Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  One can build a city here, he thinks, and turns to look at Pinglay who is watching him, his eyes shining like jewels. ‘This place will be the capital of our swaraj, floating in the sky and overlooking the Sindhu Sagar,’ Shivaji announces, his eyes dreamy.

  The leader of the Maratha feels overwhelmed. He walks ahead and notices men practice with wooden swords. Two of them have strayed away from the others. They are quick, and seem to sense each other’s moves. They take stances with their swords, turning offensive or defensive as the game demands. One of them is large and stocky, and the other, small and wiry. Each one tries to push his rival backwards over obstacles like rocks or shallow ditches. They move, shoving each other with their strikes from the flat earth and climb over the rocky mounds. The stocky man starts losing his balance. Shivaji watches them fight, first with interest and then with fascination as their wooden swords bang against each other, especially when they block or parry each other’s blows. The wiry man is far more nimble and seems to guess from which direction his opponent will deliver his blow.

  ‘Who is he?’ Shivaji asks Pinglay, pointing towards the thin man.

  ‘Jiva Mahale.’

  ‘I want to meet him after their fight is over.’

  ‘He will come by,’ Pinglay assures him.

  He watches them till they finish their fight as the wiry man finally manages to accomplish the leverage he was seeking, his sword hand moving swiftly as the wooden blade of his opponent can no longer parry the attacks. The fight is over. He notices the winner walk towards them uncertainly, streaks of sweat streaming down his face.

  ‘Give him your sword,’ Shivaji orders Pinglay.

  ‘You have just finished a gruelling drill and I have just climbed this steep hill. We are equally drained of energy,’ says the man with the brown eyes who has a regal air about him.

  Jiva Mahale throws his wooden sword away and takes the dhop sword offered to him by Pinglay. It is shining and straight, real metal. He stares at the raja—he wears a finely cut angirkha made of costly chintz and a saffron turban laden with pearls. Mahale has not seen a man with such fair skin and sparkling eyes before.

  He must be Raja Shivaji, Mahale decides. His opponent looks calm, and his blade gleams under the afternoon sun. He holds his ground by keeping a wide distance between his feet and tries to guess the direction and the force of Shivaji’s strike. He knows that the ability to think beyond one’s mind saves one’s life. Sweat dribbles down from Mahale’s forehead and into his eyes. It stings, but it is dangerous to blink. He has heard that Raja Shivaji trains every alternate day, and has garnered incredible sword skills. The raja’s strong offensive bouts make his enemies lose their ground and crumble. Mahale holds his sword near his body. Only this way can he retain the strength of his arms to parry the strikes of his famous opponent. As the distance between them shortens, Shivaji delivers a forward blow, gliding his sword horizontally. Mahale avoids it by jumping backwards, away from the orbit of the raja’s blade. Within a blink, Shivaji’s backward strike brings the blade of his sword towards Mahale’s right knee. He jumps high, letting the blade slide beneath him, without touching him in the slightest.

  An energetic fight explodes between them as the air vibrates with the clang of their blades. Many leave their drills and run towards the fighters and form a large circle around them. To their left Shivaji has seen a small spur with a slope on one side and a drop of two guj on the other. He increases the strengths of his blows and darts forward as Mahale parries his attacks and moves away. Sometimes, unexpectedly, Mahale moves forward, cutting off the power of his opponent’s blows, but Raja Shivaji manages to push him unhindered towards the slope of the spur and within moments brings him to its edge. Mahale immediately knows that he cannot retreat. It would probably be best to push the blows of his opponent and move forward, but he hesitates, then buckles and falls back from the spur. A blade is at his throat. Mahale closes his eyes.

  ‘Will you be my guard?’ he hears Raja Shivaji ask.

  ‘Ji, ji, ji,’ Mahale cries with happiness as he scrambles to get up.

  ‘Put him up for pata training,’ Shivaji tells Pinglay.

  ‘He is a lowly Balute from an obscure village on the borders of Jawali,’ Pinglay informs Shivaji.

  ‘Moroji, the sword is a great leveller. It kills the enemy and shatters disparity. For the sword is then God, and the holder its disciple. Some of these disciples of the blade live life by their own codes—codes that do not differentiate between life and death, profit and loss, wealth and poverty . . . And our Jiva Mahale is one such disciple. You will see,’ Raja Shivaji tells his peshwa. Great men had come into his life in the past; now he will have to create them for the future of his nation. He remembers Dadaji . . .

  He was eleven. The great famine was over. The monsoon had arrived in full swing. The denuded forest surrounding his stone house had turned green as leaves burst out from the twigs that had suddenly gone tender. Dust devils did not haunt the region anymore; instead, gushing streams had swirled and rushed over rolling cobblestones and danced around the giant boulders. Flocks of different birds had started frequenting the skies above them as if the lost souls with wings had at last found their sky. The days had gone by as he along with his gang had romped and played about. They jumped in the muddy pools to dirty each other’s clothes, rode their ponies standing on the stirrups and followed the shadows of flying eagles. The number of his friends had grown—Tana, Yesa, Tana’s brother Surya, Bhima, Bhika, Kavji, Chimna and Bala, some as young as ten and some as old as twenty. The only exception had been Baji Pasalkar, who was an old man of sixty. But all that would change.

  A very old man had arrived in a palanquin along with Sonoji Dabir. ‘He is Dadaji, the diwan of your father’s jagir and the surrounding hill forts,’ his mother, sitting on a charpoy in the open veranda, had whispered to him. The men had bowed to her. Dadaji’s red silk turban with a wide rim looked like a large umbrella on his head. His eyes were sharp, like a knife with a blade of steel. Shivaji had listened as they discussed something about the peasants who had run away and disappeared in the hills, about the earth that was tilled by donkeys, about the babul trees growing instead of rice and corn saplings, about wolves breeding like lice and snatching away livestock, about hunger despite the rain.

  ‘People without a country and a country without its people,’ Dadaji had whispered. This time his deep eyes had cut through Shivaji’s soul. ‘Raja, you will come with me to find the people of this country. They are yours, and you are their jagirdar, the protector of their children and their women.’

  Dadaji had showed him how cultivation could be profitable and how farmers could be soldiers.

  2

  As the domes and minarets of Bijapur gleam in the morning sun, the palaces in the citadel take one’s breath away. The Badi Sahiba bathes in her private hamaam on the second floor of her seven-storey Hawa Mahal, the wind palace. Her slave girls carefully pour rosewater on her henna-coloured hair. The water in the enormous marble tub is lukewarm, just the way she likes it. The girls tending to her fear her fragility and hence are as nimble as possible. They also know that she is temperamental and even the slightest mistake in the bathing ritual can end up in flogging. But again, it is quite understandable that she is short-tempered. Managing the kingdom after her husband’s death has not been easy. Ali’s adoption, his education and the effort to win his love were hard. Added to that, Aurangzeb’s repeated invasions have left her paranoid. He has seized her north-eastern military strongholds, including the fort city of Bidar. He would have tried for Bijapur but he had to go north. The news heralds that he has conquered Agra and Dilli, which means that he will probably stay away from the Deccan for a while now. Something flashes in her mind; she knows that it is time to do that which will eventually keep her kingdom safe.

  ‘Hurry,’ she orders the girls. Soon she’s rushing to the seventh floor. The palace servants look aghast, and bow as she walks past. She has never done this before; she has a
lways been a strict queen who has stuck to royal protocols.

  ‘Ali! Ali!’ she calls, almost breathless.

  Ali is puzzled. Rarely does mother climb to the seventh floor to meet him. She always sends a messenger. He rushes out to the main entrance, to his mother who waits for him near the parapet that overlooks the lush gardens.

  ‘Badi Sahiba,’ he exclaims in surprise and bows deeply to his mother. She is tall and stands upright in a long gown with sleeves woven with pearls and rubies. Her deep brown eyes have fine wrinkles around them—dignified and strong even at this age.

  She looks at him affectionately. Ali calls her Badi Sahiba and not Ammi as she longs to hear. He knows that his childless mother cherishes him more than anything the world can offer. And the world has offered her everything that she has ever wished for. She is the sister to the king of Golconda, Abdullah Qutb Shah, and was the queen consort to the late king of the Adilshahi sultanate, Mohammed Adil Shah. When Ali had come to know that he had been adopted, he had felt betrayed and disappointed, even though his ammi loved him unconditionally.

  ‘Ali, my son,’ she says eagerly, ‘Aurangzeb has taken over Agra, he is the emperor-to-be.’

  An overweight Ali, wearing a finely cut silk jama with flower motif, looks perplexed. He knows about it.

  ‘This means that he may not come to the Deccan for a long time. Good news for us!’ she says.

  The Badi Sahiba’s excitement is not unfounded. Aurangzeb’s second tenure in the Deccan as a subhedar or imperial viceroy had brought her grief and heartbreak. Each night for the past few years, she has stood near the arched window of her bedroom and stared at the protective ring that the walls form around her city. She has inspected the bastions guarded by armed men scanning the vast expanse for advancing enemies. When sleepless nights have given way to lethargic days, the Badi Sahiba has anxiously read Aurangzeb’s humiliating letters written to her after the demise of her husband a year ago.

  The most recent one is the most dreadful. If they failed to eliminate Shiva, and hand over the regions under him to Aurangzeb, he threatened to burn Bijapur like a funeral pyre of the kafirs. Her beloved Ali would die a pathetic death in the Mughal prison if he has his way.

  ‘We must in this time wrench away our north-eastern frontiers from the clutches of the Mughals,’ she says looking at her son.

  ‘Badi Sahiba, we can get back the region either by fighting the Mughals or by eliminating Shiva. Our kingdom has been the tributary state of the empire for long. We have also renewed the old peace treaty with them. Fighting them will be treason. Instead, we will do what the emperor-to-be desires. We shall eliminate Shiva Bhosale.’

  She hears Ali, and knows that he is being rational. Their army is also not in a position to face the imperial army. Many of her military officials have joined the imperial army under the third prince. The exodus has weakened her kingdom. But the battle with Shiva is not going to be a walkover either. ‘It’s not easy. Shiva has the hill forts to hide, to launch attacks, to be invincible. And who do you think will hunt him down?’ she asks gloomily as she looks around the balcony in search of eavesdroppers.

  He walks closer to her and whispers, ‘Consider Afzal Khan for various reasons. He is the viceroy of our Wai province, the frontiers of our western borders and is acquainted with the terrain of Jawali and Maval. Also . . .’ Ali lowers his voice further and mutters, ‘he has personal vendetta. He hates Shahji Bhosale. Remember that he has helped us annex Hindu kingdoms of Karnataka either by sword or by deceit. Kasturiranga, the chief of Sira, was lured by Afzal Khan to negotiate a treaty and killed during the meeting.’

  ‘How will Shahji Bhosale react?’ the Badi Sahiba questions. She does not want to offend him. If he decides to revolt, her kingdom will be in deep trouble.

  ‘I will take care of Shahji Bhosale,’ Ali assures his mother.

  Finally, she nods, accepting his suggestion.

  Ali and his scribe spend their night in the library. A letter is written to Shahji Bhosale, each word thought over a million times.

  Be it known to Maharaja Farzand Shahji Bhosale:

  In the recent past you must have been tormented by the arrogance and treason committed by your son, Shivaji Bhosale. You need not live with that terrible burden. From the depth of our hearts we understand your plight. We know that you are in no way responsible for your son Shivaji’s deeds. He alone is and will be dealt with in our own way. We shall give you your Bendakaluru jagir as has been decided. We have also informed all the chieftains to assist you in all possible ways. If anyone behaves otherwise, he will be severely punished by us.

  3

  Afzal Khan’s caparisoned elephant trundles to enter the city from the Ali Rauza gate. This western side has its own advantages. The subhedar of Wai likes to see the fifty-five tonnes of malik-e-maidan, and avoid the crowded streets of the eastern suburbs that stink of rotten food. The giant cannon weighing fifty-five-thousand ser mounted on an enormous stone is the pride of Bijapur. Its muzzle is shaped like a lion’s head, whose open jaw crushes an iron elephant to death. While he is busy admiring the gun, he feels the fearful gaze of people on him. He is a huge man, his head touching the roof of his howdah, making the muscular mahout look puny in comparison. Rumours are rife in the city that it is he, Afzal Khan, who instigated the queen to murder Khan Mohammad, the late wazir of the sultanate.

  Afzal swaggers with an air of arrogance as he enters the enormous court of the Adilshahi royals. He is careful to keep his kohl-lined eyes expressionless and roving. The court has an unusually high ceiling supported by countless pillars that form overhead arches. The massive windows embellished with carved wooden panels are covered with satin curtains heavily upholstered with gold brocade. Huge chandeliers dressed with rock crystals have been lit. The floor is covered with several Turkish rugs of different colours and designs. At the far end, on the gilded throne, with two lions made of pure gold squatting on either side like domesticated pets, he notices a pensive Ali. The young king’s chin rests on the cusp of his right hand. To the right of the throne is another chair, partially blocked by a semi-transparent curtain. He can see the outline of Badi Sahiba. There is nobody else in the court.

  Afzal Khan bows deeply first to her and then to her son.

  ‘How is your family? How is Fazal Khan?’ She keeps her voice sweet and motherly. She knows he dotes on Fazal Khan, his eldest son.

  ‘By the grace of Allah . . .’ he murmurs, again bowing.

  ‘Farzand Afzal Khan . . .’ she begins, ‘we have renewed the peace treaty with the Mughals. We have offered Aurangzeb our regions that include the Bhosale jagir as well as north Konkan.’

  Ali speaks as soon as she falls silent, ‘Shiva Bhosale is unlikely to let go of his jagir without a fight, and Aurangzeb has written that if we do not do what we have promised he will burn Bijapur like the pyre of the kafirs. If left alive on the edge of our kingdom, Shiva will destroy us.’

  ‘I understand,’ Afzal says after a while, ‘but how would Shahji Bhosale react?’ His beady eyes watch Ali intently.

  ‘Shahji Bhosale has written a letter to us saying that we are free to deal with Shiva in whatever way we deem fit; the letter has his seal,’ Ali replies.

  ‘We must consider our future and not what Shahji Bhosale will make of this matter,’ interjects the Badi Sahiba. ‘We cannot delay. Shiva, we hear, is on a horse-buying spree.’

  ‘Most of his horsemen are bargirs. Shiva selects each one personally. He is not just cunning, but also has military intelligence,’ Ali incites.

  ‘Even a shiledar is directly paid from Shiva’s coffer, which overflows as a result of robbing and plundering. Netoji Palkar who previously worked for us has been made the military chief, their sarnobat. He has helped Shiva gather a few thousand such shiledars,’ says the Badi Sahiba, sounding distressed.

  Afzal does not reply immediately. Shiva Bhosale is indeed clever. Bargirs are well-mounted, armed horsemen who are paid by the kingdom they work for. Even their ho
rse belongs to the state. Shiledars too are horsemen paid by the kingdom, but they bring their own horses and equipment. Even the Mughals have to depend on their mansabdars for maintaining cavalry. Most of them cheat the empire’s military system by keeping less number of horses to save and amass money. It is even worse in his country. The Adilshahi rulers have to threaten, bribe or beg their jagirdars and deshmukhs for military support in times of war. They can never be sure as to who will stand by them and who will join the enemy. But a salaried cavalry, paid by the state, will always be faithful. Its ruler will always be sure of the numbers.

  ‘Shiva’s system is against the watandars. Soon he will take away lands from the nearby jagirdars and deshmukhs and bring it under his revenue officials. He has done it in Jawali,’ Afzal finally says.

  ‘You can convince the Maval deshmukhs to join you. Tell them they will cease to exist if Shiva Bhosale prevails,’ Badi Sahiba insists.

  ‘North Konkan is taken. His men have tried attacking Janjira Fort. He has also started work at shipyards, and tomorrow he may even build sea forts. The man is dynamic. It is easy for him to enter our other regions, for example Wai, the province under your supervision that lies just east of Jawali,’ Ali’s words sting.

  ‘Shiva is amassing strength by the day. We have heard that our Ibrahim Khan has joined him along with his one thousand African horsemen,’ informs the Badi Sahiba.

  ‘After returning to Bijapur, the dumb man Mullah Ahmed is busy singing praises of the kafir,’ Afzal whispers to himself.

  ‘After the takeover of the Nizamshahi, we had allowed Shahji Bhosale to keep his old jagir. Who ever knew that his son would turn out to be a traitor and unlawfully seize the hill forts in that jagir? What have we done so far? We have recently lost more than twenty-five forts of north Kalyan to Shiva. And one of our strongest forts, Bidar Fort that guarded our north-eastern borders has been swallowed by the Mughals,’ says Ali sullenly.