Aurangzeb set out in May for Kandahar, having not procured for himself any cannons or artillery of consequence, just a reinforcing contingent, as our father had instructed.
What he saw on reaching the city was yet another debacle. Letters from him later told us of how poorly equipped the Mughal troops already stationed in the area were for war, and how many had died in unsuccessful raids. Their ammunition had been stolen, their men slaughtered, and their morale was low. Aurangzeb said he tried to use his prowess as an orator and a military man to change the equation and mounted several attacks on the fort between May and September of 1649, all in vain. A particular letter explained his failure and his frustration.
Dearest Aba,
As per your instructions, I arrived here some months ago with a reinforcing contingent, but without any heavy artillery or cannons. To my dismay, the condition of the Mughal troops here was worse than those of our troops in Central Asia. I’ve tried to turn the tables on the enemy many times, but to no avail. I’m therefore requesting permission to return to Lahore and prepare a proper expedition, when the time and resources are right to reengage the enemy at Kandahar with a proper force. You, Aba, may return to Delhi at your will. Your presence in Kabul will only alert the enemy that an impending attack is on the way.
Humbly Yours,
Aurangzeb
It seemed to me Aurangzeb was furious that Aba had misrepresented the battlefield conditions he would meet, and he must have contained these emotions as he wrote the letter. He would clearly prefer instead to launch a counter-offensive on his terms, with his men, on his time. I feared this would be a dangerous course for him, though, because with no one else advising his next move, Aurangzeb would become prime owner of the next battle. Should he succeed, glory would be his and his alone. However, failure would also find no other home but on his doorstep.
Gauhara continued to lose weight over the next several months. Though my height, she was now but almost half my weight. Her eyes had sunk into the bones, a dark blemish appearing around each one. Her cheekbones were now more evident; the slight slither of fat that had always collected under them was now completely gone; and every time I saw her she looked like a woman in despair. I summoned Bahadur to my chambers to learn of the cause of Gauhara’s deteriorating health. She said, “I’d be lying if I told you I know, Your Majesty.”
I didn’t want to use my spies to invade Gauhara’s privacy, especially since it was Bahadur who’d given me the ammunition I needed to take my revenge on Raushanara. Besides, my relationship with Raushanara was so complicated, Gauhara was the only sister I had a chance to have a real relationship with.
I went the next day to Gauhara’s chambers to question her directly. Her palace was the smallest among the princesses’. I had the largest as the queen, and Raushanara had whined her way to the second-largest. After that, Aba’s other wives were given palaces, probably more as a consolation prize for never being visited by their husband, who now only kept sexual company with concubines.
Gauhara wasn’t in her chambers when I arrived there, so I chose to sit on her divan and wait. I confess I was in the habit of rummaging through other people’s things – such was the culture of the zenana and I was a victim of it. I initially resisted the urge to go through Gauhara’s dresser drawers, but eventually I began finding and reading notes and diaries she’d kept. I learned more about my sister, including her interest in polo and her desire to study poetry. She’d even composed some verses, though they weren’t very good. She had some roses pressed in her books, no doubt from her lover now engaged in our northwest wars. I read from her diaries, then her poems, and then eventually read from her letters:
Dear Gauhara,
I’ve abridged conscience a mite and told the commander of our unit that my mother has gone ill. He thus released me from active duty and gave me permission to return home. I will cross Delhi before going on to my village, and I wish to see you.
It has been very hard without you, my love. Please wait for me on the night of Eid. I will cross into the city and await you at your balcony.
Love,
Imtiaz
It seemed evident to me that this melancholy that had consumed my sister was none other than simple heartache. Perhaps Imtiaz had betrayed her or worse; perhaps he’d never made it here as he promised he would. This would be understandable, though not worrisome. Who hadn’t been through heartbreak? In the zenana, women were used to being betrayed and forgotten by the men they thought loved them.
I waited a little longer for Gauhara to arrive, but she didn’t come. I was about to leave when I saw her thin figure in the distance.
Both ecstatic and concerned, when she arrived I exclaimed, “So there you are! I’ve waited a long time for you!”
Gauhara sighed dully. “What do you want, Jahanara?”
I walked over to her, smiling. “I want to know what’s wrong, Gauhara. You seem unwell to me. I wish to know what ails you.”
Gauhara wouldn’t confide in me, even after I offered her shirazi, as before.
I said firmly, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll go to the Mahaldar and tell her not to give you your allowance!” (The Mahaldar, chief lady officer of the zenana, kept an eye on all important matters of the zenana, including distribution of salaries.)
Gauhara looked shocked. I think she felt violated and clearly threatened, though I didn’t intend to make her feel so.
She spat, “Keep the Mahaldar out of this! I need some time by myself, Jahanara. Please leave me alone.” I wasn’t used to being addressed like this, but I couldn’t bring myself to protest my emaciated, clearly devastated younger sister’s stand against me. Something had happened to her, someone had hurt her, and I would find out who it was.
21
KANDAHAR
3rd April, 1652
I informed my eunuch ahead of time, “Arzani and Hamida will ride with me on the main elephant during this trip.” So Aba reluctantly let three women leave alone on this long journey, after I explained to him that several regiments of soldiers and cavalry men would be escorting us.
I was setting out from the imperial palace in Delhi to our fort in Lahore to visit Dilras. Ever since Aurangzeb had gone to Kandahar, Dilras had essentially lived alone in the fort with just her children. As both an older sister and the Queen, I wanted to see for myself whether they were safe and being well cared for.
Arzani and Hamida were both Salatins, descendants of previous Mughal kings whose lineage hadn’t been fortunate enough to lead towards the throne. They were my cousins, some twice removed, others thrice, but to whom Aba and other members of my immediate family paid virtually no attention.
Once many years ago I accidentally found myself at the rear of the Agra palace, the home of the Salatins. The doors opened just for a few moments, and out poured a stench of disease, poverty and death. Here were the unfortunate descendants of legendary rulers like Babur and Akbar made to live in penury. They couldn’t leave because the royals feared they might challenge the sitting monarch for the throne one day, yet they couldn’t live in dignity either, and their allowances were scant in relation to the princes’.
I determined when I constructed the Red Fort at Delhi to create a small quarter for the widows and dependents of former emperors. Though not all the Salatins would live here, I could at least assure that widows and children of former emperors were well cared for there.
Hamida and I had the same great-grandfather, the legendary Akbar. My grandfather, Emperor Jehangir, and her grandfather, Prince Daniyal, were brothers. Though my grandfather had been anointed king, Prince Daniyal remained in the Red Fort with his son, Prince Hoshang. When Aba’s men massacred Shahriar and his other relatives to gain the throne of India, one of the casualties was Prince Hoshang, who had also been a contender for it.
I still felt traumatised every time I thought of how these innocent uncles and cousins of mine, some not even teenagers, had been killed execution-style by Aba’s orders.
W
hen I began my quest to improve the lives of Salatins, I met Hamida, the only surviving kin of the deceased Prince Hoshang. I immediately took a liking to her. She had Aba’s nose and eyes, and I could see similarities to my own in her mannerisms and expressions. Always a sweet girl, she simply looked to me as an older sister and always did whatever I asked of her.
“What’s there in Lahore, Empress?” she asked, widening her inquisitive, innocent eyes.
I just stared at her smiling as we sat in the canopy atop the elephant. She reminded me of myself when I was just a young girl travelling to Agra for the first time with Sati and Raushanara. She had the same innocence, playfulness and candor; in her I was seeing my own youth.
I said, “We’re visiting Princess Dilras. You’ll love her; she’s the sweetest person you’ll ever meet.”
“Not sweeter than you,” blushed Arzani. Arzani was just a few years older than Hamida, 26 to Hamida’s 21; but for me, now pushing 35, they both seemed like children. Oddly, as I regarded the two of them giggling and staring out of the canopy they’d never had had the pleasure to sit in before, I felt slightly jealous of them. In their limited world, a simple thing like a trip to another city was the event of a lifetime. Their existences had largely involved just tending to themselves. Mine had been for others ever since I entered Agra many years ago, and though people told me I looked young for my age, I already felt like an old woman.
“Will we visit Ami’s tomb, Empress?” asked Arzani. She, also a Salatin, was related to me two ways. She was the lone child of Prince Shahriar and Princess Ladli, daughter of Nur Jahan. I was her second cousin through my mother and a first cousin through my Aba. She’d been brought to Agra by the wishes of her mother, Princess Ladli, shortly before she died.
My heart ached for Ladli, a beautiful human being who it seemed to me had been an innocent caught up in this bloodthirsty war for power and titles. She was nothing like Nur Jahan; she was simple, quiet and genuine, much like my Ami had been. I never saw the resemblance between Nur Jahan and Ami, but I could see how Ladli and Ami were related. Though both had wanted to marry Aba at one point, only Ami succeeded in winning his love, and the result was this: Ami is immortalised in the Taj Mahal while Ladli shares a tomb with Nur Jahan in Lahore. As Ami’s daughter, I sit as the Queen of India, while Ladli’s daughter lived in abject poverty as a Salatin until I rescued her.
The two girls played with each other, clapping hands together while reciting some rhyme. They commented on each other’s new clothes, both given them by me so they would look like the princesses they still were. I rested my head back on my pillow and closed my eyes. As the girls’ loud bursts of laughter now and then interrupted my tranquility I thought to myself: Now I know what Sati must’ve felt all those years.
I tried to fall asleep. My dreams were now my sustenance, and in their company I hoped to spend the remainder of my life. My mind slowly drifted to Gabriel. The pain of knowing I would never have him and always be alone humbled me. At once I felt like a beggar, yet I knew that unlike a beggar, I couldn’t even ask for mercy or charity. I couldn’t rise before dawn like other beggars and stand below the Jharoka-i-darshan and plead my case to the Emperor. When the wazir lowered the chain of justice from the jharoka, I couldn’t send a petition. I couldn’t ring the bell and scream, “Justice, justice, justice!” and expect to be taken seriously.
We arrived at the Lahore fort a few days later, having taken our tents to rest overnight at stops so the journey wasn’t too taxing on anyone. Dilras had the fort glittering with decoration in anticipation of our arrival.
Arzani cried, “Wow!! This fort looks just like the one in Agra, but in white!”
I just stayed under the covered canopy, grinning. Many years ago, I, too, had been eager to see what lay outside my velvety prison, but I’d learned since. I was now the queen and I had to set an example for these two girls.
Poking her head outside the canopy, Hamida asked me again, “Why don’t you live here, Empress?” Meanwhile, Arzani remained dazed by the image of the Lahore fort.
I said, “Because Lahore is too far west to govern from, my darlings. The King wanted a more central location.”
The two girls shrugged at my explanation, almost as if my answer didn’t matter to them. Their question, it seemed, was just meant to impress on me how much in awe they were of this site.
Dilras was waiting for us in the zenana quarters, her face veiled (just as Aurangzeb would’ve wanted), her daughters by her side. I introduced Arzani and Hamida to Dilras, and she held their heads with her hands and kissed each on her forehead.
Then she asked, “How was the journey for you, Your Highness?
I looked over at my two Salatin cousins, almost motioning them to answer in my place, still drowsy from my limited sleep in the presence of their incessant giggling. “Our trip went well, Dilras. So tell me: how have you and the children been since my brother left for Kandahar?”
“Well! We go to pray in the Pearl Mosque five times a day, and we observe every tradition our lord has given us.”
I knew this lord, my brother Aurangzeb, was very vindictive when it came to his family. He would leave strict instructions on how the women were to behave in his absence, and his spies watched over them, to inform him of any deviation on his return.
We spent the night in the zenana quarters, and for once Arzani and Hamida tasted what life inside the Mughal zenana was truly like. Dilras was gracious enough to give me the largest quarter. As I’d expected since arriving in Lahore, Zeb-un-nissa paid me an unexpected visit.
Looking anxious, she said, “Aba has banned any writing or music, Your Majesty,” almost as if wanting me to overturn her father’s orders in one swoop. “He told us we can’t compose one verse even, and that to praise the beauty of any entity, even a flower, is anti-Islamic!”
I wanted to hear out this child, whose outlook on life had always been very similar to my own.
She confided: “I compose short verses of poetry and have formed my own little club in the zenana that no one knows about. We call ourselves Makhfi, the hidden ones.”
I smiled and commended this child’s cleverness at outwitting her father, but I also worried. “You mustn’t cross your father, my child. Not only is it wrong, if he finds out, his temper has no limits, especially for women.”
“I know, Your Majesty. I’m reminded of his temper every day when he’s here. It’s so suffocating. It’s as if we’re all truly in prison when he’s here.”
Zeb-un-nissa told me how Aurangzeb had spoken to Dilras before leaving for Kandahar. He’d ordered all the women to stay in the zenana at all times and observe the strictest of Islamic laws, including covering one’s face and praying five times a day.
“If this zenana is any indication of what all of India will look like if my father becomes king, I fear for our country, Your Highness,” cried Zeb-un-nissa, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. I remained composed on my divan, unmoved by what I’d just heard. By now, I was immune to hearing narrow-minded comments by my intolerant brother. Mostly when someone mentioned him, it was to complain of abuse he’d inflicted on someone else.
I said, “That won’t happen, my child. Dara will be the next king, and he’ll never let these practices stand.”
I hugged my niece, bid her farewell and blew out the candles that had been lighting my room. After several days, I would finally sleep undisturbed.
I left Lahore a few days later, minus one companion: Arzani. She wished to live out her days near the tomb of her mother and grandmother, and it seemed appropriate to me that she do so. Agra and Delhi comprised the seat of Mughal power, and fraternal conflict would occur there. I wanted Arzani to remain far from all that. This poor child had already suffered enough.
Years had gone by since Murad’s tragic loss of Kandahar, yet Aba drew now on the promise that his other son, his ‘white serpent’ who was now suddenly his hero, would win the prize back for us. But that hope had evaporated a few months ago when ou
r counter-attack led by Aurangzeb had met a devastating defeat.
“I told you he was useless!” Aba stared at me, blood in his eyes. “He can’t do anything right!”
As he walked away waving his hands in anger and frustration, I interjected, “He’s the one who brought our troops home from the ill-advised Balkh misadventure!”
I was sure to use the word ‘fiasco;’ I didn’t want Aba to forget his role in it.
“Who cares about Balkh! You can’t feed even a small regiment with the riches from Balkh! It was Kandahar I wanted!”
Losing wasn’t ever easy for Aurangzeb, especially when the battle involved physical strength. I could only imagine how personally defeated he must have felt. To learn what had happened in the past few fateful years, I summoned one of Aurangzeb’s generals, Gulrukh Khan, to my chambers.
“Greetings, Your Highness,” the General said.
I accepted his salutation and asked him how close he’d been to Aurangzeb during the conquest of Kandahar.
“I had the pleasure of serving directly under the Prince, Your Majesty.”
“So I can trust your every fact, Gulrukh.”
“Where you suspect inaccuracy, I ask you tell me and I’ll clarify further.”
“Will you embellish things to make my brother seem better than he is?”
“No, Your Majesty. I serve you and the King. Though I consider the Prince my commander, I owe my loyalty to you.”
Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 22
