Frontiers Read online

  MEDHA DESHMUKH BHASKARAN

  Frontiers

  The relentless battle between Aurangzeb and Shivaji

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Part I

  Prologue: 1648

  Main text: 1656–59

  Part II

  Prologue: 1656

  Main text: 1659–66

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  FRONTIERS

  Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran is a microbiologist and has worked for food and pharmaceutical companies in marketing as well as business development in countries like Germany, India and the United Arab Emirates. From a young age, she has dabbled in poetry in Marathi and English. She has written articles on a variety of subjects for leading newspapers in India as well as in the Gulf. She is the author of Shivaji’s bestselling biography, Challenging Destiny. Her book on the world of pharmaceuticals and medicines, Prescription of Life, was published in May 2018. Now a full-time writer, she enjoys long walks, cooking and farming for leisure. Frontiers is her first work of fiction.

  To my late father-in-law, Air Commodore

  M. Bhaskaran, PVSM, one of the pioneers of the Indian Air Force. From him I learnt to be fearless in the face of adversity.

  Introduction

  Seventeenth century AD was a turbulent period for the Indian subcontinent. Powerful Hindu kings had turned into vassals of the rapidly growing Mughal empire in the north. The south, or the Deccan, had its own despotic Hindu landlords working for the powerful Muslim kings whose ancestors had long ago arrived from Central Asia and beyond. Coastal Deccan was teeming with European sea traders with high political aspirations, growing fast in their strength and influence due to their technological prowess.

  It was during this time that Shivaji Bhosale was born. The son of a jagirdar, he was expected to follow in the footsteps of his forefathers and become a nobleman in the court of Adil Shah, as a jagirdar or a landholder. The path laid out for him was easy—to live luxuriously, maintain a well-equipped and strong cavalry, occasionally fight wars and earn grand titles. But when Shivaji looked around him, he saw a world riddled with cruelty, religious conflicts and mindless carnage, the noblemen blind with greed and immorality, the people enslaved, helpless and defeated, and spurned the life he was born into. He picked up his sword and chose to fight for his people’s freedom, for a free Maratha nation—the Hindavi Swaraj. Shivaji’s dream would soon darken under the shadows of swords and shatter under the heels of the armies of the Mughal empire. Witness the chronicling of momentous intrigues and battles, victories and defeats, triumphs and heartbreaks that sent thunderbolts across the centuries.

  Shivaji’s dream to free his people was seen as a challenge to Islam, a power that spanned half the globe and was knocking on the doors of Europe. They called him a rebel, a bandit, a guerrilla, a mountain rat. Soon enough, Shivaji and Aurangzeb’s histories would get entangled with each other. Shivaji’s overarching vision made him great and unstoppable. Armies and cannons cannot still such storms.

  But who was Shivaji really? Was he a petty bandit or a brilliant general? Was he merely a power-hungry man or a luminous visionary? Was he really the founder of a new era or is he just a footnote in the numerous pages of history? Shivaji is regarded as a philosopher king by some and a robber baron by some others. In the state of Maharashtra, he is akin to God. My research took me through so many pages of Shivaji’s life that I realized that the young India does not really know one of its greatest ancestors. In this historical fiction which is based on a true story, I have called him just Shivaji, without any prefix or suffix since the story starts when he was barely out of his teens. The purpose is to show him to people who always wonder who Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj really was.

  During my research I came across a foreword written by Narhar Kurundkar for a famous Marathi novel by Ranjit Desai on Shivaji, called Shriman Yogi. Kurundkar strongly held that a portrayal of Shivaji could only be completed by showing not just who he was but also who he was up against—his enemies, big and small. And so was formed the idea for this book, and its second protagonist—Aurangzeb. It is based on history but is fiction nevertheless because fiction allowed me the space to take all I had learned over the course of eighteen years and recreate what would have happened, what they would have said, how they would have fought.

  Aurangzeb, who goes on to become the Mughal emperor bathing Hindustan in blood in this historical fiction was and has remained one of the most inscrutable men in Indian history. Was he just a jihadist or a supreme war strategist? How did the men of power in Agra plot against him? Why were some Mughal noblemen afraid that Emperor Shah Jahan’s first son, Dara Shikoh, would become the next emperor? What compelled Aurangzeb to embrace ideologies and philosophies of his perception of Islam? Was he a senseless aggressor or a literary genius who expressed his philosophies through his poignant poetry? What was his vision and mission? Did he have the power to crush the heart and soul of the Indian subcontinent? Was he just a mindless murderer—of his brothers, of Hindus and of anyone who dared to challenge his beliefs?

  Shivaji’s war was fought on a much bigger platform than a mere religious conflict. It was a clash of visions, a battle for the inner being of the Indian subcontinent. His unshakeable faith in the inherent decency of humankind is a thread that runs through his life and connects his disparate actions.

  History looks different in different books. It was a monumental task to study the history of seventeenth-century India. I visited forts, pored over maps and exchanged ideas with the authors of some books that I have used as references. I do believe I am not the sole custodian of this task of telling this story. During my journey, I met some very dedicated people and without their help it would not have been possible to write this story, but I have persevered with all my heart and soul and hope that I have been able to recreate a bit, if not all, of what once had been.

  The English translations of the Persian and Arabic poetry of Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb have been taken from various books by Sir Jadunath Sarkar. I have tweaked some lines of these. The English translations of poetry written by Marathi saint poets are mine.

  PART I

  1656–59

  PROLOGUE

  1648

  A chalky moon floats in the inky sky above the huge rock of Kandakada rising above the slopes of Purandar Hill. Shivaji Bhosale narrows his eyes to peer down the cliff. The darkness at the base of the mountain is broken by the distant glow of torches. The Adilshahi sultanate’s cavalry squadron has arrived from the east to reach the northern side of the hill. Shivaji knows that their commander, Fatte Khan, is seething with rage. It is quite likely that khan will send his men, two thousand as per the scout’s estimate, up the hill. But Shivaji is not worried. The sultanate’s heavily armed cavalrymen are not trained to scale even small hillocks. And upon this hill, where even agile horses used to moving across hilly paths are rendered useless, the enemy will be forced to come up on foot.

  Besides, Purandar Hill is darker than the rest of the region, with the dense foliage blocking the fragile moonlight from lighting up the forest floor. It is suicidal to climb the mountain to mount an attack when the enemy sits on the top, backed by a hill fort. But Muse Khan has been briefed to do just this by his commander Fatte Khan and is desperate to prove his military prowess.

  ‘Move! Extinguish the torches; we are going up!’ Muse Khan shouts his orders. His men leave their horses at the foot of the mountain and start climbing. For Muse Khan, it is worth the risk. Shivaji has illegally taken over some of the hill forts in the region. If Muse Khan can capture Shivaji and present him alive in the court
of their king, Mohammed Adil Shah, he will be rewarded with jagirs and titles. His life will change.

  The region belongs to Mohammed Adil Shah, and the hill forts are his kingdom’s military strongholds. Muse Khan has come to reclaim his king’s territory from a rebel supposed to be serving the king. Initially the campaign was intended to teach Shivaji a lesson and show him his place. Adil Shah had declared in the royal court, ‘Show the boy some muscle and he will kneel; he is barely eighteen!’ Instead, the lad had bared his fangs. As they set up camp a few kos east of Purandar Hill, Shivaji’s lightweight cavalry had started harassing them, first assaulting the detachments and then cutting off supplies by sabotaging their lines of communication. Shivaji’s men waiting in ambush had killed the Adilshahi’s cavalrymen in command of cargo oxen, and then herded the animals deep into the jungles. A week since, they had become even more daring, and started attacking flanks of the main camp and then galloping away into the forests.

  Muse Khan knows the odds, but does not allow it to dampen his spirits. He is trained as a heavy cavalry soldier and is protected by armour. But that damned life-saving chain mail and armour suddenly feels heavy! The shield tied to his back is getting heavier. His sandals, suited for the flat plains, slip and make him fall on his knees, not once, not twice, but many times. The climb is riddled with steep slopes; at places they are simply vertical. Behind him, Muse Khan hears his soldiers grunt with fatigue as they struggle to tackle the climb. Suddenly everyone stops in their tracks. The hill has started shuddering with the echo of drumbeats. There are whooshing noises in the air as arrows fly past and he hears some of his men scream. To his horror, many of them fall to the ground, dead already. Just then an arrow whizzes past him, its shaft brushing his turban. Muse Khan winces. The drumbeats stop as suddenly as they had started, throwing the mountain into a strange abyss of silence. The hush is far more unnerving. Stunned, he moves sideways to find a clear view through the branches above him and sees the faint outline of the fort’s ramparts. The drums start beating again and Muse Khan notices shadows of men moving swiftly, leaping down from a cliff into the shallow depression of the mountainside.

  Shivaji has ordered his archers to stop shooting and start descending the hill to intercept the enemy and finish them off before they reach the fort. He watches from the ramparts as Shivaji’s men leave, merging with the forest, dark shadows moving through the trees. Sixty-year-old Pasalkar, one of his oldest soldiers, is among them. The shadows glide through Bini Gate in a file. They resemble a black snake swimming across dark waters, swift and silent. Most of them are peasants, goatherds, barbers, cobblers and blacksmiths, born to work with wooden sticks, nails, razors and hammers.

  On the slopes, Kavji, one of Shivaji’s ace fighters, readies his spear. He and a few men are lying in wait just beyond Bini Gate, hidden on the trees. The enemy will soon reach Bini Gate and start climbing in the direction of the ramparts where Shivaji stands with just a few men. It is Kavji’s charge to kill whoever comes near the gate to prevent him from reaching the top.

  Before Muse Khan can recover from the arrow whizzing past his ear and decide between fight and flight, a shadow has emerged from behind a tree. Muse Khan senses a man’s presence and begins to remove the shield from his back. But it is too late. He sees the outline of a spear flicker for a fraction in the air, and is thrown by searing pain. The impact makes him lurch back and collapse. The straight blow of the spear, powered by speed, has pierced through the metal links of his armour and fractured his ribs. He scrambles, keeping his shield and sword on the ground. Gritting his teeth to gather courage, he holds the shaft of the spear in both his hands and forces out its sharp iron head from his chest. Warm blood gushes out. He grabs his sword and grapples to get up, trembling. It is getting difficult to breathe and he suspects that one of his lungs is punctured. Cursing, he prepares to parry the enemy’s blow. Muse Khan can see the man now—he has pulled out the sword from his scabbard.

  Kavji marvels at Muse Khan’s strength. He holds the hilt of his sword with both hands. He is at a higher level and has the advantage of position. Muse Khan, standing below and feebly brandishing his sword, looks utterly vulnerable. Kavji’s blade comes down with full force to pierce him between his neck and collarbone, the part not protected by armour. Muse Khan collapses. Kavji looks up to see the sultanate’s remaining men running away. He hears a familiar voice. Somewhere beyond, through the trees, Pasalkar is roaring, ‘Har Har Mahadev!’ hailing the might of Lord Shiva and sprinting down to hunt the enemy. The words of the sixty-year-old warrior inject a fresh dose of battle energy into Kavji’s blood. He wrenches his sword out from the dead man, wields it in the air and runs down the hill to join his comrades.

  Abaji Ghadge and his hundred men have been hiding in the trees near Bini Gate, listening to the gasps and yells around them. They do not intend to join their fleeing comrades. Ghadge has decided to fight Shivaji Bhosale till death and has made such a promise to Muse Khan. He watches as Shivaji’s men vanish down the slope. It is the right time to take the traitor by surprise. Shivaji Bhosale is an ordinary native, a Hindu like him, but wants to be a sultan. It is a sin to challenge the ancient protocol that says that the Maratha satraps must obey the Muslim kings. He gestures to his men to follow him and starts climbing. They have barely walked a few paces when a rumbling sound makes them look up. Ghadge sees an enormous boulder rolling down towards him. Before he can move out of its way, it strikes him. He buckles and is flung into a ditch. The boulder crashes beside him. There is the metallic taste of blood and a dislodged tooth in his mouth. An excruciating pain runs through Ghadge’s body. He opens his eyes to see but there is only darkness . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  1

  The night sky is clear. A waxing moon throws pale light on the surroundings. Hyderabad, the capital of the Qutbshahi, also called the Golconda Kingdom, has been surrounded by the Mughal army. Shahzaada Muhammad Sultan, Aurangzeb’s eldest son, stands with Mir Jumla, looking out to the city, his elephant swaying like a ship in the seas. Despite wearing a woollen sweater below his armour, the prince shivers as cold winds sweep across the flat highlands of the eastern Deccan. Winter is almost over but the cold is cutting through Sultan’s bones. But he is busy admiring Hyderabad, its countless minarets, domes and spires shimmering in the moonlight like artefacts of polished silver. He has heard of the wealth hidden beneath the veneer of the city’s splendour; he can’t wait to see it for himself.

  Looking at the city, Sultan thinks about his father, Aurangzeb, who is currently the subhedar, or the viceroy, of the Deccan regions under the Mughal empire. He is the third among the four sons of Emperor Shah Jahan. In recent times, Sultan’s father is possessed with just one thought: to swallow the sultanates of the south. He does not want the southern kingdoms as just the tributary states of the Mughal empire; he wants them as provinces, subhas, of the empire.

  ‘Sunni in Arabic means the one who follows the traditions of the Prophet (peace be upon him). Sunnis are born to rule,’ Muhammad Sultan has often heard his father declare with pride, as if being Sunni is a hundred times better than being a mere Muslim. The Prophet’s death axed Islam, which stands for peace and submission to the will of God, into two factions filled with intolerance and anger for each other. The Shias hate the Prophet’s friend, Abu Bakr, who was declared as the first caliph of Islam, and felt that the leadership should have gone to Ali Bin Abu Talib, the Prophet’s cousin. The Sunnis loathe the very idea and call the Shias Shia-tu-Ali or ‘the gang of Ali’.

  ‘We will destroy the Shia kingdoms of the Deccan for they do not follow the traditions of the Prophet!’ Aurangzeb had declared in the open court filled with some of their finest Shia and Hindu military officers, who had stood with downcast eyes and faces red with shame and anger. Sultan has many questions on this issue. But who is he to ask? Sultan’s own mother is a Hindu by birth and now a mere convert, just another wife of his staunch Sunni father, a wife who could never be a queen consort to the emper
or, if Sultan’s father does become one.

  For the time being, Sultan is happy to be a part of his father’s battles of expansion. Their first target is the Qutbshahi sultanate. The plan of this annexation was hatched at Naukhanda Palace in Aurangabad, their Deccan capital, with the help of Mir Jumla, a Shia and the recently ousted grand wazir of the Qutbshahi Kingdom.

  ‘A desperate man like Mir Jumla, whose family has been thrown in the dungeons by the Qutbshahi king, and who thinks we are the ablest to help him, will give us all he can offer,’ Aurangzeb had told Sultan before the meeting.

  The first gift Mir Jumla had given to Sultan’s father was indeed priceless. It was a seven-hundred-and-fifty-six-carat uncut diamond bigger than a man’s fist. ‘If this stone is finely cut, it will be a Koh-i-noor, a mountain of light!’ Mir had told the emperor as he paid obeisance to him.

  Muhammad Sultan would never forget the evening when Mir Jumla had arrived on a caparisoned elephant at the high, pillared patio of their palace. The howdah was made of silver and glittered with precious stones. More than a hundred horsemen wearing silk robes and colourful turbans strutted behind the trundling elephant, the trumpeters walked ahead of it. It was as if a king had arrived. The fair Persian sat in the howdah, wearing a kimoush turban fixed with a crown band.

  Sultan had stood with his father in the balcony and stared awestruck at their glamorous guest dressed in a long black robe with a sash dazzling with diamonds. ‘Mir Jumla always wears black; it is his style statement,’ someone had whispered. Mir Jumla was his title, meaning the grand wazir, but everyone addressed him as Mir Jumla instead of by his actual name. Sultan was briefed about Mir’s status as the wealthiest jagirdar of the Qutbshahi whose land yielded forty lakh rupees of yearly revenue. Sultan had done some quick calculations keeping the most frequently used imperial coins in mind. One could mint two lakh fifty thousand ashrafi mohurs with that money, each made with one tola of pure gold! And that was not all. Mir Jumla was also the owner of several diamond mines. He was famous too, and was known the world over as a renowned diamond merchant. His wealth that overshadowed the grandeur of his king’s court, his scholarly knowledge of artillery, his capacity to demand loyalty from the Qutbshahi’s top military officials, his private, well-equipped cavalry and his networking abilities had made Qutb Shah jealous and sleepless. The king’s minions further fanned his insecurity. Now, Mir Jumla’s arrogant son Amin had added fuel to the already explosive situation. He had one day arrived drunk in the king’s court and urinated on the floor to show off his father’s power. In a fit of rage, the king had thrown him and his family in the dungeons of Golconda Fort. Mir Jumla had been away in Bengal then. He did not return. Instead, for a year he had roamed the world, visiting men of might who could help him to get his wife and children out of the dungeons.