Here at Agra Fort, some strange things are taking place. Eunuch Mutamad has become the dictator and has sent thousands of trunks full of jewels and artefacts loaded on armies of mules to Dilli to fill the treasury of Qila-e-mubarak.
Fakir Sarmad, whom Dara bhai loved and she respected, was hanged at Chandni Chowk in front of thousands of his supporters. Jahanara can see the future of the modernizers, atheists and the liberals who have deviated from the path of Aurangzeb’s perception of Islam. The kafirs of Hindustan will soon have to fall in line.
Meanwhile, Aurangzeb has married Udepuri and has left for Kashmir to recover from his illness. His daughters, Zebunissa and Zinatunnisa, have come of age and are languishing in Dilli, spending their lives in literary pursuits and looking after their brothers, Azam and Akbar. She, Jahanara, the Padishahi Begum, is condemned to the state of blessed spinsterhood. It is the fate of many Mughal princesses whose fathers and brothers have not approved of any man outside the family. Not many men are born on this planet suitable for glorious princesses.
2
As Shivaji paces up and down in the sadar at Padmavati extension of Rajgad Fort late at night, he ponders over Shaista Khan, who has come to Pune with one lakh men and an almost equal number of war animals. Later, some reinforcements too have arrived. The region is reeling under the voracious hunger of these intruders and the region’s economy has collapsed. The revenue collection is at an all-time low. It is becoming difficult to pay the salaries of his infantrymen and cavalrymen. The Mughal raids have become a daily affair while his men, Palkar, Pinglay, Yesaji, Tanaji and others, are trying their best to fight battles on various fronts. As per his estimate, the Mughals have taken away several thousand cattle from the villages, either for milk or meat, while peasants have fled and are hiding in the mountains. Without cattle, the land will not be tilled; without tilling there will be neither food nor revenue.
Shaista has also sent several squadrons to north Konkan from different jungle routes but the Mughal general has avoided besieging the hill forts. Shaista Khan is following a war strategy of attribution, aiming to exhaust the enemy and his resources and then forcing or even coercing him to surrender. If this goes on for one more year, Shaista’s war policy will succeed and Shivaji will have no money to pay his army. In other words, he will have to surrender to the imperialists.
Peshwa Moroji Pinglay, who has returned from Pratapgad, looks on and senses impatience in Raja Shivaji’s body language. Palkar too has been summoned. Both Pinglay and Palkar stand as if they are in contingency mode, ready to go to battle at any moment.
Shivaji stops pacing and asks, ‘Shaista Khan has made himself and his family safe and secure in the cocoon of Lal Mahal that now stands in the midst of his military encampment. He thinks that he is invincible, and after the defeat of Kartalab he has announced that he will never venture out. There must be a way to reach him, the way that is not in his scheme of things, a crack in his armour that has not yet appeared in his wildest dreams, isn’t it?’
Pinglay thinks for a long time, smiles and says, ‘Like the demon Mahisha, who was blessed with partial immortality—no male, man or God, in the world or heavens could kill him.’
Shivaji has noticed a slight sarcasm in his peshwa’s voice but he ignores it and comments with a straight face, ‘The time has come to beckon Goddess Bhavani!’
Pinglay’s smile broadens. Is his master joking?
Shivaji ignores him. ‘I mean, we must look beyond the obvious. What do you say, Sarnobat Sahib? Aren’t we strategically challenged at this point of time?’ His brown eyes are now fixed on sarnobat Palkar.
‘We are, indeed,’ Palkar agrees and continues, ‘but what we need right now is a strategy that will lead us to do something unconventional, something that has never been done before to defeat the enemy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We need to get to the enemy hiding in an ivory tower. This can be done only by thinking of something that is beyond his thinking!’ Palkar announces nonchalantly.
‘Like appearing out of thin air,’ Shivaji quips.
‘And facing Shaista Khan in Lal Mahal,’ Pinglay comments wryly.
Shivaji does not waste time. ‘Lal Mahal will be our next ranangan then.’
‘One needs to be invisible to do so,’ Pinglay quips.
‘Imperceptible is the right word,’ Palkar replies, ‘we will be seen but they will not perceive or make out who we are.’
Pinglay smiles knowingly; he is beginning to understand.
‘Get four hundred of our best men from the Sajag squadron,’ Shivaji orders.
‘Ji,’ Pinglay accepts the responsibility by bowing slightly. The Sajag force—ready for action over the sa, for sagar, that is, sea, on ja for jameen, that is, land, and ga for gaganchumbi, that is, the sky-high mountains—is their pride. Sajag also means alert in Marathi. When on duty, these trained-to-be-noiseless men do not even sneeze or cough or even breathe with any sound while chasing elusive and dangerous targets.
‘Entering someone’s home is not our rana-neeti, our policy of battles. There will be women and children in there,’ Pinglay reminds his master.
Shivaji guffaws and says, ‘It is not someone else’s home. It is my home and Shaista Khan is the intruder! Let me put it in simple words: the enemy is unleashing terror from an invincible location. He is offensive from a defensive position.’
Pinglay smiles feebly; he does not want to start a debate on offensive defence or defensive offence.
‘Do we start from here and travel about fifty kos to reach the camp at midnight?’ Pinglay wants to get on with the subject.
‘We shall soon shift to Kondana Fort which is just about ten kos south-west of Pune.’
‘Who will lead this campaign?’ Pinglay is unsure of the raja’s role.
‘I shall,’ Shivaji confirms, touching the string of cowries he wears around his neck.
‘Why do you have to go? One of us will be enough,’ Pinglay protests.
‘My people are out there, getting crushed under the hooves of our enemy. Their morale is low. Their trust in me is dwindling and will soon fade away, unless I strengthen that priceless bond by risking my life to save theirs.’
‘This is suicidal,’ Pinglay shakes his head in disbelief, his forehead creased. For a few moments there is silence. Shivaji remembers what his beloved Sayee had said to him about her death and his life and utters the same words. ‘Moroji, we always wish to control things that are beyond us and we always let go of things that are within our reach.’
‘Raja, you speak in riddles,’ Pinglay reprimands his master.
‘Our goal, swaraj, a country for our people, is not easily attainable,’ Shivaji explains. ‘All our missions are potentially fatal! Death is invariable but time-of-death is a variable. We shall make our mission as infallible as possible but we shall leave the variables to Him. Do not forget that swaraj is His wish,’ he concludes with a twinkle in his eyes.
‘Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod and his ten thousand horsemen have their camp near Kondana,’ Pinglay warns.
‘He is malleable and pliable and has the soul of a rebel struggling to fight against an establishment called Aurangzeb, even though Aurangzeb has forgiven him for treason. Please start sending him gifts of pearls and precious stones. I have heard that he loves his two wives more than he loves himself and is always searching for presents to send them,’ Shivaji whispers.
‘I need a map of the camp,’ Pinglay is slowly warming up to the idea.
‘You will get one very soon. It has been months since Naik and his hundred men have infiltrated the camp,’ Shivaji announces nonchalantly.
‘We will also need entry papers. I have heard that the gatekeepers are strict.’ Pinglay is now interested.
‘It is mayhem out there; sometimes I wonder why I have waited for so long,’ Shivaji says.
Pinglay raises his eyebrows but nods in agreement. The camp is spread across many kos of flatland at the southern side of Lal Ma
hal and there are about twenty gates to enter the camp. The makeshift fence is made of a short stone wall. There are people from different castes and creeds fighting under the Mughal banner: Abyssinians, Afghans, Rajputs, Persians, Uzbeks and the local Marathas. All the mansabdars live like little kings in the camp commanding their respective armies. Not many people know or recognize each other. Even the gatekeepers find it difficult to keep tabs on who is returning after a patrol or who is returning after a raid. An army of slaves comes carrying goods plundered from nearby villages and then a large number of new slaves are brought in every day.
‘Naik’s man Mhadu is a barber for Shaista Khan’s security officer. He will be applying for the permit papers of a few.’ Shivaji drops a surprise, but Pinglay does not show any reaction, so he persists, ‘But we may need at least a hundred sajags infiltrating the camp.’
‘Naik has become a good friend of the local gardener who takes care of Shaista’s mobile garden that has hundreds of rare flowering plants growing in pots. Together they will pay a bribe of ten gold coins and pester the concerned official for an entry for a small wedding party; we have heard that Naik’s aunt’s distant cousin’s daughter is all set to marry his friend’s brother’s son.’
‘God bless the young couple,’ Pinglay says excitedly.
‘Ibrahim Khan is a frequent visitor to the camp and has acquired new friends. They have not yet asked him to show papers thinking he is on patrol duty. That evening he will bring in some shackled Maratha slaves, flogging them as he enters,’ Shivaji volunteers more information.
‘When will this midnight visit be planned?
Shivaji is quick to answer, ‘During the Ramadan.’
‘Any particular night during the Ramadan?’ Pinglay wants to be precise; Ramadan is only a month away.
‘It will be the night of the sixth moon after the no-moon night. That night they will also be celebrating the anniversary of Aurangzeb’s coronation, beating drums every hour.’
Pinglay is amused, his eyes showing surprise that he was carefully trying to conceal all the while.
‘What about the armed guards protecting the house?’
‘We will kill them,’ Shivaji’s answer is chilling.
‘From where do you intend to enter the house? Surely not from the main gate?’
‘From the cooking section, where the khan’s chief gardener has a small outhouse,’ Shivaji says.
‘Who will go with you to the bedroom other than the Sajag men?’ Pinglay’s eyes shine with curiosity.
‘Babaji and Chiman Deshpande who know Lal Mahal like the back of their hand. As children, they had played hide and seek in that house,’ Shivaji answers softly.
‘How will you know where he sleeps?’ Pinglay’s questions have not ended.
‘That is the weakest link. Sometimes he sleeps in his chamber on the ground floor but sometimes he goes up to the first floor,’ Shivaji answers honestly and asks, ‘Any more questions?’
‘No,’ Pinglay says with a smile. He is fascinated by his raja’s out-of-the-box idea.
3
The half-kos-long Mughal encampment on the southern banks of the river Mutha fills the fields and covers the woods around Pune like an enormous python lounging after a good feed. There are precisely sixty-eight camps of sixty-eight principal mansabdars, each having two to five thousand cavalrymen, infantrymen, artillerymen and scouts. There are others too, thousands of beasts of war and burden, concubines, slaves, orderlies and others like cooks, cleaners, animal caretakers and merchants. The servants working in the regal green shamianas of twenty-nine Muslim mansabdars are gearing up for iftar parties. Tonight is special! Tonight they will also celebrate the coronation day of their new emperor! The floors of their shamianas are covered with expensive carpets; the best of their silverware, plates, spoons and glasses are taken out from the wooden chests; and hookah pipes are getting cleaned. They have fasted all through the day and are waiting with bated breath for the cry of the muezzin from the minarets proclaiming that they have caught a glimpse of the moon. Arrangements for food are done so zealously and carefully that not a moment is lost between the cry of the muezzins and the announcement of iftar and then the first swallow of the food. Everyone has plans about what to do after breaking the fast. Tonight they will talk about the future, recite poetry, tell stories and reminisce about their past while eating kebabs and sweetmeats, drinking scented and colourful sherbets and then devouring the Ramadan pudding glazed with the whites of eggs. Tonight they will forget about tomorrow. Tonight they will forgive their past.
4
A few kos south-east of the camp, the isolated hill of Kondana rises more than half a mile over the Sahyadri Plateau. The sun has set behind the hills of Maval, and the sky above is turning darker by the moment. A contingent of four hundred Sajag men leaves Pune Darwaza, some in silk angirkhas and colourful turbans, while some have their heads covered with soiled mundasa turbans and torn dhotis tied tightly to their waists. The archers and artillerymen line up on the ramparts and watch the Sajags scamper and sprint while going down the steps and disappear. None of them are carrying torches. The men standing on the ramparts and watchtowers wonder what is afoot and where their special force is headed. All they know is that if they are attacked by the Mughals any time during the night they must shower the aggressors with arrows, cannonballs, explosives and large stones.
At the foothills, horses wait for the men. They ride in the direction of Pune as the canopies of rain trees sway with gentle breeze. Above the canopies, a crescent moon’s silvery sparkle puts the twinkle of blue-green stars to shame. A few light cavalry detachments wait at various places between Kondana Fort and the Mughal camp to ensure a safe journey for the horsemen. Palkar waits on the banks of the river Mula with a few hundred cavalrymen. He also has a hundred oxen with him for reasons only known to him. Pinglay and his cavalrymen wait on the bank of the river Mutha for the Sajags to arrive. He has an oxen cart decorated with bunting and colourful panels with him. He is also to cover his master’s withdrawal after the event! A little ahead, Ibrahim Khan waits with a few Pashtun horsemen, with a large whip made of rawhide in hand.
The mansabdars are busy celebrating inside their shamianas. The courtyards of these palatial tents are equipped with at least two or three horses and one elephant, saddled and caparisoned, ready for any emergency. Adjacent to the courtyard, the administrative offices of these high military officials seem full with nautch girls brought in for celebrations. Each mansabdar’s establishment is surrounded by thousands of tiny tents of his junior officers and soldiers where countless torches burn with large flickering flames. Here, several thousand soldiers move about recklessly, some with naked swords and some with limp rabbits or fowl caught in their traps. Most are followed by their stressed orderlies barking orders to their cooks to hurry up. The air is thick with the smell of meat, spices and tobacco smoke mixed with the fresh smell of burning firewood. At some places, the soot from the chullahs has formed enormous clouds, darkening the place and making people partially blind to their surroundings. There is also a market assigned to each mansabdar, with tiny stands brimming with dates, sugar, grain, olive oil, brown sugar and tobacco. The butchers seem busy hacking meat, the sounds of their cleavers hitting the wooden platforms rising above the yells of vegetable vendors.
At the edge of these camps, within the main encampment, are rows of makeshift latrines with huge uncovered soak pits dug near them. Beyond the latrines stand large animal stables, crowded with elephants, camels, warhorses, oxen and mules, the place buzzing with mosquitoes and flies. Slaves run about with buckets of water and large brooms to clean up the animal droppings. It is difficult to enter these places, blocked by dried grass, cut branches of trees and fodder, and it is increasingly difficult to communicate verbally with the constant whinnying of the bored horses and trumpeting of the frustrated elephants.
The campsites of the Hindu, mostly Rajput and Maratha, mansabdars are no different either, with the saffron shamia
nas of Hindus rising above the green tents of their Muslim counterparts. The encampments also shudder with excitement as musicians near the Lal Mahal blow horns and trumpets, beat drums and sing every hour to rejoice at the anniversary of Aurangzeb’s coronation.
At the southern side of the Mughal encampment, a noisy wedding procession has arrived with drum beaters. The groom, in a colourful bullock cart, is followed by a hundred men dancing to the beats, forming clouds of dusts above their heads. The Mughal sentinels guarding the outposts have been informed about the wedding and most of them shake a leg matching the rhythm of the beats. When they arrive at the gate, the gatekeepers welcome them. They are in a hurry to leave the posts for iftar and are excited to see something different from the usual humdrum happenings. The papers are duly submitted, stamped upon without any questions.
Ibrahim Khan and his few Pashtun cavalrymen cross the river Mutha that has been reduced to a small stream. Their horses canter while they hold the ends of the ropes tied around a large number of slaves and drag them along. They arrive at a gate facing west. The gatekeepers are familiar with the regal-looking Ibrahim with his long beard. Today, he looks even more handsome in his jama woven with fine threads of silk and embellished with gold embroidery, flowing down to his ankles like a kaftan. A massive leather belt around his waist is bedecked with a sword and several daggers. The colourful turban is adding more height to his tall frame.
‘Ramadan Mubarak!’ he greets each and every gatekeeper.
‘Allah Kareem!’ they greet him return. God is generous.
Ibrahim and his men along with their spoils of war have no problem in gaining entry. It is a matter of pride when the Mughal military men capture and bring slaves to the camp. The gatekeepers have not even asked for papers!
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