Bokil retains his passive expression but allows a shade of regret to float in his eyes. ‘My esteemed general, now that I know that you regard the raja as your nephew, let me tell you something. Knowing the path and walking it are two different things.’
‘What do you mean?’ blurts Krishnaji.
Bokil ignores him and goes on, ‘Raja Shivaji believes all that you have said. Even then it terrifies him to act on his beliefs and come to Wai to pay his respects. He is unable to do what you wish him and what even he wishes to do.’
‘What can we do to make Shiva walk the path?’ Afzal questions, his eyes losing their softness at an alarming rate.
‘By God Shiva, I wish I knew,’ Bokil says sadly, shaking his head with regret.
‘What are the options?’ Krishnaji wants to know, his eyes fixed on Shivaji’s vakeel.
‘The only option is for you to come to the valley, the region that Raja Shivaji is so eager to surrender to you.’
‘How many men are there in Pratapgad?’ asks Afzal.
The wary and reluctant fish is taking the bait.
‘The lower fort may have a few hundred and the upper fort is guarded by not more than a hundred men,’ answers Bokil carefully.
Afzal suddenly throws a question at Bokil as his beady eyes regard the Brahmin.
‘Can you take a sacred oath for our safety?’
‘If only I could get a leaf of papal and some Gangajal, water of Ganga river . . .’ Bokil replies, knowing fully well that an oath of a Brahmin is a line etched by a knife on a rock of black basalt. If they break the oath taken, their seven generations are ordained to burn in hell without any hope of moksha, the cosmic freedom that releases their souls from the vicious circle of life and death. Disregarding an oath is moral treason, and for a Brahmin it is akin to betraying God. A Brahmin has to be sure of what he says before deciding and while taking an oath. If he envisages the opposite while he swears to God, he seals the fate of his soul, the soul that embarks on a sinful, endless voyage from earth to hell and from hell to earth.
Krishnaji looks at his master with admiration. Why couldn’t he think of this earlier?
A servant in a black tunic runs to the courtyard. Shivaji’s vakeel feels the general’s gaze fasten on him, searching his face for clues that will reveal his thoughts.
The servant is back with a leaf and a small brass container of water.
Bokil sits on the floor, his legs once again folded in a padmasana. As Afzal Khan, Krishnaji, Prataprao and others loom over him, he closes his eyes to contemplate. The leaf and the water are kept before him. He takes the leaf in his hand and crushes it as savagely as he can, declaring, ‘God will crush me and my forty-two forefathers if I break my oath taken for the general’s safety when he comes to the valley of Jawali.’ After throwing the crushed leaf on the ground he takes the water container in his left hand and starts reciting a mantra. During the recitation, he pours a bit of water in the cusp of his right hand and swallows it from the base of his thumb. He does it three times, and for the fourth time holds the water in the cusp and declares, ‘I embrace the divine water of the Ganga in my hand. I swear by its divinity that I will be truthful to my oath for as long as I live.’ Then he pours the water on the floor.
It has started pouring outside. ‘Even the Gods agree, even they are pouring the water of my oath,’ he says pointing at the rains.
Silence reigns for a long time.
‘I will think over it,’ declares Afzal finally, wrenching out another dagger from his belt and chafing its blade on the blade of the dagger that has been gifted to him.
The noise of the screeching metal sets Bokil’s toothless gums on edge. He mutters, quivering, ‘I will never break my oath.’
Being a Brahmin himself, Krishnaji is sure of what his counterpart has muttered. A Brahmin will never even contemplate breaching an oath.
‘Betraying you is akin to betraying the emperor now that the peace treaty has been renewed. Raja Shivaji is well aware of this,’ assures Bokil and bows deep for one last time. ‘Sahib, once you decide to come we will clear the mountain path from Wai to Pratapgad, and that is the promise of a Brahmin.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1
Darkness fills the citadel housing the residential quarters of Pratapgad. The world has shrunk and turned into circles of pale light only around the torches. Despite hundreds of men on the fort, a deathly silence reigns. The fragile hush is occasionally broken by the wailing of jackals or screech of an owl, somewhere in the woods of the lower slopes. Shivaji walks along the western ramparts of the Konkan, the vast expanse of which is an abyss of darkness. It has been days since Bokil has returned from Wai but Afzal Khan has not sent any message. Incidentally, something else bothers Shivaji much more. He feels a strange sense of premonition. He paces in a pensive mood, his ears pick up the sound of footsteps. Alert, his hand touches the hilt of his sword, but he knows who, or what, has come.
The messenger from Rajgad informs him that Sayee has passed away.
Shivaji wants to let out an untamed cry, to weep openly, to sob and let out his emotions, but his eyes are dry. He has been expecting the news, but somewhere deep in his heart he has wished for a miracle to happen. He was told of the diagnosis and the prognosis of the disease by the fort medic. It was a secret that he had never told her but suspected she knew. Rajayakshma or tuberculosis, the king of diseases, had devoured her leisurely for two long years. She had already set her death free and now her death had set her free. His heart aches with guilt for not being able to be by her side. The mother of his son has died alone. He wishes her funeral pyre would swallow his memories of her too.
Shivaji was thirteen, wide-eyed. They had just moved into a new home—a large house built with red bricks. He had sprinted through the ground-floor foyer and had climbed the stairs. His friends had followed him in a file. The stairs had opened on to a long corridor, large windows on one side and rooms on the other. They had bounded through the sunlit passage that had a ceiling of massive wooden beams. There was a balcony and he was curious what could be seen from there. He had gazed at the expanse and noticed hills silhouetted against the horizon. Between him and the hills there had flown a winding river, swollen with water.
‘Shiva ba!’ his mother had called him. There was some strange urgency in her voice.
There were people with Ma sahib—a tall man wearing a colourful turban and a woman who was perhaps his wife. As he had come to know later, the man was the jagirdar of Phultan near Jawali. Behind the couple had stood a wiry, dusky girl, seven or eight years old. She was floating in a sari, head covered with her pallu. She had stared at him with big eyes, shadows of anger fleeting across them. A strange smile on his mother’s face had made him uneasy, and what she muttered had embarrassed him. ‘She is Sayee; we have arranged your marriage with her.’
His friends had giggled. This could not be true. He had to do or say something.
He had shot back. ‘I don’t like her, her eyes are like saucers.’ His friends had stopped giggling. Some had even looked at him with respect.
‘And I don’t like him either, his nose is too big,’ he heard Sayee’s clear and fearless voice for the first time.
The old memories have already started haunting him. He walks back to his quarters leaving the messenger. A few oil lamps burn mutely, and the shadows of flames dance on the ceiling, looking like beasts of sorrow—sorrow that mottles his throat, threatening the choking sobs to break free. Keeping his sword away he slumps on the bed, hides his head in his hands and shudders with sobs. He lies there hurting, waiting for the night to slip away until he can hear the temple bells of the morning worship. As the sky beyond the windows turns pale, he pulls himself out of his bed. He moves towards the entrance and then to the steps that take him to the lower fort. He rubs his eyes that still sting, and glances at the lower fort. He narrows his eyes to focus and notices a fort guard run towards him.
‘News has come. Afzal Khan has decided to come
to the valley,’ says the informer, panting with excitement.
Shivaji buries his sorrow deep in his heart. He is expecting people to arrive from Hirdas Maval. It is only at noontime that the visitors arrive. When Shivaji enters the sadar, he sees an old man with a white beard standing near the door along with his five sons. His eyes shine with tears when he bows deep.
The man and his sons gather around Shivaji as he sits on the divan.
‘Raja, we have heard the news,’ the old man whispers. Shivaji sadly waves his hand to stop the visitor from talking about Sayee. He does not want to break down. This is no time.
‘Kanhoji, you have received a threatening letter from Afzal Khan. But you have come to me. If I lose the battle, you will lose everything too, your watan and your family. There is still time. Go to Afzal Khan, help him.’
The old man’s eyes fill with tears. He says in a quivering voice, ‘Raja, it is not about my watan or my family; it is about saving my soul. You fight for our freedom. I place my watan at your feet. We are ready to die for your cause.’
‘Are you sure?’ Shivaji asks bitterly. ‘Your neighbours, deshmukhs like Khandoji Khopade, Utravalikar, Kedarji and Jagdale, have gone to Afzal Khan. If he wins, these men will be rewarded with titles, military posts and bigger watans.’
Kanhoji bows deep and whispers, ‘They have gone, that is their karma. I have come to you along with the Silimkars, Pasalkars and other deshmukhs. I have told them that Afzal Khan is deceitful; once his objective is accomplished he will ruin us all. While the Maratha kingdom is ours, it is our swaraj.’
2
Something is afoot inside Afzal’s fortress in Wai. People have gathered in the main foyer. They are worried; some are angry with their general’s decision. His most trusted men, son Fazal, vakeel Krishnaji, the late general’s older son Ranadulla, chief guard Sayed Banda, officers Yakut and Mambaji Bhosale, Shivaji’s father’s first cousin, stand around his chair. When Afzal had left Bijapur, he had had strategies and tactics in mind. Those had worked with the Hindu kings of Karnataka. Kafir men of power had a weakness, they could either be subdued with fear or provoked to turn hostile. But Karnataka was a different region. It was not hilly and there Afzal could confront the enemy who refused to meet him.
Shiva could not be provoked.
The mere sight of his enormous cavalcade of ten thousand horsemen, an equal number of footmen, five thousand artillerymen, a thousand camels, a hundred elephants and five hundred cannons on wheels, thousands of beasts of burden, countless slaves, women, traders and hangers-on has already struck terror in the hearts of people. His bards have done the rest. They have gone from village to village and sung hoarsely, exaggerating his and his army’s strength. When some of the deshmukhs from Shivaji’s jagir had meekly come to him, he had accepted them graciously. He had moved leisurely through the terrain, camped near the famous temples, threatened the priests and forced them to part with wealth from their treasuries. But kafir Shiva had refused to be provoked as he had hoped. Shiva’s wife’s brother, the jagirdar of Phultan, was captured and circumcised. Even that had failed to infuse rage in Shiva’s heart. Raiding some of Shiva’s territories, random killings of villagers, nothing had worked to bring the coward out in the open. That is when Afzal Khan was forced to think about new battle tactics.
The new emperor, Aurangzeb, wants Shiva’s territories in exchange for peace in the region. Afzal’s king is clear: he wants Shiva, dead or alive. And he, Afzal, has decided that the hunter and the beast ought to meet. It has become imperative to seek the alpha wolf, because the beast with his pack cunningly avoids the hunter. The hunter has to seek, even if that means walking into the den of the wolves in the dangerous hills.
Besides, the king and the Badi Sahiba are getting impatient now. It has been six months since he has left Bijapur. More than a million rupees have already been spent on this expedition: the heavy salaries of royal cavalrymen, bribes given to the Maratha landlords, food and fodder needed to feed twenty-five thousand men and thousands of war animals. There is another problem. Kanhoji Jedhe, despite dire threats, has decided to help Shiva Bhosale and has convinced several deshmukhs from Maval to join the rebel. Their infantries are trained to fight in the mountains. It is a great loss indeed. Further delay may mean more deshmukhs joining hands with the enemy, albeit not openly!
‘Sahib, isn’t there any other way?’ Sayed, standing to Afzal’s left, leans forward to be properly heard.
‘Sayed, you should be the last person to be wary,’ thunders Afzal.
‘Sahib, you think I am scared?’
‘Are you not?’ Afzal sounds angry, but the next moment he modulates his voice to the mournful tone of a man who has been sinned against, ‘What is wrong with all of you?’
‘Father, we are all concerned about your safety,’ declares Fazal whose cherubic face has darkened considerably with exposure to the sun.
Afzal regards his twenty-year-old son with dismay. The boy is a good horse rider and has learnt sword fighting from famous masters but has grown up in the safe confines of palaces. He is yet to rise to the harsh realities of life. ‘Jawali is not as dangerous as we think,’ says Prataprao Morey, speaking for the first time, and waits for a glance or a nod.
‘Say what is on your mind,’ replies Afzal.
Prataprao curls his moustache nervously and rattles, ‘I know every corner of the valley. With our mighty army, what harm can befall us?’
‘It is not about Jawali, it is about Shiva Bhosale. My nephew is a dangerous man, just like his father. They say one thing and do the other,’ Mambaji Bhosale objects to Prataprao Morey’s statement while blotting his face with his shawl.
Afzal looks at the aging Maratha for a while and says, ‘Can someone give me a solution? Will Shiva come to Wai?’
‘That is unlikely,’ Krishnaji declares.
‘Shiva has twenty-five of our hill forts. He has repaired and equipped them with garrisons, explosives, food and water. Those military strongholds were once manned by our men who had adorned them with wine jars and nautch girls. Shiva may have removed our imprudent fort-keepers by sweet talk, bribes and threats. It is not easy to face a man in the hills who has some magnificent hill forts, and is unwilling to meet us on a plateau. Ten years ago, we had tried fighting him at Purandar Fort when our warrior Muse Khan was killed.’
The men around Afzal are at a loss.
He waves his hand and continues. ‘Months may pass before we seize just one of our own hill forts. We will need massive preparations for laying siege. We have an option to destroy Shiva’s terrain and lay bare the villages. But what will we achieve? People will hate our new king. Shiva will still have his hill forts. His garrisons will launch fresh attacks on us. And even if we win, the emperor will be displeased when he receives a ransacked terrain. Now, Shiva has said that he is ready to surrender all he owns at our feet. Tell me what we must do next. How do we deal with such a man without meeting him?’
‘We can once again try forcing Shiva to come to Wai. There must be some way we can do it,’ says Sayed, sounding enthusiastic.
Krishnaji fidgets, his face turns red. Sayed’s words imply that he has not tried earnestly. But Afzal Khan thinks of something else. The face of the blind Sufi saint floats in his mind and his words ring in his ears. ‘Son, do not go,’ he had said, ‘for in my vision your body has been severed from your head.’
‘Shiva will not surface, he will drag on. He is not in a hurry, we are,’ grunts Afzal, barely suppressing his anger. He has managed to steer his thoughts away from the Sufi saint and towards the court politics of Bijapur. He has heard that the new wazir, Khavas Khan, hovers around the king. Afzal is sure that the wazir wants him to fail. If he dies, Khavas Khan will rule unhindered from behind the throne. If he wins, he, Afzal Khan, will be the wazir, the most powerful amongst the Adilshahi noblemen.
Afzal once again searches his mind to check if he has missed anything. He is going with an army which will not be raided during the difficult
journey. Shiva’s vakeel has taken an oath. He will be safe till he reaches Pratapgad. A slight smile appears on his grave face. His councillors watch him, tense and anxious. Shiva will come and visit him in his camp. That is the moment for which he will be prepared.
Afzal shuts his eyes, ‘Inshallah, everything will go well.’ He opens his eyes and speaks tersely, ‘As decided, we leave for Jawali within a week.’ The old memories and ancient hate have started bubbling in him. He was successful in killing Shahji Bhosale’s first son, Sambhaji.
‘What if we wait for some more time?’ Fazal suggests.
Afzal Khan smiles, a hint of pity in his eyes. What does his son know about court politics? He has promised the king to bring Shiva to the court, dead or alive. Ali Adil Shah already knows that Shiva has agreed to surrender. If he delays further and avoids going to Jawali, it will look like he is being bribed. Questions will be asked, and rumours will start flying in the court corridors.
‘There are ample opportunities to ambush us,’ Fazal persists.
‘You are scared like a woman. Wear bangles,’ Afzal wants to say to his son, but he resists. ‘We will do as decided,’ he dismisses the meeting. There is no further talk on the subject. The general has decided to take half his army with him and the rest to stay at Wai. Camels will be left behind, but some war elephants will enter the valley.
The day of departure does not bring the usual excitement as many of Afzal Khan’s officers remain glum. Their long march through the steady climb to reach the wooded highland of Mahabaleshwar Plateau takes a full day. Afzal sits on a silver howdah on the back of an elephant, but soon takes to a horse. From east to west, they have to travel through ghats in the mountains, some suspended a few hundred guj above the surrounding valley. One small mistake, a slip of a foot or dislodging of a stone is enough for men and animals to disappear into the abyss. It is a steep, upward climb. The elephants struggle ahead in order to clear the way for the rest of the army. As the animals stagger through the dense woods, their bodies scrape against tree trunks, their thick hides are lacerated and they bleed. When they step on softer soil, they dislodge massive boulders. The rocks tumble down the slopes and crash on the slaves plodding along below with the luggage.
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