Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘You are too generous. You nearly died because of me … because I violated all the natural bonds between father and daughter. That is why I must speak … I can’t bear to think you might ever look at me again the way you looked at me that night. I make no excuses, but I was confused by the opium I had taken to help me sleep. I was in another world … in my semi-conscious state I thought you were Mumtaz and had returned to me … I thought I was reaching out to her. I never meant to violate my own daughter … I didn’t know it was you until it was too late and you were fleeing from me.’

  ‘You thought I was my mother?’

  ‘Yes. I’d been dreaming of her and confused my longings with reality. It will never happen again, I promise you. Not a drop of wine or grain of opium has passed my lips since your accident.’

  ‘That at least makes me very happy.’

  ‘But can you forgive me … not only for what I did but for the terrible consequences?’ Shah Jahan bowed his head. ‘I torment myself that just as your mother’s death was my punishment for ordering the killing of my half-brothers, your injuries were my punishment for my actions towards you – an eternal reproach.’

  Jahanara was silent for some time. She could see now how the incident had happened. It was not some vicious act by her father but the result of a grief he could neither control nor come to terms with. If she did not say she forgave him – and make herself mean it – the events of that night would corrode both of their souls, eating away at their relationship. Before the fire her greatest anxiety had been her father’s withdrawal from the world. If she rejected him now he would isolate himself even more.

  She composed her face into a smile and said simply, ‘Yes, I forgive you.’ Moments later she felt Shah Jahan tentatively take her hand. Using all her self-control she did not withdraw it, and not wishing to explore either of their emotions further said briskly, ‘Don’t let’s ever talk of the night of the fire again – it can only bring pain to us both. Instead we should look to the future. Won’t you send me some of your petitions for me to deal with, just as I used to?’

  ‘I would be grateful for your help again.’

  Seeing relief flood her father’s countenance Jahanara added, ‘As soon as I can walk properly again – the doctors tell me it won’t be long – will you take me by barge down the river to visit my mother’s tomb? I would like to see what progress there’s been. You were not the only one to love her, Father. We all did.’

  Her willingness to include him in her family once more brought a tear to Shah Jahan’s eye as he responded, ‘We will all go. It’s been a long time – far too long – since our family was together.’

  Part II

  ‘Sharper than a serpent’s tooth …’

  King Lear, Act 1, Scene 4

  Chapter 11

  Agra, 1647

  As Shah Jahan approached through the scented gardens, the white marble mausoleum beneath its teardrop dome seemed to float against the backdrop of the pinkening sky. Its sheer perfection still made him catch his breath. Earlier, one of his court poets had presented him with verses to commemorate today, the sixteenth urs, the anniversary, of Mumtaz’s death.

  The back of the earth-supporting bull sways to its belly,

  Reduced to a footprint from carrying such a burden.

  The eye can mistake it for a cloud.

  Light sparkles from within its pure stones

  Like wine within a crystal

  When reflections from the stars fall on its marble,

  The entire edifice resembles a festival of lamps.

  The poet had caught both the awesome size and the spectral radiance of Mumtaz’s final resting place. Four years ago, on the twelfth anniversary of her death, her body had been taken from her temporary grave, carried into the crypt and laid in a white marble sarcophagus inlaid with jewelled flowers, their curving fronds suggesting vitality and renewal as if they were truly growing over the marble. A simple epitaph inlaid in plain black marble told the onlooker that here was THE ILLUMINED TOMB OF ARJUMAND BANU BEGAM, ENTITLED MUMTAZ MAHAL. He had spent an hour alone in the crypt before mounting the stone steps to join his family and courtiers in public mourning for his dead empress, just as he was about to do now.

  If he had believed those who had consoled him that the passing of time would blunt his pain, he would have been disappointed. Although the pressures of ruling might preoccupy him for a time, immediately afterwards his mind returned to his loss. His emotions were as raw as on the first urs to be held in the mausoleum. Yet not to feel loss would mean he was forgetting Mumtaz, something he could never do … He could at least find comfort in what he had created. His love and loss could not have found more perfect expression.

  Even now the tomb was not quite finished. Craftsmen were still putting the final touches to the pavilions of finely carved red sandstone set into the boundary walls where musicians would play, and he had ordered further embellishments to the mosque and guesthouse. Only last month, his comptroller of revenues had reported that the costs of building the tomb had reached fifty lakhs of rupees. He had hinted that such great expense might soon become a drain on the imperial treasury, but Shah Jahan had cut him short – the Moghul empire was wealthy and powerful enough for any project he wished to pursue including the bejewelled Taj Mahal, as people had begun to call the tomb from a shortening of ‘Mumtaz Mahal’.

  What a legacy he, Shah Jahan, would bequeath to future generations … what majesty his buildings would convey, whether the Taj Mahal, his monument to his personal loss, or his new city of Shahjahanabad in Delhi, a symbol of his imperial power. History would not easily forget his reign. He had extended the Moghul empire’s boundaries farther south than ever before and who knew what further expansion he and his descendants might achieve to the north?

  That thought made him glance over his shoulder at his four sons – all dressed like him in mourning white and matching their pace to the sombre beat of a single kettledrum from the gatehouse as they followed him, walking beside the central north–south water channel with its softly bubbling marble fountains. As he neared the mausoleum, he heard the voices of his dark-robed mullahs as they prayed for the repose of Mumtaz’s soul in the gardens of Paradise. Reaching the sandstone platform, he led the way up the steps on to the smaller marble plinth and into the tomb’s central octagonal chamber. Silk wall hangings gleamed in the light of golden chandeliers and smouldering frankincense crystals spiced the air.

  Shah Jahan took his place before the latticed screen of polished jasper. Carved from a single block of stone to resemble filigree and inlaid with gems, it veiled the white marble cenotaph that was an exact copy of the sarcophagus in which Mumtaz lay in the crypt below and over which was spread a sheet of perfectly matched Arabian pearls.

  The ritual of commemoration enveloped him, but when the formal prayers were over and he was left once more to his memories and the sharp pangs of grief they evoked, he felt an intense and urgent need to be alone. Leaving the tomb, he walked swiftly back towards the southern gateway whose white marble chattris stood out pale in the moonlight. He did not pause as the guards stood to attention but continued down to the riverbank where his barge was moored. The crew, who had not been expecting the emperor so soon, ran to lower the gilded gangplank. ‘Take me to the gardens opposite,’ he commanded.

  While Mumtaz’s tomb had still been only half built, he had had his gardeners create him a mahtab bagh, a moonlight garden, planted with heavily scented night-flowering shrubs, on land directly across the Jumna from the Taj Mahal where his great-great-grandfather Babur had once laid out a pleasure ground. Now it was his private retreat where he could walk and think as he contemplated the mausoleum.

  Although the barge swayed a little in the Jumna’s swirling current, Shah Jahan remained standing. As soon as the boatman nosed the prow on to the bank, he stepped ashore without waiting for the gangplank and made his way into the garden to a small marble pavilion overlooking the river. Sitting down, he leaned his back against
one of the pillars and closed his eyes. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the water.

  For a while his only thoughts were of Mumtaz. He would never forget the look on her face that night as she realised she was dying – or her courage in those final moments they had shared together … It sometimes seemed to him that only then, at the moment of parting, had he truly and fully understood the woman he had loved so intensely. In all their years of marriage he had taken her unconditional love for granted – drawing strength from it in the darkest of times. Her beauty and sweet temperament had sustained him like meat and drink, but had he really appreciated her selflessness and fortitude? Her final thoughts had been for him and their children. And there, perhaps, he was failing her. She had been the beating heart of their family … the one to whom their children revealed their thoughts and feelings. Empathy had come naturally to her. Why couldn’t he be the same? Sometimes he felt his children were strangers to him. Was it because his relations with his own father had become so strained? Or was the reason simply that as emperor he must necessarily become distant and preoccupied with the affairs of the empire, a father and a figurehead to his people with less time for his own offspring?

  Times of crisis had united the family, of course. During the long, anxious months of Jahanara’s recovery from the fire, he had drawn comfort from the presence of his children. Yet over the years since then they had seldom all been together – not even at the annual urs for Mumtaz. As a result, how well did he really know some of them, especially his sons? Thirty-two-year-old Dara was his frequent companion, seldom absent from court, but what about Shah Shuja, a mere fifteen months younger? He had come to Agra for the urs but was clearly eager to return to his governorship of Bengal. If his behaviour in Agra these past weeks was anything to go by, it was probably because he enjoyed the freedom of being far from court – and his father – rather than because he relished responsibility or nurtured ambitions for the betterment of his province. To Shah Jahan’s critical paternal eye he remained indolent and pleasure-seeking. Yet weren’t those the usual vices that afflicted wealthy high-born young men, although they had not been his own?

  Shah Jahan frowned. His third son was a greater puzzle, even if no one could accuse him of frivolity. Aurangzeb, now nearly thirty, had returned from the Deccan even more intense and self-contained, seldom sharing his thoughts although Shah Jahan suspected he had plenty. He spent hours reading or discussing religious points with members of the ulama, and praying. He ate and drank sparingly, never touching alcohol, and spending his energies honing his military skills. Such an austere, disciplined life, though hard to criticise, seemed almost unnatural in a young man. It was a pity Aurangzeb didn’t have more of Dara’s engaging manner. Both were interested in religion and philosophy but while Dara was open and curious – ever ready to debate ideas with those who disagreed with him and even to change his opinions – Aurangzeb seemed to prefer the company of those whose stern view of the world mirrored his own.

  His son’s detachment – coldness even – was disconcerting. Though he found it easy to talk to Dara he never knew quite what to say to the taciturn, serious-minded Aurangzeb. Perhaps it was because he saw less of him; Aurangzeb was as eager as Shah Shuja – though probably for very different reasons – to leave Agra as soon as possible. Shah Jahan had agreed he could go. Yet on reflection it might be better for him to remain at court a while longer and learn the art of pleasing others that seemed to come more naturally to his eldest brother.

  Suddenly Shah Jahan heard approaching footsteps and opened his eyes. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Only me, Father.’ He heard Jahanara’s voice, then saw her pale figure emerge from the darkness and further behind her, some soldiers. ‘I saw you leave the tomb through the women’s screen. I was worried about you.’

  ‘Did you come alone?’

  ‘Roshanara offered to accompany me but I told her there was no need. I crossed with some of my attendants and some of your guards.’

  ‘Ask them to withdraw to a distance. Please …’ he added, suspecting she was about to remonstrate with him.

  ‘But you will let me stay with you, won’t you?’

  Shah Jahan hesitated, then nodded. Jahanara hurried back down the path to speak to her escort, then returned and sat down.

  ‘I was just thinking about you and your brothers and sisters … How things have changed since your mother died.’

  ‘We were so young then – Dara and I barely grown up, the rest just children.’

  ‘And now you are men and women and I’m getting older. When I was young time seemed to stretch out for ever – a summer was a lifetime. Now the seasons are always on the turn. Even the fruits on these trees I had planted here seem to form, ripen and fall in the blink of an eye.’

  Jahanara said nothing, but drew her shawl a little closer around her as a cool breeze blew from the river.

  ‘Perhaps it’s time I decided where I should be buried,’ Shah Jahan continued.

  ‘Father, please …’

  ‘Why not talk about it? Death claims us all. I’ve often thought of building a tomb identical to your mother’s here in this moonlight garden but of black marble, not white. I’ve even sometimes contemplated a silver bridge to connect the two across the Jumna so that at night my soul could rise up and cross the bridge to be with her … But perhaps that would be too fantastical even for a Moghul emperor.’

  Jahanara looked at him, wondering whether he was serious. It was sometimes hard to tell these days. At times he was still the pragmatic, decisive, dominating figure she remembered from her childhood, at others a whimsical melancholy seemed to cloud his mind. She had long ago found it in her heart truly to forgive – if not entirely forget – the incident in which she had been burned and over the years they had grown closer again. Now as she watched him, visibly ageing as well as mentally troubled, her eyes filled with tears. If only he could become his true self again.

  ‘I need your opinion, Father. I think my builders have done a good job but there is still time to make changes.’

  ‘I’ll come this afternoon. You should too, Aurangzeb. It’ll be your last chance to see Dara’s new mansion before you return to the Deccan.’

  ‘I’d prefer to remain here in the fort. Buildings don’t interest me. Anyway, I promised to visit Roshanara today.’

  ‘You can do that later. I wish you to accompany myself and Dara.’ Shah Jahan’s tone was sharper than he’d intended, but as so often these days Aurangzeb was exasperating him. ‘Now leave me, both of you. I have matters to attend to.’

  Two hours later, Shah Jahan rode along the banks of the Jumna, Dara and Aurangzeb on either side of him and a small escort behind. Though still dusty and raw-looking, Dara’s new sandstone mansion glowed handsome in the warm March sunshine. As they dismounted in the courtyard, Dara’s yellow and gold liveried attendants ran forward to take their reins. Shah Jahan looked around with interest as Dara led them through the network of airy rooms and terraces on the ground floor and then up to the flat roof in the centre of which stood a domed chattri. ‘So Nadira and her women can catch the evening breezes,’ Dara explained.

  Shah Jahan nodded. ‘Your builders have done well.’ As they reached the ground floor again he turned to Aurangzeb. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s very fine, but I imagine cost wasn’t an issue.’

  Dara looked surprised. ‘As I told you, Father gave me the land and the money to build this new palace some while ago to mark the birth of my second son Sipihr.’

  ‘If our tour is complete, with your leave I would like to return to the fort,’ Aurangzeb addressed his father. A report arrived this morning about tax gathering problems south of Burhanpur that I haven’t finished reading.’

  It was Dara who answered. ‘The tour’s not quite over. You haven’t seen my underground chamber. I’ve had it lined with giant mirrors imported from Aleppo and my architect has designed a series of wind tunnels – such as they have in Persia – to keep it coo
l in summer. Father, I’d rather show it to you when it’s nearer completion – the decoration’s not finished yet and it’s still dusty and dirty – but I’d like Aurangzeb to see it before he leaves Agra.’

  Shah Jahan nodded and was already turning away when he heard Aurangzeb reply in a strange tone, ‘No, I’d rather not.’

  ‘Aurangzeb.’ Shah Jahan looked back towards his sons. ‘Surely your business from the Deccan can wait a few moments.’

  Aurangzeb was silent for a little, then replied, ‘No. As I said, I don’t want to see the underground room and must ask to be excused.’

  Shah Jahan stared, unable to believe his ears. Aurangzeb’s expression was set and determined. What on earth was the matter with him? Was it pique that he had given Dara such a generous present? If so, it was unfair. He was open-handed to all his sons. He wasn’t in the mood for childishness. ‘I wish you to visit the chamber as your brother requests.’

  ‘Father, please think before you order me or I will have to disobey you.’

  Shah Jahan’s temper was rising. ‘I don’t understand your behaviour. You are being discourteous to your brother and insolent to me. I am no longer asking you to do as Dara asks as your father, I am ordering you as your emperor.’

  ‘Then, as your subject, I refuse!’

  Shah Jahan strode over and grabbed his son by his thickly muscled shoulders. ‘What’s the matter with you? Do as I say or I’ll have you punished!’

  ‘Perhaps, but at least I’ll keep my life. I’ve heard about this room – that only one door leads in and out. I don’t understand its purpose – unless it is a trap.’

  Dara gasped. ‘What are you suggesting? That I plan to murder you?’