3
The third evening comes bringing more wealth. Shivaji and Pinglay watch the horsemen as they enter the camp, loaded with filled sacks. The men dismount and empty them on the ground, allowing gold coins, diamonds, rubies, jasper, emeralds, pearls and jade to tumble out and make small mounds. Some bags contain only jewellery and some contain silver vessels, while one man has eight bags full of pearls. It is then that Shivaji hears a commotion. A French missionary has come out of the eastern gate with three unarmed men: two are missionaries and one is a translator.
‘Allow him,’ he says while watching the bookkeeper make note of the valuables.
Tall and wiry Father Ambros walks in wearing a flowing white robe, and while his face is grim, his eyes twinkle with kindness. The other two missionaries are natives, and the third one is a muscular man wearing a Gujarati angirkha tied together with numerous threads. His turban is massive and colourful and the man is muscular and stocky.
Shivaji bows and greets them and ushers them to his tent, which is just a big cloth tied to the branches of a sal tree. Pinglay and Palkar continue to check the men bringing the booty while a few of his guards accompany Shivaji and gather behind him while the guests stand in front in a line. A lone torch fixed in an iron basket filled with sand is lit and kept in the middle.
‘We have come to request you to spare our prayer houses and chapels,’ says the native translator politely; his Marathi is heavy with a Gujarati accent.
‘My men will not touch any prayer house, temple, mosque or chapel. Do you have any other complaint?’ Shivaji asks calmly.
The translator has a small discussion with Father Ambros, then he says, ‘The missionaries want to go around and offer solace to people who have lost their wealth. Will you give them permission to do so?’
‘They have nothing to fear as long as they do not interfere in our business.’
Father Ambros looks satisfied and he again says something to the translator. The translator starts to speak again, ‘Father wants to know what you will achieve by this violence.’
‘Aurangzeb has ruined my land; his general Shaista Khan and his army have killed, abducted and enslaved my people, ruined their farmlands and devoured their cattle for three long years. I need funds to build a strong army to defend my own against the Mughal invasions.’
‘The emperor will be infuriated. He may answer your violence with greater violence,’ Father Ambros warns.
‘I am well aware of this. My actions will no doubt create a major reaction in Dilli, but my inaction will create a kind of ruthless presumption. Aurangzeb must know that he or his actions will trigger reactions.’
‘Your people will be tortured and you may be the reason for it,’ challenges the French missionary.
‘With or without me, my people have been tortured since centuries. My people have been enduring for generations, blaming their kismet and their karma for their tragedies.’
‘But what you are doing here is robbery. Your name may go down as a bandit in the annals of history,’ braves the translator again.
‘Agreed, and honestly, I don’t care. If I am a bandit then who are the marauding Mughals who have killed millions in the name of wars of expansion? Who are the whites who have tortured and converted hundreds of thousands of poor natives to Christianity in and around Goa?’
An awkward silence prevails.
‘This will create a major conflict between the Hindus and the Muslims,’ Father Ambros throws an ace.
‘It was the Mughal army who marked Hindu houses in my terrain to kill and plunder. I am not discriminating against anyone on the basis of his religion. Look at my captives—you may find more Hindus than Muslims,’ assures Shivaji.
‘You have no idea of their power. Power is their slave,’ cautions Father.
‘Power . . . the volatile energy is a death trap for those who think of her as a slave. Power, like a goddess, needs to be kept in a sanctum sanctorum and worshipped.’
‘Then you must be having a deity that represents power?’ asks Father light-heartedly, perhaps knowing the natives’ penchant for idolatry.
‘Ji,’ answers Shivaji smilingly. ‘We have Bhavani, the goddess of shakti or power. She has eight hands and each of her hands carries a deadly weapon; each weapon signifies the power of one mighty God.’
‘Subhedar Inayat has a message for you,’ Father shrugs and says, pointing at the translator, ‘he is the messenger; we leave him to you while we must return to the city as my prayer time is approaching.’
After the missionaries leave, the translator’s expressions change from polite to assertive.
‘Subhedar Inayat Khan wants you to immediately leave this place, and do not forget to leave behind what you have taken from our people,’ the translator sounds outright rude. There is something else in his voice; it is either eagerness or anxiety but there is also guilt. The men standing behind Shivaji become alert, their eyes remain fixed on the translator cum messenger.
Shivaji breathes deeply, glancing at the sky; it is aglow with stars. ‘Are you talking about the same shameless Inayat who is hiding inside the fort? The same man who is cooped up inside the chamber like a woman?’
The muscular messenger fidgets with anger; his bloodshot eyes look crimson in the yellow light of the torch.
‘Emperor Aurangzeb will burn your country and remove its trace from the maps,’ the messenger is now aggressive.
‘Only He knows what will go and what will remain,’ Shivaji points his index finger to the sky.
‘And I will show you who is wearing a bangle!’ the messenger shouts. He swiftly pulls out a jambia dagger hidden in the folds of his angirkha and leaps forward, kicking the torch in the process. The blade shines as his hand comes down on Shivaji. The men behind Shivaji move forward with naked swords, while Shivaji screams in pain. One of Shivaji’s guards raises his sword and brings it down on the neck of the messenger whose head rolls to the ground. The headless torso falls on Shivaji, bathing him in blood. At this point no one knows the intensity of Shivaji’s injury. Some people think he is dead.
‘Raja Shivaji is dead,’ someone yells. The words strike Palkar’s ears like an arrow. He starts trembling with rage and leaps towards where the captives are held. ‘Kill them all; they have hurt Raja Shivaji,’ he shouts again and again. The night quivers with the pathetic screams of the dying captives.
Shivaji realizes what has happened. The assassin has managed to injure his left arm. He pushes the torso fallen on him and gets up, drenched in the messenger’s blood.
‘Wait, do not kill people, nothing has happened to me. I am alive,’ he shouts and starts running in the direction of the captives.
The place where the captives are kept has turned into a bloody battleground. The massacre has started. The enraged Marathas let the heads roll and limbs fly—the earth is drenched with blood.
‘Stop! Stop it!’ screams Shivaji running from one place to another. No one recognizes him in the beginning and they continue with their swords, killing the shackled and the helpless with severe blows.
By the time the Marathas realize that their raja is alive, hundreds have lost their lives.
The news of the massacre reaches Inayat in the dead of the night. He summons his sleepy artillerymen.
‘Fire and destroy the enemy camp!’ he orders without a clue about the range of fire.
They decide that raising the cannons higher may increase the range of firing. The artillerymen work for hours, first taking the old unused guns higher on makeshift scaffolds and then loading the muzzles with granados, iron shells filled with explosives and a low-burning fuse. Early next morning they start firing, but their granados fall in the town, in the residential areas, exploding and demolishing several buildings, causing raging fires and killing Surat residents.
For the next few days the Marathas continue with their attacks and then there is quiet. The Marathas seem to have left for the Deccan. The poor of the city start looting the houses of the rich who rema
in hiding in Inayat Khan’s fort. A few weeks later, a thousand cavalrymen arrive from Agra, complete with decorated horses, trundling elephants and oxen laden with food and weapons. Their luxurious tents are soon pitched, but no one is impressed. People finally gather around the fort and extract Inayat and his loyalists out by force. Infuriated throngs first fling dung at them and then beat Inayat up.
4
The evenings are still cold in Dilli, but Aurangzeb is feeling hot for he is burning with fury. A kafir has struck them twice and those have been well-planned, decisive attacks. The kafir has shaken the confidence of the Surat merchants, taken away wealth worth one crore rupees that is equal to eight thousand ser of gold. Entire Hindustan is talking about Shiva Bhosale; even his own daughters seem to admire the kafir. The Sikhs, the Bundelas, the defiant Rajputs and even other Hindu communities have been discussing his rebellion. They call it a fight for freedom. If the natives wake up to Shiva’s idea of freedom, Aurangzeb’s dream will never come true, the dream based on a vision of entire Hindustan under one rule, controlled by sharia law. In a fit of rage, Aurangzeb has done something he has never done before: he has cancelled his preaching sessions and the people who had gathered at the diwan-e-aam are asked to leave. Standing at the edge of the zenana pavilions, he stares blankly at the extraordinary alabaster fabric of the lotus-shaped fountain as the dancing water jets its cargo into the marble channels. From where he stands, he can see freshly tended lawns, lush hedges and flowerbeds that fill the distance between the bath and the Rang Mahal. The Hayat Baksh Garden is aflame at places with its numerous Gulmohur trees. Behind the pavilions, the usually empty purdah garden running along the banks of river Yamuna is buzzing with activity. The otherwise inhibited royal women are out for a breath of fresh air.
Near a small water pond covered with lotuses, several maids are busy chasing little Kambaksh, his son from Udepuri who is learning to take his first steps. As the little one prods unsteadily, the boy shrieks with joy and waves at his mother who sits on a bench near the bougainvillea hedges. Udepuri is laughing with delight. The world is at her feet. She is his favourite wife; she is the empress! Her son Kambaksh gets more attention from his father as compared to all his other children, including Akbar.
Aurangzeb is not in a mood to admire his young family. Instead, he glances at the sky as if to find answers. Above the high walls of the Qila-e-mubarak, the sky is turning darker with streaks of orange leaping out from the west. A frail and speechless moon floats in the middle of the blue expanse, as if looking down with envy at the heavenly Shahjahanabad. The divine surroundings do not alter Aurangzeb’s mood and the rage from within his heart starts taking over his mind. He signals to his bodyguards and walks briskly towards the diwan-e-khaas where Mirza Raja Jai Singh is waiting for him.
Aurangzeb approaches the throne. Mirza and Jaffar Khan are present in the hall; they lurch forward to perform kurnish.
Once Aurangzeb is seated comfortably, Mirza bends to keep a silver container filled with pearls near the throne and then steps back facing Aurangzeb to stand at a respectable distance from the throne. Other than the scribe who sits behind a wooden desk, there is no one else in that huge hall.
Jaffar Khan hands over a paper to Mirza.
Mirza squints and holds the paper very close to his eyes to read it. It is a list and has the names of some of the most powerful cavalry commanders of the imperial army, like Jallauddin Daudzai, Daud Qureshi, Raja Rai Singh Sisodia, Ihtisham Shaikhzada, Qubaed Khan, Sujan Singh Bundela, Mulla Yahia and many others. The number of horsemen and footmen mentioned is fourteen thousand.
‘Is this the final list?’ he asks Jaffar Khan in Persian, his dialect pure.
The inclusion of Jallauddin Daudzai, alias Diler Khan, in the list has bothered him. The unusually hefty Diler was Mir Jumla’s favourite warrior. They had waded in the blood of pirates and the kings of Bengal and the Arakan, pushing the borders of the empire beyond the hills of Naga. Two other factors favoured Diler. He was a Muslim and had won victories in the mountainous regions of the Arakan.
‘Diler is second-in-command.’ Aurangzeb’s tone suggests that he has already decided. It is dangerous to let Mirza handle the Deccan alone. Mirza is a kafir and so is Shiva Bhosale, and there is a possibility of them joining hands under the banner of Hindu brotherhood. Never underestimate the power of religion over the strongest of minds.
‘All the mentioned commanders along with fourteen thousand horsemen will be joined by our southern garrisons. Together it adds up to fifty thousand. Niccolau Manucci will travel with you to advise your artillerymen,’ Jaffar Khan informs Mirza, glancing at Aurangzeb, who sits still on the throne, his legs crossed, peering into a map spread before him while counting the beads of his tesbih. There is silence for a few moments before Aurangzeb speaks up.
‘Make a descent into the Konkan. Annex the western borders of the Marathas.’
‘Konkan?’ Mirza exclaims, suspecting it is Diler’s suggestion. ‘I am suggesting the opposite, my Alamgir.’
Aurangzeb raises his eyebrows, his pale stare demanding explanations. Age has changed the disposition of Mirza. During his father’s time, Mirza used to lead hundreds and thousands to the wretched lands to fight bloody battles. He never asked questions, only soldiered, dragging victories along and hurling them at Shah Jahan’s feet.
Perturbed by the emperor’s stare, Mirza tries to keep his face blank and adjusts his woollen shawl. He hesitates, but a few moments later, he is ready to put forth his logic, ‘My Alamgir, my presence in the Deccan might throw Adil Shah and Shivaji into each other’s arms. Even the Qutbshahi kingdom may join the Deccan brotherhood.’
Aurangzeb throws a sharp glance at Mirza and asks Jaffar Khan, ‘What do you think, Wazir-e-azam?’
Jaffar Khan, the man in his seventies, is pickled in politics. Being Aurangzeb’s aunt’s husband adds to his credibility. He narrows his eyes till they are mere splits and argues, ‘Shivaji will never solicit for political alliance with Bijapur, and even if he does they will never agree.’
But Aurangzeb is beginning to understand Mirza’s logic. Shivaji’s psychological approach to war must not be underestimated. In the beginning, Aurangzeb’s ancestors like Babur and Humayun regarded war as a matter of life and death. For the later emperors like his own father Shah Jahan, war was a matter of expanding the empire, enjoying the riches and building monuments to keep their footprint on earth. For the emotional and chivalrous Rajputs, war was, and still is, more like a sport that inflates their esteem, making dying in the battlefields to become martyrs their goal. What is the purpose of Shiva Bhosale’s war? Shiva’s philosophy of empowering humans, freeing them from bondage and inspiring them may engulf the land and infect the minds of the kafirs. Aurangzeb’s blood runs cold as he ponders over the terrible implications of Shivaji’s rise. How do you kill an idea? Can he present an alternate compelling vision? The only solution, Aurangzeb concludes, is the complete destruction of Shiva Bhosale, making him an example so that no one will dream this dream again.
‘The Maratha will do anything to win; he is a puzzle hard to solve,’ Aurangzeb concludes.
A small smile appears on Mirza’s face, he whispers, ‘We need a psychological warfare, but first we must stop them from joining hands.’
Aurangzeb looks at Jaffar Khan who first fidgets, then adjusts his turban before stroking his totally white beard up to its end. Stretching his facial muscles to create a serious expression, he says gravely, ‘Out there in the battlefield it is slay or get slain. Pray, explain, how can you prevent an alliance between the Marathas with Bijapur even if you head east?’
The emperor looks at Mirza, demanding a credible answer.
‘My Alamgir, as you are well aware, the Deccan is a peculiar region. On its western side the Sahyadri Mountains run north to south forming a formidable wall. Towards the east of this natural fortification, the ridges taper down gently. These slopes merge into the plains of the Adilshahi kingdom. Towards the west, craggy drops
stand facing the ocean, rising almost a kos above the sea.’
‘Parvardigar is aware,’ Jaffar Khan nudges, but Aurangzeb nods in agreement for Mirza to go ahead.
‘Between the slopes and the drops lies the secret of the Maratha power. Shivaji’s countless hill forts watch over the ravines and the ridges, the ports and the sea forts, the Adilshahi’s western borders and our southern borders. The men from the hunting tribes have been trained to defend the foothills. Most of the Maratha soldiers are peasants and the creatures of the mountains and the valleys.’ Mirza stops, inhales deeply and quips, ‘We cannot fight a crocodile in water, but we may trap the monster on the plains.’
Aurangzeb is once again peering into the map. Mirza waits for his attention.
‘I am listening,’ Aurangzeb murmurs.
‘Unlike the others, I want to fight them from the east. From here, I may not prevent Shivaji from forging an alliance with Adil Shah but I can watch over all our foes and be forewarned if they do try.’ Mirza has finished.
‘Is that the only advantage?’ The emperor’s interest is aroused.
‘There are many. The earth is relatively even, not hard on our horsemen, who are our core military strength. It is easier to capture some forts guarding Bhosale jagir’s eastern borders, especially those with hidden physical faults, just to show that we can and we will capture the forts if need be.’ Mirza stops at that, not explaining further.
Aurangzeb is fascinated. Mirza is talking specifics and not rhetoric. He asks softly, ‘Targeting the forts with physical faults—is that your war strategy?’
In the depth of his heart, Mirza admires Aurangzeb’s intelligence. His eyes narrowed, his voice husky, Mirza starts talking about his war scheme for the first time: ‘More than a hundred hill forts will take more than a hundred years to besiege and to win. We must cut the jugular of the forts by hitting at the revenue stream. If Shivaji is a guerrilla, then we too must checkmate him by becoming one. If his squadrons can cut our supplies by attacking our detachments, we will do the same by systematically crushing his peasants and destroying his revenue system. Without revenue, the hill forts will become as harmless as snakes without fangs.’
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