The Crimson Throne

by Sudhir Kakar

  ‘Prince Aurangzeb has not proclaimed himself emperor. Not like the princes Murad and Shuja,’ the governor said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘He is not a rebel but a dutiful son who is marching to Agra to rescue an ailing father from the clutches of the infidel Dara Shukoh.’

  The governor’s sharp eyes, narrowed into slits by the swelling folds of fleshy cheeks pressing against them, keenly searched our faces for any sign that might betray our loyalties. Finding none, he continued in a measured voice, attempting to maintain a stance of careful neutrality: ‘I am told he has an army of thirty thousand veterans, reinforced by a few contingents of Maratha irregulars. I have heard that before he took to the field Aurangzeb ordered everyone to kneel on the ground, as he did himself, and ask God to grant them victory. He then raised his hands to heaven and said, “Aya sardihamya sitanam (I will lose my own head or take my adversary’s)”.’

  Keeping my face impassive, I inwardly applauded Aurangzeb’s instinctive understanding and manipulation of symbols, so necessary for anyone who aspires to be a leader of men. His were the very words spoken by Alexander the Great when he marched against King Darius; Aurangzeb had absorbed Danishmand Khan’s history lessons well.

  ‘I also hear that the prince has imprisoned Mir Jumla and has taken command over his troops. Will you still be going to Aurangabad or should I make arrangements for your return to Agra?’ the governor asked innocently.

  ‘This is momentous news, indeed,’ Imran Khan, who we had agreed would be our spokesman, said. ‘We will need to discuss it further. Perhaps we shall presume on your hospitality for a few more days till the situation becomes clearer.’

  ‘Bernier,’ Imran Khan told me that evening, ‘we shall stay in Gwalior and await further news of Aurangzeb’s march. I have sent a courier to his camp to enquire where he would like to meet us.’

  I confess I was not displeased at the prospect of resting for a few days, especially in the pleasurable company of Habshi, who I had insisted should accompany me on our journey to the Deccan but had not seen much of because of the exigencies of travel. Travelling in India is strenuous under the best of circumstances and the more difficult part of our route—the mountainous region of central Hindustan with its narrow roads hugging the sides of hills where even a sturdy young horse can slip and take its rider with it to the bottom of a ravine, and the streams littered with boulders and rocks where a wagon can easily overturn—was still before us.

  Ill-built in the manner of most Indian towns, Gwalior is not particularly attractive, its only agreeable feature being its location on the side of a mountain and the high walls with towers that surrounds it. The fortress of Gwalior had a royal prison where Emperor Shah Jahan sent princes and nobles who had run foul of him for safe custody and eventual execution, a practice now continued by his successor. Within the fortress, on the northwest slope of the mountain, the emperor had built a pleasure palace from where the entire town was visible. The palace had an attached guest house where important dignitaries of the empire were put up and this was to be our residence for a week.

  Unlike me, Imran Khan was impatient to complete our mission and return to Delhi where he could involve himself, however vicariously, in the political developments that were taking place in the capital city in our absence. As a foreigner and a person of a philosophical bent of mind, my interest in the events that the Omrah found so absorbing was more as an observer than a participant, although, I must concede, I was not always immune to the agitation that swirled all around me. I was content to spend my days taking up the translation of Descartes’s Discourse on the Method of Properly Conducting One’s Reason, which I had left untouched for more than six weeks while Habshi provided a welcome diversion from my intellectual labours. Three times a week we dined with the governor and avidly lapped up the news of the progress of the various rebellions.

  When Aurangzeb finally made his move, it had been almost three months since Shuja and Murad had each declared himself emperor. Murad had been pressing him for weeks: ‘We are losing time and letting our business suffer by waiting for certain news of the emperor. Our enemy is getting stronger. Let us start together for Agra. It only remains for you to give the order,’ he had apparently written to his brother in one of innumerable missives. But Aurangzeb had waited patiently till he felt he had secured the rear of his army and convinced Mir Jumla to secretly switch sides and surrender his treasure, cavalry and especially his artillery, which boasted some of the best Dutch and French gunners, thus adding significant strength to Aurangzeb’s arms. I have seen those huge guns, some forty-eight pounders, others thirty-six pounders, each gun drawn by twenty-four pairs of oxen. Strong and powerful elephants followed the artillery and were employed in pushing the guns with their trunks whenever the oxen had difficulty in drawing the gun carriage. Mir Jumla being imprisoned by Aurangzeb for his refusal to betray the imperial cause was thus a mere fiction created to safeguard the lives of the officer’s wife and three children who were being held hostage at the imperial court in Agra by Dara.

  It was clear that Aurangzeb deliberated for long before reaching a decision, but once he was set on a course of action he moved with dispatch. Within thirteen days, he reached Burhanpur, the old capital of Mogul Deccan, commanding the ferry points on the river Narmada, where he set up camp outside the city and waited for Murad’s army to join his forces for their joint advance on Agra. The courier we had dispatched returned with the message that Aurangzeb was planning to stay for a month in Burhanpur, a town which for me carried fond memories of the merchant lad Afzal, who had sought to introduce me to catamite pleasures that I had witlessly spurned at the time. Imran Khan and I decided it was now time for us to seek the audience of the prince.

  The countryside between Gwalior and Burhanpur is generally flat, with fertile fields of wheat and rice, and many small towns and although we had to ford many small streams that were now dry, we made good progress, covering around forty miles a day, thanks also to the governor who had arranged for fresh horses and provisions to be provided to our party at suitable intervals. We passed occasional trading caravans on our way but I got the distinct impression that these were few and far between. As compared to my journey in the opposite direction during the early part of the year, when I was on my way to join Danishmand Khan’s court, the serais where we halted had conspicuously fewer guests; when armies march, all other movement along the route they take comes to a halt as people seek the safety of their homes and animals scurry to take shelter in the woods.

  As it transpired, we did not get to Burhanpur. On receiving a message from Murad that the latter would join him further north, near the woods of Mandu, Aurangzeb’s army had set out in late March to cross the Narmada while we were still on our way. We had no option but to halt halfway on the Great Deccan Road, in Ujjain, a town sacred to the idolaters on the bank of the river Sipra, and then meet Aurangzeb at his camp some fifty miles southwest of Ujjain, where his army had pitched tents as it waited for Murad’s. It was thus on the sixteenth day of April, 1658, that Imran Khan and I reached Aurangzeb’s camp and, late in the morning of the following day, presented ourselves outside the prince’s tent after he had returned from an inspection of his elite cavalry regiment which, along with the artillery, was under his direct command.

  Physically, Aurangzeb was lean and very tall, of a fairer complexion than is otherwise prevalent among his countrymen. His beard, too, was a dark brown rather than black. Instead of the rich robes favoured by the Omrah, he wore a battlefield jubba, a beige coat made of thick, quilted silk that was capable of withstanding the blow of a sword or the impact of a ball from a musket. He welcomed us with signal courtesy though his countenance remained characteristically grave, its solemnity enhanced by impassive eyes that could occasionally turn speculative. Whenever he smiled, which was rare, one could see the effort in the muscles around his mouth to hold the smile in its place. His voice was soft, his manner mild, and my first impression of him— which I have h
ad no reason to revise—was immediately favourable. Before he and Imran Khan disappeared into the tent to discuss matters of strategy, he called on one of his personal officers.

  ‘Take the farangi doctor around the encampment,’ he commanded. ‘I am very interested in his observations on my army and how it compares to that of a European king.’

  I did not need to traverse the entire encampment to note that Aurangzeb’s camp bore little resemblance to similar camps in Europe. More than a military camp, it was like a large town, its habitations segregated accorded to rank, its inhabitants a motley mix of different communities—Moguls, Afghans, Marathas and contingents from Golconda—each with its own commander and its own war cry, its own preferred weapons and way of fighting. The Golconda soldiers, for instance, do not wear sabres like the Persians but a broad sword like the Swiss, with which they cut and thrust; a cavalryman carries a bow and arrows, a buckler and a battle axe, and is protected by a metal head-piece and a jacket of mail that hangs down from the headpiece over the shoulders. Lacking a common uniform, each contingent of the Mogul army dresses in the manner of its community and each individual within it according to his choosing, further reinforcing the impression of an Indian town, unlike its European counterpart, which would certainly look like a battlement.

  The tents of the high-ranking mansabdars were pitched around Aurangzeb’s own tent, which was at the centre of the encampment. Each tent flew a flag of a different colour and shape, making for a colourful spectacle. The further one moved away from the centre, the lower was the station of the soldier and the poorer the accommodation, until one reached the ordinary soldier who slept in the open under a tree or under a sheet of cloth tied to four wooden poles as protection against the night dew, his single weapon and meagre possessions kept on the ground next to him. Many of these soldiers—and here I include wrestlers, water-carriers, palanquin bearers and other menials (though not the shopkeepers who tag along with an army) who are all classed as infantry by the Moguls—had their wives and children with them in the camp. Indeed, with the mobilization of troops affecting all parts of the country, I had seen scores of soldiers on their way to join the armies that were being raised, some carrying unweaned infants in their arms, baskets of cooking pots and pans on their heads, while their wives marched behind them with spears or matchlocks upon their backs.

  The camp was busier than a town on a market day. Since it was nearing lunchtime, cooking fires were ablaze at various places in the camp; the mingled smell of different cuisines would have easily turned a European stomach more fastidious than mine. Elephants were being washed by their mahouts, robust Turkish horses were being massaged by their grooms, soldiers were engaged in polishing their weapons or applying coats of black varnish to their leather shields, which had scores of inch-long nails protruding from them. I was not surprised to see that very few were involved in taking care of their muskets, an activity that is considered de rigueur in a European army. Father Roth had told me that Mogul musketeers, who have a low status in the army, are terribly afraid of burning their beards, or of their guns bursting in the course of being fired, and regard their weapons with some dread. In battle, they are careful to keep the muskets at a safe distance from them, firing them not from the shoulder but from a squatting position while resting them on wooden forks.

  In the days that followed, while I wandered around the camp observing its goings-on, or worked on my translation in my tent, Imran Khan spent his time ingratiating himself with Aurangzeb’s officers in case their prince indeed ascended the throne. It is from him that I later learnt that Aurangzeb was a worried man during his stay at Mandu, though the creases of worry never furrowed his brow in public. Or perhaps his air of equanimity was real, a consequence of his firm belief that he was an instrument of Divine will; that Allah was all and man was nothing; that human victories and defeats occurred in accordance with Allah’s will, and all He required of man was the acceptance of happenings that were preordained.

  The prince indeed had cause for worry. After weeks of pressing Aurangzeb to commit troops to the field, Murad had suddenly become tardy in his own advance. Reports had reached Aurangzeb that Shahbaz, Murad’s trusted adviser, was counselling his master against their joint venture. Eunuchs are naturally suspicious and do not hold human nature in high esteem; yet they are intensely devoted to their masters, even when the master is as boorish and devoid of good sense as Murad. One of Aurangzeb’s agents brought news of Shahbaz telling Murad in open court, ‘Do not trust yout brother’s sweet words. Mistrust is the mother of safety. An excess of respect and too smooth a tongue hides a treacherous heart. Remain in Gujarat and become the master of its flourishing towns like Surat, which will greatly add to your treasure. Let us wait, and time will show us what we should do.’

  Aurangzeb had reacted by sending Murad letters which reaffirmed his determination to make his brother the emperor of Hindustan. I have seen one of the letters which came into Imran Khan’s possession for an hour before it was dispatched. I can vouch for Aurangzeb’s epistolary subtlety and knowledge of human character, especially its weaknesses. In this letter, he had used the most effusive vocabulary to flatter Murad, holding out again the promise of a glorious future and thereby minimizing the risk of anything going wrong with their plans to supplant Dara. In profound words Aurangzeb had reiterated that for himself he wished nothing more than seeking refuge in Mecca and living there like the fakir he was in the deepest recesses of his heart: ‘I have not the slightest wish to take any part in the governing of this deceitful and unstable world … My desire is that I should retire to a secret corner and spend my days and nights in the worship of the Almighty whose blessings constitute the only true happiness. But then I thought that first I should place my dear brother firmly on the throne, and after witnessing his auspicious and successful coronation, and gathering happiness and pleasure from it, return to fulfil my heart’s desire.’ He went on to humbly enquire if, when he did retire from material life, he could entrust the care of his two sons to Murad. As their guardian, Murad was to show them no special favour but deal with them like any other man in his service. I found the sentiments expressed in the letter both heartfelt and admirable, further increasing my appreciation for the prince’s character.

  Meanwhile, Aurangzeb’s agents at Murad’s court had been persistent in assuring Murad of his brother’s sincere intentions of seeing him on the throne of the Indies. Murad’s ambition, allied with Aurangzeb’s subtle flattery, finally triumphed over Shahbaz’s counsel of prudence. The two armies came together near the woods of Mandu where Aurangzeb had impatiently awaited his brother.

  Was Prince Aurangzeb’s wooing of his brother simple hypocrisy, especially in the light of later events, as many of his critics maintain? I pride myself on my objectivity in judging people independent of my likes and dislikes, a quality ingrained in me by M. Gassendi, and one that induced the Agha to entrust me with the mission to Aurangzeb’s camp. After spending more than six weeks with the prince, and observing him at close quarters and in moments of crisis, I can say that Aurangzeb may have dissembled often, but he was not a hypocrite; a hypocrite disavows his primary intention, which I have not witnessed in Aurangzeb’s behaviour. Aurangzeb’s primary goal was to safeguard Islamic rule in India, which Dara Shukoh’s ascension to the throne would have weakened if not destroyed. His desire to be emperor and his hatred of Dara, both of which were intense and certainly fuelled his acts, were nevertheless secondary to this end. If he lied to Murad as he did to others, or committed even baser deeds in pursuance of his goal, then they were but means to an end to which he remained steadfastly committed all his life: the defence and spread of the Mohammedan faith. It is another matter that he honoured a false prophet, denied the religion of our Saviour and like all Mohammedans believed Islam to be the only true religion while despising other faiths as inferior.

  I remember the evening before the armies were to move, when the prince called his commanders to his tent and spoke about hi
s reasons for going to war. He had invited Imran Khan and I to be present.

  ‘A prince has only two bounden duties: to dispense equal justice to everyone and to work ceaselessly for the furtherance of Allah’s glory and the propagation of His faith. The great Timurlang, my ancestor and the illustrious founder of the empire, was a rare and magnificent exemplar of both these qualities. Cries of the oppressed called him to take up arms against Bayazid, the emperor of the Turks. If that disgusting infidel Dara ascends the throne, the religion of Mohammed will be persecuted and the country will resound with the cries of tyrannized Mohammedans. Instead of noble mosques, hideous temples crowded with idols of gargoyles will be erected all over the land. Instead of congregations of pious men, modest and God-fearing, who ceaselessly proclaim the greatness and virtues of Allah, what you will have are taverns and houses of ill-fame spreading their poison in devout Mohammedan households. This is what we are fighting against, not for the self-seeking glory of a prince.’

  If I, a foreigner and a Christian at that, found myself stirred by the speech, more by its content than its quiet delivery, then one can imagine how moved the Mohammedan commanders must have been by the sentiments that animated the speaker. I also witnessed how the officers’ emotional reactions percolated down to the men they commanded, to the ordinary soldier who did not love him—Prince Aurangzeb was too remote to evoke any such sentiment—but deeply respected him as a ghazi, a warrior who is also, or almost, a saint.

  While in the company of his troops I heard the many stories that circulated about his piety and humility, often recounted in a tone of awe. Once, while in Aurangabad, when the prince was on his way to the mosque, one of the officials noticed that the carpet on which he would have to tread had a hole in it and hurried to cover the hole with a piece of cloth. Noticing his action, Aurangzeb severely reproved the man, saying all that fussing over him was fine at court but had no place in Allah’s house where a prince was no higher than a common man. Then there was the time when he got up at night to pray—he sat for prayer at least five times a day—and ordered a eunuch to bring him water to wash his hands and feet, a ritual prescribed for Mohammedans when they offer Namaz. In his hurry, the eunuch, who was scarcely awake, stumbled and knocked the prince down. Overcome with fear of punishment, he collapsed before Aurangzeb in a blubbering heap. The prince is said to have addressed him in the mildest of tones: ‘Why do you dread a man who is like yourself, a created being? Such fear should be reserved for Allah, so be aware only of offending Him.’