Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  ‘Retreat!’ shouts Palkar with a heavy heart, but he has already lost many men. While galloping away from the cavalcade he wonders what is happening to their most cherished country. He must go to Panhala, break the siege and set his master free as only Raja Shivaji can save their swaraj from the Mughals.

  6

  A few miles from Shaista Khan’s cavalcade, Ibrahim Khan gallops through a narrow trail darkened by the canopy of banyan trees thinking about his master Raja Shivaji’s confinement at Panhala.

  Where are the people? he wonders, as he passes through a village on the banks of the river Indrayani. At this time of the day, the village bazaar ought to be full of people, he worries as his horse’s hooves interrupt the deathly silence. He nudges his mount, slows down and enters a small alley of huddled houses. Regions between Baramati and the Shirwal–Saswad belt lie devastated. The villagers have either fled to the jungles or have been killed by the Mughal raiders. Ibrahim Khan realized that he must reach Rajgad as quickly as possible and inform Jija Bai Sahib about the conditions of her son’s territory.

  ‘Ya Allah! How can Shaista Khan’s warriors be so brutal? The Mughals are a disgrace to Islam!’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  1

  Under the night sky, large and small houses stand huddled together at the edges of the dark streets of Pune. In contrast, the Mughal base camp spread around the town is well lit with innumerable torches. The markets in the camp are milling with soldiers and hangers-on. The air smells of food, as dinner is being cooked for Shaista’s one lakh men.

  Shivaji’s home, the Lal Mahal, has become Shaista’s abode. It has a massive courtyard in the middle where many shamdans burn and bathe the red mansion in their golden glow.

  All the rooms open into the courtyard, now filled with the smell of the cooked meat biryani that wafts out from the kitchen crowded with royal chefs and their helpers. A staircase in one of the corners goes up to a covered terrace with several rooms opening into it. About a hundred women, including Shaista Khan’s wives, his daughters-in-law, daughters, women slaves, eunuchs and courtesans, have occupied those, while he prefers the ground-floor foyer with its large windows draped in silk curtains and the floor covered with Persian carpets.

  His abode allows him to be near the inner courtyard that offers him peace, and he can also keep an eye on the gardeners tending to his flowerpots that have travelled with him from place to place. He wears a pale jama with motifs of golden tulips, and green leggings. Some people are joining him for dinner.

  He comes to the divan where his chessboard is kept in the middle. It is made of marble, with the tiny figures made of glazed frit lined up on both the sides. He gently sits beside the board and considers playing alone when, one by one, his guests come in. All three of them are his mansabdars with whom he feels at ease: to show off his shatranj skills and discuss real war strategies. Namdar and Kamdar arrive together wearing golden sashes and leather belts laden with embellished daggers, while Kartalab comes alone wearing a finely cut jama. The men first bow to their general and greet him in Farsi, ‘Asr bekheir.’ They gather around him, and he makes his first move just as his eldest son, Abul Fath, walks in.

  ‘It is not how we move but where we reach,’ Shaista murmurs as others watch him playing both the sides. After a while, servants start bringing glasses of sherbet and wine. Men stand around the divan, sip wine and watch their master play solo, playing moves as well as countermoves. Soon a large straw chataai is brought in and spread on the ground and a wooden table supporting an immense silver plate placed on the same. It is time for dinner.

  As the dinner progresses, Shaista, his mouth still full with food, says, ‘It has been a month since we have arrived in Pune. I have some plans.’

  The men nod and continue to eat. Shaista gulps down the food in his mouth, takes a swig of wine and continues, ‘The monsoon is approaching and we will face great hardship from scarcity. When the rains arrive, there will be nothing left in the nearby barns to plunder. Also, procuring food from our base at Ahmednagar will be next to impossible because the rivers will be flooded, cutting off all routes between Ahmednagar and Pune.’

  The guests raise their eyebrows; the same fear has been nagging them for weeks.

  ‘There is a military solution to this problem,’ Shaista announces.

  The men have stopped eating; they want to know more.

  ‘Chakan is on the route to Ahmednagar. The rivers between Pune and Chakan are difficult to cross during monsoons. In comparison, the rivers between Chakan and Ahmednagar are shallow. The region too is relatively flat with no difficult mountain passes to cross. We should shift our military base to Chakan, from where it will be easier to get supplies from Ahmednagar.’

  ‘And also kill two birds with one stone,’ Namdar quips.

  Shaista smiles; he likes Namdar who is intelligent and quick.

  ‘Yes,’ the Mughal general agrees as others look on, their interest has been kindled. ‘We will besiege the land fort of Chakan and capture it.’

  All the men nod, approving the plan. Capturing Chakan is a good military move. Its possession will mean unhindered communication with Ahmednagar, the base of Mughal supplies, even for all future campaigns.

  ‘Father, what if Shivaji comes back?’ an agitated Abul Fath asks loudly.

  Shaista counter-questions, ‘From where will he come back? From Panhala, his potential grave?’

  The men chortle.

  ‘While we are at Chakan, Kartalab Khan will stay put at Pune and prepare to take over Shivaji’s territories in the Konkan. I want to make him the Mughal subhedar of north Konkan, based in Kalyan,’ Shaista Khan concludes.

  Kartalab stops eating and stares unbelievingly at his general; it is a big promotion, from a mansabdar to the subhedar of a region! It has been a long journey from being a poor soldier from the suburbs of Samarkand to being a Mughal governor. Namdar and Kamdar smile indulgently while their host looks at them for approval.

  ‘When do we plan to capture the hill forts around Pune?’ Namdar asks.

  ‘Once we take over Chakan and Kalyan, the low-hanging fruit!’ Shaista says with a smile and reclines on a bolster kept behind him while letting out a loud belch.

  2

  Panhala Fort stands in the darkness, silent and mute. An owl hoots dismally from somewhere in the wooded slopes. Mhadu perches on the edge of a cliff on the north-western slopes of Panhala Hill, his eyes fixed on the lower slopes to pick out enemy intruders, if any. The thin sickle of the new moon shines. Myriad stars illuminate the expanse, including the slopes, the valley and the mysterious Masai tablelands. Far below, torches flicker at the foothills, in the outposts set up by Jauhar. Mhadu’s eyes discern some movement, a human silhouette a few guj below him. He curbs his impulse to jump on the intruder; one wrong move or one erroneous step will make him tumble down to his death, either by hitting his head on the boulders entrenched over the slopes or by falling vertically from another abrupt cliff cutting the slope. Mhadu stands up and keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword tucked in his belt.

  ‘I need a rope to climb,’ the words spoken in Marathi come floating over the violent wind; the voice is familiar. Mhadu narrows his eyes to focus. The visitor seems almost naked in a loincloth. His face is buried in his riotous long hair falling across his face and his jaw is covered in an unruly beard. Mhadu is delighted; the man he was waiting for has arrived. Finally, after months, they will get some outside news. All the eight thousand souls trapped on Panhala Fort want to know whatever has happened to their families.

  Mhadu removes his headgear, uncoils it and throws one end of it towards the nearly naked ascetic. The weight makes him wince as he pulls the man towards him. While he is at the task, he notices that the black clouds rising above the south-western horizon have quickly spread across the sky. The glow of stars that had spangled the heavens a few moments earlier is gone. The visitor soon stands beside him and by now it has started drizzling.

  ‘Follow me,’ Mhadu
whispers while tying his headgear, and then whistles shrilly. It is for the guards on the ramparts to know that he is going inside the fort. He has to take the night visitor to the raja as soon as possible. The guards have already informed raja about the man with Mhadu.

  ‘Mhadu, come in. Who is this stranger with you?’ Shivaji asks as he heads towards the fireplace and gestures for them to sit. The room is cold and yet it is filled with strange warmth. They do as they are told and sit cross-legged on the durries that cover the floor. Shivaji watches them, his eyes focused on the stranger, and a sparkle of recognition appears in his eyes. His face breaks into a huge smile.

  ‘Bahirji Naik, is that you?’ Shivaji almost shouts, delighted to have his chief-of-intelligence with him. Mhadu is stunned; Naik is his master.

  The visitor smiles from ear to ear and his eyes shine with tears.

  He remembers his childhood spent in jungles at the foothills of Rajgad. He would have been a lost soul of the forest till he died but Raja Shivaji had plucked him out of that life and made him the master spy in the Maratha army.

  ‘What is happening in the outside world?’ Shivaji asks eagerly, breaking Naik’s reverie.

  ‘Shaista Khan and his sea of army have ploughed our region and have reached Pune.’

  ‘Where are the Mughals camping?’ Shivaji questions, his eyes showing no expression.

  ‘Shaista Khan and his family have occupied the Lal Mahal. More than fifty thousand tents have come up on the southern side of the town,’ Naik whispers, his eyes downcast.

  ‘Where is our sarnobat?’

  ‘He is fighting on two fronts; he and his men launched many attacks of the Mughal cavalcade but they failed. He had come close to Panhala and struggled to break through the besieging army at night. A number of times, our infantrymen under the cover of ravines have tried to spring on Jauhar’s besiegers, but it has proved impossible to break Jauhar’s ring.’

  ‘The monsoon has just begun. How long could Jauhar remain camping?’ Shivaji asks.

  ‘They are getting ready to face the monsoon. Cartloads of straw and palm leaves have arrived. They are replacing the tents with clay houses with roofs of straw. Countless drains are being dug to flush the rain water away.’

  ‘How tight is the siege?’ Shivaji asks.

  ‘Panhala is surrounded by flat plains, so the besiegement is tight at the eastern side with hardly any gaps and a number of sentry posts guard. However, towards the west, at the foothills of Masai Rock, where it is hilly, it thins out.

  ‘It is rumoured that Shaista Khan is in touch with Ali Adil Shah,’ Naik says.

  ‘What I have always feared has happened. The Mughals have joined hands with Ali Adil Shah,’ Shivaji says disappointedly and starts pacing the room like a trapped tiger. The flames in the fireplace slither like snakes as the wind continues to invade the room from the open door.

  ‘How did you manage to break the cordon and come up?’

  Naik clears his throat and answers slowly, ‘Disguised as a hermit, I joined a group of men who were travelling from Maval to join Jauhar. After spending two weeks as a soothsayer, men started believing that I have a prophetic vision to see their future. They opened their minds and hearts to me. All were anxious to know when the siege would end and when they could head home. A rumour was making the rounds about Rustum guarding the north. People said that he has remained defiant and at night removes his men from some remote posts as he wants Jauhar to lose this battle. Tonight, in this weather, his men had deserted their posts at the north-eastern side of the hill. At midnight, I climbed one of the cliffs, hung on the other side for a while, before crossing the deep gorge that lay between. After climbing a mossy patch with the help of creepers I could reach a narrow path that leads to the fort.’

  ‘What kind of person is this Jauhar?’ Shivaji asks. He has stopped pacing.

  ‘They say he is not afraid of anyone, is brutally frank and trusts easily, but his reputation for rage and fierceness is known,’ Naik replies.

  ‘Isn’t it wise to surrender to Jauhar? Within a month or two the food will be over, the granaries will be empty and all eight thousand of us will face death by starvation.’ Shivaji drops a granado.

  Naik stares at Shivaji for a long time, and then nods in agreement while Mhadu gapes at them in astonishment. Thunder continues to rule the sky and lightning strikes the edge of horizon.

  3

  At the foothills, in the camp, Siddi Jauhar’s room shakes with thunder. The wooden armed chair he sits on is a present from his new friend, Henry Revington. The tall brass lamps kept in the corners of his room have been sent by the king and the silk curtains are a gift from the king’s mother, the Badi Sahiba. Never in his life was so much affection shown to him by anyone from outside his family.

  He tries to look at Panhala Hill through a large window and sheets of rain, but all he can see is a heavy shower. With nothing else to do, his mind goes back to his past. Life has not been kind to him. In the beginning, when he was a mere slave of Malik Raihan, the jagirdar of Kurnool, the southern district of the Adilshahi. After the death of Raihan, Jauhar eliminated his son, Malik Wahah, and took over Kurnool. Over the years his cavalry had grown to ten thousand horsemen, more than any of the noblemen in Ali Adil Shah’s court. The late king Mohammed Adil Shah had slammed him for murdering the scion of the jagirdar family of Kurnool, but the king could never bother him. The king had his own problems: first, he was bedridden for ten long years with paralysis, and second, the Mughal prince Aurangzeb hovered like an angry dragon over the Adilshahi kingdom.

  The time has come to dream, Jauhar thinks, bringing himself back to the present, and relaxes in his large chair. All depends on whether I can kill or capture Shivaji. He grunts, caressing his long, henna-dyed beard. It has been months since he and his men have left Kurnool, and the excitement of the first few weeks has been replaced by foreboding and anxiety. His son-in-law, Masud, has turned restless; his wife, Jauhar’s daughter, has given birth to their first son back home. Jauhar has noticed that even his soldiers do not sit around the fires at night anymore; instead, they brood in the dark while keeping vigil at night and secretly yearn to go back home. His officers have turned edgy while the king has started counting the expenses. Jauhar wonders if Ali Adil Shah has already started doubting his abilities and the thought disturbs him. His hopes had risen when the English gunner had arrived to give him an on-site demonstration of the long-range cannon, but the artillery bombardments from the English cannon had eventually failed to dislodge even a single stone of the Panhala Fort wall.

  Jauhar has still not lost hope; he is prepared to wait till the men trapped in the fort start dying of starvation, but it could be months before that happens. Meanwhile, one thought has made him an insomniac: what if Shivaji escapes while he waits for the Marathas on Panhala to die of starvation?

  Jauhar’s thoughts are broken by his son-in-law, a visibly excited and drenched Masud has rushed in, panting, with his right hand on his heart.

  ‘Raja Shivaji has sent a message. He wants to surrender and is sending his men to meet you tomorrow.’

  4

  Naik wearing a Turkish turban and long, silk angirkha looks very different from his earlier bearded avatar. He has tied a huge basket covered with a fine velvet cloth to his back and carries a white flag in his right hand. Gangadhar follows him with a heavy heart. After all those battles, they are surrendering to Jauhar, and he has to carry that message!

  Naik has no such qualms, as if surrendering to Jauhar is a small part of a big game. The duo walks through the triple gate—an elaborate example of military architecture. First passing through the innermost entrance that displays an arched recess framing a cupola, moments later they enter a domed chamber that yields access to a rectangular court lined with arcades. Naik, a spy for several years, has developed a habit of noticing the smallest details; he marvels at the imposing stone structures. The entire entrance is at an awkward angle to slow down and trap the incoming enemy. The
western side of the court is overlooked by an elevated guardroom with triple arches, and some guards standing there wave at them, directing them animatedly to the open gate. Below the guardroom is a well, entrenched into a huge bastion. Naik has heard from the old fort residents that if you throw a lemon engraved with secret messages in it, it surfaces in the lake at the foothills.

  After emerging from the main entrance of three successive gates, they turn east and walk for a few hundred guj. They wade over the miry trail that at places has gone slippery. Naik holds the white flag high, as visible as possible, lest someone waiting in ambush mistakes them as intruders and kills them. When they enter a very narrow path skirting the hill, with an escarpment on one side and a deep gorge on the other, Gangadhar looks down gingerly and feels dizzy—the ground below looks like a chessboard with small square fields of rice. At places tall trees have gathered in grooves.

  It takes them an hour to descend and then cross the valley to reach the trenches which look empty. They are about to enter the enemy camp. They walk across makeshift bridges made of logs. Near a particularly deep trench, an alert Naik pulls Gangadhar towards him and away from a serpent. And before Gangadhar can gather his wits, two men who look like Jauhar’s soldiers appear from the opposite direction.

  ‘We have come from the fort. We are messengers of Shivaji; we have a message for Siddi Jauhar Sahib,’ Gangadhar tries to sound as calm as possible.

  ‘Check them,’ one says without bothering about responding to Gangadhar’s explanation.

  Meanwhile, it is impossible for Jauhar to sit still. He waits impatiently for the messengers to arrive. He checks his hookah, pulls out his jambia dagger hanging from his belt and starts tapping its blade when he is informed they have arrived. When he lifts his eyes he sees two men rush in carrying gifts. They bow deeply and remain in that position for a while. Jauhar glances at them: one of them is wearing a pagari turban and is surely a Brahmin, and he has heard that Shivaji’s Brahmin vakeels are more cunning than foxes, meaner than jackals and capable of sprouting carnassial of a tiger whenever the need be.