The Crimson Throne

by Sudhir Kakar

  Within a month, the mood in the Wali Ahad’s court had swung from triumph to gloom. News arrived that the imperial army led by Jaswant Singh and Qasim Khan, the second commander of the imperial army, which had been sent southwards to block the advance of Aurangzeb and Murad, had been defeated. I was not personally present at Dharmat but knew enough officers of the imperial army and European artillerymen in Aurangzeb’s service to piece together an accurate account of the battle.

  The two armies had faced each other at the opposite ends of the river Sipra, north of Ujjain. It was the dry season when the water flow is minimal and the river is fordable in at least seven places. The river bed is quite narrow but is littered with stones of all sizes. Its banks are steep, making either descent or ascent considerably difficult. Aurangzeb’s plan was to discharge his artillery and allow Murad Baksh and his force to ford the river under the cover of their fire. He had come to a secret understanding with Qasim Khan, the second commander of the imperial army. According to their pact, Qasim Khan would discharge only three volleys for show and then retire. He had already hidden the rest of his powder and shot the previous night.

  The battle was fierce. Raja Jaswant Singh and his Rajputs offered furious resistance to Murad, as is their wont. Murad himself fought with great courage. The Rajputs had to give way since Qasim Khan’s withdrawal had exposed their flank.

  While the news of the defeat demoralized the court, it enraged Prince Dara to such a degree that for the first time he spoke harsh words to his father. ‘If your Majesty had only listened to me and not entrusted an army to Mir Jumla, the traitor would not have transferred it to Aurangzeb. You have been too mild to your rebellious sons when severity was needed.’ He even demanded that Mir Jumla’s children and his wife who had been left at the court as hostages be immediately dealt with—the two sons beheaded, and the wife and daughter sent to a common brothel. The emperor dissuaded him, pointing out that Mir Jumla’s collusion with Aurangzeb was an improbability, since it would have exposed his family to grave danger.

  ‘It is the will of Allah, my son,’ he said. ‘My sins have caught up with me. I deserve it all. But we have work to do, armies to raise and no time to lose in recriminations or in creating new enemies.’

  Prince Dara’s anger, a fitful affair at best, soon dissipated. He threw himself with great energy into raising one of the largest armies the empire has ever seen. Orders went out to the governors of the northern and western provinces as also to the various Omrah and mansabdars to provide men and weapons for the decisive battle ahead. Messengers were sent to Sulaiman and Raja Jai Singh to immediately conclude a peace deal with Shuja, who had fled to Patna and secured himself in the fort of Munger. They were to then hasten back to reinforce the army that would face the combined forces of Aurangzeb and Murad. Sulaiman Shukoh’s expeditionary force was constituted of Prince Dara’s best and most loyal officers and soldiers. It was imperative that they reach in time for the battle that would determine the fate of the empire.

  ‘The greatest army ever to have assembled on the plains of Hindhustan!’

  NICCOLAO MANUCCI

  THE IMPERIAL ARMY LEFT Agra an hour after the break of dawn on eighteenth May 1658 to confront the armies of Aurangzeb and Murad. Bhawani Das, the spokesman of the astrologers at Prince Dara’s court had asserted that Mars, the planet of war, had never been as favourable in the prince’s horoscope as on this day. From the fort, where he had gone to seek his father’s blessings, the prince rode to the city gates in a golden chariot drawn by eight grey horses. In the Hindu tradition this was a reminder that he was going to fight demons of unrighteousness—in this unfortunate war they were his own brothers. At the gate, when he was about to mount his magnificent Ceylonese elephant, Fateh Jang, the Victor in war’, towering a few cubits above the Indian species, Prince Dara loudly cried, ‘Gharib muaf, maghrur marg (To the humble, pardon; to the haughty death)’. I could not help but admire my prince who had words of compassion to utter even as he set out for battle.

  Although the sun was still far from its zenith, the day promised to be oppressively hot. The circles of sweat staining my armpits were rapidly expanding even at that early hour. But the excitement of the time easily overcame all feelings of discomfort and foreboding. What a marvellous sight it was to behold the march of the greatest army ever to have assembled on the plains of Hindustan! There were more than a hundred thousand cavalry, twenty thousand infantry, a hundred pieces of field artillery manned by two hundred European artillerymen! Over five hundred majestic war elephants in armours of shimmering metal, each carrying two men in its howdah handling a swivel gun that would fire a ball weighing three to four ounces. And an equal number of camels, each with a driver and a man on it with a similar gun.

  To someone viewing the march from a distance or from a height, it would have looked like a gigantic wave gently rolling forward. Different sections of this fluid mass lit up as they caught the rays of the rising sun. The reflecting surfaces were many: Prince Dara’s gold-plated howdah, the steel chains on the trunks of elephants and the broad cutlasses of Damascus steel affixed to their tusks with rings, the polished armour of squadrons of Rajput cavalry that escorted Prince Dara, the heads of the riders’ lances that were a myriad pinpoints of shifting light.

  To an uninformed observer, it may have seemed that the imperial army was a relentless storm that would sweep away any resistance standing in its way. But its appearance belied the reality. A large number of the soldiers were butchers, barbers, blacksmiths, tailors and ordinary citizens who had been newly enlisted to swell the volume of the imperial forces. Suitably armed and mounted on horses they looked impressive enough, but most knew nothing of warfare. I would be surprised if even a tenth among them had the heart for battle. Hundreds of shopkeepers, water-carriers, scavengers and others had been enlisted to supply essentials to the vast army, which was almost twice the size of the combined troops of the rebel princes.

  Ironically, the greatest unknown was the commitment given by some of the key Omrah to the prince’s cause. No one was certain about whose loyalty had been cajoled or bought by which rebel prince. Treachery during battle was the real possibility. The crafty Emperor Shah Jahan had sensed this better than the good-natured prince, whose spiritual explorations had made him more optimistic about human nature than his cynical father. While his nature made him loveable, it also left him acutely vulnerable. Initially, the emperor had offered to lead the army knowing well that any noble contemplating betrayal during battle would pause before taking his first step towards treachery if the emperor himself was in command.

  At the time, Khalilullah Khan had vigorously opposed the suggestion. ‘His Majesty is aged and infirm,’ he had said. ‘If, God forbid, something happens to him during the march in this heat or, even worse, during battle, the troops will be completely demoralized. The risk is not worth taking, especially since our numbers and the Wali Ahad’s courage assure us an easy victory.’

  When Princess Jahanara, genuinely worried about her father’s health, supported Khalilullah’s advice, the emperor had reluctantly agreed to let his son take the lead.

  I have it on the good authority of Hakim Tabinda that when Prince Dara went to the fort to take leave of his father and sister on the eve of the march, the three had cried from an excess of emotion.

  The emperor had been the first to regain control. ‘My son,’ he said. ‘Your father hoped to see you become king peacefully, but who can fathom the secrets of the Almighty. I had hoped to go forth myself against those rebels, Aurangzeb and Murad, both unworthy of being my sons or your brothers. But you had compassion on my years and illness. I consent to stay back as you wish but entreat you, my beloved son, to avoid battle till Sulaiman Shukoh arrives. You will increase your chances of victory manifold once you have him by your side. I pray that you are victorious and that you become the emperor of Hindustan. I place you in the hands of Allah.’ He had proceeded to embrace Prince Dara and sprinkle drops of rose attar on his shoulde
rs.

  Jahanara Begum had pressed her worn copy of Rumi’s poems, bound in crimson velvet and fraying at the edges, with her seal embossed in gold on the cover, in her brother’s hands. ‘We have often read this together, my dearest brother. It has accompanied us on our path. May it bring you solace, and peace to your mind, even in the turmoil of war,’ she had said.

  At noon the army halted eight miles south of Agra on an unbroken plain of uncultivated land. By sunset, the camp was an enchanting town magically created out of air in the wilderness. Beautiful tents in every colour of the rainbow, flying flags of all shapes, colours and sizes, were spread all over the site. It was well past eight in the evening when the last groups of infantry straggled in and the last cooking fires were lit. At night, the camp had a festive air. Soldiers wandered around the camp looking for old comrades. Groups of men gathered together to break into impromptu songs and the ambience was suffused with camaraderie and merriment. Delectable smells of the preparation of food from different parts of India, each with its unique mix of spices, wafted through the air. I was thankful for the warm breeze that blew over the land. The strong smell of cooked spices, combined with that of the sweat of horses, camels, elephants and men, would otherwise have been intolerable.

  Instead of resting in my tent in the area allotted to European artillerymen, I decided to walk across to the neighbouring camp set up by Ram Singh Rathor and his men. Ram Singh was a Rajput prince whose fifteen thousand horsemen were the designated left wing of the imperial army. My choice was dictated by curiosity as much as by restiveness. Late in the afternoon, perhaps an hour before sunset, still groggy from sleep, I had been awakened by the sound of horses’ hooves. Coughing from the dust that had blown into my tent, I had looked out to see squadrons of Rajput horsemen cantering away in a southerly direction. I wanted to find out why.

  A group of about a dozen Rajput officers was squatting in a circle outside Ram Singh’s tent finishing their frugal dinner of chapatis made from millet, a cooked vegetable and lentil gruel. Seeing me approach, the Rajput prince invited me to join them. A young man, less than thirty years of age, Ram Singh possessed the lean and hawk-like look characteristic of his race: chiselled features, large, expressive eyes, long black hair curling over a crimson qaba, and a moustache with upturned ends presiding over full lips and a strong chin. I had tied my qaba on the right side as is the fashion of the Muslims while the Hindus fasten theirs on the left. On the other hand, I had shaved my beard and wore a moustache like the Rajputs. Ram Singh and his officers were puzzled by my appearance and asked me which faith I ascribed to. I told them I was Christian, a revelation that prompted queries about whether I was a Muslim Christian or Hindu Christian, since they were unaware about religions other than the ones that predominated in Hindustan. I seized the opportunity to enlighten the raja on our faith, but it soon became apparent that though he listened politely the prince could not comprehend the essentials of Christianity any more than his officers could.

  Quickly abandoning the topic, I enquired about the movements of the horsemen whom I had seen departing the camp a short while ago. As it turned out, they were reinforcements dispatched to secure the crossings of the river Chambal. The Chambal was completely dry at this time of the year but because of the profusion of stones, boulders and hollow craters on its bed it still presented a significant obstacle. Aurangzeb’s and Murad’s armies were yet to reach the opposite bank and the strategy was to take up positions on that side to deny the rebels a crossing until Sulaiman Shukoh’s forces joined the imperial army. We were to then mount an overwhelming offensive.

  From the time I had joined the group I had noticed that the barber attached to the raja’s retinue, sitting a few feet away from the men, was preparing opium. The wiry, middle-aged man with unshaven, sunken cheeks and wearing a turban too big for his head went about his task with the solemnity of a priest offering our Saviour’s blood at the end of Mass. He ground the balls of cooked and dried opium in a mortar and mixed the powder with water in a large marble bowl, agitating the mixture with a pestle. The blend was passed through a strainer and the resulting drops of vermillion liquid collected in a silver bowl.

  The Rajputs’ habit of ingesting opium, especially before battle, is well known. It is said the drug makes them even more fearless than is already the nature of their race. More important, being a coagulant, opium prevents excessive blood loss from a wound. In times of peace, opium is taken in small quantities as an aphrodisiac; a large dose will only make a man fall asleep. I know this from a mortifying personal experience I had at one of my favourite brothels in Agra, where I had once been offered opium by the sprightly madam of the house.

  ‘Why are you farangis always in a rush?’ she had said, calling up a well-rehearsed coquetry in her voice and gestures. ‘Sit for a while with an older woman and experience other joys than those of sleeping with a young one.’

  I smoked one pipe with her as we chatted amiably. I felt alert and full of confidence, suddenly aware of an exquisite, relaxed feeling spreading through my limbs. Foolishly, I smoked another pipe while I lay naked in bed waiting for the girl I had selected for the night. The next thing I remember is waking up the following afternoon from a stuporous slumber on a sofa in the ante-chamber of the establishment. My clothes, neatly folded, were lying on a small wooden table next to the sofa. Mortified, I had left the brothel in a hurry to the accompaniment of the girls’ giggles.

  Now on the battlefield, all conversation had stopped among the group once the barber finished preparing the opium. He ladled some of the liquid into a small silver cup and offered it to the prince with both hands. Ram Singh sprinkled a few drops on the palm of his right hand and raised it to his forehead as a devout offering to the deity of his clan. He then gulped down the liquid with a loud slurping noise and passed the cup back to the barber to be refilled. Since I was a guest, the opium was first offered to me and then distributed to others according to their rank. Each man took the bowl reverentially in his palms and made the same loud sound as they drank the concoction, perhaps to show it honour.

  Opium has a bitter taste and, unlike Muslims, the Rajputs do not disguise the taste of opium by adding nutmeg, cinnamon, saffron or ambergris. They believe that the more bitter the taste the greater is the efficacy of the intoxicant. Except for a slight feeling of relaxation, the drinking of opium did not affect me as strongly as its smoking had done in the brothel. I believe it is as much the ritual partaking of opium before battle as its properties as a drug that makes Rajputs such fierce fighters.

  War, I was to discover, had nothing to do with my childish notions of it being honourable combat. What decides a battle is not the courage of the soldiers or the enterprise of the generals but treason’s secret knife and a traitor’s hidden rage. I have remained haunted by the questions: Was there something in Prince Dara’s character that attracted treachery? Was betrayal foretold by his life’s star?

  Some of the traitors were, of course, inherited. Shaista Khan and Khalilullah Khan were his father’s poisoned gifts, men who had waited long for an opportunity to avenge unbearable humiliations. But Qasim Khan, Champat Rai, Malik Jivan, the astrologer Bhawani Das? Were they just weak men who succumbed to Aurangzeb’s blandishments, selling out their sovereign for a foreign purse? Odd as it may sound, I believe the source of their treachery lay in Prince Dara’s goodness, which failed to discern the false dissembling guile in their amity and their oaths. The compassionate prince had pardoned so much treachery that the traitors were sanguine that they would never have to pay its price with the dear blood of their bodies. A wise king must and should have forgiveness in him, but he must never forgive treason. That should be rued, not just with tears but with blood.

  Betrayal was Prince Dara’s lot from the very first day on the field. Reports had reached him that Aurangzeb had commanded his generals to attack the imperial forces with the full force of their cavalry, without delay, before Sulaiman Shukoh arrived to join his father. We did not know t
hat the speech was a ploy to make the imperial army take up a defensive position and that it had been cleverly leaked to us.

  Too late, we discovered that not all crossings of the Chambal had been secured. Twelve leagues upstream, a crossing in the territory of Champat Rai Bundela had remained unguarded. A robber chieftain who had once been caught and imprisoned by a Mogul viceroy and owed his life to Prince Dara, Champat Rai had assured the prince that under no circumstance would he allow Aurangzeb to ford the river from his territory. The crafty Aurangzeb had, however, managed to buy the chieftain’s loyalty with valuable gifts and promises of even greater rewards in the future and gained access to the crossing. He had crossed the river with eight thousand horsemen, leaving the bulk of his army behind. Our forces that stood guard with guns and arrows and spears at ferry points downstream had been completely taken by surprise.

  Enraged, Prince Dara railed against Champat Rai’s perfidy.

  ‘What can you expect from someone who is a robber putting on the airs of a Rajput noble?’ Rao Chatrasal, one of the Rajput princes in his service said.

  ‘A fox pretending to be a tiger,’ Ram Singh Rathor concurred. ‘His mother was a slave girl in his father’s harem.’

  Prince Dara wanted to attack Aurangzeb without delay before the entire rebel army forded the river. Ibrahim Khan, a twenty-three-year-old Mogul, who, despite his youth, was one of the best generals of the imperial army, offered to take twelve thousand horsemen and throw the rebels back into the river. In his verve and dash, he reminded me of the Wali Ahad’s son Sulaiman. The Wali Ahad was inclined to sanction this bold initiative but Khalilullah took the prince to one side and advised him against the move.

  ‘The credit for the victory will go to Ibrahim Khan, Your Highness, and not to you. Ibrahim Khan is young and inexperienced in matters of war. If we detach twelve thousand horsemen from our force, we will weaken it. The victory that is now assured will become doubtful.’