Medha Deshmukh Bhaskaran - Life and Death of Sambhaji

If we find them, we shall first break their bones, Shahabuddin declares with a malevolent glint in his eyes. He and his cavalry contingent have been posted between Ujjain and Indore, cities about one hundred and eighty kos south-west of Agra on an important assignment, in search of the badshahs fugitives.

But that is not written in Badshahs farman, one of his horsemen politely reminds him.

Hundreds of fathers and their sons have already been sent to Agra, creating chaos. All the sentinels in the kotwali force are so confused that they are letting many of the captives go, Shahabuddin says wearily. It is better to damage the goods before sending. The injured captives will get more attention and scrutiny, and if we are lucky, we will be rich men. In Shahabuddins kohl-lined eyes are visions of riches coming his way.

The horseman nods.

His master speaks again, this time with a tinge of pride. Remember, the boy is about nine, looks taller than his age. He has lotus eyes, with a mop of curly hair. I have seen him in Badshahs durbar. The horseman barely notices the master spitting out betel juice as he mounts his horse and takes off.

The small stone on which Shahabuddin has spit turns a clay brown.

* * *

Twelve kos north of Agra, in a town called Mathura, the birthplace of Sri Krishna, a double-storey house is immersed in solitude. On its first floor is just one room. Its occupant, Sambhaji, a young but tall lad, looks out of a window overlooking the Yamuna river and thinks about his recent past. Too many things have happened in the past two monthsone afternoon he saw his father taking his last breath. That same evening, he was whisked away to Mathura by a diplomat in his fathers court, Raghunath, and dropped off at the house of Keshav Trimal, a Brahmin.

Before leaving, Raghunath told him that the man who seemed to be breathing his last on his fathers bed was not his father. For the past couple of weeks, Pandit Raoji and Hiroji had taken turns to impersonate Shivaji Raja, Sambhajis father. The man Sambhaji saw when he last visited the sarai was Hiroji. The truth was that Shivaji had escaped from Agra a few weeks back, along with the Brahmins invited by Kavindra Parmanand for the function organized by Shivaji himself. The impersonators had taken his place from then on. Later, Hiroji and Pandit Raoji too had escaped and vanished.

It is all too confusing, but in those last two weeks, whenever Kunwar Ram Singh had taken Sambhaji to meet his father, he was always lying on the bed, with sheets covering him up to the chin and head covered with a wet compress to bring the fever down. Sambhaji could only see the eyesand even those seemed out of focus. At times Sambhaji had doubts if the helpless man was indeed his father, his Aba Sahib. He had asked questions, but the man, whoever he was, seemed too weak to be able to speak.

Shambhu Raja, it is risky to stand near the window. Sambhaji hears his host Keshav Trimals voice. If our neighbours see you, they will be suspicious and rush to the kotwals office. The enforcement men will arrive with swords, chains and torches. We will all be doomed.

Sambhaji nods and moves away from the window. He understands; tomorrow they will be leaving for the Deccan and the times are badvery bad.

The Mughal empire is shaken that his father has managed to disappear from the sarai that was being guarded by the entire kotwali force of Agra, headed by Kotwal Fulad Khan. People of Hindustan say that if Badshah Aurangzeb decides to kill someone, even death conspiresbut his father had vanished, hoodwinking that very Aurangzeb. Within days, the farmans had reached all the provinces of the empire, ordering the subedars to push thousands of their mansabdars to deploy cavalry in search of Shivaji and his nine-yearold son, Sambhaji. Cover cities, towns, villages, temples, mosques, dargahs, forest trails and sarais; arrest every man who has a young boy with him. And bring them to Agraevery father and his son for us to ascertain, the farmans read.

Sambhaji sits on a charpoy, the only piece of furniture in his tiny room. The drum-beating has started, along with the news-announcers high-pitched voices cutting through the silence of the late evening. They are saying that whoever gives information that helps capture the fugitives will get a thousand ashrafis, each made of a tola of pure gold. Sambhaji has been told that more than one lakh horsemen are combing the empire to catch his father and him. They have been promised higher posts, palaces and a life filled with pleasure.

If Aba Sahib is gone, I am the only one left to be captured, tortured and put to deathor something much worse... Sambhaji has been deep in thought for the past several days. Aba Sahib left me alone in Agra so the badshah does not suspect that he is gone. That also means that even the badshah cannot imagine that someone can run away leaving his son behind.

Kaviraj has come to meet you. Keshav talks in a hushed tone.

Let him come upstairs, I will see him here, in my room, Sambhaji murmurs and smiles.

Kavi Kalash, a renowned poet in their part of the world and a trusted friend of the Trimals, has been coming regularly to teach Braj bhasha to Sambhaji. Once, before dawn, Sambhaji had sneaked out with him to see Mathurathe town constructed in stone. They had roamed the streets lined with houses and temples made in masonry, strengthened with iron bars. Some of the buildings were supported by stout wooden pillars. Sambhaji was amazed to see a temple that stood in the middle of the town, built where Sri Krishna was born.

Several storeys high, with massive pillars supporting what looked like windows, the temple stood on a high plinth. Sambhaji could see a gilded pinnacle above a shrine. The outer walls of the temple were sculpted with divine figures. As they entered the foyer, the inner walls were adorned with hundreds, if not thousands, of statuettes; not even an inch was left blankeven the doors, both inside and outside, had sculptures covering them. The