Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 2

  One day, Sati had told me the truth behind my brothers’ suspicious absence from our lives: They were hostages! When Emperor Jahangir was king, my father launched a rebellion against him. To Aba’s dismay, Emperor Jahangir’s forces were too strong for Aba’s princely army, and Aba suffered a crushing defeat. As his punishment, Emperor Jahangir’s queen and Aba’s stepmother, Queen Nur Jahan, exiled Aba to the Deccan and held my two brothers as hostages – a ransom against any future rebellion.

  Now said Asaf Khan: “Jahanpanah, your sons had a good journey from Lahore to your presence. I would like your permission to present them to you at this court.”

  Aba nodded his head in acquiescence and gave the signal to allow his sons to be presented. I continued to press my face against the screen, my heart racing; this was what I’d so long waited for.

  “Presenting Prince Muhammad Dara Shikoh!”

  Dead silence fell upon the hall, which was now filled with several hundred attendees, all arranged by rank. I heard footsteps, and instantly concluded that Dara had grown significantly since I’d last seen him. We women of the zenana readily picked up subtleties like the footsteps’ sounds; we’d learned to use all our senses in lieu of our limited vision to form complete pictures of occurrences on the other side of our screened windows.

  The mullahs remained at attention, motionless, like everyone else. No matter what the proclamation or whoever entered, these old men would always stand still as statues. Sati sometimes said: “Perhaps they would benefit from pouring their ‘lentils’ into zenana concubines from time to time.” I would chuckle at such comments. A certain concubine had once confided to me: “Many of them do pour ‘lentils’ into us. They just let no one find out!”

  A shadow began to appear that told me my brother must now be at least 5’5” or 5’6” tall. Then I caught sight of a fair-skinned boy with no discernible facial hair, dressed in an orange robe with a turban on his head. He walked to the throne, bowed to Aba and kissed the ground, as was customary behaviour before the King. Aba blessed him, rose and hugged his son tightly.

  My brother said, “Aba, Jahanpanah, I hereby present to you a thousand mohurs as a submission of myself to your service, and another thousand as a gift to you, my beloved father.”

  Aba accepted this tribute, commanded his oldest son, perhaps the future King of India, to sit at his side and presented him with a daily allowance of a thousand rupees as the ceremony continued.

  I almost cried out in excitement to my brother, but Manu put her hand over my mouth to prevent me from committing this egregious offence unintentionally; court etiquette had to be maintained at all costs. I noticed Ami had begun sniffing as though she were weeping.

  The ceremony continued with another announcement: “Presenting Prince Muhammad Aurangzeb!”

  A softer stomp with a much smaller shadow appeared, of a lad possibly not even 5’ tall and very slim. Then a figure more boyish-looking than Dara manifested himself, wearing an emerald-green robe and an orange turban.

  Though the Prince was only three years behind Dara, he looked even younger. He must not have started his growth spurt yet, I thought. I also noticed other things different about him: the way he walked and his facial expression. He lacked that levity and enthusiasm Dara had shown when approaching our father. Prince Muhammad Aurangzeb seemed withdrawn, almost as if he was being forced to do this and considered he had better, more important matters to attend to.

  Aurangzeb, like Dara, kissed the ground before Aba and was immediately blessed and hugged by his father, though the Emperor’s emotion seemed tempered by the fact that this was the second child presented. Had Aurangzeb been presented first, he perhaps would have benefited from the enthusiasm that accompanied the first encounter – a reaction I felt couldn’t be artificially summoned for the benefit of the second.

  Aba had Aurangzeb seated on his other side and awarded him a daily allowance of five hundred rupees while the daily prayers were being read in the Emperor’s name. Daily business was then attended to, as the princes stared forward, their faces showing completely contrasting expressions: Dara seemed hopeful and energetic (this was his father’s kingdom); Aurangzeb was resigned and emotionless, as if unsure whether or not his presence here was even needed.

  After the court finished its business, all the immediate members of the royal family reunited in the Ghusl khana, a private room near the zenana apartments.

  Raushanara and I walked towards Aba and our two brothers, slowly picking up pace as we approached them. Aurangzeb came towards us at a leisurely pace, but Dara sped to us and scooped us sisters into both his arms. We began to laugh and smile and talk to each other incessantly, while Aurangzeb stood at some distance watching us. After a little while I slowly walked over to my awkward young prince. “I’ve missed you, Aurangzeb,” I said calmly.

  Aurangzeb just stood there without reciprocal expression or comment. I waited no longer; I hugged my brother as tightly as I could, and Aurangzeb instinctively put one hand around me in slight acknowledgement.

  Raushanara was only a year older than Aurangzeb, though, and much shyer. I knew she didn’t have it in her to run up alone to anyone and greet them, physically or verbally; now she just stood at a distance smiling at Aurangzeb. Aurangzeb walked slowly over to her gazed at her quickly and snapped, “Have some shame and cover your head!” In the corner of my eye I watched Raushanara cover her head as her smile turned into a resigned frown.

  Then we all sat down on Persian carpets for a sumptuous meal for the first time in many years. As had been the case all day, Dara continued talking nonstop, asking us sisters how we’d been, for zenana gossip and about our journey. Aurangzeb just ate quietly, saying little.

  Dara wondered: “How was life at Nizamshahi?” (Nizamshahi was the town in the Deccan where we lived in exile before Aba became king.)

  “Nothing like Agra,” I shrugged. “We had servants and ate off of gold plates and wore expensive clothes, but we lived in tents.”

  “You all lived in tents all these years?” Dara seemed shocked, perhaps thinking we’d lived in the dingy military tents used by the Mughal army.

  “Yes,” I laughed, “but these tents were grand, two-story structures, beautifully decorated with wonderful colours and ornaments. We had cooks, nursemaids and servants for everything.”

  Raushanara interjected: “And we each had our own rooms.”

  Dara appeared to pay no attention to her. “Where did you all sleep?”

  Raushanara repeated, this time with contempt: “I just told you, brother: We each had our own rooms.”

  I tried to placate her. “Raushanara’s right; the rooms were beautiful, even nicer than the ones we have now.”

  I knew Raushanara had always harboured resentment towards me, though I’d never intended to provoke it in her. But I looked very much like my mother: we both had olive skin, straight hair and thin frames. The zenana women always said I was a Persian beauty like my mother. I contrasted starkly in appearance to Raushanara, who was tan-complexioned, with curly hair and a rounder physique, resembling the South Indians’. I never understood why one look was deemed more beautiful than the other, but to us Mughals, a Persian appearance was considered regal and therefore desirable. It seemed that to us, perfection was Persian, and anyone who looked like a Persian was considered automatically royal.

  Persians were considered disseminators of an elegant and sophisticated Islamic culture and etiquette. Mughal poets composed versus not in a native Indian language, but instead in Persian; official language at the Mughal court also was Persian; chronicles of major Mughal conquests by court historians were also written in great detail in Persian. Persian artistry, painting, and carpets, adorned our palaces and forts. We chastised the native Hindus as infidels needing change, while Persian was the gold standard they were to be changed to. Persians, in turn, had descended on Mughal India in droves. We were the wealthiest Islamic kingdom in the world, with riches beyond compare. This drew Persians at every level
– artisans, poets, architects, businessmen – to our dominion, allowing intense intermixing of the two cultures. Among those who came to India from Persia looking for a better life had been my great grandfather; this made me part Persian myself.

  Shuja and other slave kids would tease Raushanara as the ‘ugly sister,’ or the ‘excess waste that needed to be dispelled somehow from Ami’s womb.’ I worried that talk like this had further aggravated Raushanara’s feelings towards me.

  Dara’s eyebrows rose. “So you each had your own rooms in the tents?”

  “Yes,” said Raushanara, “and the playgrounds were bigger.”

  “Where did you all play?” asked Dara, as if he hadn’t heard Raushanara.

  I answered, “We played on vast, open grounds with no attention to boundaries. We were told it was all ours!”

  Dara grinned. “I bet it wasn’t as beautiful as the peacock gardens!” I’d heard of these gardens but still hadn’t visited them. He added, “Shall we retire to the peacock gardens now?”

  We played for awhile in the peacock garden; several peacocks ran up to us. Dara kept chasing them away as Shuja and Murad tried to grab them. The birds ran into the colourful bushes, where their own colours camouflaged them.

  More peacocks then ran out, and also rabbits and pigeons. Soon the entire garden was filled with animals and just us six children. Dara picked up Murad and tried to sit him on one of the peacocks, but they were too fast for him. Suddenly I noticed that a giant peacock stood next to me. I jumped back in mild excitement. It then spread its feathers wide in front of me, and I began to giggle. “What’s wrong with this peacock? It’s constantly looking for attention!”

  Aurangzeb sneered, “Perhaps it has caught your vanity, sister!”

  Aghast, I burst out, “Vanity? What vanity?”

  Aurangzeb walked over to me, stomping his feet. “You walk around freely with your face uncovered. Why? Because it’s too hot? It’s March, yet you show your face for what purpose – because you want others to admire it?”

  I looked down my nose at him. “Even if I do, what offence have I committed, brother?”

  “Allah has condemned vanity as the greatest sin, yet all you people display it everywhere I go.”

  I shot back, “You people? Who do you mean, you people?”

  “You, Raushanara, even Aba! What’s the need for all these jewels and rubies? I heard Aba had an artist present today in the hall – to paint our reunion scene. Does he not know it’s forbidden for our faces to be painted? That it’s an affront to Allah?”

  I decided to try reasoning with him. “That’s fine in the mosque, Aurangzeb; but this is our home. What we do here is different.”

  He wouldn’t relent. “So our homes shouldn’t be mosques? They shouldn’t be cathedrals we build to serve Allah?”

  Dara intervened to my rescue. “Don’t mind him! Aurangzeb, if you’re so pious and we’re so vain, why do you wear pearl necklaces around your neck? Why do you wear brightly coloured robes in court -- and why don’t you donate all your allowance funds to the mosque?”

  Aurangzeb’s face lowered; he seemed unsure of how to react.

  Dara went on: “There’s plenty of time for piety, brother.” He set a conciliatory arm on Aurengzeb’s shoulder. “For now, let’s all just enjoy each other’s company.”

  Aurangzeb stomped off; I remained baffled at the encounter. What had happened to my younger brother? Prior to his imprisonment, he’d been an innocent and loving child who’d slept next to me all the time. He listened to everyone and respected everyone. Now, he’d been transformed into an arrogant young mullah who had strong words of condemnation for anyone who didn’t see the world the way he did.

  Dara told me then not to be upset, that he would explain everything later. Aurangzeb’s behaviour had its origin in his imprisonment, Dara said. “In due time, I’ll tell you the rest.”

  Indeed, I was eager to learn what had happened during their imprisonment to transform my little brother into a religious zealot!

  Soon Dara and I were spending almost every moment together. As the crown Prince, Dara commanded respect with the zenana ladies, so they began treating me better as well.

  One day he asked me about the lost years from the time he was kidnapped to the moment of our reunion. It was difficult remembering every detail, because like most Mughal stories, this one, too, was filled with terror: fratricide, deception, betrayal and greed. At times I was astonished that my father had even taken part in all this.

  I began by telling Dara how we lived a tranquil life in Nizamshahi, and though we always tried not to discuss it, the shadow of his and Aurangzeb’s exile always eclipsed our happiness. However, everything changed when we received word that grandfather Jahangir had suddenly died.

  Along with five of his closest allies, Aba then decided to ride to Agra from Nizamshahi. Aba had received a runner-message from our other grandfather, Asaf Khan, who was in Agra at the time, to hurry to the city before Nur Jahan declared my uncle Shahriar King. Jahangir had died in the hills of Kashmir, with Nur Jahan by his side. If Aba reached Agra before her, he could secure the kingdom before Shahriar was declared king.

  However, during their journey they received a message that Asaf had already crowned our cousin, Dawar Baksh, King of India!

  Dara looked puzzled. “But Dawar Baksh was just a boy!”

  I told him this had been part of a larger plot by Asaf Khan. Indeed, Nur Jahan’s choice for king was Shahriar and the fact that he wasn’t crowned king spoke volumes about what was happening in Agra: that Nur Jahan wasn’t in control, at least not at that moment. Asaf Khan had installed a puppet to buy them some time.

  “So Dawar Baksh was just a puppet?” Dara was shocked. I nodded. I continued to tell him how Aba’s next big obstacle to Agra was the tiny kingdom of Bijapur, a town loyal to the newly anointed king, Dawar Baksh. As Aba and his men rode slowly on their horses to the hill overlooking the main fort of the city, they quickly realised they wouldn’t be able to cross the city with force. Thus, my father used trickery to cross the kingdom.

  Dara appeared intrigued as I recited the story, as though it were some imaginary tale. My view of things differed: It had hurt me to see family members fighting for the throne while their father hadn’t even been buried.

  Dara swung both hands in the air and chanted: “One day I will be a valiant warrior like Aba!” I stared at him in mild amusement. He continued. “I will defeat my brothers and descend upon Agra to seize the throne after Aba is no more!”

  From then on shivers went down my body whenever I thought that my brothers would likely quarrel among each other while we, his sisters, mourned our father’s death. Dara cried, as he raised a wooden stick sword-like in the air: “One day, I shall be King of India!”

  2

  RETRIBUTION

  29th April, 1628

  Parties were one of the more enjoyable aspects of zenana life. Royal chefs would prepare authentic Mughal dishes for us: lamb in yogurt sauce, grilled kebab, lamb pulav garnished with raisons, chicken korma, and grilled fish in lemon sauce. Our vegetarian Hindu members like Manu were served vegetable pilaf, moong dal, yogurt with vegetables with tandoori bread and the like.

  The palaces of the zenana were like a giant jewellery box with an almost limitless number of compartments, each connected through lush gardens and verandahs. In effect, the zenana was its own separate little society, with its own hierarchy and rules, the wives and relatives of the royal family on top, concubines and scullery slaves next, followed by lesser slaves. Room size and furnishing luxury were according to the occupant’s rank.

  Children were born in the zenana and grew up there. The Emperor would occasionally come to the zenana and spend the night with someone, either a wife or a concubine, and while competition and jealousy ran at all levels, no one dared show these to the King, as that would be deemed disruptive. A concubine or slave, for example, who won the King’s favour would be left alone with him on the night of his cho
osing – but perhaps would be made to pay dearly the following morning, when the King was gone.

  The ladies would spend literally a full day decorating themselves. When they finished, they splayed themselves on the velvety divans, awaiting the other ladies.

  If we were lucky, during a kingly visit all the ladies would smother him, each for different reasons: the wives for gifts, the concubines for sex and us daughters to receive genuine love and affection.

  Henna Begum was an eccentric member of our zenana. She had the annoying habit of walking around the harem naked as she readied herself. I found this odd and unnerving; because she was rather attractive, her body made me admittedly self-conscious.

  Women in the zenana knew they could display such promiscuous behaviour because no unaltered male but the king was allowed anywhere near us. Our zenana was guarded by three different levels of individuals. The highest were the Tatar women, Uzbeks, who were women of gargantuan proportions, larger than even the largest of Amazons and stronger than many of the soldiers in the imperial army. The next level was the eunuchs, who played a central role in advising the individual wives and serving as their representative to the outside world. The lowest level women were regular female guards.

  “Where is Henna?” Kandari sipped her usual glass of arak wine as she began what I suspected would likely be a jealous diatribe about the overly flamboyant Henna Begum.

  “Probably running naked somewhere,” sniped one of the other concubines.

  Kandari grinned. “As long as she doesn’t show up naked in front of the King, I’ll be happy.” From a distance Raushanara and I watched Kandari, resting semi-intoxicated on the divan. We still weren’t sure whether, or even how, to participate in these parties, but their entertainment value was unmistakable.