The Giant Approaches

For a few years now, Shivaji had been growing quietly — taking forts, winning friends, opening the door to the sea. But you cannot grow a kingdom under the noses of great sultans without them noticing. Tonight, a long shadow falls across the land: the biggest, most frightening enemy Shivaji has ever faced is marching straight toward him.

Far away in the city of Bijapur, the court had run out of patience. "This Bhosale boy keeps taking our forts and our land," they grumbled. "He must be crushed — once and for all, before he grows any stronger." The story goes that the powerful queen-mother of the young sultan looked around her great hall and asked: who will go and bring me this troublesome mountain-boy? And it was their most feared warrior of all who rose and swore he would fetch Shivaji back in chains.

His name was Afzal Khan. Picture the most enormous, powerful man you can imagine — a giant of a general, tall and broad and immensely strong, famous across the whole Deccan. And he did not come alone: with him marched a huge army. The old counts speak of something like ten thousand horsemen alone, and behind them elephants swaying like grey hills, camels, cannon groaning on creaking carts, and foot-soldiers beyond counting. When that host moved, the dust rose for miles, and the very ground seemed to tremble under it, like a slow, dark storm rolling across the land.

And this was not just any enemy. It was personal. Years before, this same Afzal Khan had, by treachery, brought about the death of Shivaji's own elder brother in a far-off battle. So the giant marching toward Shivaji was an old, bitter enemy of his family — and a man everyone knew to be as cunning and cruel as he was strong.

Now Afzal Khan wanted something particular. He wanted Shivaji to lose his temper and come down — down out of his mountains onto the flat, open plains, where a huge army with cannon and cavalry could simply crush a smaller one. So, to enrage Shivaji, he did terrible, insulting things along his march. The old accounts tell us he smashed the temple of Tulja Bhavani at Tuljapur — the family goddess Shivaji's own mother had prayed to! — and the great temple of Vithoba at Pandharpur. And, boasting, he had a huge cage built, swearing he would catch Shivaji like an animal and drag him back to Bijapur inside it.

Across the whole land, fear spread like a cold wind. In every village, people whispered the same worried question: who on earth could stop such a giant? Even brave, seasoned soldiers looked at that vast army and quietly lost heart.

But Shivaji — and this is the whole point of tonight — did not panic. He did not take the bait. He was angry, yes; the smashing of his mother's goddess must have burned in his heart. But he was far too wise to let anger throw away everything. He knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that the open plain was a trap. On flat ground, the giant would win.

His strength was not the plain. His strength was the mountains — the deep forests, the twisting paths, the high stone forts, and the sure-footed Mavlas who knew every rock. So Shivaji sat down and thought, cool and clear, and he made a plan so clever that people still marvel at it four hundred years later.

The plan was this: he would not go down to the giant. He would draw the giant up — deep into the tangled, dripping forests of Javali, right to the foot of his brand-new fort, Pratapgad. In those hills, a giant army becomes helpless: the cannon cannot be dragged through the jungle, the horses cannot charge up the slopes, the thousands of soldiers get lost and hungry among the trees. There, a small, clever force that knows the land can defeat a mighty one that does not.

So Shivaji pulled his people back into the safety of the hills, and he did something very sly: he sent polite messengers to Afzal Khan, hinting that he was frightened and only wanted to make peace — please, great Khan, come up to Pratapgad, and let us talk. Back and forth went the careful, honey-sweet words — the accounts even name the go-betweens who carried them, clever Pantaji Gopinath speaking for Shivaji, and Krishnaji Bhaskar for the Khan — each side smiling and bowing, and each secretly measuring the other for a trap. The snare was set, and it was beautifully turned around. The giant believed he was luring Shivaji into a corner. In truth, Shivaji was luring the giant into his.

And then Shivaji did one more thing. He went to his goddess — Bhavani herself, the very goddess whose temple the giant had smashed — and he prayed, with all his heart, for courage and for strength. (The loveliest legends even say the goddess blessed his sword; that is the beautiful, faith-filled layer of the story, and we tell it as such.) Then, quietly, he hid his best Mavlas in the forests all around Pratapgad, ready and waiting.

So tonight, the two are moving slowly toward each other across the darkening hills: the giant, confident and grand, climbing up with his enormous army and his empty cage; and the young lion, calm on his fort, armed with nothing but a clever plan, a hidden band of brothers, and a prayer.

There is no battle tonight — only the long, thrilling, breath-held wait. But hold on tight, my dear, because tomorrow night the giant and the lion will finally meet, face to face, and the single most famous moment of Shivaji's whole life will unfold before us.

Goodnight — tonight's badge: yukti, "the plan" — when you cannot win by strength, win by your wits and by knowing your own ground.