Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  In short, Aurangzeb will then become a real threat to Dara Shikoh.

  ‘The Deccan kingdoms may have been the vassals of the empire, but they have stopped paying tribute. The farman does not make sense. This shows that your father does not want you to be more powerful than Dara,’ Shaista says truthfully.

  ‘All these years,’ Aurangzeb says caustically, ‘Dara bhai has been busy with cerebral pursuits and philosophical discussions on infidels with men of theory, while we—you, me, and many others, our military officials and soldiers—have suffered on the battlefields of Multan, Balkh, Gujarat and Deccan, wrestling with dust storms, floods, famines and plagues. We’ve fought battles of expansion and pushed the borders of the empire, in the north, south and east.’

  Shaista nods and wonders, How can the emperor of Hindustan lack insight? And how can he be so passionate in his love for one son and his hatred for another, both born from the same mother?

  ‘He has been more vicious towards me after Ammi’s death. He loves only the two of them, Jahanara apa and Dara bhai, both of whom look like Ammi.’

  Shaista hears his nephew’s words and looks at him. Aurangzeb seems to be talking to himself, as if in a trance, oblivious to his presence. He almost looks like a lost little boy without his favourite toy, the heartbreak evident on his face.

  Shaista is reminded of a particular incident that happened years ago, just before Shah Jahan’s accession to the throne—the only time when Shah Jahan had displayed any affection for Aurangzeb. The winter morning had been bright, and the waters of the Yamuna seemed greenish blue. The city of Agra had gathered in sheer anticipation to watch the sport. A large arena had been set up in front of the mansion occupied by Shah Jahan. The sand was levelled, the arena fenced. The elephants had arrived, trumpeting, their trunks raised in the air. Once the fight had started, the elephants had grappled and shoved and locked their trunks. In the midst of their combat, one elephant, the smaller of the two, had started bleeding. For a moment the animal had stood rooted with terror and the next moment he had fled towards the river. The other, on seeing his opponent vanish, had turned furious, trampled the fence and charged towards the crowd. People had panicked and mayhem ensued. Dara, Shuja and Murad had vanished. Only Aurangzeb had remained calm on his horseback, and drawn his sword when thrown on the ground by the enraged elephant’s whipping trunk. That might have been his last breath but for the quick intervention of a mahout. On that day, Shah Jahan had held Aurangzeb close to his chest, calling him bahadur, the brave one. The next day, in the celebrated ritual of tula daan, the doting father had donated gold bars equivalent to Aurangzeb’s weight, and had given him gifts worth two lakh rupees. His bravery was celebrated by court singers in Persian. This had been before the death of Anjuman Banu, Shaista Khan’s sister, Shah Jahan’s wife and Aurangzeb’s mother. Things had changed since then between the father and son.

  ‘What have you decided to do? What about Mir Jumla’s family?’ Shaista asks softly.

  Aurangzeb looks at him, dark shadows of finality fleeting across his pale eyes.

  ‘You will see,’ he says calmly and recites:

  Who can clasp the arms of a bride called kingship?

  Only the man who can plant a kiss

  On the lips of an eager sword

  And bind its blade with his life

  Firm, like in a kinship!

  ‘Did you pen it?’ Shaista asks with admiration.

  ‘Yes,’ says Aurangzeb and, looking into the eyes of his uncle, asks, ‘What are my frontiers? The real frontiers?’

  Shaista cannot stand Aurangzeb’s piercing gaze. He looks at the floor and answers so very softly, ‘For ordinary people, life is a constant struggle, but for you, life is frontiers, where you may have to wage wars with your father, brothers and perhaps even your sons.’ Shaista is surprised by his own answer. He slowly and gingerly lifts his head to see Aurangzeb’s reaction.

  Aurangzeb is the figure of a lithe man with a trim beard sitting on a metal charpoy. With a posture unusually erect and head slightly thrown back, Shah Jahan’s third son looks different from Dara Shikoh. He is much leaner, and his tanned face is covered with sun wrinkles. His embroidered muslin jama, a garment lined with green brocade, matches the emerald-studded turban. A few daggers with jewelled hilts hang from the golden sash supported by a narrow leather belt. Aurangzeb’s eyes are pale grey. A shiver runs down his spine. The cold stare hints at a molten core of violence boiling in the mind.

  2

  Aurangzeb sits alone in his tent for the rest of the day counting beads and shifting between his charpoy and prayer mat. Only the eunuch Mutamad is allowed in, that too to bring him food. Mutamad watches intently as his master eats slowly. Mutamad knows what’s bothering the prince. The sorrows of the royals are as pompous as their lives, he thinks despite his genuine affection for his master.

  Aurangzeb is too busy to notice his servant. His mind is pondering something else, something far more important. The question, ‘How must I respond to my father’s farman?’ has become Aurangzeb’s present obsession. It is only late in the evening that he decides his course of action. He will entice his father with Mir Jumla’s wealth and extract maximum tribute money from the stupid king of Qutbshahi. He summons his scribe and dictates:

  What the esteemed emperor has most kindly written with your gracious pen concerning this slave has come like a revelation from the heavens. I shall act according to your wish and retreat. I shall send Mir Jumla of Golconda to you to be employed to serve the empire. As the emperor is aware, he is the richest man of the Deccan. His jagir fetches him forty lakh rupees in revenue and he owns some of the world’s finest diamond mines. He also has five thousand well-mounted and well-equipped cavalry and ten thousand infantrymen. His expertise in the field of artillery will enhance the might of the imperial army. And he, Mir Jumla, wants to present you with a priceless diamond and one thousand one hundred and one ser of pure, high-quality gold worth fifteen lakh rupees.

  A second letter is to Abdullah Qutb Shah. It reads:

  Be advised. We have already taken Hyderabad, and soon head for Kollur to capture your diamond mines. You could safeguard your kingdom from total ruin if you release Mir Jumla’s family. Do not forget that twenty years ago you had declared your kingdom as a tributary state of the empire. Make haste, pay up the arrears. Keeping the current exchange rate in mind, the tribute of twenty lakh rupees, in pure gold, is due from you. The transaction will be carried out between you and me. And when this is done, we will give our consent to the marriage of your daughter to my son Sultan that you have proposed. But again, that will only happen if you cede the Ramgir Fort and the territory around it, yielding the revenue of six lakh rupees a year to me, and this transaction too must remain strictly between you and me.

  3

  Dark clouds gently slither into the southern sky of Jawali. A flock of herons flies westwards in the direction of Sindhu Sagar, the Arabian Ocean. The birds’ wings shimmer in the golden hues of the morning sun. Slow-flowing Koyana river cuts through the valley. Its waters look a darker shade of olive green. The river seems to be waiting for the monsoons when it swells with water and its colour changes to bluish brown. From its bank rises a steep and rocky hill, Bhorpya Hill, where Shivaji’s dream is slowly taking shape into reality. Bhorpya Hill is a plateau, girded towards the top which is flat and smooth. It is about forty guj in length and breadth, a perfect place for a citadel, or upper fort. A fort is being built here. Shivaji has already named it Pratapgad—the fort of brave deeds. At its centre, the walls of a large court and private apartments have already risen above a large plinth. Around it, labourers busily lay basalt slabs, finely squared at their edges, in lime mortar. Towards the southern edge of the plateau, a few stonecutters hammer away in a frenzy, the deafening sound echoing in the valley. Shivaji strides towards the north-west of the plateau, observing the way the fort is building up and watching the workers. Moroji Pinglay follows him, half-walking and half-running. Behind them,
a few of Shivaji’s guards march briskly to keep pace.

  Some workers notice him. They fall to their knees and slyly regard him from the corner of their eyes. Unlike many other employers, he looks directly at them, and accepts their presence. They catch the glimpse of his face—sun-swept yet fetching. His nose is like an eagle’s beak. His large brown eyes are curious and responsive, not aloof or scornful. He has a short beard and a light moustache. They like his saffron turban that seems like a slanting temple spire with the few pearl strings attached to its apex. They admire his silky, pale, knee-length robe worn over tight breeches, and his long woollen stole. His golden sash has been woven with gold. They feel him regarding them as men of flesh and bones, with minds and feelings. It is a strange sensation for them who have lived their lives being treated like oxen, born to trudge, be whipped and breed to produce more resources for men of wealth.

  It does not take too long for Shivaji to reach the western edge. He staggers, trying to balance against the blustery wind blowing mercilessly around them. He tries to walk ahead without stumbling, as his robe balloons behind him. He leans over the newly built parapet and peers down. The hillside looks like it has been hacked down by an infinitely huge axe. The vertical rock, black and shining, plunges straight and seems to collide with the land. Far below, the earth unfolds before his eyes, hilly, ridden with ravines, covered with patches of wild bushes. It is a clear day, without the usual mist that gathers around the hills. The ghats skirting the hills look like serpents clinging to the slopes. Many kos away, at the edge, the grey-blue skyline has sunk into a thin blue line—perhaps the waters of the Arabian Ocean. Not a single hill stands so high that it can block his view of the sea.

  ‘This spot lets you look into the horizon and watch all that takes place between Pratapgad and the sea,’ Shivaji observes.

  ‘And from this side no one can enter the fort,’ Pinglay adds.

  ‘Even if they ride on the waves of their imagination,’ Shivaji replies with a smile, turning to look at the stocky Brahmin. ‘Unlike our other hill forts around Pune, this one cannot be besieged from all sides.’

  Even as he speaks, Shivaji moves towards the south. The lower fort and its extensions suddenly rise into the range of his vision. More than a thousand men labour on the flat expanse of the lower ridge. He notices some women near the limekilns. The bastions of the main entrance facing the south are halfway through. To the east, a long arm of the lower fort extension seems like an enormous war ship suspended above the sea of valleys. At its south-western corner, diggers scoop out the earth to make an artificial lake for harvesting rainwater.

  Shivaji nods approvingly and looks at Pinglay who had initially worked along with him on the drawings of the plan of the fort. Ten years ago, the man with the intense black eyes and brooding mouth had knocked at Shivaji’s doors. Pinglay always has questions, but over the years, Shivaji had discovered his many talents—a leader in the battlefields, a negotiator who speaks many tongues, a planner who’s good with numbers and an architect with a vision.

  ‘It is proving to be an expensive fort,’ Shivaji hears Pinglay comment. His dark eyes show fleeting shadows of anxiety and he knows why. Niloji Sondev and Anna Datto, his financial adviser and treasurer, have written to him regarding the burgeoning costs of the construction.

  After getting hold of Chandrarao Morey’s treasury with one thousand ser of gold and five thousand ser of silver, Raja Shivaji had decided to build a fort. For a month, Pinglay and he had scoured the area till they had come across this plateau in the middle of the valley. Together, they had worked with fort engineers on the structural drawings. On paper, Pratapgad looked like an eagle perched on a large basaltic rock that rises like an enormous column over the valley. The fort had been designed to defend and protect. Raja Shivaji had visualized it clearly: the protective walls meandering over the cliffs and ridges, making approaching them impossible and climbing inconceivable. The ramparts were designed to have umbilical defence—two walls running parallel to each other so that even if the enemy manages to break one and enter, he will be killed instantly by soldiers standing on the ramparts of the other wall. Provisions had been made for toilets too so that archers need not go far from their posts. The main entrance of the fort was planned with intricate details. The approach ran parallel to the ramparts so that the archers would never miss an intruder. The main gate opened into a small area in the front with an abrupt fall into the valley’s abyss. This was to make sure that it could never be targeted by enemy cannons.

  ‘I hope this is worth it in the time of need,’ says Pinglay, sounding stressed, even though majority of the funds have been drawn from Morey’s treasury.

  ‘Moroji,’ Shivaji stops and fixes his gaze on the Brahmin’s face, ‘forts can be built everywhere, on the riverbanks, at the confluence, on the islands in the midst of oceans, in the desert, in the forest and on a hill like this one. Hill forts are the most difficult to reach. But the foothills of most of the hill forts can be accessed by enemy cavalry. Pratapgad is unique. It is an invincible fort in an impassable valley. Only an enemy backed by a strong infantry can reach here. And the kingdoms around us rely mostly on their heavily armoured cavalry. Military strongholds like this one will make our enemy infinitely weaker.’

  The Brahmin begins to understand the returns on investment.

  Shivaji adds, ‘Letting the enemy revel in the perceptions of his power is the first step to victory. Creating a ranangan, the battle yard that helps us achieve this, is a strategy neglected by our native kings.’

  Pinglay loves Raja Shivaji’s definition of ranangan; he has never heard of ‘battle-yard creation’ before.

  ‘But it is not all about the battles,’ Shivaji says softly. ‘It is more about making the valley worthy to live for the peasants. Call the watandars of the valley to meet us. Tell them that the valley is now one of our districts.’

  Pinglay nods.

  ‘The valley looks red; this kind of laterite soil depends on rain. The peasants will need help if the monsoons fail.’

  Pinglay smiles. Unlike many jagirdars his master is interested in the science of agriculture.

  ‘I want to know how much land in the valley is under cultivation. Have you found out what are the important crops that grow here?’

  ‘Ji,’ Pinglay bows slightly and says, ‘when the rainfall is good, which is usually the case, the soil here gives sorghum, pearl millets, wheat, maize, groundnut and tur.’

  ‘Keep the records of the entire area under cultivation, the exact proportion of land under the various crops at a given point of time. Tell the deshmukhs and the patils of the valley they will henceforth report to our revenue officials.’

  ‘Ji,’ Pinglay whispers, following Raja Shivaji down the steps leading to the lower fort, concealing the joy he feels at the new responsibilities he is expected to fulfil. But he has still not received the list of villages in the valley. In Raja’s jagir, every village is a small world in itself, with boundaries carefully defined, encroachments avoided. Paraganas are divided into tehsils or taluks. The tehsildar’s office that keeps land records reports directly to Raja Shivaji. Tillable land is divided into fields and the peasants are given interest-free loans, and when the rainfall is low, the revenue collected from them is reduced accordingly.

  Pinglay knows that a thousand odd villages in Raja’s jagir generate three lakh rupees per year, with each village on an average giving three hundred rupees in cash or kind. This accounts for barely two hundred and fifty ser of gold per year. With Jawali under them, there will be considerable increase in the state income.

  Shivaji leaps lithely over the last steps. He turns to his right and then marches towards the main entrance. To his left, a bunch of women are busy assisting their menfolk, their dusky faces gleaming in sweat in the vicinity of the heated limekiln. Their bodies are barely covered with grubby, frayed saris. Between the kilns and the eastern extension, under the shade of a few banyan trees, Shivaji notices a few hammocks hanging on t
he lower branches. He sees a toddler yelling, and a bunch of half-naked children playing in the dirt, as cold winds continue to blow.

  ‘Moroji, get some warm clothes for the women and children. Remember, those who work for us are under our care, even the labourers who work temporarily. The required funds are to be taken from our treasury,’ Shivaji says.

  It is only late in the night when Shivaji finally rests. Icy winds bluster with a shrill whistle as the cloth panels of his tent flutter wildly, as if threatening to fly away and leave him exposed to the elements. Through the thin panels, he can see flickering lights of fires lit by his guards and can faintly hear their banter. Between him and the cold earth, there is only a small quilt made out of sheep’s wool. Using his hand as pillow he looks at the dark sky through a small slit and notices that the southern clouds have drifted overhead. Before he falls off to sleep, thoughts are swirling in Shivaji’s mind:

  It is just a matter of time before the Mughal armies flood their borders. And if Aurangzeb annexes the Adilshahi, a large part of the Deccan, south of the river Bhima, including my jagir, will become Mughal terrain. On the other hand, if Aurangzeb renews the old peace treaty with Ali Adil Shah, the allied forces will prove dangerous. History might repeat itself. So, this is the right time to start diplomatic relations with Aurangzeb, the Mughal subhedar of the Deccan. It is the only way to keep the Adilshahi armies at bay. It is the only way to get funds for our campaigns to seize part of Konkan under the Adilshahi.

  4

  A little over twelve kos south-east of Pune, an enormous mountain rises less than one kos above the Sahyadri Plateau. The hill fort of Purandar is enveloped in darkness. The room is dimly lit by the pale rays of the moon as they sneak in through the chinks of the ventilators above the closed windows. At first Jija bai thinks she is dreaming, but then she hears it clearly—the knocking. She quickly throws off the blankets as frosty air slices through her old bones. Gathering the pallu of her sari to cover her head, she moves towards the door, trying not to stumble over anything. A million dark thoughts race through her mind as she pushes the wooden crossbar to a side and opens the door. A gust of icy wind hits her like a whip. A maid stands outside, holding a small lamp covered in a glass bulb, her face ashen with fear. A veil of soot and a strong smell of burning oil lingers.