‘Here comes the notorious guerrilla,’ Mirza comments wryly. Shivaji does not react.
‘So you are the hit-and-run man, the man waiting in ambush, with an attitude of “retreat when faced with defeat”; you are the man who avoids bold, face-to-face confrontations!’
Shivaji breathes deeply and utters, ‘You are the man of battles, Mirza Raja, who will know better than anyone else that every strategy, be it yours or mine, is to win, to annihilate the enemy.’
‘You do not follow principles of ethical war!’ Mirza makes a strong statement.
‘I follow principles of humanity. I neither attack helpless civilians, nor do I take them as slaves.’
Mirza laughs aloud. A slightly surprised Shivaji asks, ‘Why do you laugh?’
‘You slay those who embrace you in good faith. I have decided to stay away from you.’ Mirza speaks in Urdu deliberately peppered with Farsi.
‘I have slain only those who have embraced me with sinister intentions, who want to enslave me, to rob my people’s freedom.’
‘So you defend yourself and your ideals of freedom by glib talk,’ Mirza hits back, as the two men make themselves comfortable on the crescent-shaped couch.
‘We do not fight to merely defend our ideals; we fight to turn them into reality,’ Shivaji quips, and before Mirza can say anything more, Udayaraj rushes in apologetically. He bows deeply before Shivaji and offers him a hookah and a betel leaf from a silver case. Shivaji refuses both, and a dejected Munshi takes his place behind his desk. For a few moments, there is an awkward silence. Mirza stares at his guest and marvels at the sculpted features, then immediately reminds himself that this man is a dangerous murderer, a bandit who has sacked Mughal territories, forcefully acquired the Adilshahi’s hill forts, wiped out jagirdars like Morey and maimed Shaista Khan. He is here because he has no choice. He is cunning and will possibly try hard to forge a friendship. Mirza knows how to tackle people when they try to cultivate him. He is never shy of exposing the clout-seekers for their motives when they praise him shamelessly.
‘Mirza Raja,’ Shivaji takes the lead, ‘this land belongs to peasants of the land, but the real power was in the hands of the native jagirdars. The peasants were their slaves, bonded for life, slogging away, till the last drops of their blood irrigated the soil that produced riches that filled the treasuries of the jagirdars and the kings, making them more powerful to enslave more peasants.’
‘Raja Shivaji,’ the half-listening Mirza waves his hand and continues, ‘we can talk later. Let me first be a good host. You have travelled far to reach here; let me offer you something to eat. Our cook makes good meat kebabs, chickpea sambusa and even your puran poli.’
‘It is too early. I eat only one meal in the afternoon and I am a vegetarian,’ Shivaji says and continues, ‘For the past fifteen years, we have tried to free the peasants from their slavery, establishing a soft revenue system, and providing facilities such as loans or free seeds, fertilizers and farm animals.’
Mirza feels irritated and, glancing at Udayaraj who is busy making notes in his register, he says, ‘Now why are you giving me an account of your past deeds?’
‘What has taken us years to make, the Mughals have demolished in a month.’
Mirza’s eyes bore into Shivaji’s and he is hit by a revelation. Those brown eyes are the most earnest eyes he has ever seen—not wavering, not blinking and not even diverting. The gaze is sharp and has the power to slice through a person’s soul. Mirza shivers faintly, diverting his own eyes to the chessboard, and retorts, ‘You have been illegally occupying the territory that rightfully belongs to the Adilshahi. I must admit that you do have some lofty perceptions of yourself. You have a sense of righteousness that blunts your common sense when you commit crimes like slaughtering jagirdar Morey, murdering Afzal Khan, maiming Shaista Khan and injuring the traders of Surat.’
‘In that case, one must change the definition of legal and illegal,’ Shivaji murmurs, his eyes distant.
‘Do not forget you have begged to meet me,’ Mirza reminds him. Just then they hear the cannon blasts. Now Diler Khan must fire the explosives at Dilli Darwaza and set the upper fort of Purandar on fire.
Unperturbed by the blasting sound, Shivaji stares at the handsome Rajput in his late fifties whose face reminds him of the ancient kings in the mythological stories his mother had told him when he was a child. He smiles slightly, ignores Mirza’s rudeness and puts his thoughts forth, his words barely reaching the ears of Udayaraj, ‘Mirza Raja, the invaders are not innocent. They had come from afar, their blood boiling with rage—the Mongols, the Persians, the Turks and the Balkans. They have slaughtered lakhs of natives, a methodical genocide in the name of jihad. The first Mughal emperor, Babur, had beheaded countless, making pillars of the heads of his victims. Your new emperor is not an exception either. Agreed that I have killed, but I have neither murdered brothers nor committed mass genocide of innocent villagers as you have. Try to see the truth, Mirza Raja, only once.’
Mirza’s head spins. Why am I sitting here and listening to this man who has come to surrender? The words ‘only once’ stir some old memories hiding deep in his heart, remembering the Rajput martyr Hammir Deo, who had resisted the murderous Alauddin Khalji for years. Centuries later, in the desert, they still sing his praises:
The lioness gives birth to a cub only once
Once alone is the word of a good man given
The plantain bears fruit only once
A woman is anointed only once with oil for marriage and
Hammir only once gave his irrevocable promise . . .
‘Your life will be spared if you bow to the jihadists, and the perks are excellent, but it is suicidal to be their enemies, isn’t it, Mirza Raja? You are a Suryavanshi, your lineage connected to the sun, the star of our solar system. You are the son of this soil, and you were born to rule.’ Shivaji is no longer whispering, his scathing words are ruthlessly scraping the scabs from the very old wounds afflicting Mirza’s mind.
Mirza cannot believe his own ears. The man sitting in front of him is desperate, as if he has nothing left to live for. Those words uttered against the Mughal emperors can put both of them on a death row. It is dangerous to carry on the conversation, and even the panels of this tent have ears.
Just then Niccolau Manucci enters the shamiana.
Shivaji has not seen blonde hair before—the Portuguese working for him have dark-brown heads.
‘Who is he?’ Shivaji asks admiringly.
‘He is a raja from Europe,’ Mirza bluffs as Shivaji’s eyes shine with interest.
‘Do you wage war in your part of the world?’ the Maratha wants to know. Niccolau who is staring at Shivaji instead of fiddling with the hookah that is usually kept for him smiles bitterly, his blue eyes clouded with shadows of sadness.
‘Where there are humans, there is war.’ Niccolau’s Urdu has a strange accent. Something compels him to speak further, ‘We have suffered catastrophic wars, cities have been besieged and plundered, hundreds of thousands of civilians abused and killed, crops, livestock and money confiscated. Starvation has led to diseases such as plague, typhus and diarrhoea. That has killed hundreds of thousands of people.’
Shivaji listens carefully and asks, ‘What are the reasons for such wars?’
‘Many, but now it is the competition to take over foreign trade, for overseas trade means money and money means power. Politics in Europe is changing; it is less about religious conflicts and more about naval might, the backbone of the ability to colonize distant parts of the world.’
‘What if the natives take over the sea trade of their respective countries?’ Shivaji asks.
‘Penso di no, I do not think the natives have the power to even think in that direction, especially the natives of this country!’ Manucci scoffs.
Shivaji smiles mysteriously and continues with his questions, ‘Do you ever fight on land, or only on seas?’
Niccolau starts laughing but stops abruptly and
says, ‘Battles are fought for conquests or defence. It is finally for the land or the trade markets; oceans cannot be conquered or occupied.’
Shivaji’s goes on, ‘Why did you cross the seven seas and come to our lands?’
Niccolau now knows that he is not dealing with an ordinary native; the man is asking clever questions. He replies earnestly, ‘Our country is poor, our trade is declining, and only three players are emerging as superpowers: the Portuguese, the Dutch and the English. The merchant navy is a new concept, and companies who own merchant ships as well as battleships to protect their merchant ships are in demand. These companies employ thousands of sailors and marines and bring big money into the country and pay enormous taxes, making the kings rich. The kings in turn bless the shareholders and top officials of these companies by giving them prime estates, financial compensations, influential positions, titles and other perks. Those not connected with these companies find it difficult. I have come to earn money.’
‘These companies must be making huge profits here, in Hindustan and in the Deccan, and using them to build their countries. And instead of fighting them by riding the ocean waves with robust naval power, we, the natives, keep fighting territorial wars with each other, destroying our land and killing our own,’ Shivaji says looking at Mirza, while Niccolau Manucci nods vigorously.
‘Europe is far ahead of us in their plans, thoughts and strategies,’ Shivaji quips.
‘You are the first native who seems to have understood,’ Niccolau blurts and bites his tongue.
Someone walks in and whispers something in Mirza’s ears. Mirza gets up and says, ‘Please step outside; I want to show you something.’
Outside, Mirza points out in the direction of the southwest; the hill of Purandar rising a few hundred guj above the plains is clearly visible. Its upper fort rising above the hill burns, and despite the bright sun, enormous flames are seen swallowing the crown of the Maratha pride.
‘Purandar’s upper fort has fallen. I have requested Diler Khan to spare the families, provided we sign a peace treaty,’ Mirza says flatly, his eyes cold. The timing is perfect. In anticipation of Shivaji’s visit, Mirza had sent messages to Diler Khan and his son, Kirat. Their trenches had reached the walls of the upper fort. Today, after Shivaji’s arrival, Mirza had blasted the cannon as a signal, to deliver an assault on the upper fort.
The fire seems to die in Shivaji’s eyes as they watch Purandar burn, and he goes silent.
The night strides like a wounded beast, sluggish and immersed in its own pain. It rains intermittently and Mirza has remained awake while Shivaji, who is given the adjacent tent, has put off the lamps and gone off to sleep. The others accompanying him are somewhere else in the camp. It is a strange night. The empire’s most-wanted man is trapped in Mirza’s base camp, unarmed, alone and vulnerable. In less than three months, since Mirza has opened the campaign, he has already brought Shivaji to his knees. By tomorrow he will make this illusive rebel cede a large part of his dominion and make him a part of the Mughal army. It is indeed a superb victory. It is a moment of triumph, but Mirza is not as ecstatic as he had thought he would be. Shivaji’s guileless words have awakened some old regrets in his heart. Why am I murdering thousands, for Aurangzeb, the emperor of the Mughals—the man who wants entire Hindustan under Islamic rule?
Mirza has no choice but to think of Aurangzeb’s latest farman. The Mughal emperor wants all the forts that belonged to the Nizam of Ahmednagar, taken by Shivaji, thirty-five in number.
The next day, when Mirza meets Shivaji and Raghunath in his tent, he is all business. Mirza’s son Kirat Singh and his scribe-cum-assistant Udayaraj Munshi are present to help him in negotiations. If Shivaji wishes to stop the devastation of his terrain, if he wishes to save people trapped in the upper fort from death, he must pay the price. Mirza puts forth Aurangzeb’s demand of thirty-five forts along with the revenue-generating lands at their foothills.
Shivaji has an inkling of what is to come, and has been thinking all through the night. For the past five years, a large part of his terrain has been under Mughal occupation and his people have suffered the most heinous crimes. He knows that Mirza is trying to swallow his domain and has been tempting the Maratha cavalrymen and infantrymen with mansabs and money, and if the Mughals continue to devastate the region like they are, it is just a matter of time before Mirza separates him from his army.
Several moments pass in silence. Thinking that Shivaji is contemplating, finding it difficult to make up his mind, Mirza says impatiently, ‘These lands we are asking for are of ambiguous status. As per the imperial treaty of 1636 that was signed twenty-seven years ago with the then king of the Adilshahi, these regions of the conquered Nizamshahi had become a part of Adilshahi, but as per the latest treaty, Adilshahi rulers have agreed to cede the regions to the empire.’
‘I am not aware of any such thing,’ Shivaji says earnestly.
‘Now you know, you are illegally sitting on someone else’s property.’
‘The Adilshahi rulers have been claiming this region as theirs.’
‘The Adilshahi will soon be a subha of the empire,’ Mirza minces no words.
‘I have, in principle, decided to be the servant of the empire,’ Shivaji diverts the topic, speaking each word in a clear tone, his eyes boring into Mirza’s without blinking or showing grief, ‘but I will give only twenty-three forts, retaining twelve with me.’
‘You are not in the position to negotiate.’
‘Yes, I am,’ Shivaji shoots back, his head straight.
‘I will then call off the negotiations.’ Mirza sounds livid. Raghunath, who has not yet removed his large-rimmed pagari turban on purpose, is quick to catch on.
‘If you call our discussions a “negotiation” and do not allow us to put forth our demands, you may well call it off,’ Raghunath asserts, his narrow face tight, his eyes icy.
Mirza forces himself to calm down. He has come so far, binding Shivaji gradually, forcing him to accept servitude. He has achieved within three months what Shaista Khan could not even after three years. If he does not seal the deal now, there is a risk of driving Shivaji into a triple alliance with the Adilshahi and the Qutbshahi. He turns to Kirat and Udayaraj—they talk in whispers in Rajasthani.
For the next several hours, the men haggle about which forts will be retained by Shivaji and which will be surrendered to the Mughal empire. The marathon discussion ends amicably. Twenty-three of the hill forts, the lands of which yield twenty lakh rupees as annual revenue, will be annexed to the empire. The land left to the Marathas yields five lakh rupees as annual revenue.
‘The money you talk about in terms of revenue is mostly on paper, on the ground level. With frequent Mughal invasions, the revenue is far lesser than what you think,’ Raghunath warns but Mirza is in no mood to listen.
The men break for a meal only in the evening. After the meal they are back in their seats on Mirza’s crescent-shaped divan. The meeting starts with Mirza offering a mansabdar’s position of five thousand horses to Shivaji, with a suitable jagir. Shivaji and Raghunath are not caught unawares; they knew this offer was coming.
‘Raja Shivaji is ready to serve the empire with all his heart and soul, but he cannot accept the mansab, however high the position may be,’ Raghunath says keeping his voice officious.
Mirza laughs aloud. The high-pitched laughter further unsettles the men who are already feeling the heat. People die for a mansab of five thousand horses in the Mughal services. Mirza stares at Raghunath whose eyes radiate blank interest. Shivaji’s vakeel has shown disrespect by not removing his turban, and now he is dictating terms!
‘You will have to serve us in an official position,’ Mirza says with fleeting shadows of irritation in his eyes.
‘I have taken over Kalyan; I have plundered the cavalcade of Kartalab Khan; I have maimed Emperor Aurangzeb’s uncle, Shaista Khan; I have sacked Mughal markets including the prestigious port town of Surat. In the eyes of the emperor and according
to his sharia law, I am a criminal and therefore, morally, I cannot accept your gracious offer,’ Shivaji says politely, his eyes downcast. ‘If you have no objection, you may offer my son, Sambhaji Bhosale, the mansab you are offering to me.’
Mirza is speechless but he gathers his wits and asks, ‘How old is he?’
‘Seven.’
Mirza takes some time to recover. ‘He will have to come to the court whenever required and he is also liable for transfers. Also, since he is too young, you as the father of our mansabdar will have to perform all military duties assigned to him in any Mughal campaigns.’
‘Mirza Raja, please understand, I will not be forced to come to the imperial court, and my son will not be compelled to do so either,’ Shivaji protests.
‘That is the protocol,’ Mirza insists.
‘In that case, you may have to amend it,’ Raghunath butts in. Mirza feels his pulse race. He hits back, ‘Imperial protocols are stringent and will not be amended according to the whims and fancies of a mere fief.’
‘We will also be helping you in the war against the other Deccan kingdoms,’ Raghunath proposes.
Till midnight, the men discuss, argue and bargain, while the shamdans burn bright. Finally, it is time to put it all on the paper, with the palm impressions of Mirza and Shivaji. The deal must be sealed, and the treaty must be made official. Udayaraj has written one paper in Farsi, and one in Devanagari script. First Raghunath and then Shivaji read the paper carefully, going through the list of the twenty-three forts, including Kondana, Purandar, Lohagad and many others in Konkan with a heavy heart, as Mirza watches his enemies’ faces for clues.
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