by John Shors
As such hunts commenced, thousands of soldiers—spread in an immense loop throughout the countryside—beat drums and slowly walked toward one another. Frightened animals trapped ahead of the men were forced toward the wooden circle, which had large openings for the beasts to escape into. Once the animals had been corralled within the circle, its openings were shut, effectively ensnaring the animals. Hunting ensued.
I’d experienced several qamargahs and must confess that I took no pleasure in them. Men struck down spotted deer with arrows, while trained cheetahs chased slighter game. A hunt, depending on the size of the circle, could last for an afternoon or several days.
This structure appeared smaller than most, and I gathered that Father didn’t want to spend too much time in the countryside. Certainly with our enemies pressing in the south and north, he had more urgent engagements. Besides, hunting was far from his favorite passion. He only pursued it to reward his nobles and the officers of his army. After all, most men reveled in the killing.
Dara, perhaps adhering to Hinduism’s belief that all life was reborn, and hence a chased fox could be an ancestor, had never taken part in such sporting. I appreciated my brother’s disdain for hunting and was unashamed that he would likely be the only man present in the tent. After bidding my husband good luck, I dismounted and hurried into the cool structure.
Indeed, Dara sat on a cushion, studying Sanskrit and eating fried balls of goat cheese. Very few Muslims could read Sanskrit, which was the ancient written language of Hinduism, and my brother was determined to master it. Mother rested next to him, her belly swollen to the size of a watermelon. I removed my sandals and, avoiding platters of food and drink, made my way to her. “You’re so big,” I said, placing my hand on her hard stomach.
She hugged me tight, and I smelled a trace of musk on her skin. “How I missed you, Jahanara.”
My eyes teared, but I sought to remain composed. “Why did you leave for so long?” I asked, abruptly vulnerable to the memories of the past weeks, biting my lip so that I wouldn’t cry. “Father isn’t the only one who needs you.” I felt childish to speak so, but my love for my mother was like a cub that constantly requires meat, and she had been gone when I longed for her most.
“What’s happened?”
“Marriage, Mother. Marriage happened.”
“So?” Dara interjected quietly, aware of the other noblewomen in the tent.
“So, some people, my dear brother, are less grand than you think,” I whispered. “And we weren’t all paired as fortunately as you.” I adored Dara, but sometimes his naiveté emboldened me. “Perhaps if Allah hadn’t blessed you as a man, you’d see things differently.”
Dara set his book aside. “Khondamir treats you poorly? But yesterday he seemed decent. Is he—”
“Please stop,” I said, unwilling to describe to Dara what should have been obvious.
Mother squeezed my hand. “We’re home now, Jahanara. And I’m sorry, truly sorry that marriage has been hard for you. Allah knows, we didn’t intend it to be. What can we do to help?”
She had always been a woman of unending strength, and I sat up straighter at her response, suddenly afraid she might think me weak. Regardless of my resentment at being married to Khondamir, I couldn’t lead her to believe that I placed my happiness above my duty. She had been wed in the same manner, and if I were ever to merit her approval I’d have to bear most of my pain in silence. “Tell me,” I said, as servants brought us water sweetened with lemon, “of your time south.” I touched her belly. “How is the child?”
“Leaping like a monkey.” Mother smiled, then wiped a damp cloth across my forehead. She also repositioned a strand of pearls about my neck.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, but even now, after so many pregnancies, it feels distinctly odd.”
I knew that she, despite her unusual liking of politics, enjoyed the process of becoming a mother as much as any woman. I wondered if I might be the same. Was my will so stout that I could be a loving mother and a woman whom men treated with respect? Was it even possible for a woman not wed to an emperor to obtain such standing?
“The fighting was grim,” Mother pronounced, scattering my thoughts. “I saw much of it from a bluff.” She glanced at Dara, and I sensed something pass between them.
“What happened?” I asked my brother.
His eyes, usually untroubled, blinked with emotion. He started to speak, then stopped. Mother dipped her head and he started again. “I…I killed. I killed my first man.”
I was unsure what to say, for he coveted life much more than did his peers. “Oh, Dara,” I muttered, feeling woefully inadequate.
“My musket blew a hole clean through him.”
“I’m so, so terribly sorry.”
“As am I. Sorry for him, sorry for what I saw.”
“What did you see?”
“Our brother.”
“Aurangzeb?”
Dara appeared to gather himself, and then his words spilled forth, as if he could contain them no longer. “He was on the front line, with all the troops. There was so much dust. So much noise. The elephants trumpeted in horror and the cannons…the cannons were like endless thunder.” He paused, rubbing his brow. “I could hardly think, Jahanara. But I saw Aurangzeb lead men. They followed him to death, and die they did. But they opened a gap in the enemy line, and they poured through it, slipping in the blood, falling and not rising.”
“You can speak of this later if—”
“You should have seen him,” he interrupted. “One moment, he slew two men with a single sword stroke. But not ten heartbeats later, because it was time for prayer, he put down his blade and faced Mecca.” Dara shook his head in disbelief. “Men were dying all around him, and elephants running wild. But he was calm. Inhumanely calm. He recited his prayers and then fought with renewed vengeance. When the enemy retreated, he had their dead beheaded and made a great pile of these…trophies.”
“Severe, I know,” Mother said. “But the men loved him for it and our enemies fled.”
“Yes, they did love him,” Dara added slowly, as if he found such reverence incomprehensible. “They chanted his name and thanked Allah for his presence. You see, he only fights with Muslims. Hindus he sends to me. And they come gladly.”
“What does Father think of this split?” I asked, aware of the distant beat of drums.
“Father,” Dara responded, “wants to continue the peace between us and our Hindu friends. But he’s reluctant to curb Aurangzeb.”
“As he should be,” Mother said. “A father’s strength is revealed in his sons. The artists and politicians adore you, whereas the soldiers flock to Aurangzeb. It’s a sound combination.”
I rarely disagreed with Mother, but I did now, for the power of our empire rested in its army. Yet my tongue made no move against her opinion. “You were right to kill that warrior, Dara,” I said. “I’d rather have him dead than you.”
My brother thanked me. He turned westward and his lips fluttered in prayer. The drums increased in zeal and I was suddenly transfixed by their pulsations. Standing, I looked outside our tent and saw beasts running into the wooden edifice. At first only a few gazelles appeared. But then came a tiger, a handful of antelope and some hares. Soon scores of animals darted wildly about the enclosure. They ran all in the same direction, circling to my left. Mounted men cheered as the gates closed behind them and the killing ensued. My husband, perhaps fearful of getting trampled, sat on his stallion at the periphery and feebly shot arrows at the frenzied beasts. I saw him strike nothing.
My brothers and Father were among the few on foot. Shah and Murad went after a boar together, firing arrows into its bloodied flanks. Father stood behind them. His bow was raised, but he seemed reluctant to kill. Aurangzeb, meanwhile, paced in the center of the boiling cauld
ron. His tunic was splattered with gore and his curved sword rose and fell in murderous arcs. Everything toppled before him. I saw a tiger charge his position, and suddenly Aurangzeb lunged forward as a cobra might strike. His blade opened the magnificent creature’s throat and it died thrashing against him.
Sickened by the carnage, I sat down, leaning my head against Mother’s belly. I thought I could hear the baby’s heart, but the thumping might have been the huntsmen’s drums. “Are you nervous?” I asked.
She reached over to fasten a golden brooch to my veil. “Even after having so many children, I am a bit. I want you with me, Jahanara.”
I stopped toying with the hem of my robe. “Will you ask my husband?”
“I would, though by your earlier tone he’d likely ignore me. And then I would surely insult the fool.” Mother grimaced, and I knew she’d enjoy nothing more than to inform Khondamir of his shortcomings. “Your father will deal with him,” she concluded. “And no matter where I am, you’ll be by my side.”
“Truly?”
Mother kissed my cheek. “Your presence shall make the pain bearable.”
I cherished my mother then. If I had known what pain awaited her, I’d have held her and not let go.
It was the season of monsoon when the baby came. Mother had accompanied Father and his advisors to Burhanpur, a muddy locale in the upper region of the Deccan. Our enemy had sought revenge after its defeat, and so our army marched south to defend our interests. I had argued against Mother making the journey, but she insisted. My parents were rarely apart, and for her to stay in the Red Fort while he campaigned in the south—however sensible the notion—to them was incomprehensible.
Because the child was near, I’d also ventured to Burhanpur. My husband had been less opposed to the idea than I had thought; I suspect he was pleased to see me go. In my absence he could enjoy more of his fruits without having me spoil their moods. After all, Khondamir’s girls often appeared uncomfortable with me nearby, as most were honorable young courtesans and had no wish to offend the Emperor’s daughter.
Burhanpur was a wretched place. The city knew little but war and its inhabitants acted accordingly. We stayed outside its borders, camping amid immense fields of wheat. Father, like his predecessors, always spearheaded major war efforts from within a portable capital. This city of endless tents housed several hundred thousand men and women. It was an unimaginable complex of bazaars, armories, hospitals, mosques, temples and even a harem. Aside from the multitudes of warriors present, priests, concubines, merchants, blacksmiths, cooks, artists and administrators inundated the hay-covered streets. At the city’s periphery, temporary stables held tens of thousands of elephants and camels and horses.
To walk from one end of this city to the other took half a morning. Remarkably, after the present engagement with the Deccans ended, the entire site would be packed into bullock carts and returned to Agra. And when the next key battle ensued—whether in the Thar Desert or the province of Bengal—the city would be transported, unpacked, and arranged in the exact manner as it had been in Burhanpur.
In the center sprawled the imperial tent. The largest such shelter in Hindustan, this tent could easily have been mistaken for a palace. Its red walls were the height of a rearing elephant and created a boxlike structure two hundred paces from side to side. The tent contained every conceivable luxury.
I was quartered here with my parents. While Father spent day after day scheming with his officers in an adjacent pavilion, Mother and I listened to the distant fighting from atop cashmere carpets and silk cushions. I’d have infinitely preferred to hear songbirds chattering as I knelt on jagged rocks, for the clamor of battle was far too unsettling. Unceasing cannons rumbled during daylight. At night the screams of the wounded kept us flinching in prayer until dawn once again spread its colors.
Servants burned sandalwood incense within the imperial tent to mask the smells of camp. They needn’t have bothered. Whenever the tent’s flaps were opened, foulness entered along with whomever was calling. Scents of damp hay, unwashed soldiers and cooking fires mingled with the stench of rotting flesh. Not only did hundreds of men decay in the hospitals surrounding us, but scores of ravaged elephants and horses were also attended to. The elephants were immeasurably valuable to our army, and no expense was spared to heal their wounds.
Considering the sights, sounds and smells, Burhanpur was a dreadful place to give birth. Yet Mother and I had done little but pray for an end to the killing since our arrival at the front. And while the killing remained unchecked, the life within Mother eased our sorrow.
The baby grew impatient during our second week in Burhanpur. After Mother’s water broke, the royal physician who always accompanied Father on such ventures was immediately summoned. I was present, as was Father and three midwives. Though husbands rarely witnessed births, Father had never missed the rise of one of his children. He told me once that he knew no happier moments than during Mother’s deliveries.
The night was auspicious for a birth, cool and full of wind. Beyond our canvas walls a storm raged. The rain was heavy and, for once, the roar of guns was only a memory.
Mother lay on blankets with her head and back propped against cushions. The physician felt her pulse before ordering clean linen. A silver bowl of water steamed beside him and spread upon cloth were instruments of steel. One resembled a pair of joined ladles. I’d been to several of Mother’s birthings and wasn’t unduly nervous. Though in pain, she seemed more radiant than ever. I thought she looked beautiful without all her jewels and told her so.
“Sometimes,” she quietly confided in me, “I loathe the jewels. But diamonds mean power and without power I’m without worth.”
I’ll never equal her, I remember thinking then. Impossible that I should be as lovely or well loved.
I kissed her and held Father’s hand. We knelt by her side, leaning toward her. When the first contraction came she whimpered. “It comes,” she said, beads of sweat appearing on her forehead despite the night’s coolness. The physician had counted to two hundred and ninety-five when the next contraction arrived. It seemed stronger than the first.
Candles flickered in the drafty room as the physician felt the contours of her belly. He was an old man, with a chest-long beard and a slight limp. He had delivered more babies than a water buffalo has ticks, yet the Emperor’s child must have unsettled him, for he seemed ill at ease.
“What should we name him?” Father asked, brushing her hair aside.
“Him?”
“He kicks too hard to be a girl. And, my love, your belly’s never been so swollen.”
“We—” a contraction spawned within her and she bit her lip. She breathed deeply, collecting herself. “We could name him after an artist,” she muttered. “Too many names of warriors and emperors float about this land.”
The physician handed her a cup of tea. “Drink this, my lady. It will ease your discomfort.”
She thanked him. The tea must have been bitter, for she grimaced. “Is it poison?” she asked, trying to smile.
“Only to the pain.”
More contractions came as the night ebbed. They drew closer. Mother thrashed and her eyes teared. “I wish I could take your suffering,” Father said softly. “Take it and bury it far within me.”
I wiped her brow. “Does the first hurt the most?”
“If only that were true,” she managed, then was overcome by pain. Father cringed when she moaned, and I suspected her agony had reached out and grabbed him as it rent her. She asked for something to bite on and I gave her the cloth. Her contractions were more frequent now. Her whimpers turned to moans and the moans turned to shrieks.
“Can you see him?” Father asked impatiently.
Thunder boomed. “A leg, yes,” the physician replied. “It’s a breech.” Father’s face quivered. I was uncertain what t
his meant and revealed my ignorance. “It means,” the physician offered worriedly, “that the child fights to remain in the womb. He’s not ready.”
Mother screamed and I clutched her hand. “He comes, Mother, he comes.” I prayed as I spoke, pleading with Allah to ease her misery.
“He does,” Father echoed. “And when he’s here, I’ll hold you both all night.”
She tried to reply yet could only moan. Her tears welled and I knew she suffered terribly. “Pl…please,” she stammered.
“Can you give her nothing else?” Father asked suddenly, the ferocity in his voice frightening me.
The old physician paused. “Too much is dangerous, my lord. But I’ll give her a bit more.”
Drops of the tea fell into her mouth. I could see that her tongue bled from where she had bitten it. Her face, always so serene, was twisted in agony. I looked from her to the physician, who removed a bloody cloth from between her legs. “You must push harder, my lady,” he said, somewhat urgently. “Truly you must.”
“But the pain.”
“Push, my lady. Push harder!”
She screamed and thrashed. Father and I held her down while the midwives brought fresh water. “Glorious Allah,” Father prayed, “let it be over soon and I’ll build You a beautiful mosque. I’ll feed and clothe Your poor.”
I also prayed. I turned to Mecca and begged Allah to deliver the child. Alas, only screams and thunder answered me. The physician asked her again to push, desperation clear in his voice. Blood pooled on the floor and the fresh bowl of water was already crimson. The old man had his fingers inside her and was trying to reposition the child. I hoped desperately to hear him wail but heard only Mother’s tortured moans.
