Nonetheless, these so-called feminine themes aside, Dara Shukoh also collaborated with his artists to fashion and project a particularly princely persona in this album. Of the sixty-eight surviving paintings here, eighteen depict a young prince, at times seated with a teacher or facing a religious man on the opposite folio. Though in some he appears to be in his early teens and in others an older adolescent, the marked resemblance between them suggests they depict the same person. In light of the similarities with other paintings that we know to depict the prince, these portraits are likely of Dara Shukoh himself.51
Indeed, as the art historian Jeremiah Losty points out, there are compelling reasons to believe that this album was produced in the early 1630s and not later, when Dara gifted the album to his wife Nadira. For one, all the prince’s portraits here show him in his youth—if it were compiled later, he likely would have included some contemporaneous portraits. Moreover, several paintings reveal the style of the artist Chitarman, who was known to have been active in Shah Jahan’s atelier during the early years of his rule and who painted several signed portraits of Dara, both then and later. Then there is the evidence that the prince practiced calligraphy while in Burhanpur, matched with the celebration of calligraphy in his introduction.52 Furthermore, the art produced for Dara Shukoh in the 1640s and later is conspicuously different in its complexity and motifs. Once we discard the notion that Dara specially designed the album for Nadira years into their married life, we can more clearly see it as a cherished first foray into understanding and appreciating the visual arts and the art of the pen.
Dara Shukoh’s album, unlike many previous Mughal ones, also includes several images of royal women. Mughal women tended not to sit for portraits before male artists (and most, though not all, Mughal painters were men), who, as a result, had to conjure up their subjects’ likenesses from verbal descriptions. Attempts to identify the woman represented in a portrait, or to distinguish an idealized figure from a portrait are on tenuous footing at best.
One such painting of a woman, resplendently bejeweled with a somewhat prominent nose, could be Mumtaz Mahal. She strongly resembles another likely depiction of the empress. Another, holding a betel cone, might very well be Jahanara, whose fondness for the stimulant was legendary. And a princess on the left side of a double spread, facing a young prince who is almost certainly Dara, may well be Nadira.53 Though we cannot say for sure, these may indeed be portraits of the women closest to Dara Shukoh. It is not hard to imagine that the teenage prince found solace in composing the album after his mother’s death, including among its artwork the likenesses of those dear to him. But though he had lost his mother, he would soon enter into a new phase of his life with his marriage.
* * *
IT WAS DARA’S MOTHER WHO SUGGESTED the union between her eldest son and the daughter of Jahangir’s late brother Parwez.54 Marriage between first cousins had become less common in the imperial family after Akbar had objected to the custom, but Nadira’s impeccable pedigree made her an exemplary match. She was of doubly royal lineage, as her mother was the daughter of Sultan Murad, Akbar’s second son from a concubine. True, Nadira’s father had been Shah Jahan’s rival for the throne, but Parwez, unlike Khusrau, had conveniently brought about his own death through excessive drinking. Mumtaz Mahal also identified a bride for Shuja, though, as befitted the spouse of a second son, the prestige of her station was perhaps just a notch lower than Nadira’s. She was the daughter of Mirza Rustam Safavi, a direct descendant of the sixteenth-century Iranian emperor Shah Ismail. She also happened to be the cousin of Shah Jahan’s first wife, whom we know only as Qandahari Begam. Both weddings were to have taken place earlier, but were postponed because of Mumtaz Mahal’s death.
After twenty months had elapsed since the empress’s death, it was considered appropriate to begin the marriage ceremonies. The imperial family had moved to Agra, a bustling city of about fifteen square miles, its bazaar teeming with so many people that it was hard to squeeze past them, according to Peter Mundy (d. 1667), an English traveler who was in the city during the wedding.55 In luxurious contrast, the spacious mansions of the empire’s most privileged aristocrats and royals curved around either side of the Jamuna River. These inviting abodes were set in large waterfront gardens. On the right bank, the palace complex rose up from the midst of the mansions and pleasure gardens, like the crowning jewel of a diadem. Dara Shukoh’s own residence was the closest of all to the palace, nestled right beside its red sandstone walls.56 Further upstream, along the same bank, the construction of Mumtaz Mahal’s tomb was already under way.
In November 1632, Dara Shukoh’s family made the formal procession, laden with gifts, including rare jewels, rich fabrics, and one lakh in cash, to ask for Nadira’s hand. Afzal Khan, a high-ranking noble who had been close to Shah Jahan while the latter was still a prince, went with Mumtaz Mahal’s mother, sister, and trusted aide Sati Khanam, as well as with Jahanara, whose participation was crucial. A trio of the empire’s most important officials accompanied the entourage: Sadiq Khan, paymaster general; Mir Jumla, overseer of the imperial household; and Musawi Khan, head of the judiciary and charitable endowments. Shah Jahan’s court chronicler Jalala Tabatabai lauds Jahanara’s aplomb while performing all the rituals of the day, as she stood in for her mother and proved that she had full command of the complex etiquette the event demanded.57
The marriage festivities began in full swing three months later, in February 1633. Writing after the event, the emperor’s historians made sure to record the details of the expenditure on the most expensive Mughal wedding ever staged, costing, in all, thirty-two lakh rupees.58 Of this, ten lakhs came from Nadira Begam’s family, who must have felt obligated to contribute as much as they possibly could.59 The gifts alone were worth over sixteen lakhs, financed with the money that Mumtaz Mahal had set aside for her firstborn’s wedding and from what Jahanara had contributed: rare jewels and bejeweled weapons costing seven and a half lakh rupees and materials for gifting to the emperor’s courtiers, worth a lakh and a half. Elephant howdahs of pure gold, umbrellas embellished with pearl ropes that cost seventy-seven thousand rupees, and a handsome sum of ten thousand rupees was set aside solely for strewing and scattering among the public. A further six lakhs and forty thousand went toward an array of items that a prince and a princess might need for their household, such as gold implements, both enameled and plain, silver vessels and utensils, gold-embroidered napkins with gem-studded flowers stitched onto them, varicolored carpets, and velvet tents woven and embroidered with gold. Animals, too, were presented, including horses of all types—Arabian, Iraqi, Turkish—as well as Kacchi horses from western India.60
These lavish gifts, signs of the emperor’s fabulous wealth and generosity, were meant to be exhibited. Before Dara Shukoh and his bride could take them home, Jahanara and Sati Khanam had them artfully displayed in the hall of public audience in Agra. This hall, with its forty pillars, was an opulent wooden structure that Shah Jahan built; painted green and gold, its pillars were like cypress trees, said his Iranian poet laureate Kalim.61 First, the women of the palace were given an opportunity to see the presents in seclusion from the men, and then all the princes, nobles, and other courtiers attended the gift-viewing celebration.62 Later, Shah Jahan made sure that this splendor was recorded for posterity; the imperial manuscript of Lahori’s Padshah-nama illustrates in a double spread the staggering quantities of these presents, the rows of elephants and horses flanking a mass of men bearing trays.63
All the festivities thus far were primarily hosted and enjoyed by Dara Shukoh’s own family rather than the bride’s. One incident, though, hints that Nadira’s mother, Jahan Bano Begam, pressed for a role in her daughter’s wedding. On the occasions when Mughal court historians do refer to royal women, they very often address their chasteness; so we hear that Jahan Bano Begam, “face-veil chooser of veiled chastity,” requested of Shah Jahan’s courtiers that she also be allowed to host a function in her home to display
her contribution to the dowry. She had acquired jewelry worth eight lakhs for her daughter and decoratively arranged the jewels for viewing together with other gifts. First the women had their gathering, and then the emperor himself graced her home with his presence.64
On the eleventh of February, the night before the actual wedding, the henna ceremony took place in the Agra Fort’s glittering ghusl khana. This was literally a bathhouse but was far less private than we might now imagine such a place to be; it was where the emperor held audiences for an intimate few. A Dutch traveler described it as a square building made of gold-plated alabaster.65 As was the custom, Nadira’s family sent across trays heaped with henna.66 That night, the imperial librarian Inayat Khan tells us, so many candles, lamps, torches, and lanterns were lit that the earth’s quadrangle became the envy of heaven’s court.67 Peter Mundy concurs, estimating that one million lamps must have been kindled. Music filled the air for the first time since Mumtaz Mahal’s death. A gigantic display of fireworks illuminated the riverbanks, covering an area of at least half a mile in length, writes Mundy. Rockets, squibs, and crackers, placed within the forms of elephants, giants, monsters, turrets, artificial trees, and more, created a most fearsome blast and made night seem like day. Meanwhile, following the Indian custom, the palace ladies, concealed behind a curtain, applied henna to Dara Shukoh’s hands and feet as well as to the fingertips of the elegant “silver-bodied” guests, which they then bound with gold handkerchiefs.68 The attendees received sashes woven of gold thread, and the harem servants laid out for them the ingredients of a tasteful social gathering: a spread of flowers, betel-leaf stimulants, perfumes, and an array of appetizers and fruits.69
Where were Nadira and her family during these festivities? The sources continue to keep the bridegroom and the emperor at the center of their narrative. Mughal chroniclers would have thought it unseemly to describe the fourteen-year-old bride’s preparations or how she looked and bade her family farewell.
The next afternoon, Dara Shukoh’s brothers, Shah Shuja, Aurangzeb, and Murad Bakhsh, along with their maternal grandfather Asaf Khan and a host of nobles, visited the bridegroom in his house. They then took him in a procession for an audience with his father in Agra’s forty-pillared hall. Shah Jahan gave Dara Shukoh a number of gifts, including a special robe, a gem-studded dagger and sword, a string of pearl and ruby beads, horses, and an elephant. It was only after midnight that the actual marriage ceremony was performed, during which the court’s chief justice, Qazi Muhammad Aslam, delivered a sermon. The qazi then announced the dower, a necessary condition of the Muslim marriage contract. Nadira was to receive five lakhs, just as Arjumand had done when she married Shah Jahan. With that, the wedding was solemnized. The cries of congratulations and the sound of celebratory drums rent the heavens.70
A week later, Shah Jahan paid a visit to his son’s house, something an emperor only did on exceptional occasions. This was also an opportunity for the seventeen-year-old Dara Shukoh to show that he could shoulder the adult responsibility of hosting the emperor with due respect and ceremony. The prince had the entire path from the palace to his own house covered in the most sumptuous textiles. He then offered his father precious gifts worth one lakh rupee, including some Badakhshan rubies that cost forty thousand.71
Shah Shuja’s marriage took place within days of Dara Shukoh’s. The emperor wanted it solemnized before the upcoming month of Ramazan. It would have been unsuitable to have a royal wedding when everybody was fasting; also, it was uncommon to celebrate marriages during the period between Eid-ul-Fitr, which marks the end of Ramazan, and Eid-ul-Azha, which takes place after the month of pilgrimage to Mecca. The events and festivities were similar to those at Dara’s wedding, except that the costs and grandeur were diminished a shade.72
If ever cracks had formed in the relationships between Shah Jahan’s three eldest sons, we only manage to glimpse them a few months after Dara’s wedding. It was the seventh of June, when the summer was well underway. Two elephants, each goaded into a mad rage, fought fiercely on the banks of the Jamuna, beneath the imperial balcony. One, with tusks, was called Sudhakar, and the other, tuskless, was named Surat Sundar. Dara, Shuja, and Aurangzeb joined their father to watch the spectacle. This kind of entertainment was reserved for emperors alone and took place several times a week in Shah Jahan’s court.73
The sibling trio and their father were all on horseback so as to better follow the elephants, who moved ahead as they battled each other, their trunks knotted and writhing like serpents. On each of these enormous animals an elephant driver balanced precariously, holding tight.74 Dara Shukoh was on the elephant on Sudhakar’s right, while his brothers were on the left, with Aurangzeb closest to the beast. It was common for sparring elephants to separate momentarily and stare at each other before resuming the fight. At one such instance, Sudhakar, whom intoxication had made reckless, broke through the cordon of guards and viewers and charged at Aurangzeb. The young prince, not yet fifteen years old, calmly steadied his terrified horse and thrust his lance more than four fingers deep into the elephant’s skull.75
The onlookers, in a state of panic, could do no more than utter prayers. But Sudhakar became even further enraged despite, or rather because of, his wound. He gouged Aurangzeb’s fleeing horse with a tusk, throwing the prince onto the ground. Just then Shuja joined the attack, riding up to strike the elephant with his gleaming spear. Guards had ignited fireworks to distract Sudhakar. The air was thick with smoke and dust. A flaming wheel crashed into Shuja’s horse, who then reared, throwing the prince off.
Both princes needed help desperately. Raja Jai Singh proved his loyalty by joining the fray, but his horse shied. Then fortuitously, Surat Sundar, the other elephant, saw that his rival’s attention was elsewhere and took the opportunity to attack him. Sudhakar fled with Surat Sundar in pursuit, and the incident ended as suddenly as it had begun. Shah Jahan’s historians like to say that Sudhakar gazed upon the imperial countenance and was thereby chastened enough to resume his fight.76
The written sources are silent about Dara Shukoh’s role amidst all this. In an illustration in Lahori’s Padshah-nama, made for Shah Jahan, Dara is at some distance behind Aurangzeb, the farthest away of all the brothers from the elephant.77 He holds a spear poised straight upward, almost, but not quite, ready to defend himself. The painting collapses all the stages of the episode into one frame, so Aurangzeb strikes Sudhakar while Shuja aims his lance, and Jai Singh attacks from the elephant’s rear. It does not depict the ignominy of the princes flung to the ground. The historical narratives and the visual representations effectively sideline Dara Shukoh from the main course of action.
Later writers would try to scour this incident for clues about the brothers’ personalities, for what they perceive as the seeds of Aurangzeb’s daring and Dara’s cowardice. There is the surely apocryphal story that, after Shah Jahan rewarded Aurangzeb for his bravery, the emperor expressed relief that his son had not let himself suffer the disgrace of being killed by the elephant. Aurangzeb apparently replied, “If it had ended differently there would have been no dishonor in it. The shame lay in what my brothers did.” However, this anecdote, recorded more than half a century later, is so rife with inaccuracies, relating, for instance, that the incident took place in Lahore, that the veracity of Aurangzeb’s alleged remark becomes highly questionable.78
But does Dara Shukoh’s lack of participation in this incident tell us anything about the brothers and their relationship? Was the eldest prince simply too far away to act? After all, if Dara had foolhardily plunged into the melée, it would have done little to help the situation. Though the prince would have displayed his courage, the risk may not have seemed justified. The structure of the anecdote would lead one to think that Dara, already favored by his father in so many ways, did not particularly need to prove himself. Aurangzeb, the third son, was entering adulthood in the shadow of his two elder brothers, who had just had extravagant weddings. His performance ensured him
a place in the history books and in the sort of poem, by the celebrated Kalim, that would acquire wings and travel to gatherings where people would recite it.
After Aurangzeb struck the elephant’s forehead, in Kalim’s words, “Out of that crack which formed in his head from the spear / Left the intoxication which had been in his head.”79 Kalim emphasizes Aurangzeb’s bravery and portrays the prince as choosing to spare Sudhakar, glossing over the fact that he did not actually succeed in subduing the elephant: “As it would not be agreeable to the brave / to capture one when there are two in the midst // Out of chivalry he withheld his hand from him / though he had seized him, he restrained himself // Through his innate sense of duty, he displayed courage / at an age when he was not yet accountable for religious duties.”80
Even as Shah Jahan’s sons were finding their feet, on the pages of the court histories, at least, they were settling into roles in a partially written script. A poet or chronicler could not know for sure which prince would eventually succeed to the throne.
Aurangzeb facing the elephant Sudhakar.
A couple of months after the elephant duel, the emperor appointed the seventeen-year-old Shuja governor of the Deccan. The aging Mahabat Khan, headquartered in Burhanpur, was waging a series of grueling campaigns against Ahmadnagar and Bijapur, and needed reinforcements. The tenuous bonds between these kingdoms and the Mughal state had frayed. Now with Malik Ambar dead for nine years, various parties had begun to scramble for power in the Deccan. Mahabat Khan wrote a missive to the emperor, urging him to send one of the princes at the soonest instance. Shah Jahan, instead of giving the eldest, Dara, a chance to hone his military skills, chose to send Shuja, his second son.
The Emperor Who Never Was Page 11
