Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  After a day’s travel, they come to a mountain plateau a few hundred guj above the valley. They camp at the highest point. The night is windy but clear, and the camp shimmers in silvery moonlight. As Afzal sits smoking his hookah in his tent he feels peaceful. He has done the right thing.

  The journey resumes as the sun rises above the mountains. The descent starts and it is a terrifying experience.

  ‘It is too dangerous,’ Fazal says while riding behind his father’s horse, his skin red with mosquito bites.

  Afzal keeps his cool. He knows that worrying is more dangerous than what lies ahead. He is sure that his army will not be attacked by Shiva during this journey. The Brahmin vakeel of Shiva is bound by oath, and a Brahmin’s oath is a powerful assurance. But he, Afzal Khan, is not bound by any such oath. It is also imperative to take risks—it is an integral part of being a soldier, an occupational hazard. He is not afraid, he never was.

  The ghats of Radatondi make some of Afzal’s men weep with fear. The mountains rise around them as the valleys disappear in the abyss. Many feel dizzy when they cross very narrow trails. One elephant falls suddenly and is quickly followed by another. The enormous animals slip over the miry edge of the slender path. Villagers from the nearby hamlets hear the heartbreaking trumpets of the falling beasts, and the other tuskers trumpet in fear. Their screams make the mountains shudder. The shocked birds fly away in fear shrieking a blustering orchestra over the hills. Their frantic calls panic the horses. The animals then neigh and rear aimlessly. Men who try to help their confused mounts are dragged along and fall into the abyss.

  Afzal remains in control. It is only about a hundred men, fifty horses and two elephants that he has lost. It is his war and his decisions. As his horse canters carefully through the greenish-brown waters of the river Koyana, he glances at the enormous hill of Pratapgad. Nothing intimidates me, he reassures himself. The surrounding forest is dark and discouraging. The path that leads them from the river to the camp is riddled with rocks and chasms. His fifteen thousand men and animals move towards the campsite not far from the river. It is an open space and the tents are large and comfortable. The locals have gathered and seem eager to cater to their needs. Most of them fall prostrate when they see him. Poor folks from the hills, he thinks. They are lucky to get a glimpse me in their lifetime.

  The relatively flat region near the banks of Koyana has been cleared, dense thickets uprooted and the uneven earth flattened. Piles of freshly sawed wooden logs and sacks of grains have started arriving from all parts of the valley. Hundreds of helpers have been called from the nearby villages before his military cavalcade starts its final expedition. Huge funds have been invested by Shivaji Bhosale to pitch palatial tents befitting the status of the Adilshahi general. A market with rows of shops has suddenly made its appearance along the banks of the Koyana. The butchers, barbers, merchants, jewellers and even the swordsmiths have come from Pune to cater to the armies of Afzal.

  He scans the camp where shops have been built on wooden platforms and stuffed with grain sacks, oil drums and jars filled with salt and spices. Some butchers have skinned animals and let the meat hang on the hooks as display. He has been told that each of the thousands of tents has a pile of firewood, a large earthen pot filled with drinking water and sacks of grain, even some jars of wine. His soldiers are scrambling to grab the tents. Thousands of local men scurry to remove their sandals, start boiling water for their bath or stand behind to fan them with bunched peacock feathers. Some carry large copper containers to water the animals. Shiva Bhosale is indeed trying hard to impress him.

  3

  After a thorough scrub by his favourite slave, Afzal gets dressed and is ready for the meeting. Krishnaji and Sayed wait at the entrance along with a number of armed men. He stands with them for a while gazing at the fort. The hill looms almost a few hundred guj above him. While the upper portion looks steep, the lower slopes descend relatively gently towards the camp. Krishnaji has told him that the fort has been splendidly built. Its outer walls, bastions, ramparts, terraces, citadels, assembly chambers and private palaces are stone structures. He has an urge to see the fort with his own eyes, see what a mere jagirdar has done. It is then that it strikes him that something is amiss. A man capable of building such a fort cannot be so scared. But it’s a momentary thought. Afzal does not want to think too much. He decides to go inside his tent and wait for Bokil. It is a bit warm inside the tent. He sits relaxed against the propped-up pillows on his divan and signals a slave to bring his hookah.

  Three men eventually walk into his tent: Krishnaji, Sayed and Bokil. Holding a thin brass cylinder in his hands while exhaling smoke through his mouth, he regards the short vakeel of Shiva. It is the third time that Bokil has come to meet him in the camp. Afzal remembers the first visit. The clever Brahmin had been very sweet, acting as a perfect host. Making a round trip of the camp, he had ensured that everything was in proper order. He had also handed over a cloth bag made of satin to Krishnaji. It had had a thousand ashrafi mohurs, a gift from Shiva to him. Before departing, Bokil had asked for an audience.

  He had asked about Shiva in a rasping voice, purposely towering over the puny vakeel. To his surprise, unlike before, Bokil had looked at him in defiance and shot back in a loud voice, ‘The meeting will be arranged on a neutral ground. This is the message from Raja Shivaji.’ The cunning fellow had then asked for permission to depart before anyone could utter anything.

  ‘Does that mean he will not come to the camp?’ an astonished Krishnaji had asked.

  ‘General,’ Bokil had ignored Krishnaji and had fixed his eyes on him, ‘you are a rich man, used to the splendour of Bijapur. We are poor and yet, Raja Shivaji wants to receive you with protocol that befits you. He has never met anyone of your status in his life.’

  Afzal had known at that instant that he had no choice but to accept this condition. He could not go back to Wai safely after rejecting this offer. Further negotiations on this point would mean extending his stay in Jawali, a dangerous proposition.

  ‘This neutral ground,’ Afzal had insisted loudly, ‘will be approved by my people and that is final.’

  Bokil had readily agreed to that. ‘I was about to suggest the same. We would not ask you to come to a place unless it is inspected and approved by your trusted advisers.’

  Afzal had appointed Sayed Banda, Prataprao Morey and Krishnaji as his team for approving the meeting place.

  During his second visit, Bokil had said in a low tone, ‘We have finally found an appropriate place for the meeting. It is a flat glade on the slopes of the Pratapgad hill, a golden middle between the fort and the camp. Our people will pitch a palatial shamiana in your honour, my general.’

  Afzal had looked at his men and they had nodded in silent agreement. Now for the third time the old fox was standing in front of him with a bowed head.

  ‘Is the meeting place ready or are your men still at it? Are they building a Taj Mahal?’ Afzal Khan has long finished his part of the bargain. He has come to Jawali as decided.

  ‘Today, we shall finalize everything, the date, time and other terms and conditions for this meeting,’ says Bokil calmly.

  After hours of negotiations the terms are finally agreed upon. The meeting will take place in the afternoon of the seventh new moon day, which is a Thursday. The general and Raja Shivaji will come fully armed. Each will be accompanied by his vakeel. Additional ten armed guards from each side will be posted at a distance of an arrow shot from the shamiana. These terms will be written on paper and presented to Afzal for his final approval.

  A worried Krishnaji wants to say something. Afzal waves his hand to quieten his vakeel. He thinks for a long time, making Bokil go fidgety with unease. If he declines now, the whole matter may drag on. He assures himself that he is the general of the Adilshahi and Shiva will not dare to do anything foolish at this point of time.

  Finally he shrugs and asks, ‘I hope that you have not forgotten your oath.’

  ‘
Shiva, Shiva,’ Bokil mutters in a quivering voice as if to ward off the evil that waits to pounce on him for even brooding over the possibility of breaching his oath. ‘How can you even doubt the oath of a Brahmin? If I do so, my forty-two forefathers and I will be confined to infinite imprisonment in Naraka, the hell of the Hindus. We will undergo hellish tortures, they will blind us, flog us with whips, fling us in boiling water, they will make us drink molten iron, and throw us in dungeons filled with hooded serpents.’

  Afzal gives Bokil his most charming smile, his beady eyes glinting smugly.

  He says, ‘Tell my nephew that I will see him personally as agreed. I will forgive him his past and take him to our king. At Bijapur, he will receive riches beyond his dreams.’

  ‘By God Shiva, I must go and give our raja this excellent news!’ announces Bokil joyously.

  Afzal watches till Shiva’s vakeel disappears from his sight and then asks Krishnaji, ‘How tall is this Shiva?’

  ‘His head may barely reach your chest.’

  The answer brings a strange smile to Afzal’s face while he tries to calm his mind.

  ‘Sayed, choose one thousand five hundred of our best infantrymen, armoured and armed with swords, bows and arrows. They will come with us to the meeting place. But keep this a secret.’

  4

  Two days before the meeting, Shivaji has called all his men for one last meeting. The air in the assembly chamber is throbbing with anxiety. It is a time of uncertain destinies. Men of might may fail, meticulous planning may turn into chaos, hopes may turn into despair and death. It is therefore important that Shivaji and his men go over their plans one last time.

  Shivaji stands in their midst, wearing his usual saffron turban and white chintz angirkha. He knows that the morale of his men is not very high. They have seen Afzal’s camp and realized that they lack in numbers, equipment and war animals. The Adilshahi army has surrounded the fort. From above, one is bound to feel trapped inside the fort.

  He stares at his nervous men and says, ‘It surprises me that the general has not objected to the campsite. His entire army is spread out on the banks of Koyana. As you can see from this hill, we are not locked in by them, they are trapped in the bowl of the valley. If I were the general, I would have first thought of the possibility of the enemy squadrons pouncing down from the surrounding hills. I would have demanded strategic hilltops to camp in, places from where I could watch the terrain.’

  ‘He is overestimating his strength,’ retorts Dabir.

  ‘And underestimating ours,’ says Pinglay while smiling.

  ‘Underestimating your enemy is the basic military blunder,’ announces Shivaji, ‘and Afzal’s estimations are our strengths. All we need to do is to keep his belief intact.’

  ‘Let us again go over our battle positions,’ sarnobat Palkar takes over. ‘Only a few hundred men are and will remain on this fort. Our squadrons will arrive tomorrow, some from Maval and some from Konkan. They will enter the valley stealthily. At any cost, they must conceal themselves from the eyes of the Adilshahi scouts who have started roaming the nearby forest.’

  ‘We have secured the fort. Of the two approaches to it, we have blocked the one from the north-east, from Kumbroshi village, by felling the trees. One can enter the fort now only from the south, through Sonpar village. The upward trail that leads to the fort is circuitous. A large army cannot use it to charge,’ says Shivaji.

  ‘We must block and slay them if they move towards us or intercept and kill them when they run away from us. Our infantrymen will hide at the foothills. They will stop the enemy squadrons from entering the fort. Our cavalrymen will hide in the faraway forests. They will chase and slaughter the enemy running away from the ranangan,’ Palkar is ruthless.

  The men nod silently. Sarnobat continues.

  ‘The north-west side of this fort needs no security. The rock precipice takes a straight plunge half-a-kos-deep into the abyss. But the foothills ought to be protected from the other sides. Kanhoji Jedhe, Bandal Deshmukh and Yesaji Kank have called their chosen infantrymen, five thousand in number, from Maval. They will wait in ambush at the southern foothills, in the forest surrounding Sonpar. Peshwa Moroji’s infantry will arrive from Rairi. One half will wait near Kineshwar village, at the western foothills of the fort, and the other half will be stationed at the ghats of Ambenali, beyond the north-east foothills.’

  Palkar bows slightly. Shivaji takes over from where he has left. Everything is planned—who will say what.

  ‘The royal tent or the shamiana is at the south-east, not exactly at the foothills. Afzal’s palanquin will have to climb a part of this hill to reach the meeting place. They will enter through Sonpar. If you see from above, you will know that the place is surrounded by natural knolls that run along the slopes. Between the knolls are ravines. It is as if someone has made trenches for people to hide. Raghunathji, Annaji Datto, Hiroji and their infantrymen will hide in the ravines that surround the shamiana. They will wait in ambush.’

  Palkar must go into minute details. His face is hidden in massive greying whiskers, his bushy brows peppered with more greys. But his eyes are sharp, almost lancing his men’s souls with stringency.

  ‘Now it is time to talk about the cavalry. I along with my five thousand horsemen shall wait a few kos east of the camp. Babaji Bhosale will block the mountain ghats of Radatondi with another two thousand to block the path to Wai.’

  ‘Any questions, any doubts?’ asks Shivaji. There is silence. He goes on. ‘Now, for the communication protocol, on the day, two trumpeters will sit near the shamiana. Once I go in for the meeting, anything can happen. The general will try to capture or kill me and I will have to defend myself. If either of us is killed, the trumpeters will blow their trumpets to alert our cannoneers on the upper fort. The alerted guards will fire the cannon mounted on the eastern ramparts three times.’

  He stops and looks at his grim-faced men, trying to gauge their comprehension, then looks at Palkar and nods. Palkar takes over.

  ‘Let us go through the remaining plan of action. As soon as the blasts echo in the valley, men hiding in the ravines surrounding the shamiana will rush to the meeting place. Remember, this is very vital, and all ten guards of Afzal must die. They must not live to alert the camp.’

  Shivaji says, ‘The camp must remain unsuspecting. Once the cannon blasts are heard, Kanhoji, Yesaji and their infantrymen will descend on the camp from the southern foothills. Moroji’s infantry will launch an attack from the west and the north-east. Remember, we certainly want victory but we also want their horses, weapons and treasure.’

  There is a long silence before Shivaji speaks again.

  ‘In the last meeting Tanaji had asked what we intend to do if we win. I shall answer that now. When the camp is attacked from all three sides, a huge number of enemy troopers will perish. Many of them will try to run away in the direction of Wai. Babaji Bhosale and his men will intercept them in the ghats, while our sarnobat leads his cavalry to Wai. He must destroy the remaining of Afzal’s army at Wai before the news reaches Bijapur. We have planned to infiltrate the Adilshahi territory to its core. Unsuspecting enemy is the best enemy! Adilshahi is sure of their general’s success.’

  ‘Do you plan to attack their capital, Bijapur?’ asks Dabir incredulously.

  Shivaji just smiles and says, ‘Let’s first go back to the shamiana, ground zero of the ground zero. Tanaji Malusare, Sambhaji Kavji, Jiva Mahale, Ibrahim Khan and a few others will accompany me as my personal guards. The meeting will take place at noon with just the four of us in the shamiana: Afzal, his vakeel Krishnaji, our Gopinath Bokil and I.’

  The men gathered in the assembly room marvel at the confidence that Raja Shivaji exudes. With an assuring smile on his lips he says softly, as if he is sharing a secret, ‘Remember, the entire operation commences at noon and the battle begins in the afternoon. It is early winter and the sun sets early. The valley becomes dark an hour before the actual sunset. That night the moon will r
ise late. For a couple of hours, our ranangan will be pitch-dark. You are used to the darkness and the place, while they will be blind as bats. The terrain and the time are our military backups.’

  ‘Follow the communication protocol. Do not stir unless needed, do not defy orders unless absolutely crucial and do not execute until the time is right. Follow what’s been told to you,’ says Palkar. ‘Raja’s personal cavalry will wait for him at the foothills of Mahabaleshwar hill. After the battle at the foothills, we have planned to meet at Wai, early next day, just as the morning star appears in the eastern sky, at the time when the general’s camp will turn in their early morning dreams. This is our war against Adilshahi rulers who are following Aurangzeb’s orders. The end of Afzal may just be the beginning. It is not I but the raja who is the sarnobat of this campaign.’

  His eyes glistening with tears, Yesaji says, ‘Raja, do not forget that the general is a skilled wrestler. Afzal Khan has inquired about your height. Your head will only reach his chest. It will be easy for him to grab your neck under his left armpit and crush it. His right hand will remain free to strike you with a dagger perhaps, while yours will be left dangling and useless. In such a situation you will have only a few moments to defend yourself with your left hand.’

  Shivaji can see the worry in everyone’s eyes.

  There is one last, and the most important, thing that Shivaji needs to share with them. He shifts his gaze from one face to another, slowly and deliberately. Then he says, ‘Whatever happens, even if I am captured or killed, Afzal and his men must not reach the fort. It is imperative that we win this battle. Even if I die, please continue to fight for swaraj with my son as your leader.’