Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  He dictates a letter addressed to Mohammad Mir Amin, the mir bakshi of the empire:

  Paymaster general, be informed, this unfortunate and shameful incidence has occurred due to the negligence of the current Mughal subhedar of the Deccan who is also the general of the imperial armies in the region. We therefore dismiss him from the subhedari of the Deccan and order him to proceed to Bengal, report at our offices in Raj Mahal, taking over the charge as the subhedar of Bengal. Shahzaada Muazzam will take over as the subhedar of the Deccan and report at Aurangabad with immediate effect.

  Aurangzeb dictates another letter addressed to his maternal uncle Shaista too:

  Please proceed to Bengal without delay or further argument. Do not try and meet me in Kashmir for I have no wish to see your face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  1

  Surat, in the Mughal subha of Gujarat, is shrouded in winter mist even after the sun has risen to a considerable height in the sky. The port town on the southern banks of the Tapi where the river sweeps unexpectedly westward towards the sea is the empire’s pride. Shah Jahan had considered it as an important source of wealth. Aurangzeb wants to further enhance the revenue and make use of it to enhance his military power. From the riverside, Surat looks lush with palm trees, canopies of which shimmer in the golden beams of winter sun. The city is almost eight kos inland from the port of Swally where the Tapi meets the ocean.

  Naik looks in the small mirror he has brought with him and smiles; his wrinkled eyes framed by his white brows shine with satisfaction. He has let a few white hairs escape from his faded woollen turban on purpose, to look like a tramp. His dhoti and angirkha are soiled to show that he has no one in the world to take care of him. Pleased with his own look, Naik comes out of the shipwreck, a rotting and mangled mass of iron and wood, rusted in parts, beached on the banks of the Tapi, his home since he came to Surat a week ago. He walks further away from the wreck with the help of his walking stick, darting his gaze in all directions, but does not see anything suspicious.

  A fleet of vessels float in the blue-green river as Dutch and English flags, rising above their sails, flutter like waves. Naik is sure that the sailors on the decks of those ships can see the city’s solitary fortress enclosed between the turrets where the subhedar of Surat, Inayat Khan, resides. Adjacent to Inayat’s house is a sprawling garden full of lush trees and flowering scrubs. Naik has visited the market place called the chowk near the garden and was astonished to see how quickly large sums of money changed hands. He had talked to people and they had told him that every day merchants arrive from far and near on horses, camels, elephants and oxen carts.

  He was shocked to see unafraid women, perhaps of Armenian or Zoroastrian origin, dressed in long skirts and plaited hair, walk about without a care in the world. Naik has concluded that the retailers and wholesalers of Surat do brisk business with goods brought in from the large hinterland of Gujarat. Shops overflow with pearls, jewellery, precious stones, gold, silver, spices, textile, sandalwood, saffron, perfumes, silk, carpets and such other valuable things. Mountains of elephant tusks, turtle shells to make shields and medicinal rhinoceros horns are kept separately in wholesale outlets. Special shops have displayed rare articles inlaid with ivory, such as bracelets, sword-hilts, dice and chessboards. Customers have no place to stand as Arabs and Armenians shove and push each other to get the best bargains. He had also never seen thousands of oxen lined up around the market either to deliver the goods or dispatch them.

  Naik is a shocked man for more reasons than just the market. Surat is not what he had envisioned. It is neither filled only with palatial homes nor has wide avenues like Bijapur. The inner city is filthy; naked children pick their noses and look at him with big curious eyes as he moves through the narrow lanes lined with huddled houses made of reeds and covered with cow dung mixed with clay. Deeper in the city, the overcrowded hovels are made of sheer cane walls roofed with branches of palm trees and the adjacent cattle sheds overflowing with animals and flies. He ignores the stench, making mental notes of some well-built homes of brick, lime and timber. These houses must belong to shopkeepers or exchange dealers who hide their wealth in the pits dug in their homes and cover them with marble tiles.

  He comes across a huge banyan tree in the middle of a crossroad. It has an enormous trunk and a round platform built around it. Beyond the banyan tree, Naik notices a few Jain temples, and a little away from the shrines, imposing structures made of better-quality bricks stand aloof from the rest of the town. Naik knows that a Parsi broker to the king of Bantam lives in one of those and so does the head of the Mahajan community of traders, the spice-king Virji Vora, who is the richest of them all. It is rumoured that he has a few thousand ser of gold hidden in the vaults of his home.

  One house with large glass windows with bamboo slats interwoven with khus belongs to the second richest Hindu trader, Mohandas Parekh, and unlike Virji, he is a philanthropist and has nothing stored in his underground vaults. Naik heads for the river and passes through narrow alleys of the inner city blocked at some places by peaceful, cud-chewing cows. He walks carefully without disturbing the animals and reaches three stone structures with many arched verandas. A few men with large turbans and long tunics lounge in one corner and smoke hookah, speaking in strange tongues. He has seen similar buildings in Bijapur; they have courtyards in the middle, called sarais. These lodges are used by visiting merchants, moneychangers, bankers or petty peddlers from different countries. A narrow road through the sarais goes in the direction of the one and only land fort in Surat built in a square enclosure with four towers in four corners and guns mounted on parapets.

  As he moves towards the waterfront where the Muslim merchants live, he realizes that the cityscape has changed drastically. The narrow lanes have been replaced by noisy streets paved with unbroken and flattened stones crammed with horsemen riding towards the noisy market. He walks on the edge of the road for he does not want to get knocked down by rashly driven, two-wheeled oxen carts, or to collide with harried bearers of palanquins heading for the residential area of the rich. The houses lining the street are large, flat-roofed and terraced with plaster, and boast of huge windows, screened with lattices of wood or glass made from oyster shells. The first large house facing the river is that of Ishak Beg, the key player in trading metal oars, while the other villas in the row belong to the leading merchants such as Haji Zahid Baig, Haji Kasim and Khwaja Minas. Naik’s men have infiltrated some of the homes of the rich as servants, plumbers or carpenters. They know where the elite of Surat hide their wealth.

  By now Naik has seen it all, and that includes the massive establishments of the Europeans—enormous structures with strong walls built around them, they lie beyond the residential area of the rich Muslims. What has surprised Naik is that the walls of those warehouses are stronger than the fort walls and are defended by men armed with muskets all through the day and night. A large number of officers, soldiers, brokers, packers, weavers, dyers, washers, carpenters and blacksmiths live in harmony behind those walls. The Europeans, especially the English and the Dutch, flourish in their business and always fill the holds of countless ships that throng the harbour during the buying season.

  That night he scribbles a note to his master, Raja Shivaji. One of his spies will carry the letter to Rajgad.

  The fortress is protected by a shallow moat from three sides and the river Tapi from the rear. The Mughal subhedar Inayat Khan who lives in the fort has never fought a battle and has no idea of the outside world. He is required to keep a strong force of cavalrymen to defend the town but the practical reality is different. It is rumoured that Inayat Khan was to build a high wall strengthened with ramparts and watchtowers around Surat and has taken a huge grant from the emperor for this purpose. The money has been swallowed and the old and crumpling wall around the city is proof of the subhedar’s corruption. There are no warships guarding the waters of the Tapi and the entire population lives in some kind of safety bubble t
hat can be burst easily. The houses have been identified and in some cases, even places where the vaults are hidden are known to my men.

  2

  On an early winter morning, people in Nasik had woken up with sounds of hoof beats, only to see squadrons moving through the mist and towards the west. A few days later, the villages in the forests between the coastal Konkan and coastal Gujarat also sighted a large number of horsemen moving in the northern direction. Many wondered if it was a Mughal mansabdar going to Surat for some official business . . .

  Only Shivaji, Palkar and Pinglay know where they are heading. Within days they reach their destination. While sitting on a boulder in the midst of his army camp in a garden near the eastern gate of Surat, Shivaji watches the surroundings. The gate fitted with long and pointed spikes looks imposing in the fading lights of the dying evening, but the wall is in ruin, broken at places, as if waiting to be invaded. There is a hidden lesson about the Mughal defence system in this gate as well as the adjacent wall, he thinks, their strength is backed by weakness. The canopies of sal glow yellow in the light of torches burning in the camp while the shadows of their long trunks quiver on the ground. Staring at them, Shivaji contemplates his immediate future and what he must accomplish over the next few days.

  His cavalrymen and their mounts are tired, for they have been riding for a week taking only short breaks during the journey of about one hundred and fifty kos from Rajgad to Surat. They have travelled northwards towards Nasik to descend into the Konkan, taking the mountain trails of Waghai, and thereafter have crossed the forests around Navsari town to reach Surat. It has been done with such speed and secrecy that no one had known about their march till yesterday when he had sent two messengers to the subhedar of Surat, Inayat Khan.

  Tomorrow might be a crucial day.

  ‘No reply from Inayat Khan; it is time for us to move in,’ Palkar who stands behind Shivaji urges as his dark eyes shine with anticipation.

  Shivaji nods and agrees with his sarnobat, but his face goes tight with fury. He had sent a message to Inayat that the three wealthiest men of Surat—Zahid Baig, Virji Vora and Haji Kasim—should come to him in person to negotiate terms. If the city gives him tribute money he will leave them alone, or else. Inayat Khan has not replied; instead, he has invited all the rich who are willing to offer him bribe to his fort and has instructed his thousand horsemen to guard his abode, leaving the city to its fate. The poor have fled into the nearby forests or taken small boats and disappeared in panic; only the English and the Dutch have stayed put in their factories and are ready to defend themselves.

  ‘We move in tomorrow afternoon, but remind our men again and again that women and children are not to be touched, places of worship must be left undamaged and the clergy and their books must be treated with respect,’ he says with finality.

  ‘Do we attack the European establishments?’ Palkar asks.

  ‘No, they have guns. I do not want to risk the lives of our men.’

  ‘Tomorrow then,’ Pinglay says.

  The city seems to have a premonition. With light from oil lamps seeping out from shut windows and doors all through the night, people seem to be awake. The next day arrives quietly and the usual carnival-like atmosphere of Surat is replaced by a sinister silence, as if the city is struck by an axe of terror. The morning sees people quietly loading their belongings on to oxen carts and some just walking away from their homes carrying goods on their heads. The markets are deserted and only stray dogs are seen or heard near the crossroads. The stillness of the noon is suddenly disrupted by the harsh sound of the hooves of galloping horses, their masters roaring out their battle cry, ‘Har Har Mahadev’. They come from all sides, like flies seeking sweetmeat—hundreds and thousands of them, looking identical in their boat-shaped turbans and bushy moustaches, leaving trails of dust behind and filling the narrow lanes of Surat with dread.

  Two days have passed since the Marathas have entered the city. It is evening and the winter sun is about to disappear under the horizon. A cold breeze has started blowing from the west. Inayat Khan, the subhedar of Surat, gazes at the city under his protection from the ramparts of his small fort. Haji Baig standing close to Inayat stares at the city that gives their emperor more than ten lakh rupees, equivalent to seven hundred ser of pure gold, each year in taxes. The streets are deserted, but at one corner he can see the horsemen galloping away. The faint sound of their battle cry has travelled on the wind like a falcon swooping down on its prey. At places, columns of smoke rise above the hovels and the market place adjacent to the fort is in total ruin. What is happing is unbelievable. For the last hundred years, no other kingdom has dared to attack the imperial terrain, especially Surat that is a hundred kos away from its southern borders.

  ‘Do you think we should have gone to meet him—Virji, Kasim and I?’ Baig asks softly, his dark eyes boring into Inayat.

  Inayat holds his gaze and retorts, ‘He might have killed all three of you. I could not have taken that big a risk.’

  Baig smiles faintly, his thin lips curling into a slight snigger. A few villagers had come to Inayat a few days ago to say that they had spotted a huge contingent of horsemen camping a few miles away from Surat. Inayat Khan had dismissed it saying it must be some mansabdar riding towards Dilli through the coastal region. When Shivaji had sent Inayat a message for tribute money, Baig was there. Inayat had laughed and said, ‘Who will displease the emperor and bring on themselves his wrath? It is like challenging Allah.’

  ‘What if we deploy whatever horsemen we have to drive away the Marathas instead of them just guarding this fort?’ Baig asks, looking in the direction of the residential area facing the river where his house stands. Its underground vaults are stuffed with gold coins. Inayat shoots a glance at the fair and short man standing close to him and says, ‘In that case, we at the fort will be putting ourselves at risk.’

  Baig shakes his head in dismay; he knows that his subhedar is scared to unleash his horsemen who have never fought a battle. These men are good only for a parade, to scare the defenceless Hindu traders of Surat. After the massacre of Shaista Khan’s family, things have become a bit more complicated; everyone thinks that the Marathas have some evil, supernatural powers. Baig has heard that men from the mountainous parts of Deccan are born warriors; even the lowliest and the poorest are trained to fight and are hardened in battle.

  For the first time, Inayat feels a tinge of regret for retaining only a thousand horsemen instead of the five thousand that he has shown on paper for which he gets a grant directly from the imperial treasury. Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb have believed him and have never sent inspectors to check.

  ‘I have heard that the Europeans are holding their establishments with gunmen planted on the roofs and walls of their factories,’ Baig comments looking at the city and then blurts, ‘How will the emperor react when he knows what has happened here?’

  Inayat feels fear slicing through him. Life as the subhedar of Surat has been more than good—expensive wines from Persia or Spain, horses from Arabia, days spent in nearby jungles hunting wild game, fortunes spent in celebrating his own as well as his children’s marriages . . . ‘What the emperor will think is not the priority now; I must protect you and the others at the fort,’ he manages to mumble.

  Baig shrugs. It is true that those who have managed to bribe their way to the fort may survive, but their wealth hidden in their houses will be taken. He feels his anger rising. Inayat will lose nothing, as his wealth is hidden in the fort—the wealth he has amassed by having a stake in his brother’s textile business through which he earns handsomely, even though his financial interest comes into conflict with his official duties. All the rich Muslim merchants pay him large amounts of money to get permits, and the wealthiest Hindu merchants like Virji Vora from the Bania community give him expensive presents on all auspicious occasions. The poor brokers are dealt with a little differently; they are either imprisoned or flogged for no apparent reason till they cough up some mon
ey to continue doing business. Inayat loves his life of a king, but after this disaster, he is no longer sure about his future.

  Baig feels a pang of sadness along with anger. ‘Wonder what they have done to my home!’ he whispers sadly, his long robe fluttering behind his thin frame. The sun has already set. In the twilight he can see small infernos rising from the residential area where his house stands.

  It has been two days since the Marathas have been plundering Surat, as if they have known which house has money and even the place of hiding. A bunch of Marathas has worked for a day and a night to first demolish and burn Virji Vora’s mansion and then to dig open its foundation where four thousand ser of gold and thirty ser of large pearls were kept in underground vaults. All this has happened while Virji and his family were hiding in the fort. Even though they cannot see Virji’s house from the ramparts, he has heard that the huge pillars that proudly supported the roof are lying supine, like dead soldiers on a battlefield. At some places it still smoulders with spiralling columns of soot still swirling heavenwards. Several other houses have been destroyed, some burnt, and the Marathas have taken away hundreds of people as captives who have refused to show them where the wealth is hidden.

  ‘What if they reach the fort in large numbers?’ Baig asks looking at the short-range cannon mounted on the scaffolds.

  ‘We will fire the cannon, do not worry,’ Inayat says pompously.

  Baig laughs in his mind. For years they have not fired these guns, and even the artillerymen have no clue where the explosives will fall if and when they do fire them. He also doubts if the explosives have ever been inspected for their capacity to explode or they too are like Inayat—big noise and less fire!

  ‘I have a plan,’ Inayat declares smilingly as if he has suddenly had prophetic visions. ‘I will teach the Maratha a lesson!’