I always wondered if anyone ever went to the Deccan willingly. It seemed the Deccan was always associated with tragedy. In this land my uncle Khusrau had been killed creating a deep divide between Aba and his father. When Aba was exiled by his father and Nur Jahan, it was the Deccan they sent him to, and this is where my generation spent the better part of our childhood until our father became king. Then the Deccan again came into the limelight three years later, when Khan Jahan Lodi rebelled against the Mughals, sending my parents to this jinxed land to wage war. There my mother died and was buried. Going to the Deccan was like telling one of us to pitch a tent by our mother’s grave and be content with living in the cemetery.
I had a strangely vivid dream one night when Aurangzeb was travelling with his wife and children through this cursed land. Unlike my other dreams, which frequently had no meaning or were so strange and mystical I couldn’t help but believe they were a product of my over-active imagination, this dream was more realistic. It was as if I’d been transported to the Deccan and was staring at this scene from many different angles, watching and observing everyone’s expressions and movements.
The dream started with the royal caravan travelling through the Deccan’s rugged terrain:
Aurangzeb asks the procession to travel to Burhampur before moving on to Daulatabad, the city Aba commanded Aurangzeb to live in. But rather than move towards the main fort of Burhampur, Aurangzeb directs the caravan to the Zainabadi garden, where Ami was initially buried many years ago.
Though her remains are no longer in that spot, the location is still treated like sacred ground, with a small, humble, makeshift memorial made by the locals in its place. To Aurangzeb, this may very well be the only memorial she needed and deserved – a humble, heartfelt, simple structure built with well wishes from the heart, not by gaudy riches from the world. This was Aurangzeb’s Taj Mahal.
He has the caravan wait outside the garden while he and his family pay their respects to the site. Each in his own way comes forward, Dilras Banu tearing as she pays her respects to the mother-in-law she never knew. Of his daughters, the two oldest follow their mother’s lead, each wishing that perhaps if only for a moment they might see and experience the grandmother that won the hearts of everyone they knew, even their seemingly cold-hearted father’s.
Aurangzeb waits till after all his children and wives have finished, and then asks them to return to the caravan so he may have some time alone. As the royal family mounts atop their respective elephants, Aurangzeb looks again at Ami’s grave, without a single tear in his eyes.
He bows his head before Ami and begins speaking to her, as if her remains are still there and her soul isn’t in paradise as all claim, but rather here in this modest memorial.
“Ami, it’s been so long since you left me, yet I feel as if it was just yesterday you were wiping my wounds and giving me the hairs of the prophet. I still have them, Ami. I’ve carried them with me in all my military campaigns, and I still have them with me now. I don’t know why, really. I tell people because they’re the hairs of the Holy Prophet; but to be honest, it’s also because they’re the only thing you ever gave me. You left me, Ami, but I never left you.
“I’ve tried so hard to win Aba’s love, hoping he would give me the love you once did, that through him I would maybe feel your presence in our midst, but I’ve failed. He hates me; he blames me for all of his problems. I honestly think he wishes I were dead. When I’m completely helpless, I go to Jahanara seeking some support, but what can she do? She, with time, is becoming blinded with talks of rogue mixtures of cultures and is giving into her physical instincts and committing lewd acts that would devastate you if you were alive.”
Rumours of me having an affair with Aba had indeed reached epic proportions, but what was I to do? Was I supposed to leave Delhi and Aba just to quell the dirty mouths of gossipy nobles? Almost everyone except Raushanara had no direct knowledge of a possible relationship, but as the rumours began to spread, the story began to change, and now even certain nobles were openly saying they’d watched Aba and me in compromising positions (though this was clearly at odds with the truth). But the vision proceeded, and Aurangzeb now said to the dream-Ami:
“I have no complaints from her, personally, Ami, but she’s not you. She can’t take your place, and her love can’t substitute for Aba’s. I’m here now, with you, in the Deccan, this destitute land of tragedy. I won’t ever leave, because no one but you wants me. Perhaps this is why Allah brought me here, because this is where you’ll forever be. Please guide me and give me the wisdom I need, Ami. Craving for your love and nurturing has long since passed; now just your guidance and wisdom will do.”
Aurangzeb breathes deeply and releases a long sigh, as if a tremendous burden has been lifted from his shoulder. Though Raushanara is with him in this caravan, accompanying him to the Deccan, she never dismounts from her palanquin to pay her respects. Unlike Aurangzeb, she never felt she was loved by Ami, though Ami often tried to treat her well. She feels more alienated than even Aurangzeb, and if Aurangzeb vents his frustrations by destroying non-Islamic monuments, she releases it in her infamous orgies, which she continues to hide from our brother.
Aurangzeb rises and continues to the cramped fort of Daulatabad. There he speaks to his father-in-law, Shahnawaz Khan, who accompanies him to the Deccan. They discuss the conditions in which he is living.
“No marbles here, Mirza Khan,” he claims. “No Paradise Canals, no gardens, just stones.”
The two men continue to look around the stone hall as the workers unload the royal family’s belongings.
“Your Majesty,” says Shahnawaz Khan, his back arched against the wall as he sits in front of the Prince, “you must make the Deccan yours. Why are you staying here? Go to Fatehpur, where you were happy and safe, and at peace. Make that your home.”
“Not a bad idea,” says the Prince. “I mean, everyone’s building cities today, why not me? If I have to live in this God-forsaken town, I need to make it feel like home.”
“And name it after yourself!” says the aging Shahnawaz.
“Aurangzabad?” asks Aurangzeb.
“Remove the ‘z’, or else no one will pronounce it right,” replies Shahnawaz. “Aurangabad.”
“Aurangabad,” says Aurangzeb, smiling as if content. “All right then, that shall be its new name, Inshallah. ”
There my dream ended. The next day I received information from our sources in the Deccan that indeed Aurangzeb had travelled through Burhampur to Daulatabad and then eventually to the city of Fatehpur. As rumours claimed, many years ago, he saw a 6th century Hindu temple on a hill where temple prostitutes practiced sacred prostitution. Aurangzeb demolished it and used the stones from the temple as a staircase for a new mosque to be constructed on the plot. When a local Hindu priest protested the acts, he had him beheaded and then directed the prime minister of the region to keep quiet about the matter and not let it reach the ears of the King. Unfortunately, in our kingdom everything existed in abundance except loyalty and trust. News of the incident eventually made its way to Agra, and while it was unclear whether the Prime Minister had leaked it, he bore the brunt of Aurangzeb’s rage, and was skinned alive.
I was at once shocked and frightened to learn of the similarities between my dream and the reality as it being told to me. I immediately went to Mullah Badakshi to ask him if he had any insight into what was happening to me.
“Ah, this is due to the grace of Mian Mir!” Badakshi stretched his arms out and looked upward as if waiting for a sign.
“What does Mian Mir have to do with this?”
Badakshi put his hand on my shoulder, making me somewhat nervous. “He protects us, my child. His followers always find miracles occurring in their lives once they begin to embrace the Qadiriya order.”
I had heard of miracles of the order before, ranging from sudden cures of fatal diseases, to revelations that changed people’s outlooks. I’d often treated such thoughts with scepticism,
but I hesitated to do so this time.
“Perhaps Mian Mir is giving you the help you need to prevent conflicts in your kingdom. He’s giving you sight and visions of events occurring thousands of kos away, perhaps in hope that you’ll use this information wisely.”
Badakshi took me to the river and asked me to hold his hands as we walked into the river. When the water reached to my breasts, we stopped. He said, “Close your eyes and meditate with me here.”
I followed his command, slightly shivering in the cold water. He then put his hands on my forehead and then moved them to his own forehead, while instructing me to keep meditating.
The he said, “Open your eyes and look there.” He pointed to the river. I followed his every command, somehow confident that he wouldn’t mislead me. As I looked into the river, I saw not the reflection of the sun or the trees above, but instead Aurangzeb standing in the middle of a city I imagined must be his new Aurangabad. He was ordering people to harvest water and build tanks. He seemed like a man on a mission, fully in control of his destiny. Shahnawaz stood next to him, presumably assisting him in any matter he desired.
Badakshi said, “If you focus closely, you may be able to hear what they’re saying.”
I did exactly as I was told, confident that this man had special powers he was now giving me. I focused as hard as I could, hoping to hear any voices.
“Do you hear them?”
“No.”
“Try harder.”
I continued to focus, but to no avail. “I can’t hear a thing!”
Badakshi smiled and put his hand on my back. “That’s fine. You can’t pick it up all at once. But at least now you know that Mian Mir is with you. Whenever you’re curious about what’s happening, come here and do as I showed you.”
I nodded and retreated discreetly back to the fort. The people mustn’t see their Queen wearing wet clothes.
23
AURANGZEB’S TAJ
26th December, 1653
“Chicken has been prepared in ten different ways as you requested, Your Majesty.”
Zafar Khan had gentle but strong hands, making him a profoundly gifted head cook for the zenana.
“And lamb?” I reminded him. “The Emperor enjoys rogan josh with raisins.”
Zafar Khan nodded, as though expecting the question. “It’s been simmering since this morning, and I’ll finish it myself.”
I knew Aba wouldn’t attend, but all zenana parties were arranged with the expectation that the Emperor would visit. He was the guest of honour even when he didn’t show up.
Light sitar music played in the background as the evening festivities began.
Perfumed scents permeated the room as Persian carpets were laid around the floor. Giant flasks of wine were brought in to commemorate the first major party of the zenana in the new capital. Most of the women in this zenana were new additions brought in by Aba. The few exceptions included me, Gauhara and Henna Begum.
A certain concubine who’d been inciting Henna to perform her usual mocking skits of the royal household couldn’t herself have been older than 16, but was already known for her bold personality. She teased, “We’ve all heard stories of your tamashas, Henna Begum.”
Henna chuckled. “You’ll need a little more opium and another few gulps of wine to get Henna to do a tamasha for you young birds.” Usually when Henna spoke in the third person, it meant she’d already had too much opium and wine.
But soon her skit began. She tied a stick around her waist as though it was a dagger and put kajal around her face to mimic a beard. She then sat on the divan, and a eunuch sat next to her as if ready to play a role in the skit.
The eunuch began it: “Oh, Dara Shikoh, what command say you? You have been entrusted to win Kandahar from the Persians.”
Henna put her hand to her forehead. “I, Dara Shikoh, command you to find me a sufi who will put a curse on the water the Persians drink the morning of the battle!”
The crowd erupted in laughter, and my heart sank. Dara had left for Lahore immediately after being commanded to do so by Aba. For some reason that continues to baffle me to this day, he opted to take two Sufi mystics to Lahore with him. Apparently during their journey to Lahore they’d prophesied what the fate of their enemy would be.
Egging the skit on, the eunuch intoned: “As I close my eyes, Your Majesty, I can see the King of Persia dead. I’m actually watching the Persians carry their king’s coffin to the ground.” The laughter increased. “Don’t disturb me… I want to see them inter the body completely!”
Apparently Dara believed all this nonsense, even in the absence of any solid evidence: The King of Persia was alive, well and ready for any rematch with the Mughals forces. Though the Sufis had given Dara much in his life, insight into the enemy’s weaknesses would not add to these riches.
Then Henna piped in: “Gentlemen, when I close my eyes, I see Mian Mir sitting on the throne of paradise, telling me that I will be in Kandahar only seven days.” Soldiers present at this journey had returned from Kandahar and visited their mistresses in the zenana, giving the ladies ample material for mocking.
Henna then placed some of the empty gold vases in her chunni and wrapped it so it looked like a sack of riches. “I am hereby leaving for Kandahar with the riches of the kingdom.” Dara left Lahore on 11th February, 1653, the date his astrologers picked as being the most auspicious for the journey. Aba – informed by Dara’s runner of this date – sent riches from Delhi to accompany him, including jewels, ammunition, elephants, horses and over one crore rupees in gold for his military treasury. Aba gave Dara 70,000 men for this campaign, 20,000 more than he’d given Aurangzeb. Dara arrived at the outskirts of Kandahar two days later and set up the imperial camp.
Another eunuch playing a part in the skit shouted, “Shall I mount the cavalry across the battlefield?
“No, Jai Singh!” yelled Henna. Among the commanders in Dara’s army was the legendary Hindu raja Jai Singh, head of the Rajput state that bore his name, Jaipur. A strong military man with many skills, he soon felt dismayed by the Prince’s lack of understanding of military matters. Henna bellowed, “I need neither cannons nor cavalry. Find me an ascetic who’ll blow so hard, the Kandahar fort will fall down!”
The women all laughed, and Henna mocked on: “He must spit so hard, the fort walls will crumble under his force.” Now the women were falling over one another with amusement. It was well known that day after day, Dara would invite and entertain gurus and ascetics from the region, some self-proclaimed hypnotists, others magicians, each claiming to have powers to win the battle without firing a single shot – in return for enough money.
“Find me the ascetic who with his piss alone will down the Persians!” Henna could hardly contain her own laughter now, as she took a coconut with a hole cut in the middle and held it to her waist, her body turned sideways. “Allow the piss to fall,” she cried faux-solemnly, tilting the coconut sideways so its water flowed down like a man’s urine.
The night’s debauchery ended like a usual zenana party. Aba never visited; I wasn’t surprised. I was with Bahadur as the women passed out one by one. “It seems our Dara has become the joke of the kingdom,” I said. “Even young concubines are laughing at him. Do you think he actually said such things to Jai Singh and the other commanders?”
Bahadur stopped cleaning my table. “Your Majesty, what was said I don’t know, but everyone knows that saints and ascetics flowed all over the camp, each bringing his own disciples, and the Prince was convinced that they possessed supernatural powers and abilities.” Bahadur sat sown heavily. “Some were paid 40 rupees and given rations; others were paid in gold, while our army of soldiers watched and waited for Prince Dara to lead them into battle.”
I’d heard the stories many times from many people, but had difficulty understanding how Dara could be so myopic in military matters. Days had turned to weeks, and weeks to months, and while the Mughal army played at waiting games for the ascetics to show their miracl
es, the Persians had begun sending raids in the midst of the night and beheading soldiers in their tents.
I laughed bitterly. “At one point, Jai Singh even warned of mutiny!”
Bahadur nodded. “Yes, I know, Jai Singh and Prince Dara were continuously furious, Jai Singh complaining that the Prince had spent nearly a quarter of the treasury on voodoo, and the military camp had turned into an ascetic’s pilgrimage.”
Dara ultimately caved in to Jai Singh’s demands and stopped the ascetic nonsense. Several more months passed, and at last Dara’s army under Jai Singh’s command launched an offensive against the Persians in Kandahar that captured smaller surrounding forts around the major fort. On the side of the main fort was a solid granite cliff, over which loomed the citadel that needed to be overtaken.
Jai Singh ordered his men to quarantine the citadel, preventing any goods to flow in or out of the fort, in hopes of starving the enemy.
“Your Majesty, Prince Dara’s impatience has been his greatest weakness. He should have listened to Jai Singh when he advised to continue the quarantine.” After only a week of the blockade, Dara grew impatient and ordered fire rockets released at the citadel.
I said: “Jai Singh had advised Dara not to fire rockets because the fog was too thick, but my ascetic brother was too arrogant.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Those whom Allah wishes to destroy he first makes arrogant.” The rockets missed their target miserably, only lighting the night sky. The Persians responded with this note to the imperial army.
Our Dearest Young Prince,
Thank you; we’ve never seen a more brilliant fireworks display!
With Deep Respect,
The Persian Army
This mocking note enraged the usually calm Dara. Wishing to make a direct assault this time, waiting for no cover, Dara demanded his commanders give him ideas about how best to wage such an assault, but none would venture any.
“Do you blame them, Your Majesty?” Bahadur seemed unconventionally open in her criticism of Dara before me. “No commander in the Mughal army had confidence in the Prince. No individual wanted to put his stamp of approval on any of his plans, fearing that a loss would cause the Emperor to lay blame for the failure squarely on their shoulders. The generals were sent by the Kings as chaperones and babysitters rather than subordinates. Any failure of the mission would thus be in their hands; Prince Dara would go unscathed – even by a loss.”
Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 24
