Malik knew he needed the support of the Islamic clergy if he had to remain in power. It was clear that the clergy was unhappy with most of the royalty. They drank too much and married Hindu women who introduced their social customs and rites to Mohammedan harems. The clergy feared the Hindu women could bring about a reconciliation between Islam and Hinduism inside the palace, thereby undermining their own position. They needed a mascot and chose Malik, who had destroyed more temples and Hindu kingdoms than any Muslim alive. The clergy offered him unstinted support. In turn, Malik took his missionary activity very seriously. His forces frightened Hindus into servility with the fear of death. The sword converted a great number of people who had till now successfully resisted all civilian missionary enterprise. The common joke that did its rounds in the palace was that Malik once approached an astrologer who predicted he would die on a Hindu festival. When Malik queried which festival, the astrologer had replied, ‘Any day you die would be a festival for the Hindus.’
His assault on the Hindus, however, had its repercussions. The Muslims were warriors who had a disdain for trade and agriculture, while the Hindus had monopolistic control over the economy. Malik’s new campaign severed this important link between them. Shortages occurred across the empire and tax collections were consequently lowered. He decided to tread softly thereafter. His current position did not allow him any room to slip up, for a fall would mean a descent of several hundred feet. His head would be smashed, his face bruised beyond description, and his limbs would be torn by birds of prey. He had too much to lose, including his life, if he let go now.
*
Power breeds paranoia. Malik knew he could not allow Alauddin’s family members to poison the Sultan’s mind against him. He took care not to lose sight of Alauddin and never allowed him to meet his family members except in his presence. The princes, who found themselves cut off from their father, assumed sheer rapacity had warped Malik’s mind. True, their relationship with their father had not been excellent, but a eunuch had no business to intervene in their family.
Khizr Khan, the first in line to the throne, now wanted to take matters into his hands. His mother, Malika Jan, had wanted to advise his father on the perils of being associated with the eunuch, but Alauddin sternly bid her to stay quiet and leave. When she had resisted, he gave her a resounding slap right before the eunuch’s eyes. Khizr decided to speak to his father, but it was demeaning to ask Malik for permission. He entered the Sultan’s room, but not before he had pushed aside the guard who had tried to prevent him.
The Sultan was overjoyed to see his son, for deep within him Alauddin wanted to reconcile with his family. He turned and found Malik sleeping in a corner of the room. Father and son had just greeted each other, with Khizr cautiously keeping his voice down, when Malik woke up in great haste. On seering Khizr, the heir apparent, his acute senses smelt retribution. His eyes flashed like lightning.
‘Why have you come here?’ he demanded of him.
‘There is no one here whose permission I need ask,’ replied Khizr. ‘I am the heir to the throne and you are but a lowly eunuch. We shall be very pleased not to have the benefit of your society.’
There was an air of practised authority in his reply. Malik lifted his eyebrows in incredulity. The prince has been tutored, he thought, so Alauddin’s worthless family of imbeciles is ganging up against me!
Khizr had hardly uttered the words when Malik wheeled around and seized the prince by his throat. He began to slap him repeatedly with his free hand. The prince’s silken hair became dishevelled as he tried to parry the blows. He rolled over on the ground, covering his face with both hands.
Alauddin looked on crestfallen but he could not even raise his voice and stop the beating. Khizr trembled in Malik’s hold. ‘Do you know what I will do if I see you here again?’ Malik threatened him. ‘I will take two copper stakes, heat them till they glow red and then insert them into your eyes. You’ll make a wonderful beggar with your empty eyes outside the mosque on Fridays.’ The prince prudently fled like a hunted animal from the room.
Malik turned to the Sultan who now looked aghast. It had never crossed Alauddin’s mind that Malik would actually harm his interests. A devil possesses me to let him do as he likes. I am unable to shirk him off, for he bewitches me with a vision of the future that only he can accomplish.
‘Why are you harassing my sons?’ he frowned.
‘What did I do to them?’ Malik questioned back, rather gruffly.
Alauddin phrased and rephrased a hundred answers but could find no word to express them. ‘I will make sure they do not dare annoy you again. Please let no harm come to them,’ he pleaded.
Malik gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Your sons need nobody to harm them. Opium, wine and their love for boys will kill them for your enemies. Your Highness, you know that I have struggled to build this empire of yours, and many of your generals have died strengthening it. Your sons could destroy everything we have built in a decade. We are still living in this land like a garrison in a hostile country. Sloth will surely obliterate us.’
‘But what can I do? After all, they are my sons,’ pleaded the Sultan.
‘Which is why they still roam unchecked,’ observed Malik.
The Sultan was indignant. Surely he could not mean what he had just said. Malik loved him. He needed him or his family to retain the power he had. Had the scales already tipped in Malik’s favour? Alauddin averted his eyes. He realized that with no enemy left to slay, Malik had turned on his family. He rubbed his wrinkled hands nervously and cried aloud in a cracked voice. Apprehension filled him as a horrifying thought gripped him: Malik has become too powerful now to even need the royal family’s support.
*
Malik placed Malika Jan and all the princes under house arrest in the aftermath of Khizr’s outburst. They were no longer allowed to enter Alauddin’s Hazar Tun palace either.
Alauddin’s realization that the balance of power had shifted affected him deeply. He now sat motionlessly even when he held court, other than an occasional movement of his hands to scratch an itch. When somebody spoke to him, he would always respond with a start, as if jerked back from some private world.
If the days were bad, the nights were terrible. Alauddin’s nocturnal yells roused the whole palace. Everybody assumed the ghost of Jalaluddin had come to haunt him. All through the night Alauddin sat hunched on his diwan, afraid to lie down, terrified by the unfamiliar sounds. The Sultan’s guilt manifested itself as fear. All one had to do to scare the Sultan out of his wits was to dress like Jalaluddin and walk into his room.
Only Malik could control him now. He would admonish him as a father would a truant child and the Sultan would listen quietly. Men who overheard their conversations realized the nature of the power that Malik Kafur now wielded over their Sultan.
Ever since becoming a slave, Malik had had no patience with infirm men. A weak man was a bane. Malik was surprised that a strong man like Alauddin could not easily throw off the anguish that comes from losing touch with his family. But the Sultan grieved over his wife and sons’ imprisonment and constantly demanded their release. Malik did not take the slightest notice of the old man’s entreaties and threats.
Malik had decided that a nation could follow only one person and for that the Sultan’s image had to be wrecked. He let the Sultan neglect himself so that people could now see the ungroomed Sultan as a sick man. He discarded the perfumes in his room and the smell of the Sultan’s defecation, which Malik did not get cleaned up, constantly hovered above the entrance to his quarters. Malik held all military meetings in his presence, for it gave him an opportunity to exhibit his powers over the sovereign. Alauddin did not open his mouth and when Malik repeated a question to him, he would just nod and then avert his eyes.
Yet, despite the control Malik now exerted, Alauddin was desperate to break free of his hold.
*
Alauddin learnt from an aide that Malik had called for a meeting of the army co
mmanders and the palace officials. When he heard of it, he summoned up all his courage and strength. His empire could be inherited only by his heirs, and Malik had to be prevented from spoiling their chances. Alauddin would break his silence to the generals. Had he not once given fiery speeches that inspired people to make great sacrifices? He would bring the old warrior out once again.
The meeting took place near his bedside. Officials who had seen Alauddin in his glorious days of pomp were shocked at his condition and for a fleeting moment believed he was an imposter. His wrinkled face emphasized his physical frailty, and he smelt like the decaying corpse of an animal. It was clear to them that Malik Kafur was in charge now. All other power centres had been eliminated and he was the self-appointed overseer of the Sultanate.
When Malik finished his agenda, Alauddin waited in eager anticipation. Here was the respite he was looking for. He steeled his nerves and with a mighty effort, raised his voice for attention and announced: ‘This empire that I have built is my son’s fortune. I will not allow this detestable slave to devour it. Khizr Khan will inherit the throne after me. This dastardly eunuch should be immediately arrested and executed.’
Proud that he had at last got the better of Malik, he turned in triumph. But Malik stood solemnly with a puzzled look. Alauddin expected the generals to pounce on Malik any moment and arrest him. But the generals did not do any such thing; they just stared at him as they would a mad man. Then it dawned on him: He had spoken gibberish, and the men around him had not understood a word. He fearfully turned to Malik and realized from the look on his face that only the eunuch had understood him. Suddenly, Alauddin was very afraid.
Malik had not foreseen the Sultan’s outburst. Only with his intuition had he understood the gibberish and their import. He knew the time to act had come. As the generals hurried outside, Malik had already made note of the preparations required for the Sultan’s funeral.
He strode to his room where in one corner he had a stock of herbs. He would always remember the aphrodisiac from his days at Khambayat. He remembered Salim’s words, ‘Not even ambrosia can be good in excessive quantities.’ Malik set about mixing the herbs; the Sultan deserved one last orgasm. He walked back to the Sultan’s chamber with the brew and saw that Alauddin was fast asleep. Malik woke him up and forced the syrup into his mouth. The old man resisted and much of it dribbled down his cheeks. Finally, he ceased to fight and fell back on the bed.
The next morning, Alauddin had a high fever, which the physician could not diagnose. The fever raged for three days but the Sultan’s already emaciated body surprisingly endured the strain. Such important news could not be contained within the flimsy walls of a palace, and soon the entire Sultanate knew the Sultan was on his deathbed. Most had not seen a change in guard during their lifetimes as Alauddin had been blessed with a long reign. Knowing the chaos that could accompany a Sultan’s death, the Sultanate was as troubled as a herd without any shepherd. They rushed to Nizamuddin to enquire what the future held, but they found the sage in deep meditation.
Alauddin was about to die a very miserable death. He was about to sink into a great sea that never ended. Malik had failed him. He was in the clutches of a power which renders the victim senseless – he had believed in a treacherous friend. A few moments before his death, he beckoned Malik. ‘Be kind to my sons,’ he said weakly. Malik pretended he did not understand the words. Alauddin said with finality, ‘Oh, wicked man, may hell drag you into its fiery bowels.’
Time seemed to drag and finally drops of perspiration appeared on the Sultan’s forehead. His body shuddered and his eyes rolled. Alauddin blinked one last time and then his eyes became fixed on the ceiling. The doctor and Malik bowed on the ground and, facing the west, began to pray.
*
Slaves bathed the Sultan’s body in rosewater and dressed it in a set of new clothes for him to rest for eternity. Malik supervised the cleaning of the corpse. Alauddin’s mouth now lay contorted in a hideous grimace. He remembered Alauddin’s words: ‘We should both die in the same battle and be buried together – two of the world’s greatest conquerors, together in life as in death.’
But Malik was in no hurry to die.
The nation went into mourning in preparation for the burial. The coffin, clothed in the green velvet cloth that was emblazoned with words from the Koran, was lifted by generals of the army. Malik carried the coffin for a distance too. The procession made its way through the streets adjoining Siri. The princes were conspicuous by their absence, indicating the strong undercurrents that flowed. The sun bathed the roads with a shimmering heat as the cortège moved out.
The tomb that Alauddin had constructed for himself years ago lay to the southwest of the Quwwatul-Islam mosque. One wing of the tomb would serve as a madrasa, he had hoped, to impart instructions in Islamic theology. The procession crossed the unfinished Alai Minar, where work had been halted many years ago.
The clergy awaited the procession to reach them. The tomb had been freshly whitewashed, Malik noted. The floor under the dome had been dug up and half the earth had been removed. The mullahs looked to Malik for instructions. He nodded and the rites of burial commenced. When the chanting of the Koran reached its end, the mullahs looked to Malik again. A gentle nod of his head signalled them to commence with the lowering of the coffin. It landed with a thud at the bottom of the rectangular pit. Malik was the first to drop a handful of soil into the grave in which his mentor now lay. And that was the end of the Sultan, a great conqueror now reduced to a mere memory.
Alauddin’s death brought forth the question of succession. Who would now be the Sultan? The old Sultan had sons of various ages, but no son had inherited the throne of Delhi for almost two hundred years. Alauddin took over the empire from his father-in-law, who had himself stolen it from Sultan Qaiqabad. Daughters had become empresses, slaves had followed and brothers ruled after each other. Would one of the Sultan’s sons break the jinx?
Nobles wondered whom to ally with. Alauddin’s sons, at least those who were wedded, could claim the support of their in-laws in case of a power struggle. But everybody knew it would be Malik’s wish that would be the deciding factor, and Malik had certainly not concealed his determination to continue with his domination of the throne.
All along it had been taken for granted that Khizr Khan would be the heir. Adherents to his camp had been sure of Malik Kafur’s support. But since their master’s collision with Malik, matters had once again reached a state of fluidity. The courtiers knew that Malik would certainly choose a prince who would be pliable to his wishes. Malik had informed them that the late Sultan had left a will indicating his choice. They dared not question him about when the will had been prepared, despite their certainty that it had been prepared after the Sultan’s death.
A week had passed since Alauddin’s death. Malik had delayed the announcement of the successor for passions to cool down. The announcement would now take place after the Friday prayers.
On that historic day, Malik attended the prayers in the mosque at the Siri fort and then proceeded to the palace courtyard. He suddenly remembered; the courtyard was where he had met Alauddin for the first time as a slave. And here he was, about to announce the next Sultan from the exact spot.
Malik climbed the spiral stairs to reach the balcony, from where he would address the courtiers who had assembled in the courtyard. He held a sealed parchment in his hand. He ceremoniously broke open the seal with some faked difficulty, and proceeded to read out the will:
‘I, Alauddin of the Khilji tribe, professing faith in the Prophet and his descendant, the Caliph of Baghdad, hereby attest my last will and testament with my signature. The empire built by me, with the grace of Allah the almighty, should be inherited by my son Umar.’
A perceptible gasp emerged from the crowd as people sucked in their breaths; Umar was indeed a son of the late Sultan, but he was just three years old. Even his mother was younger than the other aspirants to the throne. Malik had delivered a maste
rstroke; he would retain control of the empire for another fifteen years and by then the Khiljis would have become his servants.
As Malik walked down the pulpit, he remembered he had overlooked one minor detail: the new Sultan had to be informed of the coronation date, which would be the next day.
Citizens in hushed voices discussed the relative merits of the different aspirants. The boy-king would probably wet the throne during his coronation. Malik got reports of these assessments, but he was convinced that the other princes could not do a better job.
How could they, when all had been blinded the previous night?
Malik had ensured that no prince would see the light of the morning. He spared just one, Mubarak, who was too steeped in vices to be bothered about aspirations for the throne. Even he would not remain a threat for long. Malik just did not want to be caught without a Khilji to serve as his front.
CHAPTER 39
VEERA'S LAMENT
Three years had passed since Malik Kafur’s invasion, but every pebble on the streets of the Pandyan land remained alive with memories of the invader’s foray. Those who had been through the Turkish invasion found their lives rearranged by it. Everybody had lost something: homes, possessions, riches, loved ones. Very few returned to Madurai to settle down and moved elsewhere. The Turks had gone back with a well-filled purse, but everybody was certain they would return.
Veera now ruled from Tenkasi, a three-day march south of Madurai. He had been accompanied by many who had lost their homes, not knowing where else to go. They had pledged their loyalty to one man and would not serve another. Some also wanted to start on a clean slate, erasing the memories of the past.
Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai Page 46
