by John Speed
The last man rides in calmly, more slowly than the other two, his eyes lowered as if lost in thought and unaware of the tumult around him. From time to time he strokes his graying beard as if he were in a room somewhere by himself, lost in thought, or in prayer.
At the steps of the dais he dismounts, cavalry style, kicking his leg in front of him, over his horse’s neck, one hand on his sword hilt.
His white horse, so fiery that it can scarcely be led away by the attendant, wears no fancy livery. Its rider too dresses simply: white cotton pants, white jama, white turban, plain shoes, a green belt with a simple wooden-handled sword such as any field soldier might carry.
It is Aurangzeb. Dara’s brother. The viceroy of the Deccan.
The Deccan is hot, volatile, an area that is always erupting into trouble. The Emperor Shah Jahan could not subdue it, Dara tried and failed; now it is Aurangzeb’s problem. And every day, Dara tells his father how Aurangzeb cannot keep the Deccan under control. Always it is up to Dara to bail out Aurangzeb when things go wrong. Or so he tells the emperor.
As Aurangzeb makes his careful way to stand beside his brother (for only Dara, the emperor’s favorite son, may sit in the Presence), the emperor emerges through the golden doors of the darshan platform. Musicians raise their silver trumpets. The nobles bow from the waist and sweep their hands across the marble floor, bobbing up and down three times as is customary.
And in the courtyard the commoners raise shrill shouts, and the soldiers and attendants begin to cheer as they catch sight of the King of the Earth, and the mahouts strike their beasts to make the elephants stand on two legs and lift their trunks and trumpet with thunderous joy; the whole courtyard an ocean of noise.
The emperor, leaning on the arm of his ancient khaswajara, steps to the edge of the darshan platform and turns his head to sweep the entire scene with his gaze. Lowering himself to his cushioned throne, he arranges the cushions to his satisfaction, spits his wad of pan into a jeweled spittoon held by a eunuch, adjusts his clothes, and whispers to the khaswajara, smoke pouring from his lips.
The khaswajara is Basant’s boss, a dry and shriveled eunuch called Hing. Keeping his face down, he pushes toward the jali screen, in purdah with his mistress the Princess Roshanara, hoping Master Hing won’t notice. Like most old eunuchs, Master Hing’s eyes are failing, so Basant has little to fear. Past the sour-faced eunuch who guards the jali door, and he’s done it. Safe! Here with his princess.
Basant blinks until his eyes adjust to the dark purdah chamber: a wide, shallow space beside the throne room where harem women watch the goings-on at the Diwan-i-Am. Roshanara has dressed simply: a maroon sari of heavy silk, its dark surface dense with gold embroidery. A few dozen ruby-studded bangles clunk heavily when she moves her arm. A gauze veil is fastened around her head with a rope of pearls the size of chickpeas. Her thick, long hair is pulled tight and sleek against her head.
Her veil is so light, since she is hidden from public view by the intricately carved marble jali screen, that through it Basant can discern all of Roshanara’s elegant features, her moon-round face, her charming nose, her small, even teeth. She glows to see him, and extends her hand. Even her arm is shapely, thinks Basant, as he gently takes her hand, and allows himself to be pulled to her side, like a favorite pet. He nestles in the cushions and she tugs her skirts toward her, giving him room to sit close.
There are a few other women there; hostage wives mostly, hoping to catch a glimpse of a husband or a son while the audience goes on.
Roshanara leans over. “I can barely walk,” she informs him. “As if I rode a stallion all the night.” Her eyes flash, only for him. “Bareback,” she says with emphasis, her smooth teeth gleaming behind perfect lips. She giggles at him, then turns away and giggles some more. Basant feels his heart grow cold, but he says nothing; he just smiles and smiles. Through the jali he watches the throbbing mass of people jostle beneath velvet canopies.
He spent years pursuing a place amidst this grandeur, years desiring it, years seeking it. Always he thought of it as a dream he might someday gain; but he now sees it, for the first time, as something he might lose.
The thought strikes him like a cold wind, just so.
He sees that even the dear princess will be part of his life for only a little while, and wonders how long that little while will be. He nearly kisses Roshanara’s hand, but he masters himself, but strokes her fingers as she grasps his hand. She doesn’t notice.
She leans this way and that, trying for a better view. “There! There!” she whispers. “Do you see him? Isn’t he beautiful?” Basant assumes that she is speaking of Shaista Khan, but that vile man is nowhere to be seen—perhaps he has slipped behind one of the Dara’s other generals.
But Roshanara is nodding toward her brother … not to Dara, sitting smugly on the golden chair at his father’s feet, but rather at the modest face of Aurangzeb, who stands nearby, as a beggar might stand waiting for the bread thrown at the end of a royal procession.
“He looks well, don’t you think, Basant? He looks rested, in spite of his journey. You know he sleeps on the bare ground in the battlefield, like a common soldier! He looks well in spite of it. I think he’s lovely.”
Aurangzeb seems to Basant extremely plain. “Oh yes, such a fine-looking man,” he says, “a lovely man.” He’s learned to agree promptly.
“Yes lovely, but more than lovely,” she whispers, as if suddenly aware she has been speaking out loud. She glances around the room, and leans close to Basant’s ear. “Have you heard? He’s to be emperor.”
She looks at Basant knowingly and nods. “Yes, dearest love. Dara is through.” She whispers this, looking at the other women in the room as if daring them to overhear. Then she giggles, and comes so close that her sweet breath tickles his ear, “And soon. Sooner than you think!” She glances hastily around her. “So be ready,” she says. “Be ready.”
Basant’s eyes bounce from the princess, to Dara, to Aurangzeb, then back. He is speechless. Dara—through? Basant is too fearful of treason even to consider what this whispered news might mean. And as his troubled brain sorts through her news, he peers through the jali at Aurangzeb, who looks calmly downward as the tumult bustles all around him.
Then, as if he needed more confusion on this day, a tall man in a gray cloak steps up and frowns at the jali screen, as by squinting hard enough Basant’s face would be visible in the purdah shadows.
“Time to go,” Roshanara announces. Her mood spins like a tail-less kite. With some effort, Basant hoists himself from the cushions, then extends his hand to help Roshanara. He scoops up her veil and helps her drape it. Once she is covered, they walk from the purdah chamber to the private, inner palace of the emperor.
The palace door swings open, revealing a tall dark eunuch guard, complete with shield and pike, who nods them past. Then up a long staircase: the steep, high stairs of the narrow passage designed for easy defense; the palace, after all, is but a small part of Agra’s vast, impregnable fort. The climb is hard for Basant, who loses his breath easily.
Emerging breathless at the top of the staircase, where another dark and heavily armed guard nods them through, Basant notices that there are many guards today, positioned in clusters along the mezzanine of the Fish House: all of them eunuchs.
Again he feels a sense of panic … something bad is up. The image of the dead guards flashes past his eyes, and he nearly stumbles.
Across the mezzanine he can see the door of his room. Two eunuch guards stand there. He pretends not to notice.
The princess has been talking to him as they walk, he realizes, although he hasn’t heard a word. “I said there was some trouble here last night. Did you hear anything about it?”
Basant tries to think what to say, but before he can answer, Roshanara has stopped in mid-stride and wheeled on him. “Well? Do you know anything about it?” she says again. Behind the dark and heavy outer veil, her eyes are angry and a bit scared.
“I thin
k I must know very little, princess,” he replies.
“You must attend to your own welfare,” she whispers. Some note in her voice, some look in her eyes, disturbs Basant. His stomach churns as though he were staring into a bottomless well. But Roshanara unexpectedly pats his shoulder, and he wonders if he had simply misunderstood.
“I need you to do a favor for me, Spring Blossom,” she coos. “You are the only one I trust in all the world. Will you make me beg?” It seems to Basant that he can actually hear her pouting.
“You know you have only to ask,” he answers, his voice husky.
“I have a letter for my brother. For Aurangzeb. You must deliver it. Please, my darling, say you will,” she says. Her hand presses his plump fingers as they walk. “But not here, darling. Not where anyone can see.”
“Where, then?”
“Cross the river. Take it to his camp, in the Rambagh.” Her eyes stare out from the veil, pleading with him. Basant, of course, agrees.
“When you see him, Basant, dear, tell him everything. Leave out nothing.” She nods meaningfully to the guards around the Fish House, toward his heavily guarded rooms. “He can help you, or no one can.”
“I’m not sure that I need help, princess.” But the lie falls from his lips and lands at his feet with a clang. “Besides, Little Rose, I can’t see how Aurangzeb can help me.”
But now they are nearing the Diwan-i-Khas, the hall of private audience, and already many of Shah Jahan’s closest advisers are gathering. It was here, not in the public audience downstairs, that the real issues would be discussed and real decisions would be made. “It looks quite a crowd gathering, Basant,” Roshanara remarks, casually. “Can you imagine why?”
“No, princess,” he answers, honestly mystified. He fears that somehow the answer has something to do with him, with the bloody deaths of the guards, with Shaista Khan, but they pass the Diwan-i-Khas and no one, not even the captain of the eunuch guards, seems to glance his way.
“Why are all these hijra here?” Roshanara wonders. Basant winces at the word: “hijra” was a commoner’s word for eunuch, for eunuchs who dressed as women and did many unclean things, and it hurt Basant to hear the brothers called this name, especially by his princess.
Like most of the brothers he preferred the gentler, politer, name, mukhunni. For the Prophet knew of eunuchs, and accepted them (not like the Hindis who drove them from their homes and forced them to live on the streets like dogs). So Basant worships at the mosque, Basant says his prayers (when he manages to remember) with full confidence; he is one of Allah’s mukhunni, one of Allah’s own. The brothers like the word because it means “short-tusked”; they like being compared to elephants.
Yet what were all these eunuchs doing here? The eunuch guard had many formal functions, mostly to protect the harem in the imperial caravans. Rarely were eunuch guards seen in the palace, and never in such numbers.
He sees far off that same tall, gray-cloaked man he had seen at the jali screen, now talking to the two eunuchs guarding his rooms. “Look,” he whispers to Roshana. “Do you know that man?”
But before she can answer, a small, dark eunuch boy in sumptuous clothing comes running up. “Uncle, uncle,” he pipes, tugging at Basant. “Please come quick. Master Khaswajara wants you right away. Come, come, uncle!” the boy insists.
“Go, my dear,” Roshanara says sweetly. “Your duty calls. I am nearly at my room. But don’t forget your promise, darling,” she adds, nodding meaningfully. “Come and see me soon.”
Basant allows himself to be dragged by the eunuch boy. “I will see you at the private audience if I can break away,” he calls to her.
“If!” she replies and giggles.
The boy takes Basant’s pudgy hand in his tiny, nervous fingers, fingers awash in jewels, baubles lent by Master Hing. Who has more jewels to lend than Hing? The emperor is lavish in his gifts to the khaswajara. And why not? When Hing dies, he leaves no heirs; all those gifts fall back in the emperor’s lap, just so. But the khaswajara appears not to care: he is generous with his borrowed wealth, and lends it freely to his favorites.
The boy leads Basant across the chowk, a vast courtyard filled with sunlight that dances in the jets of a hundred laughing fountains. At last they come to a set of tall, stately doors and remove their jeweled slippers.
Together they enter the apartments of the khaswajara, the most trusted of the emperor’s deputies—the master of the emperor’s private life: his home, his harem, his meals, his leisure. Nowhere is the emperor more vulnerable; and knowing this, the emperor places his trust in one most fiercely incorruptible. For Shah Jahan, that one is Hing, the fading, wrinkled eunuch.
Basant frames a calm face for himself, though his mind churns. The boy holds his hand as they step into Hing’s apartments.
In a makeshift circle on the floor of the main room, surrounded by cushions and pillows of rich velvet and much gold, a dozen eunuchs sit quietly surrounding their master.
Hing looks up. He wears heavy spectacles tied with satin ribbons around his head; these make his eyes seem to float beyond the plane of his wrinkled face, aged and scaled as an old lizard; his withered, wrinkled lips sneer around yellow teeth, worn and stained. He is old for a eunuch, for the brothers tend to die young. The odor of decay clings to his breath.
“How good of you to join us, Basant,” he whispers, his voice like a rasp. “Please take your place.”
Basant approaches slowly, deferentially. He is prepared to grovel, but has not yet felt the need to so. The eighth and tenth eunuchs of the first rank scuttle sideways, clearing room for him, and he sits between them.
“And these are extraordinary times, brothers,” Hing says. His eyes, spectacled like fishbowls, sweep around the circle. “Last night two members of the palace guard went to the rooms of one of the brothers, but they never returned.” Basant shifts uncomfortably. No one looks at him.
“Basant!” Hing calls, lifting his wet, spectacled eyes. Basant bows as near to the floor as he can. “What do you know of what happened last night? Of the disturbances that alarmed the guards? Of their fate?”
Basant’s left eyelid starts to twitch. His groin is clammy with cold sweat. He opens his mouth, but nothing emerges except a tight squeak. He’s ready to confess everything when Hing speaks for him:
“Nothing.” Hing looks around the circle significantly. “Our brother knows nothing. For he was with the princess. Giving her an energetic ride, no doubt, on the tongue camel.”
Hing pauses to allow the snickers from the brothers to fade. “Then, for some reason—and by the knife, I don’t want to know—he spent what little was left of the evening in his servant’s tent.”
Hing glares at the circle as if inviting them all to share his cynical incredulity, and then his eyes rest calmly on Basant, staring deeply at him, as if directly into Basant’s fearful heart. “Perhaps he needed his servant’s help to massage his exhausted tongue. If so, we must all be grateful for his present silence. There are other ways to become a eunuch of the first rank,” he says coldly, “than with the fingers, or with the tongue.”
“For example, with the ass,” whispers one of the eunuchs, and though Hing scowls at them, it is clear he has no idea who has uttered this mockery.
“I mean, with the mind!” Hing glares at the brothers, but his eyes are too weak to see the hidden sneers: for what unites this brotherhood most, Basant knows, is its careful mocking of its master.
“So the eunuch guard is here, Rampfel,” Hing continues, as if in answer to a question, “until I feel confident in the palace guards again. There’s an investigation under way. Until then, the palace guards are relieved.”
Rampfel, the fifth eunuch, bows his head. Then, realizing how futile such a gesture may be to half-blind Hing, he says quietly: “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” says Hing. “Anything suspicious—anything even slightly out of place—is to be reported to me at once. Or to Ali Khalil Khan, a man most trusted by me—he is a cou
sin of the emperor.” Clutching the dark eunuch boy’s hand, Hing struggles to his feet. “You may go.”
Rampfel taps Basant’s shoulder. “What do you think got into him?” he whispers. Basant shrugs, unable to think of anything except escaping from this uncomfortable place. Before he reaches the door, however, he hears the sound he has been dreading: “Basant! Come here!”
Basant turns back to Hing, who stands unsteadily, leaning heavily on the eunuch boy. Rampfel hesitates for a moment, then catches up and joins Basant. “I didn’t ask for you, brother,” Hing says to Rampfel coldly. “Never mind. You can stay.” Hing turns his spectacled eyes to Basant and stares at him for a long time.
“You have such friends, my dear,” the old eunuch says. “Such friends to care for you. Do you think you are fortunate in your friends? With such friends caring for you, you should take even more care, my dear.”
Basant stares back, uncertain how to respond. “Ah, yes,” Hing continues, “you don’t know what I mean. That’s a good plan, not to know what I mean. I’m old and will be dead soon anyway.” Hing shakes his head wearily and whispers to Rampfel, “Here’s a brother you should cultivate, my dear. He has so many friends.”
Then Hing turns to Basant, and asks, as if offhand, “Tell me, Spring Blossom. Have you been to the tunnels lately?” The question surprises Basant. Hing bares his yellow teeth. “Well? Have you?”
“No, sir.” His answer sounds hollow. “I nearly went last night, but …” He breaks off, uncertain. “But … I didn’t. I didn’t need to.”
“No, of course … no need. Still you felt the need to kick a night bucket down the corridor. Hopeless fool! Did you think no one saw?”
Basant stares at Hing helplessly. “I wouldn’t know …” he stammers.
“Rampfel, you see that you learn from this brother,” Hing coos. “What does it take to succeed in the palace these days? Just quick fingers, I suppose, and an agile tongue.”
