Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  3

  Mir Bakshi Mohammad Amin has come a long way, from being the spoilt son of the rich and famous Mir Jumla to a responsible paymaster general of the Mughal court. Gone are the days when he used to get drunk and show off his father’s riches. So arrogant was he that he had not hesitated to urinate in Qutb Shah’s court in Hyderabad to show his contempt. Amin has sobered down and is doing a fine job, shuttling between Agra and Dilli to look after transfers and payments of mansabdars and their travel papers when they are on a campaign.

  For the past few weeks, life has been hectic with so many people coming to Agra. A new message has come from the emperor’s office to grant permission to some people who have come with Shivaji to return home. It is a routine job. He already has the list and their palm impressions. He has to make new papers and match the new palm impressions with the old ones, but there is a deadline: he must finish the work in one week.

  As he gets busy with his scribes, a message arrives from the zenana headquarters. Begum Sahiba Jahanara has summoned him. She has a special place in Mohammad Amin’s heart. Unlike most rich Agra residents, he has married only once and loves his wife. But their first three babies had turned out to be stillborn. In the fourth pregnancy, Begum Sahiba had instructed the royal midwife to take care of his wife’s health and Mohammad was blessed with a pretty daughter!

  He would do anything for Begum Sahiba Jahanara.

  With his heart brimming with warmth, Mohammad walks briskly towards the Jahangiri Palace along with tartar women guards who have come to take him. The men can go only up to the library, a small structure topped with domes. There is a strange silence in there and Amin feels a presence behind a curtain hung in one of the corners and hears the rustle of clothes.

  He bows deep in front of the curtain and is greeted with kind words. ‘Khosh Amadid,’ the Begum says in chaste Farsi, ‘I have heard from your wife that you spend less time at home.’

  ‘Work keeps me away; you are aware, Begum Sahiba,’ Mohammad tries to clear his name.

  ‘Listen carefully; Allah is merciful. Listen to your wife, I do not want excuses.’ The voice has suddenly turned cold and steely.

  Mohammad is speechless. Begum Sahiba has never sounded like this before and he has not hurt his wife for as long as he remembers. Mumbling a few lame words in his defence he shakes his head in agreement as if saying that he will never ignore his wife again.

  ‘You may go now.’ There is urgency in her order.

  A eunuch working for khoja Mutamad is eavesdropping, but he is disappointed. The emperor wants news, real news of conspiracies and strategies being hatched in the royal seraglio. He seeks private conversations, gossips that may expose the malicious minds of the enemies of the empire. The eunuch had hoped that something interesting might unfold in the library when he heard that the princess had summoned the mir bakshi, but it has turned out to be a simple homely conversation and a waste of his precious time.

  That night when Amin protests to his wife, she tells him something that sends chills down his spine.

  ‘Begum Sahiba wants you to help Kunwar and Raja Shivaji in whichever way you can, even if they need extra travel papers, and for that you will be given new palm impressions. Begum Sahiba will put her seal. Also, she wants you to convince the emperor to free Kunwar Ram Singh from the bond that holds him responsible for Shivaji.’

  Mohammad Amin is surprised. He was under the impression that Begum Sahiba Jahanara is a part of the anti-Jai Singh lobby that wants Shivaji’s execution.

  4

  Most people who had come with Shivaji are already on their way to the Deccan, galloping away on their horses. They have left behind palanquins and elephants that are parked in the backyard of Kunwar’s house. Only a few people are left behind at Mulukchand’s sarai, one can count them on one’s fingers: Raghunath Korde, Trimbak Dabir, Niraji Raoji, Hiroji Farzad, the young medic and the skinny man whose name is still a mystery. Sambhaji is still with Kunwar’s family.

  Shivaji still suffers from fever and Niraji Raoji and the young medic have been busy soaking a cotton cloth in cold water, wringing it out and applying it on Shivaji’s forehead. At times, Niraji Raoji and the medic are seen leaving the sarai to collect medicinal herbs from the nearby forests, and Fulad Khan is sympathetic to them. He visits the chamber every now and then to make sure that his captive is in his room. Raghunath and Trimbak visit the sarai rarely since they are busy meeting politically influential people of Agra to get more funds. Their master is dying in an alien land, and wants to donate a considerable sum to attain moksha, salvation from the circle of birth and death. The news has reached Aurangzeb, who has sent a new message to Shivaji through Kunwar.

  If you think you are dying why don’t you hand over the remaining of your forts to us? We shall allow your son to return home after your death.

  Kunwar had to bring this message to Shivaji.

  The ailing man asked a scathing question to Kunwar, ‘Your father gave Aurangzeb twenty-three of my forts and got the rich paragana of Tonk in Rajasthan as jagir. For the rest of my forts, what are you getting from the emperor? Tell your emperor that I have no control over my men, and they will never listen to me. Please tell your emperor that I am sick, and my death wish is to become a monk and stay at Varanasi.’

  To this Aurangzeb sarcastically replies, ‘Well, well, let him turn a monk and stay at Prayag instead. Subhedar Bahadur Khan will take care of his death wish.’ Bahadur Khan is known for his murderous nature, which is far worse than Rad Andaz Khan.

  When Kunwar brings the message, Shivaji, without getting up from his bed, says in a feeble voice, ‘I do not think I will leave this bed. I do not blame your father or you, but do me just one last favour: forward my loan application to your emperor. I want to give in charity, and perform a yagna to attain moksha and release my soul from the viscous cycle of birth and death. I want to invite Kavindra, the king of poets, Paramanand from Varanasi to Agra to perform the same. I have made sure that the emperor will release you from my bond. I cannot run away anywhere; only death will take me away from here.’

  Shivaji’s loan application for sixty-six thousand rupees is approved by Aurangzeb after Shivaji signs the papers of Hundi. The demand draft is quickly sent to Mirza Raja Jai Singh to encash it from Shivaji’s men who will take the money out from Shivaji’s personal wealth. Kunwar is released from his guarantee, to respect a dying man’s wish. The dying man has already started his charity. Fruit, dry fruit and sweetmeat merchants, basket-makers and coolies have started frequenting the sarai, dispatching huge baskets filled with food to Brahmins, religious mendicants and homeless beggars as alms, and to ministers, courtiers and the besieging police, including Fulad Khan, as gifts. Each basket, carried by two bearers, is custom-checked at least at three different check posts by Fulad Khan’s men.

  Special presents of precious stones and diamonds are sent to Jaffar Khan and Mohammad Amin.

  Fulad Khan continues to visit his ward’s room several times a day and sometimes even in the night. The purpose of visit has changed though. The man on the deathbed cannot run away but he is destined to escape for sure, with the help of death. The police chief is in fact worried about his ward, who has lost a considerable amount of weight and who has developed dark circles around his eyes. Fulad Khan can recognize him only by the colour of his eyes—brown, and a large gold bracelet he wears on his right hand. He also knows the men who sit around Shivaji: the medic, sharp-featured Niraji Raoji and an emaciated, dark-skinned man whose name Fulad Khan does not know. Sometimes, when Niraji Raoji is not seen, Hiroji Farzad, Raja Shivaji’s distant cousin, is seen keeping a vigil on their leader.

  5

  A scholar of adhyatma from Varanasi who is also a renowned poet has arrived at Mulukchand’s sarai with many of his disciples. The news has spread and Brahmins of Agra who have never met him before are eager to see him in person.

  ‘Now that I have come, do not worry,’ short and fair Paramanand, whom everyone addresses as Kav
indra, an unassuming and smiling man wearing a simple white cloth and red headgear, announces and disappears into Shivaji’s room. He has known the Bhosale family for a long time and has met Shivaji several times when he had visited Pune.

  When Fulad Khan visits Raja Shivaji’s chamber, he is pleased to see Kavindra who reads aloud from a fat book in a language Fulad does not understand. In the evening, Kavindra comes out looking exhausted and sad. He looks at Kunwar, Raghunath, Trimbak and Fulad gathered outside the room and says softly, ‘It is just a matter of days now.’

  Fulad shows no emotion.

  Kavindra continues, ‘Raja wants me to give a talk on spirituality.’

  There is silence.

  Kavindra persists, ‘The talk will be followed by a yagna, where oblations will be offered. Raja wishes to invite all the Brahmins of Agra. It is his last wish.’

  That evening, Fulad contemplates on the poet’s words and the state of things. Kunwar makes his move the very next day. Since the emperor is on a hunt, the application for permission to fulfil the dying man’s last wish is submitted to the wazir-e-azam. Jaffar Khan signs it without any fuss. Kunwar swings into action, and appoints his trusted men to visit the renowned Brahmins of Agra to invite them.

  Everything is planned in a day. Hand-drawn maps are given to each of the invitees. A dress code has already been decided. There is an excitement in the Brahmin community of Agra and everyone prays that it does not rain the next day.

  Fulad Khan is not happy, but what can he do when the wazir-e-azam has given permission? He decides to take an interpreter along, wanting to know what the poet talks about.

  An hour before the appointed time, more than a hundred Brahmins have gathered at the sarai, each wearing a long white tunic, red pagari turban and silk dhoti. Fulad Khan has been generous and has lent a number of wooden benches for the function.

  It is quiet in the front yard. Kavindra starts his speech. The renowned poet who has earned the title of Kavindra Kavishwar, the king of poetry, speaks rather well, his words wise and poetic. Kavindra talks in chaste Sanskrit: ‘We seek the knowledge of “self” with the help of this world we live in and the senses we are born with. The world and our senses are “other than” atman, non-self. The real me is not my body or my senses. Could we ever seek self through non-self? The spirit, the atman, when sought through un-atman is reduced to mere material. It has to be considered through itself, by itself. Otherwise it ceases to be what it truly is.’

  It has been an hour since all the Brahmins have been listening to the famous man, hauling all their life energies into their ears.

  Fulad Khan’s muscles ache with boredom and he is beginning to have a headache. Cursing his luck he asks his interpreter to explain the meaning of the long lecture in three simple sentences. The interpreter explains—much to Fulad Khan’s chagrin; he finds it absurd! He wants to get away from the congregation of lunatics.

  Kunwar holds Sambhaji’s hand and listens to the lecture, but his mind is somewhere else. He is not sure if he has made a mistake by helping Raja Shivaji. He realizes that this is the wrong time to hold such ceremonies. It may irritate the emperor and who may order Raja Shivaji to be sent to Rad Andaz Khan’s palace. Kunwar has heard that his new palace is already commissioned and its ‘new underground prison’ has been opened for political prisoners the day before. He has learnt from Agra’s grapevine that the new place is fitted with many machines to torture and then kill the inmates.

  The venue is filling up with more Brahmins, all chattering in Sanskrit and looking like a contingent in uniform. Some have removed their turbans and with their heads tonsured and their foreheads smeared with vermillion Kunwar finds it tough to recognize even those whom he is acquainted with, unless they come forward and greet him. Fulad Khan is even more confused—his interpreter too is in the same attire and has left his side to talk to others and has vanished in the crowd.

  Kunwar holding Sambhaji’s hand walks into the courtyard and notices a platform with a pit in which the yagna fire is already lit. A few Brahmins including Kavindra have begun the yagna rituals. Before he can think of going to Raja Shivaji’s room, he notices a few men bringing Raja Shivaji on a sedan chair. Raja is all wrapped up in a woollen shawl, his face, half-hidden by a new monkey cap, lamely resting on his right shoulder. Terror cuts through Kunwar’s stomach and he starts moving through the crowd towards Raja Shivaji to get a closer look, but someone tugs at his clothes. He looks down and sees Sambhaji weeping. Kunwar lifts the boy up in his arms and watches the rituals instead.

  ‘Is my father dying?’ Sambhaji’s feeble words are downed by the loud chanting of mantras.

  The Brahmin priests have raised their voice and are robustly chanting, while wood, ghee and auspicious herbs are tossed in the fire that emits billows of smoke, making everyone’s eyes burn and water. Hiroji Farzad and the medic stand behind the sedan chair, their eyes darting in every direction. Kunwar wonders why. The chanting goes on for a while, and Kunwar notices a Brahmin standing very close to Shivaji whom he has seen somewhere but cannot recollect.

  He has seen this man before. Where?

  Kunwar’s eyes wander in search of Niraji Raoji and others but they are nowhere to be seen. He wants to see the familiar-looking Brahmin from up close, but before he can move towards Raja Shivaji, the Brahmin has vanished.

  For a while the soot fills the courtyard. After some time the chants stop and the yagna seems to be over. All of a sudden, the bearers take the sedan chair towards Shivaji’s room and at once all the Brahmins follow them.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Kunwar hears Fulad Khan scream; he is now standing next to Kunwar. A Brahmin stops to inform him, ‘We will chant a mantra and pray for Raja Shivaji’s moksha.’

  ‘Let Raja Sambhaji be with me, I must take him to his father,’ Raghunath shouts into Kunwar’s ears and takes Sambhaji away.

  When Fulad and his policemen reach the entrance of Shivaji’s room they realize that it is impossible to enter because the place is packed and the chanting has started, the chorus slowly reaching a crescendo. ‘What are they saying?’ Fulad Khan hisses a question in one of the Brahmins’ ears. He does not bother to figure out who the Brahmin is—they all look the same!

  ‘It’s a very sacred mantra called the mahamrityunjaya, meaning victory over death. They are hailing the three-eyed God Shiva. They are asking him to pluck the life of the dying one away like a farmer who lets a ripe cucumber gently free from its bondage from the vine of life. They are worshipping Shiva to liberate the mortal one so that he becomes immortal.’

  Fulad does not understand any bit of that weird explanation but he has, by now, got used to such meaningless blabber. The chanting goes on for a long time, trying his patience till he wants to scream and cry. After a while, the Brahmins start coming out of the room, one by one, some wiping their tears, some shaking their heads in dismay. Fulad Khan shoves men around him and pushes his way into the room, while Kunwar’s men, watching Fulad Khan, rush in behind him.

  Shivaji is lying on the bed with his eyes closed. Raghunath is busy covering the patient with layers of sheets whose head is partially veiled with a cold compress. Sambhaji watches his father sullenly.

  ‘We have to count the breaths now, the end is near,’ Raghunath declares, wiping his tears, offering Raja Shivaji’s gold bracelet to Fulad Khan.

  ‘He wants you to have it; it’s his last wish and it is an auspicious day,’ Raghunath says, sobbing.

  Fulad Khan has never taken a bribe in his life, but this is different—it is the dying man’s wish. He accepts the bracelet and moves away to join his men guarding the door. Kunwar’s men see Fulad Khan taking the gold ornament.

  ‘Where is Niraji Raoji?’ Fulad Khan asks.

  ‘He is looking after the guests; the food will soon be ready.’

  ‘The feast is ready,’ someone keeps shouting loudly, as everyone, including some of Fulad Khan’s men, disappears. It is already late and the aroma of the food has seduced the hungry ga
thering. Fulad Khan waits stubbornly at the door watching over Raja Shivaji who has gone off to sleep. The medic is busy reading the patient’s pulse; his face is serious, his eyes moist. Kunwar’s Rajput guards keep hovering around outside the door—they have become an irritant to Fulad Khan.

  It is only after his men come back after their meal that Fulad leaves the door. When he comes out, he notices hundreds of sweetmeat baskets ready for dispatch at the entrance of the sarai, with hundreds of bearers hovering around them.

  ‘Open and check each one before the goods leave the premises,’ Fulad Khan orders some of his men who have returned after the lunch.

  Clean carpets and durries are spread in the courtyard and some in the front yard to accommodate everyone. Water is served in the silver goblets given by Kunwar. The food is delicious and served with dollops of love, reverence and excess, till the visitors belch with satisfaction. Extra attention is paid to Fulad Khan.

  After the meal, the guests have started leaving the venue, and each one is greeted by Fulad Khan’s men at the exit point. Several Brahmins wearing similar attire accompany Kavindra. As they cross Fulad’s check posts under the watchful eyes of the guards, Kavindra explains about the essence of adhyatma in Sanskrit and the Brahmins listen intently, ignoring Fulad’s men as they walk on. Once they come out of the police siege they bid farewell to each other and vanish into the waiting palanquins.

  Kunwar walks towards Raja Shivaji’s chamber. Fulad’s guards standing at the entrance move a bit so that Kunwar can squeeze in. Raja is fast asleep, his breathing has become shallower. The chamber is quiet and morose, as death hangs heavy in the air. The medic sits quietly; Sambhaji stands near the bed looking forlorn. Behind Sambhaji stands Niraji Raoji. Kunwar is shocked.

  ‘Where were you?’ Kunwar asks. He had not seen the man even during lunch.

  ‘Here and there,’ Niraji says and smiles.