3
Standing on the ramparts of the Rajgad citadel, Raja Shivaji glances at the vast expanse and the hills beyond. From the east, night descends like a raven waterfall. As he gazes at the abysmal slopes plunging beyond the western boundaries of Rajgad, he notices the orange sun, half-buried in the earth’s horizon. What will tomorrow witness—carnage or courage? There is not much time left. The Adilshahi general will soon reach Baramati. From there he plans to proceed thirty kos north-west to reach the foothills of this very fort. The mighty khan will break, slash and burn everything along his path. There is a chance to change the general’s mind while he is at Baramati. He must cancel his north-west journey and go fifteen kos south-west towards Wai.
Shivaji gazes at the distant hills of Torana and Lohagad forts and remembers how he had acquired them. He was fifteen, accompanied by the three Maratha friends who would die for him: Tana, Yesa and Baji Pasalkar. His two advisers, Sonoji Dabir and Dadaji Kondev, were by his side too. And then there was Palkar. Moroji Pinglay had just joined them. He had one hill in his possession, the hill of Murumbgad with the ruins of an ancient fort on its table. He longed for Torana, the fort above a steep hill ten kos south-west of Pune, at the source of the river Neera. There were deliberations and discussions. Along with Yesa, Tana and Baji Pasalkar, he had galloped towards Torana. They had scaled the exceedingly difficult hill by foot, dressed in their finest silk angirkhas and pearl-studded turbans. Sixty-year-old Baji with his white moustache was made to look like a military official of the Adilshahi.
They had pretended to be Adilshahi officials and had offered the keeper of Torana, an elderly Muslim, a hundred rupees and ten gold hones to leave the desolate place. The fort was in ruins—its outer walls had fallen, the quarters were damp and the woodwork infested with white ants. Even the courtyard was overgrown with weeds. The granaries were empty, and the ceilings had bats hanging upside down from them. Weather and erosion had turned the fortified bastions into abodes of predators. When Shivaji had ordered the repairing of Torana, there had been a miracle.
The diggers had discovered an old trunk full of ancient gold coins buried below a fallen turret. Some king had perhaps hidden his wealth in times of war. With that treasure, Shivaji could hire labourers working at Torana as well as Murumbgad, now called Rajgad. They had cleared the hilltops of overgrown bushes, rebuilt the walls and bastions, cleaned the mossy water tanks, repaired the inner offices and residential quarters and mounted new cannons on the ramparts. Soon the hill forts had men assigned to hold the fort in times of attack. The foothills were guarded by tribals living in the forests.
The news had soon reached Mohammed Adil Shah’s ears. Shivaji’s father had written a warning letter to reprimand him.
Dadaji, now old, worn-out and anxious, was on his deathbed. Shivaji had gone to see him and it had turned out to be their last meeting. ‘What can I say? I am a mere servant of your father, and your father works for the king. You must be loyal to the king, but whatever you do, look after the cultivators, the real children of this soil. Do not put them all in one basket. Levy taxes according to their soil, availability of water and what they produce. Think of variables like seasons, rains and human errors, and do not rely on permanent land assessments. This soil is Kali Aai, our black mother.’ The old man had died after giving him the last advice.
Another blow came immediately; Mohammed Adil Shah had sent his army to eliminate him. He could never forget his first battle fought at Purandar. The Adilshahi was defeated, Muse Khan was killed. Shivaji lost his old guard. Baji Pasalkar was killed while chasing the Adilshahi army.
And this is the second battle. Who will be the victor and who will be the vanquished?
Shivaji searches the sky as if to decipher God’s message. Around him, a strong draught of chill air slithers like the floating spirit of a furious serpent eager to strike. He shivers at the thought of having to meet Sayee, perhaps for the last time. Tomorrow he would be gone to the valley of Jawali. Walking down the stairs, his carefully constructed emotional fortifications collapse in a pile of sorrow.
When he enters Sayee’s chamber in Daruni Palace, it is dark. She lies on the bed like someone waiting for death. Hearing his footsteps, she opens her eyes. Moving closer, he notices that her eyes exude grief, deep and longing.
‘For Sambhaji,’ she whispers, ‘you are both his father and his mother from now on. May God bestow upon you a long life, and in the coming battle against the sultanate, may you emerge victorious.’
‘I hope so too.’
‘Hopes,’ she sighs and continues in a quivering voice, ‘are the shackles of life, defiant to everything, including death. Death too bows down to these chains.’
‘You always confuse me, don’t you?’
‘This is what you have taught me,’ she smiles weakly and continues. ‘But it is very simple. You are my God, the owner of my destiny and the master of the vermillion that adorns my forehead. I have always wished that you light my pyre. Women have this habit of making even their deaths a prisoner of their hopes.’
‘I shall do all that you hope for.’
‘I have no such wish now as I have set my death free from the fetters of hope. It has already granted me my most cherished wish that is longed for and prayed for by every Hindu woman . . .’
‘Sayee . . .’ he interrupts, his throat tight, ‘I haven’t done anything for you. I have always been away.’
‘It is about being a part of your life,’ she says, her eyes shining with tears, ‘it is about your life touching mine.’
‘Even at a tangent?’
She keeps silent as if she is contemplating the greater purpose of her short existence. The lamp has suddenly dimmed. He looks away in desperation, in hope, that all this is just a nightmare.
‘Sayee . . . Don’t go. Please don’t leave me!’ he pleads, swallowing a sob.
‘We always wish to control things that are beyond us and we always let go of things that are within our reach.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Like my death and your life. It is time for you to take control. This is the first time that they have not dismissed you as a mere rebel but have sent such a huge army. This is the first time that they have regarded you as a proper enemy. Regard that as a tribute to your rising power. I am glad that this has happened before I am gone.’
‘What about Sambhaji?’
‘He has you,’ she quips, her words now barely audible.
He holds her close to his heart as her thin frame shivers with fever and weakness.
‘When we married, we were just children. We grew up together. Your ideas initially surprised me. Our fathers worked for the sultanate and you were born to serve the masters of your father—that was your duty, your karma. But you charted a new path, drew new frontiers of swaraj that did not exist,’ she says softly but with pride.
He looks down at his dying wife, takes her hands in his and for the first time in eighteen years of their married life declares, ‘I love you, Sayee. I love you so much.’
Unexpectedly, the room is filled with Sayee’s laughter. ‘I have never believed you capable of saying such romantic things.’
He notices the familiar twinge of mischief in her eyes.
Shaken, he too joins her and laughs, holding her hands close to his heart.
A little later, he visits his mother. Jija bai is in her prayer room.
‘Ma sahib,’ he says softly and she quickly turns around, as if she has been waiting for him all along. He touches her feet and settles near her. She looks at his face as if trying to remember the details. And despite her earlier resolve, she asks, ‘Are you sure that there is no possibility of declaring a truce?’
‘No, Ma sahib, there is no choice now.’ His eyes take in the deity of Tuljapur Bhavani, a replica of the original from the temple in the hills of Tuljapur town on the western borders of the sultanate.
Goddess Bhavani, the destroyer avatar of Goddess Parvati, God Shiva’s wife, is known as the
Shakti Peetha, a source of primal energy. Her eight hands hold eight weapons, but her eyes inspire dread and fear. They seem to peel off the outer layers of his being and strike his soul. The force of her gaze becomes tangible, crushing all his doubts to pulp.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1
Despite a few stray clouds, the sky above Pratapgad is clear. The meandering wall fortified with enormous bastions creates an illusion of a crown of black iron metal fixed on the head of a tribal king. The gigantic fort extensions spread out like his long, muscular arms. Below lie the dense forests of the valley. At the upper fort, several sentinels carrying javelins have formed two semicircles around huge bastions guarding the citadel. Peshwa Moroji Pinglay glances at the guards to be sure. They are smartly attired in their tight breeches and brocaded angirkhas. Their Turkish turbans look like small crimson boats on their heads. Satisfied, he goes back to the sadar, a large assembly chamber built with stones and supported by pillars. A few servants are busy placing tall brass samayee lamps in the corners. A short divan has been placed at the northern side of the room, near a large window towards the west. A small desk for the scribe stands facing the open window.
The first to arrive are Sonoji Dabir, his son Trimbak Dabir, and surnis Annaji Datto. A little later, the newly appointed secretary—scribe Balaji Avji, who was rescued from the sea—walks in with an inkpot, a notebook and a long feather with a nib. They have been called to Jawali by Raja Shivaji. They know why. Their faces are flushed with admiration for the newly built fort. They wonder at the pillars rising above the stone pedestals, strings of fresh jasmine and marigold draped around them, the ceiling of polished wooden beams, an enamelled glass chandelier bound to gilded chains, its light falling gracefully on the black basalt floor covered at places with carpets and the bolsters that are draped in silk cases neatly lined up near the walls.
The nervous whispers of the men fill the room. Ibrahim Khan who has quit the service of the Adilshahi to join the Maratha army has come from Konkan dressed in a long, green jama and a shining kimoush turban. Sarnobat Palkar and the infantry commanders Tanaji and Yesaji have arrived from Maval. The drums start beating and as the voices of the guards announcing his arrival wither in the air, Shivaji walks in taking long strides and stands before the board.
‘Be seated,’ says the leader of the Marathas. His men obey; they either sit cross-legged or on their knees, their gaze fixed on him. It is no longer a matter of plundering an isolated caravan near Kalyan, or fighting a small battle with jagirdars like Morey. It is the matter of an impending confrontation with the Adilshahi general and his army. There is the chance that they will perish, and their families will be killed, abducted and enslaved. Tales of Afzal Khan’s strength and merciless nature have reached their ears and filled their hearts with dread.
In the depth of his heart, Shivaji knows that his men may urge him to make peace. He feels their gaze, and knows that they are searching his face for traces of panic.
‘The battle is at our door. Afzal Khan is already in our territory and has reached Baramati, a fifty kos north-east from this very fort. Soon his war animals will stamp our terrain turning it into a battlefield, sodden with blood and strewn with limbs. Rumour says that after camping for a week in Baramati he intends to march towards Pune. If he does, his enormous cavalcade will destroy our jagir, the core of our budding nation. His archers have already turned easy with their bows, stretching them and letting the arrows fly at the peasants working in the fields.
‘And we have done nothing to stop him,’ snaps Dabir.
‘What do you want me to do, venture out to oppose him in the open?’ Shivaji asks with a sneer that he does not bother to hide. ‘That is precisely what Afzal wants.’
‘A few things have already been done.’ Palkar, who stands near Pinglay, announces in a distinct tone. ‘All our forts are well manned. Our intelligence system has been put to work. Bahirji Naik and his men have infiltrated the Adilshahi general’s army.’
Shivaji nods. Palkar has been on the move for the past few months, visiting hill forts of Kondana, Purandar, Torana, Lohagad and others. He has briefed each of the fort commanders to keep their granaries stuffed with enough grains, salt, oil as well as medicines and has made sure that they know about the calibre, mobility and range of the cannons mounted on their ramparts. He has personally inspected the garrisons, taken stock of the storehouses and checked the quality of the gunpowder and cast-iron projectiles. During his innumerable meetings with the tribals at the foothills of those forts, he has made sure that they keep a constant vigil on the forest trails leading to the fort.
‘Subhedar Abaji Sondev guards our western borders from Kalyan, Murarbaji, our eastern borders from Purandar Fort and Firangoji Narsala our northern borders from Chakan Fort,’ Palkar assures the gathering.
‘Are we then preparing for war? Is there no possibility of a treaty?’ Pinglay asks anxiously.
Shivaji stares at his peshwa and speaks in words loud and clear, ‘A treaty with Afzal Khan? Do you not know what happened to Kasturiranga, the king of Sira, when he had gone to Afzal Khan to make his submission, to my brother who had trusted Afzal Khan and waited in the trenches for the reinforcements to arrive or to the Adilshahi’s loyal wazir, Khan Mohammad? All killed, brutally and cunningly.’
‘Then war is the only option,’ Dabir says, his face shrivelled with worry. ‘Now when we raise our sword against the king, the doors of any kind of treaty with the Adilshahi will be forever closed. In this world of Islamic empires and the kingdoms, we have no one to turn to, to fall back on.’
Shivaji closes his eyes briefly and says in a steady voice, ‘Speculating about the future will only lead to confusion. We must find out what Afzal Khan seeks—a treaty or my head. But while doing so we must also prepare for war.’
Palkar takes over. ‘The first step is to choose our battleground for it can turn into a dangerous zone, where people will be killed, houses destroyed, farmlands flattened and barns set on fire.’
‘What do you mean?’ Pinglay stares at Palkar.
‘I shall explain.’ Shivaji intervenes as his eyes sparkle. ‘In our jagir, the grasses of sorghum, pearl millets, gram and horse gram have already begun to grow. If Afzal takes his army towards Pune, the peasants will be slaughtered and their fields looted. Their morale, their livelihood, their families and their cattle will be trampled under the hooves of the khan’s war animals. We must stop him from entering the region around Pune.’
‘Do we have a choice?’ Dabir asks.
Balaji Avji sitting behind the small desk tries to scribble the essence of the discussions. Shivaji remains silent for a while and says, ‘We do.’
Dabir smiles doubtfully.
‘What if Afzal Khan cancels his plans to go to Pune and steers his cavalcade towards Wai, the province he governs as a subhedar?’ Shivaji suggests. ‘He knows I am here. He had sent a few scouts to confirm the news. The scouts were brought here by Bahirji’s men who had posed as guides. And the general’s men have seen me at the foothills of this fort. To be very precise, it was arranged that they see me here.’
Dabir nods appreciatively. If Afzal wants to extract a treaty on his terms, he will first destroy the region to show his might. But if he wants Raja Shivaji’s head, he will steer his army towards Jawali as the valley is just ten kos east of Wai.
‘What if he decides to proceed towards Pune? What then is our plan of action?’ Pinglay inquires.
‘That is unlikely, and to analyse why so, we must look beyond what’s obvious,’ Shivaji replies. ‘The Mughal pose a far greater threat to Adilshahi than we do. With Aurangzeb busy warring with his brothers, logically, Ali Adil Shah should have tried to recover his military strongholds lost to the Mughal. Instead, he has unleashed his army towards us. What does that say?’
Palkar answers, ‘There is a sequence. Ali Adil Shah has renewed the old peace treaty with Aurangzeb, reinforcing their status as a tributary state of the empire. It is also well known tha
t Aurangzeb is furious with us. We have plundered his region. He had ordered his army to waste our villages, slay our people without pity and plunder the region. But then he had to go north to fight the war of succession, so he must have commanded the Adilshahi king to deal with Raja Shivaji. Perhaps our Raja’s elimination is one of the clauses in their peace treaty.’
Shivaji says softly, ‘Aurangzeb is a man on a mission. I can actually see what his vision is. Such a man will not accept the “rise of a kafir”. He must have given an ultimatum to Ali: “Kill Shivaji or else”.’
‘May I say something?’ Ibrahim Khan requests permission, his handsome face serious. He hails from Afghanistan and is a Shia Muslim. Previously a cavalry commander in the Adilshahi army, he has witnessed many a court intrigue. He was in the court of Kalyan when Shivaji had shown respect for the captive woman. It was then that he had decided to leave the king’s army along with his five hundred Pashtun horsemen to join the leader of the Marathas. ‘This religious zeal is an act. Had they been so spiritually inclined, they would have become avliyas, pirs or fakirs. When politically powerful men talk of religion, they use it as a weapon to gain power. Aurangzeb has incited the empire’s military men, especially the orthodox, against his own brother Dara Shikoh, calling him a heretic. He does not want the other powerful kafirs, for that is what he calls them, like the Sikhs, the Rajputs, the Bundelas, the Marathas and others, to take cue and rise against the empire. He wants to destroy the man who has set a dangerous precedent. He plans to achieve his objective through Ali Adil Shah, who is eager to please the emperor-to-be to keep his sultanate safe from further Mughal invasions.’
The others who still have trouble trusting Ibrahim gape at him while Raja Shivaji smiles and says, ‘What Ibrahim says is true. That is the reason why Afzal will come to Wai. It is Aurangzeb’s wish to capture or kill me, and his wish is the Adilshahi king’s command!’
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