The battle dragged on for four hours, and the Mughal army fought with all its might. But lacking a strong commander at the helm, the heterogeneous unit attacked in a disunited way. The Persians, strengthened by their homogenous background and one religion – they were all Muslims – fought as one. The Mughal army retreated in defeat, losing over 1,000 soldiers and another 1,000 wounded.
Dara, wounded along with his men, retreated. To further inflame their passion, the Persians began to play victory music loudly and even had dancing girls come outside in view of the imperial camp. Thus Kandahar was again lost to Mughal India.
Dara had returned earlier this month to Delhi in shame, leading back less than half his army, with the remainder mostly being carried on stretchers or walking with bandages on one or more limbs. Men cried out in great pain as their wounds won the battle over them. Aba heard the sounds of the defeated army from the Rang Mahal and looked out of the window with tears in his eyes. The sight of a suffering Dara was always difficult for Aba to bear. He would banish any failing child – even me perhaps – but couldn’t spend a moment without Dara.
I looked out from my apartment that day, too, and saw the army make its way past the Jumna. Much to my dismay, Dara had not succeeded where Aurangzeb failed. Yet, even in loss there was victory, I initially thought. Perhaps after seeing Dara, too, lose this war, Aba would reach out to Aurangzeb and mend fences. He would realise now that this military endeavour was no small task, and that he ought not to blame Aurangzeb for something two other sons, Murad and now Dara, had also failed at. And if the King felt justified in reprimanding Aurangzeb, perhaps he would do the same to Dara, and I’d be able to write Aurangzeb that the King’s love was the same for all his children, not partial towards Dara.
We all gathered in the Diwan-i-khas as Dara slowly walked towards the Peacock Throne with his head hanging low.
A voice intoned: “All Hail, Prince Dara Shikoh!”
The Prince walked towards Aba, stood immediately before the throne and performed the necessary salutation. Then he said slowly, “It is with regret, Jahanpanah, that I must report that my army has failed to capture Kandahar from the Persians.”
Aba leaned forward sadly, not so much over the loss of Kandahar, but at seeing his son in such a defeated state of mind. He rose from his throne and walked to the Prince, surprising all the nobility in attendance and me as well. Aba then embraced and kissed his son, and said, “You are and always will be the world illuminator, my son! I never cared much for that border town anyway.”
Never cared much for that border town? These words kept resonating in my ear, echoing through my head. What had I just seen? Since childhood, I’d witnessed my father’s bias towards Dara, but never as profound an instance as this. He never cared much for that border town? Why, then, had he banished Aurangzeb to the Deccan and denied him another opportunity to wage battle?
I watched stunned as Dara’s frown turned into a jubilant smile and father and son hugged, the crowd hailing Dara’s name in the background as if nothing had been lost. What would I write to Aurangzeb? What explanation could I give? Everything he’d said was accurate. Here were father and son rejoicing over a loss, while a younger, far less culpable brother lived in virtual exile, governor of a region he didn’t even want, like an utter failure?
I won’t allow this to go on longer, I thought. This demands an explanation. Impulsively I spoke out: “Does Jahanpanah wish all the brothers from the four corners of the empire to return, so the royal family may be reunited after all this time of senseless bloodshed in that arid border town?” I had no idea whether or not this was the right thing to propose, but I wanted to see if my father’s anger towards Aurangzeb had perhaps thawed and he might want to see him again.
“No,” replied Aba. “They’ll remain at their posts. We’re fine here” And he kept smiling at his son.
My sources were now telling me Aurangzeb was effectively and energetically converting Fatehpur into a major metropolis, making it, in fact, Aurangzeb’s ‘Taj.’ Just as Aba and I had released our emotions building the Taj Mahal and Delhi, it seemed Aurangzeb was releasing his rebuilding Fatehpur, or as he’d renamed it, Aurangabad.
Aurangabad was located northeast of the Portuguese town of Goa. Because it had dry soil and no natural rivers, Aurangzeb created a large water tank four kos in circumference and ran a canal from a nearby village to feed it. Near the tank he built his palace, less impressive than the fort at Delhi, but perfect for the more modest Aurangzeb. He now lived there with his family – and built Raushanara a palace there as well. The Deccan was now looking more like home to him. Far from the Mughal pageantry of Delhi, this city had become elegant yet simple enough to reflect its creator.
24
THE MARATHAS
1st May, 1654
The eunuchs were tittering: “The pearl embroidery will make Prince Sulaiman’s eyes glow like a diya on a dark night!” They ran hither and thither, setting one robe after another before me for consideration.
After years of bloodshed, first in Balkh then in Kandahar, the Mughal household was once again abuzz with joy and delight. Dara’s oldest son, Sulaiman Shikoh, was to be wed to none other than a Hindu Rajput princess, who was also ironically a niece of Rajah Jai Singh, the ill-fated general Dara had blamed for the loss of Kandahar. Recognising his own myopia in blaming the brave Hindu warrior for the debacle, he’d sought to mend relations by having his son marry the Raja’s niece. Yet again, a Hindu bride graced the Mughal household, and Aurangzeb, reeling from the preferential treatment of Dara by their father and also by the mixed marriage between Hindu and Muslim, opted not to attend or send any presents for the affair.
Dara had also made other peaceful gestures to the Rajputs in this time period following the wedding. Soon after his son’s wedding, Aba engaged in a border dispute with the Raja of Udaipur. While the mullahs insisted the King attack Udaipur and annex the kingdom, Dara made a surprise visit to the King and mediated with the rajah, ending the conflict with no bloodshed and acceding just a few strips of worthless land to the Mughals.
“The pearls look beautiful, but the King wants emeralds to decorate the turban. Will the pearls match them?”
Bahadur said, “Yes, Your Majesty. Pearls and emeralds were meant to live in harmony, just as man and wife.”
The giggling continued as the excitement of the festivities rose. This was the first wedding to take place at our new royal palaces in Delhi. The city was decorated with garlands of jasmine, marigold and paper flags. Royal gardeners had tended the gardens to perfection, trimming the hedges, mowing the lawns and arranging the flower beds.
Women in the zenana competed with one another for resources to beautify themselves; each wore new clothes given to her for this special occasion.
Feeling sensuous from my love of Gabriel, I dared to wear a ghaghara so fine and thin my bosom could be seen through it. For once I didn’t care what others might say; I just wore what I felt like wearing. I also wore my mother’s pearl necklace she’d received on her wedding day and the matching earrings. For a moment, I felt like I was attending my own wedding.
The festivities were reminiscent of Dara’s wedding, which I’d planned myself a generation ago, except that now I felt able to enjoy myself without fear of what others thought. I’d made the ultimate sacrifice for my kingdom, treating the crown as my child, and like other children, it would listen to me and not the other way around. I enjoyed the wine and the opium and allowed the effects to settle into my smile as I greeted visitors.
Aba, Dara and Sulaiman sat across from the Raja Jai Singh as the mullahs read the verse from the Koran. Though she was Hindu, no Hindu ceremony would occur to sanctify the marriage. Rather, the King’s religion was to be accepted by all for this occasion. The mullah had both the bride and groom sign the book, and then proclaimed them married.
The remainder of the night, lavish exuberance reverberated through the halls of the zenana. Wines from all over the world were opened a
nd opium was made available for all who desired it. Loud, provocative language and actions were tolerated – and to some extent encouraged – this day, and all who chose to rejoice in any way were given licence to do so.
Later, shortly before day, once the zenana ladies had fallen asleep, I opened my eyes from the make-believe nap I’d been taking. I grabbed a dark towel and folded it in half. It was too thin, so I folded it yet again. Then I placed it around my buttocks and pulled my black pajamas over it to secure it in place. I grabbed then another towel, also dark, folded it only once and placed it around my waist, pulling the front of my pajamas up in order to secure the towel around my stomach.
I turned to my side to see if I looked like a heavy-set, middle aged commoner. Not yet. My breasts were hanging over, not slouching like they would have if I’d truly had a large stomach and a weight problem. I took a piece of dyed silk cloth and cut it in half. I wrapped it tightly around my breasts and then secured it in place with a hair clip. I looked at myself sideways again: flat chest, protruding belly and an overarching behind. This was the look!
I placed a dark black kameez over my torso to cover the artificial curves I’d created. I started chuckling. Most zenana ladies used such techniques to increase their attractiveness, enlarge their breasts and tighten their stomachs. I was doing the reverse.
I then tied my hair up to hide its length, just as I did when I dressed like a boy for Gabe (an odd legacy of my love). Then I wrapped myself in a black robe and slid down the side staircase of the zenana and onto the main street.
Hiding from the few Mughal soldiers combing the streets, I moved from alley to alley, into the outskirts of the town. Soon I was standing at the riverbank.
I disrobed and removed the towels from my stomach and buttocks. (I’d use them later to dry myself.) Then I walked into the river and began to meditate. My legs soon grew numb from the cold, till I could barely feel them. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the one person I knew I was never going to see again, but desperately failed at forgetting: Gabe.
Just as I was told to, I’d brought a memento Gabe had once given me: a pendant with a portrait of the English Queen, Elizabeth I. I held it in my hand and concentrated as hard as I could, as the cold water choked my waist and numbness travelled up my body.
I opened my eyes and looked out onto the river. I saw Gabe’s image clearly as if someone had painted his face on the surface of the water. He looked older, as if he’d aged several years since we last saw each other. He was working frantically, as though he had to, but didn’t really care to anymore. The signs on the cargo he was unloading read ‘Kalikata,’ which made sense because he’d told me in his last letter about the villages in that area being reorganised into this town.
I closed my eyes and tried to hear what he was saying but could barely do so. Then I heard: “Don’t let any of these break, you wretch!” The voice was classic Gabe. Had he really uttered those words, or was I hallucinating from the cold? I began to wonder.
Another firangi walked next to Gabe, put his hand on Gabe’s shoulder and said, “I hear you’re leaving a few months from now?”
I was startled. Was Gabe leaving India? If so, I had no doubt in my mind it would be for good. He said, “It’s true, friend. I’ve put my name down to leave for England next season. They need me back.”
But why? I myself had told him to leave, and now that he was leaving, I was shocked? I saw his image fade in the river and realised my vision of him was ending. But he wasn’t why I’d come to the river this night.
I plucked from my blouse another memento, this one from Aurangzeb – one of the Prophet’s hairs he’d given me when I had my accident. I again closed my eyes, focused and opened them a few moments later. In the distance, I now could see Aurangzeb.
He was dividing his land into sections and ordering the jungles cleared, probably hoping to convert the fields into farms for grain, wheat and other valuable crops. He was using the funds he’d been allocated for his governorship, and where he fell short, he was increasing taxes on those in his area. He was trying to convert the Deccan’s jungles into granaries!
I now saw him riding on horseback and realised these visions might not be in actual time. He came across a stone structure at a slight elevation a few kos from where he was riding. Aurangzeb motioned to Shahnawaz while looking at the structure. “Is it true that those Hindu temples have idols made of solid gold?”
Shahnawaz Khan seemed not to have recognised the structure was a temple at first; but now that his son-in-law pointed it out to him, it seemed he could see the Hindu architecture in the edifice.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Shahnawaz’s round, bearded face smiled broadly. “The Hindus spend a lot of gold on the décor of their infidel structures.”
Aurangzeb smiled with his mouth still shut. As if he’d just ridden into a gold mine, he looked to his equally intolerant companion to execute his next command: “Well, then I want that temple destroyed and its gold melted to be used for more important purposes, like funding this farming project.”
“What about… resistance?”
“Kill anyone who resists, promise clemency for any who converts, and bring all the women of those killed into the harem.”
Temples were now to be gutted across the Deccan, I feared. In the bigger picture of what Aurangzeb was doing, temples were the least useful structures, and the Hindus the biggest nuisance. Interestingly, I thought, though he continues to detest Hindus, he doesn’t have a problem keeping Hindu women in his harem. It seems he’s forcing the wealthy Hindus to relocate to more impoverished sections of the city and give a higher portion of their wealth in taxes. The Deccan slowly begins resembling the horrific empire all of India would be if Aurangzeb was king…
I suddenly shut my eyes; I couldn’t take the horror anymore! I felt helpless to do anything against this brother shunned by my father. I both feared him and feared for him. I slowly walked to the edge of the river. I hugged myself against the cold air blowing against my wet body. I wiped myself with a cloth I’d left by the shore and put my black robe back on. I then slipped back into the palace as inconspicuously as I’d slipped out.
While gathered in the Diwan-i-khas, we received a letter from Aurangzeb asking Aba for assistance:
Dearest Aba,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. My warmest regards for you and your oldest grandson, Sulaiman Shikoh, on his marriage to a Rajput princess. I hope she will bear you a great-grandson soon!
We are struggling here, Aba. This land is full of jungles and pests. To make it habitable I’ve used all available means, including increasing taxation, but a new enemy, the Marathas, recently attacked us like cowards in the dark and burned our crops to the ground. What’s worse, they cremated our fallen soldiers, denying them the proper burial required of every good Muslim to ensure his entry into paradise. I now find myself unable to generate funds to replant the crops and turn the Deccan into an income-producing region of the empire. Not doing so will continue to make this region a drain on the empire.
Your Majesty, if you wish for me to be honoured with great viceroyalty, then grant me the means to make it so. The few fertile lands in this area are occupied by nobles whose loyalty is important to the court. With the exception of their lands, all here is jungles and pests. I graciously await your response.
Your humble servant,
Aurangzeb
Sadullah Khan, a natural ally of Aurangzeb and a committed opponent of Dara, immediately exclaimed, “The Marathas must be taught a lesson, Jahanpanah.” He had encouraged Aurangzeb many years ago to vie for the governorship of Gujarat, and it was no secret that he’d been dismayed by Aurangzeb’s leaving.
“The Marathas have always been in the Deccan, Mirza Khan,” shot back Dara.
Sadullah Khan frowned but pursed his lips, not openly challenging Dara in Aba’s presence. “They were there even when Aba was living there. Only since Aurangzeb went have they rebelled!”
Sadullah woul
d not be entirely silenced. “Their attack is an attack on Mughal sovereignty, my lord.”
“Their attack is against Aurangzeb!” yelled Dara, facing Sadullah though Sadullah continued to stand at attention facing Aba, not addressing Dara directly. Dara looked enraged.
I called out, “We must first know why the Marathas have attacked. If they have indeed been our allies, what has happened to suddenly upset them?”
Dara pointed at the air with conviction. “I’ll tell you why they attacked! Jahanpanah, I would like to present to you Hira Bai.” A thin young woman with fair skin and a nose ring walked into the Diwan-i-khas, and Dara continued:
“This woman and her husband, Jaswant Raj, are employed in Aurangabad, she as a female slave to Aurangzeb’s harem and Jaswant as a cook. To the world they’re his slaves, but they are really my spies.”
Quiet chattering began in the court. Aba grinned approvingly, but sat silent.
Dara said, “Through them I’ve learned what’s happened in the Mughal court of the Deccan during the past few months.”
The mullahs, Sadullah Khan at their head, stood at attention looking frightened, their heads hung low, anticipating any harmful revelation Dara’s spies might bring.
Dara’s spies now told the court that Aurangzeb had torn down virtually every Hindu temple in Aurangabad and neighbouring towns, melting any gold looted from them for his treasury. Thousands of Hindu priests had been slaughtered, and many Hindu women forced into the harems of Muslim noblemen, and even, to the shock of many, into Aurangzeb’s own harem. Aurangzeb had also levied higher taxes on Hindus of the Deccan and confiscated some of their property illegally.
Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 25
