The meeting takes place in the evening. Tiny oil lamps burn in the chandeliers hung in the patio of the diwan-e-khaas. In that twinkling light, precious stones stuck to the pillars reflect rays in every possible direction, rendering hints of life to their floral patterns. Aurangzeb sits calm, composed and seething. The beauty of his new home fails to kindle any cheer in his heart. Sitting on his father’s peacock throne, he glances at the faces of his men from the corner of his eyes. He has to be careful; as per the royal etiquette, even his gaze is now a reward, a meher-e-nazar, the gaze of mercy. His uncle Shaista Khan, who was always against Dara bhai; Mirza Raja Jai Singh; Mir Jumla’s son, Mohammad Amin Khan, whom he had saved from death in the dungeons of Golconda Fort; Bahadur Khan, who is his loyalist; Danishmand Khan, who was first a Dara loyalist but now has changed his mind; and Hakim Daud, the orthodox noble who considers Dara bhai a heretic, are standing in front of him with sullen faces. Their expensive clothes, embellished with motifs of floral patterns, gold and silver ornaments and colourful turbans have no impact on him.
He does not start a conversation and lets the silence grow, waiting for his men to turn uneasy and then blurt out their thoughts.
‘Spare his life,’ he hears Danishmand Khan, his face flushed with anxiety.
Shaista Khan seems restless. His favourite nephew has made a big mistake, wanting to make Dara Shikoh look silly in public. But the tables have turned. The avenues of Dilli have formed gossip hovels. They cannot rule out trouble now that the people are fuming in rage. Anything can happen and it is best for all that his eldest nephew, Dara Shikoh the crown prince, is dead.
‘Who are we to decide?’ Shaista says solemnly, his eyes filled with concern. ‘It is up to the theologians of the sharia court to punish him for his heretic ways of life.’
‘Kill him; he does not need a trial. His death will be lauded by Islam and the empire,’ spits out Hakim Daud.
‘The emperor must decide,’ Mirza Jai Singh quips. He is the only Rajput in this meeting.
Aurangzeb has closed his eyes and is counting the beads of his rosary. The men vent their opinions and suggestions, discuss, and try to outwit others. Aurangzeb thinks of the reasons why his brother must die. Princess Roshanara has sent him the message that Dara must die. She has stated several reasons, the most important being the fact that the people support him, since they know him more than the other princes who have always been away. But Aurangzeb has other things in mind. It is better to cut off a limb that has turned gangrenous. Public memory is short. In any case, orthodox noblemen fear Dara bhai’s liberal views that may lessen their importance if Dara becomes the emperor. He suddenly gets up and climbs down the stairs of the throne platform.
‘It is our duty to give my brother a fair trial. Please find the people who have witnessed his love for the infidels’ faith.’
That is all he manages to say. Now, he must wait, in silence and hope.
The very next morning, avoiding the diwan-e-khaas, he chooses a barren, curtained room beyond his private quarters for the trial. He stands in a corner, keeping a low profile. The chamber mills with qazis, the judges, imams, the religious leaders, and the muftis who interpret the sharia law. Dara stands to his left, shackled, unkempt, looking like an old man, older than his father. A witness standing in front of him reads what Dara Shikoh, the crown prince, has written.
I love this story that explains the Vedanta. It is simple and easy. A tree has two little birds. The first one is perched on the uppermost branch. It does not hop or swing, but is serene and still. It looks so pleased as if it seeks nothing from the world. The other bird is restless and hops from one branch to the other, pecking at sweet and bitter fruits. When it tastes a bitter fruit it jumps one branch higher. After a while the restless bird finds itself on the same branch as the happy bird. Then a primal truth dawns on its soul. It realizes that the first bird that seeks nothing from the world is, in fact, the real one. Its humble soul is a part of the absolute, the divine. And hence I have in my most modest pursuit written a book called Majma-ul-Bahrain, The Mingling of Two Oceans, as I find such similarities in basic truths stated in Hinduism and Sufism. That you are the divine and the divine is you.
The witness has finished reading. Aurangzeb knows what the qazis think. His brother has wandered into the turf of infidelity, first learning Sanskrit and then going to Varanasi, the Mecca of the Hindus, to learn from the pundits. He has gone to Lahore and has become the disciple of Mullah Shah, whose heart, people say, was lit by the divine light sparked in the heart of the famous Sufi saint Mian Mir.
Another witness is called.
Why did I spend years in writing the book The Mingling of Two Oceans? It is because of my understanding of Yoga Vasistha, the original scriptures where God Rama learns about the truth from Sage Vasistha. It is enchanting when you can see a real snake while only looking at its image. You imagine it rearing its hood and striking like a whip. You see in your mind’s eye its fearful fangs, and are scared. The fear thrills you. But once you know it is just an image, it no longer seems terrible. The world is such; it is full of maya, the illusion. Maya brings enlightenment through its own destruction. Once you know what maya is, it is no longer charming. The world becomes flat and dull for some.
The third witness reads out one of Dara Shikoh’s poems:
May the world be free from the noise of mullahs . . .
And their fatwa
These ‘learned’ to the ignorant
And their ignoramus vents
Inflicting torments on true saints . . .
Aurangzeb watches the qazis and the muftis looking aghast. They exchange glances, shrugging helplessly.
Someone reads out the final verdict.
‘Dara Shikoh, the accused, has to pay for his association with the pundits. He has to pay for translating the Hindu Vedas into Persian. He has to be punished for writing a book called The Mingling of Two Oceans in which he preaches to unite Hinduism and Islam. He has to be punished for translating the book from Persian into Sanskrit. He has to be punished for studying Talmud, the New Testament of the Jews, and Sufi writings.’
‘The accused is determined to disgrace Islam,’ the qazis have declared their unanimous verdict. The muftis demand a death sentence.
They have signed a decree on the ground of infidelity and deviation from Islamic orthodoxy that is punishable only by death. Their verdict clearly states that the criminal should be beheaded.
Aurangzeb walks out. It is risky to delay any further. The royal execution must take place soon. He waits under the arched pavilions till they take Dara away. He knows what is happening in the dungeons nearby.
The door makes a creaking sound; the slaves push their hands under Dara’s armpits and pull him up. For a few moments, they wait for their new master’s orders while the crown prince hangs between them, limp. Aurangzeb obliges and signals. He follows them to an inner chamber of the prison. It is dark, with a single torch burning on a wall. The slaves scurry around the empty room, make Dara kneel, his hands on his waist. His iron chains jingle sadly. The muscular slaves armed with swords surround him. Aurangzeb raises his right hand and the swords fly. The convict’s head rolls on the ground as blood spews forth in torrents.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
1
Krishnaji Bhaskar is confident of his negotiation skills, but Shivaji Bhosale and his men are dangerous. ‘Invite Shiva Bhosale to Wai and make sure he comes,’ his master, Afzal Khan, has ordered. As the bearers of his palanquin reach the base of the hill, he narrows his eyes and looks at the newly built Pratapgad. Shivaji has been holed up all along atop this beastly hill, while Afzal Khan Sahib and his army have been camping near Wai for months. Krishnaji sighs. His hometown has been cramped with twenty thousand men and ten thousand animals. The butchers work continuously, swiftly cutting the throats of the cattle and goats and leaving them to bleed. The bloodless meat is halal, lawful to eat by the Muslims. The Brahmin’s stomach churns as his olfactory nerve recalls the st
ink of bones and skin waiting to be disposed of. The soldiers defecate on the banks of the river Krishna. Even the war animals bathe in the same water. Medics of Wai have been busy treating soldiers suffering from diarrhoea, a disease so common in the monsoons. Rains are synonymous with immobility, and this status quo has been unnerving.
Krishnaji looks out as his palanquin bearers cross the narrow lanes of Par village and climb the hill. This trail twists and turns to reach the main entrance of the fort. The newly built outer wall is awash with rain, its basalt stones gleaming in the sunlight. He is amazed at the massive ramparts and bastions. However, the fort itself is small, and can accommodate only a few hundred men at a time. The turrets over the ramparts are manned by archers. How can a mere jagirdar afford this? Time has come to meet the most infamous rebel of the Adilshahi sultanate. Shivaji’s sentinels, who have gathered around him to take him to their master, are armed with swords, quivers full of arrows and bows. Krishnaji is impatient to enter the massive stone structure built on a high plinth where Shivaji Bhosale awaits him.
The sadar is quiet and cold as the mountain wind circles in its empty void. Shivaji sits on a divan, his hands folded in his laps. Gopinath Bokil stands near his master. Afzal’s vakeel has come with the invitation. They watch a tall and muscular Krishnaji walk in. He has a large moustache, and is dressed in silk dhoti and orange angirkha. His red turban looks new. An embroidered shawl is thrown across his shoulders. Shivaji notes a sword tucked in his belt.
Krishnaji regards the two men. One is a short tonsured man, a Brahmin with a naive face standing next to the divan. He guesses that it is Shivaji’s vakeel, and finds nothing outstanding in him. But the man who sits on the divan is certainly not ordinary. He had heard about Shivaji’s remarkable brown eyes. It is almost impossible for anyone to fathom the thoughts and feelings of this man by looking into his eyes. The face is serious, almost resolute, and the forehead is smeared with horizontal lines of sandalwood. Krishnaji admits to himself that the rebel does look like a king in his saffron, pearl-studded turban.
It is when Krishnaji looks into Shivaji’s eyes that a shiver runs down his spine. His sharp and piercing gaze bores into him. He feels nervous, clears his throat, adjusts his sash, bows involuntarily and says, ‘Afzal Khan Sahib is concerned.’
‘I know, so are we,’ he hears a humble voice. The gaze of his host is no longer sharp and cold.
Krishnaji is eager to say what he intends to. The rebel needs to know where he stands and what his status is. ‘Raja Shivaji, I must tell you that one should know one’s limitations. Can we at all compare ourselves with them?’
‘The benevolent king, Ali Adil Shah, is the sun of our skies. Our general is a brilliant ray of that sun and we are the lost shadows waiting for resurrection,’ Shivaji says slightly, bowing his head.
‘That is a brilliant comparison,’ admits Krishnaji, wrapping his shawl which has unravelled slightly.
‘But you are the torch that will guide us through the darkness of night,’ says Bokil, while nodding his head.
Krishnaji merely shrugs and declares in a plaintive voice, as if it pains him to see men like Shivaji wasting their time in rebellion, ‘Nothing will be gained by rebelling against the king. If I were to advise you, I would tell you to enjoy the lavish life that only the king’s court can bestow on you. Come to Wai and surrender to the general.’
‘Do you truly feel that we have a chance to bask in Bijapur’s glory?’ Bokil asks earnestly, looking vulnerable.
‘Why did I make such mistakes?’ Shivaji laments. ‘What had come over me all these years?’
Krishnaji feels pity as he looks at the youthful face and says patronizingly, ‘What are you fighting for? You are a wealthy man, born to a jagirdar, and, with our hereditary laws in place, you are already a jagirdar. You have the means to chart your own path to be a nobleman in the king’s court.’
Shivaji lowers his eyes, his expression withdrawn and brooding. He plays with the strings of pearls around his throat and says, ‘Men make mistakes. One cannot turn back wheels of time and undo what has already been done. One can only forget or forgive to a certain extent. But let me tell you truthfully that I have soulfully resigned to the fact that I am a mere servant of the Adilshahi. The proof lies in the fact that I have not troubled your general’s army. I sit here, quietly, repenting and asking God for forgiveness.’
Raja Shivaji’s words ring true. Afzal Khan Sahib had tried all the tricks in the book to provoke the holed-up rat. He had even threatened the temple priests of Goddess Bhavani’s temple at Tuljapur and extracted large amounts of funds from them. The khan had purposely called the jagirdar of Phultan, brother of Raja Shivaji’s wife, Sayee Bai Sahib, and compelled him to convert to Islam. His general had also struck terror by letting his archers take aim at the innocent peasants in Shivaji’s territory. But they have all been met with silence.
Bokil clears his throat and says hesitantly, ‘Grave mistakes have been committed by us. But we want the general to know that we have rebuilt and repaired the old, dilapidated hill forts and built this one. Our lands are generating revenue of ten lakh rupees a year. All will be surrendered at his feet for the benefit of the king. But we have kept personal gifts for the general: two hundred Arabian horses and one thousand ashrafi mohurs.’
Krishnaji does some quick calculations. A thousand ashrafi mohurs would mean twelve ser of pure gold. ‘Khan Sahib hates personal gifts. When do you intend to give them to him?’ he asks casually, looking at Shivaji.
‘We will give them personally, only when we meet him, like a devotee placing a petal at the feet of his favourite deity,’ whispers Shivaji. ‘You know, Krishnaji,’ he says with dreamy eyes, ‘it may wash away some of our sins. To us, the general means more than the Adilshahi king. He is not an outsider, a Turani or an Irani. He is a Deccani, a native Muslim, a son of this soil. I am eager to kneel before him. He is one of us.’
‘He is more than all of us,’ Krishnaji’s tone turns righteous, but somewhere deep in his heart he is pleased; at least Shivaji wants to meet his master. ‘Our Afzal Khan Sahib is a self-made man. His father was neither a subhedar nor a watandar. It is not easy to rise to the coveted position that the general enjoys!’
Shivaji smiles at the Khan’s vakeel’s taunt guised in the veneer of graciousness.
‘You are right. We are among the millions, but the general is indeed a man in a million. And he has chosen you to show us the light. It speaks volumes of your talent, intelligence and capabilities. How do we take things from here?’ Bokil asks keeping both his hands on his chest.
Shivaji turns his gaze to his vakeel and says gravely, ‘Gopinathji, as we have discussed, we know our goal; our journey ends at the general’s feet.’
‘I know you are anxious to meet Khan Sahib. I have come here to make your dream come true,’ says Krishnaji, his hands locked in a tight fist.
‘Let us hear what plans you have for us,’ Bokil asks, looking up at Krishnaji, his eyes brimming with hope.
The khan’s vakeel needs time. He looks around, eyes moving from pillar to pillar as he flings his shawl over his right shoulder. A lot of money has been spent on this fort. He diverts his gaze back to Shivaji and appeals, ‘Afzal Khan Sahib was, at one time, very close to your father. He wishes to maintain the relationship. The general is keen to recommend your name to His Majesty, Ali Adil Shah, for ranks and titles.’
‘It is the general’s generosity. What is his message for us?’ Shivaji asks politely as his eyes shine with optimism.
Krishnaji pulls out an epistle from under his belt and hands it over to Gopinath, who opens it carefully as if it is a gold chest containing precious pearls from the deep ocean.
The letter is in Modi script, in Marathi peppered with Farsi words. He reads it slowly:
Your frequent impertinence has caused anguish to the king. You have the hereditary right only on your jagir. But you have taken the forts and seized Jawali. Your men have brutally murdered Chandrarao More
y. You have plundered our subhedar of Kalyan. You have harassed the peace-loving, religious Siddis of Janjira. You have unlawfully taken over the region of north Konkan. We had ceded some of that territory to the Mughals to maintain peace in the region. Before I think of waging a war, surrender all your forts and provinces to me, for that is what the king, Ali Adil Shah, wishes.
The letter has Afzal Khan’s seal that says ‘Katil-e-Kafiran, Sinkada-Biniyade-Butan’, the killer of the infidels and the destroyer of the deities.
Krishnaji does not look away from Raja Shivaji as the note is read. Raja Shivaji’s brown eyes look like lamps that have been rudely snuffed out by a storm. Finally the disheartened rebel darts a questioning look at him and says in a defeated voice, ‘What do I have to do?’
‘Come and meet Afzal Khan Sahib at Wai,’ says Krishnaji magnanimously.
Shivaji stares at him, not responding to his proposal. After a long silence he says, ‘This valley lies at the western borders of the Wai province of which Khan Sahib is the subhedar. In simple words this valley, including this new fort, are the part of the general’s region. He must come and claim it. The battle is already over; he is the conqueror and I the vanquished.’
Krishnaji does not want to say something that he might regret later. The man sitting in front of him is dangerous, but what he says is not untrue either. His words imply that the general must come to his conquest as all conquerors do.
‘By God Shiva, fear breeds hesitancy. And hesitancy means indefinite delays,’ Gopinath says with a long sigh.
Krishnaji nods. If Shivaji hesitates to meet his master in Wai, it will be disastrous. Time is slipping away like a thief, snatching enormous funds with each passing day. Five months have gone by. The Badi Sahiba is impatient and has been asking for a probable outcome.
‘Your master is the brave one, and bravery also means resolve. I am sure the general will decide. But it is not a thing that one can convey through a letter. A confrontation will do,’ says Shivaji. Krishnaji is suddenly uncomfortable as a tinge of fear rushes through his mind.
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