Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  ‘Please let me come with you to Wai to meet the general,’ says Bokil apologetically while pulling the strings of the small satin bag that he holds. He takes out a heavy bracelet of gold embellished with stones, and ten mohurs with imperial engravings.

  ‘It is our humble way of honouring you.’

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ Krishnaji blurts, but takes the bracelet. The rubies and emeralds encrusted on it shine luminously. The general’s vakeel tries to feel its weight in the cusp of his right hand by swinging it up and down. He does not refuse the coins either.

  ‘An Arabian stallion too is a part of our goodwill gift to you. It is waiting at the courtyard of the lower fort,’ insists Shivaji.

  ‘When can we leave for Wai?’ asks Bokil eagerly.

  ‘Tomorrow should be fine,’ says Krishnaji.

  ‘Let me take you to your quarters. You must be tired.’

  ‘When the heart is filled with fear, you fight or flee. It is worse when it is filled with shame, like mine is, as you are then bound with fetters of dishonour,’ says Raja Shivaji as Bokil and Krishnaji exit the chamber.

  2

  Jahanara is numb with sorrow. The red sandstone of Agra Fort shines broodingly in the mild, early morning sunlight. The mighty walls with massive bastions that encase the fort stand mute. The fort’s courtyard, pavilions, mosques and gardens are crowded with Aurangzeb’s soldiers. His personal slave, eunuch Mutamad, has taken over as their chief. She hears him firing orders. They have been accessing Dara bhai’s palaces that are within the Agra Fort and even those outside, she has heard. Countless trunks filled with his wealth are already on their way to Dilli.

  The serdab, underground vaults built under the pavilion for the royal seraglio, are silent. Her aunts, sisters-in-laws, ladies-in-waiting, slave girls, concubines and courtesans living in the harem mourn. The underground passages that join the quarters of the royal ladies are empty. She walks across them and feels several pairs of eyes watching her through slits of the windows. She knows that the women here are desperately bored and live on hearsay. They pounce on any shred of gossip like jackals on a bloody carcass.

  Jahanara ignores their gazes and walks along the garden, the Angoori Bagh. She climbs the stairs of her Mahal to enter the extravagantly decorated foyer of her apartment. Two enormous chandeliers float in mid-air. Hundreds of tiny lamps burn in them, protected by small glass shades. Pale silk curtains billow inwards into her room creating pastel ripples in the air. She looks at a painting hung on the wall. It is a portrait of her mother. The aging daughter goes close to the painting and peers into her beautiful mother’s eyes. But her mother does not look at her; she seems to stare out, at her own tomb, the Taj Mahal. Tears flood Jahanara’s eyes. She walks mutely towards the balcony that rises above the outer walls. Her eyes wander beyond the luminous Yamuna, beyond the blurring sands, and stop at the Taj Mahal, the mausoleum that houses her mother’s remains. Her ammi jaan is luckier than her abba jaan, the dethroned, heartbroken emperor who is now captive at Musamman Burj, the octagonal tower that overlooks the magnificent tomb. Death has spared her mother from being a witness to despairing tragedies. Jahanara glances at the Yamuna. The river drifts gently, as if grieving over the fate of the royal family.

  ‘He will not stop; he will keep flogging the shadows, forever, till they come alive with pain, and he will burn everyone around him till their ashes become mere dust,’ Jahanara whispers to herself. She has understood that it is impossible to hate anyone in the world the way Aurangzeb despises anyone who stands between him and the throne, including those he suspects. No one and nothing is spared, even the dead.

  The previous day was the darkest day of her life. A coffin engraved with holy text and sealed with wooden bars had arrived from Dilli. It was taken to the dethroned emperor and opened, while all in the chamber stood weak with dread. They had a faint inkling what the coffin contained and hoped that their guess was wrong. As the slaves dislodged the nails of the bars with hammers and finally opened its lid, the smell of death filled the corridors of Musamman Burj. Her beloved brother, her own flesh and blood, the son of this fort, Dara bhai, lay in the coffin, his matted hair covering his face and shackles still grasping his body. His eyes were wide open and looked glassy. She had glanced at her father. Yellowish green bile had streamed down from the corner of the dethroned emperor’s mouth. He had started flapping his hands like the wings of an injured bird and had started choking. At that very moment she had looked at the distant marble mausoleum, the Taj Mahal, the iconic monument of love between her parents! Just a blur at first, it had then broken into millions of fragments. The fragments had flown gradually into the space above and looked like a cloud of marauding locusts. The marble cenotaph of her mother had gone missing, and Jahanara could see her mother’s body. It had shuddered violently. The lonely minarets had suddenly appeared like four venomous fangs guarding her mother’s mortal remains. Then, it was just darkness. She had fainted and remained so till the evening. When she had awakened and gathered her wits, words of the famous Sufi poet Amir Khusrau who lived centuries ago had sloshed in her mind. ‘Even an infidel will not do what you have done. Is it halal to break someone’s heart the way you have broken mine? Is it allowed by Islam?’

  Late at night she scribbles in her diary,

  I have survived the fire, to face something far worse. How many will die a brutal death, how many will turn into miserable spirits and how many will burn in hell under my family’s curse?

  3

  Bokil’s sleep is disturbed by the incessant cries of an infant. He is at Krishnaji’s house at Wai. Six days and six nights have gone by waiting for Afzal Khan to summon him for a meeting. It is early in the morning and his bath time. He goes to the backyard. Someone has already filled the buckets of water and kept them near the well. A round brass pot floats in one of the buckets. He gingerly pours cold water over his head. It is icy, making him cringe and shiver. What bothers him more is that Raja has chosen him to tackle the mighty khan. He goes through his strengths just to feel assured—he can analyse other people’s thoughts, and stay calm in situations that infuriate others; he can be firm when pushed to the brink. Also, the Bhosale family has known him for years. He has been in the services of Raja Shivaji’s father since even before Raja was born. He is a man who likes to keep a low profile. Almost retired, all he does is to occasionally help muzumdar Niloji Sondev, the financial adviser, and surnis Annaji Datto, the man responsible for revenue and expenditure. But now his master has placed on his shoulders the task to deal with Afzal Khan and his snobbish vakeel Krishnaji.

  Back in his room he sits on the floor to meditate, placing his right foot on the left thigh and left foot on the right one—the padmasana. He shuts his eyes and tries to clear his head of thoughts, to reach the blank space in his mind where thoughts, reflections, estimates, planning, questions and answers do not intrude. It is his private domain.

  An hour later, he descends from his room, with a silk shawl thrown over his shoulders. Seeing no one in the front yard, he decides to take a walk. It is still early, and the streets of Wai are empty. He is determined to do that which he has not done in the past few days: see the camp. After a few hundred guj of brisk walk, the banks of the river Krishna unfold before him. The stone steps leading to the water are polished, flat and wide. The skyline is filled with spires of temples, built with black stones, the reflections of which shimmer in the gentle waters of the river. He walks downstream, and hears horses neighing, elephants trumpeting and men shouting. He quickly climbs a small hill to investigate. The vast ground is covered with rows of elephants, horses, oxen and camels. An army of slaves wash, tether and feed the beasts of war and burden. The stench of the droppings makes the Brahmin cover his nose with his hands. He turns back and notices Krishnaji running towards him.

  ‘The general has granted you an audience—tomorrow at noon.’

  Relief surges through Bokil’s body. These six days and six nights have finally been rewarded.
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  The next day, Krishnaji leads Bokil through the lanes of the Brahmin gully floored with irregular stone tiles. Wai is a typical Marathi town. The localities are segregated according to the castes. The houses are huddled together. But one can see only bare walls and the wooden doors embellished with iron spikes or rings. Most of the doors are shut. The vakeels enter a narrow path, a lohaar gully lined with small brick houses. A few blacksmiths are busy either hammering iron or pumping their bellows to warm their forges. They enter a path that runs between the river and the sugar cane fields. Beyond the fields, a little away from the river, Bokil notices a large fortress rising in front of him, close to the banks of the river.

  ‘That is Afzal Khan Sahib’s residence,’ says Krishnaji, speaking for the first time. Despite the fact that he is prepared for the meeting, a shiver runs down Bokil’s spine. He tries to calm his mind and continues taking deep breaths till they reach a huge gate. A few guards stand chewing betel leaves, their lips red with the betel paste. They do not glance at the vakeels.

  This is where I will meet Afzal Khan face-to-face, guesses Bokil. The entrance is not bolted and Krishnaji pushes it open, inviting his guest into the courtyard. Beyond the door stands a massive stone mansion, and a few steps take one to a many-pillared patio. On either side of the steps, two fountains spray jets of water in circular stone tubs. On the patio, a few swordsmen stand as guards, watching the visitors. The duo first enters an antechamber and then a large, pillared foyer.

  At the far end a few people have gathered around a gilded chair taken up by an enormous man, who seated seems as tall as the men standing around him. Someone announces their arrival: ‘Khan Sahib, Shiva’s vakeel is here.’

  The huge man darts a look at Bokil.

  Afzal speaks in Urdu that is laced with a Deccani accent. In the quiet room, his voice booms, ‘Where is your Shiva hiding?’

  At once everybody’s attention shifts to Bokil. He moves forward as men around the general make way for him. They watch him as he kneels, untying something from his shawl and placing it near the Khan’s feet. When he straightens up, he sees a servant in a black tunic picking the gift and handing it over to the general.

  A bejewelled dagger is a mark of the highest regard. It is given to honour a warrior, in recognition of his valour. A dagger can thrust, stab, penetrate and pierce. A gift such as this one inflates someone’s ego. The dagger has a sharp and shining blade made of steel. The blade is firmly fixed in a jade hilt embellished with decorative designs. So intricate is the work that a look at the hilt will convince a connoisseur that the dagger is not an ordinary one.

  Afzal rises from his seat with the dagger in his hands. He is a keen collector of weapons. Bokil stares at the general in astonishment as his headgear almost touches the wooden beams of the ceiling. He feels like a midget. The general curls his upper lip and scrutinizes his gift. Without removing his eyes from its hilt he says, ‘Stolen, huh?’

  Some chuckle, while others sneer.

  ‘Maybe ours, taken after seizing our valley,’ a fat man standing behind the general suddenly declares, his voice full of hatred.

  ‘Hmm . . . is that so, Prataprao? Did this really belong to your brother, Chandrarao?’ asks Afzal absent-mindedly.

  ‘Here is a letter from Raja Shivaji, my esteemed general,’ says Bokil, trying to draw Afzal Khan’s attention to business.

  For the first time, Afzal bothers to, literally, look down at Bokil. He smiles indulgently, takes the letter and hands it over to Krishnaji, who first fumbles and then reads it out like a pupil duly reading out text after being admonished by his teacher:

  You, the general of Adilshahi, who has defeated the mighty kings of Karnataka and dealt with the rampaging armies of the Mughals, must know that it is our privilege to meet you. It is our fortune that you have come to bless us. Your bravery can only be compared to fire that has the power to destroy everything. We humbly invite you to the valley, the region that will soon be yours. We do not fear the kings or even the emperors. We fear you, for men like you make them. Please come and claim your terrain. Kindly bring your army along, for we have no deceit in our heart. It is our responsibility to look after them. Please enjoy our hospitality that includes food, water, shelter, firewood and servants. After all, those too will soon be yours.

  Bokil watches Afzal, who has gone back to his gilded chair, from the corner of his eyes. The vakeel suspects that Afzal is letting the silence grow in the chamber on purpose, waiting for him to say something. The general’s minions too wait with bated breath, ready to react according to their master’s inclinations.

  Afzal is visibly irritated. His vakeel should have managed to bring the rebel to Wai. He clears his throat, shifts his gaze to Shivaji’s vakeel and asks harshly, ‘Who killed Chandrarao Morey?’

  Bokil knows that he must speak the truth.

  ‘Raghunath Korde,’ he answers calmly and wants to ask. Who killed Kasturiranga?

  ‘Who gave the orders?’

  ‘Raja Shivaji Bhosale.’

  ‘He killed my brother by deceit,’ Prataprao shouts, thrashing his right hand in the air.

  ‘And you want me to trust Shiva and come to Jawali?’ the general sneers.

  Bokil takes some deep breaths. What he will say now will lead to his success or failure. He must, without wavering or blinking, look straight into Afzal’s eyes.

  ‘By God Shiva, forgive me for being truthful. For a hundred long years, the Moreys had occupied the valley and amassed wealth through land revenue and road taxes. The benevolent kings of Adilshahi had never asked for any kind of explanation. You, the esteemed general, had been busy either defending or expanding the northern and southern borders of the Adilshahi, while the Moreys had been filling their coffers without paying any revenue to the king. When we opened their vaults, we found trunks stuffed with gold and silver.’

  Bokil waits to breathe. Krishnaji is shocked. This ordinary vakeel of Shivaji can twist and turn a story well, very well indeed.

  Prataprao Morey fidgets behind the general.

  ‘A man of your years and wisdom should know that Shivaji Bhosale has not paid a dime to us either,’ says Afzal, cutting off Bokil’s argument with a blank face.

  ‘By God Shiva, the esteemed general knows that Raja Shivaji’s jagir was destroyed by the allied forces of the empire and the Adilshahi kingdom. The peasants had fled. Thorny babul had invaded the soil where millets had once grown. During the same period, a famine ravaged the region for three long years. It has taken us years to gather the absconding peasants to till the land. Only recently, after taking over Jawali and parts of north Konkan, have the lands under Raja Shivaji started generating good revenue. He is keen to surrender his terrain at your feet.’

  Not a word from Bokil sounds untrue.

  ‘Shiva Bhosale has turned the hill forts of the region into his military strongholds.’

  ‘I am glad that the wise general has brought this up. It is time to speak without fear. The fort commanders appointed by Adilshahi rulers had turned these military strongholds into brothels or gambling dens. While the late king, the benevolent Mohammed Adil Shah, had lain in bed, while you had fought battles at the Adilshahi’s north and south borders, the erstwhile wazir Khan Mohammad neglected the sultanate. All we did was to throw those pimps out and repair the forts to prevent structural damage.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Afzal regards Bokil for a while. The short, frail, old, toothless and naive looking vakeel is shrewd; he has anticipated these questions and is doling out well-rehearsed answers. He must be thrown off his guard. Afzal suddenly asks, ‘Why did Shiva attack Muse Khan at Purandar ten years ago?’

  Bokil does not blink but just clears his throat before speaking. ‘Muse Khan had come marching to attack. No talks or conciliation were considered. You are the first person who has hinted at the avenues of negotiations.’

  ‘Shiva Bhosale plundered our subhedar’s caravan and had taken Kalyan pretending to be the Mughal subhedar. He has even seized all t
he forts of north Konkan. Now do not give reasons saying that it was done for some greater good.’

  Bokil does not wait to answer. ‘It was indeed a grave mistake. Then again, we had information that Mullah Ahmed was defecting. He had plans to run away with the treasure and join the Mughal. Where is Mullah Ahmed now?’

  Afzal smiles for the first time. Bokil realizes that the bull-necked man with beady eyes does have a charming smile that can disarm the other person.

  Mullah Ahmed and his family have recently gone to Aurangabad. Mullah’s son is now a Mughal mansabdar of five thousand horses.

  Bokil does not give in to the temptation and does not smile back. That would mean that he is just spinning a yarn knowing well that Mullah Ahmed has recently defected. Keeping a worried face, he rattles, ‘General, please put an end to this. My young raja is now ready to surrender. He trusts you. Please do not delay your decision. Raja Shivaji is remorseful and depressed. If he gives up the hope of your pardon, he may just become desperate and disappear into one of those hills. It will mean war, a loss of life, property and time. And then you may not find him, ever.’

  Afzal knows how perilous the valley is, a perfect hiding place for a rebel.

  ‘Why can’t Shiva Bhosale come here, to Wai? What is he so afraid of?’ Afzal asks.

  ‘There is a simple answer to that. Raja Shivaji is terrified of you, not because he thinks you will harm him, but because he has no moral courage to face you. We may debate on this for hours, but the truth is that he will not venture out of the valley.’ Bokil is resolute.

  ‘He must know that I am like an uncle to him, his chachaji. Since his father and I have fought many battles together, I consider Shiva my nephew.’ Afzal’s voice is tender and his eyes soft. Some of his men, including Krishnaji, nod vigorously.