Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  ‘Afzal will reach Wai in a week or so. The monsoon season is upon us. It is impossible for any army to move in the direction of Jawali from Wai. During the monsoons, this valley turns into a water trap as its rivers are flooded, mountain trails blocked by landslides and slopes covered by wild vegetation. The locals say that even the wings of the flying birds turn mossy,’ says Palkar.

  ‘Then this valley will be our ranangan, our battlefield!’ Shivaji announces.

  Palkar walks near the board and points to the map and explains, his index finger forming a trail. ‘Wai may be just ten kos from this fort, but to reach here one has to travel twenty kos across the mountains and valleys, hiking a steady climb to reach the plateau of Mahabaleshwar and then braving the abrupt descent from the ghats of Radatondi. As we know, radatondi means crying face, and this trail makes even the mountain men weep.’

  Dabir comments, ‘If Afzal Khan wants Raja Shivaji, he will come to Wai. But what will make him undertake the perilous expedition to reach the ranangan of our choice? Surely he knows the valley, considering that he has been the subhedar of Wai for the past ten years. He may insist that he meets Raja in his den, at Wai . . .’

  ‘Yes, he will want to do that. But we will invite him to Jawali,’ Shivaji says nonchalantly.

  ‘All this happens only if Afzal Khan is a dimwit. It beats all logic,’ says Dabir sharply.

  Shivaji closes his eyes for a moment. Then he speaks, ‘Even psychology takes a different form when battles loom ahead. Wars defy logic. Ali Adil Shah is too young and is a man of finance and not of battles. It has already been months since Afzal Khan has left Bijapur. He must have already spent lakhs of rupees. By the time we invite him to Jawali he would have wasted three more months of monsoon. The king will be impatient for the returns on his investment.’

  ‘Will Afzal Khan’s advisers let him jump into our trap?’ Dabir challenges.

  It is Ibrahim who responds. ‘Afzal Khan is an autocrat and does what he wants. Nobody advises him. If someone attempts to, he makes fun of him.’

  ‘How many men do we need and have?’ Yesaji asks hesitantly.

  ‘It is not about how many, it is about the kind they are. That is why we want all of you to pick up mountain men and the rock climbers from your forces and bring them to the field. We want numbers from each of you in two weeks,’ Palkar dictates.

  ‘Call for woodcutters, grain traders, butchers and cooks from the nearby villages. Let it seem like we are expecting thousands of guests and have to supply the general’s army with firewood, grains, meat, spices and even wine. No costs must be spared,’ Shivaji slowly unfolds his plan.

  ‘Are you planning to feed his army?’ Anna Datto asks, incredulous. Niloji Sondev, whom Anna Datto reports to, is a very strict finance man. The accounts are closed annually and balance payments due by the state are either paid in cash or by bills on the collection of revenue. The deficit caused by this sudden and huge expense will have to be worked out by him.

  ‘Not just the army, even his war animals.’

  ‘It is an enormously expensive gamble,’ worries Anna Datto; he knows that the expense may run into thousands of rupees, if not hundreds of thousands.

  ‘You seem to have even planned to provide him with servants, maids and shikaldars to sharpen their blades to chop us swiftly!’ Sonoji Dabir says with sarcasm.

  ‘Yes, that’s the plan. And if we win the battle, Annaji will have no deficit, only surplus. Ideally, spoils of war must foot the bills of our wars,’ Shivaji quips, but Annaji does not look impressed. ‘Annaji, when we built this very fort, questions were raised regarding the huge funds being invested. The fort’s remoteness, its inaccessibility, its location in this perilous valley where enemy armies may not even dare enter were the issues. Remember, if we can win this battle because of this fort, just this battle, the fort has served its purpose. Military investments are not a gamble; they form the thin lines between victory and defeat.’

  ‘And who will serve as the brilliant vakeel to hold meetings and discussions with the mighty Afzal?’ Dabir’s interest is piqued.

  ‘I have someone in mind.’ Shivaji says and claps his hands.

  Two guards enter, bringing a man along.

  ‘For this operation, we have chosen him as our vakeel who will deal with the mighty general. He will tackle Afzal Khan and bring him to Jawali, where the offenders will be forced to become the defenders and the defenders will get a chance to be the offenders,’ announces Raja Shivaji as the men sitting before him blink in disbelief.

  Gopinath Bokil, the vakeel being entrusted with this crucial task, is a frail old Brahmin who has lost all his teeth, literally and metaphorically.

  2

  The rambling Shalimar Gardens in the northwest suburb of Dilli look freshly drenched by the recent bout of rains. The ponds and lakes are filled with clean blue waters, partially hidden under blooming lotuses and their large, round leaves. Arches built over the canals are decorated with strings of marigold, while swans with snow-white plumage float in pairs like sail boats. Large numbers of peacocks forage and leap in the shades of enormous fruit trees. The apartment buildings near the central Sheesh Mahal are crowded with personal guests invited by Aurangzeb. They are looked after by well-attired servants who prepare sherbets and black kahva as welcome drinks and hookahs to smoke.

  The procession starts with the deafening din of drums, tambourines and trumpets. The skirting of the tree-lined avenue running through the sprawling garden is packed with people. A long file of ceremonial elephants adorned with gilded chains and dangling bells trundle from the garden’s southern gate to reach the Sheesh Mahal. The mahouts are in red silk tunics and turbans, their javelins resting on their shoulders glittering with diamonds. Their ornately decorated tuskers carry an imperial benchmark of polished balls slung from a pole, the ensigns of the Ottoman empire. The men on other elephants carry the various symbols of a Mughal emperor, made of silver and gold. The emblems are of the sun, an upraised hand, scales of justice, a fish, a tiger’s head and a horse’s head. Behind them, horsemen ride smartly, carrying silver maces. They are followed by the dense columns of uniformed footmen, musketeers, artillerymen and the scouts. The cavalcade moves through the barricaded path. Throngs of noblemen dressed impeccably in silk robes and colourful headgears walk solemnly behind the footmen. They are followed by others carrying an hourglass, a gong and a hammer to tell the time. At the end trundles a huge, caparisoned elephant, carrying a gilded throne on its back. Aurangzeb sits on the chair as his eyes survey his subjects who jostle and push each other to get a glimpse of their master on his coronation day. Behind him, on a large wooden platform, an elderly man stands holding the backrest of the throne. It is Uncle Abu Talib, alias Shaista Khan.

  But the emperor-to-be is not exactly brimming with happiness. His heart is not filled with joy, and his mind is full of worries.

  Dara bhai has been seen wandering on the banks of the river Sutlej in Punjab. The vanquished prince might have headed for Bolan Pass, more than five hundred kos north-west of Agra, and may travel across the pass to reach Persia. The Persian emperor likes Dara bhai and they both might form an alliance to attack Dilli. On the other hand, religious men, the sayyids, mullahs, imams and fakirs of Mecca will not recognize him as the new emperor if the former is still alive. He has already sent forty-five thousand ashrafi mohurs to Syed Mir Ibrahim of Mecca. There are some things that need to be taken care of immediately. The liberal Muslims who have helped Dara bhai ought to die. But that has to be done cleverly, within the precincts of sharia law.

  The news from the Deccan is not so encouraging either. The Adilshahi general has steered his military cavalcade towards the Wai town in the mountains at the eastern borders of Jawali. The news is that Shivaji Bhosale has been holed up in the valley. Not yet caught or killed.

  The royal elephant stops in front of a lofty pavilion with bright coverings. It is decorated with tapestries of embroidered velvet, European screens and gold tissue from Tu
rkey and China. As he alights, all the people kneel, some even fall prostrate. As he enters the pavilion, hush prevails, as if people are afraid to even breathe. The astrologers have declared the time: three hours and fifteen minutes to sunrise. When Aurangzeb finally climbs the steps of the platform, a sea of people has gathered, blocking all the routes to the venue of his coronation. The air vibrates with tangible divinity as clergies recite the holy Quran in their high-pitched voices.

  People notice that Aurangzeb’s swagger has changed and he walks more like an emperor and less like a soldier. He even sits on the satin cushions of the coronation throne kept in the open courtyard like his father, legs folded under him, and the silk of his jama falling around him. A turban bound around his head glitters with diamonds, rubies and emeralds. An aigrette with a nodding fringe adorning the front part of his headgear is special, worn only by the kings and emperors. His name and titles are publicly proclaimed through the religious sermon. The Muslim clergies do not mind reading the khutba in his name even when the old, dethroned emperor still lives. Coins bearing his name are thrown on the waiting crowd. His titles are announced loudly: Bahadur, the brave, Alamgir, the conqueror of the world, Padishah, the emperor, Ghazi, the holy warrior. The final announcement is made in a verse:

  The newly minted coins,

  are stamped with his name

  They shine like the moon

  And he, Aurangzeb

  The Alamgir,

  will dazzle the world

  through day, night and noon.

  3

  Dara Shikoh looks in the broken mirror and shudders with self-pity. He hates his reflection: it is that of a sick man with dark circles around his eyes and an unruly beard. His front teeth are missing, and his head, wrapped in a soiled turban, is full of greys.

  It is a desolate place called Dadur, four-and-a-half kos east of Bolan Pass near the Afghan border, and many hundred kos away from his home, Agra. His wife, Nadira Begum, is dead. The last day of her life was spent gasping for breath, in his arms, asking for water that was not available. She, the mother of his sons Suleiman and Siphir, had been groomed to be the empress. The scorching heat of this region that made the birds drop dead from the sky had put his delicate wife to death.

  What has become of his family? This was not the life that he was supposed to lead! His palaces, the gardens, the pavilions, the plush apartments, his retinue of slaves tending to his needs, his wardrobes filled with carefully chosen clothes, his libraries stuffed with rare manuscripts, pundits who came from far and near just to listen to his views, his countless concubines, each one prettier than the other, his guards, his horses, his ceremonial elephants, iron vaults stuffed with jewels and his army of twenty thousand cavalry and equal number of infantry—all have vanished as if they had never existed.

  If memories stab him like a dagger, guilt consumes him when he thinks of his father. He has left the emperor at the mercy of the murderous Aurangzeb. The future of his two sons is bleak. His dreams for Suleiman have shattered, the young prince now in his twenties stranded in Kashmir with his army. The last piece of news that he had heard said that Mirza Jai Singh had deserted Suleiman and had run back to Dilli to join Aurangzeb. His second son Siphir is at least with him, sleeping in another room, but his body has been burning with fever due to this oppressive heat. Dara angrily wrenches the turban from his head and throws it away in anguish and walks back to his bed, defeated.

  He has tried his best. Having lost the battle with Aurangzeb and realizing that Dilli was too dangerous for him, he had travelled hundreds of kos to reach Lahore and lavished whatever funds he had on whoever was prepared to join him. In a short span of time he had mustered twenty thousand men. But Aurangzeb’s murderous army, full of vicious jihadis, had followed him. They chased him across flooded rivers, braving severe monsoons and treading swamped paths. His hastily collected soldiers had been slaughtered or bought over. He and his family had gone into hiding and crossed the frozen waters of the Sutlej in Punjab. With a few remaining guards and eunuch slaves, they had spent an entire day in the open, shivering in their tattered clothes like vagrants. That had been the most dreadful day of his life and it was there that he had received the news of Aurangzeb’s impending coronation. Everything was over. He had fled to Sindh, then Rann of Kutch, borrowing money, food and clothes from people who had once kneeled before him for favours. He had wept bitterly over his fate. He had finally fled to the region near to the borders of Afghan and had taken refuge in the camp of Malik Jiuan. The Afghan chief had once been captured and brought to Agra as a fugitive and was condemned to death under the feet of an elephant. Dara Shikoh had intervened and goaded his father to spare the life of Malik Jiuan and set him free.

  Dara Shikoh’s body shudders with sobs. He hopes that Malik Jiuan can provide secrecy and protection to him for a few days.

  ‘Your Imperial Highness, wake up, please wake up, we must move,’ he hears his personal guard. ‘Malik Jiuan has turned a traitor.’

  How can it be? he thinks as the information hits him. He jerks his head and jumps out of his bed. He rushes out to a small corridor, like a wounded deer chased by a wild cat. The night is dark and not a single torch burns anywhere. He runs to his son’s room, kicks open the flimsy door and gathers the young boy in his arms. Siphir is hot, burning with fever.

  ‘Call the others and get our horses!’ he orders, carrying his son on his shoulder. It is dangerous not to believe his guard and wait to confront Jiuan. He has decided to go north, towards the province of Kandahar, and then flee to Persia. There is hardly any choice, but the animals look tired and underfed. His horse protests by snorting when he tries to get it to walk and then kicks it hard to a gallop. They move towards the north. Only fifteen guards and eunuch slaves follow him on their horses. It is a difficult ride, holding the feverish Siphir with one hand and managing the bounding horse with another. If he leaves his hand, the boy will slip and fall on the rocky ground.

  The faithful horses fly over the hilly region as the waxing moon throws enough light over the hills to form large, dreadful shadows. It is still hot; the wind hits his face like whips of flames. Within a few hours, the morning star appears in the east, and the enormous hills of Bolan become visible on the northern skyline. So colossal, so high are the silhouettes that they look like beasts waiting to swallow the world. As they ride closer, he is able to spot the pass.

  The faint silvery light of the moon has cracked the shadows of Bolan hills into two halves. They slow down to enter. The tired horses trot and pant with exhaustion. The pass is wide but feels dingy between the two hills looming on either side. It is like a furnace and a blast of hot air greets them. They cannot breathe. He holds his son tighter, checking to see if the boy is still alive. At places, the passage between the limestone rocks narrows to a tight trail, allowing only two men to ride abreast. The wind suddenly starts blowing through the winding path. He looks at the sky and notices that the stars have disappeared and the moon has turned pale. The first rays of the sun gradually turn the night into day. He slowly diverts his gaze from the sky onto the path unfolding before him. Something makes him turn back. He notices small specks moving up and down at the far end. He narrows his eyes and realizes that they are horses galloping purposefully towards him. His blood turns cold.

  Everything happens quickly, in the blink of an eye. The chasers take hold of him in the pass and Siphir is snatched away. He is shackled and put on another horse. His captor is Mirza Raja Jai Singh.

  Dara remembers the extremely long journey back to Dilli with pain and humiliation. He wants to forget the times when he was dragged for many kos tied to a trotting horse while climbing the slopes or when the food was thrown at him as if he was a tramp. All he remembers is being hauled by slaves in the court of the Qila-e-mubarak, hands tied behind his back, feet heavy with iron shackles, along with his son, Siphir Shikoh. He remembers his long, unkempt hair not letting him see properly. He remembers not walking but heaving himself against his will.r />
  His befuddled mind replays Aurangzeb’s instructions. ‘I want them to be paraded on the back of a female elephant through all the major avenues of this city. And do not forget to smear this elephant with dirt—for that is what they are worthy of.’

  Dara wonders if his father is still alive, or aware of what is happening to his eldest son. The sun is harsh and it is extremely hot and humid. As the elephant sways, Dara looks at his beloved capital. He is not on a howdah; he is tied to the back of a small female elephant. The avenues look familiar. Thousands of horrified eyes watch him, some are full of pity. The elephant is not a magnificent male tusker, it is a measurable female smeared with mud. The animal is neither pompously caparisoned nor is it decorated with gilded framework. The first prince is not sitting in a howdah inlaid with gold and covered with a glorious canopy that resembles a silver cupola. The first prince himself does not look like Dara Shikoh, Shah Bulund Iqbal, the king of lofty fortunes who always wears large pearls, an enormous turban with gilded serpech and an embroidered coat.

  Once his people had looked up at him with love and worship, now they look at him with shock mixed with fear. Dara Shikoh hates to look up. He sits there like an old man with a bent spine, his matted hair on his face like a veil. He lets his shoulders droop and keeps his hands limp on his lap. He is thirsty and fears for Siphir who is lying still next to him. He sees thousands of people, barricades keeping them off the street. He hears them scream and chant his name. He slowly drifts to sleep and the screams of his people turn faint.

  From the watchtower, Aurangzeb too hears people chant Dara bhai’s name. He is livid, his subjects love Dara!

  There is a danger of a civil war.

  ‘Call all my advisers, whoever is in the fort!’ he barks before marching off towards the diwan-e-khaas. Mutamad is shocked; his master has lost his temper after many years.