The Marathas have entered the elite area of Agra where the street is lined with mansions of umrahs, rajas and high-ranking mansabdars, surrounded by luxuriant gardens. The sun has risen, making the shadows of men shorter and shorter till they are no longer seen, when the cavalcade crosses the Dahar Gardens and reaches the Noorganj Gardens. The road is cordoned off, as people beyond the barricades shove each other to catch a glimpse of a man who had maimed their emperor’s uncle. Slaves in grubby tunics trying to sprinkle water on the road to prevent dust from blowing up, throwing shy glances to see the last cavalcade as their nimble bodies crouch under the weight of enormous waterskins.
From the opposite direction, Kunwar is riding along with Giridhar Lal. Kunwar is drenched in sweat; his head throbs as if someone is drumming inside his skull. With new responsibilities thrown at him and time limits turning unreasonable, Kunwar is driven close to the edge of endurance. He narrows his eyes and looks ahead on the empty road, feebly protecting his eyes with the shade of his hand, and notices, a rippling, blurred image of a lone cavalcade. He nudges his horse with his knees and rides faster. Within moments he is facing the Marathas. He gapes as he notices two palanquins followed by a big line of trundling elephants.
‘Please get down, the fort is packed, there is no place for the elephants,’ Malusare hears someone shout. The man who looks like a younger Mirza is trying hard to be heard. The cavalcade stops abruptly, and the mahouts try to seat the tuskers trudging anxiously and getting mad because of the heat. Shivaji and Sambhaji are helped down from the back of the seated elephants. Some of the horsemen dismount to make the mounts available to their leader and his officials.
‘Ram Ram! I am Kunwar Ram Singh,’ Mirza’s son introduces himself without getting down from his horse, looking at the man wearing a pale silk tunic and a slivery sash, who has just got down from an elephant and mounted a horse. Shivaji returns his greeting, thinking, Does Mirza’s son not have the courtesy or manners of his father, or is it a part of a bigger conspiracy to humiliate me?
Kunwar announces abruptly, ‘We have to hurry or the function might soon be over.’
Kunwar, Shivaji and Sambhaji ride their horses through the mass of people gathered around Amarsingh Gate, while the rest of the cavalcade is herded off to Firoza Gardens. The fort suddenly appears, its sandstone battlements looming over the mansions of important courtiers stretching along the banks of Yamuna river. The father and son finally enter the Agra Fort and Shivaji is amazed at the massive fortification that meanders beyond the range of his sight. The two men and the boy cross the diwan-e-aam and dismount, giving their horses to the caretakers, and proceed on foot to diwan-e-khaas. Shivaji is astonished to see the grandeur of the fort: the entrance is draped by embroidered velvet, balls of silver and gold laden with precious stones hang down from the arches and the floor is covered with carpets. They are greeted by a grim-faced man who ushers them inside the court.
Aurangzeb, who has been discreetly alert throughout, notices Kunwar coming towards the throne. His jaw tightens. Finally the mighty emperor of the Mughals will be face to face with the man who has dared to challenge the empire.
Sambhaji tries to keep pace with the long strides of Kunwar. For months it was drilled into him that he is the mansabdar of the emperor. Feeling proud, he glances behind and sees his father. Reassured, he smiles to himself as his eyes wander playfully around the arches and pillars inlaid with gold and studded with sparkling stones. His gaze moves beyond the pillars and stops at an enormous chair, almost touching the ceiling. Above the high marble platform is a small temple with large windows made of gold. Inside the golden shrine sits a strange-looking man wearing a huge turban laden with sparkling stones. He is counting beads with sleepy eyes. At that very moment, Aurangzeb opens his eyes and finds himself peering into a pair of eyes beaming with joy. The boy smiles, but he, the emperor, quickly looks away.
Shivaji scans the grandeur that surrounds him. In the massive court, the chandeliers hang low, each with numerous candles. Distinguished-looking men stand, in row after row, in front of the throne at attention, as if they are army recruits. The golden throne with a marble base rises high like a heavenly sanctum floating in the air. In that citadel of power sits the bejewelled, bedecked, beads-counting ‘living saint’ whose half-closed eyes never seem to open. Behind the throne, Shivaji notices benches of gold, where crown weapons like jewelled swords, daggers, shields and spears are displayed.
Kunwar rushes towards the emperor and whispers anxiously, ‘We got delayed, my Alamgir. May I take the opportunity to present Raja Shivaji?’
Aurangzeb, through the slits of his half-closed eyes, has noticed that the Maratha is wearing a silk tunic embroidered with gold thread. His sash dazzles with jewels, while his belt is made of fine leather. The headgear is saffron and is laden with pearls. Aurangzeb has seen more handsome men in his life, but he has not seen anyone radiating so much courage, so much pride and so much confidence. Shivaji’s swagger disturbs Aurangzeb who has started getting annoyed. Shivaji must bow. Hasn’t Kunwar briefed him about kurnish? Kunwar notices his master’s reaction and leaps towards Shivaji and whispers, ‘Kurnish.’
Shivaji touches the string of cowries tied around his neck and begins by first placing the palm of his right hand on his forehead and then bending his head forward, as if cradling it in his palm, as if to admit that he will obey without questions. While saluting the emperor, the vision of Goddess Bhavani floats in his mind, her eight hands holding weapons and a demon impaled by her trident.
Sambhaji emulates his father. Their orange turbans with pearl strings touch the throne’s last step as the silver plates filled with freshwater pearls are offered to the emperor as a gift from the Deccan.
After straightening up in a hurry, Shivaji throws back his head to stare at the emperor, hoping he will look at him and smile.
Aurangzeb’s eyes are closed but he has seen enough. Not in his living memory does he remember anyone walking so proudly in his presence. Aurangzeb realizes in a flash that Shiva Bhosale will never be his loyalist. This man will never fit in a chain-of-command. This man is not meant to take orders. He is born to give orders. Aurangzeb thinks of his vision and mission, that is, to take over the Deccan to bring entire Hindustan under Sunni rule, where kafirs will not be considered as citizens of the empire. They will be regarded as zimmis, as burdens, and their properties as well as their positions will remain under the strict watch of the Muslim clergy. It will be easy to manipulate zimmis by playing with their hopes and fears, and systematically repressing them with taxes, debarring them from positions in public offices, thus pushing them to convert to Islam. Aurangzeb knows the bitter truth now: between him and the Deccan stands the man who stands before him!
Kunwar makes an announcement.
‘Raja Shivaji, the father of our mansabdar of five thousand horses from the Deccan, has offered one thousand gold coins and two thousand rupees as nazar—a kind gift—and five thousand rupees as nisaar—proprietary alms. Sambhaji Raja, our mansabdar, has offered five hundred gold coins and one thousand rupees as nazar and two thousand rupees as nisaar.’
There is no further announcement, the silence indicating that the time allocated for Shivaji is over. Aurangzeb speaks no word of welcome, has not smiled in recognition and not even looked at his guest to acknowledge the invitee who has travelled more than three hundred kos, braving thick forests, long stretches of deserts and the oppressive summer of north Hindustan.
This is not what Shivaji had envisioned. He too has realized the bitter truth. To serve the emperor means giving up on dignity.
In a ‘viewing’ balcony made for the royal seraglio, Jahanara sits surrounded by her women relatives, besieged by strong fragrances of wild flowers, sandalwood and jasmine. Udepuri is just behind her, wearing the most magnificent turban heavy with diamond bands. The newly fashioned headgear allows just a teasing glimpse of her auburn hair. Jahanara notices her necklace with a large diamond as a pendant. It sparkles, infu
sing its rays in the surrounding areas, looking as dominant as the sun in the small universe of the curtained balcony. Aurangzeb has gifted her father’s most prized possession, the Koh-i-noor, to his youngest wife.
What is happening in the court is more intriguing. Her eyes dart and remain fixed on the man who has come with Kunwar—he is the Shivaji! Kunwar says something to the handsome Maratha and without showing his back to the emperor guides him through the rows of people. They move silently with the little boy.
Shivaji can feel the gaze of the people trying to catch a glimpse of his face, perhaps searching for the impact of humiliation. Some gazes pierce deep, as if prying on his bleeding heart, and some pour their sympathy through their eyes and that burn holes in his soul. Something snaps in him, bitterness rising in his heart.
Jahanara’s eyes follow Shivaji’s footsteps. Nobody whispers, nobody even breathes loudly, but everyone stares wide-eyed at the fair man with the saffron turban who tumbles once while walking backwards. Perhaps he had never walked that way before. They reach the last row, and Shivaji is shown his place, behind Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod!
The court proceedings go on as more dignitaries are called, who kneel, fall prostrate, showering the emperor with more gifts and praise. Shivaji and Sambhaji stand in the last row, lonely and forgotten as if discarded, while Kunwar has disappeared somewhere into the front rows. Shivaji looks around and notices the nobles, looking tall and striking in their traditional silk tunics and brilliantly coloured turbans. Some look at the emperor with devotion in their eyes while others stand with their heads down, with the obedience of a slave, not moving an inch away from the places assigned to them. It is at this point that the name of Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod is announced and the man standing in front of Shivaji moves from his place and advances towards the throne.
Shivaji feels anger lance through his brain and cut through his bones. He closes his eyes and envisions Goddess Bhavani. He peers into her rage-filled eyes and feels a strange calm. His anger abruptly vanishes and he is swept by a storm of fearlessness bordering on audacity and is ready to excavate the layers of pretences and expose a lie called Aurangzeb. The Mughal court is not what Mirza has made him believe, and the reality is far from the grand reception Mirza had promised he would get. It is time to show Aurangzeb and his spineless minions that he is not one of them.
Shivaji’s face is flushed with anger. Aurangzeb had noticed it. He calls Kunwar and whispers, ‘What is bothering Shiva?’
Kunwar runs, making his way through the rows of the courtiers, and reaches Shivaji, panting, but before he can ask Shivaji Aurangzeb’s question, Shivaji shouts at him, his words cutting through the cobwebs of the centuries-old reverential silence gathered in the hall. He is not bothered about etiquette any more—his language is Deccani Urdu.
‘You, your father and the emperor know what kind of man I am and yet you make me stand behind Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod whom we have defeated in battles fought at the foothills of Kondana Fort? If you wanted me to stand, you should have done so according to the right order of precedence.’
Jahanara watches, her mouth open, while everyone in the hall searches for the origin of those loud words, sharper than the blade of a newly honed sword and precise like an arrow flying from a trained archer’s bow. Jahanara quickly looks at her brother who has stopped counting his beads and is staring at Shivaji with his eyes wide open, devaluing the significance of his meher-e-nazar, the gaze of mercy! She wants to laugh, viciously and loudly. Someone has finally shaken her brother, whose mind, body and soul are supposed to be invincible!
Aurangzeb cannot believe what is happening and a bolt of embarrassment tears through his body. He tries to calm down and looks at his court, only to discover that no one is looking at him. Their eyes shine in awe and admiration of the brave man who has defied the emperor, ransacked the imperial terrain, defeated Kartalab Khan, maimed Shaista Khan and let go a beautiful captive in Kalyan with honour. Not knowing what to do or how to react to a situation he has never faced before, Aurangzeb simply starts counting the beads again.
Kunwar feels crippled with dread while Shivaji shoves him away and starts exiting the hall, his back to the emperor. Sambhaji runs to follow. Aurangzeb looks on. Never before have any of the Mughal emperors seen anyone’s back.
Kunwar rushes to the emperor. He trembles while his voice quivers apologetically, ‘Raja Shivaji seems to have annoyed my Alamgir.’
Aurangzeb is forced to break his mystical silence he has created around him. He orders, ‘Call him back to the court and ask him to behave. Perhaps the summer of north Hindustan has made him go crazy. Pour some water on his head and see if he cools down.’
Kunwar rushes out only to find Shivaji sitting quietly on the steps of diwan-e-khaas, and little Sambhaji standing next to him. Kunwar goes near them with folded hands and before he opens his mouth Shivaji hollers, ‘With such humiliation I cast off your mansab!’
‘By breaking the etiquette of the court, you have put yourself in a perilous situation,’ Kunwar says softly and continues, ‘Please come back to the court as the emperor orders.’
‘Do you mean the day of my death has arrived? In that case either you kill me or I will kill myself. But I am not going back to see the emperor again, not now, not later, not again. I will never be his servant, ever!’
Kunwar goes back to Aurangzeb and repeats his conversation with Shivaji. Kunwar’s heart is racing.
‘La ilaha illa’llah! Mohammadur rasool’ullah . . .’ Aurangzeb murmurs the kalma while counting his tesbih beads.
3
The previous day’s incident has not shaken Aurangzeb’s routine. Overtly calm and peaceful, he moves from his private quarters to the mosque and then to the family court and to his private office at the edge of the court palace, with his prayer beads moving at a steady pace between his fingers. An hour before noon, he has an important meeting with tribal chiefs from the southern borders of Balkh. Outside, Jaswant Singh Rathod waits impatiently in the palace courtyard for the assembly to finish, sweating at the collar in the suffocating heat. After what seems like an eternal wait, he is called in after the Balkhans leave. Their massive turbans with enormous folds have added several inches to their already big frames, forcing the relatively tall Jaswant to look up to see their faces. When they notice Jaswant, they stare at him as glints of recognition flash across their eyes. They mutter to each other with their faces straight and unsmiling.
Jaswant ignores them and enters Aurangzeb’s office that has just one table, one chair and a desk for the scribe. The emperor is in his usual attire sans jewels and turban, clad in his muslin jama and a prayer cap, perhaps made with his own hands. He is busy reading, while Jaffar Khan stands next to him. Several moments pass and finally Aurangzeb murmurs without removing his eyes from the papers, ‘What is it that you need to discuss, Jaswant?’
Jaswant clears his throat softly, bows deeply and broaches the subject, ‘My Alamgir, kindly accept humble salutations from this nacheez, this worthless man. It is my honour to stand before you and utter my views. I believe that there is a deeper meaning to whatever happened yesterday in the court. It’s a forewarning.’
‘Yesterday was a busy day and many things happened in the court; which one in particular are you talking about?’ Aurangzeb asks with ease, his face calm.
Jaswant shudders with powerless rage; the emperor is snubbing him blatantly. Shivaji had openly condemned him before challenging the emperor. Everyone in the city is discussing Shivaji’s outburst; it is being gossiped about in homes, in the markets, at sarais and even in the emperor’s own courtyards.
Jaswant decides to ignore the question, points his forefinger to himself and says regretfully, ‘Alamgir, kindly forgive this worthless man for speaking from the depth of his heart. I believe there was some motive in allowing a dangerous man like Shivaji to Agra. Mirza Raja should have warned you.’
Aurangzeb has no appetite to discuss this subject and he does not want or ne
ed anyone’s advice, especially Jaswant’s, who, according to the reports, might have forged a discrete alliance with Shiva in the past.
‘Who are you blaming?’ Jaffar Khan demands without moving his eyes from Aurangzeb who is still engrossed in reading.
Jaswant hesitates; the young, tall and debonair maharaja of Marwar feels a spasm of fear slither down his spine.
‘Raja Jaswant?’ Jaffar Khan sounds impatient.
‘Mirza Jai Singh should have thought before sending this treacherous creature to Agra. Or, as I suspect, did he have some motive in doing so?’
Aurangzeb smiles. The old Kachwah–Rathod rivalry is rearing its head again! These so-called proud kings pompously wear the crowns of Mughal vassalage and fight among themselves. Mirza’s brilliant success in the past has created an anti-Mirza lobby headed by Jaswant who is smarting under Shiva’s remarks, Shiva who is a protégée of Mirza.
Jaswant gathers enough courage and persists, ‘Allow this nacheez to suggest something of vital importance. I believe that Shivaji must face public death by hanging to teach others a lesson. He has dared to break the protocol of the court and his arrogance is certainly powered by something far more evil.’
Aurangzeb shakes his head with dismay; Jaswant has forgotten how he had intercepted Aurangzeb’s forces near Ujjain to defend Dara bhai, what he had done during the battle at Khajwa when they had fought Shah Shuja. And now this traitor wants the emperor to trust him. I would rather trust men like Shiva Bhosale than Jaswant Singh Rathod! Aurangzeb fumes.
‘We shall give you the date when you will leave for our north-western frontiers with your men,’ Aurangzeb says with finality. The conversation is over.
Jaswant nods with shadows of despair in his eyes.
Aurangzeb and Jaffar Khan do not say anything further, and their impatience for him to leave fills the air. Jaswant has no option but retreat with quiet indignation. After he is gone, Jaffar Khan asks the attendants standing outside the door to summon Kunwar Ram Singh.
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