Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  Mirza has one more demand before they conclude the meeting, ‘We shall amend the protocol and not force you or your son to attend the court. You too must keep your word and help us annex the Adilshahi by providing us with ten thousand men, some of them from your light cavalry.’

  ‘With five thousand horsemen, as per the mansabdari protocol,’ Raghunath counters.

  Mirza laughs and says, ‘Make it double. The mansabdari is to honour your master in the imperial court. The emperor would expect a robust help of manpower from you if truce is what you want.’

  Shivaji intervenes. ‘So be it. I have but one question. I am not a Mughal mansabdar, so I am independent. I should be allowed to expand as a sovereign king without damaging Mughal interests. Will you allow my remaining cavalry and infantry to fight battles of expansion—especially in the coastal regions that still remain under the Adilshahi kingdom? The revenue collection from these will harvest lakhs. We will pay taxes to Emperor Aurangzeb.’

  Mirza understands in a flash the reason why Shivaji has not accepted the mansab. He looks at Udayaraj who is staring at Shivaji with his mouth open, only a bit short of drooling. Mirza is tired. He nods and says, ‘We could put this on the paper. This will be approved after we win the war against the Adilshahi.’

  Shivaji knows he is dealing with an intelligent man. If they win the war, all the territories of Adilshahi kingdom will become a part of the empire.

  Shivaji diverts his gaze from Mirza, saying, ‘That is agreeable provided you help us take over the sea fort of Janjira from its Abyssinian occupants.’

  Mirza knows his limitations. ‘That could only be decided by the emperor. And while you hand over the charge of all twenty-three forts as per the treaty, you must keep our new mansabdar, your son, with us, as surety.’

  Shivaji thinks for a while and nods in agreement but the matter is not pushed further.

  The same night Mirza dispatches an excited letter to the emperor.

  Alamgir, Parvardigar, we have succeeded through Allah’s help in pressing him hard, and now that we have taken away twenty-three of his forts we have weakened him. If he strays by a hair’s breadth from the path of obedience, he can be totally annihilated by us with the slightest exertion. We must overthrow Bijapur with the help of Shivaji and what can be better than this? I humbly hope that Alamgir’s kind heart will bless the promises I made while issuing farmans to Shivaji and his son Sambhaji Bhosale who is our mansabdar. Your Majesty’s wishes regarding the Adilshahi should be communicated to this old slave of yours.

  2

  The third day is Shivaji’s last day in the base camp of the Mughal. The rain that had drizzled continuously for two days has stopped a while ago, and it is warm around the campfire lit near Mirza’s tent. Mirza wants to play a game of chess with Shivaji—it is Mirza’s way to measure his enemies and friends. A game of chess shows if the man is an offender or a defender, a true human or a cheater, has the mind of a strategist or a tactician.

  Mirza smiles inwardly while entering his tent where his guest is waiting. It is well lit with four shamdans burning in four corners. The shamiana is filled with the fragrance of dhoop. Mirza finds Shivaji intriguing, charming and dangerous, but he is trapped, and such men can turn more aggressive and lethal when trapped, like a tortured snake, eager to strike and empty its venom into the flesh of its tormentor. However, something else about him bothers Mirza. Perhaps a game of chess will shed some light on his character different from the personality he portrays.

  ‘How do you find the facilities? Are you and your men being treated well?’ Mirza asks, wanting to be a good host.

  ‘My people find the accommodations most satisfactory, probably the most luxurious they have ever seen,’ Shivaji replies.

  Mirza walks to his divan, asking Shivaji to sit down. Mirza, a keen observer of people, has been unsuccessful in judging his opponent. He still does not know whether Shivaji will abide by the treaty, keep his promises or betray him. He wants to be certain before his guest departs.

  ‘Do you play shatranj, Raja Shivaji?’ he abruptly asks.

  Shivaji nods and says, ‘I do play but perhaps not at your level. I have heard stories of your expertise.’

  Mirza is pleased. He is not only an excellent player but he can also read his opponent’s soul based on the game.

  Mirza flicks his fingers and a board is placed between two men. Mirza offers Shivaji the first choice of the colour. Interestingly Shivaji chooses black. Mirza wonders, but says nothing. The game begins in earnest.

  Mirza makes his initial moves quickly and confidently. Shivaji counters with a solid defence—the king is tucked in the corner, the centre is under control, the queen is placed on a strong supporting square. Mirza builds his attack slowly but steadily, while Shivaji seems oblivious to the impending storm, though his defences are impregnable. Mirza makes a quick feint to the other side of the board, apparently making a grab for a pawn. Shivaji successfully diverts the attack and Mirza’s players seem to be stymied. Mirza enjoys this and knows that he will soon assess Shivaji’s strategic capabilities. He makes a brilliant sacrifice on the king side, a double-edged move, very difficult to counter but not without a grave risk. Shivaji thinks for a long time and counters the gambit. Mirza’s scattered pieces suddenly come alive as they converge on Shivaji’s king from the other side of the board. Shivaji fights valiantly offering blow for a blow, but Mirza’s attack becomes intense, the effects of sacrifice apparent a dozen moves later.

  Shivaji looks at the board, shakes his head, and offers congratulations to Mirza. The game is over. Mirza wonders why Shivaji is considered such a threat—his thinking is linear, and his strategies are short-sighted. Mirza is ready to dismiss Shivaji, but he must be given one more chance.

  ‘Do you know why you lost?’ Mirza asks.

  Shivaji nods and says, ‘I had the centre but you had the control; my position looked unassailable, but there were hidden weaknesses—my pieces were connected and coordinated but they were no match to an expert gambler like you. Any position that lacks mobility lacks new ideas. It is based on injustice and not on people’s aspirations. It can be destroyed by a brilliant sacrifice, or even by a lowly pawn—all that it needs is a gambler who thinks differently.’

  Mirza’s smugness vanishes; he suddenly becomes alert.

  ‘You see yourself as that brilliant gambler? You will change the flow of history?’

  Shivaji is unperturbed. ‘Anything is possible,’ he replies.

  Mirza is furious. He asks, ‘Do you know the military and the financial might of the Mughal empire? Do you know strategic acumen of our battle-hardened mansabdars? Do not even think of becoming a traitor! You will die, your sons will die, your wives will be sold as slaves and your people will keep dying. As you know very well, you are never going to be the same after this visit.’ The dark menace in his words is meant to break Shivaji.

  Shivaji shows no reaction. Mirza cools down quickly and turns suave as he always is.

  ‘Our military machine can do all that you can, but you cannot do all that we do. Your philosophy of war is not as dynamic as you think and it is rather easily adaptable. The enemy soldiers need to be kept awake in the war zone by systematically attacking and liquidating the outposts, by creating an impression in the mind of the enemy that he is constantly watched, by attacking flanks of the enemy cavalcade and forcing them to send detachments that can later be isolated and annihilated. We can do all that, Raja Shivaji.’

  Shivaji smiles sadly and says, ‘You cannot create that intense desire residing in the hearts of my men. Your hired soldiers from Uzbekistan, Afghanistan, Punjab, Abyssinia, Rajasthan and Maharashtra are not fired by a dream.’

  ‘I can beat that desire,’ Mirza announces confidently.

  ‘You do not have the power to beat that desire, but you have the power to fulfil it. You can join us, Mirza.’ Shivaji drops a bombshell. Mirza looks shocked.

  ‘I have already beaten it by making you sign the treaty with us.
’ Mirza recovers quickly and retorts.

  ‘You have won a battle, not the war.’

  ‘Why not join me?’ Mirza recovers from another jolt and asks. ‘I rule armies, I guide the destinies of many regions and my voice is heard in the highest council.’

  ‘But you are not the highest council. Your culture, your language and you yourself do not count,’ Shivaji points out and suddenly leaning forward he asks, ‘Join me; we can make the empire tremble. My peasant armies will knock on the doors of Dilli. We can take over entire Hindustan.’

  Shivaji’s audacity confounds Mirza. He feels the call of his Rajput ancestors who bowed to no one, charged in the war no matter what the odds, the women who walked in the funeral fire chanting ‘Jai Har!’, hailing their vanquished men and refusing to submit to the enemy. Sweat breaks out on Mirza’s head. What if someone hears this and tells Diler Khan?

  ‘I am fiercely loyal to the emperor. Do not forget I have Rajput blood flowing in my veins,’ Mirza says rather loudly as if he wants others to hear it.

  ‘That is the problem, Mirza. You are loyal to the emperor but you are not loyal to yourself, your homeland, your inner inclinations and your potential.’

  This conversation is turning dangerous. Mirza must change the subject and the thought of Diler Khan gives rise to some other thoughts. He has heard that Diler Khan, who has spent months to conquer Purandar, is offended by the peace treaty that has taken away the military glory from him. There is only one way to pacify this dangerous man who has the power to fill Aurangzeb’s ears with false information.

  ‘Raja Shivaji, I have organized a meeting between you and Diler Khan. He will be arriving at any moment from Purandar,’ Mirza announces. As if on cue, there is a commotion outside the tent.

  The two men come out and see a small procession in the midst of the base camp. The tall Pashtun warrior wears a long tunic with a sash glittering with precious stones and a kimoush turban studded with emeralds. Behind him two caparisoned elephants trundle carrying gilded howdahs.

  Shivaji knows that the tall man with kohl-lined eyes is Diler Khan.

  ‘Raja Shivaji, I welcome you with all my heart, now that you are one of us,’ Diler thunders and steps forward to embrace him. Shivaji leaps forward and the men meet.

  What follows surprises Mirza. The caparisoned elephants are a present to Shivaji from Diler who also showers the guest with two horses, a sword, a jewelled dagger and two pieces of silk.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  1

  Mirza watches as the region is bathed in the golden columns of the evening sun, ready to plunge into the night’s darkness. Within a few hours the winter sun will vanish and they will have to camp at some place in the middle of nowhere. But that does not bother Mirza as he is busy inspecting the dense mass of horsemen and footmen that surround his elephant. He looks back and notices a huge dust cloud left behind by his cavalcade. Ahead, he sees a long stretch of treeless land of rolling plains, its monotony broken by short hills rising in the distance. His army has come several kos into the Adilshahi territory, led by Shivaji and his squadrons that are capturing one military post after another. Because of the Marathas, Mirza has had it easy and he does not regret his decision of invading the Adilshahi territory soon after the Purandar treaty.

  He looks proudly at the green Mughal banners fluttering above the mass as they move eastwards towards Bijapur, which is just twenty-six kos south-east from where they are. It is only when he accidently glances at the eastern horizon that he notices a small dust cloud. Instinctively his eyes wander in all directions, noticing several such clouds getting bigger by the moment.

  They are under attack!

  Mirza looks down from his howdah and notices Diler galloping ahead with his horsemen. The Adilshahi soldiers are indeed using highly damaging guerrilla tactics by dividing themselves into several small contingents. Together, they will be like a pack of wild dogs attacking a lone elephant to tear away its flesh in bits. He watches the advancing squadrons of the enemy’s light cavalry, apparently gunning for the flanks of his cavalcade. Within moments, before the enemy can reach them, Diler Khan’s horsemen have encircled the Mughal army like a wall. Some of the omrahs mounted on the elephants have joined the human wall and to Mirza they look like the bastions.

  Before the sun goes down, the battle starts. Mirza’s son Kirat joins the fight with his squadrons. The air vibrates with the noise of sword hitting sword, the screams of injured horses and yells of dying men. Around midnight, the attackers retreat. Mirza is pleased that Shivaji and Palkar had come with their men to rescue him, dashing into the enemy ranks, forcing them to retreat. After the enemy attack is thwarted, Mirza decides to camp, avoiding the battlefield that is strewn with dead. His soldiers are tired and they need food and rest.

  Mirza has planned to take the city of Bijapur by storm and not by besiegement. His final halt is five kos north of Bijapur.

  2

  Ali Adil Shah and his mother watch their beloved city from the seventh floor of the Hawa Mahal. For the past century and a half, Bijapur has been known as the jewel of the Deccan. The city looks even more precious with its palaces, mosques, towers and tombs lit with chandeliers, shamdans and torches. Ali’s eyes wander to the eastern border of the city, where the Gol Gumbaz dwarfs its surroundings. His father’s bones rest in that tomb, but Ali fears that with the combined armies of Mirza Jai Singh and Shivaji advancing towards Bijapur, his father’s remains must be twisting and turning with dread and disquiet. When Ali had heard the news of the treaty between the Mughal and the Marathas, something had snapped in his heart. Since he was a small boy he has been living in fear of the Mughal invasions, sometimes getting up in the night dreaming of a sword coming down on him. Many questions have tormented him from childhood: What right does Aurangzeb have to call his father a heretic just because he followed the Shia sect of Islam? Who is Aurangzeb to say that Ali’s coronation is against Islam because he is an adopted son of the late king?

  The questions have haunted him for a long time but he has decided to answer them himself. He has decided to face the uncertainty and the doubts with a strong military defence. Come what may, he will not allow the combined forces to be the victors, and they will never enter Bijapur. Just a few months ago, Mirza Raja Jai Singh had sent a Brahmin vakeel with the offer that if Ali helped them in their war against Shivaji, they would consider a reduction in the tribute money that the Adilshahi has to pay to Aurangzeb, or they may even waive it off. The Mughals have played a double game, they always do.

  ‘Son, do you think your plan will work?’ Badi Sahiba asks, her voice weak.

  Ali looks at his mother. She has aged rapidly, especially after Afzal Khan’s murder. Her usually straight head is bent over her stooping shoulders and it trembles.

  ‘Ammi, my strategy is simple, yet, it will hit them in the stomach. They are planning to storm the city but they cannot do it in a day or two. They will have to camp somewhere near Bijapur. Without provisions and water sources, within a few days, their men and animals will start dying of hunger and thirst,’ Ali replies as he thinks of his strategy: harassing the enemy without a pitched battle, by adopting the scorched-earth policy that will shock Mirza Raja Jai Singh to death!

  Badi Sahiba looks at Ali, the young king in his early twenties, with pride. His obesity and his reluctance to lead his men into battlefields had bothered her in the beginning, but now she knows that he is a good military strategist and is putting her beloved Bijapur in a strong posture of defence. Her eyes wander to the city walls that meander for more than three kos, forming an irregular ellipse around Bijapur. The city is lit by torches kept on the ground as well as on the ramparts as hundreds of labourers keep busy renovating the watchtowers, making them stronger and, in some cases, less vulnerable by raising the parapets higher. The cannons mounted on the ramparts have been serviced, their muzzles cleaned. Sacks full of coal powder and saltpetre have been stored in the watchtowers to make explosives. The water from the larges
t reservoir on the nearby Torvi hills has been emptied into the moat running parallel to the city walls, and a large number of crocodiles have been caught from the nearby rivers and brought in on carts to be put in the moat.

  The Mecca gate is still open and there is some incoming traffic at this late hour. Ali senses his mother’s concern and says, ‘We have asked the nearby peasants to bring all their produce, cattle, fodder and provisions into the city. They will be provided accommodation within Bijapur.’

  ‘Good,’ Badi Sahiba says. ‘Are the water wells outside the city walls filled with earth?’

  ‘They are at it, Ammi. The workers are also destroying or draining the water reservoirs. The Mughal must not get even a drop to drink. Once their animals start dying like flies, they will dance like monkeys.’

  Badi Sahiba sighs with relief, feeling happy that her Ali nowadays addresses her as ‘Ammi’ and not Badi Sahiba, as he previously did.

  ‘We have also reinforced thirty thousand foot soldiers to strengthen the usual garrison within the city, and help is also arriving from Hyderabad. It is an all-out war; it is either kill or be killed,’ Ali says softly, preparing his mother for any eventuality.

  ‘You are right, son,’ Badi Sahiba comments and thinks fondly of her younger brother, Abdullah Qutb Shah.

  Ali lowers his tone, bends towards his mother and says, ‘Mother, the time has come to kill many birds with one stone. The Maratha sarnobat, Palkar, has sent messages through his underground messengers that he wants to come back to us.’

  3

  The Mughal cavalcade advances unhindered, crossing desolate country, treeless landscapes and uplands covered with stony soil. The only relief is that it is winter and nights are pleasant, but the days are warm and the afternoon sun still scorching. As they move towards Bijapur, Mirza is disturbed by the news that his scouts have brought: the villages ahead are not just deserted but the barns are either empty or have been burnt down. The wells are filled with earth, the water reservoirs lie either destroyed or drained, the cattle has either been taken away or killed and their carcasses left to rot.