My sister cried, “See, Dara, how she treats me? After all the help I’ve given you…” She flashed a pitiful, helpless look at him.
I rolled my eyes and pleaded with my father and Dara to not trust her. She was Aurangzeb’s ally, I maintained, and not to be trusted in the least.
Dara frowned, “Enough, Jahanara! You talk of family unity, yet this is how you treat our sister? What crime has she committed? She doesn’t have to be here!”
I tried to make Dara understand that all she was telling him was false information to trap him. But Dara wouldn’t budge; he insisted that she’d changed and could now be trusted. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Why would this person leave her equally scheming brother and help someone like Dara, who all his life had favoured me over her?
“Aba,” wept Raushanara, “if you don’t believe me, tell me, and I’ll drink poison and kill myself.”
No doubt this was another ploy of hers. Raushanara’d poison herself because her father didn’t trust her? She’d spent her whole life deceiving him and others in our family. But it was working. I could see Aba’s heart was thawing.
He turned to me, grabbed my hand and pleaded, “My child, forgive your sister for any offence you think she’s committed. She speaks from her heart now, I can feel it.” He then grabbed Raushanara’s hand with his other, brought our two hands together and said, “We must work together, my children. If we stay together, your brothers will hesitate to walk the path of violence. Forgive and forget what’s past, and let’s start again. We can do it, my children. Do it for your Aba – do it for Ami.”
I was sick to my stomach with all this treachery and gullibility, but what sickened me most was this invocation of Ami. Thank God she didn’t live to see this.
We were now in the Macchi Bawan, the same site where many years ago I’d helped plan the Taj Mahal. Now I was planning the battle of brother versus brother, my worst nightmare.
Raushanara said, “We have to prevent Aurangzeb from crossing the Chambal River. He has to cross it to march towards Agra!”
I just stood frowning with arms folded, watching my younger sister make detailed suggestions to the King.
“How sure are you he’ll cross there?” asked Aba.
“I know it. They’ve been planning this for months. I overheard the whole thing while I was in Aurangabad.”
Dara pointed to the location on a map. “Then this is where we’ll plant heavy guns. As they march towards us, we’ll sound warning shots, followed by real ones if we have to.”
I walked to the drawing of the Chambal river (a tributary of the Jumna located 40 kos south of Agra) and said morosely: “What about this area, 30 kos east of where you’re planning to place your guns?”
“What about it?” snapped Dara.
“Well, I know from building the Taj that when we wanted to run water for the canals through here, we learned it’s incredibly shallow. What if Aurangzeb’s army tries to cross here?”
Aba cupped his chin. “Maybe we should plant guns there, too…”
“…That may be overkill,” said Raushanara quickly, glancing directly at Dara alone.
“We’ll do it, though,” nodded Dara, hoping, I figured, to prevent another fight between us sisters.
Now that our plan was in place, the only thing left was to assemble an army of soldiers able to do battle should matters degenerate further and peace overtures be spurned.
Aba responded, given that his own generals were all hundreds of kos away in Bengal, by placing the entire treasury and arsenal of the Mughal Empire at Dara’s disposal. More than one lakh of horsemen and 20,000 infantry with 100 pieces of field artillery and 200 European artillerymen were quickly assembled for Dara. Well-armoured elephants and over 500 camels along with subordinates and shopkeepers also were drafted, meant to provide ready resources for the army should it be needed. Never before to my knowledge had a sitting emperor so enthusiastically provided a sitting prince with ammunition and resources for his fight against other princes of the empire.
Dara mounted his war horse amid cheers of ‘Allah-ho-Akbar’ by Muslims and ‘Har Har Mahadev’ by Hindus. Aba embraced Dara for an unusually long time, as if Aba knew this might be the last time he saw his son. Dara had given Aba such joy and happiness, that it seemed to have robbed all the love due the other brothers. In that tight embrace lay the seeds of this day – brothers joining hands to fight another brother and their father.
Aurangzeb outnumbered Dara in terms of career soldiers, and those soldiers Dara did have couldn’t compare in training and leadership with his enemy brother’s. Dara’s army was a patchwork of butchers, barbers, blacksmiths, tailors and carpenters, while Aurangzeb’s army had 50,000 well-trained soldiers. Dara’s forces hadn’t endured training in the Deccan’s blazing sun, half-submerged in water, crawling on their stomachs for the past 18 months as Aurangzeb’s likely had. Dara’s minions weren’t soldiers, but ordinary citizens.
As Dara was about to ride off, Mullah Shah Badakshi stood in front of him. He said, “Mullah, bless me that I may be victorious today.”
Shah Badakshi said, “The people of Hindustan are very malicious, Prince Dara. They deserve a malignant king, not a good-natured man like you.”
Dara glowered at Badakshi’s words, but then he smiled at his old friend’s wishes and rode off with his army to fight.
Shah Badakshi then turned to me. He placed his hand over my head and smiled. I returned his smile. Was he blessing me?
He said, “Your visions will cease from this moment on. At least, nothing they reveal to you will be of any value.” He was taking away my visions? How could I help Dara if I couldn’t see what the others were doing? Or was it now too late?
He then told me he’d had a premonition the night before that victory was not to be Dara’s. Yet he’d been summoned here to say both farewell to Dara and not give him false hope as the other Sufis had done.
The men began chanting “Manzil Mubarak!”
As the army left and the Diwan-i-am emptied, Aba and I watched our Prince’s army slowly fade into the darkness and eventually out of sight. I feared I would never see my Prince alive again.
28
MIDNIGHT
22nd May, 1658
I sent Bahadur with Dara’s army to report what was happening on the front lines. Apparently, Dara planted his heavy guns across the Chambal river as Raushanara had instructed, ignoring my warning of that shallow stretch of land 30 kos east which was perfect for crossing. He thought guarding that area also might stretch his army too thin, and hoping to repel the rebel forces just long enough for his son and his forces to arrive from Bengal, Dara planted his troops in just the one area.
Meanwhile the rebel army regrouped at the other end of the river. By morning, they were ready to march on to Agra.
Dara was said to have been shocked at hearing the horrific news. He called his entire army to attention and chaotically marched it from the riverside, with the heavy artillery he’d posted on the river front abandoned in the great haste. His artillery now greatly weakened, he rushed his dishevelled army of commoners back to their ill-fated home.
“Where are they now?” I asked Bahadur.
“They’re now occupying the great plains of Samugarh. Prince Dara’s army has sped past Prince Aurangzeb’s army.”
I stood pondering what that meant. I was confidant all of Aurangzeb’s moves were carefully calculated.
Aurangzeb’s army moved gingerly towards the plain, where the decisive battle of Samugarh would be fought. Dara and his men had scouted the battlefield the night before, making sure they understood the terrain. At a distance they could see Aurangzeb’s army, readying itself for the following day.
I lay in my apartment in the Agra Fort, able to see the armies in the distance from my elevated residence. I wept alone as if all the life was draining from me. No matter who won, I would lose a brother, maybe two brothers, tomorrow. Nur Jahan’s plan had worked: by poisoning Aurangzeb against Aba, she
’d gotten her revenge even after her death. Yet in my loss also lay the loss of my mother. There loomed the Taj Mahal, moonlight reflecting off of its white marble walls – illuminating the battlefield where her sons’ armies would face each other in battle. What must her soul be thinking right now? This battlefield, where the blood of at least one of her sons would be spilled the next day, had once been a hunting ground of Jahangir, my grandfather, for deer, cattle and tigers. Now, his own kin were going to hunt one another.
I knew Aba must be gazing at the same battlefield from his window, praying with every inch of his heart that his peaceful son would develop the courage and military acumen to defeat the military master Aurangzeb. I could imagine him walking over to his chair, opening the Koran, reading verses from it and weeping.
“I’m sorry my love,” he would say, looking towards the Taj Mahal. Like me, he too must have felt he’d failed his wife. Perhaps if she’d lived this day would never have come. She could have helped Aurangzeb become a better man. Neither Aba nor I had been able to stem the tide of orthodoxy and intolerance that had seized Aurangzeb’s heart after her death.
I didn’t know where Raushanara was, but I was sure she’d be smiling at the battlefield; the end was so close. She knew Aurangzeb would win, and then perhaps she’d be empress. After a lifetime spent in the shadows, finally she’d enjoy the limelight.
Yes, all of us Mughals would be looking at the plains from the majestic Red Fort, the glistening Taj Mahal reminding us of our common, deceased relative, while my two brothers look on the moonlit battlefield, perhaps also realising that somehow their mutual mother was watching and would judge them at heaven’s gate for their actions.
I awoke early the next day and performed my early morning prayers, facing towards Mecca. The rug under me, I knelt with hands facing up before me, eyes closed.
I’d had Bahadur mount Aba’s telescope on the Samman Burj, so I could see the battle between my brothers’ armies. I’d studied the stars the night before just as closely. What was our destiny in them to be today?
Soon I saw Aurangzeb’s army wave their swords, javelins, daggers and muskets in the air, signalling to Dara’s army across the battlefield that an attack might be imminent.
Dara’s army arrayed a front row of artillery carriages, behind which he’d set out 20,000 musketeers and 500 camels. Another 28,000 cavalry stood behind them, and in the extreme rear, Dara himself rode atop a massive elephant. His army’s right wing offered several thousand men with saffron-painted faces. These were the Hindu Rajputs, I assumed. The left wing contained huge-sized bodies, the Uzbeks, no doubt.
Aurangzeb’s army stood in sharp contrast. His soldiers were all career fighters and all Muslims. Each man looked sturdy, wore the same exact uniform and stood in the same posture: back slightly bent forward as if ready to lunge at the enemy. They looked like men thirsty for blood. Aurangzeb was mounted on a grated-metal-armoured elephant; he looked even leaner than when I’d last seen him. Near him Murad, on horseback, also looked confident.
Neither side was attacking yet, each probably hoping to set up a defence. Then Dara’s gunners opened fire, barely skimming the front line of Aurangzeb’s soldiers. Dara ordered a direct assault, possibly thinking the gunfire had silenced the enemies’ own artillery. Both wings of Dara’s armies marched in – giving Aurangzeb the opportunity to fire a cannon into the heart of the wings, killing hundreds before they could ever reach the rebel army. Those that did make it – still thousands – now engaged in close combat with the enemy.
Now the Hindu Rajput contingent charged Murad’s army. I caught a glimpse of Murad on horseback. He motioned his hand sideways as if ordering his men to ‘slice’ his enemies. I’d never seen his face spew such hatred.
The Rajput soldiers attacked him, hurling their javelins. Murad fell off his horse and slashed his sword towards the Rajput general, Ram Singh. Ram Singh fell, too, and the two now met hand-to-hand. Murad fell to the ground and the General lunged on top of him, but Murad shielded himself with his own sword. Murad then kicked the General off and mounted the General’s empty horse. Ram Singh ran after Murad, but just then one of Aurangzeb’s men attacked the general from the rear and fatally wounded him.
Seeing this, the Rajputs ran after Murad and surrounded him. Murad’s army tried to fend them off, but the Rajputs formed a giant circle around them and closed in, suffocating his regiment. Murad’s regiment seemed less seasoned and well-trained than the rest of Aurangzeb’s army. These weren’t career warriors, but instead low-class men of unwarlike habits — a bunch of brutes and outlaws who didn’t fight as a unit.
As Murad’s men ran out of ammunition, the Rajputs went in for the kill, cutting off the heads and arms of as many men as they could. For a moment, it seemed like victory was Dara’s, but then the tide of battle began turning, and soon the Rajputs began to fall. One by one, each saffron-coloured face fell, and at last the ground took on a bloody, saffron-mixed colour.
Now red-stained swords and daggers flailed in the wind, and Dara marched forward on his elephant towards Aurangzeb, who was now on horseback. Aurangzeb began to retreat, but why, I wondered? Soon, Dara changed from his elephant to a mobile horse, and chased after Aurangzeb.
“Dara, don’t do that, you idiot!” I yelled as if Dara could hear me. I could tell Dara was walking into a trap! A dismounted royal elephant gives an army the false impression that their leader’s fallen, and a leaderless army’s tantamount to a headless man. Chaos would ensue.
I saw Aurangzeb’s men chanting now, probably, “Prince Dara has fallen!” which would further feed the frenzy. Though I couldn’t tell what they were saying, the effect was the same: Dara’s men looked around to catch a glimpse of their leader, but saw his empty, decorated elephant, further disillusioning them.
The rebel soldiers pushed back against the imperial army now, and the butchers, bakers and carpenters now ran for their lives, assuming no doubt that if they stayed and fought, the rebel Prince who’d now be King would execute them all. Thus, all Dara’s men either died or fled, leaving him alone with a small cordon of bodyguards in the middle of the battlefield. Fearing for his own life, he ran towards the countryside. In the shade of a neem tree he took off his helmet, so depressed and exhausted, he just sat on the ground, unwilling to move at the sounds of enemy kettledrums now approaching his way...
I watched this entire battle from the fort, as if it were an elephant fight in the royal arena. Seeing my worst fears come true, I paced back and forth, not sure what to do next. I ran to my father, who I knew must be equally distressed at seeing his favourite son defeated on the battlefield. I found Aba was lying in bed, staring silently at the ceiling, tears and fear in his eyes.
“Aba!” I screamed. “How can you lie in bed at a time like this? Say something, Aba! What is Dara to do now? Say something!”
But Aba just lay there, unwilling and unable to offer any advice. From that moment on, he must have known his reign was over. No matter what he did in the coming days to stop Aurangzeb’s advancement, he would eventually be captured by this son, removed as emperor and probably executed – if he were lucky.
Dara got up and rode on to Delhi, bypassing Agra with the hopes, I’m told, of meeting Nadira and their children there, continuing his flight and perhaps regrouping, though he was now fully cognizant of the fact that Agra would fall and he could do nothing more about it. Meanwhile, Aurangzeb approached the gates of Agra, but refused to enter. As Aba had a generation ago, Aurangzeb merely waited outside for the astrologers to offer him an auspicious date to enter. But he sent his army and commanders inside to loot Agra, take control of the treasury and offices and ask us for a formal surrender.
Alamgir would be his new name now that he would soon be the next Mughal King of India. At last the years of his despair had ended. No longer would he have to receive imperial permission before making decisions; he could attack and destroy as he pleased. And at last he could spread Islam as he saw fit.
Lik
e any army since the beginning of time given such latitude, Aurangzeb’s men wreaked havoc all over Agra. Men and women ran through the streets, young women were kidnapped, men were slaughtered and goods were stolen as his army unleashed its wrath on Agra for supporting Dara. These families had sent their men to fight against Aurangzeb’s army, and time for retribution had arrived, so the army exacted revenge on the helpless public who’d unwillingly taken indirect part in this family feud.
“Aba, you must get up; Aurangzeb’s men are marching towards the fort!”
Aba just lay there, murmuring to himself, “All is lost, all is gone!”
I shook my father repeatedly, begging him to snap out of his despair and take charge like the brave soldier he’d once been and could be again, but to no avail. Aba was thoroughly broken, knowing his Dara would now soon be dead, and that the kingdom he’d built would fall into the hands of the one son he’d always tried to keep it from. His parents had given him a safe and secure India, but he would be the Mughal to turn it over to a monster. He had nothing to say, no defence to give, no solution to offer.
I finally gave up pleading with my father and ran to the Diwan-i-khas. I had the guards seal the gates of the fort and plant armed guards along the periphery. If Aurangzeb was going to take the fort, it wouldn’t be without a fight. But then another idea came to me…
That night I wore my black robe disguise one last time, not to visit the river that had given me my visions for the past few years, but instead to visit the man who now controlled most of our lives, Aurangzeb.
I was told he was sleeping alone in his imperial tent. His wife, Dilras, had died a few months before, earning from him only a few moments of silence, but certainly no tears. His children were still in Aurangabad with his other wives, while he, as always, was alone. He preferred his own company – non-judgmental (of himself, anyway), loyal and dependable.
Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 29
