrior tribe whose ancestors lived on the banks of the river Volga. The emperor trusts them to guard his forts and palaces. The women soldiers wear armour, trousers and helmets and seem unmindful of the bright sun. Their faces are covered with thin, transparent veils but their hands hold long spears, with sharp steel heads. Their kohl-lined, emotionless eyes dart in Mirza’s direction without blinking. These women are trained in hand-to-hand combat and one can easily handle several men at a time. The riders dismount and the horses are taken away. The messenger nods at one of the women, and the circle breaks for the men to enter.
It takes a while for Mirza to adjust to the darkness. It is much cooler in the room. Huge satin sheets sway above them to produce arterial air currents.
He understands the gravity of the situation only when he sees the emperor. A large bed is kept in the middle of the enormous chamber. The curtains are drawn. A chandelier hangs at the far corner of the room. It is the only source of light but it infuses more dullness than brightness into the chamber. The emperor lies flat on his enormous bed; the first prince sits by his father’s sid
e with his hands folded in his lap. Two medics whisper to each other in a corner, their eyes occasionally darting towards their patient. The smells of strange herbs pervade the room.
It is been almost eight months since Mirza has seen the emperor. An epidemic had ravaged Dilli and the nearby areas. The air had reeked of rats lying dead on the streets, in the houses and on the steps of the mosques and temples. Even the tanners were afraid to collect them. He had heard that people had died like flies. Some had developed swelling in the groins or armpits before they had breathed their last. The city’s avenues had come alive only when the dead were taken for cremation or burial. The rich had fled the city. The emperor had sailed fifty kos in his royal yacht to live in his palace at the base of the hills of Sirmur.
Mirza has also heard of a gala function that was held at Sirmur to mark the three decades of the emperor’s reign. The recently polished seven-hundred-and-fifty-six-carat diamond called the Koh-i-noor had been kept on display for dignitaries to admire. Mirza had not attended the function; he had taken his family to Jaipur to avoid the epidemic.
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