Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  Mirza is in his camp at Saswad. He has received the news and is waiting for some more.

  3

  Murarbaji has called his men near the watchtower of Kandakada, the extension of the upper fort. In the afternoon sun, they can clearly see the ruins of black and white watchtowers on the lower cliff. They have tried to pull away as many dead bodies as possible, but some still lie in the shallow ravine that separates the forts.

  This is no time for bereavement.

  ‘The time has come. The towers and the wall guarding the invaders marching in from Vajragad are gone. It is just a matter of time before they reach the lower fort and gather around Pali Gate to enter the upper fort,’ Murarbaji tells his men as they watch their leader with squinted eyes, holding their palms near their brows to avoid the sun.

  ‘Despite the tight siege, a few scouts have managed to reach us, and they have told us horrible stories of how the Mughals are on a rampage, burning villages, killing and enslaving our people, taking away cattle, burning down the standing crops near the foothills of most of our hill forts. The damage is most acute near the forts like Lohagad, Visapur, Tung and Tikona—not a single peasant is alive, not a single woman left behind, not a single farm animal spared.’ Murarbaji wipes his forehead and swallows hard before speaking what he wants to say as others watch, their hearts raging with fury.

  ‘I have a plan,’ Murarbaji says with a never-seen-before spark in his eyes.

  4

  On Vajragad’s extensive terrace, the Mughal soldiers cross Bhairavkhind with ease to enter the courtyard of the lower fort. It is deserted. Diler is stunned to see the walls fortified with ramparts and watchtowers. When they reach their destination, he notices massive bastions surrounding the Dilli Darwaza, above which a saffron flag ripples with buoyancy. Beyond the fortified gate, the hill that houses the upper fort rises to a considerable height. Diler notices a rock on the top of that hill and a watchtower above the rock, which he has seen from Vajragad. That was from a distance, but from up close, the rock looks invincible. Allah alone knows how many men are up there, Diler thinks and signals the artillerymen who have started inspecting the outer wall of the lower fort, its ramparts and watchtowers, to place the cannons to target the gate. Fearing a shower of arrows from the ramparts, Diler does not want his men to move forward unless the wooden gate braced with huge spikes is blown up.

  ‘Archers, take positions!’ Diler shouts. The rats are hiding, without making a sound, he thinks.

  Just then, there is the deafening sound of drums and trumpets, as if the Marathas are celebrating victory. The noise numbs the minds of the Mughals for a brief moment and the enormous doors of Dilli Darwaza are thrown open. The Marathas pour out, like water through a broken dam, wearing tight breeches and pleated angirkhas of quilted cotton, their heads covered with boat-shaped turbans. They advance with raised hands, straight blades of long swords shining under the noon sun, roaring their battle cry that rides above the music of the drums and the trumpets: ‘Har Har Mahadev!’

  ‘Charge!’ Diler shouts, feeling breathless for a moment. Initially the Mughal men are puzzled and they falter, but soon they gather their wits and surge forward with a throaty battle cry. Diler has climbed a boulder and joined a few archers so he can see the battleground. Looking at the size of the enemy contingent, Diler calculates six or seven hundred, one-fifth the size compared to the number of his swordsmen. Something strikes him: the Marathas move with speed, as if they want to take the combat away from their entrance. He watches with interest as they sprint and leap, from left and then to right, some holding a sword in each hand. They also duck and jump to spoil the aim of his archers. Short and agile, some fly over the ridges and some even appear on the ramparts and then throw themselves over his swordsmen. Once on their victims they hold the man in the tight grip of their feet, and then slice their throats, holding their swords like cleavers. Diler stares, his interest turning into fascination. The dark and muscular Marathas look like a different human race, from another world, and are without armour or helmets.

  Suddenly, the Marathas launch a hostile attack, using one sword to slaughter and another to defend. The Mughal swordsmen have not discussed any strategies; there was no need for such intricate details when they were to fight against rebel tribesmen. They have not even bothered to inquire about the battleground, because there wasn’t supposed to be any real battle. They struggle under the weight of their own armour and bulky shields, stumble and lurch on the rock-strewn earth. The Marathas seem to be trained swordfighters and not random rebels hiding in the jungles. They seem to know their weapon and how to use its somewhat-straight, long and double-edged blade for more hits. They take a low stance, thrusting the blades in upward motion, going for the lower abdomens of the Mughals, not covered by their armour. It takes the Mughal warriors a few moments to cope with the stance of their enemy. The lucky survivors waste a few precious moments in just parrying the rain of enemy’s strikes.

  ‘Slaughter the bastards!’ a man who seems to lead the Marathas screams.

  ‘Mashallah!’ Diler exclaims in admiration as the loud sound of metal banging on metal echoes through the hills. Diler’s attack is subdued by a clever sortie designed by his enemies. The Marathas have already accepted death, the acceptance turning them into killing machines, and the Mughals, who have already accepted victory, seem to be retreating.

  Diler Khan looks back. His archers stand with stretched bows and aimed arrows, their hands moving as if they are busy charming a snake. The Marathas are moving too fast, their nimble feet making their agile bodies fly. In the midst of the bloody mayhem, Diler notices the leader again—a short and stocky man with both hands fixed in gauntlets with long blades, on a rampage, leaving a trail of dead behind him as he advances fearlessly. The blades of his swords move in elliptical movements as he swirls like a top, as if he is performing a rhythmic death dance, as if the blades are his limbs, as if killing several enemy soldiers in one go is a part of his performance. It goes on for a while until the courtyard of the lower fort is strewn with bodies lying in crimson pools.

  A dozen armoured Mughals try to encircle him, holding their shields together to make a trap. The man has lost his turban, blood trickling down from his tonsured head over his shoulders. He has managed to push the ring of his opponents to the edge of the battlefield, just a few yards away from where Diler stands on a boulder. It is then he realizes that the man with gauntlet swords must be Murarbaji!

  ‘Halt! Stop!’ Diler shouts passionately, again and again, his heart pounding in his ribcage, his fists boxing the air above him. Something in his voice makes everyone stop, including Murarbaji.

  Diler jumps down from the boulder and waves his hands signalling to the others to back off. He stands face to face with the fearless warrior.

  ‘Who are you?’ Diler asks.

  ‘Murarbaji,’ the answer comes in a booming voice.

  ‘The famous fort-keeper of Purandar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Allah!’ exclaims Diler in Deccani Urdu, ‘I have not seen a warrior like you.’

  Murarbaji is grim; he is breathing shallow.

  ‘Come to us. The emperor will make you an amir or an omrah; people like me will take orders from you. You will be rich,’ says Diler earnestly, staring at Murarbaji. The man is not wearing any armour; his clothes are made of hand-woven cotton, while his sandals are worn out. Diler’s patience ebbs; he shouts to make his words clear, ‘How much does this Shivaji pay you?’

  ‘You will never understand, you—a salaried dog of the emperor,’ Murarbaji says in Marathi. An archer standing behind Diler translates.

  Diler shivers with indignation but before he can say something Murarbaji raises his swords and shouts raucously, ‘You cannot buy me! No one can!’ Then without warning he leaps forward to attack Diler. The Mughal has no time to remove his sword from his scabbard; he retreats involuntarily and stumbles, rolling on the ground, and raises his bare hands to parry the blows of Murarbaji.
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  The Mughal archers standing on the boulders stretch their bows and narrow their eyes. The target is approaching, and there is not much time; the arrows from the full-drawn bows are released with maximum elastic energy. One of the projectiles slice Murarbaji’s neck and blood spurts out of the gash, but he keeps advancing as Diler rolls away further and falls into a shallow ditch.

  Finally Murarbaji comes to a halt, staggers for a moment and falls, taking both his swords with him.

  The Mughal archers climb down from the boulders and help Diler, who looks around in disbelief. The battleground is strewn with corpses, and the remaining Marathas have disappeared; the gates of Purandar’s upper fort are closed shut. Diler now understands his enemy’s first move: they took the battle away from the entrance. It was done with a purpose and the Mughals failed to decipher the last move. Diler looks at the upper fort—the saffron flag flutters wildly, with intrepid arrogance. The clouds have started gathering, darkening the blue sky above as if to rue over the death of the Deccan’s intrepid warrior. The remaining Mughals have lost all their vigour and enthusiasm and have decided to walk away, leaving behind thousands of dead and fatally injured men, while those with minor injuries are carried by the others. The stench of faeces and urine from torn bowels and bladders has started inviting the scavenger birds. Thousands of swords made from crucible steel from Persia are taken back from the battlefield, while their masters are left behind.

  5

  It is the end of the month of Baisakh that has brought dry and warm days, and reduced the otherwise swollen rivers to puddles of stagnant water. The mountains and their wooded slopes, the enormous ridges and their plunging drops, and even the uphill trails seem to rue the fate of their valley. In the midst of the Mughal calamity, Rajgad stands mute, looking down at its foothills, as columns of smoke rise heavenwards from villages on fire. The people on the fort move about with grim faces, as if they are observing sutak, the grieving period after the death of a family member. In the khalbatkhana, the room for political discussions, behind the sadar, Raghunath Korde waits for his master. He has been called back from the Konkan where he was given the duty of keeping an eye on the Siddis of Janjira.

  Shivaji enters the room and shuts the door. Raghunath bows and glances at his master whose young face looks aged, and those usually cheerful brown eyes have fleeting shadows of heartbreak.

  ‘You need to get through to Mirza Jai Singh at his base camp near Saswad and arrange for a meeting,’ Shivaji comes straight to the point without bothering to even sit down.

  ‘Are we surrendering?’ The vakeel in Raghunath is suddenly worried.

  ‘We are not sure what will be the outcome of the meeting, but the destruction of villages and mindless killings must stop. Our people are the victims, the pawns of the Mughal political game. Thousands have been taken as slaves and there is little to imagine their fate.’

  ‘Will the Mughal general agree?’ Raghunath asks. He has heard that earlier messages from the raja have been ignored by Mirza.

  ‘Tell him we are ready to surrender,’ Shivaji says, his voice quivering.

  Later, with a heavy heart, Shivaji comes out for a breath of fresh air, and walks towards the shallow pond built to harvest the rain. The Mughal brutalities have made him mentally fatigued. He notices that the water in the lake has turned muddy and dark as it always does during summer. Hundreds of pink and white lotuses float in the water, some blooming and some budding.

  The truth of what has happened stings Shivaji’s heart. It is clear that he is unable to stop the destruction of life and property of his people, despite best efforts. Even the villages at the foothills of this very fort have gone, burnt down to ashes. The death of Murarbaji and hundreds of soldiers has torn Shivaji and he cannot afford to lose any more men in this unequal fight. The families of his men trapped in Purandar’s upper fort must be freed. Mirza Raja Jai Singh is not Afzal or Shaista who had huge egos; he is sober and wise, a thinker.

  ‘Please guide me,’ Shivaji closes his eyes and prays to Goddess Bhavani, the origin of power, and walks towards the stables at the edge of the fort’s extension. He hears Ibrahim Khan, who has offered to train his son, talking. Shivaji stands at a distance, wanting to see what little Shambhu is up to.

  Shambhu jumps with joy. ‘Abba sahib!’ he shouts. Ibrahim bows to his master.

  ‘You are a seven-year-old young man; today you may select your own mount,’ Shivaji beams at his young son.

  The boy cannot believe his ears. He stares at his trainer to confirm whether what he heard is true. Ibrahim knows that his ward has developed strong leg muscles to clear the saddle, kick and squeeze a small horse to move. His body has learnt to balance. His hands have gained adequate power to steer a foal or slow it down to a halt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  1

  A cockerel with brilliant red waffles jumps on the wooden fence of the Mughal encampment and starts crowing. The security guards at the entrance facing west smile at each other, because whenever the red waffled cockerel crows near the entrance, they receive an unexpected guest from the upper echelons of Mughal nobility.

  Half a mile inside the camp, life seems to go by. Mirza has finished bathing after a sesame-oil massage. But something else bothers him. How will he react to Shivaji? Draped in a silk dhoti, Mirza stands in an enclosed courtyard behind his shamiana meant for official work and meetings. Basking in the early sun, his mind wanders to his past glory. His father’s kingdom of Amber floats across his vision, like an enormous ship with countless masts. His ancestral home with beautiful courts, patios, palaces and gardens had made Emperor Jahangir jealous with rage, despite the fact that Jahangir’s mother had been from Mirza’s family. He feels blessed, his karma from past births has ensured that he be superior by sheer birth. He is a Kachwah, born into a family whose genesis could be traced back to the Sun. He is a Suryavanshi, a descendant of the most worshipped, most radiant, most visible power in the world—the sun dynasty. The lineage means that an infinitesimal part of Mirza has come from God Rama, the seventh avatar of Lord Vishnu.

  Mirza can feel the sun burning into his skin and he is about to start his sun salutations, but a noise disturbs him. Udayaraj Munshi is shouting with excitement, his words disappearing into an incomprehensible echo. Only after a moment of confusion can Mirza hear a complete sentence.

  ‘He . . . he is on his way.’

  The Mughal general’s body stiffens; the time has come to face Shivaji, on his own terms.

  ‘Is it really him?’

  ‘We have called for people who have met him before. They should confirm.’

  ‘How many men accompany him?’

  ‘Six. He is riding on a ceremonial elephant with a gilded howdah. Raghunath Ballal Korde, who had come to us last week, is also sitting with him, and just four armed horsemen canter along holding silver poles with white flags.’ Udayaraj eagerly provides the information.

  Mirza’s mind swings into action. ‘Once Shivaji is with me, ask the artillerymen to blast the cannon three times,’ he orders, and prays that his plan is successful.

  For the past one month Shivaji has been trying hard to begin a dialogue, sending his messengers with letters. In one of the letters he had suggested that he regarded himself as the emperor’s humble servant and if the esteemed Mirza Raja needed help to annex the Adilshahi, he would be most willing to deploy his cavalry. Many messages had arrived showing the desperation of the sender. The more villages fell, the more frequent the letters became. But Mirza had replied only once saying that the imperial army was like a sky laden with stars and soon, the ‘sultani skies’ would descend on the Sahyadri Mountains to flatten them. In the same note, Mirza had not forgotten to mention the emperor as an ‘ocean of mercy’, and the world could subsist because Aurangzeb was so compassionate and generous.

  Shivaji’s last message had come with Raghunath who had admitted that his master wanted to surrender and that had made Mirza relent.

  Mirza deliberately
takes a long time to trim his beard and moustache with utmost care, even though his personal barber has done the same earlier in the morning. Selecting a jama made from fine muslin cloth with a motif of two tigers in combat, he picks up a ruby-studded turban of many folds and opts for a red cashmere shawl. Finally he wears pearl ear studs, a few strands of gold chains, and a ring set either in diamond or rubies in each of his fingers, including his thumbs.

  Mirza fires orders before summoning the guest. ‘The contingent of Rajput warriors in ceremonial attire will stay around the shamiana—to welcome the guest and to stand as witnesses if any papers need to be signed. Fifty combat slaves must guard the area with machetes strong enough to slice the bark of an old tree—to kill the visitor, who is a famed murderer, if he turns aggressive. Only Shivaji and his vakeel are to be allowed in. And before he enters this room, check for weapons, especially on him, his hands, his feet, his sash—leave nothing.’

  Mirza then heads for the couch, craving for a smoke. Soon the shamiana is filled with smoke rings.

  ‘Is that general Mirza Raja Jai Singh?’ Hearing the words in chaste Urdu, Mirza throws back his neck and stares. The man who has entered the shamiana wears light-brown clothes made of fine muslin. The jama is impeccably tailored and his orange turban has strings of pearls wrapped around it. The man, with a trim beard and a slight moustache, is barefoot. The visitor moves nearer and Mirza can see his face under the light of the shamdans. Sharp features with slightly high cheekbones; the forehead is huge with a tilak; the complexion is fair, and the mouth firm. The visitor bows lightly, keeping his right hand on his chest where his heart is, without lifting his gaze from Mirza.