Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  As he makes himself comfortable on the velvety softness of the seat, people in the diwan-e-khaas perform kurnish.

  Shaista Khan, Mirza Raja Jai Singh, Mir Jumla, Bahadur Khan, Danishmand Khan, Hakim Daud, Diler Khan, Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod, Jaffar Khan and many others stand before him. But the new emperor is seething with rage. The grand clergy of Mecca has refused to recognize him as the emperor of Hindustan. A letter has arrived that says:

  Law of the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) and the law of nature prevent you from proclaiming yourself as the emperor during the lifetime of your father. Also, you have murdered your brother to whom the empire rightfully belonged after the death of Emperor Shah Jahan.

  There is one more letter, far more humiliating than the one from Mecca.

  His envoy, Tarbiyat Khan, has returned from Persia after meeting the emperor of Iran, Shah Abbas, who has openly condemned him as the murderer of Dara Shikoh and cursed him for imprisoning his own father. Shah Abbas is a man of power, and if he so wishes, he can invade Dilli with his large army. Aurangzeb had sent valuable presents like diamonds, daggers and swords with gold hilts, all worth seven hundred thousand rupees, or five hundred ser of pure gold. But the Shah has disregarded the gifts by distributing them among his servants. The Persian emperor has offended his messenger, Tarbiyat Khan, by burning his beard in an open court. He has been sent back with a letter, the words of which are embers that burn the new emperor’s heart.

  We feel that all the landlords of Hindustan have turned insurgents because their new emperor is weak, unskilled and lacking in intelligence. How can such an emperor face Shiva Bhosale? Till now nobody had even known of the existence of the kafir Shiva. Now, people cannot stop talking about him. From what we hear he has taken over hill forts, cities and ports that had belonged to the southern Shia kingdoms. He has even invaded and plundered the imperial terrain. He is about to set an example to other kafirs. You call yourself Alamgir, the conqueror of the world! Your bravery remains limited to imprisoning your father and killing your brothers by deceit. But you cannot tackle Shiva Bhosale, and we know it is beyond your strength. We have been your refuge in the past. Do not forget that we have helped Humayun, your ancestor, to get back the imperial throne of Hindustan. It seems like, you, the descendant of Humayun, too, are in dire need of our help. We will rescue you, by paying you a visit with our vast army. Only we can dowse the fires of kafir rebels in Hindustan.

  Aurangzeb’s head hurts with wrath. He can no longer control his temper. He direly needs an antidote. The Adilshahi general has been murdered by Shiva Bhosale during a meeting. After the general had been slain, Shiva’s foot soldiers had encircled the general’s camp and fallen upon it with vehemence. Thousands have been slaughtered and injured, thousands have fled, and the fleeing men were slaughtered by Shiva’s horsemen. Shiva Bhosale’s victory, in terms of carnage and booty seems glorious—the Marathas have claimed the general’s weapons, war animals and all the money. This incidence has stunned the people of Hindustan, and the Deccan is alive with wandering bards singing songs that celebrate the victory of the Marathas. The Portuguese and the English have exchanged letters in frenzy, calling 10 November 1659 a historical landmark, an epoch.

  Aurangzeb claps his hands.

  Someone brings the sobbing emissary but Aurangzeb does not want to look at his face even though he must hear what the man says. ‘Shah Abbas had laughed openly and called my Majesty a hypocrite, a disgrace to Islam.’

  There is total silence in the court. The new emperor’s face turns red. He surveys the people in his court as they stand mutely, as if they have gone deaf, their eyes focused on the ground, their gaze at their feet.

  ‘Bring in the case,’ he orders, startling everyone.

  A few slaves gingerly walk in holding a wicker basket. They are followed by a man wearing a long black kaftan. He holds a large, flat, brass container in his hand. He places it in front of the throne. One of the guards empties the deadly contents of the case into the brass container. A green alert reptile makes a thudding sound as it hits the brass metal. It first moves like a whiplash and then slithers aimlessly, moving its triangular flat head in different directions. The man standing near the container can clearly see its yellow eyeballs with the vertical pupils radiating horror.

  He claps his hands again. A few more slaves stumble in and hold the emissary in such a way that the man is not able to move. Then one of them holds his right hand like a wooden log and pulls it near the brass container. Someone takes a stick and starts prodding the deadly reptile to excite it. They seem to know that an enraged snake spews all its venom once the fangs get hold of the flesh, flesh that invariably has very little time to live. People can now hear the irate hissing sounds of the deadliest poisonous serpent—the green Himalayan viper. Tarbiyat Khan’s hand is offered to the insanely frightened and enraged snake as a consolation prize. A horrendous, never-ending shriek rattles the pillars of the court. The slaves drop the man on the ground and look on impassively. People stare at their emperor; he is counting the beads of his tesbih, his pale eyes distant.

  PART II

  1659–66

  PROLOGUE

  1656

  Silhouettes of the Maval hills look like giant waves of a violent ocean, their escarpments, cliffs and gorges drowning into the darkness. Winter is almost over but icy winds still blow across the valleys hidden between the overlapping mountains. The village of Sind at the foothills of Rohida Hill looks deceptively peaceful. Mud houses covered with straw roofs supported by rickety beams of wood stand together on the sides of narrow gullies. The spire of a Shiva temple, rising above the surrounding structures, gleams in the moonlight. At the edge of the village, torches still burn in the courtyard of a small fortress protected by walls fortified with ramparts and a few bastions. The master of the house, Baji Prabhu Deshpande, is fast asleep, his rhythmic snores resonating in the courtyard. His guards are puzzled by something they have seen. Before they rush to warn their master, Baji is jolted out of his slumber by the faint sounds of explosions in the distance. From the ramparts of the wall that protect his home, he can see flames rising above the hill. The sudden bursts of several infernos seem to be originating from grenades. His master’s fort is burning, and the high flames erupting from the fort’s outer walls make Baji’s blood freeze with dread and his mind explode with anger. It must be their jagirdar’s son, the arrogant Shivaji and his gang! He and his men will have to leave at once! The horses of Baji’s one hundred sentinels are trained to scale steep slopes; the horse-friendly trail hidden in the wooded slopes of the hill is well trodden and there is no enemy waiting in ambush. Baji is disturbed. Shivaji had sent Krishnaji Bandal a message:

  Join my national movement against the Adilshahi king or die.

  Baji and his master Krishnaji had laughed and had forgotten about the message and its sender, until the day news arrived about how Shivaji and his men had bathed the nearby valley of Jawali in blood, killing jagirdar Morey and his sentinels. After hearing the news, Baji’s sentinels had started keeping vigil even during the night. But now Shivaji and his men have bypassed him and gone straight to his master’s fort that Baji thought was invincible with its high walls fortified with ramparts and seven strong bastions.

  Thought after thought tears through Baji’s head. When they get closer to the hilltop they smell smoke and hear some more explosions. The sound gets louder, and by the time they arrive at the entrance, the enemy has blown up parts of the wall and the ground is covered with chunks of rubble. As they ride gingerly, expecting a sudden attack, nobody actually bothers them. They cross a series of gates leading to the inner courtyard, but what they witness makes Baji and his men gape in disbelief. A bastion to their right has caught fire, its flames now licking the adjoining walls. In the glow that comes with the acrid smell, they notice that the courtyard is covered with bodies sprawled on the floor. At the edge, some injured flounder in pain and cry for help, while others are running in wild terror, not bothering
to avoid the little crimson pools of blood. Baji is stumped. Where is the enemy?

  A loud noise to their left makes his horse rear and start neighing in distress while Baji’s ears ring from the explosion. He tries to control the frightened beast but is alarmed by the screams of his men. He turns his horse with difficulty and is shocked to see that their animals have bolted with fear. Most have turned back and are headed for the entrance, taking their riders along and vanishing before Baji’s eyes.

  Baji does not know what to do. He turns his horse around and looks up at the flames and surveys the still-intact ramparts and bastions. The ramparts are swarming with men in Turkish turbans, all staring at him as if they expect him to be there. Some climb down using the ropes hanging from the ramparts, and in a flash Baji knows how they must have invaded the seemingly impregnable fort while the inmates slept soundly confident of their security.

  Catapults!

  He pulls out a sword from his right scabbard and wields it in the air, its blade straight and double-edged, swaying in the air like a banner of death.

  Within moments a hundred men have climbed down to the courtyard and they come closer still. He feels his nerves tighten; he is ready to die but not without slaughtering many. Strangely, it seems that the men who are in the process of forming a circle around him do not intend to kill him. They are neither wielding their swords nor aiming their spears. To his dismay, they stop advancing and watch him from a distance, their swords still in their scabbards and their shields held in the front to protect themselves if he charges. For a few moments it is status quo while Baji holds his ground occasionally swaying his sword in the air. Then the tight circle of men around him is broken and a man wearing a saffron headgear enters the arena. As the footmen circling them stand like shadows holding their breath and shields, the man draws closer to him, walking with ease, without a swagger. His attitude unnerves Baji as he prepares to swing his sword to stop the enemy from coming too near. But the man stops midway and pushes his sword into his scabbard. He does not want to fight with Baji. Strange! The man whose saffron turban gleams in the light of the flames that still burns the bastions is an easy target.

  ‘We have heard about you, Baji Prabhu Deshpande,’ he hears a young voice that is authoritative, yet not arrogant. Baji’s mind spins. Is this really who Baji thinks he is?

  ‘We have taken the hill fort,’ the man says sharply. His brown eyes reflect the flames that burn the bastions while his gaze sets fire to Baji’s mind.

  ‘Not till I am alive, Raja Shivaji!’ Baji shouts haughtily. He is the dewan, the estate manager, of the deshmukhs of Hirdas Maval, the area that belongs to the Adilshahi sultanate. Baji is loyal to his master, Krishnaji Bandal, a watandar who lives like a king in his castle-like fort atop Rohida Hill. With fifty-odd villages in their territory, Baji’s job is to maintain a small army of sentinels to keep an eye on the patils. Baji’s favourite quote has been, ‘People are more scared of the sword than the blades of their own destinies!’

  ‘Hmm, you have recognized me,’ Baji hears Shivaji’s mocking words.

  ‘Who else will attack the unsuspecting?’ Baji responds sardonically while Shivaji’s men surrounding him shout angrily in response.

  Shivaji raises his hand, ordering silence.

  ‘Your master Krishnaji’s paragana falls in my jagir, and officially he was my deshmukh who had to report to me. Have you forgotten the chain, Baji—from patil to deshmukh to jagirdar to subhedar and then the king?’

  Was? Baji shivers. ‘Have you killed my master?’ he yells.

  ‘Yes, I have. He had become a tyrant and was not recognizing our authority. It was my duty to tame him, but he was beyond change.’

  ‘Murderer!’ Baji yells, his voice cracking with righteous anger.

  ‘Please tell us how many peasants have fled your region because you have tortured them or how many women your master has lifted from the fields? Numbers, Baji, give me the numbers. You are the administrative head of the Bandals.’

  ‘Ha!’ Baji snaps. ‘You have killed my master. Raja Shivaji, you will have to kill me before you eliminate my master’s family and take over this fort and the land.’

  ‘I do not need to take over anything that is already mine, by killing the Bandal family. Let me remind you, lest you have forgotten, Hirdas Maval falls in my jagir.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Krishnaji Bandal is dead and so is the enmity between us. His first son will carry on with the watan, the hereditary right to collect revenue from the patils of this area. He will remain under our supervision and within our rules that have been etched to empower the peasants. You can still be his divan and my warrior. Baji Prabhu, I need you to fight against our real enemies.’

  Baji glares unbelievingly at the audacious young man whose eyes bore into him like daggers, cutting across his mind and touching his soul. ‘Your words are tricky, Raja Shivaji. I am a sword worshipper, not a traitor.’

  ‘And people are more scared of your sword than the blades of their own destinies . . . Right, Baji Prabhu?’ Shivaji asks, smiling.

  Baji is surprised.

  ‘That is your take on your strength, but mine is rather different from yours,’ says Shivaji mischievously, while playing with the hilt of his sword. ‘I think each sword has a character, and each swordsman has the power to change it to transform the destinies of millions.’

  Baji laughs, even though there is a possibility of getting killed. In that chaotic moment, Baji thinks of his blessed life. He has it all, with two wives, seven sons and many servants. His vault has enough gold and silver for his wives to adorn themselves with till they stoop under the weight of their jewels. The sheds and stables behind his house have no place for more cattle or horses. He may lose it all. Does this jagirdar’s pompous son really think that he can change the destinies of millions?

  ‘When you use your sword against the unarmed and the defenceless, it turns into the devil; when you help the undeserving and the unscrupulous with it, it becomes a traitor; when you use it against the aggressor to protect the weak, it becomes the worshipper of God; and when you empower the helpless, the vulnerable, to defend themselves with it, it becomes God!’

  Shivaji’s words fall on Baji like embers that sting but not burn.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1

  After the death of Afzal Khan in the valley of Jawali, the Marathas act swiftly, pushing their armies deep into the Adilshahi sultanate. The king, who was sure of Afzal Khan’s victory, is shocked; his mother, the Badi Sahiba, is crestfallen. There is more to come.

  Shivaji and his sarnobat, Netoji Palkar, gallop in the direction of Bijapur, the capital of the kingdom. Above them, a waning moon looks distant in the sky. Behind them, thousands of horsemen fly like javelins. The colossal hill of Panhala shudders in its own shadow, mutely watching its new captor and his cavalry vanish into the forest at its eastern foothills. Palkar is busy calculating the distance travelled by Rustum Khan, Adilshahi’s newly appointed general who had left their capital with ten thousand men a few weeks ago to intercept him. Soon it will be dawn and they will face the Adilshahi army in a battle at close quarters.

  The western parts of Miraj have turned noisy. Rustum gets up with a start as the warning bugles whine at the edge of his camp. The noise is followed by shrill yells. Rustum takes time to grasp the situation, jumps out of bed and rushes to the entrance of his tent. The enemy is near and advancing and there is no time to waste. He shouts at his guards, snarling orders. The animals are alert and nervous, protesting by neighing or trumpeting. The camp is filled with the sounds of hoof beats and instructions being shouted in haste. The soldiers have no time even for their morning ablutions. Many have a hangover from the arak they gulped down before their late dinner.

  A zestful Venus has already appeared near the eastern horizon as if to watch the encounter. Rustum’s battle formation is traditional, with him, the general, seated comfortably in a howdah on the back of his armoured elepha
nt at the centre. Entrusting his ‘left flank’ to Fazal Khan, he arranges a security cordon behind him. His Hindu and Muslim commanders along with their horsemen form a seemingly invincible ring around him. After a hectic scramble, an acute spell of utter silence fills the battleground-to-be. After an agonizing wait, the first rays of the sun filter through the canopies of trees only to show his location to the enemy.

  Palkar is the first to notice a fading cloud of dust floating above Rustum’s battle formation. Without much fuss, the Marathas split, and as planned, Palkar and his squadron gallop towards the right edge of the cloud to hit the enemy’s left flank, while Shivaji orders his captain, Tanaji Malusare, to move towards the right flank. Shivaji and some of his horsemen gallop straight ahead, to the middle of Rustum’s war formation. The battle cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev!’ shake the terrain of the Adilshahi sultanate for the first time, and their resonance freezes Rustum’s blood. Shivaji’s soldiers are in their element, slaughtering his horsemen and eroding his ring. Bile rises from Rustum’s throat when he notices the enemy using long and straight blades with ease. Some of his men have started running away from the battlefield, and seeing them flee, he suddenly feels suffocated in his heavy armour.

  The battle ends with Rustum fleeing the combat zone, leaving weapons and war animals as spoils-of-war for the Marathas.

  ‘Sarnobat, you will leave immediately for Bijapur with a few squadrons,’ Shivaji orders Palkar whose face is flush with victory. He is not worried about the seemingly unachievable target his master has set: capturing one Adilshahi fort a day. Most of the soldiers from Afzal Khan’s army are either dead and buried in the soil of the valley of Jawali or injured and left to their fate in the forests at the foothills of Pratapgad, while many have surrendered and been taken as captives. Those from the military camp of Wai have been left without weapons or war animals so they are as harmless as scorpions sans their stingers. Now Palkar is to launch attacks on the suburbs of Bijapur to jolt the king and further reduce the morale of the Adilshahi’s military men.