‘What is on your mind?’ Aurangzeb sounds edgy as if he wants to get done with the conversation. Jahanara’s heart gallops when she replies, each word chosen with utmost care and spoken as if she is sixteen and her brother a little boy of eleven.
‘Our family has gone through such upheavals in the recent past. I was blinded by my love for Dara bhai.’
Aurangzeb glances incredulously at his sister who is saying something he never expected she would. He regards her for a while—she seems earnest.
‘Our ancestors consolidated north Hindustan, and an empire was born. Your austere rule is necessary to respect our ancestors’ bequest and to break the spines of those who dare challenge it,’ she says evenly as her heart pounds in her ribcage with fury and hate. She controls her emotions and throws a glance at the mausoleum before settling her gaze on her brother, hoping they do not give away shadows of personal reprisal.
‘You have been venting your anger in words. You are holding me responsible for father’s death,’ Aurangzeb cuts his sister’s avalanche of praises.
Her face turns ashen; her brother’s spies are keeping a tab on each word that has fallen from her mouth. Her response is crucial. ‘Father was like a broken bow after Dara bhai was beheaded,’ she murmurs.
‘He was punished by the sharia court, not by me.’
Did the court ask you to send his sutured body to father? she wants to say but does not. Instead, she sighs defeatedly, ‘I have lost them all and I do not want to lose you too.’
Aurangzeb nods half-heartedly and turns back without saying anything. The inspection of private palaces must be done before going to the mosque.
There is another reason why Aurangzeb is not interested in prolonging this conversation—his mind is in the Deccan. With all those promising letters from Mirza, he has failed miserably in annexing the Adilshahi kingdom and that is a setback. Aurangzeb’s vision of Islamic Hindustan calls for a mission of taking over the Deccan, but he has no one who could shoulder such a huge responsibility. Even his ace warrior, Mirza Raja Jai Singh has failed. Aurangzeb has been thinking of going to the Deccan himself to annex the Shia kingdoms but he is the emperor now and there are other responsibilities. The Turks, Iranian clans, the Pashtuns, the Yusufzais and the Afridis are raising their swords in the valleys around Kashmir and Afghanistan and it is dangerous to the empire. Aurangzeb knows that the leaders of those clans have served the Mughal armies and know the strategies and the tactics of the imperialists.
There is something else sloshing in Aurangzeb’s mind, an out-of-the-box idea. He has realized that taking over the Deccan will need years of warring and even that may not be enough because one will need to destabilize the Shia kingdoms by resorting to politics before physically striking them. Such a humungous and lengthy task can only be accomplished by someone who is born there, someone who has thousands of native followers, someone who knows the Deccan like the back of his hand and someone who has been successful in subduing the Adilshahi. What if Shivaji turns a loyalist of the Mughal in a true sense, a loyalist who is ready to give his life for Aurangzeb’s vision and mission? The Deccan charge is so heavy, so difficult and most of the generals have just wasted imperial resources. Shivaji is known for his frugal resources and big achievements. To understand the man from the mountains, Aurangzeb wants to see him in person. Also, the meeting has to happen in Agra or Dilli, preferably during a grand function when Shivaji will know what a Mughal emperor is and how Aurangzeb is regarded as supreme sovereign in this part of the world and how the mighty Hindu kings, the Rathods, the Chauhans, the Kachwahs and the Ranas fall prostrate in front of him.
That night Aurangzeb sends a farman to Mirza:
Send Shiva Bhosale and his son Sambhaji Bhosale, the Mughal mansabdar, to Agra to attend the celebrations of my fiftieth birthday. Use every ruse in the book, even promise him the subhedari of the Deccan if required.
CHAPTER THIRTY
1
Shivaji has summoned his ministers. His chief advisor, Peshwa Moroji Pinglay, financial controller, Muzumdar Niloji Sondev, revenue chief, Surnis Anna Datto, commander of infantry, Yesaji Kank, commander of infantry garrisons, Tanaji Malusare, external affairs advisor, Trimbak Dabir, law scholar, Niraji Raoji, political negotiator, Raghunath Ballal Korde, and the head of his spy network, Bahirji Naik, have come to Rajgad.
Balaji Avji, Shivaji’s scribe, sits behind his desk to take notes.
The morning is bright, and yet the air hangs heavy in the sadar. Years of struggle, the loss of countless men, the bloody battles fought to tame despotic deshmukhs and patils, the sacking of Mughal cities for the want of funds and the constant war with neighbouring kingdoms all seem meaningless now. Shivaji has to convince his men of his and their future and make them understand their responsibilities. He asks them to sit and murmurs, ‘What you have heard is true. I have decided to go to Agra with my son.’
Pinglay looks grim and his eyes are red. He asks incredulously, ‘Why?’
‘I have received a letter from Mirza. He writes that Aurangzeb is keen to make me the subhedar of the Deccan.’ Shivaji says with eyes fixed on his chief advisor.
Pinglay is visibly surprised. As the Mughal subhedar of the Deccan, Shivaji will be in control of the provinces of Birar, Khandesh and more than half of the previous Nizamshahi. It also means having hundreds of mansabdars and their squadrons reporting to his master. Pinglay remembers their own terrain, with empty stretches of fields filled with black soil, its harvest of sorghum and millets finished to feed the Mughal armies. If Raja Shivaji becomes the subhedar of the Deccan, his people will never face Mughal invasions and he can also build his private army as well as open offensives in the Konkan and take over the entire coastal strip—all at the expense of the Mughal.
Shivaji knows what is going on in Pinglay’s mind and says, ‘We could then control the region around Balaghat in Konkan that gives ten lakh rupees in revenue to the Adilshahi.’
‘If that is true, the entire region south of Narmada river will be with us,’ Niraji Raoji says wistfully.
‘Going north to meet the emperor is like entering the jaws of a starving tiger with the sharpest carnassial,’ Pinglay dampens the enthusiasm.
‘And staying here, fighting battles for the Mughal against the Adilshahi will take us nowhere. Taking no risk is the biggest peril,’ Shivaji quips and continues, ‘Many things can be achieved. Mirza has promised me an audience with the emperor, and I shall request for his support to conquer the invincible Janjira Fort which we have failed to capture time and again.’
‘It is surprising that Mirza has failed at the gates of Bijapur,’ Niraji Raoji comments.
Shivaji laughs and says, ‘Not surprising at all! Being with them in the recent past, I have seen the weakness of the Mughal armies. Their need for the large amounts of cash to maintain the lavish lifestyle of their officials makes their general totally at the mercy of the emperor during campaigns. The fragility of their supply lines and the strife in the command are some of the reasons that take the sheen away from the halo around the Mughal might.’
‘Has Mirza assured your safety?’ Pinglay wants to know.
‘In his letters he has taken solemn oaths and terms them the promises of a Rajput. His elder son, Kunwar Ram Singh, will be my man in the north. He is a mansabdar and has palace duties. His three thousand Rajput men from Mirza’s clan will be briefed about my safety.’
‘When have you planned to leave?’ Pinglay asks for he knows that Raja has made up his mind.
‘By spring.’
‘Any news of Palkar?’ Pinglay asks, keeping his voice low.
‘The Adilshahi has given him lands generating rich revenue, but as per the latest news Mirza is trying to buy him off,’ Shivaji says impassively and continues, ‘Remember, I will need more than two months to cover the distance of over three hundred kos to the north, minimum one month in the city and two months for the return journey. I will be away for six months. In that period, our peshwa, Moroji Pingla
y will oversee the functioning of our remaining forts, deciding where our cavalry and infantry will stay. Under no circumstances should the forts be handed over to the Mughals, even if they threaten you with my death.’
An edgy silence fills the sadar.
‘Anna Datto will keep a tight control on our treasury; he will also find new places to hide our treasure. The places will only be known to our peshwa and our muzumdar. It is to make sure that even if I am tortured for information I will not be able to give them the whereabouts of our garrisons as well as our treasure,’ Shivaji says.
The men are shocked at his words.
Shivaji continues, ‘Trimbak Dabir and Raghunathji will leave immediately for Agra and meet Mirza’s son Kunwar Ram Singh to plan our stay. Niraji Raoji, Tanaji Malusare, Yesaji Kank, Bahirji Naik and Balaji Avji will accompany me to Agra. My personal guards, Jiva Mahale, Hiroji Farzad and others will come too. Prataprao Gujar, who has been with Palkar in all the battles, will lead the contingent of five hundred horsemen and eight war elephants of the Maratha cavalcade.’
‘It will be an expensive journey,’ Anna Datto is already calculating.
‘Yes, some provision needs to be made, but Aurangzeb has sent a hundred thousand rupees for us to cover the cost of the journey. The travel papers should arrive soon. Without those it is impossible to cross the Narmada and enter the imperial terrain. With the papers we will be able to buy food, fodder or water and cross the rivers.’
‘How about the papers that will allow you to come back?’ Pinglay questions.
‘Those will be issued at Agra.’
‘Does this mean that you will be at the mercy of Aurangzeb?’
Shivaji nods.
For the next two weeks, Shivaji travels through his tiny kingdom and makes surprise visits to a few hill forts to check the discipline of the fort-keeper, guards at the gate, archers watching the ramparts, artillerymen controlling stores of explosives, and hill men watching the foothills.
2
The Agra-bound contingent of the Marathas is on the move, first arriving at Aurangabad, the Mughal capital of the Deccan, where people wait on the roadside to gaze at the famous Shivaji and his son sitting in a silver howdah mounted on a caparisoned elephant followed by splendidly dressed cavalrymen. After meeting high-ranking mansabdars and halting in the capital for a few days, the Marathas take the main road to Agra armed with necessary papers they need to show at all the Mughal posts, sarais and when they cross the rivers by ferry. They travel by day and spend nights at sarais built for the travellers, keeping a strict schedule as they have to cover hundreds of kos within fifty days to reach Agra the day before Aurangzeb’s birthday celebrations. After reaching Burhanpur, they camp one extra night to give their horses and elephants some rest and then cross the Narmada to reach the eastern edge of Bhopal city. From here they move northwards, crossing Narwar to reach Gwalior, braving minor dust storms and a considerable rise in temperatures. While camping at the foothills of the fort where hundreds of political prisoners languish in the vaults, including Aurangzeb’s eldest son, Muhammad Sultan, a letter from the emperor arrives for Shivaji.
Come without delay, with full confidence in my grace, and come with a perfect composure of mind. After you have obtained audience with me, you will be glorified with my royal favours and given permission to return home. I am herewith sending you a khilat as a mark of respect.
Each halt is hard work. The elephants need to be unhooked and herded by mahouts towards a patch of open ground. The horses need to be taken out for grazing. Reluctant oxen must once again be fastened to the carts. The minders must pour tiny quantities of lubricant oil on the bearings and axles of the wheels. Defiant mules must be dealt with as they always try to step back to object to the heavy load being piled up on them.
The last major halt is at Dholpur sarai, on the banks of the river Chambal, surrounded by dense forest, adjacent to ravines famous for their gangs of bandits. People warn them to be careful, especially at nights. The sarai is too small to accommodate them, so they have planned to set up their camp behind it. Here the passport papers sent by Aurangzeb mean getting new horses and permission to proceed to Agra.
Inside the encampment, archers and swordsmen sleep, keeping their weapons and uniforms within easy reach. Their military mantra, in any case, is ‘When on the move, eat light and sleep light’. Tanaji Malusare is wide awake under the starlit sky, as he cannot sleep when everyone sleeps. He first hears the faint growl of a tiger. He listens carefully and picks up yet another sound that nags him more than the growl. Gallopers are approaching from the north—not one, not two but many.
It is quiet at the sarai, as the pale light of the stars filters through enormous branches making dim patterns on the dung-smeared floor of the open courtyard. The courtyard has two entrances. One door is closed shut with heavy iron bars. Outside that door are the stables and sheds crammed with mules and oxen of the travellers. A row of mud structures next to the stables, which serves as a small market, is deserted. The other, bigger gate is the main entrance. It is bolted from inside and is supposed to be guarded by armed men. They are indeed on duty, sleeping soundly, their bellies bursting with meat stew and spicy rice.
Outside the sarai, shadows move stealthily, carefully stepping on the ground covered with dry leaves. Dacoits from the ravines have ridden several kos to reach the sarai south of Dholpur on the banks of Chambal river. Some of them have started pounding the main entrance with massive logs of wood. Within moments the door gives away and collapses backwards, finally waking up the guards who are heavily under the influence of bhaang. The leader of the dacoit takes one look at them, smiles behind his mask and signals his men to attack. The axes and machetes fly and soon the guards fall, blocking the entrance with their bodies, their swords resting near them, safely tucked in the scabbards. A single iron torch fixed on a pillar at the middle of the courtyard flickers weakly, adding more gloom to the darkness around.
The night raiders are a tall bunch of masked men, wearing rough, dark-coloured sleeveless tunics and leggings. The leader nods and signals to his men to enter, and kicks the bodies with his coarse sandals fitted with hard iron nails to make way. The others follow as one of them takes the lone torch from its niche on the pillar, moving towards the rooms filled with travellers.
There is a commotion in the rooms as the raiders disperse, each heading in different direction. The resting travellers are jolted out from their slumber and struggle aimlessly in the dark. The man holding the torch comes out and stays put in the courtyard, to show the light to his colleagues. The horrified occupants want to avoid bloodshed and hand over their belongings to the masked men. The stars have barely moved a distance of a man’s palm and the dacoits are ready to move out with sacks filled with silver and gold. One last aggressor hesitates before getting out from a room. In the dim yellow light he has seen something he had not seen for a long time that makes lust rise under his leggings. He turns back, grabs the young woman and throws her over his shoulders and runs crouching into the open courtyard. For a moment there is grim silence but then the woman starts screaming, calling for help. A lone figure, probably the husband, canters out and clasps the abductor from behind. The dacoit swings around swiftly, twisting the body of his captor as the woman kicks her feet in the air. The leader stops just before exiting the courtyard and signals one of his men. The woman’s husband is hacked from behind and collapses into a heap of his own limbs. The sound of his crushing bones turns the woman’s screams into loud wails. The man with the torch leaps towards the entrance, giving a hint to others to exit.
Within moments, the dacoits pour out, avoiding the puddles of blood around the entrance littered with wrecked bodies. As they march towards their mounts something makes them stop—all of them. Their path is blocked by a bunch of armed men holding straight, long swords, their double-edged blades shining in the pale yellow light of the lone torch.
The puzzled dacoits look at them, wondering from where the contingent o
f short but muscular warriors has emerged. The leader knows in a flash that the armed men wearing boat-shaped turbans are certainly a part of a squadron.
‘Leave the woman,’ orders a man who seems to be in charge; his Urdu sounds heavily accented. The leader of the raiders stares at the man with a big black face that is partially covered with a large moustache. The dacoit leader’s heart races a thousand kos because for the first time someone has challenged his gang. He glances at his men; they are stroking and patting their machetes and axes with impatience, waiting for his orders. He is their leader, and they look up to him. He needs to remain on the pedestal and calculates: he has twenty-five men and the unknown squadron has only ten or twelve.
‘Kill,’ he barks.
All from the opposition unlock their shields tied behind them and take positions and the dacoits have no shields as they have never had to defend themselves. Grinding their teeth with fury, half of them lope forward with their axes and machetes, still wet with the guards’ blood. To counter, each from the squadron duck, then rise and swing around, making the dacoits miss their targets and bounce ahead loosely, wielding their weapons cutting the air to pieces. The short and sturdy warriors move their hands with blinding speed, their swords slicing through the dacoits from behind, felling most of them in moments. Meanwhile, the remaining dacoits launch an angry attack, wanting to smash the skulls of the men with orange turbans, but end up hitting them on their shields. Under their shields, the crouched warriors thrust their already crimson blades into the bellies of the axemen. The last one alive is still holding the woman; he throws his catch on the ground and disappears in the dark.
3
Jahanara wipes her tears discreetly. People call Aurangzeb Zinda Pir, a living saint, but they do not know that he had taken the hereditary treasure from Agra in one thousand four hundred carts and deposited it in the vaults of the Qila-e-mubarak in Dilli. Now it is back in Agra to be displayed in the court during the ceremony to dazzle visitors and intimidate them with the Mughal wealth.
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