Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  ‘Son, do not get carried away by your father’s sudden hail of love, it is a fake show of well-thought-out diplomacy. Sending her is a part of that plan.’

  He is probably right, Aurangzeb thinks. Father has shut the gates of the fort on my face, and now when I have cut off water supplies to the fort, he is trying to be tactful.

  He does not utter a word but rushes towards his shamiana, made to befit the victorious prince. The floor is covered with Persian carpets and the panels are made of satin. At the far end, away from the entrance and facing a gilded chair, a woman wearing a long white mantle and a thin veil sits on the ground. At the far end, Mutamad stands like a statue. It is the first time that he is looking at the famous princess, the emperor’s favourite person in the world, who refers to her as the Padishah Begum, the empress!

  The Mughal princess hears her brother’s footsteps but avoids looking up, even after he occupies the high-backed, gilded chair before her. The third prince stares down at her, wondering what he must say. His eldest sibling, their father’s heartbeat, Padishah Begum, sits near his feet like his ghulam. He watches as she takes off her veil and looks up, her greenish-blue eyes staring at her younger brother. His sister’s once beautiful face is covered with fine wrinkles, and her hair has streaks of henna dyed red. He jerks his head backwards, just to show her that he is now in command. She looks like a wretch in a mantle with a high Chinese collar. He knows what she hides behind her clothes—ugly scars of a severe burn. She had tried to burn herself when she was accused of having a relationship with her own father.

  She cannot bear the silence any longer and starts crying, her thin frame convulsing with each sob.

  Aurangzeb lets her weep. He has always seen her dressed in gowns, made of silk and chintz, wearing the best of what the famous jewellers of Hindustan could offer. She, Jahanara, has always been in control, always in command, always amazing people with her philosophical rhetoric. He and his brothers would hover around her, amazed at her grace. But that was thousands of moons ago; he has not met her for a while and feels like a stranger now.

  Still sobbing, she stretches her hand, hands over an epistle to him and whispers, ‘It is from father.’

  Father is a beaten man now. His letter is no longer a farman.

  He rips it open with total disregard and takes the Kashmiri silken paper out to read. Father’s Arabic is chaste; he has written a verse in black ink.

  My son, you are my champion

  I, the emperor, backed by a half a million troopers,

  am a beggar

  My fate, slapping me hard,

  made me a prisoner, a mere ward

  Remember, not a leaf falls from a tree without Allah’s will

  And still

  We remain proud of our triumph in this perishable world

  Lying in a drain called life

  Like a worm eternally curled

  I praise the Hindus who put water in the mouth of the dying

  You, my son, a chaste Muslim, are starving me of the elixir of life

  It is akin to slaughter and slaying.

  Aurangzeb wants to laugh. For the first time, his father speaks like a commoner, without orders, arrogance or accusations. He throws the paper away. He watches his startled sister and says, ‘Now I have become his champion, huh, now that he is left without a choice.’

  ‘Bhai,’ Jahanara speaks, her voice quivering with emotions, ‘what is happening to our family, to us, and why?’

  ‘You mean our dysfunctional family?’ he says scornfully and wags his index finger at her. ‘You and your Dara bhai should know why better than I do, Begum Sahiba; you have lived with father in the palaces, adorned with riches. For you, far far away has been the world of battlefields sodden with blood and filled with the stench of rotting dead. That world has never touched you—that world has been my home for years.’

  ‘Why did you do what you did?’

  ‘What have I done? I was on my way to seeing my sick father when Jaswant intercepted me with his army. Is it a sin to come home when your father is ill?’

  ‘I am talking about your declaration of jihad against Dara bhai. Why jihad against your own blood?’ Her voice is clear.

  ‘Do you not know?’

  ‘Kindly enlighten me,’ Jahanara whispers, trying hard not to sound scornful. He stares at her, searching for even a slight shadow of a snigger, but she looks sincere and grave.

  ‘Once Dara bhai made his intentions clear by sending Jaswant to stop me, I started to think . . . What must one call a man who draws parallels between the holy Quran and the Upanishads of the kafirs? What must one say about his public statements such as infidelity and Islam are twin sisters? You must agree that his deeds make him an enemy of Islam. Will this enemy of Islam rule our Islamic empire? What must a chaste Muslim like me do when he happens to be my brother? You must agree that it is my duty to fight him. And what must one call this fight against the enemy of Islam? You must agree that it is called jihad.’

  For a moment she is speechless. ‘The holy Quran talks about tolerance, even towards the followers of other religions. Here we talk about our own brother, a Muslim—a liberal Muslim at that,’ she whispers.

  ‘That’s your interpretation,’ he cuts her off.

  ‘And if your interpretation of jihad is to kill even the liberal Muslim, what happens to your tolerance then?’ she asks softly.

  ‘Dear sister, under the circumstances, what kind of jihad should I have followed—by words, or by swords? I would have started this spiritual fight by words, but Dara bhai did not give me such an opportunity; he prepared for war.’ Aurangzeb pulls out a tesbih from the pocket of his robe and starts counting the beads.

  She listens, her eyes fixed on his beads. Words bubble in her mouth like froth. Spitting them out may mean death. ‘Jihad,’ she says bitterly, ‘and all for the bloody throne.’

  ‘Talk for Dara bhai, you do not know me. I am not interested in your throne,’ he says calmly.

  ‘Who then will be the next emperor?’ she asks coldly. Her gaze has fallen to the carpet near his feet.

  ‘How is father?’ he replies, ignoring her question and her coldness.

  ‘He is recovering,’ she says defiantly. In the depth of her heart she knows that father’s recovery is politically insignificant. Dara bhai’s loyal warriors, like Chatrasal Hada, Ram Singh Rathod, Bhimsing Gaur, and others have been killed. Thousands of mansabdars who had fought for Dara have joined the victor, including Mir Jumla, Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod and Diler Khan. The news is that even Mirza Raja Jai Singh has left Suleiman Shikoh, Dara Shikoh’s eldest son, and is on his way to Agra from Bengal. The orthodox Muslim warriors have joined Aurangzeb in large numbers.

  ‘If he is well enough and decides to punish the infidels like Dara bhai, he may continue to rule by the dictums of the holy Quran. Otherwise, both Murad and Shuja bhai have already got the khutba to read in their names. They have also minted the coins. How can I vouch for their actions? Both of them want to be the emperor.’

  ‘Murad?’ Jahanara mutters to herself and falls silent. Murad had always been a difficult child, destructive and unmanageable. His favourite game had been hurting swans with his catapult and rolling on the ground laughing when the birds had screeched and fluttered, bled and sometimes died. The palace servants had been his targets too. He would fling pebbles and even rocks at them, till they begged him to spare them and cried at his feet. She had hoped he would grow out of it, but even at the age of thirty-eight he remained the same. A failed viceroy of Balkh and Gujarat, an alcoholic, wasting his time in the court intrigues of his sycophant noblemen.

  Aurangzeb keenly watches his sister’s face. His lips curl into a sceptical smile.

  ‘Then, who do you think? Do you think Shah Shuja will be a better choice?’ Aurangzeb asks contemptuously.

  ‘Why not Suleiman?’ Jahanara blurts and then bites her tongue with deep regret. Twenty-four-year-old Suleiman Shikoh is the pride of her family; Dara bhai’s eldest
son has been born with beauty and bravery. He is the star of her father’s eyes.

  ‘Where is his father?’ Aurangzeb asks as his eyes bore into her eyes.

  She shudders and knows that he knows. The night of the defeat was one of the darkest. The streets of Agra were hushed like a graveyard. Everyone at the fort lay silent, as slaves and servants moved through the corridors and courtyards like lost spirits. The escapees from the battlefields started arriving in the city, the hoof beats shattering the ominous stillness. Dara bhai who had left shouting slogans like ‘Victory or the grave!’ had returned, vanquished yet alive. He had not come to meet them but she was told that his face had blisters, his eyes were swollen and his clothes were covered with soot. She could hear the wails and cries of his wives from his apartment. Dara bhai had to leave, vanish before he was captured. Father ordered mules loaded with gold and silver coins to be sent with him. A farman was dispatched to the governor of Dilli to open the fort and treasury for the vanquished prince. She watched from her balcony as the first prince left for Dilli, shadows of horsemen, palanquins, mules and slaves moving westwards. She had run towards her father’s apartments, her father had been watching from his balcony. The thin old man, with his long face, grey beard and bleary eyes, stood staring as shadows of his first son and his tiny convoy dissolved into the night.

  ‘I will leave for Dilli tonight,’ she hears her brother speak. She is terrified; she must dispatch a message, Dara bhai must know. Aurangzeb watches her face like a cat looking at a trapped mouse.

  ‘Don’t bother. The coward has already fled from Dilli.’

  She hears Aurangzeb’s words filled with derision and exhales in relief but cannot resist speaking further. ‘So, chase, bloodbath and death—are these the fate of our family?’

  ‘That,’ he says with contempt, not taking his eyes away from his sister, ‘you should have asked father before he advised your beloved Dara bhai to wait for me at Samugad with fifty thousand soldiers.’

  ‘I had begged them to consider,’ she says feebly.

  ‘Did they pay any heed, your beloved father and your mulhid brother? And now you want me to follow what you say—you, who concurred with Dara bhai’s heretical views and exalted his image by preaching his philosophies that were against Islam?’ He relaxes his body on the backrest of his gilded chair and counts his beads faster.

  ‘I do not preach his philosophies as I too believe in those ideas. In fact, I had asked to translate Hindu scriptures like the Upanishads into Farsi,’ she says without cringing.

  ‘I do not want to argue with you. Just agree to the fact that it was father’s and Dara bhai’s idea to send Jaswant to intercept me near Ujjain. Even the battle near Samugad was well planned.’

  ‘What could they do? You were advancing towards Agra with your and Murad’s armies.’

  ‘Is it a crime for a son to visit his ailing father?’ Aurangzeb asks blandly. ‘Is the emperor afraid of his own army governed by his own sons?’

  Silence lingers for a long time as Jahanara mulls over her victorious brother’s words.

  ‘Father begs you to keep your brothers from harm, they are your own flesh and blood,’ she whispers softly, her tears falling on the carpet.

  ‘Father is in no position to cast morals. Have you asked our dear father what he had done to his uncles, half-brothers, cousins and nephew? He murdered them, blinded them and expelled them’.

  ‘Had he not done so, we would not be alive. In fact it was done primarily to save you and Dara bhai.’

  ‘Really?’ Aurangzeb says and laughs very loudly.

  ‘For his love for Ammi, our Ammi, please spare him the anguish of seeing his first son die,’ Jahanara plays her last card.

  Aurangzeb can no longer maintain his composure, but bursts out laughing.

  ‘Love for Ammi? That man is a cannonball of lust, ready to explode between his thighs at the sight of any woman. Can you count the number of women he has taken after Ammi was gone? You should know better.’

  Mutamad shudders. What is his master trying to imply? He has heard the rumours about the emperor and his first daughter. He looks at the princess. He cannot see her face but he knows that she has started to sob.

  ‘And what is the cause of his illness? Is it not the overdose of aphrodisiacs as I have heard? Is the senile old man still hungry for the female flesh?’

  She closes her eyes with indignation, as tears stream down her face.

  ‘Entire Hindustan talks about his erotic endeavours . . . Who would know better than you, sister?’ he insists mockingly.

  Mutamad squirms; he has never heard his master talk so explicitly, not even to him, a lowly eunuch slave.

  ‘Father wants you to come to the fort and meet him . . .’ she says dejectedly.

  He nods affirmatively knowing that he will never do so. She suddenly gets up. He realizes that she is far too frail, almost like a reed wearing a gown. She looks into his eyes and says evenly, ‘The true meaning of jihad is to declare war with our inner demons.’

  ‘La ilaha illa’llah!’ he whispers. There is no God except Allah.

  5

  Murad Baksh thinks fondly about Aurangzeb. His big brother has proved his loyalty by sending him a gift of one hundred and fifty thousand ashrafi mohurs and two hundred and fifty Arabian horses. ‘We must rejoice our victory, my brother and the future emperor,’ Aurangzeb has written.

  Murad agrees to have dinner with him. Why not? he thinks. I am surrounded by my ten thousand troopers.

  The shamiana is lit by a hundred polished and shining brass shamdans. The ceremonial tent is covered with colourful Turkish carpets. Smell of roasted gosht kebabs wafts in the air. But Murad looks forward to the several silver ewers filled with wine that beckon him. His brother has managed to get glasses made of rock glass. Murad has decided to drink, and he is not worried about his safety. His guard Niruddin Khawas is with him. Niruddin does not drink and will die for him if need be. As Aurangzeb empties small cups of Turkish coffee, Murad empties glasses of wine. Murad does not remember the rest of the night. When he wakes up, he finds himself shackled in a palanquin. He tries to shout, but his mouth is stuffed with pebbles. They have also taped it shut.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  1

  Shivaji glances at Moroji Pinglay, whose face is flushed with excitement. They have crossed Mahad, a small town of narrow lanes and huddled houses and are riding along the river Gandhari. The wind howls, sounding eerily like a wailing woman. His kathiawadi horse canters through the uneven trail. The land is covered with luxuriant vegetation. Gleams of sunshine sneak through the broken masses of rainclouds. They colour every mountain with countless fleeting hues. He narrows his eyes to focus. They have reached the edge. Stretches of grassland unfold in front of him. Near the skyline, huge hills wait like beasts, their girths gigantic, their peaks shrouded in clouds. One hill is the largest, sitting smug in the midst of others, like a lion bounded by its pride.

  ‘That one, the mother hill, looks like someone has axed it away from the Sahyadri Range,’ he mutters.

  ‘That is the hill of Rairi, it is special,’ Pinglay responds quickly.

  ‘It is just twenty-five kos away from the Arabian Sea and three to four days by horse from Rajgad Fort,’ he comments.

  ‘That’s only a part of it,’ Pinglay replies.

  It does not take much time for them to reach the base of the hill. Pinglay seems to know the path, so there is no need to look for one. As they start climbing, their horses slow down. He notices a large cliff hanging over their heads, like the raised hood of a giant snake. Moving a little ahead, a huge cascade bursts into his vision. It plunges from the cliff into a deep ravine. He wrenches the reins to pause for a brief moment. Water has always fascinated him. Here it is trapped between two giant rocks, jutting out from the crag only to leap down with a roar, forming a foamy torrent in the gap and spraying the path with milky effervescence.

  ‘The real surprise lies ahead,’ Pinglay declares as his eye
s shine.

  He smiles and guides his horse through a slushy patch as a hundred men silently ride behind them. It’s getting misty; he looks ahead and sees the trail becoming narrower and steeper. His horse climbs slowly, cautiously taking one step at a time. He grabs the saddle horn to keep his weight forward and notices the earth below, uneven, covered with mud and stones. After a particularly treacherous bend they are suddenly blinded by strong sunlight. The mist has vanished. He looks into the valley; the world below is submerged in the dark clouds as the world above basks in the golden rays of the afternoon sun. The surrounding mountains have risen above the blanket of clouds. They are smeared with several white streaks of rainwater torrents pouring from the sides. His horse has chosen its own path to climb the last stretch before they reach the crest. It is a many-kos-long plateau. An enormous hill looms over him and his men, rising above the mountain table like a horn on the head of a giant. He kicks his horse to a gallop. The boundary of the black basalt against the backdrop of the blue expanse creates an ethereal suspension. Countless eagles fly, drawing circles in that suspended space with serene dignity, carefully guarding the rock from the bending sky.

  ‘The fort is on top of the rocky hill. Prataprao Morey has been driven out. It is yours now, Raja,’ Pinglay finally announces.

  The horses are left behind with a few men to water and feed them. The upward climb will be on foot. A few local herdsmen are there to guide them. Their leather sandals with flexible soles save them from slipping down each time a stone is dislodged by their weight. They grab ledges and crevices, sometimes tough vines, as they push themselves upwards. He starts feeling a tingling sensation in his knees and looks at the Brahmin who is older than him. His peshwa shows no sign of distress. The air has thinned and the winds are cooler. The men need to breathe deeply to fill their lungs. It takes them a good hour to reach their destination. Shivaji looks on with fascination. A large plateau on the hilltop lies before him. As he walks past small stone structures and ruins of a stone wall, he sees a flat mountain crest, vast and endless. It is less than a kos above the sea and overlooking the coast, with abrupt slopes plunging into Konkan. It is unlike anything that he has seen before.