Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues)

by Ruchir, Gupta

  “No alms, oh Queen!” The sadhu didn’t relent. “This naked fakir needs nothing but what mother earth has already provided! Do not come back here. He who builds here will be destroyed himself!”

  Just then, the caravan began moving more quickly, and the imperial soldiers pushed the sadhus away and marched on with us. But the sadhu’s voice followed us, more distantly: “Do not build here, oh Queen! He who builds a city in Delhi is bound to lose it!” And his words continued to echo in my mind all the way to Agra.

  Sitting in the Macchi Bawan where many years ago I’d interviewed the architects for the Taz, I now sat with Aba’s drawings of the new city and tried to give his ideas the breadth and depth he’d given the Taz. The main avenue that was to run down the centre of the city needed to have some unique attribute that defined it. In its grandiosity would lay the magnificence of the entire city. I was rummaging through paintings of the other shrines and buildings that had been built both by Mughals and non-Mughals to draw inspiration.

  One such painting was of the Hindu city of Varanasi; I noticed in it that at night the Hindus would light candles and float them on the banks of the river. The glow radiated into the buildings bordering the river, giving them and the people standing beside them a special sheen. This avenue, I felt, needed to draw on this imagery. There needed to be water and light on that avenue. Delhi (or Shahajahanabad as Aba renamed it) had a very arid climate, so water was necessary throughout the city, but the main avenue commanded its presence more than any other area.

  I found myself almost possessed by this idea, and began to feel the way Aba often commented he felt when he was inspired to build. The imagery had entered my mind, but my eyes had yet to form a complete vision.

  I was looking intently through images and rummaging through my thoughts when Bahadur entered. “Your Highness, you summoned me?” I motioned for him to have a seat as I gave him a heartfelt letter I had written for Gabriel.

  I now realised that love involves pain. Though I had immersed myself in courtly matters: granting petitions, conferring honours on nobles, supervising construction of the mausoleum and impressing the muhr uzak on official edicts, I couldn’t escape the reality that I had created for myself. My note read:

  My Dear Gabriel,

  Please forgive me for taking so long to respond to your letter. I have been torn as to what is the most appropriate course. I cannot ask that you leave your company unless I am willing to give you full acceptance here. I know the King will never accept a liaison for me, especially with a firangi. I ask that you follow your captain’s orders and leave at once. If destiny desires, we will meet again.

  Love,

  Jahanara

  My hands had hurt as I wrote these words to this man I had given every part of my being. He’d found the most special place in my heart, yet in a twist of ruthless irony, I now had to send him away myself. I now understood the sort of pain the other women in the zenana felt, and how difficult it is to leave him who owns your heart, regardless of the consequences. Your world begins to shrink, and all you see is him. And while your heart and mind remain with him, think incessantly of him and nothing else, your body is forced to live apart, in agony.

  I tried to forget Gabriel, but sometimes one’s mind isn’t as obedient as we hope it to be. With Gabriel, I got away from the cloying formalities of the court and could be just myself and live in those moments for no one but myself. I often asked myself: Did I love Gabriel or what he represented to me – freedom, intimacy and companionship? As for most things, I didn’t know the answer, and so I continued to live without prodding myself further; I just wept in my apartment in the Khas Mahal, feeling as alone as I had the day after my mother died. Indeed something did die for me that night – my dream. Besides being an Empress who wielded more power than any before me, I longed to have an ordinary family with someone I could love as much as my parents had loved each other. Yet, through no fault of my own, I would have to watch that love forever slip me by; and if I chose to protect it, I would have to tell lie after lie. I began to feel I had no one to turn to anymore.

  I lay on my bed, my face staring out at the elegantly decorated ceiling of my apartment, my elbow bent and my forearm sitting across my forehead. I began to wonder who, besides Gabe, had taken care of me the most when I was on the verge of dying. My father cared, but he still was too unstable emotionally to be leaned on for comfort. Sati cared, but her message was always to just bear the burden, though it was unclear how one could carry such a heavy load a whole life. Who had come to me in my hour of need and offered me something new and different that perhaps could help me understand the world and my place in it better?

  Then I turned my head to the side and saw a green curtain blowing in the wind. Though it may seem odd, this green silk cloth made me think of the green turban I once saw Dara wearing, an emblem of the Sufi movement Dara belonged to and had prodded me many times to join or at least learn about. I remembered the promise I made to Dara, to learn about his Sufi movement and understand the Qadiriya movement from my benefactor, Mullah Badakshi. In this hour of darkness, when all seemed to be failing, I would go to him.

  We all gathered in the Diwan-i-khas a few days later. Aurangzeb presented his dagger to the guard and asked to be presented to the court. He then presented a petition to Aba: He wanted to be the Governor of Gujarat. Gujarat bordered the Deccan on the north, so Aurangzeb was familiar with the political landscape in that area. He said, “Staying in Agra, I am of no use to Your Majesty. Let me bring this chaotic region under your control.”

  Aba looked quickly at Dara, whose facial expression reflected, I thought, subtle opposition to the idea. I watched what transpired closely.

  “No one in our family has been able to bring peace and order to Gujarat,” continued Aurangzeb, glancing vengefully at Dara.

  Aba returned Aurangzeb’s gaze with his usual look of disapproval. He seemed about to speak when one of the mullahs broke in: “Begging Your Majesty’s forgiveness, I’d like to suggest that Your Majesty carefully consider Prince Aurangzeb’s request. As Prince Dara is being trained by you in the virtues of kinghood, Prince Aurangzeb’s presence in Agra would be…” The mullah moved his head searching for the right word…

  “A distraction!” Aba finished the mullah’s sentence, and Aurangzeb rose in disappointed astonishment. Behind the windows, I sighed in dismay at the pain I saw on Aurangzeb’s face.

  Aurangzeb had begun delving even deeper into religion, but without political power, his rage and anger at non-Muslims had remained strictly confined to his heart. Yet it seemed he and the mullahs were becoming close allies, together watching the court with scorn and contempt. Rumours even persisted that the mullahs were encouraging him to rise up against Aba, by making Aurangzeb false promises about what they could do to secure support for his candidacy.

  Then Aba said, “Very well; you shall be made the Governor of Gujarat.”

  Dara looked a mite upset, yet surprisingly content considering. Aurangzeb was receiving what he’d petitioned for, but clearly not in the way he had hoped – merely because he would otherwise be a ‘distraction’? How could Aba have spoken that way to him, I wondered? It was worse than calling him a serpent. The mullahs put a hand on Aurangzeb’s shoulder, and he walked out. I should have said something, but I couldn’t cross my king. I couldn’t chastise him for calling someone a ‘distraction.’ Instead, I only wished Aurangzeb a farewell.

  16

  REVERSE INVASION

  1st June, 1646

  Aba said: “Let it be written that it was during our time we reconnected the home of our ancestor, Timur, to the land of his descendants.” Aba felt that with the Taz Mahal almost complete, construction on the new city begun and his three sons now in different corners of the empire with the heir apparent, Dara, at his side, the time was ripe for the kingdom to expand its borders, but not south as it had done for the last couple of centuries. Now, the conquest would be north, to the original homeland of the Mughals in
Central Asia. “I will instruct Prince Murad to initiate the conquest of Central Asia, including the areas of Samarkand and Uzbekistan.”

  Murad was my youngest brother. Like my other useless brother, Shuja, Murad was interested only in extravagances such as opium, wines and engaging in debauchery with the women of his harem. Though he had political aspirations of his own, he was neither clever nor resolute as Aurangzeb had been while opposing Dara outright. Thus, Murad drifted in his existence like a passenger on a caravan whose direction had already been determined.

  Now 21, he would be sent with 50,000 men to conquer the precinct of Balkh and Badakhshan. This was his big chance, his moment to prove worthy of the throne should he ever be chosen. Though the youngest, Murad must have been aware that age had nothing to do with inheritance. Aba wasn’t his father’s oldest son, and a major victory here could do for Murad what it had done for Aba many years before in the Mewar.

  In 1615, just three years after his marriage to Ami, Aba went to Mewar to subdue its king, Rana Amar Singh, who’d evaded Mughal conquest for almost half a century. Using brilliant military tactics and arts of warfare, Aba was soon able to win over Mewar for the Mughals.

  Maybe Murad, too, had dreams of returning to Agra victorious with the heads of the kings of Balkh and Badkshan, while the entire public cheered and chanted. When Aba was victorious, his father renamed him Shah Jahan, a name superior to his earlier name, Khurram. What would Murad’s name be when he returned victorious?

  Maruwwajuddin. This was the name he’d chosen for himself: ‘The brother with Aurangzeb’s military skill and Dara’s charisma!’ His comrades chanted this slogan on the streets of Agra when Murad was given the charge of the royal army the following week. He would be next in line after the death of Shah Jahan, they began chanting. This was his moment, and with the Mughal army behind him, he hoped to prove himself worthy of both the title and the throne.

  I couldn’t help but feel that the whole expedition was tactically insane. There was a reason why invasions outside India were uncommon and succeeded only rarely. In the course of Indian history, no more than two groups per millennium had ever crossed the rugged Hindu Kush mountains and succeeded in setting up an empire in mainland India. Yet here was my Aba, King of India, sending his troops led by his clumsy son to engage in a reverse invasion, from inside the fertile Indian subcontinent onto the inhabitable mountainous regions of Central Asia? Though I had the muhr uzak, in matters of conquest, which were the essence of male bravado, Aba listened only to himself. And the whole endeavour exuded an aura of madness, and only Murad’s myopic, megalomaniac ego allowed him to agree to lead such an expedition, not realising what kind of a death trap it might be.

  Balkh and Badakshan, which lay beyond the Hindu Kush mountains along the Oxus river, were believed to be the stepping stones to the ultimate invasion of Samarkand, original homeland of Timur. Timur the Lame, or Timurlane, made Samarkand the capital for a vast empire he controlled in 1370 that stretched from Central Asia to Turkey. Every time he conquered a region, he would bring the artisans and gardeners back with him as prisoners. Samarkand thus grew to become one of the most beautiful cities in the entire empire and Timur’s people, we Mughals, became architectural geniuses of our time. A century-and-a-half later, when Babur, Timur’s great great grandson, succeeded in conquering the capital of India, Delhi, he brought the culture of beautiful gardens and majestic palaces with him to India – a reverse importation. Most likely some of the original artisans of Samarkand were conquered people from northern India. Now, their descendants were being brought back into India to import their culture from Samarkand. We Mughals took great pride in our roots, referring to ourselves as Timurids and our family as the House of Timur, and this conquest was an ill-conceived brainchild of that pride.

  The regions themselves offered no wealth. Badakshan was a sparsely populated, mildly fertile region with poor harvest that was ravaged by primitive, savage tribes. Balkh, somewhat more fertile, hadn’t produced enough wealth even to sustain the army should it be victorious there.

  Murad, dressed in traditional metal armour with a grated iron cloth hanging in front of his helmet, rode off with his 50,000-strong-army of Mughal soldiers. I felt a shiver crawl down my spine as I bid him farewell. I was convinced he would lose both the battle and his life, but I was helpless to stop the expedition.

  I began spending more time with Dara, trying to learn more about the mystical world of Sufism, hoping to find some message, some omen, some magical inscription within their beliefs that would sanction my relationship with Gabriel and give me licence to run to Bengal to marry him. But cryptically searching for one purpose, I would soon find myself realising something else altogether.

  Sufism was the occult arm of Islam. By preaching the oneness of Man and the totality of Faith, it had alienated the very orthodox wings of Islam; but by repeatedly chanting Mohammad’s teachings it appeased the more moderate wings of Islam, thereby allowing it to remain within Islam’s fold. And many Hindus visited Sufi saints, regarding them as having special powers and teachings.

  Within the broader umbrella of Sufism, the Qadiriya order piqued Dara’s interest the most. Pursuant to Qadiriya rites, Dara wore a green turban whenever he went to visit his Sufi mentors and insisted I wear one too (a request I initially refused to grant). Dara and I reconnected with Mullah Shah Badakshi, a man I hadn’t seen in almost two years but already regarded as my benefactor.

  Said the pleased Badakshi, “It’s good to see you again, my child. Your scars are virtually gone.”

  “It’s all because of your blessing,” I replied gratefully. “Were it not for you, I’d be dead right now.”

  “Only Allah decides who will go to him, my child. We merely serve him. But it’s good to see you here.”

  “Mullah Shah,” interjected Dara, “Jahanara wishes to learn more of the Qadiriya order. Like me, she, too, believes that in a city where an orthodox mullah resides, no wise man is ever found.”

  Badakshi laughed and said sarcastically, “Why do you think we live so far away from the fort? We are not orthodox, my child,” he added, turning to me. “But instead of learning our teachings from me, I shall introduce you to the head of our movement, Mian Mir.”

  Badakshi escorted Dara and me to a room in his haveli and showed us a painting of a man sitting with Badakshi and Dara. The picture contained several people, but it was easy to discern who was who. The young, dark-bearded man was Dara; the two men sitting behind him were Shah Badakshi and Mian Mir. Mian Mir was dressed in all-white robes and looked older, while Shah Badakshi wore a white turban with black robes and a gray beard.

  “Mian Mir is no more.” Dara stared morosely at the picture. “But somehow I feel every time I look at this painting, he’s speaking to me. Remember when I become ill, a few years after my wedding to Nadira? Well, for the four months I suffered, no one was able to help me, not Wazir Khan or any other hakim. One day Mian Mir came to my bedside and gave me a cup to drink, and within a week I was better.”

  Badakshi broke into a smile. “Mian Mir had a very deep relationship with your brother.”

  I was partly cynical and partly amused by everything I was seeing and hearing. Trying not to sound rude, I continued to force myself to have an open mind.

  Dara continued: “One day Mian Mir had me take off my shirt, and he took off his. Then he hugged me. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. After a few seconds, so many lights came emanating from his heart into mine that eventually I implored him to release me, fearing that any more transference of this illumination would cause my heart to burst.”

  I was pleased to know that there were established sects within Islam that preached tolerance, and I began believing that my brother had indeed become more enlightened than most men in our family. I now admired him not just as a man but also as a statesman and a friend.

  He would often say, “Hands begin to stink once they’re soiled with gold. Drive egoi
sm away from you, for like conceit and arrogance, it’s also a burden.”

  Here was the heir to the Mughal throne, ready to inherit entire palaces made of gold and gems. Yet he was denying gold and shunning the ego? Under his tutelage, the empire would either disintegrate or achieve such a high level of spiritual enlightenment that wars and conflicts within its realm would end.

  Shah Badakshi didn’t treat me as the Padishah Begum in his company, but merely a follower and he spoke to me as an equal. I prayed with members of the order, then sat to eat with them, men and women together, something unheard of in traditional Islam. As I bid them farewell, I knew in my heart this order would be an integral part of my life from this day forward.

  Afzal Khan paid a surprise visit to Agra later that year. Originally stationed in Lahore to keep an eye on Murad and provide him with reinforcements from this northeast city, he rushed to Agra on this fateful day and asked to be announced in the Diwan-i-khas.

  Aba greeted him. “What news have you brought, friend, that you journeyed overnight in terrible weather to tell me in person?”

  Afzal looked at Aba with sad eyes, keeping his hands folded in front of him, yet maintaining his composure. “Jahanpanah, Prince Murad has arrived in Lahore.”

  I widened my eyes, not sure what would come next.

  Aba motioned, “Go on, Afzal, your face tells me there’s more.” But Aba didn’t sound encouraging.

  “Prince Murad has won both Bukhara and Badalkshan for us, Jahanpanah, but he returned before a formal surrender was made. His men are still in the mountains of the rugged terrain – with no leader!”

  “Prince Murad left his men? But why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I command him to return to Agra!” Aba was rightfully upset. By abandoning his men on the battlefield, Murad had committed the gravest offence a military commander could commit. That day Afzal showed our family the respect of not reciting the whole story in the presence of nobles in the Diwan-i-khas. Later he would tell Aba and myself of the whole sordid affair: