I asked my mother why she didn’t look like everyone else. Why was her colour not golden, why were her eyes not thin as lines, why were her legs still present?
“I will be like this until my family is safe, Jahanara.”
“Safe? We’re all fine, Ami. The King is building a mausoleum, Dara is married, and the brothers are all governors. Raushanara and Gauhara are doing well too!”
“Until my family is safe,” she said, a fixed smile still across her face. “Not until they are safe.”
What is my mother saying? I wondered. Was she telling me something I didn’t know? Was there some impending danger I needed to save my family from? Was she telling me that she would never find salvation in heaven until we were all safe, and that I was the one who needed to protect us from some impending danger?
Then my dream ended, and I could again hear voices as I came in and out of consciousness. I was unable to question my mother further.
I heard:
“You cannot look at the Empress!” The voice sounded like that of the court physician, Wazir Khan. “It is absolutely forbidden for an outsider to look at her.”
“How can I treat someone I can’t even see?” said the firangi in irritated, broken Persian.
“You will stick your hands out through a curtain, and someone will guide your hands to where they need to go. If you wish to see something, tell the eunuchs and they will tell you what they see and describe it in detail.”
“Are you serious!?” yelled the firangi. “What rubbish is this? The Empress is dying, and you speak of vanity?”
I was ‘dying’? But I wasn’t dead yet? So that whole experience had been just a hallucination? It couldn’t have been, I said to myself. That odour, that energy, they had to be my mother’s…
“These are our rules!”
“Well, they’re bloody stupid rules!”
“Doctor, watch your language!”
“If His Majesty wishes to play these games, he must find someone else to take care of the Empress; I can’t.” There was a pause.
The first voice finally said, “All right, fine, do as you wish. But don’t tell anyone I allowed this!”
“This is the Empress?” asked the firangi.
“Yes, why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Did the former Empress look like her?”
“Yes, sir. You’d think they were identical twins.”
“Now I understand why so much time is going into the ‘structure,’” replied the firangi.
Over the next several weeks, as the firangi was treating me, I slowly began regaining consciousness, though I was still unaware as to who was taking care of me and exactly what had happened during the last few months. My wounds were beginning to heal, and in a matter of a month, my skin had grown in the areas where it had been burned. I still wasn’t back to normal – that would take another month – but I began to follow commands and react to instructions.
Finally, I opened my eyes and after blinking a few times, experienced my first clear vision since the accident. I thought I was having another dream, possibly a hallucination, for now I was staring at someone else who was no longer in this world: Gabriel. A white, chiselled, clean-shaven man with shoulder-length blond hair and sharp features was staring straight at me.
Too weak to talk, I simply smiled. I knew I was staring at a figment of my imagination, so I had no desire to make a fool of myself again and embrace him as I did with my mom. Yet, I wanted to finally wake up and face whatever reality God had now chosen for me. With all my energy, I concentrated on my throat and tried to utter a sound from my vocal cords. I finally formed a sentence: “Am I dreaming?”
The firangi called, “Arif, she’s awake!”
Another man came running in. Who is Arif? I wondered. I’d never known any Arif before. Aloud, I said, “Where am I?”
“You’re in your chambers,” said Arif anxiously. “You were in an accident, but you’ll be fine now. The doctor has cured you.”
For the first time in months, I felt actually awake. I could smell the Agra air, and soon I realised that the firangi sitting next to me was indeed the man I thought had died in Hugli: Gabriel. I was both surprised and grateful to have Gabriel in front of me; only my pain and weakness dampened my enthusiasm.
Gabriel and I continued to smile at each other, neither uttering any words, but both speaking volumes through our expressions. I don’t think Gabriel had any expectations of me. He probably didn’t even know I cared for him. Yet we continued to stare at one another, unable to move our eyes away and grace other objects with our vision.
I said weakly, “I don’t have words to thank you, sir.”
Gabriel raised his eyes, smiled more broadly and said, “You needn’t say anything, Empress. You probably don’t remember, but we met many years ago in Gujarat, and you honoured me with 100 mohurs.”
I closed my eyes for a moment and still smiling said, “Yes, of course I remember. How could I forget? You were the only man who would dare return a gift from royalty.”
“I won’t this time, Your Majesty.”
“Well, you won’t get just 100 mohurs either,” I continued. “My Aba will grant you whatever you wish.
“Just your full recovery for now will do.”
“You cut yourself short, doctor. You can secure for yourself a very handsome estate with official title for helping the Empress.”
“How about just a promise to accept my companionship and not banish me after you regain your strength?”
I replied, “I’m sure something can be worked out.”
“Rest then, my dear.” Gabriel, perhaps forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t talking to just a fair maiden from the English countryside, but instead the Mughal Empress, leaned into me and kissed me on the forehead. For me, the experience was very passionate, as no man had ever touched me except my father, and even then only with a kiss on the forehead or a cheek. I felt overcome with both emotion and confusion. After nearly dying, I couldn’t have experienced an awakening more special than this. For one moment – if just that – I chose to forget I was a Mughal empress, bound to a life of celibacy. For now, I offered no protest, emotional or physical, to the otherwise modest advancement of the charismatic firangi.
Arif, who’d watched the whole episode like a viewer in the front seat of a tamasha, seemed shocked at the firangi’s provocative moves on me, and unsure whether or how to intervene. But sitting still and smiling, I offered my approval to Gabriel’s advances and within myself wholeheartedly welcomed more future rendezvous with him.
“Jahanara? My child, are you awake?” I heard my father’s voice and his footsteps running towards my apartment.
I slowly opened my eyes, turned my head towards the door, squinted and said, “Aba!”
Aba ran to me and hugged me as tightly as I’d hugged him many years ago when he announced plans for the mausoleum.
Choked with emotion, he said, “I prayed every day for your health, my child. I spared no expense. Healers from around the globe have visited this city in the last six months.”
I kept hugging my father and just let him speak on of his tribulations during this time: “We gave alms every day in your name, and then your brother, Dara, brought a mullah to me.”
I frowned, fearing he’d reverted to the advice of mullahs.
He shook his head. “No, no, Jahanara. Not your typical mullah. This one was a Sufi saint. Indeed, a saint! He goes by the name of Mullah Shah Badakshi, and he’s the one that told me to do charitable acts and embrace every healer, even the firangi ones.”
Then Aba told me the whole story: how during my illness, Dara brought Mullah Shah Badakshi to visit. Aware that our father was deteriorating in health and purpose, Dara took the role I’d once taken at the death of our mother, to bring our grieving father out of his turmoil.
Mullah Shah Badakshi was a well-respected Muslim Sufi who’d introduced Dara to the head of the entire Qadiriya movement, Mian Mir. Shah Badakshi had built strong su
pport for the Qadiriya movement from Lahore in the northwest to Bengal in the east, and Aba respected him well, though the two had never met. Originally sceptical of involving any mullah in his private affairs, Badakshi won Aba’s heart with his words and message. It was he who suggested to Aba to become more charitable by giving gold and silver from the treasury to beggars, in hopes that they, too, would pray for my health.
Taking Badakshi’s advice, every night Aba placed silver and gold valued at thousands of rupees under my pillow and dispensed them the following morning to beggars. Thousands of prisoners of petty crimes were released, death sentences commuted, and offerings of truce to neighbouring states were made. Oddly enough, it seemed my sickness brought a sense of tranquility in India not seen since before Ami died. People’s eyes began shifting away from their own disputes and towards my bed, as every religion and sect began reciting verses in my name every morning. Dozens of new baby girls were given my name, including Dara’s newborn daughter, whom he named ‘Jani.’
Aba summoned healers from all corners of the kingdom to offer advice and help me. Several months passed since the incident, and my precarious state remained. In the interim, two of the four female servants of mine who’d tried to save me succumbed to their wounds, a morbid reminder of what awaited me if something didn’t happen soon to reverse my own downward spiral.
Here in time present Aba said, “He recommended this man, Gabriel Boughton. Did we know him from somewhere?”
“Yes Aba,” I continued. He was the man we met in the western state of Gujarat on our way to the Deccan – the one who brought relief to the famine-stricken villages.”
“Yes! You’re absolutely right,” exclaimed Aba. “Now I remember… You know, it seems whenever we need him the most, he always comes to our aid.”
I just smiled at my father, not wanting to divulge too much to him on the subject of Gabriel, lest I risk exposure of my true feelings for him and create a political calamity for the firangi.
Aba said, “I think he should stay with us for a while, perhaps be our royal physician. At least until you’re fully better.”
I smiled and just nodded my head, not letting a word escape my lips on the subject.
“You rest now, my child. There will be celebrations louder than the world has ever seen once you’re feeling strong again!”
He leaned to kiss me on my forehead, his favourite place since I was a little girl. But I moved my face and pointed his lips to my cheek, hinting it was there I wished to be kissed. My forehead had already been graced by Gabriel, and I wanted to keep that location his, at least for a few more moments.
In time I slowly began catching up on everything that had occurred while I was in my semi-comatose state. Work on ‘the structure’ had all but ceased, as the men and women working on it lost all their enthusiasm while the royal family mourned my accident. I felt at once both guilty and humbled by all of this attention. Yet now that I began to regain my strength, I insisted the work on ‘the structure’ continue, for not going on meant that my mother’s remains would stay interred in a makeshift grave.
Meanwhile, conflict had arisen again between Aba and Aurangzeb. I was disheartened to hear of this because my own relationship with Aurangzeb had turned tense before my accident. It all started shortly after his marriage to Dilras Banu Begum, the daughter of the military noble Shahnawaz Khan. As per my promise, I spent more money on Aurangzeb’s wedding than Dara’s, and Aba himself honoured him with jewels and gifts. For one day, Aurangzeb was the centre of attention and felt like the king. Though I did all the work and arranged everything, it was of course Raushanara who fronted the affair and acted like the favourite sister before the zenana. Whether her feelings were genuine or politically expedient, she wished to show the world that as far as she was concerned, this, not Dara’s, was the first marriage of this household.
So in the same breath he thanked me for the wedding preparation, Aurangzeb made me a shocking request: “I plan to challenge Dara for the throne of India. Do I have your support?” I was dumbfounded! Aba had made it clear that Dara was his heir apparent, and as the king, this was his sole decision. Besides, Aurangzeb’s intolerant attitude and closeness to the mullahs might well turn India into a war zone and splinter the fragile coalition of Hindus and Muslims.
I said, “You can’t challenge Dara, Aurangzeb. There’s to be no competition; Aba has already made his choice.”
“I don’t propose war, sister; I merely want to make it clear to Aba that I should be the next king of Mughal India. I want to challenge Dara to a series of competitions of strength, mind and body.”
“It’s not for you to challenge anyone, Aurangzeb. Again, Aba has made his decision.”
“Do I have your support if I go to Aba with this?”
“No, you do not!”
“Then consider this farewell!”
Aurangzeb left for the Deccan soon after, and we never had a chance to resolve any of these matters. After my accident, Aurangzeb had taken three full weeks to arrive at Agra to offer his help and assistance. Though I’m told he showed genuine concern once he did arrive, it had been too late – Aba was already angry and hurt at the lukewarm interest such a delay reflected to him, and once again father and son fought.
According to Bahadur, Aurangzeb was again repeatedly referred to as the ‘white serpent’ by Aba, and far worse, relieved of his post as Governor of the Deccan. Aurangzeb felt devastated at this public humiliation and left Agra to find his peace and home elsewhere.
Before setting on his journey, he met with Bahadur and asked again about my condition. By that time, Gabriel had arrived and I was slowly recovering. Unable to endure Aba’s taunts or the pain of seeing me in such a state, he simply gave Bahadur a copy of a letter he wrote to Aba, asking Bahadur to show it to me when I awoke. It would explain everything, he told her.
Dear Aba,
If His Majesty would like that of all his servants I alone should pass my remaining days in dishonour and eventually perish in an unbecoming manner, I have no choice but to obey. I know I am not the son you want as a successor, and perhaps no matter how hard I try I can never make you proud of me. I also know that some of those you are closest to wish me the most harm and incessantly poison you against me. I therefore request your permission to leave His Majesty’s service and devote my remaining days to charity, prayer, and service as a hermit. I do not wish to cause any more uneasiness to anyone’s heart, and I wish to be saved from the harassment of my foes. I will leave your kingdom by noon tomorrow unless I hear objection from you.
Yours Eternally,
Aurangzeb
Aurangzeb left for Fatehnagar, a city north of Goa, where some years before he’d destroyed a 6th century Hindu temple to use its rubble for the staircase of a mosque, and then lived there as a hermit. Fatehnagar became his abode, where no one would bother him or accuse him of any misdoings. I was torn as to how to resolve this conflict. Thus, I simply decided to wait till I fully regained my strength to address the matter.
13
LOVE OR LUST
1st May, 1644
To my pleasant surprise, all of my burns, which had consumed my entire back and rear, completely healed. It was almost as if I’d never been burned.
Celebrations occurred all over Mughal India as news of my recovery slowly permeated into the most remote of villages. Their empress was back, and no one would take her from them again. It didn’t matter what religion or creed the person belonged to, it seemed the emotions from my tragedy had rippled across all races, creeds and castes. I was now referred to by the court chroniclers as ‘the people’s empress,’ and now that I was better, the residents of Mumtazabad returned to work on the structure, buoyed by celebrations. If before they were building to mourn Ami’s defeat at the hands of death, it now seemed they were building to celebrate my triumph over illness. This was now my monument too. I was its manager, and in its successful completion lay the dignity of not just Ami, but mine as well.
But as my wounds healed, the time Gabriel was permitted to visit me in the zenana also shrank. When he did visit, we talked for hours about our lives. It was during this time that I learned about what had actually happened to him in Hugli.
Severely wounded by the Mughal army during the massacre at Hugli, Gabriel fell into the Bay of Bengal and was saved by fisherman near a village named Kalikata. Finding himself saved by the very servants he’d often called ‘stupid,’ and ‘illiterate,’ he was humbled to be in their nurturing company. Though not a surgeon like Gabriel, one of the village doctors sewed the wound on the side of Gabriel’s neck well.
Though he’d originally hated the entire country of India, especially our intolerant, racist monarchy that had massacred innocent women and children of Hugli, he slowly began to see the goodness of India in its villages. Just as he’d nurtured the masses in Gujarat, the masses were now taking care of him, giving him attention day and night, and bringing to him the cleanest water they could find as well as the healthiest food.
When his strength returned, the village gave him a hero’s farewell, and he vowed to return to Kalikata one day to help their village become better and stronger and one of the greatest cities in Bengal. He then left for the port city of Surat to help with the trading operations of the company. It was here that a pipe-smoking, swollen-gut Englishman name William Bruton conveyed to Gabriel that a request had been received from Agra asking for his services to help heal the ravages of my accident. Gabriel wished to leave at once, but before leaving, he needed to secure the permission of his captain.
Captain Bruton was a businessman in the purest sense. He only gave leave to Gabriel on condition that if Gabriel was successful in curing me, he would ask Aba for exclusive trading rights in Bengal on Bruton’s behalf. Unconcerned with achieving such gifts for himself, Gabriel reluctantly agreed to the trade-off so he might be able to leave quickly for Agra.
I was humbled and grateful to Gabriel for travelling to Agra to help me, especially after all the trouble he’d endured at the hands of our army. And my feelings for him began to deepen as I started seeing the goodness in his heart.
Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 14
