Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Read online

  SRISHTI PUBLISHERS & DISTRIBUTORS

  N-16, C. R. Park

  New Delhi 110 019

  [email protected]

  First published by

  Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2014

  Copyright © Ruchir Gupta, 2014

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The author asserts the moral right to be identifited as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.

  Typeset by Eshu Graphic

  To the three most important

  women in my life:

  my mother, my wife,

  and my daughter.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgement

  List of Characters

  1. The Reunion

  2. Retribution

  3. The Poisoning

  4. The Evil Hand

  5. Pit of Death

  6. Birth and Death

  7. Healing Broken Hearts

  8. Defeat

  9. The Proclamation

  10. Hidden Secrets

  11. The White Serpent

  12. The Accident

  13. Love or Lust

  14. Chamani Begum

  15. Shahjahanabad

  16. Reverse Invasion

  17. Mistaken Identity

  18. Reversal of Fortune

  19. Jahanara’s Taj

  20. Revenge

  21. Kandahar

  22. Mystic Soldier

  23. Aurangzeb’s Taj

  24. The Marathas

  25. Golconda

  26. Coming of the Storm

  27. The Storm

  28. Midnight

  29. Paradise Lost

  30. Fate of the Innocents

  Afterword

  A Conversation with Ruchir Gupta

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  This book could not have been possible without the unwavering support of several individuals whose advice was integral to its production.

  First, I'd like to acknowledge my editor, Mark Orrin, who offered me the sour truth about my earlier versions of the book. His advice wasn't always easy to digest, and yet he delivered it in the most tasteful way anyone ever could.

  I'd also like to thank the members of my writer's group, the Long Island Writer's Guild. On numerous weekday evenings over coffee, I learned how to write and develop my thoughts by listening to the works of these fine men and women. In turn, they listened to passages of my book, and gave me helpful hints that allowed me to strengthen my work. Most importantly, they made me believe I wasn't as far from my dream of writing a novel as I once thought.

  Finally, I would like to thank my family members who read various portions of the book and offered their thoughts. I hope I never disappoint them. Most importantly, I want to thank my wife, Supurna. She must have read and reread more pages of my book than anyone else, and each time she told me that I can do this. Three years of such steadfast devotion and confidence in someone is a lot to ask, even a spouse. She once told me when this manuscript was rejected by someone to "not worry," and that I can continue to write "just for her". I decided then that if no one ever publishes anything I write, I will still keep writing, knowing that my only reader is my devoted and loving wife. Luckily, this book has found a home and will hopefully entertain many people in years to come. However, even if it hadn't, I would've kept writing - just for her.

  List of Characters

  Afzal Khan

  Friend of Shah Jahan

  Arzani

  Ladli’s daughter

  Asaf Khan

  Mumtaz Mahal’s father,

  Jahanara’s grandfather

  Aurangzeb

  Shah Jahan’s son

  Bahadur

  Jahanara’s eunuch (fictional character)

  Chamani Begum

  Shah Jahan’s concubine

  Dara

  Shah Jahan’s oldest son

  Dawar Baksh

  Khusrau’s son

  Dilras

  Aurangzeb’s wife

  Gabriel Boughton

  British physician

  Gauhara

  Shah Jahan’s youngest daughter

  Hamida

  Jahanara’s distant cousin (fictional character)

  Henna

  Shah Jahan’s concubine (fictional character)

  Jahanara

  Shah Jahan’s oldest child

  Jahangir

  Jahanara’s grandfather

  Kandari

  Jahanara’s stepmother

  Khusrau

  Shah Jahan’s brother

  Ladli

  Nur Jahan’s daughter

  Manbhavati (Manu)

  Jahanara’s Hindu stepmother

  Mullah Badakshi

  Member of Qadiraya order

  Mumtaz Mahal

  Shah Jahan’s wife, Jahanara’s mother

  Murad

  Shah Jahan’s youngest son

  Nadira

  Dara’s wife

  Nur Jahan

  Jahangir’s wife, Shah Jahan’s stepmother

  Raushanara

  Shah Jahan’s daughter

  Sadullah Khan

  Aurangzeb’s father in law

  Sati-un-nissa (Sati)

  Jahanara’s lady-in-waiting

  Shah Jahan

  Jahanara’s father

  Shahriar

  Shah Jahan’s brother, Ladli’s husband

  Shuja

  Shah Jahan’s son

  1

  THE REUNION

  7th March, 1628

  I’d spent the better part of last night tossing around on my silk sheets, moving my blue, velvety pillow from side to side, unable to find comfort in my new, expensive bed. It seemed this long sleepless night would never end. Eventually, the rays of the sun began tunnelling through the darkness, and with them the sound of kettledrums began, summoning the faithful to a balcony in the Red Fort – the Jharoka-i-darshan. From here the King would offer his presence – his darshan – to his subjects as proof that he still lived, and the kingdom was still secure.

  I noticed more ladies awakening as soon as I got out of bed. A slave quickly brought warm chai to each maiden who desired it.

  I could hear the hustle and bustle of slaves in the harem – the zenana – starting kitchen fires, sweeping brooms, and the gentle stirring of the men from the floor below. Then my stepmothers’ and the royal concubines’ whispering began:

  “I need hot water now!”

  “Where’s my kajal?”

  The women spoke simultaneously to the hapless slaves who rushed in and out of the zenana trying to fulfill several wishes at once, in a fluster of activity that arose almost instantly as the slaves ran hither and tither.

  Splash!

  “Look what you did, you fool! There’s water all over my choli!” A poor slave had lost her footing and dropped a potful of hot water meant for Kandari onto Manu’s blouse. (Manu was my father’s only Hindu wife, all others being Muslim, like the rest of my family.)

  Suddenly I felt a slap on the back of my head and a rage-filled voice – Kandari’s: “What will you do with your allowance, Jahanara?” I knew I wasn’t supposed to answer this question; more was to come. “Will you buy expensive oils for your hair while the rest of us die hungry?”

  I just sighed, knowing not what to say to my stepmother. My father had granted me
an allowance of six lakh rupees upon becoming the fifth Mughal Emperor of India, with a one-time gift of four lakh rupees. My mother received even a higher allowance because she was now the official queen: ten lakh rupees per year, with a one-time gift of two lakh gold pieces and six lakh rupees.

  Kandari walked away but continued to crane her neck in my direction so I could see the fury in her eyes. Kandari had been a Persian princess bequeathed to my father before he married my mother. She was the first choice of my grandfather, Emperor Jahangir, for my father, and my father had married her only on condition that he could also marry my mother shortly thereafter. My grandfather acquiesced, but the marriage to my mother didn’t come about for another four years. When it did finally occur, my mother was catapulted to the top of my father’s zenana, placing Kandari downward in the hierarchy.

  Kandari had supposedly been a beautiful bride: slim, with sharp features and bright blue eyes. But she looked nothing like that now. The ‘official’ word was that Kandari was also barren and sterile, and indeed no offspring had come from her. But rumours around the zenana hinted differently. As one of the concubines would say, “Why blame the pot for not cooking lentils when the chef never poured any lentils into the pot in the first place?”

  With the passage of years, Kandari’s bitterness had taken root, and her temper had grown ever darker. Wrongfully labelled barren and rightfully feeling unloved, she knew her life was ruined and desolate because of Aba’s love for my mother; yet she wasn’t permitted to show it.

  Indeed, the zenana rumour was that no other wife but Ami shared the pleasure of his company. Still, my mother was treated well by these other wives despite her status, for not doing so would incur the wrath of my father.

  At last I saw Kandari move her head away. I looked down, almost in shock that my daily taunts had begun so early in the morning.

  I got out of bed and walked over to the mirror. For some reason, I felt filthy this morning. As I stared into the mirror I realised my eyes had been tearing this whole time. Everyone in my father’s zenana hated me. If ever I awoke even a little late, they would say loudly, “The Begum Sahiba has been sleeping more these days, now that she has a title…” It was impossible for me to not feel their envy. Their jealousy showed not just in their tone, but in their eyes, and even when they appeared to make endearing remarks, their eyes divulged their hearts’ true meaning.

  Though there was no formal crown for a Begum Sahiba (Supreme Princess), I felt as if something overburdening and heavy had been placed on my head, and even now, in the comfort of my own room, I felt its crushing weight sink deeper and deeper into my skull.

  Every time Aba asked me if I liked my new home I lied to him and told him what I knew he wanted to hear, though the truth was just the opposite. I’d been much happier before, living as a simple princess in exile in tents. Instantly I’d seen wisdom in the old saying about how it could be lonely on the heights. What I learned better, however, was how much lonelier it is near the summit. At least those at the very summit have their cronies who grant them their company and whatever pleasure is requested in return for favours. Those only near it, like me, receive all the agony the title brings, with no real power to do anything about it.

  Now I heard Kandari say: “Let’s get going, Begum Sahiba. You can’t spend half the day staring into the mirror. We must be in the Diwan-i-am within the hour!”

  And the commotion of the hundreds of spoiled women suddenly died as quickly as it had begun; we hurriedly adjusted our hair and garments to look presentable. Meanwhile, at a distance Kabuli, the chief eunuch, moved his big hands together as if motioning us to file in a single line and make our way to the Diwan-i-am. (Kabuli was my mother’s eunuch, which meant he was also the chief one.)

  Slowly we walked single-file, like a parade of ants. History was to be made in the Diwan-i-am today and no one should miss it. A hundred years from today, books would be written about today’s events; future poets would compose sonnets commemorating them; false witnesses would paint images showing these events unfolding. My powerless title commanded my attendance, though I felt like a helpless insect stumbling through life, utterly oblivious to the world around it.

  We all pushed one another, each hoping to secure the front spot for ourselves. The place for women in my society has always been behind grilled screens. Elaborate designs made of marble are carved in the shape of flowers and lotuses to form small holes, through which we see the world, but the world can’t see us. My face, I was told, was only for my family, and perhaps one day, for my husband. Still, I was trying to push against the screen, sticking my thin, ivory-coloured fingers through the holes and pressing my sharp featured face against the cold marble gratings, until the imprint of the marble formed on my face.

  The pomp and excitement of the moment reminded me of Aba’s coronation, which I’d watched a month ago, from the same decorated screen. I remember that day vividly. The invocation prayer for my father and his subjects was read under his new official name –Shah Jahan the Magnificent. I was told runners had been sent out in every corner of the realm to spread the word proclaiming my father’s ascension to the throne.

  The empire he would rule stretched from Persia in the west to Bengal in the east, and from the northern Himalayas to the plains of the Deccan plains in the south. It would take a camel 60 days to travel from one edge to the other – and now it belonged to us!

  I ran my eyes around the hall to see who else was in attendance. The hall itself was approximately 12,000 square feet in size. I’d been told that, made of red sandstone, it was painted over with white stucco to protect the stone and allow for coloured decoration. This was the Hall of Public Audience, hence the name Diwan-i-am. In the back of the hall was an alcove of inlaid marble that connected to the royal apartments behind. Here the emperor sat and would grant promotions and examine papers related to land grants, offices and salaries (do the regular administrative business of the kingdom).

  I could see the orthodox mullahs arranged along the front of the hall. Their long beards and dark robes always intimidated me. I often felt they hated women, which is why Ami and they were in a perpetual state of conflict. Ami would ask for alms for the poor and protection for women in our kingdoms (sometimes from their own husbands), and the mullahs would scoff at the idea that Aba should listen to a woman.

  Standing at the other end of the hall were the brave Hindu Rajput warriors. I tapped Sati, my lady-in-waiting, on her shoulder. “Why are they here?”

  She replied, “They are here because of Manu. Look, that’s her older brother, the one with the long mustache.” Manu’s family was Hindu royalty, and every Mughal king for the past three generations had married a Hindu princess to form an alliance with the brave Hindu Rajput kingdom.

  The crowd suddenly went silent as the proclamation of the king’s arrival was to begin. All eyes now fixed on the empty throne that awaited its master; it sat on an elevated marble platform, with four white marble pillars supporting the decorative canopy. Red drapes hung from the ceiling to add more colours to the display.

  A voice formally intoned: “Presenting His Imperial Majesty, Shah Jahan the Magnificent!” This was, of course, not his real name. Originally named Khurram by his grandfather, Aba had received this title after his military victory in the unruly town of Mewar. The story of his success in Mewar was legendary, and all who recited it spoke of how brave and valiant my father was as a young prince.

  Aba entered the hall wearing a blue robe with a crown turban – the turban being a relic of our nomadic heritage – with jewels and rubies glistening at a distance. Around his neck hung a beautiful necklace of pearls the size of a baby’s palm. He wore a diamond-encrusted gold dagger around his waist. As he walked, jewels on his robe took turns glistening, and it seemed as if he himself was exuding light. He at last reached his imperial throne and sat down.

  Behind Aba stood eunuchs who then began fanning him with peacock feathers; to his left stood the standard bearers, facing fo
rward with their backs to the wall. He was surrounded by burly Uzbek bodyguards, and the executioner stood by at a short distance, to dispose of anyone who might have committed a criminal act.

  Sati turned to me in excitement: “See how handsome your father looks! He’s so happy whenever he sits on the throne!”

  I sighed. To the degree Aba’s title had brought him unimaginable joy, mine seemed to have brought me nothing but grief. I couldn’t understand why I needed to be dragged into this. I felt that from that fateful day when I was crowned Begum Sahiba, people had begun treating me differently. Now I tried to be unaffected by my melancholy, for today was no day for lamenting, but instead for boisterous anticipation. Today my brothers, who’d been forced to live apart from us for several years, would finally be reunited with us.

  I couldn’t resist the suspense, and so insisted on moving to the front of the zenana so I could see my brothers clearly. I put my slender fingers through one of the holes, wishing I could push my entire body through so I might be able to stand right next to my Aba as the young princes were presented. My fingers hung from the lattice windows like leaves after monsoon rains.

  Then burst an announcement loud enough for all of us in the audience to hear: “Presenting to His Majesty the Most Magnificent of Amirs, Yaminuddawla Asaf Khan!”

  I saw my heavy-set maternal grandfather with his graying beard walk from the side to the centre of the hall and bow before Aba. Asaf Khan had helped Aba secure the throne for himself after my grandfather, Jahangir, died. For this aid, Aba gave him a special place at the court.

  Aba smiled gravely. “Tell me, Asaf Khan, have you brought my sons?”

  A pause ensued, each moment of which seemed like an eternity. I had spent many years wondering why my parents allowed two of their children to move to Agra at such young ages, separated from them. Why had they never visited and why had my parents never sent for them? A part of me almost resented my parents for having separated us siblings from each other. (Four of us, Shuja, Murad, my sister Raushanara and I, had lived in the Deccan with my parents, while Dara and Aurangzeb had lived in Agra.)