Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  CHAPTER TEN

  1

  It is winter. A few kos west of Kalyan, Shivaji and his men—Niraji Raoji, Abaji Sondev and Tanaji Malusare—stand in the compound of a shipyard. Niraji is a scholar in subjects like law, history and finance, and has been working for Shivaji as an adviser for several years. His advice is now needed direly. The Maratha navy is being established. The investment is huge and the returns are not immediate. Shivaji slowly shifts his gaze towards the Ulhas river and smiles. He is fascinated by its wide girth—a perfect waterway for sleek, predatory vessels to enter the wide expanse of the open sea, guard the coast and return quickly to safety if need be. It is a moment of triumph.

  This river, the surrounding teak forests and the twenty-five hill forts of north Konkan were initially a part of the Nizamshahi. After its annexation more than twenty years ago, in a treaty signed by the Mughal emperor and Adil Shah, the region became a part of the Adilshahi. The Adilshahi rulers recently handed it over to the Mughals hoping for another peace treaty. But there is trouble in the north and Aurangzeb has already reached Aurangabad. Many of his mansabdars have been called back to Agra. Circumstances have given Shivaji the perfect chance to seize north Konkan without any opposition from the mighty Mughal.

  ‘They never did understand the strategic importance of this region,’ Niraji says softly. He has been studying the military importance of Konkan for a while now. He has been meeting the local fishermen to know more about the coastline and the pirate ships that prowl the waters. Niraji is surprised by the natural ports in the terrain. Tanaji, who stands behind the scholar, listens to the conversation between Shivaji and Niraji with interest. He nods. He too has been on a mission to search for the remote villages at the foothills of the mountains towards the eastern side of north Konkan. The region is covered with giant teak trees with layered leafy tops. The forest is intersected by rivers plunging down from the mountains. Along with his two thousand footmen, he has been busy laying tracks to improve the transport of fallen teak trunks to Kalyan. He is here to see their first shipyard.

  Shivaji starts walking away from the river and towards the lone massive structure that stands in the middle of the open yard. His men and a few guards follow him. Their eyes scan the area, trained to spot troubles—a hiding archer or a spearman. It is stiflingly warm inside the enormous foyer stuffed with shipbuilding material. The roof is made of wood and is held up by broad brick pillars supporting parallel bays to park smaller boats. At the far end, countless logs of wood are neatly piled against the wall and the floor is covered with masts, oars, ribs, mallets, augurs and boat bases. A large wooden table in the middle is piled with paper sheets, compasses, measurements tapes, pencils, rulers, inkpots, penknives and magnifying lenses. A few men are seen working around a short wooden table.

  Rue De Guevera, the Portuguese ship engineer, awaits his new master. The firang engineer has recently started working for Shivaji, much against the wishes of the Portuguese viceroy of Goa.

  People have started fussing near the entrance. Some of his Indian carpenters talk excitedly, as they always do when Raja Shivaji Bhosale arrives with his men. Guevera’s assistants also promptly leave their tools and stand at attention.

  ‘Bomdia!’ Guevera bows deep and greets the brown-eyed short man who wears a slanting turban embellished with pearl strings. Shivaji smiles briefly and starts talking rapidly. The translator, a native Catholic who had been chatting with Guevera’s men, jumps forward.

  ‘As we have discussed, the frigates must be lightweight, not more than a hundred and fifty tons—even smaller will do—so that they can seek refuge under every shelter the land offers, deep or shallow, and can anchor near every port, big or small. Make sure that they are driven by sails as well as oars. Make them as manoeuvrable as possible. Speed is vital. Have a deck or two that will be able to carry a principle battery of carriage-mounted guns and a hundred sailors and fighters put together.’

  The interpreter, who has taken off his cap to wipe his sweaty head, is trying to keep pace, fumbling occasionally.

  They have discussed the specifications before, but Shivaji wants to be very sure. Guevera does not mind the continuous hail of instructions. He likes the repetition as it gives him a clear vision of what needs to be done.

  Shivaji puts forth a new requirement. ‘Make them as lightweight as possible, with not more than two masts. We must be able to tow them with row boats.’

  ‘We need twenty such ships within a year,’ announces a man in an official manner. Guevera had not noticed him till then—a thin, immaculately dressed Brahmin wearing a huge red turban, and with eyes as brown as his master’s.

  The demand is stiff and the time insufficient, despite his hundred technicians and countless artisans at work day and night. He quickly calculates: twenty ships made will cost one hundred and twenty thousand rupees, which is equal to one hundred ser of gold. He and his men earn a hefty percentage. He wonders how rich the native man is. Guevera looks at his assistants who, despite his warnings, listen in on the conversation. One of the bolder ones whispers, ‘We will be able to submit the designs in four weeks.’

  ‘Make your design both on paper and as models carved in wood and iron. Send them to us as soon as you finish,’ says Shivaji with an air of finality. The meeting is over. The engineer watches his employer leave without waiting for his acknowledgement.

  Niraji knows what Guevera thinks. Following social etiquettes is not his master’s strong point, and especially not when the discussions are about specific tasks. As he follows Shivaji to the exit, Tanaji and his men walk behind them. They walk through the dock cramped with the hulls of two half-built battleships. The workers glance at their new ruler with interest as he inspects the supporting wooden framework around the hull. The scaffoldings are latticed, distinctly foreign in style. Shivaji gazes at the ramp, trying to gauge if he can leap over it. A labourer applying caulking to the fixed panels swiftly moves across and gives him a hand. The leader of the Marathas walks over the ramp built alongside the hull of one of the ships. Fascinated, he looks around at the entire yard laid out before him. At the far end, under the shade of a huge banyan tree, carpenters saw timber as workers carry heavy beams of teak on their shoulders to the workshop.

  Niraji and Abaji march alongside the ramp. Tanaji and the guards follow. Shivaji stops abruptly to touch a wood panel and says, ‘I believed that only the hilt of a sword or the saddle of a horse talk to you when you touch them, but even these planks of the ship have a lot to say.’

  ‘And what do they planks say?’ Niraji asks with a faint smile.

  ‘They whisper that they are the parts of a powerful war galley. Within months, as a battleship, they will sail the waters of the Ulhas to glide into the ocean via the creek of Vasai. Despite fewer masts, once the sails are fully spread, the battleship, loaded with cannon, will cause ripples of terror in the waters of the ocean,’ Shivaji grins.

  Niraji does not comment. The firangs rule the sea; they have colonies from the Cape-of-Good-Hope to Macau in China. Most of the important ports between Diu in the north of Konkan and Kochi in the south belong to them, with Goa as their capital.

  ‘I know what you are thinking, Niraji,’ Shivaji says. ‘I don’t deny that this is just the beginning for us. We will soon take over the trade, or at least a part of it.’

  Niraji nods. He has discussed this issue with Raja Shivaji. It is about the essentials of life. Salt is harvested and spices are grown in Konkan. They need to be transported from one port to another and then carried by the oxen to the cities on the mountain plateaus through the tracks that run through Jawali. The merchants are mostly natives and are compelled to pay hefty fee for passports to the firangs to set sail. Siddi pirates attack their ships. Jagirdars like Morey fleece them when their oxen carrying goods cross the mountains. Raja Shivaji dreams of providing the natives with merchant ships at affordable costs and levying reasonable taxes. He also wants to do away with the passports.

  The men have rea
ched the end of the shipyard. They stand under the coconut trees at the edge of the yard. Cool shadows of the enormous leaves dance on the ground. Despite winter, the breeze has turned warm and humid. Somewhere in the nearby bushes a lark repeatedly lets out melodious whistles.

  ‘Ship-building is only the first step; we will have to take over the ports by sword,’ Raja Shivaji says.

  Niraji looks at him and nods. The dream of swaraj needs funds. The main legitimate sources of money are land revenue, road toll collection and tribute paid by the vassal kings. Konkan is blessed with groves of coconut. It has orchards of banana, mango, jackfruit, papaya, jamun, gooseberry and cashew. Spices grow in abundance and quality salt is processed from the sea. The forests in the east are mostly teak trees. Teakwood from here is transported to different countries in order to build ships.

  ‘Swaraj is His wish, but there are some realities that we must confront, especially to reduce our dependence on the watandars. Shivaji says and continues.

  ‘That means we pay our military men and our revenue officials every month, directly from our treasury. Our horseman gets five rupees as monthly salary. The horse is owned by the state. Ten thousand horses need sixty thousand ser of grain and fodder every day for survival. Our infantrymen too are on our payroll. The peasants in our regions are provided with farm animals, instruments and quality seeds. If the monsoons fail, we shouldn’t charge revenue. From where will we get the funds from?

  Niraji clears his throat but keeps mum. The present land revenue is just enough to maintain their tiny military. Konkan provides opportunities in terms of taxes on salt, spices and wood. The textile industry has flourished in the natural harbours of Konkan. Its skilled weavers spin silk and cotton fabric. Shiploads of their satin, taffeta and muslin bales leave the moors of Konkan for the rest of the world. They are sold mostly to emperors and kings.

  ‘Another way to raise funds is to provide ships to our sea merchants. The money can be used to build ports, war ships and sea forts,’ Shivaji says.

  ‘We have failed to conquer Janjira,’ Abaji reminds him gently.

  ‘We will take it one day, or build another equally invincible sea fort in the near future to keep them under control. You have a lot of work to do, Abaji. You will be our subhedar of Kalyan.’ There is no hint of sarcasm in Shivaji’s words.

  Abaji’s eyes shine.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Tanaji says, ‘Raghunathji has rescued a young boy named Balaji Avji of the Prabhu community from the sea. He was on the slave ship of the Siddis. The boy has lofty dreams; he wants to work as a scribe for you.’

  ‘How many could have been rescued, and how many need yet to be rescued from this beautiful coast with an ugly past!’ Shivaji says bitterly.

  ‘Where is Raghunathji now?’ Niraji inquires.

  ‘He has gone to Aurangabad to meet with Aurangzeb. All sorts of rumours have been floating in the Deccan about the emperor’s health. People say that Aurangzeb may go north, to Agra. Without him in the Deccan, the Adilshahi rulers will have time to deal with us. We need the Mughal backing more than ever before,’ Shivaji says.

  Niraji raises his brows. ‘Will Aurangzeb entertain him?’ he asks.

  ‘This is politics. We deal with it as it comes.’

  2

  ‘Summon Shiva Bhosale’s man, with two armed guards on either side, and keep the sentinels posted around the tent. Ask them to be alert,’ Aurangzeb says loudly to Mutamad who is standing at the entrance. Then he gathers himself on his divan and picks up his rosary beads lying on a small table next to him, dropping his eyelids like flags flying at half-mast.

  Raghunath is nervous. He has ridden seventy-five kos northwards from Rajgad to reach here. The journey had not been easy. But what he has seen after reaching his destination has made him weak with anxiety. It is a massive military camp, with the green tents of the Muslim squadrons and the saffron tents of the Rajput squadrons, and animal stables at the periphery that seem to extend to the horizon. There are foreigners in the camp too, tall and blue-eyed men hailing from Afghanistan and beyond, and white men from Europe. Raghunath feels overwhelmed on seeing the weapon-smiths and their portable forges, cartloads of cattle and goats that are fed on the camp, and the markets stuffed with all possible kinds of things.

  In contrast, he is surprised to see the sparse tent of Aurangzeb, the viceroy of the Mughal-occupied Deccan. Unlike a few Muslim men of importance whom he had met in the past, the third prince, with his long silvery beard, looks genteel. His divan lacks grandeur and he sits wearing a white, full-sleeved robe and a matching turban. His fingers count the beads of his tesbih. His eyes are half-closed, as if he is praying.

  ‘I, the humble vakeel of Raja Shivaji Bhosale, bow to Your Imperial Highness, who is also the esteemed imperial subhedar of the Deccan.’

  Aurangzeb feels the visitor’s gaze and knows that he is dealing with a cunning and intelligent man. Shiva’s vakeel has come for some shameless diplomacy.

  ‘My master, Raja Shivaji Bhosale, asks for your pardon,’ Raghunath does not waste time and bows as deep as he can. This is another Maratha trait that Aurangzeb hates. No small talk, no pleasantries, no foreplay with words. The Marathas are cunning, like sly foxes hiding in the shadows of tall grass, not showing themselves to the world but gauging it from afar.

  Raghunath tries to look into Aurangzeb’s eyes, concealed behind his drooping lids, for a hint of a reaction, hoping the Mughal prince will grace him by locking eyes with him, but it does not happen, not then at least.

  ‘Are you the one who killed Morey?’ he hears a voice, deep and resonant.

  ‘It was in self-defence, my prince,’ Raghunath says cautiously. He speaks Urdu slowly, with a Deccan accent, as if he first thinks in his tongue, and then translates to Urdu to speak.

  ‘And the robbery in broad daylight ordained by your raja at Kalyan?’ Aurangzeb asks harshly, as if he has been waiting to ask this question.

  ‘The wealth of Kalyan belongs to the imperial treasury, my prince. The sultanate rulers had ceded the land to the empire but their governor was a thief fleeing with the treasure,’ announces the vakeel without wincing or showing any guilt.

  ‘Is Shiva an imperial regent who must worry about us?’

  ‘He aspires to be, Your Imperial Highness,’ Raghunath says. His dark eyes are fixed on Aurangzeb who suddenly raises his eyelids. His pale irises make the vakeel’s hair stand on end.

  ‘If he is an aspirant then he is not our enemy, he is our servant-to-be. And so his attack on the imperial terrain is akin to treason, an act of sedition, punishable only by death.’

  Raghunath replies, his voice steady, ‘That mistake has changed my master’s life. Since then he has started protecting the imperial interests as if he already is an imperial regent.’

  Aurangzeb stares at the vakeel with disbelief.

  ‘What he did is still punishable by death. He raised his sword against the Islamic empire, plundered our region . . . . . .it is akin to waging war against God!’

  Raghunath bites his lip. It is futile to debate. Aurangzeb might bring out a list of all that is punishable by death according to sharia law, the path to be followed. The first crime in the list would possibly be being an infidel, that is, he might say, akin to defying the existence of God.

  The vakeel clears his throat, ‘If the imperial prince could officially grant him all the villages and forts in Raja Shivaji’s possession, he would do everything in his capacity to guard the southern frontiers of the empire in the Deccan.’

  ‘Even depositing all the funds wrenched from Mullah Ahmed into the imperial treasury?’ Aurangzeb cuts in.

  ‘Yes, immediately after the official recognition is granted.’ Raghunath is quick.

  Aurangzeb shudders with rage. He wants to violently shake the vakeel, slap him, slay him and feed him to the wolves. But his priorities have changed. He must deploy his military force to tackle bigger foes. The empire is at stake.

  ‘Mashallah! Tell me what makes Sh
iva think that we need his help?’

  ‘It is more about serving you than helping you, my esteemed prince.’

  Shiva Bhosale’s vakeel is a clever scoundrel. And the whole lot of them, the Marathas, are like the mountain rats. Aurangzeb has heard that the rats survive due to their strong sense of smell. It helps them gather information. It is possible that Shiva has smelled the emperor’s illness, and has assumed that he, Aurangzeb, will be gone for a long time. In his absence, the Adilshahi army, free from the Mughal aggressions, will turn their military against them. If he, Aurangzeb, yields now, showing solidarity, then the story might be different. Shiva needs him more than he needs Shiva. Smart move. He needs time to grow stronger.

  ‘It is his wish to serve us then. Despite the grave crimes committed by Shiva, we may consider his request. We’ll put him and his cavalry to use—someplace somewhere. We shall send him an official letter sometime in the future.’ Aurangzeb says in a voice devoid of any emotion while he counts his beads slowly and deliberately. The prince has spoken, the vakeel has been dismissed.

  After Raghunath leaves, Aurangzeb starts dictating a letter. The letter is for the Badi Sahiba. She needs proper warning. The woman has been writing to the emperor to gain sympathy and support.

  He dictates:

  Be advised. You have paid the initial tribute money after you turned our tributary state more than twenty years ago. We have been ignoring the arrears. But now you have established contact with the emperor. You have promised him that you will pay all the arrears directly to him, casting me aside—I, the imperial subhedar of the Deccan! What do you think? The emperor will protect you from me? And that is not all; you have allowed the Deccan to become a breeding ground for the kafir rebels. Do not forget that you have renewed the peace treaty with us and have promised us part of the Nizamshahi territory taken by you twenty years ago. But that region is no longer under your control. And now the region of Kalyan is also lost. Eliminate Shiva. You may take the help from Shiva’s enemies or forge an alliance with Siddis of Janjira if need be. You have defied Islam by adopting a son and making him the king. Do what I say, for if you don’t, we will take over Bijapur by force. Your city will burn like a kafir’s pyre, and your king will die a pathetic death in our dungeons.