The Crows of Agra

by Sharath Komarraju

  The newcomer surveyed the gathering and then brought his gaze to rest on the bandit chief.

  ‘He is no nobleman. Do you not know that he is the emperor of Agra himself?’

  Akbar took in a sharp breath.

  ‘The emperor?’ cried Bihari in shock, and turned to look at Akbar, recognition illuminating his face. ‘I was hoping he was a lowly nobleman, but if I have caught the emperor, even better!’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Bihari,’ said the stranger, walking into the clearing. Two of the bandits scurried over to take his blessings. ‘What good will it do to you to kill the king?’

  ‘What good did it do them to kill my father, Archaka? How many farmers have lost their lives because of…these men?’

  Akbar noticed that Bihari would not look into the man’s eyes when he spoke to him.

  ‘I know, Bihari,’ said the man. He ran a hand over his clean-shaven head. ‘We have spoken about this at the village, have we not?’

  ‘Words. Just words,’ Bihari muttered.

  ‘Actions begin with words, my friend. And killing a nobleman—let alone a king—is no answer to our troubles. You must know that as well as me.’

  ‘But how do you know he is the king, Archaka? He bears no seal on his person. He is dressed as a trader and he fights like one too! He has no qualities a king ought to have, I tell you.’

  The stranger looked Akbar in the eye. ‘The king does not carry his seal wherever he goes, Bihari. Do you not know that his retinue of noblemen are camped right at the jungle’s edge, no more than a few hundred yards from here?’

  ‘Noblemen?’ said Bihari, scratching his beard. ‘How many are there? How do you know?’

  ‘I have just come from there. You have no more than eight men with you. Each of those noblemen commands an army of a thousand men.’

  ‘A thousand men...’

  The stranger nodded. ‘That is so. How do you, then, get away with killing one of them? Do you really think that the king’s army will not find you?’

  Doubt clouded Bihari’s face. He took a step back.

  The stranger advanced. ‘Do you think the anger that you will rouse by killing a jagirdaar will die a quiet death, without claiming the lives of those you love?’

  ‘They…they started it–’

  ‘Anger must reside deep in our hearts, Bihari, in the form of a blue flame. Do not let it rise up to your head and redden.’

  The stranger’s face remained calm even though his voice held the same firm edge. He extended his arm toward Bihari, who went to him and fell to his knees. The stranger placed his right hand over Bihari’s head and murmured something in a strange tongue. Then he said, ‘Go back home, Bihari. Till your lands. Take care of your wife, your little daughter. Do not let them succumb to your thirst for revenge.’

  ‘Yes, Archaka.’

  ‘I should not catch you in these parts again, waylaying innocent travellers and threatening them with death.’

  ‘Yes, Archaka.’

  The stranger commanded the band. ‘Loosen their ropes!’ Three men came running toward them, two toward Akbar’s tree and one to Hussain’s. Only when the knots came undone did Akbar feel the burn on the skin of his arms, his torso, his back. His breath still came in short, frantic thrusts.

  ‘Give him some water,’ said the man.

  A vessel of water was brought to both Akbar and Hussain. Akbar drank greedily from it.

  * * *

  The stranger gestured to Bihari to get up. ‘Now go,’ he said. ‘In two days time, I shall visit the village. We shall meet at the temple.’

  ‘Yes, Archaka.’

  ‘And perhaps you should ask His Highness for mercy, Bihari, for having entertained thoughts of taking his life.’

  Hesitantly, Bihari bent low in Akbar’s direction and mumbled a few words. The other bandits followed suit.

  Akbar looked up and the stranger winked at Akbar.

  Sensing his cue, Akbar said, ‘We forgive you for what is a grave offence. If you go to your village and never be seen in our presence again, we promise that we shall not remember this unpleasant evening.’

  Gathering their things, the men mounted their horses and left the clearing. The three men watched as the dark forest swallowed the bandits one by one.

  * * *

  Akbar was the first to stir. He took a few steps in the stranger’s direction—whose gaze was still fastened in the direction the bandits rode away—and knelt before him. ‘You have saved our life, my lord,’ he said, holding the fingertips of both hands to his forehead, then bringing them down to touch his chest. ‘We shall be forever in your debt.’

  ‘Big words for a trader,’ the stranger said. ‘The next time you travel through these woods, my boy, you should do so before the sun sets, and you shall never let it be known that you are a nobleman.’

  Akbar looked up. ‘But how did they know? We are in disguise.’

  ‘Disguise? You call this a disguise? Switching your royal clothes for a trader’s does not make you a trader, sir. Perhaps on the eve of your next journey, you can come to my abode and I shall show you how to disguise yourselves.’

  Akbar and Hussain exchanged a look. ‘Perhaps we will,’ he replied. He stood up, dusting his knees and hips.

  ‘You must get going now, my lords,’ he said. ‘Consider it your good fortune that you fell into the hands of Bihari, a lad from my own village. And thank your gods, whoever they are, that he believed my tale that you are the emperor himself. Not all bandits are that dense.’

  The man’s eyes sparkled with a child’s curiosity. He must have been sent by Allah himself, bearing his voice, to save Akbar’s life. If Maham Anga had been right, if he had to begin enlisting his own people to be his eyes and ears at court, he needed someone just like this man. He would come without the baggage of the court, without prior knowledge of his forefathers and lineage.

  ‘Give us a chance to repay our debt in full, sir. Come with us to the camp that awaits us outside this jungle, and we shall invite you with all honours to the Mughal court. You shall then wait on us as one of our trusted courtiers.’

  The man laughed. ‘You seem to take my story in all seriousness, boy. You speak like the Mughal court is your father’s inheritance.’

  ‘Why,’ said Akbar, ‘it is.’ He reached into the inner pocket of his vest-coat and produced his seal, holding it up against the light of the torch. The Brahmin leaned forward to look at it, and as he read the inscriptions realization dawned in his eyes.

  ‘By the four heads of Brahma…’ he said, licking his lips nervously. ‘You are the emperor!’

  ‘The emperor who is in your debt, sir,’ said Akbar.

  ‘Please, Your Majesty, my name is Mahesh Das. I am a priest in the neighbouring village of Tikawanpur.’ He cast his sack to the ground and fell to his knees. ‘What horrible calamity would have struck if I had not come walking by when I did!’

  ‘That is so, Mahesh Das. I think it is Allah who sent you here. I shall be an infidel indeed to resist his signs.’

  ‘But Your Majesty, why did you not tell him that you were the king?’

  ‘His anger toward noblemen was so great, imagine what he would have felt about the king,’ said Akbar.

  ‘And it was!’ said Hussain. ‘But for the authority of this gentleman over the rogues, I do think they would have killed us if we had told them we were from the palace. For that, sir, we shall forever be your humble slaves.’

  ‘Hussain is right.’ Akbar raised the priest to his feet gently by the shoulders. ‘You do yourself a disservice by bowing to us, Mahesh Das. You and we, from today, shall be friends. Even though we see that you are much older to us in age, and perhaps much wiser too.’

  ‘Your Majesty jests. I shall be privileged to be of service to Your Highness in whatever capacity you see me fit. Even if it is to clean the royal chambers every morning, I shall do it with a smile, Jahanpanah.’

  ‘No more!’ said Akbar. ‘We need you for much more than that.’ Turning
to Hussain, he said, ‘I trust that our horses have rested enough for the night. Let us make haste and reach the camp before midnight. We have much to discuss.’

  Hussain gave Mahesh Das his horse and helped him mount it, leading the way with the reins in his hand. Akbar saw that the Brahmin was uncomfortable on the steed; he wobbled from side to side with his arms encircled around the animal’s neck, even though it was only walking. In his wide, round eyes Akbar could see the fear of a cornered rabbit.

  Akbar unmounted his horse, and instructed Hussain to help Mahesh Das do so as well. ‘Let us all travel by foot,’ he said, ‘so that we may get to know one another better on the way. Mahesh Das, tell us about your village, Tikawanpur.’

  Seven

  SIX YEARS AGO in a tent very much like this one, Khan Baba had presented Akbar the dying Hemu and entreated him to cut off the king’s head. He appraised the gathering. Their beards were speckled with grey, their eyes had grown wearier, their cheeks sagged, but the people were the same. Except this time, they were gathered here to plot Khan Baba’s end—he who had given Akbar everything he had.

  The evening had turned the colour of ripe grapes. The recent lent a heaviness to the air, and the fires lit inside the tent, despite the air vents, tickled Akbar’s nose and made his eyes burn. Maham Anga would be displeased with his sentimentality; she would say that the Bairam Khan of six years ago was not the same today. Then he had been a loyal servant with no other ambition but to see his master ascend the throne and become the emperor. Now he was the all-powerful regent, plotting to make the Mughal throne his.

  Mahesh Das sat in the corner, his feet immersed in a vessel of warm water scattered with yellow rose petals. Every now and then a courtier would steal a look at the Brahmin’s sacred thread, the fragrant white markings on his arms, the tail dangling off his scalp, and frown. They did not ask questions, but in their eyes Akbar saw disapproval, even a hint of disgust.

  These men saw him as nothing more than a boy; indeed, he was younger than all of them. When Akbar’s father had tumbled along a set of stairs, broken his neck and died, and he had been crowned king, Khan Baba had warned him about precisely this. These men will not like being ruled by a boy. They will serve you openly when your eyes are on them, he had said, but when your back is turned, they will snicker at you, click their tongues in disapproval at everything you do.

  These were supposed to be his men, yet Akbar felt that they all had their own designs running through their minds. The way they eyed each other, the suspicion that hung in the air, their artificial smiles, and their reluctance to speak to their ruler.

  But what had to be done, had to be done. He clapped his hands and called for the scribe.

  Baba,

  Salutations from Jalal-ud-din Akbar—your son, your nephew, your master, your king.

  You have been serving the crown of the Mughal Empire nigh on thirty years now—from before we had been brought into this world. You served our father Humayun well, both when he had first occupied this land of Hindustan, and then during his flight to Kabul, and again on his return. You have fought on the side of Hindal Mirza, our esteemed uncle, and risked your life to save his when he almost drowned in the Ganga.

  After our father’s death and our coronation too, it is you who took upon his shoulders the spread of our kingdom. It is you that fought the great battle at Panipat and brought the powerful Hemu to his knees. It is you who struck him down. It is you who took on the responsibilities of ruling this vast land, even though it is us on whose head the crown sits.

  All that we have today, Baba, is a gift from you. All that we are today is due to your patience, love, and sense of duty. For that, we salute you.

  But word has reached our ears that you have begun to think of the Mughal throne as yours. Indeed, we have come to know that you have sent envoys to Delhi so that you can persuade the noblemen there—noblemen who had pledged allegiance to us—to turn against us. Your messenger, Pir Muhammad, has some confidants in the harem to whom he has spilled his heart to, some of whom, fortunately, are our confidants too.

  So we have decided to take matters into our own hands. We have come to the edge of the city of Agra, just outside the forest that lies on the riverbank, and here we have camped, in the company of those jagirdaars who still think that we are the king. I write this in a tent filled with them, and each one of them will sign this missive, just so you know that we are speaking the truth.

  We are writing to tell you that you have only two choices, Baba: either fight us and our army of noblemen, or give up and flee the city, and go on your pilgrimage to Mecca. We know that it has been your wish for many years now. Now we are giving you the opportunity to realize this dream. Your time is up, Baba, as regent, as administrator, as ruler, as mentor. You have done well. Gloriously well.

  Now is the time to step aside and let the real ruler of the Mughal throne emerge from within your protective embrace. It is only right.

  We do not wish to raise a weapon against you, for my heart overflows with gratitude for all that you have done. We fervently pray to Allah, therefore, that you accept the terms of your peaceful departure, and that you allow us to bid you goodbye in a manner befitting a man of your honour, pride, and courage.

  Yours in life and death,

  Akbar

  After the noblemen had signed the parchment, it had been rolled and tucked into the waistband of a messenger who then mounted his horse and left. Akbar went to the corner of his tent, where Mahesh Das sat nursing his feet.

  ‘You have to become a better rider if you are to be my courtier, Mahesh Das,’ said Akbar.

  ‘Aye, my lord, I hope you do not trust the fate of your kingdom on my riding abilities.’

  ‘Not now, I dare not! But at the Mughal court people will laugh at you if you say you cannot ride a horse.’

  ‘Ah, I am but a Brahmin priest, Your Highness. Ask me to recite a verse from the Vedas, and I will manage. Tell me that I should worship the Gods for you, and I can do so in my sleep. But what need have I to ride a horse? I have never ridden one till this very night.’

  The skin on Mahesh Das’s face was smooth with barely a wrinkle in spite of his middle age. Even when he frowned, his forehead remained smooth, and only his eyebrows—thin lines of hair—bent into a furrow. The sacred thread that he wore around his shoulder now dangled in front of him as he bent down to his feet. The very tip of the mark of vermillion on his forehead had been smudged during the journey. If Khan Baba knew that he had brought a Brahmin into the tent, he would be very angry indeed.

  And yet, Akbar thought, this man did not look very different to his own people. Yes, he wore his clothes and hair in a strange manner, and he probably worshipped those lifeless stones, but in loyalty he was no worse than any of the noblemen in his tent. He had sent a couple of messengers—Hussain being one among them—to the village of Tikawanpur to ask after the name of Mahesh Das. But he had a feeling that the man had been honest.

  Mahesh Das looked up now, water trickling down his hands. He rubbed them on his waistcloth and said, ‘Who would send the emperor on his own through the jungle at night?’

  ‘Our mother,’ said Akbar. ‘She thought there would be more danger for us at the court, in the hands of Bairam Khan, the presiding regent, who she thinks has designs for the throne.’

  ‘So she sent you into the forest without proper protection?’

  ‘She did not know that the bandits would attack us.’

  ‘But my lord,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘she could have sent you with a few guards that could fight, instead of a messenger boy?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Mahesh Das asked, ‘Is she your own mother?’

  Akbar shook his head.

  ‘Does she have anything to gain if you were to…if something were to happen to you?’

  Akbar thought of Adham Singh, Maham Anga’s son, who could ascend the throne and become king, but for that to happen both Akbar and Bairam Khan
had to be done away with. What would Ammi gain by setting up a trap for just him, unless she was planning to get rid of Bairam Khan as well afterward?

  So he shook his head again.

  ‘Are you certain, then, that she only has your good at heart?’

  Make your own friends. Build your eyes and your ears. Do not rely on Bairam Khan’s people. Ammi had not said it, but that meant that Akbar should not rely on her people or her words either. When it came to the throne, she had said that Khan Baba would not think of himself as his father, though he may have thought so in all other matters. Did that not mean, then, that when it came to the throne, Ammi, who was a mother to him, would also put aside her love?

  He shook his head for a third time.

  Eight

  RUQAIYA SULTAN BEGUM did not like Bairam Khan. It would not be a stretch to say that she was even a little scared of him. So when Bairam Khan arrived unannounced at court and asked to see her, Ruqaiya could not help but be anxious. Add to that was Akbar’s message that had arrived in the morning—informing her about his missive to Khan Baba.

  The more she tried to push her worry aside the more it bubbled up, like determined wine.

  Even though it was Bairam Khan who had escorted her all those years ago from Kabul to Delhi, through the rocky terrain of Kandahar. He had fought for her, against bandits and brigands on the way. He protected her like he would his own daughter.

  But that was then. The times had changed.

  She knew he had always been critical of her. As the years passed and their marriage blossomed, the whispers became harsher. What was a queen who could not reward the king with sons? Akbar was wasting precious time with her, they said—Bairam Khan the first among them.