‘What foreigner? … Do you mean Nicholas Ballantyne?’
‘Yes, the Englishman.’
‘Send him to me at once. If he knows anyone or anything that might help I want to hear about it.’
Half an hour later Nicholas stood before him on his terrace, just a few feet from where Jahanara’s skirt had caught alight.
‘Well? I understand you know a doctor who you think can help the princess?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘He’s a French physician now settled here in Agra. I met him many years ago — he helped cure my master Sir Thomas when he was racked by stomach fluxes — and I know he is highly skilled. I told him about the Lady Jahanara’s burns and he described a remedy that he invented to help soldiers burned by flaming arrows or exploding cannon during battle. It combines medicines from Arabia, from his own country and from Hindustan and he swears that it reduces the pain. He also says that if applied soon enough it encourages the burnt skin to renew itself. He’s outside. I brought him with me in case you wished to speak to him — I could interpret. He speaks little Persian.’
‘Bring him in.’
The physician was a short, squat man and his dark belted robe was stretched tight across a rounded belly.
‘What treatment d’you propose?’
Nicholas translated, then listened carefully to the physician’s response before turning back to Shah Jahan. ‘Before he can decide what to recommend, he says he must examine the patient. He asks whether it’s true that her shoulders, back and legs have been severely burned?’ Shah Jahan nodded. The doctor reflected a moment then spoke again. ‘He says he’s treated similar cases here in Agra where thatched roofs are so dry that a few sparks can ignite them. Last month just such a fire swept through a row of houses in the north of the city. Several women died because they feared to break purdah by leaving their homes but he was able to save a few … As well as the salve I told you about he has invented other treatments, all of which can ease the patient’s suffering.’
‘He talks of easing pain. Can he restore the sufferer to health? My daughter’s two attendants have died of their burns.’
‘I know the answer to that, Majesty — I asked him myself. He says he will try but he can make no promises — at least not until he has seen the princess.’
‘And the disfigurement? If my daughter does survive, can he lessen that?’
Nicholas consulted the physician. ‘No, Majesty. He cannot obliterate the scarring that inevitably results from burns.’
‘That is a lesser matter. Tell him that if he saves my daughter’s life I’ll give him anything he wants.’
After a further whispered exchange Nicholas replied, ‘He asks how soon he can see her?’
‘She is being cared for here in the imperial haram. Only in the most extreme circumstances are my own hakims allowed to enter. No foreign man has ever been admitted. Though such rules are foolish in desperate times like these, I must show some regard to them. I will allow the two of you to visit the haram, but my eunuchs will lead you with your heads covered until you reach my daughter’s room.’
The Frenchman was saying something else and Nicholas lowered his head to catch the words. ‘Majesty, he asks for complete control over everything the princess eats or drinks.’
‘Tell him my daughter is barely conscious and that all that has passed her lips since the accident has been a concoction of water and opium to deaden her pain, especially when the dressings are changed.’
‘The doctor insists she must eat as soon as she is able — mashed fruits, especially bananas — but in particular she must also be made to drink as much water as possible. Her body needs fluids.’
Half an hour later Nicholas put his hand on the shoulder of the French doctor, standing directly in front of him, as the khawajasara instructed. Then a eunuch — smooth-faced and willowy — arranged a piece of green brocade over both the foreigners’ heads, twitching it into place until satisfied that neither would be able to see anything when they entered the haram. The brocade tickled the back of Nicholas’s neck as at the khawajasara’s command he and the doctor stepped slowly forward, the doctor’s hand resting on the eunuch’s shoulder.
‘I was in a haram some years ago,’ the Frenchman whispered, ‘in the household of the Moghul Governor of Gujarat. One of his wives thought she had been poisoned. In truth, she had simply over-eaten and I recommended a purge. But I’ve never forgotten how difficult it was to take the woman’s pulse. She had so many ropes of pearls wound round her arms that at first I couldn’t find it.’
As the doctor chuckled, Nicholas heard doors thrown open and warnings shouted ahead that two foreigners were approaching and the haram inmates should keep out of sight. As he and the doctor shuffled forward, he felt soft carpets beneath his booted feet and smelled the spicy sweetness of frankincense. A few twists and turns and then he caught a rasping of hinges as more doors were opened. This wasn’t how he had imagined entering the exotic, erotic world of the haram. Lurid stories of these sexual pleasure grounds had fascinated him ever since he’d arrived in India. Now, though, his thoughts returned to the injured, possibly dying, princess. Of all Shah Jahan’s children, Jahanara and her brother Dara Shukoh were the ones he remembered most clearly from their childhood. Jahanara had especially enjoyed questioning him about customs in his own country — how women lived and how one had become its sole ruler.
Suddenly, Nicholas was blinking in soft candlelight as the cloth was pulled from his head. He and the doctor were in a large room smelling of herbs and camphor. He looked around for Jahanara. All he could see were three serving women holding up a length of silk to screen something. It must be her sickbed.
‘The doctor may approach Her Highness to examine her wounds,’ announced the khawajasara, ‘but the interpreter must remain on this side of the screen.’ Nicholas watched as the doctor pulled his leather satchel from his shoulder and took out a pair of thick-lensed spectacles which he stuck on the end of his nose. Then, as one attendant raised the silk a little, he ducked beneath it. Nicholas paced up and down anxiously. After what seemed an age, but was probably no more than fifteen or twenty minutes, the doctor re-emerged.
‘Well? Can you help her?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Her burns are serious and weeping — I have applied the salve and will leave two jars of it here for her attendants to use — but the injuries are not quite as bad as I feared. My guess is that she will live. Her pulse is regular and her breathing good, but her recovery will still take time and much dedicated care.’
‘The emperor has promised you everything you need, any reward you desire.’
‘I know. These great men think their wealth can buy them anything or anyone, but in this case the princess’s youth and strength will be her greatest help, not me.’
Jahanara re-read the verse before laying the ivory-bound book down on the coverlet. She had been curious to read poems written by Dara himself. How wonderful to open her eyes one day and find her brother by her bedside. When she had smiled, tears had pricked his eyes — whether tears of happiness that she was alive or of sorrow for her disfigurement she wasn’t sure. Reaching for the small mirror she kept by her bed, she examined her face. The skin of her left cheek was scarred by a smooth, shiny red mark that broadened as it spread down her neck. What her back and left leg looked like she’d no idea — she was still too weak and stiff to twist to see — but she could guess.
At least the pain was gradually growing less and her mind was clearing, though that brought problems of its own. The memory of Shah Jahan’s behaviour on the night of the fire was as fresh and sharp as if it had only been three days ago instead of six weeks … her horror and revulsion as her father had grabbed her breast … the strength of his grip … the passionate look in his eyes. Her only thought had been of flight … she recalled lashing out with some object and running from him but after that all was shadow and searing pain. As she had returned to longer periods of full consciousness, she had vague recollections of her fath
er sitting by her bed and of hearing him and the hakims discussing her progress. At first, weak as she was, she hadn’t realised what had happened to her, but from their conversation she had gradually pieced together that she had been badly burned because her muslin skirt had caught alight.
Once her recovery was beyond doubt, she had noticed that her father had ceased coming to her room alone. Someone — usually Dara, Murad or Roshanara — accompanied him. When sleep evaded her and she lay in the darkness, her mind returned again and again to that terrible night, seeking an explanation that she could reconcile with the love that, despite everything, she still felt for her father. How could he have been so lost to everything as to treat her, his daughter, like that?
Of course she’d spoken to no one about what had happened — not Satti al-Nisa, old and trusted confidante though she was, not her brothers, not Roshanara … Even her sister might not believe her, and, if she did, might not understand.
‘How are you today, Jahanara? You look better!’
She hadn’t heard Aurangzeb enter. He was carrying something concealed beneath a yellow cloth. She suppressed a smile — probably yet another gift. Her brothers seemed to be competing to keep her amused as if they thought her a sick child needing to be distracted by baubles. Yesterday, Shah Shuja had presented her with a necklace of coral and pearls from Bengal.
‘Every day I feel an improvement.’
‘Good. Look what I have for you.’ Aurangzeb lifted the cloth to reveal a gold birdcage. Sitting on a perch of carved ivory was a dove with feathers of palest mauve and a collar set with amethysts.
‘It’s beautiful. Thank you.’
‘What’s this?’ Aurangzeb picked up the book she’d been reading and flicking it open began to scan its pages.
‘Some poems Dara’s written. On his way to Surat he met a Sufi mystic whose teachings inspired him to write these verses. He’s invited the Sufi to Agra so that they can talk further.’
‘Why’s Dara so interested? And just look what he’s written here: “I rejoice that it is for every man to find God in his own way.”’
Aurangzeb’s contemptuous tone surprised her. ‘Isn’t Dara right? Surely each of us has a duty to strive for spiritual knowledge … spiritual peace … in whatever way we can.’
‘What about the holy mullahs and their writings? They are our conduits to God. Ignoring them and their judgements to pursue our own path is not only presumptuous and misguided — it’s heretical.’
‘Is it? Dara thinks some mullahs are obstacles on the road to enlightenment — they insist on interposing themselves between the people and God merely to preserve their own power. I agree with him.’
‘That’s dangerous nonsense.’ Aurangzeb snapped the ivory covers of the book shut and tossed it back on to her bed. ‘When your body and your mind are stronger you’ll realise that.’
‘Perhaps. Or maybe because I’ve been nearer to death than you, you’ll accept that I may be nearer to understanding the true nature of existence. Don’t be angry with Dara and me just because our beliefs aren’t your own …’
‘I could never be angry with you. But since I’ve been back at court I’ve seen how arrogant Dara’s become and how he disregards the views of others. He was bad enough as a child, always thinking he knew best and telling the rest of us what to do. He doesn’t realise the bad example he’s setting. Since I’ve been in the south, I’ve had time to observe the Muslim kingdoms like Golconda, Bijapur and Ahmednagar. To suppress and bind them into our empire we must show our power — not only our military strength but our religious strength as followers and promoters of the true faith. One of the excuses for their rebellions against our father is that he is three-quarters Hindu and married a Shia Muslim …’
‘Our father is the emperor. It’s not for them to question his birth. As for our mother, Sunni or Shia, she was a devout Muslim, kind and good to all …’ Jahanara’s voice shook with anger. ‘If we allow ourselves to be influenced by such narrow, bigoted talk not only do we defile her memory but we’ll alienate the majority of our subjects.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to agitate you … let’s talk about something else.’ Aurangzeb knelt by her bed. ‘You told me when I first returned that a foreign doctor aided your recovery with a “miracle” ointment. Who was he?’
‘A friend of Nicholas Ballantyne — he recommended him. He has remarkable powers — for an infidel,’ she couldn’t resist adding. A flash in Aurangzeb’s dark eyes showed her little barb had found its mark. Good. Aurangzeb meant well but even if he was right that Dara could sometimes seem patronising he himself was growing narrow-minded and intolerant.
Two hours after Aurangzeb had left her, when her attendants were lighting the oil lamps in the niches around her room, Jahanara heard cries of ‘The emperor approaches’ and a few moments later Shah Jahan entered. He was alone. ‘Leave us,’ he told the elderly hakim sitting in the corner to keep watch over Jahanara. As the double doors closed behind the doctor, she felt suddenly nervous as the memory of what her father had tried to do returned in all its vividness. She wished someone else was in the room with them.
Instead of coming to her bedside Shah Jahan walked to an open casement and for a while stared out into the dusk. The only sound was the mournful shriek of a peacock roosting in a neem tree in the courtyard outside. Then, slowly, he turned to face her, but it was still some moments before finally he spoke and when he did his voice sounded hoarse. ‘So many times I’ve been on the point of coming to beg your forgiveness or at least to ask for your understanding … I never realised I was a coward until I found I lacked the courage to do so. Now that I have come, it’s so hard … my feelings overwhelm me and the words won’t come …’
‘No, please …’ The bleak look on his face banished her fear of him. ‘Let’s not speak of that night … we must both try to forget it.’ Jahanara sat up, wincing with a pain that was more mental than the physical result of the stretching of the not yet fully healed scars from her burns.
‘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 futu
re. 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.
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