Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  It is probably the darkest night in the life of Mullah Ahmed. They have been captured. The captors drag him and his caravan away. It is only at dawn that he realizes that they are taking his caravan back to Kalyan.

  Fifteen kos north, from where the subhedar of Kalyan has been taken as a captive, Shivaji has arrived near the edge of Kalyan at dawn. His scouts have already informed him that the last of Adilshahi’s garrison have gone with Mullah Ahmed’s caravan. Kalyan is awaiting their new Mughal subhedar. He looks at the south-facing gates that are open. His horsemen, standing behind him, make a large semi-circle and advance towards the gate. They move ahead of him through the overgrown shrubs and bushes. He kicks his horse and enters the main gateway. He is a picture of daring and delight with his carefully chosen silk robe with flower motifs ballooning behind him, his saffron turban with a pearl aigrette gleaming in the morning sun, the hilts of daggers girded to his belt sparkling with rubies and emeralds, his brocade scarf flying in the air and his wide sash glittering like gold. A hundred men ride behind him, attired in equally fancy robes. It is a chance and he will take it. It is a chance to capture Kalyan without bloodshed. A few sleepy gatekeepers notice him and his followers. They straighten up, rubbing their eyes in disbelief. The Mughal subhedar seems to have arrived. Flummoxed, they try to undo each other by bowing deeper than the others.

  Within an hour, the gate fortified with iron spikes is being manned by his men. The ramparts are crowded with his archers. By the late morning, his men have occupied the fort. At noon, the news reaches the nearby villages that the new governor has arrived, and several local landlords, wealthy fishermen and village headmen from the countryside gallop towards Kalyan.

  3

  It is late in the afternoon when Shivaji climbs the steps of Kalyan Fort that lead to the official court of Mullah Ahmed. A saffron flag flickers on a high pole over the courtroom. The paths leading to the fort bustle with Maval men with crimson-coloured Turkish turbans. Shivaji is proud; his men look like a regiment in uniform.

  He crosses the courtyard and walks towards the courtroom through an open corridor lined with his men. Yesaji Kank follows him. Before Shivaji enters the building, he glances at the open courtyard of the fort that is filling up with people who have come to see their new subhedar. The courtroom too, is full of local men, perhaps local Hindu and Muslim landlords or officials. He walks briskly to the throne, and occupies it as if it is the most natural thing to do. He gazes at the people, eyes wandering from face to face. Yesaji stands behind him. Men look at Shivaji, suspicion and doubt fleeting in their eyes. They whisper into the ears of others standing near them. Whispers slowly grow into a loud murmur that ripples across the courtroom. He watches them and hopes he can capture their hearts too.

  Two shackled prisoners, their sweat trickling down their foreheads, their eyes downcast, walk barefoot in the afternoon sun on the crowded streets of Kalyan. It takes a while for the people to recognize them. They have seen those men riding ceremonial horses through the streets of Kalyan. It is their old subhedar and his son, tied in chains! There is something wrong. The news spreads through the town and there is a stampede as women and children run to the safety of their homes. The caravan is back from where it had started, at the fort steps leading to the yard.

  Shivaji watches his men entering the already crowded court. He looks at one and all, especially Abaji Sondev. The man has successfully carried out the task assigned to him. The stress of a long journey and of bringing the prisoners as well as the pillage does not tell on him. The men assigned to him move purposefully and seem well adjusted to their captain. Only the path from the entrance to the throne is free of people. Abaji’s men have started pouring the contents of their loaded sacks on the ground. Small mounds of gold coins, Mughal ashrafi mohurs and the Adilshahi hons grow larger on the carpeted floor.

  ‘Raja, there is something else,’ Abaji speaks, diverting his eyes to the entrance.

  The patch near the doorway is bathed in the golden light of the western sun as long shadows of high pillars run over the Persian carpets leading to the throne. Shivaji follows Abaji Sondev’s gaze. A veiled, handcuffed woman cuts through the crowd and trudges towards him. Two men push and shove others away from her, as if she is made of glass. The tiny mirrors on her long skirt shimmer in the evening sunlight. Behind her, he notices two more shackled prisoners. The men are tall and very fair, probably Arabs or Turks, wearing conical turbans and ankle-length robes. Their footwear is missing. He can make out that they are men of battle and they usually show defiance as prisoners. The terror in their eyes puzzles him.

  The men in the courtroom stare at Shivaji to gauge his next move. They now know who the man who has occupied the throne of their subhedar is. There is no mistaking him—some of them have seen him in the past. They have heard about his Jawali conquest and incursions in the Mughal-occupied Deccan terrains. The men are curious. It is not the first time that they are witnessing the ordeal of a woman. It is known to all that the Mughal raiders have attacked villages in the past and continue to do so without any provocation or justification. The main purpose is to carry off women and children as slaves.

  They are interested because they have heard that the man from the Maval mountains is different. But some temptations are hard to resist.

  The packed courtroom is eerily silent, broken only by the sound of the bells from the woman’s anklets. She is now placid, like calm before a storm.

  ‘Let her go,’ the younger man in shackles shouts.

  The older captive falls to his knees. His shackles make a harsh metallic sound.

  Shivaji glances at the captive. ‘Stop crying, don’t be afraid,’ he says loudly. ‘Abaji, tell me who this woman is?’

  ‘She is from the subhedar’s family,’ Abaji rattles. The rage in his master’s eyes sends shivers down his spine.

  ‘Be more specific.’

  ‘She is his son’s wife,’ Abaji stammers.

  ‘And who are they?’

  ‘The subhedar of Kalyan and his son.’

  ‘Why is she here?’ The voice is soft but his eyes shine with fury.

  ‘She is a part of the pillage.’ That is the blatant truth.

  The leader of the Maratha keeps a stoic expression. Who can blame whom, when the emperors and men of power have already set an example? The Muslim invaders regard women and children as war booty. The Mughals alone have done enough damage.

  ‘Since when have we started considering humans as pillage? Abaji, if we behave like them, why dream of a swaraj?’ he asks sadly.

  Abaji casts down his eyes.

  ‘Unshackle them and take them to their quarters. Abaji, the subhedar and his son are our guests.’

  Abaji seems relieved.

  ‘Whenever they wish to leave, send a hundred escorts to take them to Bijapur. Treat the lady as a family member; give her clothes, bangles and enough food to last for the journey.’

  The subhedar stands up with a smile on his face. The young woman falls to her knees, quivers and says, ‘Shukran,’ thanking him in Arabic.

  There are sighs of relief and murmurs of approval all around.

  4

  Night has fallen over Bijapur. Only the men minding the streetlights scurry with their ladders to light them with torches. A few stray dogs howl in the dark. The avenues leading to Badi Sahiba’s palace are deserted. Khan Mohammed, the grand wazir and the general of the sultanate, is worried. Why would the Badi Sahiba summon me with such urgency? he wonders. And why would she send her royal guards to the north-east frontiers just to make sure that I come? Or is there something more? He wracks his brain as his palanquin moves towards the palace. She never summons her noblemen at such unearthly hours. The African warrior is anxious.

  He has given his life to the services of the late king and is as loyal to the Badi Sahiba. His wives and children live in Bijapur. The kingdom has given him wealth and fame beyond his imagination. Life has been tough in the recent past. Aurangzeb and his army had been
on the rampage. The Mughals have caused colossal damage to the cities, towns and villages of the sultanate’s north-east frontiers. But he has put in his best possible effort.

  He struggles to fight despair when he picks up the sound of galloping hooves in the distance. His horsemen always trot when approaching him, so he knows it’s not them. As understanding dawns on him, he breaks into a cold sweat. His pulse races as he looks out and sees shadows of approaching horsemen. The street is dimly lit and is lined by trees. Khan Mohammed pulls the sword from his scabbard and jumps out. The palanquin tilts with his weight. The bearers buckle and lose balance. The palanquin crashes loudly. The general’s horsemen have sensed danger, but it is too late. Before they can gather their wits they are surrounded by fully armoured horsemen. They are heavily outnumbered and the fight lasts only for a brief time.

  Khan Mohammed tries to run away but his fear makes him unsteady. His feet slip on the ground, gone wet with the blood of his people. He tries to get up, holding the hilt of his sword, but trips again and falls flat on the ground, eyes gazing at the sky. Within moments someone jumps over him to pin him down to the ground. All he sees is the shadows of men around him. Several swords go up in the air. He struggles but sees the gleaming blades come down on him.

  ‘Allah . . .’ he utters his last word as his blood forms streams on the street of his beloved Bijapur.

  CHAPTER NINE

  1

  The early morning prayer of fajr is over, and the muezzins from the nearby minarets have long gone back into the mosques. The eastern sky beyond the rocky hills turns orange. Aurangabad, the capital of the Mughal-occupied Deccan, shimmers under the early morning sun. It is spring, and the birds have gone berserk with their chirping. When the Nizamshahi was at its glory, Malik Ambar, the grand wazir of the kingdom, had transformed a small village called Kirki into heaven. Like an artist, he had painted its skyline with arches, domes, temple spires and minarets. Like a water god, he had created aqueducts to provide running water to mosques, palaces and gardens. When the Mughals had annexed the Nizamshahi, Aurangzeb, then just twenty, was made the subhedar of the Mughal-occupied Deccan. He gave a new name to Kirki and called it Aurangabad, the city of the throne, and made it his headquarters.

  Aurangzeb stands in the balcony of the Naukhanda Palace built on an elevated ground, and stares at his Deccan capital. He loves everything about the walled city of Aurangabad and its surroundings. It reminds him of his youthful days spent climbing the hill of Daulatabad Fort, visiting the caves of Elura or shooting tigers in the nearby forests. The valley of the watershed was his favourite haunt, where serene blue lakes reflected the azure sky covered with white herons. Those herons always reminded him of his pet, Sherbaaz, a tiger hawk.

  For a few years Aurangzeb had enjoyed using Sherbaaz to hunt partridges, and the bird had never let his master down. Aurangzeb could never forget the day he lost his pet. The sky was clear and he had flown Sherbaaz once again. Within moments, the hawk had caught a baby crow. Moments later a mob of crows had risen from somewhere like a smoke, as the air trembled with the harsh din of their cries. The black birds had darted forth in the direction of Sherbaaz. To Aurangzeb’s horror, some of them had rapidly descended with outstretched wings and pecked and clawed the bird-of-prey that had taken one of their own. As the bird had fallen, the prince had learnt a lesson that there is a thin line between being a victor and a victim. He had penned a verse back then:

  The world changes

  In a twinkle, in a breath

  A moment ago it was life

  Now it is death.

  The recall of his poem brings thoughts of Shivaji Bhosale. The rebel has entered the north Konkan and gone wild. The kafir is becoming a habitual plunderer and needs to be eliminated in a breath, before he wreaks havoc over the Deccan. Aurangzeb has dealt with such men before. A Bundela king called Juzhar and how he had chased the kafir fugitive through forests near Deogarh. Juzhar was soon captured and slain, his sons slaughtered . . .

  Aurangzeb has the urge to burn Shivaji Bhosale alive, or crush him under the feet of elephants. But this is not the time to hound Shivaji. More urgent things await him in the north. It is actually meaningless to think of the Deccan politics. What happens in the north will decide his future: it is either the throne or the grave!

  If Dara bhai becomes the emperor of Hindustan, he, as the new emperor will be symbolized by awarang or the throne, chhatr or the umbrella, shamsha which means the sun, alam, that is, the flag and kawakaba or the gilded globes. To challenge him, his name, or anything that represents him, would be a crime of sedition, punishable by death. The empire’s bureaucratic machinery will be his slave and the mansabdars will lick the floor he walks on. The jury at the Sharia court will twist the law in his favour. Dara bhai’s brothers, including Aurangzeb, will be put to death, and their children will breathe their last in the gloomy dungeons infested with rats and lice. They might even be forced to swallow large doses of opium and left to die rolling in their own filth.

  A very sullen Aurangzeb leaves his chamber, and as he crosses one cusped arch after another, countless teary-eyed eunuch slaves stand in rows and bow to him as deeply as they can. Aurangzeb does not bother to glance at the slightly feminine, turbaned slaves dressed in sober-coloured robes who have been his late wife’s confidants. He enters the opulent chamber of the late Dilras Banu. His wife’s bed is empty; a plump elderly woman sitting on the carpet near his wife’s bed gets up hastily. The infant she is holding is jolted out of his slumber and starts wailing loudly.

  ‘Allah!’ she exclaims and bows as much as her fat body allows, then straightens up and stretches out her arms to show the Mughal prince his fourth son who is yet to be named. The baby is all wrapped up in woollens. The newborn, who is a Sunni from his father’s side and a Shia from his mother’s side, has suddenly stopped wailing and has opened his eyes. Aurangzeb peers into those two brilliant pools of innocence and feels calm.

  ‘I will name him Mohammad Akbar, after my great-great-grandfather.’ This baby may turn out to be my most suitable successor. The thought flashes across his mind as his eyes wander beyond the woman who holds his infant son. From behind her, seven-year-old Azam stares at him. Aurangzeb leans forward and tumbles when he tries to touch his first son born to Dilras. The boy jumps with fright and disappears.

  There is not much left to do but to meet his second wife, Nawab bai. He crosses a few courtyards to reach the house of Muhammad Sultan’s mother. Seeing him at their doorstep, the guards kneel. He has no time to nod and rushes in to face the woman he has not seen for a while. Aurangzeb finds her looking old, her upper lip turned in a slight curl. Is she snarling? he wonders, and cannot believe that he once thought she was a beauty. He shakes his head in dismay and moves to sit on a large divan. The foyer is huge, covered with hand-knotted, sapphire-blue Kashmiri rugs and filled with carved furniture made of walnut wood, wrapped in ruby-red tapestry.

  Nawab bai stands in front of her husband of twenty-two years who sits awkwardly on her gilded divan as if he is being punished. Bitterness wells up in her heart, filling her with resentment. She tries hard not to show her emotions. It is the irony of life. A man’s love for a woman or vice-versa does not always grow with time but hate persists and swells. Just a few years ago, she had pined for his gaze.

  ‘Our Sultan won the battle of Hyderabad,’ she says, hoping that that might stir some emotions in him.

  ‘With the help of Mir Jumla,’ he comments wryly.

  He treats his own boys from her with contempt, his own flesh and blood. Her eyes bore into him. He is visiting her after many years and looks different. Time has changed him without mercy: his face is gaunt, almost vacant, his nose on the verge of resembling a knife blade, his brows starting to beetle. Life lived in the battlefields, she thinks, but is overwhelmed with self-pity. This man, her own husband, has avoided her as if she is an unintelligent, emotionless creature, lusted after but never loved. He has reduced her to being just a number who lives
in the imperial harem, an old, forgotten hag. She is shunned by the other women in the zenana who are Muslims by birth and who do not consider her a natural member of the royal seraglio. They call her the insignificant wife, making it sound cheaper than a concubine. But she has two sons to prove her legitimacy. It had not bothered her as long as her husband came to her apartments. But things have changed now.