Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  ‘Now say what you want to,’ he says, getting impatient.

  Between man and wife, all cannot be put down in words. Dilras’s death has nurtured new hopes. She fidgets, her wide and flowing long skirt sways. Is she being penalized for being born a Hindu? But that had not daunted him from spending nights, sometimes even days, in her lap, as her long curls had covered him like the panels of a tent. Her being an infidel did not deter him when she was young, and when he took her like a fervently possessed, never-satiated predator. Her religious infidelity, her being a born kafir, did not bother him when he seeded her with two sons. She feels a new surge of anger rising in her and looks at him, the man responsible for her loneliness and isolation.

  ‘I have heard that you are going north . . .’ she says, not knowing what else to talk about.

  ‘Is that why you called me here—where I do not want to be?’ he snarls.

  She feels humiliated and glances at his hands resting on his lap; they look rough and dark. Those hands had once touched her bare body. Just the memory gives her goosebumps. Despite her rage, she longs for that to happen again. Like in the past, she longs for that look in his eyes, severe with craving, shining with interest. She has not forgotten how she used to chew betel leaves to redden her lips and suck some musk pastilles to sweeten her breath. For the past months, she has been smearing herself with sandalwood paste to improve her complexion.

  ‘It has been years since you have set foot in my apartment,’ she murmurs, walking two steps ahead.

  He winces, wondering if there is any sarcasm in her voice, but finds none. This makes him uncomfortable and he almost pities her. He regards her for a moment; she has not tied her hair and let it fall on her hips. He looks at her. This woman is responsible for his Dilras’s death. This is the woman who had gossiped about Dilras being cursed and thus bearing only girls. She is the reason why Dilras insisted on having more children, hoping they would be sons. Dilras had already become weak after bearing him three girls. He had decided not to touch Dilras again, not because he did not love her, but because more pregnancies would have proved dangerous. And they eventually did! Dilras insisted on more children and died giving him two sons.

  ‘I will be leaving for the north in the next few days,’ he says coldly.

  She freezes for a moment, jerks her head back in defiance, as a kind of riposte to her husband. She is the daughter of a king from Kashmir.

  ‘Our boys, Mohammad Sultan and Muazzam, will go with me,’ he sounds curt and gets up to leave.

  ‘I am sorry about the Begum,’ she says softly.

  He stares at her this time, his pale eyes colder than ice.

  ‘You hated her, didn’t you?’

  She says nothing as she watches him go. He has shattered her illusions. She does not hate Dilras as much as she hates the men in her life. First it was her father who had shamelessly surrendered to Emperor Shah Jahan, then it was her grandfather who had weaved the story of her birth to marry her off into the imperial family, so that the men in her family were showered with titles and rewarded with high military posts.

  She shivers with indignation and falls to her knees, closes her eyes and prays fervently. She prays for the victory and welfare of the man she hates the most—her husband! The safety of her two sons depends on his capabilities. She prays to Allah and the long-forgotten Hindu gods of her childhood. Will God answer her prayers?

  2

  ‘That’s decided then, Your Imperial Highness?’ Nijabat Khan asks politely.

  Aurangzeb eyes the tall and muscular mansabdar who stands before him and nods. It has been ten days since he has shifted to his camp. His tent is roomy but almost empty, with just a wooden couch in the middle and a scribe’s writing desk in one corner. The camp brims over with the clamour of the soldiers, yelling of servants, rattling of carts, hammering of weapon-smiths, neighing and trumpeting of animals. The racket makes him feel at home. Sometimes the wind brings in the aroma of meat boiling in large earthen pots kept in the open. Even the smoke of firewood does not bother him.

  Mutamad stands behind his master, but his eyes are fixed on Nijabat.

  ‘We have mustered quite a number of horsemen,’ Nijabat states, looking at his master who sits on the divan and counts his beads.

  Aurangzeb frowns at Nijabat’s serious expression. He glances at his scribe, sitting behind a low desk, surrounded by mountains of papers. The man is staid, a stereotype, talks less and never smiles, but is blessed with a sharp memory. Aurangzeb asks, ‘How many men have come from Bidar since last week?’

  The scribe does some quick calculations with his fingers before replying in a low voice, ‘Five thousand, my prince.’

  Jaffar Khan, the man managing Bidar after he had left, has been doing his job well and has already lured more than ten thousand Adilshahi soldiers with the tribute money paid by their own Badi Sahiba.

  Nijabat scratches his beard to clear his head. Even though reinforcements sent by the emperor have left, they still have a few hundred mansabdars assigned for the Deccan. Combined with the Adilshahi soldiers coming in, they will have twenty-five thousand cavalry troopers.

  ‘You must hear what my youngest brother, my dear Murad Baksh, has written,’ Aurangzeb says to Nijabat with a sneer on his face. ‘Read the letter from the viceroy of Gujarat,’ Aurangzeb orders his scribe.

  The scribe finds the paper quickly and reads out:

  Bhai, waiting seems so eternal while our enemy is growing stronger. Make haste and move northwards from Aurangabad.

  If we delay, our heretic brother, our father’s favourite son, Dara bhai will have time to muster more and more men. I want to join you to fight against Dara bhai. I will go with you. My further actions depend on your orders. In the depth of my heart I know it is our beloved Dara bhai who is running the affairs of the empire from behind the throne. I want to see him dead, beheaded, his torso rolling in his own blood, the mulhid haraamzada, the bastard atheist pretending to be a Muslim!

  Nijabat is amused. To start with, Murad Baksh is a drunkard and has recently murdered his loyal minister. The good-for-nothing prince has already crowned himself the next emperor, and is plundering the empire’s treasuries. He has sent his personal army of eunuchs to Surat, the empire’s most famous port where the British and the Dutch ships anchor. It is stuffed with imperial treasure, the collection of custom levies. The basement is hired by the local merchants as a safe deposit vault. Murad’s eunuchs have blown up the parts of the defending wall and have robbed the treasure that is meant for military expenses. Like a dying atheist who conveniently resorts to God, the same Murad has suddenly remembered that he has a brother in Aurangzeb. Countless mails have arrived from Gujarat, filled with abuses and plans to murder Dara Shikoh.

  Aurangzeb knows what his most trustworthy mansabdar thinks. He says softly, ‘Dara bhai is on another trip. He tries to be a liberal and wants to be another Akbar; my great-great-grandfather was also a born military general and a gifted administrator. Dara bhai is a military-illiterate bookworm, basking in the reflected glory of his wealth that has come easily to him.’

  ‘Orthodox mansabdars assigned to do court duties are already weary of the prince’s love for the kafirs. They hate him for giving importance to Hindu pundits and propagating Sufism among the fellow Sunnis. The mullahs and ulemas fear the loss of their importance if the first prince comes to power. They will not support him in crisis,’ Nijabat states blankly.

  A mysterious smile appears on the prince’s face.

  Nijabat smiles too and asks, ‘What is the latest?’

  Aurangzeb glances at his scribe who knows what his master wants. He picks up a note from the collector of Agra. The man is an orthodox Muslim and hates Dara Shikoh for his liberal views on Islam. The scribe reads aloud,

  As you already know, Dara Shikoh has shifted the emperor to Agra and guards his apartments like a tigress guarding her cubs. Only Begum Jahanara, a few hakims and some eunuch slaves are allowed to enter the chamber of the patie
nt. The emperor himself never appears in public, giving room to speculation. People throng in front of the window of the special court every day to see him but go back disappointed, the jharokha remains empty. Even I have not seen him for weeks.

  ‘Father loves jharokha-e-darshan, appearing in the balcony to show himself to his subjects and accepting their salute when they perform kurnish. And now, it is of paramount significance that he shows himself to his people to crush the rumours of him being an invalid and to prove that he is alive and well,’ Aurangzeb muses.

  ‘We should go north immediately,’ Nijabat suggests. ‘I have a request: If and when we do start our northward journey, we must not halt for more than two nights at any place, because if we do, it will only embolden them.’

  Aurangzeb raises his brows. Nobody else talks to him the way Nijabat Khan does. And he does not take such comments from anyone else other than his uncle Shaista Khan. But Nijabat is a man of firm loyalty and great daring.

  ‘First tell me how, and then I shall give my views,’ Nijabat hears his master’s question.

  He is quick to respond: ‘I have heard that Mirza Raja Jai Singh and Prince Suleiman have gone eastwards with more than twenty thousand men to stop Prince Shuja from advancing towards Agra. They must have thought of blocking our path too. If we halt, we give them time to march southwards.’

  ‘The essence of my strategy is to weaken the enemy army,’ Aurangzeb smiles and says. ‘I want them to come. Half of Dara bhai’s army will be forced to guard Agra and half will march southwards to intercept us. We have better chances to win two battles with two smaller armies than one battle against one massive army. If we halt for a fortnight before crossing the river Narmada, they will have time to advance towards us and stop us.’

  ‘Do you think prince Dara will come personally or send someone else?’ Nijabat’s eyes shine with interest.

  ‘I hope Dara bhai, who has induced father to recall the reinforcements from the Deccan, comes to meet me in the battlefield. I have got news that the coward, sitting safely in Agra forts, has established direct contact with Ali Adil Shah and offered him peace for a large indemnity. I hope this time he leaves the safe precincts of my father’s forts and meets me on the battlefield,’ Aurangzeb says tersely and then suddenly breaks into recitation:

  A man far from his asylum,

  Helpless, needy and forsaken

  Stalked by a hungry death

  Then he pleads and then he cries and then he rants

  While the lions are shredded by fishes

  And crocodiles are devoured by ants.

  After an overwhelmed Nijabat Khan leaves, Aurangzeb checks if Mutamad is near the entrance, ensuring that his personal guards are out of earshot. He starts dictating to his scribe. The letter is for Murad Baksh:

  My devout struggle to rip off the wicked roots of idolatry and infidelity from the realm of our Islamic empire is already designed and in place. And my brother, you, whom I hold dearer than my own heart, wishes to join me in this holy endeavour. Your wish has renewed the confirmation of faith and teamwork, based on promises and oaths. I shall consider our losses and gains as one. I shall favour you more once the mulhid, the idolater, is plucked out and removed from our path. You cannot imagine what I have in mind for you. I crave to see you sitting on our father’s peacock throne.

  3

  Inside Janjira, the sea fort on the Konkan coast, it is business as usual. Siddi Kashim grins, removes his tunic and flings it away before diving into the deeper end of the pool. On the poolside, his smaller children romp around, black, brown and some pale, with heads covered with woolly or straight hair. He tries to remember the number of his children but gives up—just looking at them makes him feel good about himself, his virility, his manhood. He lowers himself in the water, enjoying its coolness, then floats on his back to stare at the faraway ramparts that rise high beyond the wall enclosing the pool. This is his unbeatable sea fort, built by his ancestors, standing on an oval-shaped rock half a kos away from the shores of Konkan.

  In the midst of women’s laughter and shrieks, he hears a guard calling him from beyond a wall built to maintain the privacy of the pool. No one dares to disturb him unless the reason is a compelling one. He swears and swims to the edge. As he comes out, a eunuch slave, dark as basalt and thin as reed, appears from behind a fern bush and hands him a towel.

  He walks across the gardens wiping himself and opens the door brashly. The guard is scared of his master who is a large man, with muscles corded like the bark of a banyan tree and eyes sharp like a blade. He has a habit of flying into a rage. His fury is legendary; when it possesses him, he kills people by blows of his fists, or kicks them to death.

  ‘Chief Yakub has a message for you.’

  Siddi Kashim stares at the guard and nods, giving him permission to speak further. The message is from his younger brother. The dark man wearing a black turban and a short tunic rattles, now with some relief:

  The Marathas have taken Ghosal. But when they tried to attack the fort by sailing in small fishing boats, many sunk after our cannonballs hit them. Some of the boats toppled, sending many to their water graves.

  Siddi Kashim smiles and slams the door shut.

  On his way back to his pool, he laughs at Shivaji Bhosale and his men. The idiots have attacked his fort in fishing dinghies—like frogs getting at a crocodile or turtles attacking a killer shark. If only they knew the strength of Janjira Fort, they would have sunk their pathetic boats themselves. They are also ignorant about his men, with their strain of African blood, trained sailors and soldiers, fit as stallions, one equal to ten natives in strength. As long as these empires and the kingdoms lack naval power, he is safe and at nobody’s mercy. In fact, they are at his mercy. They need his help to sail to Mecca. They depend on him for good-quality slaves. And he is free to loot and abduct the people from the mainland coast as and when he pleases.

  The tightly packed ship must have reached the deep seas, he thinks before he jumps back into the pool. Supplying loads of slaves to the Muslim empires and kingdoms have made him rich. More importantly, they protect him, and turn a blind eye when he robs and abducts local people from the mainland Konkan.

  The ship has indeed reached the deep seas. Balaji Avji and the hundreds of men around him can hardly move, as one man’s ankle is shackled to another’s. Some are chained to the deck by their necks or hands. It has been a full day since their confinement. His body is numb and his stomach rumbles with hunger. The burning pain on his right shoulder is acute. They were branded with red-hot irons before being thrown on the deck like goats or horses. The ship has hit rough seas and is rocking like a swing. His mind goes back to his father, mild-tempered, an eye opaque with cataract, sinewy neck fixed on a prematurely bent spine, working long hours as an accountant and scribe for the masters of the Janjira Fort. It was his karma to work for the Siddis. Only once in his thirty long years of service had he broken the karma protocol and tried to protest against the sinister operations. A sin was committed. The Siddis had suspected him to be the traitor, leaking information to the Marathas. The consequence was that his father lay at the bottom of this ocean, stuffed in a gunny bag made heavy with stones and knotted at both ends.

  Balaji’s body convulses with sobs. Someone behind him has relieved himself and the stench is unbearable. There is a small tank full of water to wash up but they cannot reach it easily. They are tied down by heavy chains. The man next to him has started vomiting. He closes his eyes and starts weeping. He is just seventeen. His dream of becoming a scribe is over. It is his fate to be a slave. Or a eunuch, he thinks and shudders.

  The man has stopped vomiting. He glances at him: the man has fallen back and his shackled legs are twisted. He looks like a dead grasshopper. Someone screams that there is a dead man among them.

  Two sailors appear from the deck; these huge men with long matted hair do not bother to check if the man is indeed dead. They discuss something, letting strange syllables fly in the air whil
e unshackling him. It is difficult to drag him through the crowd.

  The ship starts rocking even more violently as the rain hits the deck. One of them looks at Balaji Avji for a moment before bending and unlocking his shackles with just one click. The sailor signals him to lift the dead man.

  He gets up, feeling giddy, his legs numb. Somehow, he manages to pull the limp body over his shoulders. Some more fluids leak out of the dead man’s mouth, its stench making him sick. He moves unsteadily through the rows of chained men with the weight on his shoulders, and almost tumbles as the ship rolls over the wild waters. Many have started retching, and the wooden floor has become slippery. He knows about ships and this one is broad-decked. He spots a formidable gun behind her foremast. They drag him near the railings and push the man resting on his shoulders over the board and into the sea.

  Balaji stares at the sea mesmerized. He has never seen such giant waves, like mountains of water moving towards him. For a moment he does not know which is the sea and which is the sky. The sailors try to wrench him back to his place and chain him again. As they yank him, he looks at the sea for the last time and notices a mighty wave hitting the deck. The ship shudders, twists violently and then topples over.

  Balaji can only think of the gigantic waves, like surging, fluid mountains as he tries to stay afloat. The last of his memories is a dinghy, and a few men shouting to him.