by S L Bhyrappa
Non-Muslims also had to pay kharaj, the special land tax from which Muslims were exempted. Then there was another tax levied for the upkeep of the Mughal army. A non-Muslim was not allowed to join the army as a general, warrior or horseman, but he could only serve in a menial position. He had to strictly monitor his behaviour at all times, showing humility and respect when talking with Muslims. He was not allowed to wear jewellery or possess weapons. Zimmis were prohibited from celebrating their festivals and fairs and were forbidden from assembling in groups, building new temples or renovating existing ones. In several cases, if a Muslim coughed loudly with a ‘khaakh’ sound before spitting, the zimmi had to respectfully open his mouth and allow the Muslim to spit into it and swallow the spittle without showing a trace of discomfort or disgust on his face.
His testimony held no weight compared to a Muslim’s testimony in any court. A Muslim who killed a non-Muslim faced no punishment—killing a zimmi was not a crime under the law. In the end, all of these strict measures and harsh taxes and insults were meant to motivate a zimmi to forsake his Faith of Darkness and accept Islam.
When Shahjahan Badshah was still alive, Aurangzeb Badshah had issued a farmaan, the Royal Order. This farmaan commanded all Hindu traders and businessmen to pay 5 per cent sales tax and all Muslim businessmen, 2.5 per cent. However, after returning to Delhi post his birthday celebrations, Aurangzeb Badshah amended this farmaan, which exempted Muslim businessmen from paying any sales tax. Hindu businessmen, however, had to continue paying the same rate. This was a device to wipe Hindus out of business. But the badshah didn’t stop there. He issued another farmaan—all Hindus occupying the posts of chief accountant (peshkar) and accountant (diwaniyan) were dismissed from service with immediate effect.
I listened to all of this with unwavering attention and in the end asked Hamdullah Sahib, ‘It is eight years since the badshah ascended the throne. Why did he wait for so long to introduce all these measures? Why did he not do it earlier?’
‘Why did he not do it earlier? Hm? Why? Why don’t you tell me?’ he asked me with a broad smile, as if the answer was self-evident. I shot him my usual blank stare. He shook his head kindly and said, ‘To know the answer to this question, you must study history. You must understand that some circumstances in history and the insights they give us remain remarkably uniform. Do you know what Zia-ud-din Barani, one of our own historians wrote? No? He wrote, four hundred years ago, what Iltamush, one of our kings who ruled in this self-same Delhi, did. During Iltamush’s time we were not as powerful as we are now. We were surrounded by Hindu kings. To the south of Chambal lay the powerful Jhansi. Gwalior and Navar were controlled by Pariharas. The Chauhans were in Ranthambore and the formidable Jalores in the southwest of Rajaputana. The Yadavas in the north had the entire route to Alwar in their iron fist and made life extremely difficult for us to rule the land encompassing Bayana, Thangir, and Ajmer. Imagine the condition of the sultan ruling from Delhi!
‘The ulemas repeatedly questioned Sultan Iltamush: why aren’t you waging jihad against the infidel kings? Why aren’t you imposing jaziya on unbelievers in your kingdom? Why aren’t you running your empire according to the tenets of Holy Islam? They were right; after all, their job was to counsel the king on the urgency of spreading the True Faith as wide as possible and as soon as possible. To them, the sultan said, “Today, the number of Muslims in Hindustan is akin to the pinch of salt that sits ignored in a corner of a large plate of food. We must wait a few years till our numbers grow and then we can, like you say, offer the Hindus the choice between Islam and death. You must have patience till then.”
‘Do you know why I told you this? Aurangzeb Badshah did not have complete control over the empire, although he had declared himself the badshah even when Shahjahan Badshah was alive in Agra. Now the mountain rat from the Deccan has been caught once, but has managed to escape. That’s not a big cause for worry because the Maratha kingdom is under our control. Besides, the Mughal army stationed there is ours.’
‘But you do have Rajputs like Jai Singh?’ I interrupted him.
‘They’re Rajputs just in name. People like Jai Singh derive their royal titles from the mercy of the badshah. The day his benevolence for them ceases is the day they stop bearing their pretty titles. Today, he has been dispatched to the Deccan and the instant the badshah orders him to go northeast, he must go without a word. Jai Singh and everybody like him know nothing apart from battle tactics. They have no skill and have learned no other craft or trade to survive in this world if they quit the military. Really, they have no option—either they obey the badshah’s commands or they are sacked from the army. Do you expect these people to rebel?
‘The badshah has thought these out very carefully before embarking on his endeavour to bring the whole of Hindustan under Islam. You will watch with your own eyes how in just a few years all the kingdoms from Gujarat to Bengal, from Thanesar to Golkonda and beyond…I don’t know all their names…thousands of large and small principalities will have mosques and minarets proudly touching the sky. The temples of the mushriks, these worshippers of many gods, will be razed to the ground and their filthy idols used as steps upon which the faithful will tread to enter mosques and offer their prayers to the all-Merciful Allah. I know that only the highest place in Heaven has been made ready for the Alamgir Badshah,’ Hamdullah Sahib finished with a contented glow on his face.
I was unable to witness the actual consequences of the new farmaans because the zenana, indeed, the whole of Delhi was completely Muslim.
The badshah was unable to spend as much time as he would have liked with his favourite Udaipuri Mahal. Affairs of the state consumed most of his time and he also had to pay attention to his other begums and women. Udaipuri Mahal used to often tease him on this but everybody knew—most of all, she knew—that these were lovers’ quarrels. She didn’t dare risk even a slight change in tone. He was Aurangzeb Badshah. When he was gone for days, sometimes weeks together, the boredom and loneliness would start to tell. Entertainment was aplenty but she needed someone to talk to, and so she frequently sent for the begums of the amirs and other officers. The begum usually spent the whole day gossiping with these women. The zenanas of the amirs were better informed of the goings-on in the outside world than the zenanas of the badshah.
On one such occasion, Udaipuri Mahal ordered me to hasten to Dilshad Khan’s mahal and inform Shabana Begum to see her on the morrow. Dilshad Khan lived in Tughalaqabad. I had been to his mansion several times in the past and I had earned the mercy of his begum, Shabana. Because Tughalaqabad was far I begged Udaipuri Mahal to arrange for a horse to make my journey faster. She granted my prayer immediately.
Every small and mighty Muslim who had raided Delhi did not reside in the city he had conquered but invariably built a new city in the neighbouring areas. It really did not matter if the defeated king was himself a Muslim. The reason, as I learned later, was rooted in the practice of comprehensively ransacking and setting the entire city on fire. They had an additional advantage: the almost-never ending stretch of fertile plains ensured that there was always enough land to build newer and newer cities. And then they had the luxury of free manpower in the form of the prisoners they had captured in war who were subsequently put to use as unpaid slaves. And so, in a way, the whole region that was called Delhi was also a collection of old, ruined and nearly peopleless cities.
Some of these had very sparse population. Those who chose to rebuild their homes, which were destroyed during wartime, now lived in such cities. Some amirs who preferred to maintain a respectable distance with the durbar renovated crumbling mansions in such cities and lived there. There were also the other reasons—these amirs were so immersed in a life devoted to debauchery that they were loath to participate in wars and they dreaded the badshah’s summons dispatching them on a campaign. Some were scared to be dragged into court intrigues and preferred to stay far away from such dangerous games. But I had no opportunity to see these old cities c
losely. My travels were restricted to the Delhi of the Mughals, at most, its outskirts. There was really nothing noteworthy in this Delhi except the Qutub Minar and some streets. I had seen the entire city a few times and very soon I realized that it held nothing compelling for me.
The opportunity of riding a horse was really rare and without Udaipuri Mahal’s graces, I was sure I wouldn’t have been given one. The horse that was allotted to me that day was of a lower stock, a beast not trained for battle. Definitely not an Arabian steed. My mind was suddenly fixated on Arabian steeds…battle-trained beauties that exuded raw power. Tameable only by men with extraordinary daring, it required immense courage and practice to even mount them. I had spent many, many months undergoing such rigorous, potentially fatal practice in a life that I now only had a misty recollection of. Years of zenana service didn’t allow me to even dream of touching a beast as fine as that. I mounted the horse and signalled it to move, loosened my shirt and let my hair fall. As the horse picked up speed, I rediscovered the exhilarating rush of riding a horse.
The main door of Amir Dilshad Khan’s mansion was shut. I knocked softly and realized that it was not bolted from inside. There was no response. I knocked harder two more times. No response still. I pushed it open slowly, taking care to open it just enough for one person to enter. I was permitted to do so because I was a eunuch who served in the badshah’s zenana. Moreover, I was a messenger carrying an order from the badshah’s zenana. But my limit ended at the small garden that opened out in front of me inside the zenana. Beyond the garden was a large wooden door. I saw a young woman hurrying towards the main door with a baby perched on her waist. She wore a long skirt and blouse with a veil that covered her chest. A slave. She was a Muslim, no doubt, but she wasn’t from the original Muslim stock. If she wasn’t a slave, she wouldn’t have dared to cross the mardana and come all the way here to open the main door. As she neared me, I was drawn to her face, my eyes fixed on her. I’ve seen her somewhere. I know her. Now she was facing me. I didn’t take my eyes off her. She held my gaze. Ah! Her expression changed. I knew she had recognized me. Her face widened in pleasure, a broad, joyful smile, then a blushing red, and immediately, a plaintive cloudiness. Her eyes swelled and the tears that broke blocked her vision. She shivered lightly and bit her lip. Fear? Suddenly she turned and fled like a frightened deer. The baby on her waist began to emit a high-pitched cry, which became feebler as she ran farther away from me, until I no longer heard the baby’s wails.
I plopped down on the spot, my body shaking uncontrollably. I sat there for I don’t know how long.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’
I looked up to see a woman of about fifty looking down at me. A slave, like the other woman who had fled.
‘I’m a…hijra…’ I stammered.
‘I can tell that by looking at you. Nobody would’ve dared to enter the main door just like that! What do you want?’ she demanded, addressing me disrespectfully in the singular, in a harsh tone.
‘I come with a message for Shabana Begum from Udaipuri Mahal. I must deliver the message personally to her.’
‘Please come with me.’ Her tone instantly changed. We crossed the mardana and the hall beyond it, which ended at the door to the zenana.
Shabana Begum did not attempt to hide the joy she felt when she heard that Udaipuri Mahal expressed a desire to meet her. I suddenly became her special guest. She addressed me in the plural and had a servant bring me cool sherbet.
‘You have travelled this far alone. You must have lunch with us. I insist,’ she said warmly. Then she ordered another servant to attend to my horse and ensure that it was well-fed and well-rested. But my mind was elsewhere. I debated whether it was a good idea to ask Shabana Begum to send for the woman who first came to open the main door. But everything would be lost if she was not who I thought she was. No! If she was really some other woman who merely resembled her, why would she behave the way she did? All those myriad emotions showing on her face…lashing like waves until she wept and finally fled… Or maybe I’m really hallucinating.
~
I didn’t go to Bangalore for six months after that play. Bricks, eh? My novel consumed me. I spent all my time unearthing information from the primary sources that spoke about Aurangzeb. No source was insignificant or trivial. Without this kind of work, it was impossible to bring the actual historical truth out in my novel. As I read up, my novel started to move on its own and I began to scribble down unconnected bits as they occurred to me, to give them shape later.
I left for Bangalore when I was satisfied that I reached a stage in the novel where I could take a break from writing. Amir wouldn’t have cooled down yet, after what had happened last time. But I must see him. It doesn’t make sense to push it too far. I’ll try to woo him back…six…okay, maximum eight months and I’ll be back in Bangalore for good. I missed him. Suddenly another thought struck me—I wasn’t sure if I could completely sever my renewed ties with Narasapura. I realized it meant a lot more than I could fathom. I was born there and had grown up there and after the mad, youthful passion that had separated me from it…twenty-eight years ago…time was inconsequential to the ties that bind a person…and now the bond I felt with Father…sitting in his room on his bed, studying everything he had studied for over three years…I knew Narasapura wouldn’t go away even if I wanted it to. It held the roots of my heart.
The maid who opened the door to my apartment was busy wiping the floor. I made small talk. All good with your family? Husband? Children? How many? She warmed up to me.
‘I don’t see Amina Banu? I’m very hungry. Can you make something for me? Please?’
‘Oh? I’m so sorry. I’ll be glad to make something for you but there’s nothing here. Vegetables, groceries…everything is in the house in Shivajinagar. Sahib stays in Shivajinagar. In his house. Before shifting, he asked Amina Banu to continue cooking for him there; she refused because it’s very far and quit. I come here every day and clean and lock this flat once my work is over. Nobody comes here.’
I said nothing but didn’t take my eyes off her. She knew that I knew that she knew more. She turned her eyes away from me but stood rooted to her spot.
‘Tell me everything.’
‘I…I…don’t want to get into this,’ she stuttered.
‘Tell me everything.’
‘I…I…don’t know…’
‘Tell me everything.’
‘Okay…I’ll tell you on the condition that you swear to me that you won’t tell anybody that I told you this…I thought you knew already…’ Her eyes were fixed on the floor.
‘I swear on you I won’t tell anybody.’
‘Sahib has taken another wife. The girl is a teacher in an Urdu school. She’s twenty-five years old. Her father sells fruits in a roadside shop opposite the Shivajinagar bus stand. He and his family live in one of the gullies in Shivajinagar, near sahib’s house.’
I heard nothing after this. The woman standing…cowering before me was not real. Vacuum. So he had done it. He had used the ultimate weapon that the Sharia law equips every Muslim man with. The weapon every Muslim man safeguards as if his life is at stake. His parents had died a few years ago but he had stayed on here, in this flat in Malleswaram, preferring to rent out his ancestral home. But now he’s gone back…it was quite obvious. Apart from us, the apartment complex was populated entirely by Hindus. Typical middle-class Hindus. Studious. Conservative. Most of the women had graduate degrees at the minimum. And we were known to almost everybody here because of our background in the film industry. It was natural that Amir would have felt very embarrassed to stay here with his second…wife.
And now I felt discarded.
I walked past her and sat on the bamboo chair.
‘I need to go…to work in other houses…’
I closed the door behind me after she left. After sometime, I decided to head to Shivajinagar, and hold him by the scruff of his neck and demand…what? I already knew what he�
�d say. And now, I dialled his number.
‘Amir…’
‘I know.’
‘You married again?’
Silence. I could feel him fumbling for a response.
‘You married again?’
‘I haven’t pronounced talaq on you.’
What did that mean? That he hadn’t completely abandoned me? That he had the right to marry two more women? That he didn’t need my permission to marry another woman? That he could pronounce talaq on me at his whim? That it was my fault that he married again? I struggled to find my voice until I heard a click at the other end.
~
I didn’t ask Shabana Begum about the slave girl. Lunch over, I immediately mounted my horse and left for Udaipuri Mahal’s zenana. Was she caught before she could jump into the jauhar fire? If that was it, then was…Mother caught, too? And Sister? Grandma? Where are they now? I couldn’t get myself to think about them working as maids and slaves, treated worse than brutes. And along with it, the edifice of self-consolation that I had built all these years with the bricks of the belief of their honourable deaths was smashed. Now I had to find out what had happened to them but how? I decided to risk asking Udaipuri Mahal and if she showed enough mercy, who knows? I could even to go Devagarh and find out. Actually, Hamdullah Sahib was the person to ask. After all he was the custodian of the royal archives. There was no information that his ever-hungry archive didn’t consume and store. I was sure he would help me. If he found nothing in the archives, he would write to the suba of Rajputana and find out. Was I that naive to blindly assume that the womenfolk who had decided to do jauhar had actually died? Or was I scared to deal with the possibility of…this possibility that they were captured and… My peace was now ruined forever and I knew I didn’t have the strength to endure the distress, this horror. I ate less and spoke even less. My sleep was tormented. I didn’t want to share this with even Hamdullah Sahib.
