The Crows of Agra

by Sharath Komarraju

  ‘You mean to say, then, that the murderer helped me by killing him.’

  ‘I am just thinking of all possibilities, sir.’

  ‘Only Atgah Khan would have information of that sort, if indeed Khan Baba had designs of his own.’

  There was something about Akbar’s garment that nagged Mahesh Das. Something familiar about it. That colour. It reminded him of lilies.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mahesh Das, inclining his head.

  Two plates of olives and half-cut lemons were brought and left on the table. Another brought a jug of wine and tilted the contents into his goblet.

  ‘And there is Adham Khan…’ said Mahesh Das, once the servants had left.

  ‘Adham Khan? That nincompoop?’ Akbar threw his head back and laughed. ‘He cannot drive his sword through a man without fainting at the first sight of blood.’

  ‘But, sire, I have come to know that he wins all the palace tournaments.’

  ‘Ah, but a battlefield, my friend,’ said Akbar, ‘is something else. Not like these childish palace games.’

  ‘That is my very point, my lord. Bairam Khan was not killed on a battlefield. He was killed inside the palace, in his very chambers. Who knew what drove the killer? Anger? Revenge?’

  Akbar paused for a moment. ‘It is interesting that you mention revenge, Mahesh Das,’ he said finally, ‘Whenever one speaks of revenge, I think of Gulbadan foofi.’

  ‘Gulbadan Begum, Your Highness?’

  ‘Indeed. I have never been able to know what goes on in that mind of hers, Mahesh Das. I entrust you with finding all the answers. And then come back to me and tell me whatever you find.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That will be all for now,’ he said, ‘we shall meet tonight after dinner.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Mahesh Das got up to leave. Just as he was about to turn around, he remembered to ask. ‘Jahanpanah, I trust Salima Sultan Begum is over her shock of last night.’

  ‘Salima? Yes, yes, she is fine.’

  ‘I should like to call upon her in person sometime this evening, just to convey my best wishes.’

  Akbar nodded absentmindedly.

  Taking his cue, Mahesh Das adjusted his sacred thread, and left the room.

  Nineteen

  IT DID NOT HAPPEN very often that Mahesh Das found it difficult to sleep after lunch, but today was one of those unfortunate days. After his audience with Akbar, Mahesh Das returned to his room, with eyes heavy as little balls of lead. He cocooned himself in a thick cotton blanket, turned on his side so that he faced away from the guard at the door (they still made him nervous), and proceeded to count up from one to a hundred. That had been his father’s advice—fetching sleep from the deep corners of the mind to the surface.

  But today it had not worked.

  He then tried the other of his father’s advice—wetting his ear with warm water, and just because he could, he ordered the guard to bring him jasmine petals soaked in honey, in the hope that the smell would make him sleep.

  Even that had not worked. He had felt as though a bee had begun to build a comb in his ear, buzzing, tickling him on the lobe. When he swatted at it with his hand he met nothing but air, and when he sat up in despair and dug into his ear with his little finger, he brought out nothing but a dab of brown, sticky wax.

  Now, as he walked along the corridor of the east wing, he noticed that it was built differently. The harem had more delicate arches on its doorways. The tapestries that lined its walls were of rich blues and vibrant yellows; dashes of pink and purple splashed onto them from every edge and corner. The guards wore uniforms made of silk, and their scabbards had ornate designs woven from gold thread. The gardens had roses, lilies and carnations; the fountains were small and numerous, connected by slender rivulets that resembled a lady’s fingers.

  But here, the guards were bulkier. They wore black jackets and brass armour. The carpets wore a sombre brown look, with images of battle scenes—elephants and spearmen and flying arrows. The aqueducts in the gardens, too, were sturdier.

  The sprawling lawns were dotted with black dahlias and white roses laid out as beds as far as the eye could see. Every once in a while, though, he saw a patch of yellow, a tinge of maroon. He could not tell by sight what flowers they were; he guessed they must have come from the Western lands in one of those ships docked on the Gujarat port.

  The walls were adorned with weapons, shields with elaborate silver designs painted on violet-painted metal, gleaming with polish. Just by looking at them Mahesh Das could tell that they had never been carried into battle. These were probably gifts from visitors to the court, which was why some of them had inscriptions in a language that Mahesh Das could not read.

  Mahesh Das handed over the seal to the guards standing at Shamsuddin Khan’s chamber entrance.

  To his surprise, the guard barely looked at it. He bowed to Mahesh Das and said, ‘The general is expecting you, my lord. Please enter.’

  * * *

  The hefty teak door clicked to a shut behind him. Mahesh Das found himself in the grip of a deathly silence, in which his breath sounded like an intruder. The sounds of the servants’ brooms on the sandstone walls outside did not reach him anymore. He cleared his throat. The rough sound staggered through the silence.

  The outer room that Mahesh Das had stepped into was much like Bairam Khan’s. . Miniature models of cannons sat in a row on a high table that lined the longer edge of the room. Crenellations had been carved into the table top’s side to resemble a fort’s outer wall. The cannons had been placed such that they peeked out from between the crenellations.

  Along the shorter edge of the room stood a stacked bookcase. He went to it and examined the spines of a few books. He could not tell whether it was Arabic, Persian, or Urdu. Amid these texts sat a couple of Sanskrit books too—a small retelling of the Mahabharata, and another slim volume summarizing the Bhagavad Gita.

  Two fruit bowls sat on a round table set near the window, with two chairs facing one another across it. The smell of fresh fruit instantly transported Mahesh Das back to his childhood—running through cornfields with stolen guavas bundled up in his upper garment, panting and laughing at the same time, knowing that he would outrun the old farmer that was giving him chase.

  The habit had begun quite early.

  He turned away, forcefully, ignoring his grumbling stomach. It had not been a whole two hours since he had had lunch, and yet he felt like his navel was boring a hole through him. He pulled out two more books, looked at the indecipherable script on their hard, green covers, and put them back.

  Then he ran his hand down to the ivory drawer handle, pulling it open gently. He quickly scanned through the contents inside. There was a pocket knife studded with tiny emeralds, a ball of twine, a set of shiny shaving blades and a knife onto which they could be set, and a notebook with pink pages.

  This last he picked up and opened. He turned the hard binding over and flipped through the crisp and crackling pages. This looked remarkably like the piece of paper that had been found in Bairam Khan’s pocket. He combed the book to find traces of writing, but it looked new and untouched.

  Of course, this could be a common notebook, one which everyone in the royal household possessed. He lifted it up to his nose and he detected the hint of rose perfume. Had the letter in Bairam Khan’s pocket smelled the same? Mahesh Das could not tell for sure.

  Just then, the door to the inner chamber opened, and, startled, Mahesh Das twirled around to see Shamsuddin Khan at the entrance. Mahesh Das felt his armpits go damp with sweat, an old reflex action that had become second nature throughout his long career. Whenever someone or something startled him, his armpits knew what to do.

  ‘Mahesh Das,’ said Shamsuddin. ‘I was told that you would come for me.’

  Mahesh Das set aside the book, closed the drawer, and took a few steps towards Shamsuddin Khan. He bowed and said, ‘Yes, my lord. I come here on the emperor’s order. I would like to ask you a few questions about
your friend, Bairam Khan.’

  Shamsuddin Khan was smaller built than he had seemed the night before, when he had arrived at the dinner hall with a sword hanging by his hilt, in bejewelled, pointed black shoes, and the dark brown tunic of his soldier’s uniform. Now he wore his evening clothes, and the grey beard appeared to have been trimmed that very afternoon. When he met Mahesh Das’s gaze, he saw that the old general had a slight squint in the left eye. He waved Mahesh Das to a chair.

  After they had both taken their seats, they spent a moment appraising one another.

  Soft hands. Short, stubby fingers. One long, black streak began at the right wrist and disappeared under the sleeve of his kurta.

  ‘Everyone wishes to speak about Bairam Khan,’ he said, after the long spell of silence. ‘As in life, so in death, is it not?’

  ‘My lord,’ said Mahesh Das, bringing out the emperor’s seal and placing it on the table between them.

  Atgah Khan’s eyes rested on it for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We did not.’

  ‘But you were friends once?’

  ‘When you are this close to the throne, boy, every friendship is black under the surface.’

  ‘It is your opinion, then, that Bairam Khan had designs over the throne of Agra?’

  Atgah Khan smiled—the hard smile of a man who had stared death in the eye one too many times. ‘It is not just my opinion. The emperor thought so too.’

  ‘But you knew him well, perhaps better than the emperor?’

  ‘I did, once. When you know someone as a young man, fight in battles with him, you think you make friends for life.’ A vacant look came over his eyes. ‘But as you grow older, you realize…you realize that nothing is for life.’

  ‘You sound as though you have been betrayed by him, General.’

  ‘Do I? I must be bitter, then,’ said Atgah Khan, shrugging and smiling. ‘That he got so much more than I did, that the emperor trusted him so much more than he did me.’

  He is testing me, thought Mahesh Das. This is what he thinks the world thinks of him, and he wants to see if I rise to the bait. ‘Often it is the bull that works the hardest that gets whipped the most, my lord,’ he said.

  ‘I have fought well for Akbar,’ he said. ‘As well as Bairam Khan. Unlike him, I did not plot the emperor’s downfall while eating out of his hand. And what do I get for that?’

  ‘You are the foremost general in Jahanpanah’s army today, sir. That is something, is it not?’

  ‘Ah, the emperor only came to me when it became clear to him that Bairam was after his throne. How many times have I told him that Bairam is not to be trusted? How many times have I begged him to protect himself from usurpers? Did he listen to me? No. Only when his mother pressed it upon him, did he see the threat.’

  ‘What do you think of Maham Anga?’

  ‘She is perhaps the most perceptive of all the harem women,’ said Atgah Khan. ‘If she had been twenty years younger, she would have made Akbar a fine queen indeed. She saw through Bairam Khan’s designs. Inshah Allah. Otherwise, who knows what would have happened to Akbar?’

  Shadows of servants stole along the walls, filling each lantern with oil, drenching the wicks, turning them up.

  ‘Do you think he would have tried to kill the emperor and take over the throne?’

  Atgah Khan smiled. ‘Well, what other option would he have?’

  ‘And if that happened, you would have fought by the emperor’s side.’

  ‘Most certainly.’ An ashen cloud passed over the general’s face. ‘I shall lay down my very life for the emperor.’

  Mahesh Das felt as though the general was telling the truth. When it came to choosing between his old comrade and the emperor, Atgah Khan had after all chosen Akbar, for it was he who had captured Bairam by the paddy fields in Siwalik. ‘Do you believe that Bairam Khan would have really gone to Mecca today, if he had not died yesterday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You say that as if you are certain.’

  ‘I know Bairam well. He would not die until he had been killed.’

  Mahesh Das leaned forward in his chair. Servants in the royal household, he supposed, were trained not to hear conversations that go on within closed doors. But he could not take the chance.

  ‘What do you think he would have done if he had had the chance?’

  Atgah Khan eyed him with suspicion. ‘It does not matter now.’

  ‘It does not. But I ask to satiate my curiosity.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the easiest course of action would have been to go to Delhi and muster enough support from the noblemen there. Many of them like him. He would have been able to cobble together a decent army in fourteen days, I think.’

  ‘And he would have attacked Agra?’

  ‘Yes, why not? He would have taken us by surprise.’

  ‘So it is a good thing, is it not, that he has died?’

  Atgah Khan smiled, this time widely, and with a twinkle in his eyes too. Mahesh Das now got a glimpse of how this man might be with his grandchild on his lap, after he had retired from his duties. The brow softened and a dash of colour appeared on those dark, sallow cheeks.

  Or perhaps it was just the light.

  ‘I shall just say this, boy, that some deaths ought to be grieved and others rejoiced over.’

  ‘And this one? Are you grieving or rejoicing?’

  ‘I have said enough,’ said the general, his eyes still dancing like that of a teenager who had ridden his first horse.

  ‘You have not,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘but your smile has, my lord. You wanted him dead, did you not?’

  The call for prayers rang through the room.

  ‘I like him better dead, yes,’ said the old man, making no attempt to lower his voice. ‘But enough for now. It is time for my prayers.’

  ‘Before you go, sir, I need to ask you a question.’

  ‘I know what you are going to ask me,’ said the old man, looking Mahesh Das straight in the eye. ‘You are going to ask me what I was doing last night, at the time Bairam was killed.’

  ‘And where were you, sir?’

  ‘I was here in my chambers. You can ask all my servants and they will all confirm that it is the truth.’

  ‘With respect, my lord, they are your servants. Is it not possible that you have instructed them to lie for you?’

  Atgah Khan grinned. Mahesh Das could tell that the old warrior was enjoying this.

  ‘Not just possible, miyan,’ he said, ‘if I had wished to kill Bairam, it is quite certain that I would instruct my servants to tell you what I tell them to tell you.’

  ‘So you are not denying that you could have gone to Bairam Khan’s chambers last night.’

  ‘No,’ said Atgah. ‘I cannot deny it because I could have gone to his chambers last night.’

  ‘Did you, my lord?’ Mahesh Das could not keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  Atgah Khan looked at him as he would at a child. He leaned over and patted Mahesh Das on the cheek. ‘If I told you that, boy, then what is your function here?’

  His hands felt like cold granite against Mahesh Das’s skin. The smooth hands and stub-like fingers seemed to have rock-hard iron under the surface.

  ‘Let me ask you this. You have asked me about Maham Anga,’ he said, ‘but why have you not asked me about the other ladies of the harem? How about Gulbadan?’‘Gulbadan Begum? Do you know something about her, my lord, with respect to Bairam Khan’s death?’

  Atgah Khan let out a low chortle. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘I shall just say that of all of us in the palace, it is she, Gulbadan Begum who is rejoicing the most at Bairam’s death. Would you not want to ask her why? She may have some secrets for you.’

  * * *

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘I am to meet her this evening, after the prayers.’

  ‘Then you shall not tell her that Atgah Khan sent you,’ said the general, still chuckling. ‘I never thought that Bairam’s death would give me so much joy.’ He looked u
p at the ceiling. ‘Allah forgive me this sin of laughing at a friend’s death.’

  ‘I shall take your leave, sir,’ said Mahesh Das, standing up.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Atgah Khan absentmindedly.

  Atgah Khan’s voice caught him just as Mahesh Das was at the door.

  ‘I am going to tell you something now, boy.’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’ he said, turning around.

  ‘If you ever turn around the good will the emperor is showing you today, and use it to spit in his plate, I shall hound you with my sword drawn.’ His gaze hardened. ‘And I wield the sword better than the knife. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Twenty

  ‘I DO NOT ENTERTAIN guests in my chamber,’ she said, ‘especially if they are male.’

  Mahesh Das did not quite know what to make of the palace ghost, Gulbadan Begum. In the three days he had been at the court, he had heard enough tales about the old lady’s odd habits, of walking about the harem corridors after dark, sometimes long after the maids had gone to bed.

  But now, as he sat in front of her, Mahesh Das felt a chill grip him. Her pale marble-like face betrayed no emotion. Her eyes held a dash of blue, and each time she looked at him, they seemed to bore through his skull. Her hair had been left open, but not a strand was out of place. Two plucks of jasmine were wedged into the black, wavy locks. She looked nowhere close to her age.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my lady,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘But these are unfortunate times, and I am certain that once we have cleared the mist that rests on us, I shall not darken your door again.’

  ‘Unfortunate times,’ she said, and looked away from him into the distance. ‘Time is neither fortunate nor unfortunate. What Allah gives us, we accept without questioning. You do not believe in Allah, do you, good sir?’

  ‘Ah, I do not, madam. We believe that whatever we get in our lives is determined by our deeds in our previous lives.’

  ‘I have heard of such quaint beliefs. Here in the harem too we have a few of your kind, and I overhear conversations.’ Her voice had that musical quality of glass marbles striking against a polished floor. ‘Do you believe, then, that you can change your destiny?’