Frontiers

by Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran

  It is time for Jahanara to attend a meeting to discuss the final arrangements. Partially covering her face with her translucent veil, she strides towards the quarters of her brother. She walks towards the private assembly room where imperial women can sit behind curtains and participate. It is dark in the room; the floor is covered with mats and some bolsters. She sits quietly, listening and watching, the darkness in the room allowing her to see them through the translucent panels. The meeting has already begun.

  Aurangzeb sits on a chair, sporting a turban studded with oriental topaz that dazzles like a planet in the night sky. Jaffar Khan stands at a distance with folded hands, his henna-dyed beard covering his chest. Kunwar Ram Singh, Mirza Jai Singh’s first son, stands opposite Aurangzeb, his slight body bent with reverence as he updates his master regarding the preparations, a perennial smile plastered on his face.

  ‘People have arrived from Mecca, Balkh, Bokhara, Abyssinia, Kashgar, Basra, Yemen, Mocha, Hadramaut and from all our twenty-two provinces. Nobles have gathered. The clergy have arrived in several groups. We too are prepared, with selected sarais ready for the guests. The borders are lined with people to receive the visitors. The community kitchens are stocked with grain, meat, spices and fruits. Feasts are being cooked. Security arrangements are in order.’

  ‘Where have the Marathas reached?’ Aurangzeb asks casually. If Shiva is to serve the empire, he must be humbled and shown his place before he starts thinking of himself as indispensable. To start with, there will not be any special treatment for him. After all he is just a landholder and father of the empire’s newest mansabdar.

  ‘They must have entered the city by now. They will be guided towards Mulukchand’s sarai. Do you want me to find out the details?’

  ‘Never mind,’ the emperor whispers, thinking about the private audience he has ordered with Shivaji a few days later.

  ‘Who has gone to receive them?’ Jahanara throws her question from behind the curtain. Aurangzeb is startled; he had not anticipated his sister’s presence behind the curtain.

  ‘Kunwar Ram Singh will take care of it. Kunwar’s father and Shiva Bhosale know each other. I have also asked Fidai Khan to look into the matter.’ The reply is somewhat evasive and Aurangzeb has dipped his voice low so Jahanara has to strain to hear him. Before anybody can ask anything further, Aurangzeb gets up to leave, closes his eyes and prays aloud, ‘La ilaha illa’llah!’

  ‘Why are you still here? You should have been camping someplace on the Gwalior–Agra road to meet the Marathas at a day’s distance. Where is Fidai Khan?’ Jahanara demands to know after her brother is gone, directing her questions at Kunwar through the curtains. He faces the curtains, and bows with an apologetic smile before glancing at Jaffar Khan hoping that he will reply for him, but the suave wazir-e-azam, as usual, keeps mum.

  ‘We have some other commitments, Begum Sahiba. We have asked Giridhar Lal to look into the matter,’ Kunwar replies, fidgeting nervously.

  ‘And where is Giridhar Lal?’ she asks.

  ‘He is still at the fort; there are some major mistakes in his accounts and he has to redo the counting,’ Kunwar says, his voice breaking into palpable guilt. His smile has gone.

  ‘What is the confusion, wazir-e-azam?’ The question is directed towards the prime minister who always speaks sparingly when cornered.

  ‘We will sort it out, Begum Sahiba,’ he says flatly, bowing deep.

  Jahanara is thinking hard but is unable to understand why a lowly mansabdar like Kunwar has been chosen to receive the Marathas. If Kunwar and Fidai Khan are supposed to welcome the Marathas, why have they been kept busy at the fort? Why has Giridhar Lal, a mere book-keeper, now been asked to meet them? Even Mulukchand’s sarai is an odd choice. It is meant for destitute travellers and is almost two kos away from the fort.

  4

  While Jahanara ponders about the Marathas and the arrangements made for them at Agra, Prataprao Gujjar, Tanaji Malusare and Ghazi Beg, Mirza’s man who has travelled with them from the Deccan, lead the Marathas to the sarai. No one has yet come to welcome them and guide them to the sarai, and if Ghazi Beg, who has lived in Agra for years, had not been with them, they would have been lost. Under the blindingly bright afternoon sun, the men feel the summer heat and stifling hot winds as if they have walked straight into a furnace.

  Shivaji’s eyes scan the abode of the Mughals from the howdah mounted on his caparisoned elephant’s back. This is not what he had envisioned. He had expected a city wall strengthened by ramparts and fortified with watchtowers teeming with archers, looking down on visitors entering the magnificent gates fitted with pointed iron spikes to injure or kill even armoured elephants in times of war. To his utter surprise, Agra has no proper wall. Its roads are narrow and crooked, flanked by clusters of shanty habitats boasting hovels made of mud and thatched with leaves or some other wretched material. Some of those slums, he suspects, are the encampments of the Mughal soldiers.

  A day may come when we can take over this vulnerable city! he thinks.

  As they move towards the city, the roads become less narrow but are extremely crowded because of the flat-roofed, single-storey shopping arcades on both sides. At places, the road is blocked with pedestrians, horsemen, cattle, carts and palanquins. There are Muslims and Hindus, some dressed in fine clothes but most of them poor, ragged and miserable and just hanging around on the streets because they have nothing else to do. His horsemen clear the way for Shivaji’s elephant to trundle through the crowded streets. After a while, they enter a large avenue paved with stones and lined with trees, their barks partially covered by arabesque boundary walls. Some walls run along the length of the roads and end only at the roundabouts with ponds covered with lilies and hedged with flowering shrubs at the centre. This area is a contrast to the suburbs they have just crossed. Oxen carts rumble past, hastily making space for Agra’s rich cruising in gilded chariots drawn by oxen with gold-sheathed horns. Every horseman is dressed in a long tunic and tight leggings, and every horse is of a quality breed. Sometimes elephants with golden howdahs covered with curtains pass by, perhaps carrying royal women. Shivaji notices Agra’s wealthy men sitting cross-legged in cushioned palanquins, smoking hookahs while the bearers sweat and run through the crowd.

  This street leads to the Agra Fort.

  Their cavalcade abruptly leaves the beautiful avenue and joins a desolate road flanked by fields and clusters of slums. After a mile, the Marathas stop at a huge building with a grimy roof and broken tiles, a structure with mortar crumbling at places. It is a rude shock and Shivaji cannot believe that he and his men will be staying here.

  ‘This is Mulukchand’s sarai,’ someone informs him. Only two men greet the Marathas who have travelled more than three hundred kos to reach Agra: Raghunath and Trimbak Dabir. They were informed about Raja Shivaji’s accommodation just the day before.

  They all walk in. Some start pitching tents around the sarai.

  Thankfully, the sarai is clean from the inside. There is a sweet-water well in the backyard, the servants of the house are polite and the rooms are large. There is a huge courtyard in the middle. Even then, this is not what Shivaji had expected. He had thought Mirza’s son Kunwar would welcome him with his retinue and at least provide him with a decent accommodation near the Agra Fort, from the balcony of which he would be able to see the Taj Mahal.

  That night, long after Shambhu has gone to sleep, Shivaji stares at his son’s translucent face, partially covered with wild curls. He gingerly pushes the curls back from his forehead that has gone moist with sweat and wipes it dry with his handkerchief and then rests his back on a pillow. He closes his eyes and tries to recall Mirza’s words: ‘The emperor, our ocean of mercy, will grant you a grand welcome and a grander audience. You will meet the wealthiest yet the simplest man on this planet. He, the Zinda Pir, is truly a living saint. You may even discuss the issue of the Janjira Fort. Perhaps the emperor will ask the Siddis to vacate the fort for you. And who knows? You may c
ome back as the Mughal subhedar of the Deccan!’

  The oppressive heat does not allow Shivaji to fall asleep. He ventures out into a balcony adjacent to his room. Kunwar Ram Singh has neither established contact nor has he sent anyone else despite the fact that the grand function at the fort is the very next day.

  Two kos away from Mulukchand’s sarai, Aurangzeb lies on his bed in the private apartments of Agra Fort. The walls are vacuous and filled with water to keep the chambers cool. Outside, palace servants pull on ropes silently to keep huge satin sheaths of the fan swaying and sweeping the trapped ceiling air around the chamber. The water streams jingle through nahr-e-bahisht and cool the surroundings. All over the city, lodges for the guests are curtained with khus mats, while jets of water from the fountains in the outside gardens keep sprinkling water on those. Only the Maratha camp at Mulukchand’s sarai is devoid of any cooling system. It remains a hot furnace all through the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  1

  From the minarets rising above the pavilions, muezzins call Muslims to fajr, the early morning prayers. It is still dark, but Agra Fort is already awake, and the torches supported in sconces by brackets high up on walls throw a pale light over the courtyard. The corridors of the structures within the fort are draped in satin durries while the floor is already covered with Turkish and Persian carpets. Slaves scatter rubies and tiny jasmine flowers made of gold on the red carpets leading to the diwan-e-aam and diwan-e-khaas. Eunuchs specially trained in aroma science sprinkle rosewater over the walls and some put smouldering sandalwood sticks into the nooks to freshen up the staleness of the air. Behind the private quarters of the royals, in a small storeroom, men remain busy verifying bequests reserved for the honourable guests. Beauticians and hairdressers check make-up jars, oils, designer clothes and scents again and again to service the royal ladies who have been invited for the function.

  The morning star has already appeared in the sky, paling all others, and the city is stirring awake, eagerly looking forward to celebrating their emperor’s birthday when sweetmeats and clothes will be distributed. A major event is taking place after years of battles, deaths and mourning. People, starved of happiness, need some reprieve, and even galloping buggies taking visitors to public baths make children squeal with excitement. Small gullies are filling with families walking towards the fort. People hope to grab places on terraces, balconies and rooftops of the houses of their more privileged friends living in the heart of the city, just to catch a glimpse of guests entering the fort.

  Two kos away, at Mulukchand’s sarai, Shivaji sits inside his chamber on a wooden plank facing a small idol of Goddess Bhavani. The deity holds eight weapons in eight hands. The demon Mahishasura lies crumpled at her feet, impaled by her trident. In the fluttering light of an oil lamp, the goddess seems to have fixed her gaze on Shivaji, her enlarged, kohl-smeared eyes staring down at him.

  ‘Today bears many possibilities of what could and would happen. Mother, you seem adamant to know my reaction. I understand the reasons behind your demand. The sword of “or else” hangs in the skies of our swaraj, its blades sharpened by the emperor, who expects my servitude. It is a vicious circle, Mother, and you know that Aurangzeb’s sword is not only thirsty for blood, but it also seeks something far more priceless and far less tangible for its survival—it needs to feed on people’s fears and hopes; it seeks elimination of religions and thrives on a strange perception that it is invincible. A refusal to surrender to it has resulted in hundreds of deaths. Show me the way, Mother, make me do something that will not make me a servant of the emperor’s sword and let things happen in such a way that I move nearer to my goal!’

  The morning winds are humid, promising a long and hot day ahead. Small processions, caparisoned elephants with howdahs, decorated horses and palanquins move towards the fort as invitees pour into the courtyard. Soon, the diwan-e-aam is full. The royal orchestra has started playing, indicating that the time is ripe for the grand entry of the master. The palace announcers alert the assemblage, ‘Hoshiyar, hoshiyar! Shehenshah Abul Muzaffar Muhy-ud-Din Muhammad Aurangzeb Bahadur Alamgir, ocean of mercy, shadow of the almighty, the only link between mankind and the divine, makes his august presence . . .’

  Then there is silence, followed by the dramatic entry of Emperor Aurangzeb, followed by his sons in all their finery, Muazzam from Nawab Bai, Azam and Akbar from late Dilras, and Kam Baksh from Udepuri. The last prince is still too young to walk on his own and is carried by Aurangzeb’s personal eunuch, khoja Mutamad. The emperor walks purposefully as the jewels on him sparkle, making many eyes blink to counter their brilliance. A few ceremonial guards follow him, each carrying separate emblems fixed on a long, gold spike, a sun, a fish, an upraised hand and scales of justice. The sun symbol is enormous; its countless sapphires shine in zest to confirm the direct connection between the divine and the emperor.

  The assemblage performs kurnish as a public declaration of total obedience to the royal command and many sigh in hushed veneration. Those who have never seen him before stare from the corner of their eyes and the very thought that they stand under the same roof with the emperor make many feeble with panic, while those who have fallen from his grace pray in silence. The emperor is finally on his throne; the official function has started.

  Once their names are called, dignitaries walk forward along with fort attendants carrying gifts. They fall to their knees or prostrate in front of the throne and some bow again and again till they are asked to stop. Aurangzeb’s eyes remain half-closed as he counts his prayer beads, only opening them when an announcement is made to shower his meher-e-nazar, the gaze of kindness, on the chosen dignitary. The beneficiary of his gaze at once touches the steps that lead to the throne and kiss the same hand again and again, because it is an achievement to be worthy of the emperor’s gaze of kindness. The receiver of such respect will later go back and tell the story of his triumph to his children and then to his children’s children.

  Kunwar Ram Singh is feeling uneasy. He has finished his duty—the security around the fort is tight, the gates and the courtyard are swarming with guards. Making his way to the diwan-e-aam, Kunwar pushes himself through the human blockade and enters the court. Once inside, he tiptoes and squirms through the rows of dignitaries, advancing towards the throne. There, he stares at his master, hoping to catch his slippery gaze. It is getting late; if he does not leave now to get them, Shivaji will never reach on time. He prays that the guards at the Mansingh Gate have found out about the Marathas and where they have reached.

  In the diwan-e-aam, the main part of the function starts. Two muscular Abyssinians rush in carrying a massive gold stand and enormous weighing scales. They fix the central pivot in front of the throne. The jewel-studded arms of the scales hold two huge pans lined with velvet cushions. The audience watches in rapt attention.

  Aurangzeb, who completes his fiftieth year at this very moment, rises from his throne, steps down and walks towards the scales. One of the men pulls one side of the scales down till the pan touches the ground. The fulcrum springs into action and the beam tilts abruptly, raising the other empty pan high in the air. Its diameter is greater than the height of a man. Aurangzeb climbs into the lower pan holding the chains, sits down and starts counting his beads while several servants rush in, each loaded with bulging sacks. They swarm around the other side of the scales and start emptying their cargo on to the other pan. Gold, silver and precious stones tumble out, filling the empty pan. The emperor starts rising high, feeling exhilarated under the gaze of hundreds of eyes exploding with admiration.

  The scales are finally balanced. Aurangzeb has donated that entire wealth equal to his weight to the poor.

  The function at the diwan-e-aam is almost over and most of the civilian guests are politely guided out of the fort. Others—the princes, the ministers, the mansabdars, the clergy and the ambassadors—start moving to the diwan-e-khaas. The emperor moves first, followed dutifully by his richly attired emblem hol
ders. Kunwar looks hassled; he is asked to show the guests their positions, strictly according to their status. What bothers Kunwar is how some nobles show their displeasure to him by frowning at him as if he decides their status. He wishes at least one of them has the courage to ask the decision-maker, the emperor. At last Kunwar’s duty is over and all have been given their right positions. The ulemas, the imams and the muezzins stand on one side of the throne and the ministers, including wazir-e-azam Jaffar Khan, on the other. The first row, enclosed by a fence made of gold bars, is crowded with the amirs who are the sons, nephews, uncles and some other close relatives of the emperor. Ambassadors from Iran, Uzbekistan, Afghanistan and Mecca stand behind the royals, and after them the nobles according to their military ranks. Kunwar makes a quick exit, this time without bothering to ask for permission. While exiting he glances at Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod and wonders why the man looks angry.

  Jaswant Singh Rathod is fuming. He has been made to stand in the last row. The distance between the emperor and the standing position of a noble is the most important, and every inch counts. He has surrendered his life in the services of the imperial armies, fighting battles first for Shah Jahan, then for Dara Shikoh and now for Aurangzeb. Despite being the king of Marwar, the largest province of Rajasthan, and despite the late Shah Jahan giving him the highest title of Maharaja, the great king, he is made to stand far away from the throne. He has heard that Shivaji has arrived in Agra and wonders where he is standing.

  2