CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
1
It is a pleasant winter evening and shimmering beams of the last sunrays cut through the canopies looming over the undergrowth of shrubs. Shaista Khan, the newly appointed subhedar of the Deccan and the military general of war against Shivaji, has been given the responsibility of opening offensives, with a single aim: while Shivaji is chased and either caught or killed in the Adilshahi sultanate, Shaista Khan must take over his terrain.
The animals in his camp have gone quiet and he no longer hears their neighing, trumpeting or mooing. That means that several thousand horses, four hundred elephants, a hundred camels and countless cattle in makeshift stables at the southern edge of the camp near Ahmednagar are busy with their evening feed. The camp has more than a hundred thousand people, including soldiers, servants, family women, maids, eunuchs, courtesans and the children. They too must be settling down for another night in the forest.
Shaista likes the solitude of this hour that has become so hard to come by. Finally, he opens the epistle for the hundredth time, after he received it a month ago and holds it very close to his eyes. The message is short and crisp:
The searcher of the heart is my witness. I trust you above all, as was proved when I nominated you to use my signet ring when and if I am indisposed. I need to be in Dilli. Shuja bhai and Suleiman are still at large, and hence, as the subhedar of the Mughal-occupied Deccan, the responsibility of eliminating Shiva rests on your able shoulders. Start now from Aurangabad and move southwards. The Marathas are busy taking Adilshahi posts and, as you must now be aware, Ali Adil Shah is appointing one African warrior, Siddi Jauhar, to take care of them. You might be able to enter Shiva’s region without resistance as Shiva neither has the manpower nor the resources to fight on two fronts. Lay bare his villages, burn every house down to ashes, seize his forts and take his family as captives. You have under your command a cavalry of seventy-seven thousand horses and four hundred elephants, a hundred camels carrying guns and a specially selected quality infantry of thirty thousand footmen. You have sixty-eight senior mansabdars to obey your command and guide the army. Twenty-nine among them are Muslim Turk, Central Asian, African, Afghan and Persian, and the remaining thirty-nine are Hindus.
The letter is not just an ordinary message; it is a farman from the new emperor, his favourite nephew, Aurangzeb. Shaista Khan has a plan, a superb plan, for the tiny country of the infidel. The Pune region is the heart of Shiva’s jagir, to its north is Chakan region; to its west is the hilly Maval, to its south-east, the Supe and Indapur regions. The main hill forts of Rajgad, Torana, Kondana and Purandar loom over the south-eastern and south-western horizons of Pune. Shaista Khan’s strategy is simple: after crossing the river Bhima, once they enter the Bhosale jagir, he will steer his mile-long military cavalcade to the town of Baramati between Indapur and Supe. Once the villages in those areas are laid bare, he will head for Shirwal, west of Baramati, and then north, taking the path between the hill forts of Rajgad and Purandar that will eventually lead him to Pune. It is akin to digging the entire region with huge ploughshares, dislodging villages and towns as though they are weeds or matted roots. Shivaji, if he does escape the clutches of the African warrior Siddi Jauhar appointed by the Adilshahi king, will have no country to come back to.
That ‘if’ is, however, a big concern. Shaista Khan does not think highly of Ali Adil Shah. So sure was the king of Afzal Khan’s victory that he had not bothered to maintain the forts that protected his kingdom. The forts neither had strong fort commanders nor was there a contingent of fort soldiers. Shaista Khan has heard that after Shivaji’s men had surrounded the Panhala Fort, the fort commander had immediately communicated with him and eagerly showed his intentions to surrender without bloodshed. After the fall of Panhala, Shivaji had ordered his men to take over the rest of the hill forts near Kolhapur, thus establishing his control on the upper courses of the river Krishna.
That was indeed a worrying fact.
2
The north-western skies are tinged with violet and orange, and against the backdrop of the colourful sky, the enormous mass of Masai Rock and its tablelands rising over the plains look threatening. Shivaji needs to think about the future that seems even more rigid than the edges of Masai tablelands and its barren slopes disappearing into the valleys. Before they were trapped at Panhala, Shivaji had received a very disturbing news about Shaista Khan’s massive army advancing towards his jagir.
Has he done the right thing by leading his eight thousand men, mostly from the infantry, from Miraj to Panhala Fort? Should he have taken his men and returned home to Rajgad Fort? What would have probably happened had he gone to Rajgad? The answer is simple: Siddi Jauhar and his army would have come chasing after him. It would have been disastrous, what with Jauhar arriving with his army and Shaista Khan with his at the foothills of Rajgad. But there are dangers in the decision he has taken!
‘They have started building mud hovels out there,’ Baji’s words break Shivaji’s thoughts. He turns around to face Baji and Trimbak Dabir, the newly appointed commander of Panhala Fort. The men look as if they have guessed their future, their faces darkened with suntan as well as worry.
They know it very well. Within days of them taking refuge at Panhala, Jauhar, the new general of the Adilshahi army, had arrived at the foothills like a man on a hunt. Since then, his besiegement preparations have been going on in full swing. Their leader’s decision to take refuge at Panhala was based on the assumption that Jauhar’s besiegement would last only till the monsoons arrived, but assumptions are assumptions! If the besiegement is tight enough to prevent supplies from reaching the fort and if it continues till the monsoons and beyond, everyone at the fort faces certain death by starvation.
‘What does that mean, Baji?’ Shivaji asks.
‘Jauhar seems to be preparing for the monsoons,’ Baji says wryly, his large moustache failing to hide his anxiety.
‘How long will the food last us?’ Shivaji asks Trimbak Dabir.
Trimbak Dabir, like his father Sonoji Dabir, is precise when he answers. ‘As you know, Raja, the Ambarkhana contains three large granaries and they can hold up to two crore ser of grains. As of now, it is half-full, stuffed with rice, sorghum, nachni, and the grains should last us till the end of the monsoon.’
‘Hmm,’ Shivaji ponders. If Panhala becomes their graveyard, Shaista Khan will systematically destroy his jagir and let thousands die either by the sword or by torture. All the young people will be taken and sold as slaves; and his family will be taken as prisoners. His mother is sixty and his son just three. The Mughals will not have mercy on anyone, and his loved ones will be subjected to unspeakable atrocities in Aurangzeb’s imprisonment. His mother might be sent to the gallows, his wives and daughters to someone’s harem and his son either converted to Islam or killed by opium overdose.
‘What are the chances of them scaling this hill and entering the fort in large numbers?’ he asks Baji.
‘Very little, unless we sleep soundly all through the night or they get powerful long-range cannon throwing explosives to blast the fort wall. Jauhar does not have such guns.’
Shivaji nods. Just a few months ago, the Adilshahi commander of this fort had surrendered it rather quickly. Shivaji’s men had climbed the hill at night and stormed the inner fort early in the morning when the gates were opened. The easy win of such an invincible military stronghold had surprised Shivaji. He at once knew that Panhala was like massive armour. It was difficult to tell whether the fort protected the rocky hill rising a hundred guj above the valley or vice versa. After staying here for months, he now knows that it is impossible for the enemy to scale the fortified outer wall that runs a good five miles along the cliffs that plunge down to the slopes. Even the slopes are cut by natural trenches made by ravines with very few glades. Even those spaces are covered with thick vegetation broken by massive boulders. The mountain is famous for its venomous snakes. The Adilshahi’s troopers, unlike Shivaji’s men,
are not trained in mountain climbing. That is one comforting thought.
‘Jauhar is very unpredictable,’ Baji declares.
‘He is also persistent and does not give up easily. He will go on with his task as if possessed,’ Trimbak warns.
‘Let us inspect the siege; every day we note some new development,’ Shivaji says and starts walking towards the Sajja Kothi. The three men go past the residential quarters, the massive structure of Ambarkhana, and walk through the tents of soldiers. The wind is strong, and apart from a few stray clouds near the southern horizon, the rest of the sky is violet blue. They reach the Kothi, a three-storey structure made of solid stone. The erstwhile pleasure pavilion that was later used as a punishment cell to torture prisoners is set into the ramparts. Shivaji swiftly climbs the steps to reach the second floor and enters the eastern chamber of the Kothi covered with flattish domes and arcaded balconies that hang over the ramparts. He looks out from one of the large windows and notices that the shallow hill of Pavangad is separated from Panhala only by a ravine. His eyes wander over the Waranna Valley as he sees thousands of labourers busy building hovels and digging trenches.
3
Gangadhar, a medium built Brahmin with tonsured head, has been residing on the fort for generations. Ever since Shivaji made his appearance and took over the fort, he has been fired by the raja’s dream. The temple caretaker is looking forward to some excitement in his life. He has come running out of the fort temple after he heard the thundering sounds. Jauhar must have launched another attack, he thinks, and runs behind the Ambarkhana. The large structure looms over him while the earth shakes with bombardments. He rushes to the stables for his chestnut steed. Hurriedly he saddles and bridles it, jumps on to the restless mount and takes the reins—gently nudging it with his spurs. The horse canters for a few hundred guj north towards the Sajja Kothi. Gangadhar wants to know what the raja and his people are doing to ward off the attack. The thundering sound continues to shake the ground and the bastions swarm with artillerymen and drum beaters. The rampart guards have taken their positions with their bows stretched and arrows ready to fly. Grasping the situation, Gangadhar jumps from his horse and rushes towards the Sajja Kothi.
At its entrance he notices Raja Shivaji and moves ahead where Baji Prabhu is running on the ramparts barking out orders. Gangadhar leaps towards the parapet to see what a group of artillerymen are peering at. Far away from the foothills of Panhala Hill, he can see the outposts of the besieging army blocking all escape routes. The space between the fort and the siege has been dug up for trenches to protect Jauhar’s artillery from the fire of the fort’s guns. The trenches are dug cleverly with a zigzag pattern so that the arrows from the fort do not sweep down their length killing all the men hiding in them. He can see small figures of men moving in the trenches, their cannon spewing smoke and raising clouds of soot. His eyes wander towards Pavangad. On top of that shallow hill he can see large cannon with poles bearing blue flags with red lines. Gangadhar recognizes them; they are Union Jacks, the flags of those so-called apolitical English traders. The English are helping Jauhar. They have chosen an elevated ground for the cannon.
‘Fire!’ shouts Baji Prabhu.
‘Fire!’ shout the artillerymen in chorus.
The cannon mounted on the ramparts start spitting fire, shaking the very walls on which the Kothi rests.
The drummers who stand below the Kothi start beating their drums. Their rhythmic, high-pitched sound reaches a crescendo that starts turning into a powerful source of energy for the fighters. Gangadhar’s eardrums ache and his blood gushes faster in his veins. The explosives rain down and start hitting Jauhar’s dugouts at places. He hangs on, not bothering about getting caught in the crossfire. It goes on for a few hours and finally the enemy attack is repelled. Not a single fire from the trenches has reached them; it is only the explosives fired from the English cannon that have landed close to the ramparts near the Kothi.
4
Shaista Khan’s cavalcade crosses the Bhima river to enter Shivaji’s terrain. They have covered the route from Baramati to Shirwal to Saswad, a few miles from the foothills of Purandar Fort, and are heading for Pune. The region left behind is ruined, and his warriors have killed enough villagers and burnt enough barns to strike terror. The show of his strength has overwhelmed the enemy, but he has not achieved what he had in mind. His idea was to advance into the heart of Shivaji’s terrain and fight at least one face-to-face battle with the Marathas. Instead, the Marathas have harassed his cavalcade by unleashing the elusive horsemen, never coming close enough and never leaving the cavalcade out of sight. They had hovered around like flies, and when he had detached a body of his cavalry to strike them, they lured it away to the forests where more Maratha horsemen waited in ambush, like a tiger hiding in bushes, not seen yet ready to strike.
A few times, a group of infantrymen have descended from Purandar Fort, killing his men patrolling at the edges of their camp. Some attackers have waylaid contingents bringing supplies and cut off stragglers. He has been forced to take care by keeping a squadron of three thousand light cavalry headed by a mansabdar named Sharza Khan constantly on the move to stop the enemy from coming too near. He has taken another precaution and protected the flanks of the cavalcade by heavy cavalry of armed horsemen.
Behind Shaista’s elephant, sixty-eight elephants trundle carrying the principal mansabdars. One of the mansabdars is Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod. The young man is filled with anger and humiliation. Fate has struck a blow upon him, making him a mere mansabdar who is forced to obey the commands of their new general. But on second thought, he feels grateful that Aurangzeb has not taken any severe action against him even when he had backed Dara Shikoh in the war of succession or turned a traitor when they had fought a battle against Shah Shuja. Maharaja Jaswant is eager to show his skills in this campaign as he must regain his respect at any cost. What is life without esteem or self-respect?
Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod’s cavalry is followed by heavily armoured elephants carrying Namdar Khan and Kamdar Khan, the sons of Jaffar Khan, who is the husband of Aurangzeb’s mother’s sister. The brothers are related to Shaista Khan as Aurangzeb is related to him—he is their maternal uncle too.
A few miles ahead, thousands of labourers with axes and mattocks clear the passage for the massive procession. The vanguard leading the cavalcade is commanded by Kartalab Khan who is followed by thirty thousand horsemen.
An army of foot soldiers follow the sea of horsemen briskly on the widened trail as armoured war elephants and camels follow. Mules and oxen carrying food, fodder, firewood and water move reluctantly behind the mass of footmen, some dragging trunks filled with swords, shields, spears, daggers, bows and arrows. Behind the animals, innumerable Abyssinian slaves carry on their heads trunks filled with coins.
As they move through Shivaji’s territory, the Mughal procession consumes most of the water from the wells and food stored by the poor cultivators, while their animals feast on the foliage; even the bared branches are hacked for firewood, turning the wooded earth barren. The north-easterly winds from the Sahyadri Mountains have turned heavy with the fetid smell of faeces, urine and animal droppings left behind by the monstrous procession.
Murarbaji has come down from Purandar Fort and is hiding behind a large cliff to see what is happening at the foothills. He has not been able do anything other than send small groups of his men to attack the cavalcade at its flanks and kill a few men. The villages at the foothills look vulnerable, like small hatchlings of sparrows trapped between the coils of a large snake. He notices a cloud of dust from behind a settlement. Within moments, he sees a line of dark specks emerge through the dusty cloud and realizes that they are a detachment of raiders from the cavalcade. There is no time to warn the villagers. He watches helplessly from his hideout as the enemy squadron gallops through the dirt track partially hidden under the canopies of trees. For a moment the raiders disappear in the thicket only to emerge at the border of
the settlement. He can see the people from the settlement run aimlessly, their faint cries echoing in the shallow valley around the hill of Purandar.
5
The sun has climbed the eastern sky. From a shallow hill, Palkar, who has returned from Karnataka to counter the Mughal invasion, watches the massive cavalcade leaving Saswad for Pune. He has never seen such a large procession of humans and beasts in his lifetime. He turns his horse to look behind him and sees his squadron of three thousand horsemen. There is no point in attacking the labourers clearing the path and the vanguard is a sea of cavalry while the flanks are protected by horsemen wearing metal helmets and chainmail. Palkar looks at his men who wait for his orders; their worn faces and their anguish-filled eyes fill him with grief he has not known before. ‘We shall attack the tail!’ he shouts, nudging his horse to turn again, and gallops in the direction of the Mughal cavalcade.
Something unexpected happens as they approach the tail of the convoy: thousands of Mughal foot soldiers start firing muskets from their shoulders with an ear-splitting sound. The tail is now shrouded in smoke but Palkar keeps galloping towards the enemy. Another wave of thunder follows as Palkar’s horsemen start falling in large numbers.
‘We must never let our men die just to satisfy our pride. If dying in the battlefield is considered the ultimate goal by some of our northern warrior clans, if throwing themselves in the ravine of death just to be a martyr is the dream of many warriors, sending our men to a certain death without a certain gain is an utter waste of our most precious strength,’ Raja Shivaji had said in no uncertain terms.
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