Gangadhar knows that the muscular African warrior, while smoking, is staring at him. He smiles sheepishly while Jauhar quickly diverts his gaze and starts blowing smoke rings.
‘Salaam to the General of Adilshahi, we are Raja Shivaji’s men,’ Gangadhar says while straightening courteously. He signals to Naik who comes forward and gently puts the basket covered with velvet cloth on the floor. Jauhar becomes alert. This is what they do, Shivaji’s messengers, he has heard—they bring priceless items in gifts to marinate the enemy’s heart, so that they can sink their teeth in it with ease. He does not bother to check or even look at the gift and continues to blow smoke rings in the air, narrows his eyes till they are mere slits and says teasingly, ‘What does your master think? Are we idiots?’
Gangadhar swallows hard and coughs loudly, holding his fist to his mouth, and rattles, ‘On the contrary . . .’
Jauhar’s twisted smile lingers on his lips. He raises his hand interrupting him, ‘Hold nothing back, and say what you have come here to say.’
Gangadhar bites his tongue, takes out the epistle from his angirkha’s inner pocket and holds it out for the general, but Jauhar manages to look disinterested. Gangadhar keeps holding the letter and stares pointedly at his host. Jauhar takes some more time to take the letter, showing a slight reluctance in pushing away the metal pipe from his mouth.
For a long time Jauhar examines the epistle as if it might contain a granado, and then opens it himself without calling his servant or his scribe. He reads it carefully and then keeps the paper on his lap to resume smoking. Gangadhar watches Jauhar’s face for a reaction but there is none. Silence grows between them for a while. Several moments later, Jauhar looks into Gangadhar’s eyes and says with a charming smile, ‘Why does Shivaji want to surrender all of a sudden?’
Gangadhar hesitates but speaks as if he is ashamed to say what he is about to. ‘We have no option. Food supplies have dwindled. Imagine eight thousand men dying of starvation. Raja Shivaji would rather surrender than keep holding the fort for pride’s sake.’
Jauhar looks at the Brahmin with mild surprise. The men do look thin—too thin, almost starving. He laughs loudly and snaps, ‘Thousands of my men will enter the fort with a snap of my fingers. Shivaji is already a vanquished man!’
‘That is not true’, Naik butts in. ‘The entrance is heavily guarded, and if you are aware of the architecture, it is impossible enter the fort in large numbers. Unless, of course, all of us make merry and drink barrels of wine and fall sleep. But drinking is not allowed in our camps.’
Jauhar raises his eyebrows. He knows that the man is taunting him.
‘And, as you already know, a few thousand of us always guard the ramparts, our artillerymen are equipped to blast anyone coming near the foothills,’ Naik says evenly.
‘So why did you come here? Keep fighting,’ Jauhar says coldly, waving his hand as if to show nonchalance.
‘We were forced to come. We are ready to fight till the end and die of starvation, but our master wants us to live; he wants to surrender for our sake!’ Gangadhar says softly.
‘Please do not let him; do not accept Raja Shivaji’s offer,’ Naik pleads. His earlier arrogance has vanished.
‘Please refuse the proposal, my great general of the Adilshahi. We do not want Raja Shivaji to surrender for our sake.’ Gangadhar’s voice quivers.
Jauhar stares at the men in amazement. Whom to believe and whom not to believe?
‘You want me to believe you?’ Jauhar asks sarcastically.
‘That is up to you, my esteemed general,’ Naik bows and says. ‘If you agree, Raja Shivaji will come down with just twenty-five men to surrender at your feet, and if you reject his proposal, he will not.’
‘Shivaji is willing to walk into my camp with just twenty-five men to get captured. Isn’t that a bit hard to believe?’
Gangadhar casts his eyes down and says earnestly, ‘Even we cannot believe it. The raja is forced to surrender for the sake of eight thousand lives. He is willing to get captured, imprisoned and even tortured for the sake of eight thousand lives.’
Long after they have gone, Jauhar reads the letter again and again.
You, the new general of the kingdom and jagirdar of Kurnool, are a brave man, fit to be a king indeed. Allow me to surrender at your feet and I will come down with only twenty-five men, but please, I beg you, let my eight thousand men go free. Who knows what tomorrow holds for us. Perhaps you may change your mind and we may form an alliance. Perhaps together we may prove more powerful than Ali Adil Shah!
5
Outside Dilli’s Qila-e-mubarak, a tormented Yamuna soars and dives, roars and surges, racing parallel to the meandering wall of the Red Fort, unconcerned about what is happening within those walls. Her monsoon annoyance pushes the mighty heavens to the brink as lightning rampages through the clouds, splitting the sky into enormous chunks of dark shadows.
In one of the underground vaults used as makeshift prisons, a shackled Muhammad Sultan, Aurangzeb’s first son, sits with vacant eyes. He has no idea of the nature’s fury outside but there is a bigger and more devastating storm raging in his own heart. He knows that he has committed a terrible mistake, a mistake that might cost him his life, but now it is too late to regret. He should not have underestimated his father, especially after what he had witnessed on the battlefields near Khajwa in the fierce battle with the armies of his uncle, Shah Shuja, when his father, Aurangzeb, had torn through the jaws of death to emerge victorious. Despite Jaswant Singh Rathod who had surrendered to his father after the debacle at Ujjain had turned a traitor. The day before the battle with Shuja uncle who was advancing towards Agra, Jaswant and his men in the camp had woken up at midnight and started their killing spree. They had reached Sultan’s side of camp too. But he had survived their slaughter. They had killed hundreds of men before looting and then fleeing Sultan’s father’s camp. At dawn the real battle against Shuja uncle awaited them.
Sultan can remember that battle as if it has happened yesterday. The first day was as uneventful as it could be on a battlefield, with arrows, rockets, granados fired from cannons darkening the sky, with the ear-splitting noise of muskets, yelling of troopers and trumpeting and neighing of war animals. On the second day, Shah Shuja had thrown a wicked surprise when three trained-to-kill war elephants had entered the field brandishing heavy iron chains with their trunks. The mountainous beasts, the weapons of mass destruction, had cut through the ranks of his father’s army, leaving behind a bloody trail of injured and dead. From his howdah, Mohammad Sultan had watched as Aurangzeb’s cavalrymen had deserted the field. Then he had witnessed the most appalling event. Two of the elephants had swerved away towards the edge but one had marched on, towards his father’s elephant, scattering and shaking the squadrons.
The wisest thing for his father was to jump down, take a horse and flee, but he had stayed put in his howdah even when the enemy elephant was a breath away. Then something remarkable had happened! One of his father’s musket men shot the mahout who fell from the beastly elephant like a ripe fruit. Within moments, his father’s mahout had jumped down and thrown himself on the beast, climbing it as if it were a mountain. Meanwhile, Sultan’s father had swung out from his howdah and taken the place of his mahout to direct his elephant. At the same time, his father’s mahout had started hitting the beast with his ankush and had been successful in steering it away!
The drama of imminent death had lasted for barely a few moments. But it felt like an eternity. Then the rumours of his father getting crushed by Shuja uncle’s rabid elephants started circulating. But that was that. His father, as always, was the victor and his enemy, the vanquished!
Later, Mohammad Sultan had gathered enough courage to ask his father why he had not dismounted from his elephant in the first place and his father had answered, ‘Saving one’s life is not always the wisest thing for a leader in a battle. Seeing my empty howdah, our troops would have fled, bringing bigger tragedies on us.’
It was then that the message had arrived from Sultan’s uncle:
You father will never win the war of succession. And even if he does, he will never ever think of you as his successor because your mother is a mere convert, not a born Muslim. Join me, marry my daughter, and when I become the emperor I will make you my successor.
Like a fool, he had married his uncle’s daughter and declared war against his father, till he was caught and brought back to Dilli. From a prince to a prisoner—the transaction was swift, and he knows this is what he is, and will always remain: a prisoner. What hurts Sultan more than anything else is that his father had forgiven Jaswant and again taken him back. But his own son is not worthy of the emperor’s mercy.
Directly above the vaults where Mohammad Sultan is imprisoned is the diwan-e-aam, its pillars and arches made of red sandstone and painted with gold shimmer under the brightly lit chandeliers.
6
‘Alcohol is forbidden—forbidden to you and your mothers, your daughters, your sisters, your aunts and your brother’s wives . . .’ Aurangzeb preaches, his voice filled with divinity so tangible that it makes his audience gaze at him with beaming love. Aurangzeb knows the effect he has on his audience. After an hour of preaching, he gets up, leaving his audience in a state of poignant stupor.
Later that evening, Aurangzeb crosses the heavily guarded gate to enter the private palaces of the diwan-e-khaas. He walks past the manicured lawns, the flowerbeds, colourful bougainvillea hedges, waterways with dancing fountains, lights burning in shades and rows of neatly cut trees. He is in a hurry to go to his private bedroom. After moving through arches and corridors illuminated by chandeliers, Aurangzeb enters a huge chamber surrounded by terraces with tapering steps leading to the Yamuna. He longingly looks at the mahogany bed covered with satin sheets. The roof is made of cut mirror glasses that twinkle in the pale light of a lone chandelier hanging in the middle. She is lying on the bed, his beautiful eighteen-year-old Udepuri, who was once Dara bhai’s favourite concubine. Her auburn hair encircles her delicate face that looks carved from polished alabaster in the diffused moonlight filtering through the painted glass of several windows. Aurangzeb goes near her, bends and caresses her face as his hands shake with tender love. He has broken many a rule for this love of his, he has bedded her even though he is yet to marry her and he has allowed her drinking habit.
She turns away. She is in a drunken stupor and in no condition to respond to his affections. A dejected Aurangzeb lies next to her with his eyes wide open. He rests his head on a soft pillow stuffed with feathers and thinks of the three doomed men: Shuja bhai, Suleiman Shikoh and Shiva Bhosale. Suleiman is still in Kashmir; Aurangzeb has heard that Prithvi Singh, the king of a small kingdom, has given his daughter to Suleiman in marriage in order to be a relative of the most powerful family of Hindustan. Aurangzeb has already contacted the counsellors of the king, and has sent them sacks full of ashrafi mohurs. When the time comes, they will even go against the king, delivering him what he wants: his nephew. There is no point in letting the traitors go free, he consoles himself. Unable to sleep, the emperor keeps awake for a long time, as the words of a verse float in his mind.
Even after his death
A tormenter resurrects
And keeps drawing a harrow
Over what’s dear to you
Like plumes of a dead eagle
Turning up as feathers at the end of an arrow.
7
Shaista and his army have reached the northern borders of Shivaji’s jagir. The region around Chakan Fort looks bleak, with columns of smoke rising from the burning villages. For the past fifty days the Mughals have been besieging the small fortress. The besiegement is tight. Shaista, along with ten mansabdars and their contingents, has been camping at the northern side of the fort. At the eastern side, facing the main gate are six other commanders, including the chief of his artillery, Mir Abdul Mabud, and his men trained in artillery warfare. Many others are scattered around the region. It has been raining heavily since the previous day and, despite the sheets of water falling over them, the commander of Chakan Fort, Firangoji Narsala, has given a robust reply to their guns and muskets. Some of the Marathas from inside the fort have dared to sally out and attack the Mughal besiegers in the trenches and kill some of them. Chakan Fort is a small land fortress, with defences of a square wall built in stone fortified with eight towers, four in the corner and four at the centre of each wall. There is only one entrance at the front, with more than five gateways as protection. The fort is encircled by a moat. In the beginning, Shaista had thought that despite the fortifications, it would be a lot easier than capturing a hill fort. He was proved wrong. Every time the Mughals tried to go anywhere near the fort walls, the Marathas standing on the bastions and ramparts threw rockets, grenades and large stones on the attackers. Even the Mughal war elephants wearing head armour have failed to crush open the main gate fitted with spikes, and the few elephants who tried hard died of head injuries.
Shaista has summoned Mir Abdul Mabud, his artillery advisor, for an urgent meeting. He wants answers. His tent looks like a mini-palace with panels made of colourful fabric. It is protected from rain by massive scaffoldings holding a thin iron sheet like an umbrella above the tent. The floor is covered with light-coloured durries and the divan is draped in dark-blue satin sheets. Despite the comforts around him, Shaista feels very uncomfortable. He wants quick solutions for a quicker victory.
‘It has been a month and half since we have besieged this small land fort,’ Shaista says, examining the gold rings on his fingers, then slowly shifts his gaze in the direction of Abdul and says, ‘People in Dilli will soon wonder about our failure to capture even a single fort. The latest news is that our emperor had said in the court that taking over Chakan will be child’s play for the new general. He will do so in a week.’
Mir Abdul Mabud, a stocky man with shining eyes, stares at his general who is looking back at him coldly. A shiver runs down Abdul’s spine. ‘Give me a day to think of a plan,’ he whispers as the sound of the crossfire is heard from the southern direction.
‘It is time to smoke out the rats. Dig more trenches all around the fort and gain physical proximity. Do something!’ Shaista commands, raising his left eyebrow.
Abdul Mabud sends messages to all besieging commanders that night and has several meetings with them. For the next seven days it is relatively dry, but the earth is still wet. For six nights, hundreds of Mughal diggers work relentlessly in miry, slushy trenches and drag a mine of explosives, bringing it near the bastion on the north-eastern side. On the seventh night, they roll back into the trenches with axes, scurry through digging tunnels like expert bandicoots moving in their burrows, and exit the battlefield.
CHAPTER TWENTY
1
The initial drizzle and now the heavy rain have not dampened Jauhar’s spirits. It is a remarkable night, a night of conclusion and a night of celebration. He looks out of the window in the direction of Panhala. Despite it being a full moon night, it is pitch dark because of the heavy storm clouds thundering in the sky, but that does not bother him. The sound of rain feels like music and he knows his men are busy having fun after months of hard work and uncertainty. The man they wanted, dead or alive, is finally surrendering.
It is time for Shivaji to die, Jauhar decides. He had once decided someone else’s death a long time ago. It is better to kill them than keep them alive even in captivity. For a live enemy can resurrect from incarceration and seek reprisals!
It was the night when he had chased Malik Wahah, the scion of the jagirdar family of Kurnool, through the dark, twenty-kos-long tunnel that connects the Kurnool Fort to the Gadwal Fort. He had patronizingly warned the young and naive Malik that as the young jagirdar he must travel at least once through the long tunnel and know the escape routes in crisis. Jauhar had convinced his you
ng master that their going into the tunnel must remain a secret. The lad’s adolescent blood had boiled over, making him adventurous enough to enter the tunnel that crossed the Tungabhadra river from beneath. Malik’s personal guards had been bribed. Once inside the tunnel, Jauhar had attacked Malik from behind and stabbed him with a jambia dagger that had pierced his heart. The bats, the only witnesses, had fluttered overhead without a care.
Then it was Malik Wahah; now it is Shivaji Bhosale!
At the northern side of the camp, a large brick house is lit with several earthen lamps. It is also decorated with fresh flowers plucked earlier from the shallow valley that surrounds the hill. Men have gathered and the mood is cheerful. It’s warm and cosy inside the house despite the storm that rages around it. It smells of tobacco as many have been smoking chillums. Jauhar’s son-in-law, Siddi Masud, has called for a nautch girl from a nearby village and is keen to give his officers a good time. He watches as servants fill the glasses and some of his military officials down their drinks in one go, while he nurses his first peg. He still thinks that his father-in-law has made haste in announcing the submission of their enemy and suspects that something else may happen tonight.
A group of entertainers, consisting of a dancer, a singer and a few musicians, suddenly barge into the room and move towards an empty corner decorated with strings of jasmine. The air is soon filled with the heady smell of burning incense. A voluptuous, dusky dancer bows, holding her pallu like a peacock spreading its feathers. As she sways to the music, countless bells in her anklets make an energetic sound. The dancer knows that her erotic moves will kindle a wild passion and desire in the sex-starved men. The male dancer poses as though he is her stalker, his leering expression bordering on lust. The man with the dhol bangs mallets on the drum hanging from his neck. The harmonium player too bursts into the scene. A plain-looking female singer stands with an expressionless face and starts her song laden with pathos and the passions of the adulterous love she so badly seeks. Her words are often vulgar and sexually explicit. Her lyrics are drowned in the ravenous sentiments that make the listener feel that the song is meant only for him. Her sighs between the words are caressing enough to make men go weak. Within half an hour, the men are in a trance.
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