The Crows of Agra

by Sharath Komarraju

Turning to the others, Akbar said, ‘Now please go back to your chambers and get some sleep, if Allah grants you any that is.’

  Once everyone had left, the room had been locked from the outside. Akbar turned to look at the green carvings on the brass plate that hung by the doorknob. He touched them lightly, feeling the ridges. He stood there, with his head bent, shoulders slumped, one arm raised, palm pressed against the door.

  Mahesh Das stood a few feet away, watching with his arms folded.

  ‘Khan Baba is dead,’ Akbar said finally, shaking his head. ‘Our Khan Baba is dead.’

  * * *

  Mahesh Das stood outside Akbar’s door, his freshly oiled plait dangling down his spine. He ran a hand over his bald head and held it up to the morning light. It glistened. Wrapping his cream shawl tighter around his chest, he wiped away the oil, cursing. They had not placed a mirror in his chamber, which meant that every time he reached around to oil his hair, he missed the spot and ended up shining his scalp.

  It had also been a week since he had shaved his head. A field of stubble was beginning to appear, giving him the appearance of a porcupine. One of the first things he had to find out from the emperor this morning was the whereabouts and timetable of the royal barber.

  Both his maternal uncles had been bald right from their early youths, but regrettably, he got none of their genes. For as long as she had been alive, his mother had worried that her son would lose all his hair and therefore not find a wife. On her death bed, ten years ago, when Mahesh Das had been a month short of his twenty-third birthday, she had asked him to get rid of the plait and grow a full head of hair. Women liked hair on their men, she had said.

  But by then he had already finished his Vedic studies and was serving as apprentice at the temple under Shankarachari, one of the aged priests of Kalpi. Mahesh Das had not had religious inclinations at any time in his life; but his uncle—the elder of the bald ones—had told him that serving Shankarachari would help. After all, the old man could not go on forever, and after his death, the village would need a new, younger priest to take over.

  The opportunity had not come as quickly as they had hoped, for Shankarachari held onto life, albeit with rickety legs and trembling arms, for a good seven years after Mahesh Das’s mother death.

  A girl’s giggle interrupted his thoughts.

  Mahesh Das sighed.

  He had heard tales of the emperor’s love for women. They said he spent more time in the harem than in court. Right after his riding and sword fighting exercises in the morning, he went to his chambers with a slave girl on either arm, they said. And that he liked to stay behind the women of his life—his wife, Ruqaiya, his mother Maham Anga, and his aunt Gulbadan Begum. The people of Agra called him the ‘suckling king’.

  But Mahesh Das had heard the same tales of every king in every kingdom. Why, even Humayun, in his younger days, had a reputation of loving the company of women a bit too much. What more could one expect of a nineteen-year-old, red blooded man?

  His face coloured in shame, and he lowered his head to look down at his waist. The white waist cloth went around both his thighs and wrapped around his torso. How he wished women would wait on him, accompany him to bed, wake up with him, and giggle as they left his chambers.

  The door opened, and a dusky girl padded out, her head lowered. Her hair was disarranged and her skin glowed in the morning light. As she passed him, Mahesh Das allowed his gaze to drop down to her waist, to watch how her hips swayed from left to right, and how her hair fell in waves behind her.

  She stopped, tied her hair up over her head, and disappeared.

  Fancies of an old man, he thought sullenly. Which girl in her right mind would consent to be with him if she knew of his past? Sooner or later the question was going to come up: Why is a fine, upright Brahmin priest like yourself unmarried, Mahesh Das? If not the emperor, one of his many courtiers or family members—every one of whom had been giving him suspicious glances ever since they had been introduced to him—certainly will, at some point.

  He had better have an answer ready.

  Fate had given him a chance to leave his past behind him, to say goodbye to Tikawanpur forever. But he knew better than most people that lies only stuck to the wall before coming away and pulling off a piece of paint with them. The trick was to have another lie prepared to cover the first one, and it better be big enough to cover for the damaged part of the wall too.

  In the meantime, Mahesh Das had one simple mission—to make himself indispensable to the emperor. So that when the truth reached Akbar’s ears—if it ever did—he would not be able to do without Mahesh Das. Bairam Khan’s death had opened up that avenue of possibility. Mahesh Das could dig into his vast ‘experience’ to help the king like no one else in the court could. What did these men know of killing and stealth, these men who had never stepped out of their chambers at night?

  But he? He knew better. He knew all there was to know about these things.

  He was going to enjoy his stay in the palace. Mahesh Das had a feeling that he had finally found a role for himself at the Mughal court.

  A role only he could play.

  Just then Akbar’s voice came to his ears. ‘Are you there, Mahesh Das?’

  ‘Yes, Jahanpanah,’ said Mahesh Das smoothly, knocked once, and pushed open the door.

  The smell of sandalwood tickled his nose as he stepped in.

  ‘Mahesh Das,’ said Akbar, looking out of the window at the climbing sun.

  ‘At your service, Jahanpanah.’

  The boy was fourteen years younger than he was. He did not look like a king ought to either. Dress him up in a peasant’s garb and he could easily pass as one in the villages of Agra. Place him beside an orange cart and in no time people would be bargaining with him for his fruit. He had the lean, hungry build of a farmer. Yes, he was wiry; one could see the veins throbbing on his wrists and forearms. But it was his face, almost rat-like, which looked out of place, as if it belonged to a man from one of the Eastern kingdoms. .

  ‘I trust that you have slept well,’ said Akbar, turning to face him.

  ‘As well as one could, sire, after the unfortunate events of last night.’

  * * *

  Mahesh Das had attended Akbar’s coronation all those years ago, and he had seen him from a distance at various occasions. But he had never before been struck so squarely by the emperor’s looks. Had he always been so—well—ungainly? Or was he still recovering from the ill-effects of puberty? Mahesh Das reminded himself that the king was yet nineteen, and not until three more years, perhaps, would he attain the fullness of youth.

  There was that fabled mole under the right eye. Balladeers had sung songs about it, calling it the spot of Allah, the mark of Mohammad. Lies, thought, Mahesh Das. It lent a horrible asymmetry to his face, much like his gait. He thought of the wondrous beauty of the girl he had seen a moment ago, and sighed. What unfairness was there in this world?

  ‘You seem to be in a quiet mood today,’ said Akbar. ‘I have had some apples cut just for you. Would you like some?’

  ‘Pardon me, Jahanpanah, I do not have anything before I take my bath and offer my prayers to the sun.’

  ‘What foolishness! Why would you offer prayers to the sun?’

  ‘We believe that the sun is the source of all life, Jahanpanah. You have heard, perhaps, some of your poets describe your glory as that of the sun itself?’

  ‘Yes, that is so?’

  ‘Then here I am, bowing to you. Why should I not also bow to my other master, whose glory matches yours?’

  Akbar smiled, the thin line of moustache quivering. ‘So be it. I have not called you here to engage in debate.’

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘We were hoping that you give us some advice, my man,’ said Akbar. ‘We would ask one of my family members, but they are all so intricately involved with the empire that we do not trust they can advise me without letting their minds wander in the direction of the throne.’

  �
�I understand, my lord.’

  ‘We think you—being an outsider—can give me better advice than all of them in this matter.’

  ‘If that is so, Jahanpanah, I hope that I stay an outsider forever in this palace.’

  Once again a smile appeared on his face, but in a flash it was gone, replaced by the grim, ruthless frown of a strategist. ‘Maham Anga spoke to us last night, after we had all dispersed.’

  Mahesh Das did not speak. In his mind he tried to recall the old lady’s devilish sneer by firelight the previous night. The way she sprang to defend her son when Akbar found a letter by her son’s hand in the dead man’s pocket.

  ‘She thinks that we are in danger here in the palace,’ said Akbar. ‘There are unseen forces at work, she says, forces that would have us dead if we did not make haste and leave for Delhi.’

  ‘For Delhi, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, for a few months. Delhi is a nice city, though a little humid at this time of the year. But it would be nice to go riding on the banks of the Yamuna.’

  ‘But you are the king, Jahanpanah, and Agra is your capital,’ Mahesh Das said.

  ‘That is what we told her. But she says that is precisely why we should protect ourselves, until these forces get vanquished.’

  ‘And who, may I ask, will vanquish these forces?’

  Akbar frowned, half in irritation. ‘Maham Anga said that she will rule Agra in our absence. She will protect the throne, and while we are not here she will see to it that Khan Baba’s murderer be caught and hanged.’

  ‘But sire,’ said Mahesh Das, keeping his voice low, ‘you have seen how Bairam Khan behaved when he was made regent. Now if you give the throne to Maham Anga, are you certain of getting it back when you return from Delhi?’

  ‘Maham Anga would not do that to us. She is our mother, Mahesh Das.’

  ‘Yes, Jahanpanah. But are you her son?’

  For a moment Akbar did not reply. He chewed on his bottom lip and stared at the door. Then he said, half-heartedly, ‘We do not know what we must do.’

  ‘The people of Agra think of you as the king who is yet to stop suckling on his mother’s breasts, my lord.’ Mahesh Das allowed his voice to rise just a notch. ‘When your father was your age, he had already fought many wars.’ Akbar twitched at this like a cat, so Mahesh Das made his tone smoother. ‘You need not fight as much as he did, sire. But he has given you this kingdom. You have been made king all of five years ago. Is it not time for you step up to the throne and stand by it?’

  ‘Do you think we are capable?’

  ‘You shall not know as long as you keep running away, Your Highness. I daresay that you are powerful enough to protect yourself, not to mention the lives of your subjects as well.’

  Akbar nodded, some of his calm returning. ‘Then we shall take your advice,’ he said. ‘But we must ask you for a favour, Mahesh Das.’

  ‘Anything, my king.’

  ‘It is our wish that you take up the task of finding Bairam Khan’s killer.’

  ‘I, sire?’ said Mahesh Das cautiously, although his heart skipped a beat in excitement. ‘I am an outsider at your palace, a mere stranger that no one wishes to converse with.’

  ‘And that, precisely, is your advantage, my man!’ Akbar said, placing a hand on Mahesh Das’s shoulder. ‘You come here with a stranger’s pair of eyes, unsullied by considerations of family and friendship that often clouds my vision. I shall give you my seal so that you can ask anyone at the court anything you want with regards to this death.’ He slid a silver ring off his right hand and held it out to Mahesh Das.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Will you help us find Khan Baba’s killer?’

  Mahesh Das decided there was no need for further posturing. He bowed and held out his cupped hands. ‘As you command, my lord.’

  Akbar let go of the ring. It fell softly into Mahesh Das’s open palms.

  Mahesh Das held up the signet to the light. It had green Urdu script embossed on it. He looked at Akbar and said, ‘Then we may as well begin with what you did last night after you left the dining hall, Jahanpanah.’

  Akbar paused for a second, then broke into a smile. ‘By all means. Salima and we came here, to this very chamber. We left the dinner just before half past eight, we remember, because on our way here, we heard the half-gong.’

  ‘Indeed. I remember that too.’

  ‘We came here and began to talk. Since it was her last night here, and we have been friends for a long time now, there was much to discuss.’ Akbar looked up at Mahesh Das. ‘I know what the rumours say.’

  ‘Only you and Salima Begum know the truth, Your Majesty.’

  ‘That is so. You have our word—the emperor’s word of honour, for what it is worth—that there has been nothing but deep friendship between Salima and me.’

  ‘Your word is enough,’ said Mahesh Das.

  ‘Salima stayed here until the eleventh strike,’ said Akbar.

  ‘Two full hours, Your Highness?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he brushed the question away with a flick of his hand.

  ‘And at eleven, Salima Begum left?’

  Akbar nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps just quarter past after eleven.’

  ‘And you showed her out of your chamber yourself, I presume?’

  ‘We did, yes. And then we changed into our nightclothes and went to bed. We had not slept for longer than a few minutes before a servant woke us up with the news.’

  Mahesh Das nodded, getting to his feet. ‘I do think that your life is still in danger, Your Highness. I shall do all that is in my power to catch Bairam Khan’s murderer.’

  Akbar clapped and a young page appeared from the shadows of the room with a cloth bundle set on a silver plate. Akbar picked it up and handed it over to Mahesh Das. ‘Keep these,’ he said. ‘You may need some to extract information from the servants and guards in the fort.’

  Mahesh Das took the bag and felt it sink into his palms. He bowed and retreated from the room.

  * * *

  After the palace doors were shut behind him, Mahesh Das turned to the guard. The man was about a foot taller than he was, and the spear he held in his hands seemed as light as a strand of straw in those dark, gnarled hands.

  ‘Your name, good man?’ said Mahesh Das.

  The guard continued to stare into the distance with dead eyes.

  Mahesh Das went to the edge of the corridor, leaned against the balustrade, and set his bag of coins there. He produced the emperor’s seal and held it up so that the guard could see. The eyes passed over it once. Then they returned to it and remained there.

  ‘Shall we talk for a moment?’

  ‘Sir,’ said the guard, bowing crisply, ‘my name is Irfan.’

  ‘Irfan,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘I have a few questions to ask.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘Last night when the emperor and Salima Begum returned from the dinner, at the half stroke after the eighth, can you tell me who was on guard here?’

  ‘Myself, sir.’

  ‘Ah, how fortunate.’ Mahesh Das dug into his bag and pushed a silver coin along the top of the balustrade, towards the guard. ‘Then you would know the exact time they came here, would you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They came just as the half-gong had gone off.’

  ‘And they were alone, were they?’

  ‘Yes, sir. After they went in, they sent all the attendants and servants out.’

  ‘And guards?’

  ‘I was the only guard on watch.’

  Mahesh Das pulled out another coin and slid it towards him again. ‘Did you hear anything of what they spoke about?’

  Irfan shook his head. ‘No, sir. I heard only voices.’

  ‘What kind of voices? Loud, low, angry, happy...’

  ‘Happy, mostly,’ said Irfan. ‘Salima Begum seemed to laugh a lot. But once in a while she would get angry, and the emperor would placate her in a soft voice.’

  ‘And you heard both of them throughout the two hours.’


  The guard paused for a moment. ‘Well, it was a two-hour-long conversation, sir. Sometimes I heard more of Salima Begum and at others the emperor.’

  ‘I see. And when did they come out of the room?’

  ‘At a quarter past eleven, sir. The emperor appeared at the door and sent an attendant to accompany Lady Salima until the harem courtyard.’

  Mahesh Das said, ‘And how long after that did you get news of Bairam Khan’s passing?’

  ‘Must have been an hour, sir. Not longer.’

  Mahesh Das pushed two more coins towards Irfan, who took them with a murmur of gratitude. ‘Do not thank me, man,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘These are your master’s coins.’

  He tied the bag to his waist by means of a string, wore the emperor’s seal on his ring finger, and headed out of the palace.

  Sixteen

  ‘NOW,’ MAHAM ANGA said, raising her voice as much as she could. Coaxing worked best with Jalal. With Adham, one had to yell in his ear. ‘If you killed the regent, now is a good time to tell me.’

  Maham Anga leaned on her stick. Her spotted, wrinkled hands gripped the polished teak handle so tight that her knuckles went white with the pressure. Her back troubled her, and she ached to lie down on her bed and slip into a nap before lunch, but she had to have this conversation with her oaf of a son. And with him, she always felt more in control when she stood on her feet.

  Adham looked up at her in shock and then at the door behind them. When he saw that it had been bolted, his features relaxed into a smile. ‘I did not, mother. Do you think I have strong enough nerves to kill a man?’

  He sat on one of the round chairs set against the wall. His legs dangled off one side, hands entwined over his waist, hair falling away, like that of a woman. He had a woman’s straight nose too. His teeth were perfect and white, his eyelashes so black that they could have been dyed. As a child, people would often say that Adham should have been born a girl.

  It would have been so much easier if he had been a girl, thought Maham Anga. She would have seen to it that Jalal married him, and then there would have been no need for all these talks behind closed doors. During the later months of her pregnancy, she had taken the old midwives’ advice on how to ensure that the child she was bearing would be a girl. She had been quite the object of ridicule for wanting a daughter and not a son, but even back then—with Jalal only a year or two old—she had known that things would be a lot simpler if she had had a girl.