Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  The men’s faces darken in their gloom, their eyes shy away the shadows of anxiety and their jaws tighten with anticipation. Then they hear something that makes them rouse with optimism. Their leader’s words fall like sparks of hope on them. ‘I had a celestial vision. She showed her divine self to me . . .’

  ‘Who?’ they ask in chorus.

  ‘Tuljapur Bhavani,’ says Shivaji, as his eyes stare into the nothingness beyond the assembly. ‘It was an experience, outstanding and mesmerizing. It was akin to witnessing a million lamps floating in the sky, or listening to a million bells tolling at once. I felt as if my mind was empty of desires and my soul full of yearning. Bhavani, the giver of life, the source of primal energy, had come with a message. She had shed the tears of red embers. The self-manifested Shiva-lingam in her crown had sparkled like a diamond. Her lion had roared angrily. She, the ferocious avatar of Parvati, had the fire of rage in her eyes, but I could also see shades of compassion in them. Each of her eight hands had held a weapon. A quiver full of arrows was tied to her back, a large bow thrown on her shoulders. “Swaraj is His wish,” I heard her say.’

  His words have infused valour in their minds and lit their souls. The potential energy has transformed itself into a kinetic power that pounds everyone’s hearts.

  5

  The fort shimmers in the clear sunlight. While the gigantic cliffs and their vertical drops of the western and northern side of the fort seem nonchalant, the eastern and southern slopes, despite being defended by towers and bastions, look vulnerable. Raja Shivaji is in his private quarters in the upper fort, dressing up for the event. The general has come to Jawali, making his intentions clear. Afzal wants to either take him as a captive to the Bijapur court or present his head as proof and trophy. The very nature of the mission calls for treachery, cunning, slyness and fraudulence.

  Shivaji puts on a jacket made of steel mesh and then his usual, long-sleeved silk robe, long enough to reach his knees over a pair of tight breeches. A servant rushes in with a metal helmet and places it on his head; a saffron turban with pearl strings hides the head armour. The servant ties a sash over his robe. Shivaji turns towards a small wooden desk and picks up a metal instrument. It is a concealable weapon called the baghnach. This ‘tiger’s claw’ is an iron bar with two rings at the edges, studded with diamonds and rubies to resemble finger rings. He slips his index and the last, small finger of his left hand into them, and opens his palm to look. Four curved, pointed blades affixed to the crossbar unfold before him like an extension of his body. He feels like a tiger with claws, or a bird with talons. He smiles to himself. There is another object on the wooden desk. It is a bichwa, a scorpion dagger with a blade that looks like a large stinger of a scorpion. He gently picks it up and tucks it under his left sleeve. Before leaving his quarters, Shivaji glides the blade of his dhop sword into the scabbard and grits it on his waistband.

  ‘Now everything is in God Shiva’s hands. The rudra tandava is about to begin.’

  At the foothills, Bokil, nervous and irritable, has reached the camp along with several local men. It is a bright and clear day and the recent monsoons have turned the surrounding valley into a lush green carpet. Several carts carrying fruits, vegetables and meat roll down the tracks from the west. A group of tribal women carrying firewood bundles on their heads scamper towards the north end of the camp. Afzal’s men look relaxed, some are even busy playing dice. For them the battle is over now that they have reached Jawali. They have won, their general is already a victor. Bokil glances at the stables, the horses are not saddled and the elephants wander around near the edge of the camp, feasting on bamboos.

  The vakeel’s eyes search for the main guest who is attired in a light-green silk jama with gold brocade and a glittering zari sash. The general’s kimoush turban is white in colour, embellished with tiny diamonds and a single topaz. Even his leather sandals sparkle with precious stones. Ten armed guards wait behind him. Bokil recognizes only two of them—one is Sayed Banda and the other is Rahim, Afzal’s nephew who he had seen in Wai. Krishnaji stands to the general’s right, a large scabbard girded to his belt. Before Bokil can bow, the general slinks into his palanquin. Nobody speaks a word as they move towards Sonpar. But Bokil, who walks along with Krishnaji behind the general’s palanquin, feels edgy. Something is amiss and it makes him glance behind him. A squadron of armed men, with swords, shields, quivers and bows follow them, soft-footed and silent.

  This was not to be.

  Bokil feels cheated but lets it pass. As they move silently, he contemplates that such a number of armed men around the meeting place would breed trouble for them. He looks at the hill where the gold pinnacle at the top of the shamiana dazzles in the morning sunlight. Gentle mountain breeze flutters the textile panels, lending a magical quality to it all. He glances ahead: they are at the edge of Sonpar now. They cross the village and enter into a ditch. The shamiana is not visible from this place. The hill blocks the view. He glances back; the camp too is out of sight. Soon they will climb the hill to reach the shamiana. It will not be safe to allow these soldiers to go ahead. He looks at Krishnaji and says, ‘By God Shiva, how many armed men are following us? Is it more than a thousand? They will have to wait here. If you insist, Raja Shivaji will vanish in the labyrinth of this valley for sure.’

  Krishnaji is startled, but instead of being apologetic he sniggers.

  Bokil points at a few men in loincloths hovering at the foothills and says, ‘Look at those men. They may wear just a grubby loincloth, but they are the famous rock-climbers of the area. They will take very little time to reach the fort to warn Raja Shivaji.’ His eyes are cold.

  Krishnaji jerks his head to spit out betel pulp as a mark of his anger and disregard, and rushes towards Afzal’s palanquin. Bokil waits as an excited Krishnaji says something to his master and returns with a grim face, nodding his head in utter disbelief. ‘The armed squadron will wait here.’

  On his way out, Shivaji looks at the main entrance of the fort flanked by the majestic bastions. The thought that it might be the last time that he sees the gates cuts through his mind. He quickly dismisses it. He travels on his palanquin, his ten guards following him on foot. As they near the shamiana, he notices Bokil walking briskly towards him. There is something serious on Bokil’s mind. Shivaji waits inside his palanquin till his vakeel comes near.

  Bokil speaks quickly and urgently, ‘The bad news is that Afzal’s contingent of one thousand armed men waits near Sonpar. The good news is that the general has reached and seems pleased.’ He takes a few deep breaths and announces, ‘Sayed Banda is still inside.’

  Shivaji looks at the shamiana where they have to meet. It looks like destiny’s indifferent hand, stern and uncaring. Beyond the shamiana is the impassive valley, deep and deadly. Behind him stands the fort, helpless and mute. To enter the shamiana, one has to cross a natural but narrow mud bridge with a steep drop on either side. There are no escape routes, for anyone. The mountain stands chill and aloof, the atmosphere silent and unmoved.

  ‘Tell him if he wants this meeting to take place, Sayed should leave,’ says Shivaji in a low voice without coming out of his palanquin. Bokil nods and leaves.

  ‘As per the agreement, only Krishnaji and I stay,’ Bokil declares to the general. ‘If Sayed remains inside, the meeting will be cancelled.’

  Afzal waves his hand signalling the guard to leave. It is after several months, long journeys, heavy loss of men and animals in the mountains and millions of moments of anguish and anticipation that he has finally managed to make it to his destination. He will not let it go. Plus, he has nothing to fear. His enemies do.

  Shivaji watches Sayed leave, his steps heavy and reluctant. The muscular man with a strong jawline wears a metal helmet and vest armour. His eyes bore into Shivaji who watches till the man is outside the tent. Shivaji glances at his two guards: Mahale’s eyes are fixed on Sayed, Sambhaji Kavji stares blankly at the sky, Ibrahim seems alert and others have kept their eyes on t
he shamiana. It is time to go inside. He alights from his palanquin and moves towards the venue. Bokil is back at the entrance. Shivaji removes his sword tucked in his belt and hands it over to his vakeel. Then he climbs the steps into the tent.

  Afzal sits on the divan, his back resting on the soft silk cushions, his roving eyes full of admiration and envy as they take in the silk panels embellished with pearls, the large silver urns and the Persian carpets. A dais with steps has been built to honour him. When Shivaji reaches the edge of the dais, he notices the general’s sword lying next to him. Krishnaji stands at his master’s right with a large scabbard girded to his belt.

  Moments slip by stealthily. Then, like a prowling tiger coming out in the open, the general rises to his feet. Only when Afzal stands does Shivaji realize how huge his guest is. He has to throw his head back to look at the general’s face. A bulkily coiled kimoush turban makes him look taller. He has a rugged face with beady eyes and an enormous beard that crawls to his chest.

  Afzal stares down at the rebel, an impeccably attired young man. His face instantly reminds him of Shahji Bhosale—the same brown eyes, the aquiline nose, the moustache and the trimmed beard. Shiva stands there, with folded hands, an impish, charming smile playing on his lips.

  As his temper rises, Afzal thinks, Shackle them, humiliate them, crush them with cannonballs, but the men of the Bhosale family keep bouncing back. Like stubborn weeds, growing at all places, multiplying, invading anything, not allowing the precious to thrive. First there was Shahji who has taken away the rich jagir of Bendakaluru, and now his brazen traitor son who wants to swallow the western regions.

  A stab of jealousy pierces Afzal’s heart, like a hawk dismembering its prey with its talons. He closely scrutinizes Shivaji, his saffron turban laden with pearls, his neat sideburns, the large earrings embellished with rubies, the tear-shaped pearls, his expensive, embroidered clothes and the cashmere shawl. It is Shivaji’s lotus-shaped confident eyes that he hates the most. The fear, the guilt, the humility, the apology, the regret, the remorse that he had to see in them is clearly missing. He is overwhelmed with a revelation he does not anticipate at all. He had been looking forward to meeting a coward, immature Shiva, eager to fall prostrate at his feet, begging and pleading, but he now realizes that his assumptions had been wrong.

  Afzal suddenly feels an impulse to humiliate his enemy. The emotion overtakes his planned civility. His mind spins with the heat of rage and words pop out like kernels, ‘You seem to have looted the sultanate and the empire, you and your criminal banditry. I can see it all over the place.’

  ‘The Almighty alone knows who the bandit is, general. Earlier, the hill forts were occupied by criminals and the land had turned barren. I have brought order to the region. The hill forts are well made up and the land generates revenue,’ says Shivaji softly without taking his eyes off Afzal. He is surprised by his guest’s effeminate voice. This is the man who calls himself the slayer of the kafirs, this is the man who is responsible for my brother’s tragic death in the trenches, this is the man who had invited Kasturiranga, the king of Shirepattan, for a truce and killed him by deceit.

  ‘Let bygones be bygones,’ Afzal says, ‘surrender the region and the forts to me, and come with me to Bijapur.’

  ‘Have you got the king’s farman for me?’ Shivaji asks with scorn. ‘If so, I shall place it on my head and obey you, my general.’

  Krishnaji breaks in, ‘You have come under the protection of Afzal Khan Sahib. Get your offences be pardoned by the general and then expect a king’s farman.’

  Shivaji regards Afzal with intrepid eyes and says, ‘The general and I, we both are the servants of Ali Adil Shah. Who is he to pardon me? It should come from the king!’

  The words seem to sting Afzal. He has been belittled. But he needs to keep his calm. The enemy is not an ordinary coward as he was made to believe. He needs to be careful, and decides to be his gracious self. He fixes his gaze on his host. His upper lip curves for a moment but he says patronizingly, in a soft voice, ‘The king trusts me, and if I pardon you, he too will. I agree with you that we are equal, so we must meet like the equals do. You do not have to be scared.’

  ‘I feel humbled but not scared,’ says Shivaji, bowing to show respect. Not showing any surprise at his enemy’s sudden change of attitude, he continues, ‘I just cannot believe that I am standing here, face-to-face with the Adilshahi general.’

  ‘You seemed eager to wage war with us, you stubborn lad. You are still young and there is enough time for you to redeem yourself. In your youthful arrogance, you have shown disrespect to our king as well as the emperor of Hindustan. I have come to reprimand you as a senior servant of Ali Adil Shah. And you have agreed to surrender your region.’

  ‘I shall certainly surrender all my worldly possessions as agreed before. But do you have the king’s farman for me?’

  The vakeels freeze. Afzal’s face changes rapidly, from rage to disbelief to a smile.

  ‘This element of courage is so rare. The king will be so pleased to meet you. And you can directly surrender to the king. Come, my boy, son of my dear friend Shahji, we are equals and must meet so.’ Saying this, Afzal spreads his enormous arms and starts walking towards Shivaji.

  Bokil stares at Afzal’s agility and notes something sinister in his swagger. Krishnaji too has not expected his master’s quick actions. For a moment, time freezes, as if it is seized by a quick bout of stupor. Shivaji remains rooted but soon finds himself in the firm grip of his guest, his face buried in Afzal’s chest. He feels suffocated by the strong musk perfume the general wears. Within a fraction of time, he finds his neck under his guest’s left armpit. He feels trapped as his right hand dangles aimlessly. The grip is so strong that it is difficult to breathe. Shivaji is sure that if the hold becomes any tighter, he will hear his bones crack. He decides to act with his free left hand. He opens his palm wide and pushes the iron claws inside his enemy’s waist with full force. All four steel edges, pointed and jagged, tear through the layers of Afzal’s skin and muscles, just below the rib cage. It all happens a lot more easily than Shivaji had imagined. Surprisingly, the general wears no armour. With the blades still stuck in the flesh, he twists his palm, moving the blades in a circular motion. He looks up to see the general raise his right hand that holds a jambia dagger, and its shining L-shaped blade comes down on his shoulder. His body shudders with impact, his neck twists, and he sees his headgear fly to the other end of the shamiana. The jambia tears through his jama and slides over his metal armour with a screeching sound.

  The excruciating pain in the right abdomen makes Afzal let go off his enemy. With his free right hand, Shivaji takes out the bichwa tucked in his left sleeve, grits his teeth and impales Afzal Khan’s stomach repeatedly, once twice, thrice, with full force, as his body jerks forward then backward. Afzal looks at his host, his kohl-lined eyes cold and vacant. He lets out a horrendous shriek as a part of his innards hang out from the gaping wound. Unbalanced and swaying, the general staggers towards the entrance, leaving behind a huge trail of blood.

  ‘Haraamzada! Bloody murderer!’ Shivaji hears someone shouting. The trumpets have started blowing as planned, their bellows rising above the screams of the bodyguards. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Sayed bolting into the shamiana, the blade of his pata sword savagely cutting through the air. Shivaji prepares for a lethal blow but notices Mahale leaping in. Mahale’s hand holding a dhop sword moves like a whip and chops Sayed’s hand in mid-air. Bokil moves forward like the hood of a striking snake and hands over the sword to Shivaji. Krishnaji too pulls out his sword.

  ‘You have broken your oath, the oath of a Brahmin!’ screams Afzal’s vakeel.

  ‘By God Shiva, my oath did not include self-defence,’ shouts back Bokil, looking at the raised blade that is about to attack him.

  Shivaji is swift. He strikes at Krishnaji’s throat before his sword can harm Bokil. The Adilshahi vakeel crumples in a heap, his sword falling alongside, blocking
the entrance of the shamiana. Shivaji looks around to find Sayed lying dead, his head rolling on the carpets like a round boulder and Mahale hovering over his slaughtered enemy. The meeting place has turned into a gruesome battlefield in the matter of a few moments. Shivaji dashes out. Afzal still shouts something guttural. The enormous man manages to cram his body into the palanquin. His bearers are quick, they start racing away. Outside, seventeen men are engaged in a violent battle. Shivaji notes that Kavji has slaughtered his opponent and has leapt towards the palanquin. His sword moves faster than a bird of prey, chopping off the legs of the bearers. They fall one after another, wailing with pain and agony. The palanquin crashes down. As Shivaji looks on, Kavji ruthlessly pulls the bleeding Afzal out. His sword moves in forward motion as the Adilshahi general’s head falls on the ground and his body drops on the crashed palanquin, like an uprooted tree.

  Kavji lifts Afzal’s head like a trophy and grins like an insane man. The fort cannon to signal Shivaji’s men who are scattered around have started blasting, its sound infusing an excitement in their blood. Shivaji looks up at the sky and says, ‘Swaraj is His wish!’

  6

  The diwan-e-khaas of the Qila-e-mubarak at Dilli is charged with unseen yet tangible energy. The drums beat to announce the arrival of the new emperor. A hundred eyes are fixed on him, and they are filled with reverence, worship and fear. Aurangzeb does not bother to look at anyone, he fumes when he enters diwan-e-khaas. He looks at the throne before he climbs the platform stairs—he always does that. It feels good, makes him feel powerful. The takht-e-taus stands on legs made of solid gold, and is covered with an enamelled canopy. The canopy is supported by twelve emerald pillars, each of which bears two peacocks encrusted with gems. Between those dazzling, stately birds stands a tree so laden with diamonds, emeralds and rubies as if the stones are ready to drop like ripe fruit. The pillars are high, almost about eighteen feet in height. The entire structure has twelve sides made with geometrical precision. Parapets enclose the seat from all sides but from the front for the emperor to enter.