Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  The evening has progressed into a stormy night and the full moon is eclipsed by layers of dark clouds that have unleashed the fury of the rain. A few hundred men have gathered at the mouth of a tunnel near Rajdindi bastion and they seem to be moving inside the tunnel in a file along with two palanquins. Baji Prabhu follows one of the palanquins through the tunnel lit by a few earthen lamps kept in primitive alcoves, barefoot like all others. What he has heard from his scouts worries him. They had warned that at places rain-sodden slopes have collapsed in torrents of mud and rocky debris. He and his six hundred men from Bandal must ensure that Raja Shivaji escapes from Panhala. If they do not escape tonight, they never will.

  Baji and his men know that the journey between Panhala and Vishalgad may be their last, but each of them has made peace with death as long as their master reaches the safe confines of Vishalgad. It is dark, and they depend on the frequent lightning to show them the downhill path. Lightning is a double-edged sword today: it will show them the path but it might also help the enemy to spot them.

  Too many thoughts and questions buzz in Baji’s head. Panhala is surrounded by flat plains, so the besiegement is tight, with hardly any gaps. Countless sentry posts guard it from all sides. Thousands of men are camping around the hill: Jauhar and Fazal are to the east, Rustum Khan to the west, Siddi Masud to the north and Baji Ghorpade to the south. The siege is tight in the east. Towards the north-west, at the foothills of Masai Rock, it thins out, and that is the weakest link of the enemy besiegement, especially in the rain. Once they reach the foothills of Panhala, Baji Prabhu guides one palanquin followed by large number of people carrying bows on their shoulders, backpack quivers full of arrows, catapults hanging from their necks, and scabbards stuffed with swords tied to their waist as they cross a torrential stream and move towards the Masai tablelands. Baji is in command and races along with the palanquin, anxious but alert. A noise has travelled through the sheets of rain and pierced his eardrums. He orders the palanquin he trails to halt. Quickly, the procession stops and turns still. All men freeze into statues, with racing hearts, fearful minds, darting pupils, constricted bellies and goose-pimpled skin. Then again Baji hears the sound: ta-ga-da-ka ta-ga-da-ka. The rhythm of the hooves that now have the power to stop Baji’s heart is thankfully getting fainter. They start climbing Masai to reach the tablelands. The path is not steep but the darkness and rain has made it slippery. Some fall, some are even injured. They need to cover a distance of six kos on the flat rock and climb down to reach a village called Pandharpani. The stretch is covered with short, coarse grass.

  The second palanquin has not crossed the stream but has mutely moved in the direction of a place called Malkapur. It is accompanied by just twenty-five people.

  2

  Naik has gone with the first palanquin while Mhadu now runs behind the second one that has headed towards Malkapur. After a while it comes into an open area as if it wants to be spotted and captured. It eventually is stopped by Masud and his horsemen. It still pours when Masud’s men remove the cloth that covers the palanquin to protect the very important person who sits in it.

  ‘Light!’ screams Masud.

  The cover is removed and a torch protected by a wooden umbrella is brought by one of Masud’s men. The flame flickers wildly as though possessed. Masud and his men are astonished by what they see. A man stares back at them with a blank expression. He wears very fine clothes and a tapering turban embellished with pearls.

  ‘Who are you?’ Masud commands. He is still in his party clothes—a long jama with floral motifs and a colourful turban heavy with emeralds. The clothes have lost their lustre and are dripping with rainwater, but Masud is not bothered about his clothes at the moment. He is just stunned by the discovery.

  Is this man really Shivaji? he wonders.

  The man in the palanquin does not say a word. Some of the infantrymen following the palanquin draw their swords.

  ‘Do not even think of charging. You are surrounded by hundreds of us,’ Masud warns. He signals two of his horsemen who jump down as metal chains make a faint clinking sound. The man in the palanquin is shackled. The bearers shudder with fear and Mhadu, standing behind the palanquin, starts sobbing.

  ‘Shut up,’ one of the guards snaps at him. His words vanish in the ear-splitting sound of the thunder. The palanquin bearers and its followers are briskly herded by Masud’s hooting horsemen, while Masud’s horse, like a victor, canters ahead of the palanquin.

  The news spreads and the foothills of Panhala become alive with excitement. Drums start beating as the palanquin is carefully brought into the camp while the slaves waiting at the edge start dancing in front of the palanquin, leading it to Jauhar’s tent. A drenched Masud proudly presents his trophy to his esteemed father-in-law, titled Salabat Khan, the invincible one. The prisoner falls to his knees but his eyes bore boldly into Jauhar’s.

  Jauhar looks on unbelievingly. Is the captive the person he thinks he is?

  His room, lit by two torches hung on the wall, is now swarming with men stamping on the clean durries with their muddy feet, as Marathi, Deccani and Turkish words float in the air. Several people who have previously seen Shivaji jostle with each other to get a better look. Jauhar watches them as they stare at the shackled man and knows immediately that something is amiss. Blood rushes to his brain and his heart thumps against his ribcage, his muscles go into spasm and the colour drains from his face. Everything becomes clear in a flash, like the lightning that lights up the world for brief moments, and Jauhar feels as if he has been hit by lightning. He knows that all this was done to fool him, but fool him for what? What do they want to achieve—gain time? But gain time to do what?

  ‘Where is Shivaji and who are you?’ Jauhar asks, taking out his sword from its scabbard. The ray of hope of Shivaji joining hands with him against the king has become a noose!

  ‘I am Shiva, Shiva Kashid, and I do not know where Raja Shivaji is. I am just a traveller going towards Bijapur,’ Shiva the barber is not bothered about his life anymore; he owes his life to Raja Shivaji for rescuing him and his family from the hands of the Adilshahi soldiers a few years before. He looks up to pray to his God and sees the flash of the gleaming blade of Jauhar’s sword.

  The news of Shivaji’s double and his execution spreads faster than the news of his ‘capture’. There is huge confusion. First, it is utter disbelief, and then it is sheer anger at being tricked. At the end of it there is only helplessness. In that hour of bewilderment, rage, raging storm and earth-shaking thunder, some of the Maratha men are captured while some slink away. Mhadu has disappeared in the crowd. Jauhar tries to think fast as moments slip by, while dancing slaves have sprung to action. Some of them are busy carrying away the remains of Shiva Kashid, and some wash the carpet with soap and brush to wipe the stains. Their master likes his room squeaky clean. What must be the motive of this circus? Why a decoy? What is the real one up to?

  Lightning strikes again, illuminating the camp full of puzzled men. It also lights up Jauhar’s mind. Shivaji has escaped and must have gone westwards while the decoy’s palanquin was allowed to wander towards the east on purpose. Since Shivaji and his men have no horses to cover long distances, they must be heading for the nearest fort, Vishalgad. They will cross the rock and reach Pandharpani and then head for Vishalgad.

  ‘Pandharpani!’ Jauhar cries looking at Masud, ‘Chase them, capture them and kill them all. They are all on foot!’

  3

  Baji is racing with the palanquin. They have climbed down the rock and have crossed Pandharpani village. They enter a wooded area as ten kos of thick forest unfolds before them. At places it is so dense that even the rain has failed to break in—dry pockets swarm with fireflies that look like floating lights. Then comes the dawn and with it a bit of light. The ground below is slushy with knee-deep muck and everyone is barefoot. They cross countless rainwater streams and ponds. At some places, the entire area is covered with thorny babul. Gradually the eastern skyline brighten
s; the rain has stopped and the clouds are dispersing. It takes a few more hours for them to reach the path that leads to the river valley. Baji hears the dreadful noise of galloping horses again. Soon the noise turns into the thunder of hooves. Jauhar’s army is finally catching up and the borrowed time is over. Shiva Kashid is most probably dead. Baji keeps running despite his feet being punctured by long, sharp babul thorns. He and his men have covered several kos within fifteen hours and are heading for the valley of Kasari river.

  Baji takes a decision. He rushes to Raja Shivaji’s palanquin and says while running, ‘Raja you move on and head for Vishalgad with half the men, I shall stay put here with the rest to take care of the enemy.’

  ‘No!’ shouts Shivaji.

  ‘Lakhs of men may die but the one who looks after those lakhs must live,’ Baji is firm. The plan is already in place; it now remains to be executed without question or doubt. There is no time to decide otherwise. Naik and half of the Bandal men follow Raja Shivaji’s palanquin as they cross the stream of Kasari river. Baji and the rest of his men stay put on the other side of the riverbank. Once the palanquin reaches the safety of the fort, its artillery officers will blast the cannon three times. That is the signal that the leader is safe.

  ‘Hide behind bushes,’ Baji orders the remaining three hundred. Within no time they can see Jauhar’s horsemen galloping towards them. Baji’s men take out the bows from their shoulders and arrows from the quivers. Some use catapults. Within moments the arrows and pebbles fly as some of the galloping horsemen fall with devastating effect, their fallen animals acting as hurdles for the other gallopers. Baji looks back to glance at his men from his region, the Bandals—they look determined and ready for anything. He calculates: Raja needs three hours to reach the safety of Vishalgad; Baji needs to prevent anyone from crossing the river for the next three hours so he stands on the only path in the midst of the thick forest that leads to the river. He does not want to speculate the numbers of the enemy soldiers and stands rooted in the path, focusing only on sounds. His ears catch an echo of gallops getting louder and louder, and within moments he notices a horseman approaching, then another and another, as arrows from the bows and pebbles from the catapults of his men keep flying.

  But some enemy horsemen survive and the distance between them and Baji reduces rapidly.

  ‘Har Har Mahadev!’ Baji bellows their battle cry, igniting valour in the hearts of his men, instigating them to launch the offensive. He has one sword in each hand, he does not need a shield. If the enemy horsemen miss death from Baji’s swords, they have hundreds blades waiting for them. Baji Prabhu is like a rampart of flesh. He stands between the horsemen and the river. His headgear has fallen and his scalp is bleeding, blood trickling down his face and making him look like a man possessed, but his swords move swiftly and it is difficult to dodge the blows.

  Two hours pass thus and Baji starts feeling tired. Many of his men are dead but his eyes keep wandering in the direction of Vishalgad and his ears wait for the signal.

  It has been almost twenty-one hours since they have left Panhala and Baji knows he might not last long. The enemy’s cavalry seems to have been reinforced. The enemy infantrymen are fresh. He glances back for a brief moment to see only a few of his men still fighting. At that very moment, a tall horseman looming over him attacks him from the side. The force is such that the blade cuts through his left biceps, severing his left hand still holding the sword. But Death must wait till he hears the blasts and Baji keeps swinging his right sword even as the stump of his left arms gurgles blood. He stops for a moment to look up at the sky and sees the afternoon sun blinking through the clouds. It is at that moment a loud sound of three blasts brings peace to his mind and calms his soul. He glances at the direction of Vishalgad for one last time, but all he sees is a blur, for his eyes are filled with tears. He falls, still alive, recalling Raja Shivaji’s words: When you use your sword against the unarmed and the defenceless, it turns into a 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 a worshipper of God; and when you empower the helpless, the vulnerable, to defend themselves with it, it becomes God!

  Baji smiles. As he falls he whispers, ‘Today, my sword has become Bhavani, the goddess of every god’s energy!’

  Now his Raja can escape. Wooded slopes of Vishalgad disappear into Konkan. From there reaching Rajgad is easy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  1

  Padmavati Temple is bedecked with strings of marigold and chrysanthemum. The vibrant yellow and orange colours of the freshly plucked flowers dazzle in the glow of the morning light. In the inner sanctum, well-lit by several earthen lamps, the statue of the goddess shimmers under the cover of blood-red hibiscus. Saffron flags flutter in the wind above the citadel. Drums have started beating, and moments later, cannons placed on the ramparts of Rajgad start blasting to welcome Shivaji. The ear-splitting sound shakes the colossal hill of the fort as the violet-blue sky above the hill gets filled with confused and fearful eagles. The horses in the stables built on the extension of the hill start whinnying and stamping their hooves in fright. Peasants working in the fields at the foothills narrow their eyes and look up at the fort. All fort residents know the reason for the drums but for one person who does not understand what the fuss is all about.

  Hardly knee high, the boy runs defiantly between his grandmother, mothers and sisters, brandishing a small wooden dagger. He is wearing new clothes that make him feel stuffy—the angirkha is laden with pearls and is too heavy for his liking. His grandmother has forcefully fitted a new turban on his head. He has given up the idea of throwing a tantrum because he knows that his grandmother can be strict too. Out of sheer defiance, when she was not looking, he has managed to pull out some of his curly locks from under the rim of the headgear. The locks have formed a halo around his angelic face. He has noticed that his mothers and sisters have worn new clothes, adorned themselves with jewellery and decked their hair with flowers. Most of them are holding silver trays with burning lamps placed on them. What is disheartening is that that he is not the object of their interest!

  He suddenly notices a man whom he does not know but who seems to be the centre of affection. He looks at the others but they are looking at the man. He too diverts his eyes towards the man but his eyes fall on a scabbard hanging from the man’s belt. The boy decides that it is far more interesting than its owner.

  ‘Sword,’ the boy commands, pointing at the scabbard as if it is his birth right to get whatever catches his fancy.

  The stranger kneels, looks into the boy’s eyes and asks with a smile, ‘Shambhu Sahib, do you want my sword?’

  The boy considers the proposal seriously for a moment and offers his wooden toy to the stranger, as if he does not want any obligation. The stranger looks at the toy; it is a small wooden dagger, well-crafted, with a tiny hilt that is painted red.

  ‘Sword,’ the boy twists his lips, creases his forehead with impatience to remind the stranger of his offer. It is a fair bargain and he has finished his part of the deal. He does not want a gift; it is a trade-off, clear and simple.

  ‘Don’t go by his size; he is unyielding like iron,’ Shivaji hears Jija bai’s voice and he swings around and faces his mother. She looks frailer and seems to have aged rapidly, with more wrinkles around her eyes. Yet he feels relieved to see her up and about. Her eyes light up with tears as she looks at him. He has come home from Panhala, dodging death.

  ‘Ma, many have not come home. Our Baji Prabhu, hundreds of his men and Shiva Kashid went on a suicidal mission just to keep me alive,’ Shivaji says softly as he bends and touches her feet. He does not want to see anyone rejoicing at his safe return, not even his mother.

  ‘Sword!’ they hear Shambhu scream. The boy is angry with the delay, as the women and girls giggle looking at the sullen face of the little one who is now looking up at the stranger, tears of determination welling in
his eyes. The man in the saffron turban has cheated him, taking Shambhu’s dagger but refusing to part with his sword.

  Shivaji looks down and even in that heartbreaking moment he starts laughing, picks up the boy and kisses his forehead. For a moment he is stunned. Looking into his son’s eyes he realizes that they are so much like Sayee’s: large, dark, limpid and intense, with unusually long lashes. The boy meanwhile screws up his nose in anger, throws a tantrum and struggles to wriggle out of his arms.

  Shivaji remains preoccupied with Baji’s memories.

  Baji Prabhu was a large man, but his body had come in a small sack gone crimson black with dried blood. When they had spread him on the floor, all he could see were pieces of a human body, hacked ruthlessly, with sinister force. The soul-less red bits covered with slivers of skin had looked forlorn, lost without the spirit, the fighting spirit of Baji. The only parts that seemed intact were his feet, swollen with soles covered with countless babul thorns. Looking at those feet, a part of Shivaji had died. The entire struggle, the bravery, the sacrifice of Baji was for him so that he could get away alive.