Death is merciful, death is the last refuge, death is a blessing from Allah, death is also an escape from tragedies you do not wish to witness, and this physical pain is only a small price to pay, thinks Salabat Khan, the invincible one, before falling down with a thud and closing his eyes. The tunnel suddenly comes alive with the ominous squeaks of eager rats.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
1
It has been six months since Shivaji’s escape from Panhala. The month of Poush has arrived but people of Maval and the surrounding areas are too terrified to celebrate Makar Sankranti, the festival of harvesting. Everything is gone; the farms are empty, eaten away by the Mughal war animals. Some of the villages have turned into mere ash and thousands of people of the region have been taken as slaves, some of the young women are imprisoned in Shaista’s camp as sex slaves and will soon be engaged in the breeding of children sired by Mughal soldiers!
It is midnight, and it is dark on the Padmavati extension of Rajgad. Bahirji Naik waits outside the sadar for Raja Shivaji to arrive. He has important news and he must convey that to the raja tonight. There is very little time, he thinks, as his eyes wander around nervously. The hill on which the citadel is built looks like a gloomy pillar against the backdrop of a star-studded sky. Behind the sadar, an enormous banyan tree hides in its own shadow, its aerial roots swaying with the currents of unconstrained mountain winds. The air smells strange—a mix of jungle herbs, night-cestrum flowers and the weird odour of pongamia oil used as torch fuel.
‘What news, Naik?’ he hears a familiar voice. Raja Shivaji has come with Tanaji Malusare.
‘Kartalab is headed for Kurvanda Pass.’
‘Strange . . . Why would he do that? I have taken that route once. The pass turns too narrow at places,’ Tanaji comments.
‘He does not have much choice. It is either Borghat or Kurvanda Pass. The other mountain paths are too steep and difficult to negotiate. We have a few hundred men holding Borghat and Kartalab knows it,’ Shivaji comments and then asks Naik, ‘How sure are you?’
‘Hundred per cent. I am Kartalab Khan’s personal masseur. He likes me so much that he is reluctant to share me with his officers,’ Naik says with a straight face.
‘What is the strength of his army?’ Tanaji asks. He is beginning to understand; Borghat is blocked by the Marathas on purpose to steer Kartalab towards Kurvanda.
‘Around twenty thousand, I guess, and it is a big cavalcade complete with horses, carts and palanquins. It looks like Kartalab is planning to stay in the Konkan for a long time,’ Naik replies.
‘If I remember correctly, there is a mountain glade after a few kos of descent. Thereafter, the pass turns too narrow,’ Shivaji says raising his eyebrows.
‘Ji, ji,’ Naik nods affirmatively, ‘it is called Chavani, meaning “to camp”, for people descending the mountain can rest there. From Chavani, one has to go westwards to a village called Umbare. Here the trail turns frighteningly narrow; the locals call it Umbarkhind and it is like the barrel of a gun.’
‘Can this barrel accommodate them all at once?’ Tanaji’s eyes shine with interest.
‘The barrel is about a mile and half in length. A few thousand Mughal infantrymen will enter it first along with a few hundred labourers to clear the way. By the time they near Umbare, the entire army would have entered the barrel.’ Naik knows his business.
‘So, we must fire the gun called Umbarkhind when the barrel is stuffed with explosives in the form of the Mughal army,’ Shivaji comments wryly. His eyes are twinkling—whether with mischief or anticipation, no one can tell.
‘If that happens, the Mughals will have no room to retreat, no space to rally and organize to retaliate, and no place to disperse—they will just explode,’ Naik reasons.
‘Is there any highland that looks over this track?’ Shivaji asks.
‘Sure,’ Naik replies, ‘there are many hills rising above the trail and one is at the end of the pass, or shall we say at the mouth of the barrel, near the village of Umbare. There the barrel runs south along the eastern face of the hill. It is here that it gets partially blocked by this hill in the front. One has to negotiate through a very narrow trail to go westwards towards the Konkan,’ Naik replies.
‘How much time do we have?’ Shivaji asks.
‘Three days,’ Naik answers, then lowers his voice, ‘I have heard that a female warrior is accompanying Kartalab.’
2
Three days and three nights later, Kartalab Khan has finally reached Kurvanda along with his twenty thousand infantry and cavalrymen. He is the commanding officer of the military expedition called the ‘North Konkan’, to get back what is captured by Shivaji. He, for the first time, leads several contingents commanded by military heavyweights like Kachwah, Chauhan, Amar Singh, Mitrasen, Sarjera Ghadege, Kokate and Jadhavrao. Amongst them is one Savitri bai, titled Rai Baghan, the royal tigress, a Maratha woman who, after the death of her husband, was made a mansabdar by Aurangzeb.
Kartalab’s horse stands at the edge of the plateau perched above the slopes plunging into ravines. It is the beginning of the Kurvanda Pass, never used by a military cavalcade before. He has spent a lot of time studying the maps of the region, and knows that to reach the coastal Konkan from Desh, the mountain plateau, one has to cross the ghats, the difficult mountain trails. One has to reach the western edge of the Sahyadri Range, roughly half a kos above sea level, and then descend. The entire expanse is craggy and broken, covered with enormous hills, thick forests and riverbeds. The trails going downhill are just narrow paths or defiles and so steep that horses, even the light cavalry warhorses, find it difficult to keep their footing. Sometimes, it is impossible to reach the high point of these passes from where the descent starts because one has to travel through nearly impassable jungle growth on the mountain plateau. Kartalab had considered some options and was left with just two choices—either Borghat or Kurvanda Pass—and he had chosen Kurvanda for many reasons. For one, it is relatively easier to reach the place and it is not riddled with hills. The downhill journey from there is not steep or abrupt, but steady at a thirty-degree angle all through till one reaches a tiny hamlet called Chavani, and there is enough space for his army to camp and rest there. He has first steered his cavalcade in the direction of Borghat to fool the Marathas and then abruptly turned towards Kurvanda.
The Mughal cavalcade led by Kartalab Khan is on the move.
About a hundred or more Mughal slaves have remained busy clearing the path by hacking the nettles and thorny shrubs with saws and machetes. Kartalab steers his horse more towards the edge. The curious animal looks down into the valley and panics; it rears and neighs loudly. Kartalab swiftly leans forward and gently pulls back the reins with one hand and rubs the animal’s neck with another. The good warhorse calms down quickly as its master stares at the peaks that rise far above the emerald slopes covered with woods. In the light of the rising sun, the summits look like rocky snake hoods. Below them, over the slopes, the mountain trails meander across the girth of the hills. The world before Kartalab Khan is alive with cascading waterfalls, languidly grazing cattle, darting monkeys and resonant birdcalls. He whistles cheerfully as the cold winter wind brushes past him. This is a new beginning for him, opening doors of wealth he could have never imagined in the past. Behind him, thousands of armoured infantrymen wearing round metal helmets pass by. They look carefree and fearless, occasionally chuckling over some private gag. A detachment of heavy cavalry follows. More than five thousand Abyssinian slaves in soiled clothes trudge along carrying metal trunks stuffed with grains and weapons over their heads. Before he advances ahead, he looks back and sees a long line of mena-palanquins covered with colourful curtains. These are carrying his and his officers’ families. Beyond them are some more oxen carts, heavily guarded by his expert archers and swordsmen. Those carts carry sacks of gold and silver coins, the funds generously granted to him for this operation.
The Mughal army’s descent has started and Kartalab is aler
t. A few thousand of his infantrymen are good archers. They walk watching every cliff and every tree for any suspicious movement, but there is none. The sound of ‘hah hah’ when the cart drivers guide their oxen, along with the calls of the orioles, mynah, woodpeckers and many other birds has filled the air which smells of strange herbs. The Mughal men not used to the mountains have started feeling tired. As they go downhill, closer to sea level, the weather has gradually turned humid and warm. The Abyssinian slaves carrying large trunks over their heads drenched in their own sweat have already finished their stock of drinking water and there is nothing available on the way.
They arrive at Chavani in the afternoon. The oxen dragging the carts have started panting and the horses are disoriented. The sun is now directly overhead. Kartalab Khan has decided to camp near the village of Umbare; there they have some hope of getting water for the thirsty men and animals. The river Amba does run parallel to the barrel-like path that lies ahead but it is almost dry. The region looks serene.
Within a few hours, Kartalab decides to start the journey through the pass. The cavalcade will go ahead, and he, his guards and Rai Baghan will follow.
The battle formations of the Marathas are planned. After reaching the mountainous region near Umbarkhind, Shivaji, Palkar and a few hundred horsemen wait in ambush hiding in the thicket growing on the slopes of a hill near Umbare, near the mouth of the barrel. A few thousand Maratha archers have climbed the hills hovering over Umbarkhind and are hiding behind boulders or tree trunks. Shivaji’s infantrymen armed with muskets and stones have climbed trees. Some of them also have drums and mallets. Further up, Mhadu hides in the bushes covering the slopes. He has waited for the right moment for almost two hours as hyperactive squirrels run around him and noisy monkeys jump on the branches looming above him, their alarm cries echoing in the air. He watches till the entire Mughal cavalcade has entered the barrel.
Mhadu whistles piercingly and repeatedly.
The whistle is heard by the Maratha drummers who have been hiding in the woods growing on the hills looking down on the path. They start beating their drums with heavy mallets. The ominous sound breaks the silence of the forest, declaring someone’s doom. Thousands of birds fly skywards, shrieking with fear. Kartalab Khan who along with Rai Baghan is waiting at Chavani to oversee the safe entry of his cavalcade into the narrow path freezes in shock and horror.
Within moments, the branches looming over the chasm come alive with several thousand archers. As the Mughal soldiers look above they can see a cloud of arrows raining from the hills looming over them and the Mughals start dropping dead on the ground like flies. It takes a few moments for Kartalab to realize that he has made a terrible mistake—he has led his men into a trap! A few hundred footmen start stretching their bows to shoot the hiding Maratha archers but fail to see anyone. The forest looming over the slopes looks deceptively lush and peaceful but the arrows keep flying from behind the curtained canopies of trees rising over the hills, targeting their throats and limbs not covered with armour. There is a stampede as the slaves drop their luggage and try to escape. Seeing them run, even the drivers abandon their carts and flee westwards or eastwards and so do the palanquin bearers. Some run on the dry riverbed and each one is shot dead by the arrows dropping from the sky! Hundreds of cannon lie forlorn on the lonely carts along with the drums of explosives, unused and forgotten. Kartalab’s horsemen remain trapped in the middle, their armoured horses buckling with panic. The palanquins lie on the ground unattended, with women and children shrieking and howling in fear. From both sides the track is blocked by Shivaji’s men.
Rai Baghan watches the battle with her mouth open and realizes that they both too are the targets.
‘We need to surrender,’ she raises her voice for the first time, ‘else everyone will die.’
‘Will they spare our lives then?’ Kartalab’s voice breaks with fear.
‘We must try; I have heard Shivaji never harms women,’ Rai Baghan says loudly.
Kartalab stares at the fully armoured woman mounted on a white horse, not knowing if she is earnest or sarcastic. He hesitates, but seeing the fear in her eyes he dismounts and runs to order his bodyguards to wave white flags. The guards run around while dodging the hail of arrows, stones and ammunition fired from muskets to find the cloth and find large trunks left unattended by the slaves covered with white cloth used for packaging. They tear the cloth away, tie the pieces to their javelins and hold them high in the air. As the flags flutter, the arrows stop abruptly. The trapped men stand without even an inch to move in any direction. As moments dissolve into hours, night falls over them like a dark and cold miasma from hell. As time goes by, each moment brings more anxiety, more thrust and more hunger. The Mughals spend the night squatting on the uneven ground, sticking to each other, as countless lie dead around them. The injured writhe in pain and some silently bleed to death.
As the first rays of the morning sun hit Chavani, someone shouts for Kartalab Khan, who has closed his eyes with anguish for a few minutes. He opens his eyes to see the drained faces of his guards, and reality falls on him like Destiny’s axe.
‘We have to go; a message has arrived,’ he hears Rai Baghan shouting.
He drags himself, mounts his horse and follows his guards through the pass. When he sees the men lying dead and injured, he realizes the seriousness of the event. As bitter bile froths in his mouth, Kartalab Khan, with his bladder full, rides limb and spiritless till he notices the hill near Umbare. At its foothills he can see a group of men waiting for them. As they draw close, he stares at the man sitting on a white horse, clad in armour and a golden helmet. A scabbard hangs from his belt; he holds a long trident in his right hand and is surrounded by archers holding long bows.
Kartalab does not want to negotiate; he has had enough. He jumps down from his horse and falls to his knees. Rai Baghan who has been following him does the same.
‘Mercy, please show mercy,’ Rai Baghan shouts kneeling. Shivaji watches the tall Maratha woman dressed as a soldier and smiles. The woman has guts, while Kartalab is using her as his shield.
‘If you leave all your luggage, war animals, weapons, money and carts loaded with cannon in the chasm, we will let you, your men, your slaves and your families go alive,’ Shivaji replies.
‘As you ordain,’ Kartalab replies, without bothering to look up.
Soon the Mughal army’s return journey begins, this time without the horses, carts and luggage that have been left behind for Shivaji.
3
A sprawling hill looms over Gwalior. Perched on it, the fort of fine palaces, sparkling ponds and lush gardens looks misleadingly graceful. Below these grand palaces is the murky world of circular dungeons stuffed with men awaiting death by opium. The fort is shut in behind a solid, almost unbeatable, yet ornate, wall made of sandstone. It rises solemnly above the steeply hanging cliffs, as if to hide the unspeakable state of the enemies of the empire rotting in its belly. Around the hill rises the city’s skyline silhouetted by bulbous domes, temple spires, minarets, watchtowers and cupolas. The structures hover above the dwellings, mosques and the tombs of the famous and rich men. As the sun sets, the city surrenders to the darkness flooding the foothills. Above the hill, inside the fort, numerous courtyards near the palaces and ponds are lit by torches placed in iron baskets hung on the walls. Long shadows of pillars and arches tremble on the floor of the patios covered with coloured tiles. Aurangzeb walks past the prison sentries and then through the dimly lit staircase leading to the underground vaults. Dara bhai is dead, his son Suleiman is imprisoned and is completely addicted to opium, the vanquished Shuja bhai and his son Bulund are being chased by the victorious Mir Jumla, while Murad is imprisoned and is at Aurangzeb’s mercy. But everything is not as smooth as it seems. He has just received a message from the Deccan about Kartalab Khan’s miserable defeat. The victorious Shivaji has, along with thousands of infantrymen and a few squadrons of cavalrymen, come down to the coast and marched southwards, mov
ing rapidly, capturing city after city. The ferocity and greed of the Marathas has spread terror. Nizampur, a few miles east of Janjira Fort, has been raided, the port of Dabhol captured. The Muslim subhedar of Sangameshwar has fled and the region between Kalyan and Goa is in disorder. The jagirdars and subhedars of the Adilshahi sultanate whom the region belongs to have either fled or have shamelessly offered help and tribute to the bloody rebel! It is time to wipe out the Shia kingdoms of the Deccan who are allowing the rise of a kafir.
A disturbed Aurangzeb has changed his mind. Instead of going straight to see Suleiman Shikoh’s cell, he intends to stop by to meet Muhammad Sultan who had been brought here a few months ago.
Sultan gets up hurriedly and leaps towards the bars, staring hard into his father’s eyes to see any promise of freedom, but there is none. Aurangzeb stares back at his son with regret.
‘Abba jaan . . .’ Sultan’s young voice quivers with hope.
Aurangzeb looks down at his son with pity. The young man who not so long ago was so charming and confident has now turned into a wreck. His skin has darkened and his eyes have sunk deep into his face. His unkempt tresses have grown wild, and his face is covered with an unkempt beard.
‘Abba jaan,’ the twenty-something prince tries to say something but the words do not come out; instead, they fill the young man’s chest, causing physical pain. ‘You have forgiven Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod who has committed treason but you have not forgiven me, your own son,’ he says resentfully.
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