‘As per the witnesses, the plan was already hatched to kill Ali Naqi, the strict paymaster general of Gujarat, because he always asked Shahzaada Murad Baksh for accounts and put a cap on his vast spending. The sycophants of Gujarat court, who wanted money to feed their luxurious life, had instigated the prince and devised a fool-proof plan. This makes the crime “a deliberate or intentional murder” and demands death either by beheading or by a firing squad or by hanging or stoning till death.’
Everyone in the court turns into a statue, not moving, not batting an eyelid, and some, it seems, have even stopped breathing. They know Murad Baksh had helped Aurangzeb win the battle of Samugad against Dara Shikoh!
Qawi nods vigorously. What else can he do?
‘You may bring the fakir now,’ Aurangzeb announces for he does not want to waste time. More time, and courtiers will start thinking about Murad. By sheer luck, the fakir is in Salimgad, just a few blocks away.
‘He is totally naked,’ Qawi mutters.
‘Bring him nonetheless!’ Aurangzeb orders.
Qawi signals a guard who stands a few feet away. Meanwhile, the usual court proceedings start. Newly appointed mansabdars are called to pay their respects and tributes like silver and gold coins, by first performing kurnish.
When the naked fakir is brought in with two eunuch guards holding his arms, there is much confusion around. All eyes dart towards the new arrival. The man is big, hairy, bull-necked, dusky and stark naked.
He is placed in front of the throne as if he is an object. Fakir Sarmad seems nonchalant.
Aurangzeb has seen enough. He calls out, ‘Danishmand Khan, please come forward.’
Danishmand, previously a Dara Shikoh loyalist, is a scholar of religions. A well-read and well-mannered man, he has become Aurangzeb’s favourite. Dressed in a brocaded jama and a turban laden with precious stones, he comes forward, his well-trimmed beard a testimony of his slightly liberal views on religion.
‘Ask him, Danishmand, why he is naked.’
The question is asked.
‘Because I have nothing to hide,’ the fakir replies in a childlike manner. Then he counter-questions, ‘Does the sky book say that clothes are compulsory for humans?’
Cross-questioning the emperor is not acceptable and is against the protocol of court etiquette. It is a crime. Also, Aurangzeb does not like the way Sarmad has referred to the holy Quran, but he does not say anything about it at least then.
‘Danishmand, ask him why does he recite only half the kalma,’ Aurangzeb interrogates. The question is put forward to the defender.
‘I believe in La ilaha illa’llah, meaning there is no God but Allah. But I do not believe in the suggestion that Prophet Muhammad is the last paigambar because it means the end of the road for any religion, including Islam, making it stagnant with no room to evolve, no new ideas to keep pace with emerging new worlds and no new messengers to show newer paths.’
‘Parvardigar, I cannot hear any more heretical words from this profane and ignorant man. He is insulting Islam!’ Qawi shouts.
‘The fakir is not merely a mad, naked and uncouth man; he is also a vicious and shrewd shaitan, an enemy of Islam. This man claims to be a Muslim, but his heart seems to be full of hatred towards Islam. Towbaa towbaa!’ Qawi is slapping his cheeks in disgust. ‘It is better that I die before I hear any more nonsense. This man should be hanged.’
‘Why am I bothering the Qazi? What does it say about a man of justice who quickly forms his opinions without investigating? Can a man of justice afford to be biased? He, the chief Qazi, is a scholar of law and must know that the truth is not always what it seems but in most of the cases it is hidden, like now it hides in my heart! The Qazi is assassinating my character without proof. Isn’t that a crime?’ The fakir thinks aloud, caressing his head covered with unruly hair.
A faint wave of laughter ripples through the courtroom.
‘Qazi Sahib, you have given the matter in my hands and I must thoroughly investigate before I pronounce the punishment. I cannot hang a man just because he roams about naked; there are millions like him out there. The holy places are full of such men,’ Aurangzeb says firmly and diverts his gaze toward the fakir and thinks, I must ask such questions that the answers will be a solid proof of treason and apostasy; everything must be done within the precincts of law.
After a few moments, Aurangzeb says, ‘I will ask you a direct question, so pay attention, think and answer. We believe that the honest, merciful, just, truthful, compassionate, brave, the last and the greatest prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, has gone straight to heaven. The truth, Fakir Sahib, is that the Prophet Muhammad, may the blessings of Allah be upon him, was also a reformer and a revolutionary. He established Islam and opened the eyes of the world wrapped in defunct ideologies. What do you have to say about our belief and faith?’
‘Aurangzeb,’ he addresses the emperor by his first name, which itself is a crime as per court etiquette, and continues, ‘you are wisest among the wise and you know philosophies of religions and their effects on the minds of people more than most. Your eyes are the sharpest among all the eyes present here and no one can see through the religions as clearly as you do. Since you have asked, your belief that the Prophet Muhammad went straight to the heavens and straight to Allah itself is a childish thought.’
‘Etiquette! Mind your tongue, you are talking to the emperor!’ Jaffar Khan shouts, his voice rising above the roar of people around who are now roused and angry.
‘Wazir-e-azam, do not lose your cool. At least now we can detain him for insulting the emperor,’ Aurangzeb says smiling.
‘Explain why you call the thought childish,’ Aurangzeb asks the fakir softly, giving more importance to the word ‘thought’.
Sarmad is quicker than a striking snake, ‘Do not be so naïve, Aurangzeb. Why did Prophet Muhammad have to die, go to heaven and then meet Allah when Allah was in his heart, from womb to tomb?’
The mullahs, the sayyids, the ulemas and the qazis have started shivering with rage. Qawi is clenching his teeth, but the emperor does not show any expression of anger; he has some more questions. Answering those will surely open the doors of gallows for Sarmad. He dismisses the argument with the wave of his hand.
‘Who are you? What religion do you follow?’
‘I am a human first and then a Muslim sayyid, a Sufi saint, a priest, a Jewish rabbi, Zoroastrian fire-keeper, a gurdwara granthi, and am also aspiring to be a Buddhist monk. I have a deeper faith than all the people present here including you, Aurangzeb, and allow me to quote a verse of mine as a parting gift,’ the fakir stops, raises both his hands and sings in a sweet voice.
A true lover-of-God
Is misled by religions
And also lack of true faith
What a paradox!
When a moth burns itself
It does not choose from a candle
And it never asks
If it is burning in a mosque or a temple
This proof is ample.
The fakir stops singing. There is pin-drop silence in the court for a while.
‘Who is the kafir boy you are going around with and what is your relationship with him?’ Aurangzeb questions sardonically, neither praising nor condemning the fakir’s verse. There are other important things on his mind. If the fakir admits to homosexuality, he must be stoned to death as per the sharia law.
‘If you are talking about Abhaychand, he is one of my students as far as Hebrew and Farsi languages are concerned and he is also my guru as far as philosophies of Hinduism are concerned. Our love is the love between a student and teacher and there is nothing wrong to hug a student with affection or plant a kiss on a teacher’s forehead with reverence. I have relationship only with God and I make love only to life, if that is what you are thinking. And if I had a sexual relationship with the boy I would have admitted it. For me, even that love is sacred, as long as it is love and not hate, as long as it gives pleasure, not pain, as long as it is con
sensual and not rape.’
People in the court do not know what expression they must show. All cast their eyes down.
Aurangzeb does not want to prolong the case any longer, so he asks, ‘Before the clergy come to a decision, do you want to say anything in your defence?’
‘Why should I defend myself when I have not committed any offence? Remember, Aurangzeb, the idea of true religion is not differentiating between a mosque or a temple, a church, a synagogue, a Buddhist cave or a gurdwara. Finally it is fanaa, the end of our egos and recognition of the presence of the Almighty in all living beings including ourselves.’
Aurangzeb smells the true threat then. The man is fearless and has the courage to speak what he thinks is the truth, and if he is left free he may create thousands of followers having potential to think logically, argue fearlessly and rebel against Aurangzeb’s ideology. He does not look at Sarmad again; instead, he glances at Qawi and says, ‘Qazi Sahib, please discuss the matter with others and give me your verdict here and now.’
The verdict is delivered by Qawi within moments, ‘Fakir Sarmad has broken the etiquettes of the court by uttering inappropriate words and he has shown disrespect to the emperor who is next only to God. For these crimes, we announce ten years rigorous imprisonment. Fakir Sarmad has committed apostasy by insisting that Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, is not the last prophet, and has admitted that he supports one man’s physical love for another man. Both these crimes belong to the category of spreading mischief in the land and demand capital punishment as per the teachings of Hadith and sharia law. Sarmad must be hanged to death.’
Aurangzeb raises his hand that holds the tesbih beads and says, ‘La ilaha illa’llah! Mohammadur rasool’ullah!’ He then recites a verse from the sky book, ‘Take not life that is made sacred by God, except by way of justice and law, so you may learn wisdom.’
Fakir Sarmad laughs aloud.
While getting down from the throne that afternoon, Aurangzeb thinks of the trials of Dara bhai and Suleiman that had taken place in diwan-e-khaas. He just wonders if he will ever meet Shivaji here and see him standing in front of the throne, helpless and vulnerable, and in a flash Aurangzeb knows that it is bound to happen one day.
2
It is the fag end of winter, but the morning mist still lingers on in the air like some reluctant soldier not leaving the battlefield long after the battle is over. Through the thin curtain of mist, the Sahyadri Mountains look like confused war mammoths left behind by their fleeing mahouts. Their cover of green forest broken by bits of barren rocks resembles the lacerations caused by enemy javelins. Unconcerned about the surroundings, Namdar Khan and his ten thousand horsemen gallop in the direction of Kurvanda Pass, leaving behind clouds of smoke emitted from a hundred burning villages set on fire. His squadrons have killed or captured hundreds of villagers, and taken cattle and food grain stuffed in the barns. The spoils of war are on their way to Pune. ‘Have no mercy, these people need to be killed, burnt or enslaved, for they have played a major role in the miserable defeat of Kartalab Khan, by giving Shivaji’s men crucial information about our movements. Each one of them is a bloody scout and eager to spy on us,’ the words of his father-in-law ring in his ears. His next targets are the villages at the foothills of Lohagad.
The sun has moved towards the centre of the sky when Namdar and his horsemen reach Lonavala village. Some of the horsemen have dismounted and are scampering about to inspect homes, drag people out and slay them, but each time they come out empty-handed, looking puzzled. Some of them have torches in their hands and many of the hovels have started burning. Namdar dismounts. He too is confused, because there is no sound of the wailing of women or crying of children. He walks across a small open space in the middle of Lonavala as canopies of pipal and banyan trees sway over a lone well. The hovels are vacant, the sheds have no cattle and the barns have been emptied. Only a few stray dogs howl at the entrances of the narrow lanes cutting through the mud homes as the dusty wind whirls across the empty village.
Namdar feels his sense of glee dwindle and fade as he walks from one hovel to another—nobody to kill or capture, nothing left to plunder. Many of his mansabdars dismount and group together to inspect. They watch him and shift uncomfortably, uncertain of what must be done next. The awkward silence is broken by the sound of hooves. Some scouts have arrived after inspecting the nearby valley. One of them dismounts and runs towards Namdar yelling, ‘All the villages ahead are deserted; the villagers have taken their cattle, grain and have fled and are hiding in the hills.’
Namdar remains silent for a while. This operation was a sudden decision. Till about a day before, only his general and he had discussed it, known about it. Then how did they get to know about it? Perhaps the people who had managed to escape from the villages already ruined must have travelled through the forests to alert people living in this area. However, there is no time to think, he wants to beat them at their own game. And who is there to stop him? He knows that even though the nearby forts of Lohagad and Visapur are with Shivaji, the Maratha garrisons on those are small and Shivaji is away in the Konkan. The Maratha garrisons can defend the fort if attacked but cannot afford to come down and face his ten thousand horsemen.
‘We shall camp here, get some firewood and catch enough wild fowls from the forest. Fill your waterskins with well water. We have enough grain to feed us for a few days, so start cooking,’ Namdar snarls.
Mhadu hides behind a cliff holding the reins of his mare. He cannot hear what Namdar Khan is saying but realizes that the Mughals are preparing to stay overnight. He has been following them since yesterday, has seen the devastation they have left behind. He has travelled across the forest trails on his small mare to warn and alert the villagers in this region; he is the one who has coaxed them to flee with their cattle and grains and hide in the hills. With his heart pounding in his ribcage, Mhadu waits and watches, patting his tired mare and stroking her ears with affection. It looks like he too will be spending the night here, and before nightfall he must get some water for the animal.
The Mughal soldiers have occupied the empty hovels of Lonavala and remained busy cooking all through the afternoon. Their horses are left free in a nearby meadow to feast on the grass.
Mhadu too has discreetly found a small water pond and a patch of grass to water and feed his mare, but he is back to his post behind the cliff. He has collected wild berries and edible roots of some creepers to fill his stomach, and then there is some food he has packed in a cloth bundle. He munches on his meal and watches the camp, leaving his post only to urinate. Thousands like him have been trained to stay alive in the jungle for days without food. His master Naik had told him, ‘I chose people for my spy network based on three qualities: survival instinct, sixth sense and a very high emotional quotient.’
The night falls and the air turns cold. Mhadu removes his turban and unfolds it, wrapping the cloth around him to ward off the cold, but his eyes remain focused on the camp. The camp noise subsides gradually and a few torches that were lit earlier are extinguished and it finally looks like they have retired for the night. After a while, he sits leaning on a rock to catch a few winks. Somewhere at the edge of the forest a deer has started making guttural sounds. The scout is alert instantly. It is an alarm call. Mhadu remains still and prays that his mare does not panic and start neighing. In a while, the jungle sounds fade, and tired, he falls into deep sleep thinking about the question that has nagged him all through the day: Why are thousands of Mughal soldiers camping in an empty village?
It is only early in the morning that the intentions of the Mughal soldiers become clear to Mhadu. He watches in helplessness and anger as the Mughals climb the nearby hills on foot, hunting for people. He witnesses as they drag away hundreds of men, women and children, their hands tied behind their back with vines. Some stronger men are tied together with ropes.
Mhadu must leave now. He has to inform Bahirji Naik, his chief, of all that has happened.
&nbs
p; CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
1
Jahanara has been spending days looking after her father, but at nights she sits in her library filled with over a thousand hand-written manuscripts of renowned philosophers and historians. To suppress her grief, she likes to read a few pages from Dara bhai’s book Majma-ul-Bahrain, in which he has written about the similarities between the philosophies of Hinduism and Islam, and between a mosque and a temple. She also loves his expansive work and analysis of the Hindu epic, the Mahabharata.
Her mind drifts towards thoughts of the futility of war. What does one achieve by waging war? Is seeking peace the goal of war? Many she loved have either died or are dying. Her beloved Dara bhai has died a most tragic death; he was tried in the royal court, humiliated by his brother and then beheaded. As per yesterday’s news, Dara bhai’s son Suleiman breathed his last in the damp and dark cell in the vault of Gwalior Fort. When they found him, he was drenched in his own filth. Murad Baksh has been found guilty of murdering the paymaster general of Gujarat and has been executed by a firing squad in the courtyard of the same fort. Muhammad Sultan too is rotting in the same place. People say that the prince, Aurangzeb’s first son, is slowly going insane due to depression. Mir Jumla, who has been chasing Shuja bhai in Bengal and the Arakan, is on his deathbed due to cholera. Jahanara is sure that by now he is dead, for no one survives that ailment. Shuja bhai and his family have fled to Burma. Some say that during the journey their boat was captured by the cannibals. Some other events are happening in Dilli. A few months ago, after Ramadan, Aurangzeb too had fallen ill due to severe fasting combined with Dilli’s brutal summer and overwork. During those days, their younger sister Roshanara suddenly turned into a dictator and took charge of her delirious brother. As per gossip, Roshanara did not allow anyone to see the emperor, once even dragging Nawab bai, Sultan’s mother and Aurangzeb’s own wife, by her hair from his chamber. Aurangzeb has recovered since then but is planning to eliminate Roshanara, his favourite sister, who manages the seraglio of Dilli, for he fears that she may turn too political and seek power.
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