by John Speed
A slender young man in elegant clothing the color of old ivory walks toward him. As he approaches, Basant sees that he is a brother, but one he has not yet met. The slender eunuch bows. “You must be Basant. Prince Aurangzeb told me to expect you. I am your younger brother, Alu.”
“Your master is Aurangzeb?” Basant asks as he lifts his head.
Alu leads Basant to the anteroom. “I have the honor to be of occasional service to his highness. But my master is General Jumla, the Persian. I am his khaswajara.” Basant blinks with surprise. This sweet-spoken eunuch seems too young to be khaswajara to one so grand as Jumla. It makes Basant feel old and backward that he is only Roshanara’s mukhunni. He examines the brother with a bit of envy. Alu is striking: tall, thinner than most of the brothers, who tend to get padded with fat . He speaks with a charming, husky voice. His eyes are dark, sensuous, set far apart, and one of them trails off to the side, giving him a mysterious, crafty air.
“The prince is with my master. There’s quite a storm brewing, of course.” Alu looks at Basant as though he were fragile. “You are ready aren’t you? When the storm breaks, we’ll all need friends. Do you know who your friends are?”
Alu’s words confuse Basant. They remind him of Master Hing’s mysterious comments—like he is being given a password, but doesn’t know the countersign. “I think many people like me,” he replies uncertainly.
“I forget with whom I speak.” Alu lowers his husky voice to a whisper. “Who of all the brothers is more fortunate than you?” Alu inclines his head in a respectful bow that confuses Basant even more. Alu for a moment manages to fix both of his dark eyes on Basant before his right eye starts to wander. “You will remember me, won’t you, brother?”
Before Basant has a chance to puzzle through what this might mean, they hear angry words from the behind the wall. Suddenly General Jumla wheels angrily into the courtyard, shouting over his shoulder. “I’ll give you one day!” he bellows. “If you can’t deliver on your promises, you’ve seen the last of me!” The general stomps off.
“Aren’t you going to him?” Basant asks Alu.
Alu shakes his head. “What could I do for my master in such a state?” he asks. “Besides,” he says confidingly, “my master learned the value of bluster when he was a merchant—how do you think he got so rich? His anger means little. My duty now is to attend the prince. After sundown, he refuses any service. Did you know Aurangzeb eats with the regular soldiers? He even sleeps on a mat, under the stars, with his saddle for a pillow.” Basant of course has heard all this before. “He asked to see you when the general left. Do you wish to go in?” Not waiting for an answer, Alu claps his hands twice; the sound pings against sandstone walls.
A huge shape lurches around the corner into the courtyard—a man so large Basant gasps. The peak of his turban brushes against the doorway as he bows his head to enter. His face looks craggy, like thick skin stretched across a grotesque skull: a heavy brow and protruding cheekbones; an uneven, shaggy beard covers his thick, misshapen jaw. The giant bows, but Basant is too overwhelmed to move.
“This is Karm, the prince’s bodyguard,” Alu explains. “He needs to search you. The prince will have no weapons in his presence. Please don’t take any insult, brother. Even Jai Singh was searched.”
“Jai Singh?” Basant asks. “Is he here?”
“Of course. He came for his chess game.”
Odd that Dara’s own commander would be visiting Aurangzeb, Basant thinks, but then the thought is driven from his mind as Karm’s fingers (the size of cucumbers) delicately press and probe his person.
Karm finds the silver tube tucked into Basant’s turban and lifts it questioningly. The dark palm of Karm’s hand, big as a platter, dwarfs the slender silver quill that rests on it. “It’s nothing, Karm,” Alu assures him. “Just the same as my gold one.”
Gold? thinks Basant.
The giant gently returns the quill, and then his fingers, massive and delicate, probe along Basant’s arms to his neck and shoulders, where he finds the necklace; a chain and pendant.
Drawing it out, he holds it up and frowns. The giant lifts his huge eyes to Basant, staring at him from deep beneath his shaggy eyebrows. “It’s just a keepsake,” Basant explains. His lips are dry and his voice is hoarse; he hadn’t come prepared for a giant. “A gift from long ago.”
Karm tilts his head inquiringly. Alu moves to get a better view.
“Well, I think it’s from my mother, if you must know,” Basant blurts out. “I’ve had it as long as I remember.” He takes the pendant—a coin from an unknown country, the writing indecipherable, sawed in half on a rough, jagged line—and thrusts it back under his shirt.
The giant’s enormous face peers at Basant. His breathing sounds labored and phlegmy, like an old camel. He finds nothing else. Basant’s skin tingles as though he has been massaged. “Thank you, Karm,” Alu says.
The giant grunts and moves back to the prince’s room. “He can hear, but he can’t speak,” Alu says softly to Basant. “They pulled his tongue out by the roots when he was a child. He can barely swallow.” Alu namskars. “Go in, brother. Talk to me afterwards if you have the chance.”
Basant slips into the receiving room, where Karm stands by the entranceway. Basant looks up into his huge eyes and he sees in them deep wells of sadness, loneliness, and pain. They share a bond, Basant thinks, that only a maimed child can know. But he forces himself to look away from the giant’s dark eyes, steeling himself for his talk with Aurangzeb.
A huge Persian carpet covers the entire floor. Cushions of various sizes, covered in velvets and brocades, are scattered haphazardly around the room, as if many people are expected. But other than Karm and Basant, and a tired-looking manservant who stands patiently by the back wall, only two men are in the room, seated near a low ivory chess table, at the far end where they can catch the river breeze.
Basant recognizes Aurangzeb right away. He wears his simple white jamas. Even his cushion is simple, covered in cheap muslin. The other man, of course, dressed in elegant silks, is Jai Singh, Dara’s general. The silver scabbard on his belt is encrusted with gems to resemble the scales of a fantastic fish (one of the many gifts Jai Singh received from Shah Jahan in gratitude for donating the land where he built ‘taj Mahal’s tomb)—but it holds no sword. The prince will have no weapons in his presence, Alu had said. Even Jai Singh was searched …
Of course, Jai Singh ties his jama on the left side to show he is a Hindu, but the robe is cleverly tailored so that at first glance, the fastenings appear to be on the right, the Muslim side.
Like Aurangzeb, Jai Singh wears a neat white turban—but Jai Singh’s is pinned at the front with an elegant peacock feather made of diamonds and emeralds. His beard is manicured, rust-colored from henna. Aurangzeb just lets his gray whiskers show.
Basant waits for someone to acknowledge him. Finally he falls back on protocol, which never fails, and he forces a long bow. He knows he will grunt with the effort, and that will surely draw attention his way.
In response, Aurangzeb waves his hand without looking up from the game board. “No ceremony here, Basant. Save fawning for others. Come. Sit. Jai Singh is teaching me a lesson.”
Jai Singh shrugs as if the compliment were undeserved. It seems to Basant a very simple gesture for a man so great. He motions for Basant to sit on a dark velvet cushion near his side.
Jai Singh plays the white pieces, Aurangzeb the black. Both men have lost their viziers; Jai Singh has his king, two horses and an elephant; Aurangzeb has the king, a camel, a horse, and an elephant—so they are fairly matched. Jai Singh, however, has four pyadas; while Aurangzeb has only two.
Basant can play chess, but not well. Still he appreciates the contest. He speculates about how important those extra pieces will be. After all, these men are both generals—on a real battlefield would an extra foot soldier or two make any difference to the outcome of a battle? So why should it on the chessboard?
“What w
ill you do about Jumla, lord?” Jai Singh asks quietly. He seems unconcerned that Basant will hear.
Aurangzeb strokes his beard thoughtfully but doesn’t look up. “I will do what I can. I don’t wish to lose Jumla, not any more than I wish to lose Golconda, or the Deccan for that matter.”
“Yes, he is the key to the Deccan,” Jai Singh agrees. “You know that I suggested you attack Bijapur, not Golconda. Those forts guarding the trade routes could have been ours, you know. We could have allied with that rebel, Shahji, but we moved too slowly. Now what do we face? Danger.”
He says this in an offhand way, but Basant notices how Aurangzeb’s breath grows still. “Then why not attack Bijapur?” Aurangzeb asks.
“Sadly, Prince Dara does not agree.”
Aurangzeb moves his elephant to the last file of the chessboard, a few spaces from Jai Singh’s king. “Excuse me, uncle,” he says softly, “but my brother does not yet rule the land. Our future rests not on him, but on the emperor my father. Danger!”
Basant is surprised by Aurangzeb’s last word. Then he realizes that Aurangzeb refers to the chessboard, saying that Jai Singh’s king is in danger.
Jai Singh now stares relentlessly at the chessboard, and Aurangzeb lifts his head for the first time “Do you play chess?” he asks Basant.
“Very badly, lord.”
Jai Singh moves his camel between his king and Aurangzeb’s elephant. “Death in three moves, I think, sir,” he says.
Aurangzeb considers the board for so long, his eyelids droop sleepily over his dark eyes, “Shall we make a wager?” he says at last.
Jai Singh’s clear eyes flash. “What shall we bet?”
“Wager that service we discussed, general,” says Aurangzeb softly.
Jai Singh stares steadily into Aurangzeb’s sleepy eyes. “Such a wager is not trivial, sir.”
“No,” Aurangzeb answers, eyes hooded, staring at the chessboard. “No, I did not mean for it to be.”
Unconsciously, Jai Singh begins to rub his hands together. “You ask not only for my help, sir, you ask for my honor.”
“Forgive me if I see it otherwise, general,” Aurangzeb says. “Am I not a son of the emperor, beggar though I be? To ask that you help me … does this go against honor?”
“It may,” Jai Singh replies, “if your enemy is Prince Dara.”
“How can my brother also be my enemy?” Aurangzeb asks.
Jai Singh turns away. “And what will you wager on your side, sir?”
“Ask for what you want, uncle.”
Jai Singh’s neat fingers brush his trim, pointed beard. “A promise.”
“What promise?” Aurangzeb asks, surprised.
“Never to come against me. Or my family. Or my heirs.”
Basant can sense the tension in the room. Both men stare fiercely at each other, as though the fate of nations would rise or fall on the outcome. Aurangzeb almost lazily closes his eyes and then, slowly, inclines his head, giving a nearly imperceptible nod. Jai Singh sits ramrod straight.
The wager is made.
Without hesitation, Aurangzeb slides his camel next to Jai Singh’s king. “Danger,” he says.
Jai Singh’s eyebrows rise and his eyes widen. His face looks suddenly very old indeed. He stares at the chessboard, eyes darting from piece to piece. Basant notices that Jai Singh’s hand is small and delicate, like a child’s hand, and though the general is clearly agitated by the game and the wager, his hand is steady. His moves are careful, not indecisive.
“My tutors were fools,” Aurangzeb says while Jai Singh considers. “My tutors taught me Arabic and rhetoric. I wish someone had taught me about my life—about the life of a Mogul prince.” He waves to his manservant and silently motions for him to bring refreshments. Basant realizes the manservant is deaf. “I am the son of an emperor. What fate for me but an early death?”
“You exaggerate,” Jai Singh says, still staring at the board.
“I have but two choices: death—or the throne. I swear I do not seek the throne. But whoever takes it next will kill me.” Aurangzeb shakes his head. “Though I renounce the throne, how is the next emperor to trust me? I am but a beggar, after all. Who trusts the word of a beggar?”
“Yes, I agree. Your fate is certain,” says Jai Singh with no trace of irony. “If the history of your family teaches anything, it is that siblings of the new emperor don’t live long.”
Aurangzeb looks hard at Jai Singh. “If I don’t wish to die by my brothers’ hands, what choice is left me? Shall I say it aloud, uncle? My only recourse is to depose my father and seize the throne myself.” He squeezes his eyes shut as if his head hurts. “Allah pushes us like pyadas on a chessboard. Kill my brothers or be killed myself? Why has Allah, the all compassionate, placed this choice before me?”
Jai Singh stares at Aurangzeb. “But I do not think you can avoid this choice.” He slides his camel across the board. “Danger.”
Instead of looking at Jai Singh’s move, Aurangzeb looks directly at Basant. “Did I not tell my father that I abjure the Peacock Throne? Did I not leave this world behind to prove my vow? For twelve years I wandered homeless, with only the clothes on my back. I dwelt with dervishes and walis. I slept in the shadow of dargahs. I lost myself in ghazals and qwalis.”
He shakes his head. “Then my father called me back—against my will—to be viceroy of the Deccan. The very post I had left twelve years before! Of course I obeyed. It was not my portion to renounce this world. I resumed my duties as a prince. I married. I had sons. Such was Allah’s will.”
He lifts his hands, appealing to Basant, to Jai Singh, to Allah. “Am I to die for this act of loyalty? Where else but in Agra is filial devotion a death sentence?”
Basant is struck by Aurangzeb’s passion. Yet to some part of his mind the words sound rehearsed. The prince, Basant thinks, speaks with an underlying apathy that belies his words. But Basant thrusts this thought away, for he is determined to be convinced of Aurangzeb’s sincerity.
Aurangzeb fixes Jai Singh with a hawklike stare. “Do you believe me when I say that I abjure the Peacock Throne?” Jai Singh does not move. Aurangzeb turns to Basant, as if in despair. “Do you believe me?”
“Of course, lord,” Basant says immediately. How can Roshanara even imagine that this humble prince would ever struggle for the throne?
Aurangzeb looks at the chessboard. “My life is a chess game that I am bound to lose.”
“Then take the needle, if you mean this,” Jai Singh replies.
Aurangzeb looks back at Jai Singh, clearly unprepared for this suggestion. “Blind myself, you mean?”
“Even if you do not seek the throne, the winner must eradicate you as a threat.” Jai Singh looks at Aurangzeb sorrowfully. “Will the winner choose to kill you, or only to blind you? The best you can hope for is blinding. History bears this out. Why not avoid the worst? Remove the threat. Take the needle to your eyes. No one wants a blind king.”
Aurangzeb peers into Jai Singh’s eyes. “Are these Dara’s thoughts or yours, uncle? On whose behalf do you speak?”
“You know my feelings, sir,” Jai Singh says.
“Yes, uncle, I do. To understand a man, you need only look to what he wagers.” Aurangzeb nods at the chessboard. “Danger.”
Aurangzeb turns fully to Basant, unexpectedly casual. “The general said ‘Death in three moves,’ did he not?”
“Yes, lord, that is what I heard him say.”
“And how many moves has it been since then?”
“Two moves. lord, I think.” Basant wishes he had paid closer attention.
Jai Singh looks. “Perhaps I spoke too soon,” he admits. “But while I may mistake the timing, I do not mistake the outcome.”
“Allah’s will, and not our own, determines all things, uncle. That is why we must trust in him.” He turns, looking significantly at Basant. “And we must trust our friends as well. How is my sister?”
“She is well, lord.”
“You had
an easy journey over the river?”
“Easy enough, lord,” Basant replies, surprised at the simple friendliness of these questions.
“What did you think of Jai Singh’s army?” Aurangzeb asks.
“I scarcely know, lord. I’m sure I didn’t notice it.”
Jai Singh looks up. “You didn’t notice two hundred thousand men? Ten thousand tents? You didn’t notice?”
“I’m sorry, lord. I had many things on my mind,” Basant manages to mumble at last. He doesn’t want to say that he fell asleep as he crossed the boat bridge across the Jumna.
Jai Singh huffs. He reaches out his neat hand to the chessboard and takes Aurangzeb’s camel with his elephant. “Your move,” he says. He glances at Basant and huffs again.
Aurangzeb moves his pyada. Jai Singh looks at him. “You see that your elephant is in danger?” he asks. “Take back your move, if you wish.”
Aurangzeb looks at the board and raises his hands resignedly. Jai Singh takes the elephant as if it is a sad duty, but he cannot hide his pleasure.
Aurangzeb moves his camel one square.
Jai Singh is again about to move when Aurangzeb says, as though the thought suddenly struck him, “Danger.”
Jai Singh’s stares at the board. He looks up, mystified. “How can this be?” he asks. “It’s impossible!” He turns to Basant. “Do you see?”
“What, lord?”
Jai Singh now plays both his pieces and Aurangzeb’s, calling out each move. “I move my king. His elephant takes my horse. Danger. Again I move my king, and so his pyada here—this miserable little piece—reaches the final rank and becomes a vizier.” He replaces the pyada with the elegant ivory vizier. “And now my king is dead. So.” Jai Singh tips the king over, gently laying the piece on its side.
“I have won.” Aurangzeb says, bowing his head.
“Take pleasure in your victory, sir.” Jai Singh returns his bow.
