Manu yawned, “What’s the occasion for this party?” Manu knew her place here and never protested Kandari, because she knew well Kandari’s belligerent and condescending ways.
“So innocent, Manu,” Kandari’s voice slurred. “Don’t you know tomorrow is Nur Jahan’s sentencing? Perhaps Jahanpanah doesn’t want to see us after tomorrow for a while because he’ll be executing the former Queen of India. It’s not every day former zenana queens are killed!”
“Hush, Kandari,” Ami chided, “there’s been no word from Jahanpanah to attest to that. For all we know he may pardon her or exile her.”
Kandari snorted. “How can he simply pardon that whore after what she did to him and all of us? We lived like animals in tents for so long!”
Ami said brusquely, “That’s for the king and no else to decide!” When Ami spoke, others in the zenana knew to control their tongues. Her word was usually final.
Just then, Aba entered, and the women instantly smothered him as usual, someone handing him a glass of wine, another stuffing a small sweetmeat in his mouth. As he sat in their midst, one of them lifted his turban and padded his hair. Ami sat beside him.
The women weren’t allowed to question him regarding stately affairs such as how he would punish someone, at least not publicly. Thus, all the women vied for his attention, hoping their night would be spent with the King, and that in the intimate privacy of his company they could both learn and influence forthcoming events.
Before long Henna Begum arrived, in a tight choli and salwar. The clothes hugged her skin so one could make out every contour of her flesh. Today she looked particularly stunning.
Aba stood up and removed himself from the company of women surrounding him. Ami pouted. Aba walked up to Henna, who stood at a distance, seductively smiling at him. She then performed the customary salute – the kornish – as she greeted the King. Placing her head in her right palm, she offered Aba homage. She would remain with her head bowed until Aba gave her permission to rise.
Aba said, “The zenana looked incomplete without you, Henna Begum.” Henna looked away as if embarrassed by the compliment. Aba came to stand in front of her and put his hands on her waist. “Where did you get this stunning outfit?”
Henna slowly looked back at the King, staring down out of respect for him, for she wasn’t ‘good’ enough to stare at his face. “The court tailors, Your Majesty.”
Aba squeezed his hands into her waist. For a moment, it seemed the night would be hers. Then Aba removed his hands and began to inquisitively look at his fingers, almost as if the colour of Henna’s tight salwar pants had rubbed off on his fingers.
“What’s wrong, Jahanpanah?” asked Henna, frowning.
Aba moved away and looked more carefully at his fingers. “My fingers have blue paint on them.” Henna looked at Aba’s fingers. Then both craned their necks to see where on Henna’s waist the colour could have come from. To everyone’s astonishment, beige finger marks showed on Henna’s waist at the exact location where Aba had touched her.
Kandari ran up to Henna. “You foolish girl! Did you paint yourself?”
Henna looked flustered, as though she was searching desperately for answers. “Jahanpanah… I… well… what I mean…”
Kandari cried: “She painted herself!”
The women broke into mocking laughter. Aba, apparently unaware of just what was happening, stepped back a few feet and said, “Let me see – my God, woman, you’re naked!”
The women laughed harder, and Aba began to join in. Now everyone, including the children of the zenana, was laughing at Henna Begum as she stood in the middle of the room, painted but naked. Henna began blushing and sweating with embarrassment, and soon the sweat rolled down her body, creating clear streaks of skin.
Aba guffawed: “Did the court tailors really not satisfy you, my dear? Yes, yes, Henna Begum… go – put some clothes on!”
Henna ran out of the zenana as quickly as she’d come in. Aba sat back in the midst of his wives; soon the laughter died out, and he resumed his eating and drinking. All wondered who he would choose for the night: a wife, a concubine or a slave. Most importantly, would the individual be a proponent for a harsh sentence or a mild one for Nur Jahan?
Aba began to yawn; the decision time was coming near. Kandari hissed, “It’s your bedtime, Jahanpanah.” If the night went to her, Nur Jahan would surely be executed; she’d made that clear even before Aba arrived.
Aba said, “Indeed, we should all get some rest. You ladies must be ready for tomorrow.” That was the only public hint Aba would give about the forthcoming events. He looked at Ami and said, “My dear, let’s go.”
Heavily pregnant Ami helped Aba up and escorted him to her chambers. As nearly always, the night would be hers.
Next day, we found ourselves in the Hall of Special Audience, the Diwan-i-khas. Nur Jahan was summoned to the Diwan-i-khas, with Aba and Ami seated together, the remaining zenana women watching from behind the screens.
The Diwan–i–khas was where the King handled more sensitive matters of State. Smaller than the Diwan-i-am, the purpose of this hall was merely to shelter the nobles and the royal family from the gaze of the common man. To the public, the royal family was still God’s representative on earth, and the King was the personification of God himself. The debauchery of the harems, the drama of the household, the poisoning, political posturing and so forth were kept far away from the eyes of the public.
This was a rare display – Mughal women were never seated with their emperor husbands. A slightly plump, fair-skinned elderly woman with beautiful azure eyes was escorted into the hall. She looked like an older version of Ami – similar straight hair, dimpled cheeks and red lips. I now understood why men in her time had admired her beauty so much. I was tempted to think she must have aged more in the last few months, having lost not just her husband but also her kingdom.
Nur Jahan was not only my step-grandmother, but ironically also my mother’s aunt. My grandfather had fallen madly in love with her, married her, and then given her as much power as she desired. Rumours even whirled that she was the true ruler of India, while my opium-addicted grandfather was merely a puppet.
Aba said: “Begum Nur Jahan, you have been accused of sedition and plotting to kill me and my family in your quest to place your son-in-law, Shahriar, and your daughter, Ladli, on the throne. Is there anything you would like to say in your defence before I announce my verdict?”
Nur Jahan had originally wanted her own daughter, Ladli, to be the next Queen of India; thus she had demanded many years ago that my father marry her and make her his primary wife. My father had flatly refused, saying he could view Ladli as a sister, but never as a wife. Nur Jahan had retaliated by having Ladli marry my father’s younger brother, Prince Shahriar.
Prince Shahriar was never much of anything. He had neither military skill to boast of nor artistic talent to display. Much younger than my father, he was clearly a weak choice to be king, and though Nur Jahan was influential at the royal court, even her influence wasn’t able to displace my father as the rightful heir to the throne of India.
Now Nur Jahan spoke: “Jahanpanah, you are the Emperor, and I a former love of your father.” Staring straight ahead, her spine arched backwards as though she were still the queen. She avoided eye contact with anyone, adopting an almost mocking posture. “What bargaining can I do with you? I ask that you understand that I did what any loving mother would have done for her daughter, and that is, give her a happy, prosperous future.”
Ami yelled, “Even if it would trample on other people’s happiness?” This was a rare display of anger for a woman as sober as she. The entire harem gasped in shock; Nur Jahan remained motionless before the royal couple.
It was surprising that Ami, related to someone as calculating as Nur Jahan, should emerge so innocent and selflessly loyal to her husband. She had gone from campaign to campaign with Aba never questioning or rebelling, but always supporting and strengthening his resol
ve. She was a rare combination of modesty and candour, a woman highly intelligent but, happily, not shrewd.
While my father was subduing a rebellion in the Deccan, Nur Jahan had made plans to make Prince Shahriar the heir apparent. My father’s rebellion against her and his puppet father had failed, and he’d been forced to live in exile in the Deccan, while my two brothers were held as virtual hostages by Nur Jahan as insurance against any future rebellion. Prince Shahriar had become the heir apparent, just as Nur Jahan had envisioned.
Nur Jahan added in a low voice while staring at the ground: “My daughter is now a widow, as am I. She has a small daughter who will never know her father. Do what you will to me, but please look after my children. They are your own flesh and blood.”
I’d learned from Sati what became of Prince Shahriar. Upon reaching Agra and seizing the throne, Aba ordered the execution of all of his rivals. Prince Shahriar, Prince Dawar Baksh, along with two nephews of my father, were blindfolded and brought to an open field and shot to death by an executioner.
Living with the knowledge that my father was a murderer had proved difficult for me, so I’d tried to forget about this horrific aspect of him. But at moments like these the horror would resurface again, and I’d be reminded of how much blood my Aba had on his hands.
Now he said: “Begum Nur Jahan, it would be untrue for me to say that I am happy with the way you have treated me and my family. You took my children from me and forced us to live like refugees in our own home. You even turned my father against me so he spent his final years cursing me and offering none of his blessings to me or his grandchildren.Yet I do not wish to tarnish my father’s memory by having you harmed. You are after all, the former Empress of India.”
I knew Aba had emphasised the word former to make it clear that Nur Jahan should understand her place. I’d like to think I was at least partially successful in telepathically communicating with my father, for what he would do next shocked all in the hall.
“I would like you to remain in a private home, right here in Agra,” he went on. “You will be given an annual allowance of two lakh rupees, but you must remain in the home. You are not to meet with any dignitaries, nor attend any court events. You will not be given command of any cavalry or ships, and you cannot leave your house without the expressed written consent of myself or the Empress, Mumtaz Mahal.”
“May people visit me, Your Majesty?”
“Yes, you may have anyone common visit you as you like, but you will refrain from any involvement in state affairs. I suggest you devote your remaining days to prayer and good works.”
“You are too kind, my King,” said Nur Jahan, as she performed the royal salutation.
I suspected that Nur Jahan had received a much weaker sentence than she’d thought she would. Even Ami, who was a calming hand on the bellicose Mughal throne, looked surprised that a stricter sentence hadn’t been levelled against the former Empress. Perhaps Aba didn’t want to be seen as an executioner of an old lady, a mother, grandmother and stepmother. Perhaps he wanted to save face with his children now, since we knew our father was a murderer.
3
THE POISONING
5th June, 1628
Our elephant was right behind Ami’s golden-canopied one. As she was the royal Empress, hers had to be the grandest. Behind us rode over 100 Uzbek bodyguards with silver-tipped spears, along with dozens of eunuchs on horses. Our elephant was among the countless beasts that rode as the official royal zenana.
When summer arrived, our entire royal family decided to retreat to the summer capital in the northern hills of Kashmir to escape the oppressive heat. The pleasure gardens there were supposedly paradise on earth; we kids had only heard of them, but were now anxious to actually experience their glory ourselves.
Gardens held a special meaning to my people. Paradise after death was considered to look like a pleasure garden. By creating beautiful pleasure gardens all over our kingdom, we Mughals tried to attain the closest thing to a paradise possible here on earth. Nowhere was this truer than in Kashmir. Nestled in the northern part of the Indian subcontinent, the Kashmir valley was south of the inhabitable Himalayan terrain, but north of the plains of Agra. It therefore had perfect summer weather, with cold damp winds and clear breezes. My grandfather, Jahangir, often went there when his asthma attacks would start to worsen. It was believed the climate of Kashmir was better for the breathing of an asthmatic.
India was now akin to a patient recovering from a deadly illness. The unchecked virulence of Nur Jahan and her politics had wreaked havoc on the kingdom, with six years of political posturing and intense infighting. The entire royal family had been torn apart, and it seemed at times no one – save Nur Jahan – had been happy with her actions.
New Empress Ami stood in complete contrast to her predecessor. Aba consulted her on all private and public matters of state. She was not just his favourite wife, but also his closest adviser, confidante, and on certain matters, even co-regent. I now shared my elephant, its canopy decorated in gold and azure, with Dara; Raushanara rode with Murad and Shuja. Aurangzeb insisted on having an elephant all to himself.
Aurangzeb still seemed like an enigma to me, an entangled coil I somehow needed to unravel within the confines of my own quiet private world. I wasn’t sure how I would do that.
At times I felt all of Agra had left with us. The centre of the empire was the King, so wherever he went would be the centre. Thus, the centre was moving north and with him, all of the luxuries and responsibilities of the kingdom would go also. A total of at least 80 camels, 30 elephants and 20 carts were devoted just to carrying the royal records. An additional 100 camels carried over 200 cases of Aba’s clothes alone; 50 elephants carried jewels to be distributed to those individuals who had pleased the King with their words and deeds; 100 camels carried cases loaded with silver and gold rupees; another 100 carried water for drinking and bathing; several large carts carried the hammam that Aba and his wives would use for bathing.
At a distance of one kos in front of us was a horseman with the finest white linens, whose job it was to cover the carcass of any animal lying on the ground, to prevent the Emperor from viewing such a dastardly sight.
Two ‘metropolis’ cities travelled as part of the entourage, one always set up in advance of the other so the emperor wouldn’t have to wait if he wanted to relax. Anticipating the Emperor, the Grand Master of the royal household always picked a scenic location at which to set up his city. These temporary cities featured red imperial two-storied tents lined with gold, silk and velvet each complete with its own Diwan-i-am and Diwan-i-khas as well as zenana apartments in the rear. A guard of nobles surrounded the area; a separate tent was filled with sweetmeats, fruits, water for drinking and betel leaves. Added were separate tents for the kitchen, the officers, the eunuchs and the animals.
I found myself alone often with Dara during our journey in my new makeshift tent chambers. We enjoyed each other’s company so much, no one objected to him entering the zenana, and many of the zenana ladies even flirted with him, which I think he enjoyed.
On this night, I decided to prod Dara to tell me what had happened during their exile to make Aurangzeb so different. Though reluctant at first, he did tell me the whole story:
“When Aurangzeb and I first arrived at Agra from Nizamshahi, we were incredibly homesick, and the separation from Ami and Aba was especially difficult for Aurangzeb, who was very young at the time.”
“How so? Did he weep often?” I inquired.
“Yes, he wept all the time. He began acting infantile; he started wetting his bed and falling ill. Nur Jahan was ruthless to him, teasing him all the time and calling him a girl and a begum.”
“Oh, my God!” I was appalled. How traumatic it must have been for a child, especially a boy, to be called a member of the opposite sex by an adult!
“Aurangzeb’s depression and agony went on for several months, as all of Nur Jahan’s servants, especially the female ones, continued
taunting Aurangzeb. As you yourself noticed, he also wasn’t growing at the same rate as me because he would hardly eat anything – the grief he was enduring stole his appetite. Having received full licence from Nur Jahan to taunt Aurangzeb, the female servants grew ever more cruel to him. One day they sneaked into his room, pinned him down, put makeup on his face and told him he was small because he was really a girl, and he should accept that he was only a princess, not a prince.”
As I continued to listen I was filled with both rage and sadness. I couldn’t help but suspect that this mistreatment had been suffused with Nur Jahan’s virulence.
Many years ago, when my father returned from his campaign in the Deccan with Arjun Singh, the leader of a rebel group that had played an instrumental role in the agitation there Aba assumed Arjun Singh would be imprisoned or executed like most rebels. Instead, Nur Jahan had Arjun Singh imprisoned and given a large cup filled with an elixir of opium seeds. Arjun Singh was allowed no food until he finished the full elixir. Over the course of several weeks, Arjun Singh, who’d been known for his physical strength and masculine leadership skills, drifted more and more into opiate senselessness. Several months later he was completely emaciated and had the wits of an imbecile. Nur Jahan then had his legs severely broken and threw him into the streets of Agra to live the rest of his days as a disabled beggar, unable to even clean himself.
I asked, “Did they also torture you, Dara?”
“They tried to, mainly by cursing Aba in my presence; but soon they realised that they couldn’t upset me, so they directed all their energies at Aurangzeb. I tried to protect him, but they usually kept us apart.”
“But this still doesn’t explain his religious zeal?”
“I’m about to arrive at that point. With no one there to ease his torment, and me being forcibly separated from him, he began reading the Koran for comfort and wisdom. The more Nur Jahan tortured him, the more he would read. He began to sew caps for prayer services and donate them to the mosque. Whenever the servants would come to taunt him, he would recite the Koran, and the Muslim servants would walk away out of fear that they were doing something unjust while the Koran was being read aloud in their ears.”
Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 3
