Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  ‘An artist will come to draw your face. Your mother does not believe that you are alive; she wants to see your picture,’ Aurangzeb says formally and moves on, followed by the wooden-faced jailers. He takes another staircase down that leads to the underground dungeons and is forced to hold his shawl over his nose, for the stench is nauseating. Only a single torch burns into a tunnel-like corridor that seems to disappear into the darkness. He crosses several barred cells packed with men. At the end of the tunnel he stops and strains his eyes to look into the smallest dungeon that looks more like an animal trap.

  There is someone or something in there.

  Whoever that is, is just a skeleton, half-naked. His face looks as if vultures have pecked away at the flesh from the bones. Aurangzeb somehow recognizes him; in fact, he had come all the way to make sure that Suleiman Shikoh, the eldest son of Dara Shikoh and the most handsome young man from the first family of Hindustan, is dying. Suleiman’s golden mane has been reduced to a few strands of hair stuck together by filth. They look like horns sticking out from the top of his head. His body is covered with his own waste. The place is filled with a stench that burns Aurangzeb’s nostrils.

  From the depths of darkness, two burning eyes bore into Aurangzeb; there is nothing human about the creature that lies behind the bars. Still, the new emperor feels that those eyes are throwing questions at him: Uncle, why did you lie when you said that you would not feed me the poppy drink?

  Without warning, Suleiman starts laughing like a deranged man. The sound of his crazy laughter rattles through the dark corridors of Gwalior Fort. Aurangzeb does not want to stay there any longer; the sound of laughter, the stench, the damp darkness and the soot from the torches hung on the blackened walls suffocate him.

  4

  Shaista Khan has shifted his base back to Pune after taking over Chakan. He regards Jaffar Khan, his sister’s husband, the new wazir of the empire, who has travelled all the way from Dilli to meet him, or more correctly, to inquire. I must deal cleverly with the grand wazir, Shaista Khan thinks, and relaxes by sliding his body forward on his gilded, carved chair, putting his feet on the cushioned footrest. It is winter, and despite the heavily draped windows it is cold in the assembly chamber of the Lal Mahal. However, more than the cold, the inquiry against him has dampened his spirit. His nephew-turned-emperor, Aurangzeb, has already asked Jaswant Singh and his Rajputs to besiege Kondana Fort, and now Jaffar Khan is here to probe.

  ‘The region is already ours,’ Shaista Khan says, holding the hookah with his left hand and waving his right one flashing his rings.

  ‘Khalisa or not, the region has been flattened for sure, but the failed Konkan expedition has cost millions and the hill forts remain untouched,’ Jaffar Khan mutters as politely as possible. His sons Namdar Khan and Kamdar Khan have been assigned to help Shaista Khan and he does not want to offend the new master.

  ‘We win some and lose some. We have captured Parinda Fort!’ Shaista Khan asserts himself.

  Jaffar Khan smiles discreetly. Parinda Fort does not belong to Shivaji. It is in the Adilshahi kingdom. Shaista Khan has neither won the fort by besiegement nor taken it by force but has paid a heavy bribe to the fort commander to vacate and flee.

  Shaista Khan knows what the grand wazir is thinking but stares nonchalantly at the immaculately attired man sitting very properly on the chair. Jaffar Khan is a man who always believed in politically correct behaviour and is far from being assertive. The mild gentleman who loves to drink a few pegs every night before retiring is totally clueless about battles and wars.

  ‘I have lost a thousand men in the battle for Chakan and that fort is at ground level. Hill forts in this region are impossible to capture, and if we try, countless lives will be lost,’ Shaista Khan says sternly, his voice asserting his status as the Mughal general. Then he claps his hands announcing the end of the discussion.

  Jaffar Khan blinks. He has seen enough after he arrived here a few days ago. He had been warned about Shaista Khan’s conduct. It is obvious that Shaista is living the life of a king. His letters of promises sent to the emperor are full of lofty lies. His new residence was previously Shivaji’s modest residence. Now, with renovations, refurbishing and extra staff at the cost of more than half a million rupees, it has become an opulent palace. Satin curtains are hung over the windows, the glass urns are replaced with elaborate chandeliers, the rooms are furnished with stately couches and larger beds covered with soft linen seen only in the apartments of Agra Fort. Jaffar Khan has already decided that he will not be swayed by anything, anything, and his report to the emperor will contain only the truth. His loyal thoughts are broken when two eunuchs bring a young girl into the chamber. Jaffar Khan glances at her—the girl wears a long and flowing skirt with gold brocade and a very finely cut jacket. A sparkling tiara is placed on her head from which falls a soft veil of a translucent muslin cloth. She boldly leaves behind the eunuch accompanying her and moves forward alone. Jaffar Khan gathers his wits as she approaches him; something in her gait says that she is someone special.

  Shaista Khan too straightens up and announces, ‘She is Pari Begum.’

  Jaffar Khan is surprised. He has heard of Pari, the girl born to Shaista’s fourth wife from Persia. The girl memorized the holy Quran at the tender age of six. It is said that she has inherited the beauty of her grand-aunt, Nur Jahan. Jaffar Khan caresses his well-groomed beard nervously and wonders why the girl has been presented to him in such an officious manner.

  ‘By the grace of Allah, I intend to offer Pari Begum to your son Namdar in marriage. I want her to be your daughter-in-law,’ Shaista Khan says rather loudly while getting up from his chair and throwing both his hands in the air.

  Jaffar Khan nods vigorously, barely concealing his smile. It is too good an offer to refuse.

  Within days, the royal astrologer springs into action and the date for the wedding ceremony is fixed. On the night of the wedding, Shaista Khan’s sons go to Namdar’s shamiana and conduct him to the Lal Mahal. He is given a special turban to wear, with strings of pearls, diamonds and rubies falling over his face. In the presence of Shaista Khan and Jaffar Khan, a qazi unites the young pair in wedlock. The bride wears so much jewellery that her slight frame is bent by its weight. For many nights after the wedding, the sky above Pune is lit by fireworks. Jaffar Khan is so overwhelmed that he has nearly forgotten the main purpose of his Deccan visit. When he remembers it, he sends his newly wed son to meet his father-in-law.

  ‘Abba jaan, if you give me ten thousand light cavalry, I will start taking over the surrounding hill forts. Once Rajgad, Kondana, Torana and Purandar fall into our hands, the region will truly be called Mughal territory,’ Namdar says earnestly.

  Shaista Khan, who stands in the balcony of his bedroom overlooking the Mutha river, ponders for a while and says philosophically, ‘There are two ways to fight a war: one is to totally destroy the enemy, annihilate him, and the other is to exhaust the enemy slowly and bring him to his knees.’ He pauses, looks at Namdar and continues, ‘This terrain makes it difficult to adopt the first strategy. If we eliminate Shivaji and take over his hill forts, what will happen next?’

  Namdar looks puzzled.

  ‘You are still new to politics. Consider for a moment that we have indeed succeeded in driving away Shivaji from his hill forts and imagine our fort-keepers and garrisons on those invincible, unreachable military strongholds. What would that mean?’ The older man challenges the younger one with a smile.

  Namdar is unable to answer.

  ‘The Deccan is crucial. The new emperor is keen to take over nearby kingdoms. Once he has these hill forts, he will bring one of his own sons as a subhedar of the Deccan. Prince Muazzam, Muhammad Sultan’s younger brother, is already eyeing the position. Where do you think we will go then?’

  Namdar has not thought of such possibilities, buried so deep in the future.

  ‘The climate here is good, not too cold and not too hot. The presence of our large army is en
ough to ruin the economy of the country. Our raiders are successful in plundering most of the mountainous region. The time will come when Shivaji will have no other alternative but to surrender to us, maybe after a year or two years or even three years. We will win the hill forts without bloodshed.’

  ‘But we will have to wait and wait!’ Namdar argues, a part of him ready to go to battle.

  ‘Over-achievement is risky for us,’ Shaista Khan is talking in riddles.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Consider . . . If we do take over a couple of hill forts in quick succession and capture Shivaji, what may happen then? There is a possibility that the new emperor will regard us in high esteem in matters of the military and send us where the trouble is. Take, for example, Mir Jumla: he is a fine military general but is chasing Shahzaada Shuja all over the wretched land of Bengal and Arakan. Allah alone knows if he will ever come back alive.’

  Namdar is quick to understand and quips, ‘Then we may be sent to Peshawar, and get caught between the Persian army and the radical tribals.’

  ‘My boy, sometimes it is better not to win or lose. For now, maintaining status quo is a wise political move,’ Shaista Khan’s philosophy is new, but his son-in-law understands it.

  ‘Son, the holy month of Ramadan will soon be upon us. You and your young wife start thinking about iftar. You will have to feed your family and friends, who will break their fast with you,’ the father-in-law advises indulgently and says, ‘Instead of the hill forts, after Ramadan, you can march to the Konkan, but unlike Kartalab, send your army in small batches. Here, around Pune, we will find out ways to hunt for the villagers who have run away into the nearby jungles. Torturing, capturing or killing them may bring Shivaji out in the open.’

  Soft targets, Namdar thinks, and admires his father-in-law’s intelligence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  1

  The diwan-e-khaas is crowded. Aurangzeb, in a kimoush headgear embellished with emeralds and a serpech made of gold and diamonds, sits on the peacock throne. His sons who have come of age, Muazzam from Nawab bai and Azam from Dilras Banu, stand to his right, while the ulemas, sayyids, mansabdars, mullahs and qazis stand to his left. The umrahs stand in the front rows, their positions strictly as per their ranks. Jaffar Khan, the wazir-e-azam of the empire, is seen near the gold railing that separates the emperor from others and just behind him.

  Mir Jumla’s son, Mohammad Amin, the new mir bakshi, stands smiling from ear to ear for reasons only known to him. Behind him three orthodox noblemen, Ali Mardan, Sayyid Miran and Sadulla Khan stand along with Mullah Qawi, the chief qazi, or chief justice, of the empire. All of them wear a severe expression as if a calamity has struck the empire. Something is sloshing in their minds; the air is heavy with anticipation.

  Qawi speaks first, his voice severe, ‘Alamgir, this shameless man calls himself a fakir, roams naked in Dilli and incites poor and pious Muslims.’

  ‘La ilaha illa’llah! Mohammadur rasool’ullah . . .’ Aurangzeb murmurs the kalma while counting his tesbih beads. There is no God except Allah, and Prophet Mohammad, peace be upon him, is his messenger.

  Aurangzeb has his own intelligence network. After proclaiming himself as the emperor, he has been extra cautious. He is keen to know what people say about him and who still sympathize with his dead or imprisoned or absconding brothers. He does not want a civil war to break out and has nipped many a trouble in the bud by sending hundreds of liberal Muslims to the gallows, by killing an equal number of kafirs under the feet of trained elephants, by slaying Dara bhai’s sympathizers and making it look like a kill-to-gain robbery and by bribing countless Muslim clergy and Hindu priests to quieten them.

  He is surprised to know that people have been gossiping about his recent marriage to Udepuri even though the wedding was a low-key affair. His spies tell him everything and they have told him about this man called Sarmad, born in Persia, or Armenia, to Jewish parents. He studied his ancestral religion and became a rabbi, thereafter went deep into the philosophy of Sufism and converted to Islam to become a Sufi and translated sections of the Hebrew Bible into Farsi. A few years ago, he had travelled to Hindustan and stayed put. Spies tell Aurangzeb that he is also into Hinduism and roams about without clothes and is known as the nanga fakir! This naked ascetic has thousands and thousands of followers. He had even reached the precincts of Agra Fort and Dara bhai had regarded him as his guru!

  Qawi has heard Aurangzeb recite the kalma. He remembers something, ‘The naked man tells people to say only half of what you have said, and insists that it is true that there is no God except Allah, but Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, is not the last paigambar.’ The chief justice is shaking with anger.

  Aurangzeb listens stoically. He had called the people for some other reason but the subject of Sarmad has suddenly become the topic of prime interest.

  ‘What does he want to imply?’ Aurangzeb asks with slight irritation, counting his beads.

  Qawi caresses his long, peppery beard, hesitates for a moment and drops a granado, ‘Sarmad says he too is a prophet.’

  A roar breaks out in the diwan-e-khaas; some clergy start shaking their heads in disbelief as others put their hands on their mouths. All eyes dart towards Emperor Aurangzeb. His only reaction is that he has stopped counting his beads and there is amusement in his eyes. This fakir was Dara bhai’s guru who made Dara bhai believe in the supernatural powers of Sufism. The guru also encouraged Aurangzeb’s father to make the Mughal court a platform for debates on religions, allowing the Hindu pundits, the Sufi saints and the Zoroastrian scholars exchange blasphemous and profane ideas. Aurangzeb has heard that the ignorant fools had even compared Hindu scriptures and the holy Quran and had spent weeks and months discussing the defunct philosophies of Aristotle and Plato. Their intellectual deliberations were nicknamed as ‘intellectual masturbation’ by Aurangzeb, since the discussions were as useless, as shameful and as unproductive. Dara bhai had taken Sarmad’s blessings before he left to fight Aurangzeb near Agra. Sarmad had pompously declared that Dara Shikoh would win and become the next emperor. So much for his prophetic vision!

  Qawi takes the cue, adjusts his skullcap, raises both his hands in the air and says, ‘Alamgir, pardon me, but allow me to say something downright repulsive that may break the etiquette of your esteemed court.’

  ‘Say it,’ the emperor commands.

  ‘This naked fakir is going about with a beautiful kafir boy,’ Qawi hesitates again, swallows hard and marches on with his words, ‘These two, the naked Muslim fakir and the beautiful kafir boy, hug and kiss each other in public places. A few days ago, they displayed their perversion in the middle of Chandni Chowk.’ Qawi wipes his forehead and continues, ‘I do not want to say the word that is given to this sort of a relationship and you are wise, Parvardigar.’ Qawi has addressed his emperor as Parvardigar, a name metaphorically used for God in Farsi, on purpose.

  ‘Is he a homosexual?’ Jaffar Khan blurts and then bites his tongue. He has committed a faux pas, uttered banned words unwittingly and broken the court etiquette!

  There is uproar in the court.

  Aurangzeb’s sharp gaze cuts through the rows of people standing before him. The noise subsides quickly and most cast their eyes down.

  ‘We should have put him behind bars for performing an immoral act in public,’ Aurangzeb snaps.

  ‘We have,’ Qawi says. ‘He is here, in a cell at Salimgad; the matter now rests in your hands, my Padishah.’

  ‘This matter is trivial,’ Jaffar Khan butts in while his wrinkled face winces with annoyance, ‘this does not require the emperor’s attention.’

  ‘I will see him today,’ Aurangzeb cuts off a red-faced Jaffar Khan, ‘but before that I need to discuss another, more urgent matter.’

  Saying this, Aurangzeb starts counting the beads, his lips are moving too. For a few moments the court is utterly silent. Aurangzeb signals Sadulla Khan, who knows what has to be done and will do it as effectively and as
humanely as possible. He is forever indebted to Aurangzeb with whom, in childhood, he had studied the holy Quran. They had spent their adolescent years together and he was the one who had consoled Aurangzeb when the young prince had lost his mother. Aurangzeb too was fond of him and recognized his intelligence.

  Sadulla clears his throat and starts in an officious manner, ‘The case of late Ali Naqi, the previous mir bakshi of Gujarat, who was assassinated in the court of Gujarat in front of fifty witnesses by none other than Shahzaada Murad Baksh, who was then the subhedar of Gujarat, in a state of inebriation, has been re-opened. The late Ali Naqi’s son, Aslam Naqi, has filed a petition in sharia court and has demanded justice.’

  The men in the courtroom are stunned; the case is to prove that Murad Baksh, the fourth prince, is a murderer, a criminal.

  ‘What kind of punishment does this sort of a crime demand?’ Aurangzeb asks, looking at Qawi with a blasé expression.

  Qawi is totally unprepared for this question. His face turns pale and his lips quiver.

  ‘You may deliberate later, consider circumstances and motives and weigh your options to come to the final conclusion whether this crime deserves capital punishment or a more lenient sentence, but give me some clue. What does our law say if a sane man kills another man?’ Aurangzeb sounds calm and casual.

  ‘While, after death, there is profound punishment waiting at the hands of God, there is also room for retribution on earth,’ Qawi says, wetting his lips with his tongue. He has no other option.

  Sayyid Miran raises his hand; he wants to say something. He too has been a victim of Dara Shikoh’s fury and it was Aurangzeb who shielded him.

  ‘Speak, Miran bhai, speak from the heart.’