Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  For the first time in several months, Aurangzeb smiles. He has understood what Mirza is trying to convey. Seeing him smile, Jaffar Khan too grins but persists with a question that has nagged him, ‘If so, why go for the forts, even those with physical faults? Why must we invest just to show off?’

  Before Mirza opens his mouth the emperor replies, ‘Those conquests will merely be symbolic, to show if we want, we can.’

  Mirza is elated. He does not want to wait. He says politely, ‘If I am leading the campaign, I need complete authority.’

  ‘You already have it. The imperial treasury has opened its vaults wide. Funds, manpower and weapons—you will get what you demand. Our mir bakshi, Mohammad Amin, will be assigned to follow your requirements and he will be briefed about the urgency of supply,’ Jaffar Khan says elegantly, waving his right hand and flashing his four diamond rings.

  ‘It is not just about the supplies; what I need goes beyond mere field authority,’ Mirza strikes a blow very softly and very courteously.

  ‘Open your heart, Mirza,’ Aurangzeb commands, staring at his oldest warrior who with his military skills had sent the maximum number of men from Balkh in Central Asia to Qandahar in the west and to Mungir in the east.

  Mirza does not waste time or words.

  ‘Make me the final authority over promotions, punishments and transfer of the mansabdars, the payment of the troops and the regulation of the Deccan mansabs.’

  The other two gape at him.

  ‘You want to be the subhedar of the Deccan?’ Aurangzeb says, concealing his shock. Mirza is seeking the kingship of the state and is indirectly suggesting to be allowed to bypass the authority of Prince Muazzam, the present subhedar of the Deccan.

  ‘Do you realize the weight of such enormous responsibility? How will you manage both? Think about controlling fifty thousand warriors on the battlefield and also looking after administration,’ Jaffar Khan says, his body swaying by a sudden upsurge of anxiety.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Mirza says hastily. ‘I would prefer to have complete authority over whoever is involved in this war, for I am the man on the spot.’

  ‘What I wished for happened not. What God willed happened to a dot!’ Jaffar Khan throws a Farsi proverb in a teasing tone.

  Mirza keeps a stoic expression; he knows the old man likes to tease and incite.

  Mirza knows the Deccan and he is a man of tact and endurance, has learnt the ceremonious courtesy of the Mughal court, is fluent in Farsi, Turki, Urdu and Rajasthani, and hence is an ideal leader for the not-so-amalgamated and complex imperial army of Turks, Afghans, Persians, Rajputs and Hindustanis. He has prudence, political shrewdness, communication skills and innate intelligence to calculate risk. Even in tricky situations, he does not display recklessness, impulsive behaviour, bluntness and superfluous chivalry. More than all those qualities, Mirza, who commanded the largest number of Hindu horsemen, had deserted Dara bhai’s son Suleiman and joined hands with Aurangzeb against Shah Jahan, thus helping him win the war of succession. In turn, Aurangzeb had rewarded Mirza with the jagirdari of some districts with an annual revenue income of two and half lakh rupees.

  ‘The war in the Deccan needs to be fought not merely with swords, spears and cannons, but the region and its powerful men also need to be tackled by playing with their fears and hopes, perceptions and dreams, emotions and esteem,’ Mirza says, his eyes shining with mysterious energy.

  Immediately after Mirza leaves, Aurangzeb calls his scribe and dictates a letter to Ali Adil Shah:

  After Surat, Shiva Bhosale may enter Konkan with a big force. If that happens, send an army against Shivaji and destroy him. If you succeed, we promise you that we will redeem a large amount of tribute money you are expected to pay us. If you fail, we will lead an army against the Adilshahi in person and will not stop till the sultanate is conquered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  1

  Mirza works day and night, sending letters to jagirdars and deshmukhs, especially the known revenue collectors of Karnataka, to leave the services of Ali Adil Shah and join him in his war against Shivaji. A vakeel of Mirza has reached Bijapur with a message to Ali Adil Shah that the amount of annual tribute the king pays to the Mughal emperor can be reduced or even waived off if he assists the Mughals in their campaign against the Marathas. Mirza makes every effort for defections and has established contacts with Prataprao Morey, Afzal Khan’s son Fazal Khan and some Maratha zamindars of the Konkan. He is paying special attention to the Siddis of Janjira by sending swords and shields as gifts. Promises of the posts of mansabdars in the Mughal services are being used as bait to corrupt some of Shivaji’s loyalists, but this, unfortunately, has met with little success.

  Aurangzeb too has kept his word. While Prince Muazzam remains the de-facto subhedar of the Deccan, Mirza has all the authority—command not just of field operations but also of all administrative work like promotions, punishments, transfers, payment and regulation of jagirs of the mansabdars under him. The commandants of the Mughal forts, like Daulatabad, Ahmednagar and Parinda, have been asked to report to Mirza who keeps sending a letter to his master about his progress and achievements, every day, without fail. He has also appointed experts who are qualified to detect flaws in Shivaji’s hill forts and has begun studying the geographical, social and political situation of the Deccan. Two European naval experts will soon join him to negotiate with the Europeans of Surat, Mumbai and Goa. Mirza is a clever general and knows the difference between the imperial and non-imperial powers. It is the poorly organized and weaker military powers that have higher thresholds for the pain and agonies of a long-drawn-out war.

  Mirza has constant meetings with the mansabdars under his supervision as with Diler Khan, the second-in-command, and Niccolau Manucci, the Italian artillery expert. In the meetings that sometimes go on till midnight, maps are drawn and discussed and places to construct permanent Mughal outposts are identified. The most important aspect of military leadership is to coax your men into thinking critically, without remorse or guilt, because ruthless, mass killings of the population is the only way to shake the hills of the Deccan and bring down those who perch on the top of those hills.

  After several deliberations with his men he has also come to a decision as to where his own base camp will be: it is a town called Saswad a few kos away from Purandar Fort. Saswad lies on the eastern borders of Shivaji’s terrain and at the western borders of the Adilshahi kingdom and is just ten kos south-east of Pune. While the flurry of military activity goes on, not a single meeting is attended by the Mughal subhedar of the Deccan, Prince Muazzam, Aurangzeb’s son from his Hindu wife, Nawab Bai. The prince is too preoccupied with hashish and alcohol parties as well as his hunting expeditions. This suits Mirza fine.

  After spending a week at the foothills of Daulatabad, Mirza’s cavalcade moves towards Pune. It is like a city on the move, with a sea of cavalrymen, dense mass of infantrymen, caparisoned elephants with howdahs carrying the mansabdars, followed by covered palanquins carrying their families and surrounded by slaves, servants, orderlies and cooks. There are also strings of oxen, mules and asses loaded with goods, coolies with waterskins and camels carrying cannons. Above the cavalcade, the moss-green imperial banners flutter with the wind, the rising suns and couching lions embroidered on the silken cloth causing ripples in the Deccan air. Mirza does not rest at Pune and keeps busy meeting mansabdars and other officials in charge of the twenty thousand cavalry left behind by Shaista Khan. He has already met with Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod and given him Aurangzeb’s message, asking him to proceed to Dilli. Perhaps Jaswant be posted at the empire’s north-west frontiers famous for murderous hill men from the mountain ranges of Ghazni and Kabul. Mirza shivers just thinking about it. There birds drop dead in summer when the terrain beyond Qandahar turns into a furnace. With scant supply of water that is brackish, it is impossible to maintain a large number of men in the military camps. Vast patches of desolate regions occupied by lawless tribes with men
born with predatory instincts are the worst places for encampment. One does not need a battle to die in those regions.

  2

  On the borders of the western Deccan, rocky drops stand like forlorn sentinels watching over the coast. The spotless white sands seem to have made a truce with the emerald waters of the ocean. The tide is high and the waters choppy. A hundred small boats sail towards the island of Sindudurg Fort, making their way through a narrow canal between a rock and a small island. Later they bounce violently into the open sea as sailors try hard to cut the mountains of surf with their oars. Shivaji scans the skyline while holding on to the hull as his boat bounces on the sea, its bow rising and diving with the waves. He notices a long wall that has started rising above the rocks at the ridges. Tiny figures of men are seen scurrying about on its ramparts.

  As the boats near, the thunderous roar of the waves crashing on the rocks lifts the spirit of the sailors navigating the boats. Shivaji jumps out and walks towards the bastions that seem to seal off the island. The gatekeepers bow and the others follow him as he enters the fort through an opening hidden behind the perimeter of two bulging stone structures.

  Inside, another world unfolds as hundreds of labourers are busy in the construction work happening over forty-eight acres of rocky earth. Shivaji checks the construction site for a while, his eyes roving and noticing each and every detail. Skilled men have arrived from Gujarat and beyond. The plunder of Surat and Basnur has helped to mint countless sacks of gold, silver and brass coins. The funds will soon be over, he thinks regretfully. There is more trouble: the new Mughal general, Mirza Jai Singh, is advancing towards Pune and the region is once again under threat.

  Preoccupied, he moves towards the massive furnaces. The Portuguese metallurgy experts shouting instructions fall quiet and remove their hats and bow to him. He stands back, admiring the resilience of the local blacksmiths who stand so close to the furnace, their eyes scanning the piles of slag iron lumps and lead ingots, their dark skins gleaming with sweat. Shivaji walks away glancing proudly at the outer wall fortifications built with square stones, hiding secret dungeons and tunnels in their bellies. Its ramparts and bastions have already swallowed more than five thousand maunds of metal and countless buckets of lime. They will be his warriors against the gangs of pirates, against the ships of war sailing from the other lands, against the mafia of traders. His eyes wander and notice a line of men in soiled clothes carrying huge jute baskets on their heads. The shell-collectors have been hired from nearby villages after they had come in hoards, with the lure of copper coins and a meal that they were offered at the site. The shells will be converted to lime for the construction.

  This fort will be Shivaji’s answer to Janjira. This fort will enhance the strength of his navy!

  The sun is about to set and the western sky is turning golden. The aroma of millet bread has started replacing the metallic smell of the iron broth. The construction noises are gradually abating. Shivaji is about to reach the entrance when he hears Tanaji Malusare’s voice, ‘Raja, messengers have arrived from the mountains with news. Mirza Raja Jai Singh has reached Pune and plans to march in the direction of Purandar.’

  Shivaji knows what is coming.

  Mirza’s journey towards Saswad begins with the absolute determination to defeat Shivaji. It is the month of Baisakh but cold winds still sweep in from the faraway mountains. The Mughal cavalcade moves through canopies of banyan, pipal and tamarind trees. Stampeding hooves of Mirza’s war animals crush the lumps of black soil. The villages they cross are deserted. They pass by Purandar Fort late in the evening. In the bright moonlight, the craggy ridges of Purandar Hill loom over them. From one of the watchtowers built on the rock of Kandakada, Murarbaji watches the Mughal procession go eastwards. He is aware that the new Mughal general has plans to make Saswad his base camp and he knows that war has arrived at his doorstep, at the foothills of his fort.

  Two kos away from Purandar, the Mughal base camp is erected within days. Slaves are seen hammering spikes into the layers of earth to pitch tents, coolies cut, carry and fix logs of wood to make strong stables and sheds for the animals, and latrine pits are dug. A waterproof stone structure is erected to store explosives. Mirza continues to work late into the night. On the fourth night everything seems to be in place and functioning. In his brightly lit palatial den, Mirza relaxes on a stately couch covered with satin durries and bolsters filled with soft and fluffy cotton.

  3

  The Deccan air has turned sweeter with the scent of ripening mangos still on the trees. Around the Mughal base camp, jungle trails have started filling up with men galloping towards Kondana Fort. They race, crouching on their mounts to avoid getting smashed by the low-hanging branches of the enormous banyan trees. The horses’ hooves echo across the valley and the raiders seem to seek their enemy’s attention.

  The tribesmen guarding the foothills of Purandar have heard the booming noise and have felt the earth shaking beneath their nimble feet. Some have even thought that they have seen countless shadows of horsemen scurrying under the moonless sky.

  ‘Clouds of demons are drifting towards the fort; they will rain evil,’ the tribesmen want to warn Murarbaji.

  Murarbaji has already heard the news and he shouts orders. The artillerymen quickly take positions behind the cannon placed on the ramparts facing the east. The archers climb the fortified wall and stand vigil under the canopies of watchtowers. More than a thousand scouts stand rooted on the ridges overlooking the valley, with boulders piled at the edge.

  ‘Who is leading them?’ Murarbaji wants to know from the tribesmen who have just arrived.

  The tribesmen do not have the answer.

  Few kos away, Daud Qureshi, the leader of the Mughal raiders, likes to keep a low profile and lead his men from the front. Rai Singh, Amar Singh and others try to keep pace as a sea of raiders follow them, wave after wave. It is time for action after many months of a hard, dreary journey.

  The forewarned artillerymen of Purandar wait in anticipation, their guns ready to rain explosives on the approaching enemy. The scouts standing at the lower levels have started hooting to warn the others as artillerymen shove explosives in the muzzles of their cannon. However, the efforts seem futile and the scouts watch in helpless horror. The Mughal raiders have avoided them and have dispersed in the valley where villages lie hidden behind the safety of the hills.

  Daud Qureshi is leading eight thousand men to the valley that lies beyond Purandar. He has turned fifty but his muscles have not yet aged and his earliest memories are that of bloody fights at the southern borders of Balkh. For the past few months he has lived the insipid life of a mere traveller and is thirsty for the smell of blood, for the feel of palpable flesh under his blade and for the cries of the vanquished. After a long wait, the time has come. Feeling pleased, Daud pulls the reins as his body stretches backwards. The others following him slow down abruptly, making their horses teeter and then slowly come to a halt.

  ‘Split,’ he barks.

  Rai Singh, Amar Singh, Sharja Khan, Achal Singh and the others have already been briefed. Eight thousand men are divided into eight flying columns, each moving towards different villages. Before nudging his horse into action, Daud looks back at his horsemen who wait impatiently, looking like a mass of staggering shadows, uneasy but thirsty to strike.

  His feet firmly lock in the stirrups as he hits the horse hard with his knees. He leads his men to a sleepy village hidden behind the hills, still untouched by invasions. The hooves of his warhorses flatten the surrounding fields dislodging grains from the cobs only to vanish into dust. The raiders charge ruthlessly, their blades sweeping down on the oblivious peasants safeguarding the fields. Within moments the hamlet is encircled, as the attackers pull the reins with full strength to hold back their mounts.

  Daud nudges his horse and enters the village. A few horsemen follow him to a poorly lit open courtyard, their horses skittering over the pebbled floor.

  ‘Get them a
ll!’ Daud shouts.

  ‘Out! Out!’ thunder the raiders galloping through the narrow lanes of huddled houses. The rude sound shakes the mud walls and fills the villagers with dread. A sudden spill of people in the crooked gullies ends in a stampede. Some Mughal horsemen pull out leashes hooked to their saddles and start whipping the crowd at the flanks and screams of agony tear through the valley. People, numb with the premonition of death, shuffle and waddle, push and heave their bodies in the dark. They are shoved towards a tamarind tree that stands in the middle of the pebbled floor courtyard.

  ‘Sort them,’ Daud orders hoarsely.

  Some of the horsemen dismount, grabbing the lanterns from the open balconies. They push their way through the mass of people, mute with fear. The lantern holders are quick in their selection.

  ‘You, you and you.’ The young and healthy are plucked from the crowd and dragged away towards the edge of the yard. Horsemen encircling the hamlet watch the proceedings with fascination, hooting and whistling as the younger women try to cover their faces in the cusp of their hands, shaking with sobs.

  Daud waves his hand.

  A few raiders from the encircling lot kick their horses and move towards the chosen lot. They leap down as one of them pulls out a huge bundle of rope tied to his back. The new slaves scream and struggle feebly as their hands are tied behind them, with a single rope. The others, who are not chosen, too have started crying and calling the names of their enslaved boys and girls seeing them getting hauled in a file. Some of them stand rooted, refusing to move. One of the raiders pulls out his leash and starts whipping, his body twisting under the savage vigour of his biceps. The yells slice the air, hammering the ridges of the mountains, and echo through the courtyards of the nearby hill forts. Finally the file of the surrendered is hauled away, raiders tugging and jerking the rope.