After camping for just a few hours in the wilderness to give their animals some rest, Palkar and his men gallop towards the sultanate’s capital through a barren landscape. For the first time, the Adilshahi’s stony terrain shudders under the hooves of the Maratha warhorses. Palkar has decided to approach Bijapur from the north-west as his scouts have warned that there is a possibility of the enemy waiting in ambush. For many kos so far they have not encountered any village, but soon the stretch of rolling plains gives way to a few tombs and minarets. For the past month, after the death of Afzal Khan, for Palkar life has been a continuous battle, and he does not remember the last time he slept peacefully through the night or had a hot meal. The winter wind has parched his skin and it stings. He forgets the fatigue of riding for hours when Bijapur suddenly bursts into his vision, the enormous dome of the Gol Gumbaz rising above the intervening highlands. He glances at the massive wall, fortified with bastions, of the city he once loved. Some minarets and towers rising above the fortifications bring back old memories when he had lived in the city. That was another time and another world when Mohammed Adil Shah had ruled the kingdom. Palkar gazes at the outer wall and notices tiny figures of men gathering on the ramparts.
The young king, Ali Adil Shah, has rushed to the ramparts of the outer wall. He squints in disbelief to see what his stammering guards had whispered to him when they had jolted him awake him up in the morning. His archers had vouched that they had spotted many horsemen galloping towards the suburb of Shahpur to the north-west of Bijapur. Ali realizes that the Marathas are at his doorstep, and all he feels is intense humiliation. This jagirdar’s son from the edge of his sultanate has dared to challenge his two-centuries-old kingdom.
‘How many?’ he demands still gazing in the direction of the horsemen.
No one has an answer.
Ali turns his head to look at the scout and notices that Khawas Khan, his grand wazir, has arrived with many military officials. He focuses his eyes on the tall and wiry African and orders: ‘Gather all our horsemen and lead them to Shahpur.’
Khawas Khan nods, but deep within his heart he is wary of the Marathas. He bows to his king and glances at his officers with a serious face who take the cue and follow him. Within an hour, he gallops towards Shahpur as his heavy cavalry of five thousand horsemen follow him. The sun has turned bright but the northern sky is filled with black clouds from the burning houses. Khawas Khan is not sure of the enemy numbers and ignorant about their plan, preparations and what they aspire to achieve. Do they want to enter Bijapur? The Marathas have arrived and they have set fire to many palaces in Shahpur. Then he notices something disturbing. A cloud of dust is rising in the north. It moves ahead and the noise of the hooves slowly fades. Has the enemy fled? He squints his eyes to mere splits at the north-western skyline and notices a line of horses becoming smaller and smaller.
The enemy just wanted to tell them that even Bijapur is no longer invincible!
2
The atmosphere is rather cold in the court as Ali Adil Shah watches the tall African swagger towards him, while the noblemen stare at the dark warrior with interest. Siddi Jauhar, the rebellious jagirdar of Kurnool that lies about one hundred kos south-east of Bijapur has arrived in the capital with a lot of pomp and glamour. Jauhar had long since stopped paying revenue. And there is more. He has refused to recognize Ali Adil Shah as the king of Bijapur. ‘Who is Ali? Who are his real parents? Whose blood runs in his veins? I consider him a bastard king!’ Jauhar had declared after Ali’s coronation. Ali does not have much choice now; his kingdom is on the brink of ruin, and Siddi Jauhar, unlike his other warriors, is not scared of the Marathas. Jauhar also has a strong personal army. While these thoughts fill Ali’s mind, Jauhar’s eyes remain fixed on Ali who has put on a lot of weight since Jauhar had last seen him a decade ago as a wiry ten-year-old. Jauhar does not bother to look around, purposely ignoring the riches and grandeur of the Bijapur court that belies the hollowness of the kingdom’s military power. A small-time jagirdar has shaken the foundation of the Adilshahi and Jauhar wants to laugh out loud. Meanwhile, Ali regards Jauhar whose long beard falls on his blue tunic. His sash is like a girdle sewn from several pieces of fine, large, gold coins and is partially covered with the sleeves of his mantle. Ali is doubtful. Does this man have the power to crush Shivaji who is trying to break free from the embryonic stage of a guerrilla warrior clan and emerge as an independent military power worth reckoning with?
Ali, as a matter of habit, glances to his right, but behind the curtain his mother’s chair is empty. When the news of Afzal Khan’s murder had arrived he had not believed it in the beginning. His mother, however, had gone mute, her eyes had turned vacant. Since then, she stopped attending the court and barely spoke. ‘I want to go to Mecca,’ she had insisted, when he had met her the day before to coax her to come to the court.
Several thoughts cross Jauhar’s mind as he watches his king. The unexpected and unbelievable death of the mighty Afzal Khan, the loss of thousands of soldiers in the sinister valley of Jawali, the crushing defeat of Rustum and Fazal in the battlefield near Kolhapur—all have served to dampen the spirit of the kingdom’s noblemen who are, to start with, not decisive enough as it is. Shivaji has captured fourteen forts that lie on the trade route between Konkan and Bijapur. Vishalgad has been taken; Panhala Khelna and Rangna have fallen. Every fort captured is under the control of Maratha garrisons. If this is not enough insult to the kingdom’s financial system, the Marathas have plundered the kingdom’s port town of Dabhol. They had even reached Shahpur! That has been like slap on Ali’s face. The latest news is more horrifying, the Maratha sarnobat and his squadron have besieged the fort of Miraz, hardly thirty-five kos west of Bijapur, just two days journey by horse. If rumours are to be believed, even Shivaji has planned to join his sarnobat to strengthen the siege.
Ali keeps staring at Jauhar with shadows of regret floating in his eyes. Nobody from his court has come forward to fight the enemy, but this outsider, who is considered a criminal, had written him a letter saying that if the king forgives and forgets the past, he will deal with Shivaji. Ali had been overwhelmed by the offer and sent enough funds to fill Jauhar’s treasury, bestowing him with the title of Salabat Khan, the invincible one.
‘Salabat Khan Sahib,’ Ali says in a soft voice laced with sarcasm, ‘we have some great warriors in our court, but since you have shown such eagerness to deal with Shivaji we have called you to take charge. Succeed and we shall regard you as the ablest nobleman of our court.’
Jauhar gradually shifts his gaze towards the courtiers. The Adilshahi kings have often granted revenue-rich regions as jagirs to some noblemen who are more sycophants than warriors. They never stay in their jagirs; instead, they live in the capital with their families. They indulge in court gossip and vie for positions and titles, while their wives spend their time visiting each other to play cards and dice. These politically inclined noblemen are not interested in developing their territories or building a strong army to defend even their jagirs. They have allowed the Mughals to take over Bidar and invade the north-eastern parts of the sultanate. Bijapur was spared only because Aurangzeb had to go north to claim the Mughal throne.
‘You leave immediately. Meet our wazir and he will give you a list of the names of noblemen who will work under you. He will also give you the specifics in terms of the size of the army we intend to deploy,’ Ali says decisively, banging his right fist over the armrest of his throne.
Jauhar does not nod. The best of soldiers have perished in Jawali. He will get the leftovers, even if they are in large numbers.
‘What do you think Shivaji will do when you march towards him with such a large army? Do you think he will run away to his jagir?’ Ali asks with a straight face.
This is indeed a tricky question. Jauhar has also heard that the new Mughal emperor, Aurangzeb, has appointed his maternal uncle, Shaista Khan, as the subhedar of the Mughal-occupied Deccan, and has given him a huge army to deal w
ith Shivaji. Shivaji surely knows this development, and if he runs home, he runs the risk of being pursued by Jauhar from the east and the Mughal from the north. Will he risk multiple invasions?
‘I believe,’ Jauhar says cautiously, ‘that Shivaji will not leave our terrain; instead, he might run and hide in one of the forts he has taken from us.’
Ali raises his brows. When Jauhar marches from the east, the Marathas may move westwards. Panhala Fort is about forty miles west of Miraz, and it is not only the nearest but also big enough to accommodate a few thousand people.
3
A few days after his meeting with Jauhar, Ali Adil Shah, despite his obesity, runs along the ramparts to get a better look from different angles. From the platform above the Mecca Gate, he notices the lush green of Bijapur, its gardens landscaped with ponds and fountains, their edges lined with mango and tamarind trees. The skyline is crammed with mosque minarets, tomb domes, palace arches, temple spires and raised cannon platforms, all carved from rich brown basalt. Gilded crests of some sky-scraping cupolas shimmer as golden shafts in the evening sunlight. The massive wall enclosing his private palaces is visible to him from the ramparts of the city’s outer wall. The main avenue running from east to west that cuts the city into two halves is packed with his military cavalcade that is gradually moving towards the Mecca Gate. Thousands of footmen in Turkish coats with diagonally crossing hems over their chests strut around smartly. Their metal helmets gleam and their leather rucksacks, heavy with clothes, water and food, bulge behind their backs. Some have quivers stuffed with arrows. A contingent of footmen, carrying long spikes, wear armour and coifs made of steel chainmail to protect them from the piercing blows of enemy spearmen. The dense mass of footmen is occasionally broken by caparisoned elephants carrying silver howdahs. The men in the howdahs look confident, sitting very straight and with their turbaned heads thrown back in pride. The air above the avenue has turned opaque with a dust cloud. It’s been an hour and the march is still not over. Ali’s light cavalry has horses from Arabia and Turkey, and his Afghan contingent is rather impressive. The horsemen are well-built and look handsome in their massive headgear. Adilshahi’s war banners, yellow with an ensign of a silver crescent moon, flutter in the wind, forming waves of silk in the air. A contingent of the local Marathas passes by, they are muscular riders with grim faces, holding naked swords in one hand. Then artillerymen appear with their camels carrying lightweight cannon and elephants carrying heavier ones. Some of the animals are loaded with sacks of explosives. At the end of the cavalcade, hundreds of bhishtis amble on carrying large leather bags swollen with water. The streets are milling with civilians who have come to see off their military men going on a mission, one they might not return from.
Ali feels proud. He has done it—infused courage and confidence in his men who were shattered in spirit after Afzal Khan’s death. He has even managed to get Siddi Jauhar, now his chief military general.
The elephant swings gently beneath Siddi Jauhar, as if rocking him to slumber, but he is wide awake, his eyes darting in every direction while crossing the Mecca Gate. Jauhar looks at the doors of the gate and smiles to himself. They are made of thick wooden beams fastened together by iron clamps powered by massive steel bars bristling with long iron spikes. This gate is protected by another curtain of fortified walls flanked by towers furnished with turrets and battlements. There is another gate to pass! If fortifications alone could win wars . . . he thinks.
The cavalcade has moved on, disappeared from Ali’s sight, while the melodious calls for isha adha echo in his ears as the muezzins from the Rauza Masjid call for the last prayer of the day. Ali looks at the sky. He will lose everything—his kingdom, his family and his life—if he does not hand over the regions in Shivaji’s control demanded by Aurangzeb. He kneels down on the tarmac of the ramparts. Help me eliminate Shivaji, he prays earnestly.
4
It is late in the evening, and despite heavily curtained windows the breeze from the Yamuna sneaks into the corridors of Musamman Burj of Agra Fort, moves over the low marble parapets and enters into the chambers built over the fort walls. The chilly draughts cut through the bones of the dethroned Emperor Shah Jahan who lies on a large bed in the foyer, with his head propped up on colourful silk pillows.
Jahanara sitting at the edge of the bed looks at her father; his arms lying over the folds of the blanket look like the pale branches of birch trees. The diamond arsi that he has always worn on his thumb now looks out of place on his wrinkled hand. What strikes her most is his face, worn with hopelessness and stained with tears. A rush of love mingled with pity overtakes her as she bends forward and lovingly caresses his forehead as if to heal the invisible wound inflicted on his soul by his own son.
‘Do not pity me, daughter,’ the former emperor has turned pale in shame for he has noticed sympathy in his daughter’s eyes.
She flushes and pretends to look at the chandelier at the corners of the large room. It is easy to pity someone but it is hard to be the object of someone’s pity, especially for someone who has been an emperor.
‘Aurangzeb has emptied the fort’s treasury to support his battle against Shuja,’ he sighs and whispers.
She sighs sadly and remembers how their hopes had risen when they had heard that Jaswant Singh Rathod and his army had revolted against Aurangzeb on the battlefields near Khajwa. Villagers had spotted Jaswant and his horsemen loaded with sacks galloping towards Agra. It was rumoured that Aurangzeb had been captured. Then more and more horsemen were seen running away from the field. They had said that they had witnessed the horrific death of Aurangzeb when three elephants of Shuja’s army brandishing iron chains tied to their trunks had attacked him. Messengers had told Jahanara that one elephant had flung the chain so high that it had dislodged Aurangzeb’s howdah from his elephant, making it crash. He had been lying on the ground when the other mammoths had walked over him, again and again. Seeing their leader’s body a mass of blood, muscles and bones, Aurangzeb’s ninety thousand troopers had run in all directions like frightened hares. Jahanara and her father had waited anxiously for Jaswant to arrive and tell them the real story but he had fled to Jodhpur. Then they had waited for Shuja bhai to come and rescue them, but he never arrived. The previous news was wrong. Aurangzeb had defeated Shuja bhai in a most unbelievable battle.
Jahanara is aware that at this very moment, a daylight robbery is taking place in this very fort, their home that is supposed to be a sanctuary from the perils of the world. Aurangzeb’s personal eunuch, Mutamad, has been digging out Dara bhai’s jewels and artefacts from the vaults of her late brother’s palaces, most of which were gifts given by her father and other royals such as the kings of Persia, Uzbek, Europe and China.
A bout of anger has stimulated a bout of cough. Jahanara pats her father’s chest while he coughs, clenching his chest and stomach. Once his anger had the power to shake the world; now his impotent fury is not even powerful enough to flick a bothersome fly.
‘Ask Aurangzeb to take my clothes too. Let the world see a naked old man who once possessed the world,’ Shah Jahan says with disgust. A medic comes running with a large spittoon. Jahanara props her father up on his bed and massages his back as tears stream down her face. The fort is swarming with Aurangzeb’s slaves. The rooms stuffed with royal apparel, miniature paintings, furniture, crockery and jewels are sealed. Several trunks of gold ashrafi mohurs have already been moved into the vaults of the diwan-e-khaas in the custody of Mutamad. As if their father, whom all the treasure truly belongs to, is a criminal from whom the treasure must be protected.
Jahanara looks out from the arched window. In the golden light of the setting sun, her mother’s mausoleum looks fragile, as though waiting to crumble once again, just like she had once seen in a nightmare. She shudders with renewed vigour at the memory of the day when Dara bhai’s remains had arrived in an engraved coffin, little knowing that an intruder has been listening to their talk.
Mutamad stands motio
nless behind a pillar that leads to the antechamber and hears every word with care. He has been instructed to write to his master in Dilli and give him every minute detail of what happens at Agra.
Jahanara feels sobs choking her throat. Who will and can stop Aurangzeb? He is now the Mughal emperor, the head of the most powerful empire founded by Zahir-ud-Din Muhammad Babur more than a century ago. Aurangzeb has celebrated his coronation with pompous glamour, showing off the empire’s wealth and military strength. He has dazzled the people so much that their logic has ceased to exist. Recent history is forgotten and men of power have developed a razor-sharp survival instinct.
Jahanara has heard from her sources that the umrahs and ulemas gathered at Aurangzeb’s coronation have kept quiet about her father’s plight. Not even a word was heard about the ailing and imprisoned former emperor, even though they were indebted to him for their ranks and riches, some of them had been lifted by him from utter poverty and some from slavery. These very men had now discovered justifications for Dara bhai’s murder, had invented reasons for her father’s fall and had realized great qualities of leadership and military intelligence in Aurangzeb who now possessed absolute authority. They know that to challenge Aurangzeb or his authority is treason, punishable only by death. The peacock throne is his seat of power and the other emblems, like the golden chhatr, the kawakaba, the sayaban which is a badge in the shape of a fan, the alam, the shamsha and many such other royal symbols, are his exclusive imperial right. No one else in the world is allowed to conduct a jharokha-e-darshan to show himself to his subjects. The sign of Islamic legitimacy, the khutba, is read in his name in thousands of mosques across the empire.
Frontiers Page 30
