Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues)

by Ruchir, Gupta

  One such stall was being managed by my mother, the daughter of the then Prime Minister, Asaf Khan, which prevented otherwise interested young courtiers from approaching the stall or striking a conversation with my immensely beautiful, fair-skinned mother. But if there was one courtier who was intoxicated by her beauty without being intimidated by her title, it was the young Mughal Prince, my father. Aba wasn’t intimidated by anyone else’s title or status, much to the chagrin of the other young men there. He moved from stall to stall, flirting and charming, but realising that as a prince, bargaining was beneath him, so his act of doing so was only to entertain the fair maiden and afford him the opportunity to flirt with her and give her the chance to flirt back. And though he knew he was off-limits to most of the young maidens, he enjoyed the game of flirtation.

  But when my father reached Ami’s stall, he’s said to have stopped in his tracks. This was no maiden to be flirted with. She didn’t even look typically Indian; she had Persian skin tone, and was tall and slender, and yet, for all these attributes, decidedly well-mannered and polite. Both their eyes are said to have gazed at one another for several minutes before Ami smiled and said, “Is there anything in my stall that pleases you, sir?”

  “Much in this stall pleases me,” he replied. “This stall stands unique; it is the pride of the entire bazaar. If all the other booths were removed and only this one remained, it would be enough for me to come here every day and stay until it closes.”

  Ami told me her face had turned red. After all, what wasn’t there to love in my Aba? Ami was a 15-year-old maiden, in her sexual prime, and here she’d met the future Emperor of India, just one year older, who was already a veteran of one war and a famous poet; a poet and a soldier, with good looks, artistic abilities, her age and a Muslim aristocrat. What girl wouldn’t fall in love with him? But she was not to be won over easily. She was to be a wife, she thought, not a concubine. Nor would she accept being second to any other wife. If she was to be Aba’s wife, she’d only be his if she knew she’d be the primary one. For this, she needed to know that Aba really wanted her.

  She asked him, “Are you here to purchase something?”

  “Depends,” he smiled back. “Is your heart for sale?”

  “A heart is not a piece of property to be bought, but a reward to be won, Sir.”

  “How may I win yours?” Aba asked.

  “Well, why don’t you start by purchasing something expensive from my stall so I can tell everyone that I, too, am a good shopkeeper?”

  “Then why don’t you sell me this large piece of glass shaped like a diamond?”

  “Sir,” she blushed, “this piece isn’t just shaped like a diamond, it is a diamond!”

  Ami knew she was addressing the royal Prince, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. If he knew she was aware of his identity, he’d expect to be spoken to as royalty, and any back-talking or snide remark would be interpreted as an insult to the King. This way she could plead ignorance and also show Aba she wasn’t like those other girls who’d happily flirt with him and be taken by him anywhere, under any role.

  She fingered the diamond sensuously. “Not even a prince could afford this gem, sir.”

  “Why? How much is it?”

  “10,000 rupees.”

  Aba immediately took 10,000 rupees from his left pocket, grabbed the piece of ‘glass’ from her hand and disappeared into the crowd.

  Ami told me she knew from that moment that if she got married, it would only be to Aba, but she didn’t know whether her stand-offish attitude had turned him off. She’d acted so to show confidence, but had she gone too far and made it seem she was arrogant? She remembered what her equally beautiful aunt, Nur Jahan, had told her on her 15th birthday – that because Ami was beautiful and fair-skinned like her, it would be important to show as little conceit as possible. Nothing is more attractive, confided her aunt, than a person who can be arrogant, but chooses not to be.

  Summarily, Aba went to his father and asked for permission to marry Ami. My grandfather was a reigning contradiction: though an alcoholic, he’d outlawed the drinking of alcohol in his kingdom. Though he’d received a modest punishment when he rebelled against his own father, the Emperor Akbar, Jahangir had punished his own son Khusrau’s rebellion by torturing Khusrau’s men in front of him and then blinding him. Such contradictions were a staple of my grandfather’s kingship and would surface yet again at this request.

  He told Aba: “Marriage for Mughal princes is a matter of political gain, not fulfilling passion. For passion, you have the harems with the concubines. So make this woman your concubine – you can do with her whatever you’d wish to do with a wife, even give her children and let those children be eligible for the throne.”

  But Aba wouldn’t relent; he was convinced that my mother could be no concubine, but must truly be the future Empress of India.

  His father went on: “I’ve already given the King of Persia my word that you will marry his niece, Kandari Begum. We have a tenuous relationship with the Persians, and I therefore command you to do this for not just my, but also the empire’s sake.”

  Thus Aba agreed to marry Kandari first, and make her his primary wife; Ami would be second – but that was a promise Aba knew he wouldn’t keep.

  Jahangir was pleased to hear this, but he levied yet one more condition: my father must wait ten years before marrying Ami. This would give the public a chance to see Kandari as the future empress. Aba reluctantly accepted, but four years later, Nur Jahan herself wooed and married King Jahangir. Understanding the intoxicating effects of love and the happiness that ultimately comes when one surrenders to it, Jahangir must have felt ashamed of how he’d treated my father.

  Nur Jahan began exerting her influence over the King instantly. She jockeyed to be the favourite wife, displacing Aba’s mother, Jagat Gosini. Upon becoming the primary wife, Nur Jahan began filling the top posts with her own confidantes, including her brother Asaf Khan. She commanded, and Jahangir followed. The ten-year wait for Aba became a relic of the past, to be tossed into the rear of the palace with the other wives and advisers. New ‘management’ took charge, and within a year of Nur Jahan’s marriage to Jahangir, Ami was married to Aba.

  Ami moved her arm from around my shoulder, sat down heavily on her royal bed and added: “When it’s real and true, it only takes an instant.” Then Ami smiled, as if all this had reminded her of a better time with fewer responsibilities and worries and more time for romance and chivalry.

  I blurted out, “And what do you do when love happens?”

  She shook a finger. “You hide it! There’s nothing more attractive for a man to be denied something. Don’t make it obvious, make him work for it. Your grand-aunt, Nur Jahan, taught me that.”

  I began to feel sorry about how Nur Jahan’s life had turned out. Back when my parents met for the first time, she was their staunchest ally. Not only did she tutor my mother on how to pique the interest of a man, but upon her marriage to my grandfather, she used her influence to hasten my parents’ marriage from a ten-year engagement to a much more tolerable five years.

  I said, “That’s what you did with Aba!”

  Still in pain from the walk, Ami smiled again at me and said, “Well, it’s a little harder when the guy is the Prince.”

  I shared a laugh with my mother at her comment, but then I began to wonder if Gabriel was royalty back home in his native land. Then I would be a queen if I married him. “Do you know who that firangi was, Ami?”

  “No, I’ve only met a few Europeans in my life, and he wasn’t one of them.”

  “Do you think he is the head of the company?”

  “I don’t know Jahanara, maybe he just works for them.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why so many questions about love – and this man?”

  “Just curious. Who knows, one day I might marry a firangi?”

  Ami’s smile quicky disappeared, and she seemed to be searching for an excuse to change the subject. B
ut I kept prodding her to say whether my father would approve of such a union. Finally, she succumbed to my insistence and said, “You know Mughal princesses can not marry.”

  My face dropped, and I just stared at my mother in disappointment as if this rule was her creation. Perhaps she didn’t make it, but how could she tolerate it and allow her daughters to be raised in a household where such a rule existed? Why give birth to daughters if their sole purpose was to just sit like the possessions of a man in a closed fort?

  Ami’s voice broke. “It is one of the most grievous injustices in this kingdom. No Mughal princess may ever marry or have children. She will never be anyone’s love.”

  She tried to reach out to hug me in consolation, but I pushed her away. “How can you say that? Is it our fault we’re girls? Do we not have feelings? What’s the reason for this?”

  Ami just nodded her head with tears in her eyes, and I repeated the question. At last Ami broke her silence and cried, “There is no reason! It’s a male-created rule, without justification! Those who seek to rationalise it say it’s because they don’t want descendants of Mughals to be raised outside the Kingdom, for fear their paternal relatives will poison them against us and encourage them to fight us for the throne of India.”

  I moved closer to my mother. “That happens anyway! All the brothers rip each other’s heads off!”

  “I know, my child,” she sighed. “But what can I do? I’m trying to get your father to reverse these decisions. Give me just a few more years, and I’ll convince your Aba to rescind this rule once and for all.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Promise?” I asked cautiously.

  “Promise!” was her welcome answer.

  I wanted to upset my mother no more, given her health. I was confident my mother’s assurances were good, and I knew she was the one person who would never lie to me. For now, I let her promise suffice.

  6

  BIRTH AND DEATH

  1st June, 1631

  Aba’s forces ripped through the rebel army of Lodi, inflicting severe damage on his men’s morale. We suffered heavy casualties, but our Hindu Rajput allies helped our army force the rebels into retreat. Several of Lodi’s allies deserted him, and finally Lodi himself was killed in battle. Aba, ecstatic at the prospect of returning to Agra and putting this rebellion behind him, ordered Lodi’s severed head be brought to the fort and mounted at the gates as a warning to anyone else who might consider revolting.

  Though I knew we were coming to the Deccan for a battle, the brutality and bloodshed of war added to the aura of death and devastation that was surrounding us at all times. For the past several months, beginning with the famine on the route, to the deaths of thousands of soldiers on both sides, death had been accompanying our family as our uninvited guest. Now, for the remaining four months of her pregnancy, whenever Ami would look out from the front of the fort, she would see the severed head of a corpse staring back at her, as if it was still alive and about to grab her at any time. Yet, she didn’t want to bother Aba with these thoughts, probably aware that doing so might jeopardise his motivation to finish routing out all the rebels.

  Ami had lost a considerable amount of weight in the months since our arrival. Her arms were literally the width of bone; her eyes were sunken in her head; her hair had begun to show some strands of gray; and the only part of her body that didn’t look like a skeleton was her belly. Nursemaids and hakims expressed concern about whether their Queen was receiving enough nutrition, but it didn’t matter. No matter what she ate, she was constantly vomiting and looking weaker every day. No one dared say it, but at times she looked not much different from the people we saw in the famine-stricken Gujarat. I began worrying that she would experience yet another miscarriage.

  In mid-June, I happened to see a letter she’d received from Sati:

  To the gracious Mallikaye Hindustan:

  I hope this letter finds you in good health. As per your command to me, I have been looking after the well being of the royal princes and princess. I am pleased to inform you that Dara has mastered Persian and writes poetry in his spare time. He is getting taller, and handsome, just like his father, the esteemed Jahanpanah. Raushanara is also getting prettier, though she has inherited her father’s Hindu features and looks less like you. She is learning courtly manners and is developing nicely. Finally, Aurangzeb is a delight to have. I don’t know what you did to him, but he is everyone’s sweetheart. Still praying three times a day, he has decided to become more charitable also. He knits Muslim skull caps to sell at a nominal price to pilgrims before Friday prayers. The proceeds he then donates to the poor. He has abandoned all talk of religious intolerance and is slowly beginning to reject the views of some of the backward minded mullahs. He is also getting taller, almost at Dara’s height, and has a small moustache. He also is a very skilled archer and swordsmen, more so than Dara. He has inherited his father’s military acumen and will extend the domains of Mughal India to the frontiers of the world.

  How are you, Your Majesty? Has the pregnancy been tolerable? Pursuant to your instructions, I am taking care of your children well, but please come back soon. The city is not the same without you. Women gather at your balcony every morning in hopes that perhaps your caravan arrived in the dead of night and you will offer them your sight. For the poor, helpless, and unfortunate, you are the mother of this land. Please return soon.

  Your Servant and Friend,

  Sati

  I wondered why Sati’s letter seemed so morbid. Did she know something about Ami’s health that others didn’t? Were my mother’s weakness, weight loss, and constant stomach pain really indicative of something wrong with her health? For the first time, I dared to ask myself the forbidden question: Was she dying?

  Ami’s sleep now was the first restful one she’d had in a long time. In the afternoon of the following day, she went into labour.

  Already weak from a pregnancy that had drained the life out of her, she started to scream in agony when the child would not expel itself from her. She began making superstitious comments: “Will the child arrive only after all the life has been drained from me?” Persian and Indian astrologers hovered over her with astrolabes and charts. The entire household waited impatiently for the news of the birth of a prince, so drums could be beaten.

  Ami fell in and out of consciousness, with sharp belly pains pushing her to the verge of death. Aba, oblivious to how his wife’s condition had deteriorated, and purposely left unaware of what she had been feeling since the child’s conception, merely thought this was like any other birth. I stayed by Ami’s side begging the hakims to give her something for the pain.

  “Have her suck on this!” The chief hakim handed me a powder of opium and told me this would make her sleepier, but also would take away her pain.

  I told her, “Ami, the hakim wants you to suck on this powder. Don’t ingest it right away.” Ami popped the powder in her mouth and did just as she was told. Her pain was relieved, but I could tell she was still in distress. This was not like her other pregnancies. I myself began drifting to sleep as I lay next to her. The labour was exhausting us both. A few hours later, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Jahanara, get the hakim! The baby is coming!” I ran outside to fetch him.

  He shouted: “Empress, please spread your legs so I may be able to see the baby’s head!” Ami did as she was told, while I applied cool bandages to her forehead to wipe off her sweat.

  “What do you see, hakim?” my mother uttered through her exhaustion. The Hakim wouldn’t answer, making Ami more nervous. Finally he looked up and said, “Your Majesty, you have not yet dilated. I can see nothing.”

  “How could that be?” she yelled in exasperation. “I feel the baby descending! It has to come out! I can’t take it anymore!”

  I began panicking as well. I’d never seen my mother so beaten and distraught. She spoke as if she knew how all this would end and was fearing the inevitable.

  I said, “Can you do so
mething to help her along?”

  The hakim ignored me. He rose, pushing Ami’s knees toward one another, and said, “Malikaye, please take some more opium and rest. There is nothing more we can do right now.”

  Another 30 hours – a full day and a half – passed; then Ami’s contractions began anew.

  “Get the hakim!” she screamed. “Get him! I feel like I’m exploding!”

  I ran out again, this time more panicked and nervous than ever, and found the hakim. He ran in and again bent down to look for the baby’s head. She cried, “Tell me you can see the head, Hakim. Tell me I’m dilated... please!!” The hakim didn’t answer, but from the side I caught a glimpse of his face. He seemed worried.

  “What’s wrong, hakim?” I asked.

  He wouldn’t look at me, but he said to Ami: “The baby is breech, Your Highness. We can’t pull it out this way. If we try, we risk tearing your uterus.”

  Ami began weeping. During the past 30 hours, she’d come to look as though she’d aged considerably. It seemed wrinkles had formed along the lines of her cheeks as she cried and shrieked incessantly.

  “Do something, hakim! I can’t take this anymore! I’ll die if you don’t do something!”

  The hakim continued to apply pressure to Ami’s belly, hoping to rotate the baby in the uterus so the head would turn down. Frustrated by his inability to do so, he began to push more vigorously, causing Ami to yell out in agony.

  I shouted: “She’s not a goat, she’s a human being, hakim!”

  “I know, Princess,” he said wearily, “but both the mother’s and the child’s lives are at stake.” Soon more hakims ran into the room, massaging Ami’s belly as though it were some ball of dough. One of them bent down to look between Ami’s legs as another pushed from above.