Kunwar comes in, his face drained of colour. He bends till his spine aches and stands with folded hands, his shoulders stooping.
‘Is Shiva Bhosale coming to meet me today?’
‘Raja Shivaji has fever, he will not come today,’ Kunwar says while bending his body as much as possible.
Jaffar Khan hands over a paper to him; it is for Shivaji.
We, the imperial power, have rightfully acquired your forts. You, from the depth of your heart, have acknowledged us as your rulers. I, the emperor, tell you to hand over the remaining forts to us in the interest of the empire. You claim to serve with your heart which is supposedly loyal and if that is so, prove it with your actions. Write to your ministers to hand over the forts to Mirza Raja Jai Singh.
The letter has Aurangzeb’s palm impression.
While Kunwar exits he hears the emperor say, ‘Send our guest from the mountains for a boat ride. Let him see the grandeur of Agra.’
4
After several days, Shivaji hands over his reply to Kunwar who has become a postman carrying letters and delivering them.
I have handed over the forts to Mirza Raja Jai Singh, the forts mentioned in the treaty. Now if you are asking me to hand over the remaining forts to you, in the interest of the empire, let me tell you the bitter truth. I have no control over those as I have declared my prime minister as an independent caretaker. He is not obliged to obey me and he will not.
Kunwar Ram Singh is worried. Why did things happen the way they did? Was my lack of foresight and sloth responsible for the turn of events? What if I had briefed Raja Shivaji about court etiquette? What if I had informed him that the emperor had asked me to organize a private meeting between them after the function? What if I had informed Raja Shivaji that the emperor was planning to give him a hundred warhorses, two elephants, several robes of honour, head bands, daggers with hilts embellished with jewels, and one lakh rupees? Or did the emperor change his mind and deliberately play the game that led to this mess? Kunwar fails to understand what had gone wrong. Either he had taken things lightly or the emperor had orchestrated the delay. Kunwar has also heard from a very reliable source that the emperor has had a private meeting with Rad Andaz Khan, the commander of Agra Fort, who has a palatial home with several small cottages that are used as sort of service apartments. When the emperor wants someone to vanish from this planet without lawful trial, that person is sent to Rad Andaz’s palace as the guest of honour. The unsuspecting guest is happy with the luxurious dwellings but he will never be seen again, ever, because he has been killed in the dungeons of Rad Andaz’s house! Kunwar wonders what is happening in the dungeons at this very moment!
The palace is supported by high marble pillars that gleam in the sun, but beneath its courtyards and gardens is another world, as dark as it is bright above. Rad Andaz Khan, a man of ruthlessness and ferocious intolerance, has become a favourite of Aurangzeb when he wants to eliminate people and throw state prisoners in his dungeons.
Rad Andaz makes his constitutional rounds through the winding passages of his underground prison. Men with hardened faces follow him, some of them experts in ripping out teeth, nails, tongues and eyeballs. They are trained to be deliberately cruel and systematic and have learnt to force the captives to yield information.
The way is lit by torches, and the air filled with the appalling stench of urine and faeces. The walls are of dark, undressed stones and seem resistant to the noxious life around them. The ceiling hangs low like a prying evil, as if to crush anyone who tries to stand tall. The tunnels are lined with tiny cages on either side, each filled with ten or more men. Some of them have been incarcerated for months, their only crime being the fact that they are the suspects in the eyes of the emperor. Rad Andaz likes the way his prisoners look at him, sticking their faces to the bars, their vengeful eyes following him as he moves on. Sometimes he surprises the new ones by spitting at them or shoving iron bars into their eyes or mouths leaving them crying with agony.
At the end of that claustrophobic tunnel is a large chamber. The doorkeeper is an Abyssinian in a loincloth holding a cleaver that looks larger than a sword. He notices his master and his men marching towards him. A chill runs down his spine as he quickly unlocks the massive lock of the iron door and picks up a lit torch from the corridor and leaps inside the chamber to show light. Before the men can barge in, the torch is fixed on a large counter attached to a wall. In the dim light of that single torch one can see an elongated table made of ordinary wood. There are strange-looking objects on it: ropes, tongs, handcuffs, padlocks and leg shackles fastened to heavy iron balls, leashes with thin steel chains, twisted screws, rusted cleavers, small cages filled with live mice and tiny bottles labelled poison. Two massive glass jars with a few slender snakes slithering agitatedly at the bottom are kept in the middle of the table.
The men gather around the table. Rad Andaz loves this room and holds his meetings here.
‘We are getting one more facility within a month,’ Rad Andaz whispers, opening the mice cage with relish. He whisks out a squeaking mouse by its tail and tosses it in the jar of snakes. ‘It is very close to the fort; you might have even seen its compound wall, it is rather high. It has an enormous crypt beneath it. It will have three torture chambers equipped with tools that you have never seen. The tunnels are bigger and are lined with a hundred cells. We can house more than a thousand men in there.’
‘Our work will be easier then,’ a man says softly.
‘The emperor has sent a message. He might send a very special man as our first guest: a haraamzada kafir who has misbehaved in the emperor’s court,’ Rad Andaz says, his eyes gleaming with hate.
‘Be assured we will look after him,’ someone replies and others chuckle.
‘Now move on, there is work to be done,’ Rad Andaz orders.
His men pick up various tools and exit from the chamber.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
1
Oarsmen dressed in finery for the occasion lean as much as they can towards the boat’s bow to sweep as much water as they can towards the stern. The men throw glances at their guest and his son sitting in their boat that belongs to the fleet of recreational yachts for the Mughal royals. They have heard that this man from the Deccan has insulted the emperor, the conqueror of the world, in the sacred diwan-e-khaas of the Agra Fort, that too at the time of his birthday celebrations! Some of them wonder what he, the man who has committed an unspeakable crime, is doing here. The oarsmen have seen a lot and know the whims and fancies of their Mughal masters. They know the bloody history, where brothers have slaughtered, tortured or maimed brothers. They are sure of the fate of their guest whose eyes are filled with astonishment.
Shivaji and Sambhaji have not seen anything like this before. The banks of the Yamuna are illuminated by enormous lanterns and torches, making the water surface look like a garden of lights. He has also not heard music like this before. The bands gathered on the either side of the river create pleasing music with their sitars, sarods, tamburas, sarangis and tablas. The magical sound drifts over the river that looks like a heavenly city with hundreds of boats cruising like swans, their planks covered with rows of lanterns, their canopies crowded with nobles who have come to attend the function from far-off lands. Just then, something brightens the sky that compels Shivaji and his son to look up to the lit-up sky in amazement to see fireworks exploding energetically and expanding into designs in dazzling patterns. The people in the other boats jump and dance, their jovial screaming fills the air. Their shouts are accompanied by the bangs, booms, whooshes and fizzles from the sky.
The imperial artillery has been provided with an unlimited supply of recreational explosives, releasing thousands of glittery, twinkly, bright and colourful sparks for more than an hour. Finally, the magic in the sky stops with the largest explosion as a showstopper, creating a figure of a lion and the sun rising behind it, the emblem of the Mughal. Shivaji’s boat moves in the direction of Agra Fort and within mome
nts something bursts into his vision, something that is far more beautiful, something that is far more unbelievable than the fireworks that have taken the lustre away from the moon and the stars. What he sees now has the power to belittle even the sun, the god of the sky. It has emerged like a celestial body beyond the waters of the Yamuna, its divine reflection in the river trembling with waves, like its injured alter ego. As the boat moves, the Taj Mahal comes in the full view and looms large over the river, the sky, the gardens and even the horizons, as if nothing else matters. Shivaji’s eyes dart in the direction of the water. The reflection of the marble mausoleum that shimmers in thousands of lanterns lit in the garden has a strange, inexplicable power.
The music played by the bands is no longer audible. He hears a distant chant from somewhere within the mysterious tomb. Someone is reciting verses and the sound resonates only to glide out and ride the air. He shudders, feeling an uncanny presence in the vast expanse around him. It is one of nervous energy, deliberately lurking with patience. Despite the summer, a draught of chill air from the Yamuna engulfs him, ushering in a strange sense of melancholy.
His eyes have remained fixed on the reflection of the monument of love, as if by a paranormal force. The trembling minarets look like four limbs of a beast with claws emerging from sheaths of marble to hold him in their grip. The Taj Mahal on the banks of the Yamuna is what the Mughals want to show the world and its reflection in the water is what the mausoleum is trying to expose to the world—the sinister, hollow and deceitful world of the Mughals. What an irony! Shivaji feels. The real monument portrays a lie and its reflection unfolds the truth! He shakes his head in dismay to get rid of the illusion he has seen in the water. The fantasy disappears like dispersing clouds, but another truth flashes in his mind like lightning. Aurangzeb will not allow him to go home alive. He instinctively touches the string of cowries tied around his neck and feels their vibration. Is it because the boat is swaying beneath him or are the cowries trying to warn him?
After coming back to the sarai that night, Shivaji can barely sleep. It is unusually hot and humid. Sometimes after midnight the windowpanes start making a noise as if someone is banging on them. Shivaji tries to fiddle with the bolt chain of a window of his room to get some fresh air and it flies open with a devilish force. A fierce wind carrying dust particles whips Shivaji’s face before barging into the room. An aandhi, the blinding dust storm, has just begun to roll through the city. Somehow Shivaji pushes the window shut and bolts it. The room is now filled with darkness, the dust and smell of burning human flesh. Maybe a body is being burnt in the nearby Hindu cremation ground. The night ages slowly, from darkness to darkness as the aandhi rages outside, sounding like a harsh whistle. Inside, the trapped air turns oppressive, its dryness stinging each pore of Shivaji’s parched skin, making him feel thirsty. He gulps down two large goblets of water. Thankfully, the earthen pot kept on a tripod near the bed has retained its coolness despite the surroundings.
After a fretful sleep in the night, Shivaji ventures out in the balcony of his room in the morning light. The storm has receded and the morning is bright. The trees in the courtyard, withering due to summer heat, boast of more parrots than leaves. He watches them, squawking, whistling and screeching. His eyes move beyond the walls of the sarai, his gaze piercing the foliage to reach the empty place below them. To his shock, it is no longer empty but is crowded with armed men in red uniforms. Astonished, he looks beyond the men and what he sees makes his heart race in his chest. There is the sudden appearance of an encampment; the tents are pitched randomly. They have besieged his residence!
Yesterday’s illusion was not an illusion; it was a message!
2
Not even in his wildest dreams had Kunwar Ram Singh thought that things would turn out the way they have. Under Alamgir’s orders, they have besieged Mulukchand’s sarai as if it were a hill fort. More than five thousand policemen and soldiers reporting to the police chief of Agra have been deployed around the sarai, with proper military outposts and heavily guarded entry and exit points. Kunwar has not seen anything like this before. Barring a few men from Raja Shivaji’s cavalcade, most of the men have been asked to leave the sarai and camp near Kunwar’s mansion. Kunwar’s backyard is crowded with Raja Shivaji’s palanquins, elephants, horses and howdahs. His mansion is surrounded by the encampment of Raja Shivaji’s men.
In the upper echelons of Agra’s political circles, a lobby has been formed against Kunwar’s father, headed by Maharaja Jaswant Singh Rathod and Shaista Khan’s family, all pretending to be worried about the emperor’s prestige and demanding immediate execution of Raja Shivaji. If that does happen, it will reduce Kunwar’s family’s prestige to dust. In the Deccan, the Marathas will revolt and may even kill his father. The mere thought of his father’s death sends shivers down Kunwar’s spine. If Mirza dies, Kunwar, at the age of thirty-five, will become an orphan. The emperor will not hesitate to remove him from his present duty at the palace and send him to the empire’s dangerous borders. He will have to leave his wives and children behind at Agra and they will be at the mercy of the emperor.
Kunwar had met the imperial mir bakshi, Mohammad Amin, several times in the recent past. The first paymaster general had told him that the emperor was planning to send Kunwar and Raja Shivaji on a campaign headed by Rad Andaz Khan to Afghanistan to fight Yusufzai and Afridi rebels. Knowing the reputation of Rad Andaz, Kunwar had instantly known the strategy. Once in Kabul, Rad Andaz Khan would assassinate Raja Shivaji and make it look like an enemy ambush. Kunwar did not mince words; he had told Amin that the emperor must kill him first and then do what he wanted with Raja Shivaji. With repeated visits to the palace and putting up his case in front of wazir-e-azam Jaffar Khan, Kunwar has managed a nod from the emperor to keep some of his trusted Rajputs around Raja Shivaji, just to make sure that the police chief and his men do not kill him by deceit. His father has given his word for Raja Shivaji’s safety and the Rajput promise has to be kept. The emperor has also agreed that men accompanying Raja Shivaji are allowed in and out of the sarai and that Sambhaji can stay with Kunwar’s family and visit his father whenever he feels like.
It is only when Kunwar visits Shivaji for the first time after the besiegement that he realizes how serious the situation is. He has to cross several check posts, each time explaining who he is and why he is there.
Kotwal Fulad Khan and his men stand in the passage of the sarai that leads to the inner courtyard. The chief of the Agra Police has handled hundreds of criminals and caught thousands of fugitives in his life, so this is not something new. He has been told that his latest captive is a dangerous man and has killed and maimed many mighty men in the Deccan. Some have vouched that Shivaji has supernatural powers and can appear at different places at the same time or can just disappear in thin air. Fulad Khan is not scared of such rumours, but has decided to be extra careful. He was born here to his African parents who worked for Shah Jahan. He has grown up playing with catapults and pebbles in the narrow lanes of modest southern habitats of Agra.
He watches Kunwar entering the passage.
‘Assalamu Alaikum, Kunwar Bhai, you do not trust us with the captive? You have your own men planted in the sarai?’ Fulad asks with a tone of slight disappointment.
‘Waalekum Assalaam,’ Kunwar reciprocates the greeting and says, ‘It is more to make sure that the bird does not fly away.’
‘Not even a draught of wind can escape when we are here,’ Fulad quips.
Kunwar does not comment but smiles and moves on. The courtyard of the sarai that was covered with tents is now empty since most of the Marathas have shifted near Kunwar’s house. The kitchen at the other end is busy with servants of the sarai having their evening meal and the air is filled with the aroma of cooked rice. Kunwar walks along the corridors where he meets his men whose job is to watch over Fulad Khan and his men and make sure that they do not harm Raja Shivaji. They bow to him, he bows back and moves towards Raja Shivaji’s chamber, th
e entrance of which is guarded by a skinny and dark man whom Kunwar does not know. The chamber is lit by just one lamp and in that semi-darkness four men with grave faces sit near the sick man’s bed along with the young medic, Niraji Raoji, Hiroji Farzad and Raghunath Korde. Kunwar kneels near the bed and stares at Raja Shivaji who looks ill. His vibrant skin has lost its lustre, and his piercing eyes are only a listless stare.
‘What is wrong with him?’ Kunwar asks the medic.
‘Raja’s lungs are giving way. There are some elements in the air of Agra that do not agree with him. He is a mountain man,’ the medic answers softly.
‘He wishes to send some pearls and diamonds to the esteemed grand wazir, Jaffar Khan Sahib, and the esteemed mir bakshi, Mohammad Amin Sahib.’
Within days of getting gifts, Jaffar Khan presents Shivaji’s petition for pardon to Aurangzeb after making Mohammad Amin as his mediator in which Shivaji is ready to give huge sums of money to Aurangzeb to spare him from going to Kabul and let him go home. In that petition, Shivaji asks for the lost forts and asserts that if he is given those forts he will fight for Aurangzeb’s cause all his life.
Aurangzeb suspects Jaffar Khan of taking a bribe from Shivaji.
He makes Kunwar sign a security bond for Shivaji’s conduct at Agra and see that he does not escape or play any mischief. Kunwar knows what the bond means. If Raja Shivaji escapes, he will be sent to the gallows. There is one more problem. The monsoons have arrived in Agra and Raja Shivaji has remained ill. The fever is not receding and some from the Maratha camp say that their master is dying. Raja Shivaji wants to do charity, a dying man’s wish. He also wants to send back most of the men who have come with him from the Deccan, including Malusare, Yesaji Kank, Jiva Mahale and Kavji. They will return under the leadership of Prataprao Gujjar.
Frontiers Page 52