She clutched at the sleeve of his kurta until the fabric tightened around his arm. “And who do you think must follow you?”
“Do you need to ask that? Dara.”
“Is he ready to be Emperor in your stead?” A tremor in her voice. “Think, Bapa, the boys are so young and likely to be easily led by the amirs at court. Where will you be? Who will pay attention to an Emperor who has deposed himself?”
“Does it matter so much, Jahan?”
“Only as much as the Empire does. If the nobles array themselves into cliques, the land will be fragmented.”
A long silence followed as they stood there together by the railing of the balcony. The sun had dipped into the western sky by now, and its angled rays bathed the fort at Burhanpur with muted light. The day’s heat had diminished with the coming of the night, and, in the river below them, fishermen cast their nets out into the waters from their little dinghies with audible thumps. The river swallowed the wide nets as soon as they touched its surface, leaving only small blue and red floats visible. They watched as the nets were gathered in and hauled up to the boats, tiny fish writhing in masses of silver and white.
“I had thought of a regency. But only briefly.”
“Who? Mirza Mahabat Khan?”
Shah Jahan nodded. “Or your mother’s brother Shaista Khan, or your mother’s father, Abul Hasan. Of the two, perhaps Abul.”
Jahanara stepped back and glanced at him. “A regency would also be unwise. . . . There is no precedent for this, Bapa. Would you be willing to allow another man to counsel your son in matters of state?”
Shah Jahan rubbed the side of his neck thoughtfully. “Tell me, how much has this lunacy of mine affected your brothers?”
“Dara . . . he thinks he will be your choice, as I think also. Shuja does not know yet. Aurangzeb wants to be Emperor, but, Bapa, he is only thirteen.”
Even as she said this, they both remembered that Shah Jahan’s grandfather and Jahanara’s great-grandfather Emperor Akbar had also been a mere thirteen when his father died and he had been hastily crowned on a makeshift brick platform. But a regency had followed, for the next six years, and it was difficult to think now that the man who had left them this solid, glorious Empire had struggled to rid himself of his regent, and even of his controlling wet nurse, to both of whom he had given his affection, his love, and far too much power.
“Go now.” Shah Jahan pushed his daughter gently toward the steps and the outer door to his apartments. “And tell your brothers, and all who will listen, that I will be at the jharoka balcony at dawn tomorrow. In the afternoon, I will visit your mother’s grave.”
Jahanara reached up and kissed her father’s cheek. His beard, unkempt since he had not allowed a barber near him all these days, scratched at her lips. When she had crossed the length of the room, she looked back and almost ran to her father again. He stood framed in the light of the setting sun, his back bent with grief, his right hand over his eyes.
“How will we go on, Jahan?”
“By stepping firmly through life, Bapa.” She tried to keep the quaver out of her voice.
She knew of this Luminous Tomb her father meant to build for her mother. No other Emperor before, and none after, would ever think of honoring a mere woman with such radiance in marble. As her mother lay dead, Jahanara would take her place in almost everything, but she did not think her own life, or Roshan’s, or even that of poor little Goharara, whose coming had killed their mother, would amount to much in the centuries to come. They would remain Mumtaz Mahal’s daughters—always in the dark when held up to her light. They would be the princesses in the perpetual shadow of the queen who had died.
When she stepped into the darkened and cool antechamber, Jahanara tarried awhile. Her heart slowed with an effort and she realized that a crisis had been averted. And it was of her doing. On the other side of the door, her father moved around his room with a faltering step. Beyond, in the corridor, she heard the scrabbling of the flock of retainers who awaited her commands on matters trivial and important. Jahanara took a deep breath and went out to meet the servants. Young as she was, in the coming years, she would be asked to arrange marriages for her brothers or consulted on court affairs or act as a crutch upon which her sorrowing father leaned. This she would not mind. But she did not know that performing these varied duties would eventually cast a lingering shadow upon her life most of all. That posterity would only know her as a beloved daughter and an adored sister. Nothing more. Perhaps.
• • •
Emperor Shah Jahan had said, entirely in jest, that Princess Jahanara should tell anyone who would be willing to listen that he would, finally, a week after his wife’s death, give an audience at the jharoka early the next morning. It was a little joke. Everyone in and around Burhanpur paid heed—which meant any man of even the smallest standing in the Empire, for the Emperor had moved his court to Burhanpur and with him came the imperial army and the entire administration. The Mughal Emperor was the court, the country, the Empire, and in his august person, in his crown—even if won by some very mortal and immoral means—lay the fate of the one hundred and thirty million people in Mughal India.
Word flew as if on wings of fireflies, flickering first here and then there, until the whole of Burhanpur knew that they would get a glimpse of their Emperor’s face at sunrise. The jharoka appearance itself was one of the many Hindu customs the Mughal Emperors had adopted as their own, even as they had been gathered into the lap of the country that made them immeasurably rich and made them and their heirs into one of the most powerful dynasties on Indian soil. It was properly called a jharoka-i-darshan—a privileged viewing of, a glimpse of the hallowed monarch. Emperor Akbar, Shah Jahan’s grandfather, gave the jharoka its sunrise timing, thinking that the first face his subjects should catch sight of upon waking and commencing their day’s work should be his own—who else’s?
Emperor Jahangir had tripled the jharoka appearances during his rule, emerging three times into special and ornate balconies built into the bulwarks of his forts and palaces: at sunrise on the eastern side, at noon on the southern side, and at sunset on the western side. The citizens never tired of these jharokas, for each day they satisfied themselves that their Emperor was alive, interested, and engaged in his responsibilities. The jharoka came to signify the well-being of the Emperor and the Empire. Emperor Shah Jahan’s presence at the jharoka was that important to his position as Emperor—and not since Emperor Humayun began the tradition of the jharoka, a century ago, had a Mughal Emperor missed seeing his subjects for more than a week of days. In Emperor Shah Jahan’s case, it was a full eight days, for he had decided to return to his duties on the second Friday after his wife’s death, and he would also visit her grave for the first time on this holiest of days in the week.
But his absence had had its effect. Rumors sprouted on the dry, dusty mud around Burhanpur and grew into great fears, fanciful tales, and some complete untruths. The Emperor had died, killing himself by his own hand. The Emperor had been deposed, killed by his sons. Which son’s hands were bathed with his father’s blood? One prince or another was considered in the mouths of the rumormongers and dismissed . . . and reassessed as the murderer of his father. The Afghan kings, having heard of the Empress’s death and the Emperor’s demise, were planning another rebellion from the north and the east—soon, very soon, there would be another dynasty upon the throne of Hindustan. And so forth.
One accusation, vile and torrid, fluttered even this soon after Mumtaz Mahal’s death, based eventually on the premise that the Emperor was indeed alive. He was said to have used his daughter in the place of his wife, because she had so much the look of her mother and the personality of her mother—and so, Emperor Shah Jahan bore the same . . . love for Princess Jahanara Begam that he had for Mumtaz. These were early days yet, filled with fear and uncertainty, so this rumor did not take wing as it could have. But it would later on.
After Jahanara fell in love with an amir from the
court.
Six
Before sunrise musicians played to wake the court and at the moment of sunrise the emperor presented himself in his jharoka-i-darshan. . . . The custom . . . to reassure them that he was alive and well and all calm in the kingdom was an old one . . . this . . . was an occasion for common people to make personal requests direct to their ruler.
—BAMBER GASCOIGNE, The Great Moguls
Burhanpur
Friday, June 26, 1631
27 Zi’l-Qa’da A.H. 1040
By the time the sun rose in the maidan that had been hammered out in the dust and scrub outside the fort at Burhanpur, men had been gathering in front of the marble jharoka balcony for hours. As dawn broke, lanterns and torches were extinguished and people turned to one another in the first light of the day with questions and sleep-deprived faces. But the questions could wait. They combed their hair, rubbed clean hands around their necks and behind their ears, wiped their faces, and straightened their clothing. This was no usual jharoka, on this Friday morning, and in their haste most had been hurried with their toilettes, a huge breach of etiquette in appearing before the Emperor. The men stood in three loose tiers leading up to the jharoka. Under the balcony itself were the Khan-i-khanan Mahabat Khan, solemn and upright; Mirza Abul Hasan, the Emperor’s father-in-law and a grandee of the Empire; and the Grand Vizier, the Prime Minister of the Empire. Behind them were the other nobles at court—Hindu Rajas, Muslim amirs, holders of high rank, much wealth, quite a bit of magnificence. In Emperor Jahangir’s or Emperor Akbar’s court, some of these men could have called themselves fathers-in-law to the Emperor and been proud of having their blood mingle with the Emperor’s, but Shah Jahan had been contrary to his father and his grandfather, limiting his wives to a mere three.
Behind the amirs of the Empire were the tradesmen, the businessmen of affluence but not equal rank, and traveling merchants. In court, the demarcations between these classes of men were marked by railings of gold, silver, and wood, and by the texture and value of the carpets each class of men stood on. But the jharoka, by its very definition, was not a court, not even an audience, merely a looking upon the Emperor to be assured of his well-being. It was as casual a royal ritual . . . as royal rituals could afford to be casual.
And yet, the war elephants from Emperor Shah Jahan’s stables were mustered behind the standing men. The imperial horses were brought in; two cages with newly captured leopards were wheeled by the keepers of the royal menagerie. The first announcement of Shah Jahan’s presence at the jharoka was preceded by the beating of the huge kettledrums in one corner. The heart of every man in the maidan thudded to the accompaniment of the drums, as the beaters’ muscles strained and stretched and sweat began to pour from their foreheads. The trumpets joined in, a twirl of breeze swung the yak’s-tail standard, held high above the assembly, and finally, the conch bearer raised his shell to his lips and let out a huge blast.
The crowd bowed in unison as Emperor Shah Jahan filled the empty doorway of the jharoka and then stepped outside, dressed in a splendid, pure white. His qaba and the wrapping of his turban were silk; there were diamonds in his aigrette, pearls around his neck and on his hands, diamonds glittering on the broad cummerbund around his waist, just visible to the men standing below through the stone railing of the balcony ledge. But what astounded them most was that the man they beheld, their Emperor, was not the man they had seen under these very circumstances just over a week ago. Where was the clear gaze fixed upon them in benevolence and firmness? This man was crouched over his own stomach, his hands seemed to shake as he put them out to balance his weight on the balustrade, his face was aged, the hair on his head more white than they had imagined.
“Padshah Salamat!” they shouted, their voices petering into nothing.
This was not Emperor Shah Jahan. Whether in court, or at a private audience, or at the jharoka, no one was allowed to move even the slightest bit in the Emperor’s presence or speak before being spoken to or asked for a response to a direct question. Every event where the Mughal Emperor was present was silent—thronging with men and animals but quiet as a stillborn wind. Coughs were to be stifled, itches scratched later; even breaths had to be hushed. For the first time, when the men below the jharoka balcony raised their heads and doubted the evidence of their eyes, a slow quiver of movement passed through them. They glanced at one another. They bumped shoulders. They gazed at the man on the balcony, their master, with a steadiness unbecoming to servants of the Empire.
• • •
Her heart thumping, Jahanara leaned against the opening of the jharoka, just out of sight of the men below. The balcony itself was of a slender width and length, two feet by five, and from where she stood, she could reach out and touch her father. When the sun lifted itself from the arms of the night and bathed the upper ramparts of the fort at Burhanpur, it would light up Shah Jahan’s face with its newly minted glory and create awe, just as the jharoka appearances were always meant to do. Bapa would speak very little during the jharoka—he rarely did, even when small petitions were brought to him—this much he, and previous Emperors, had decided would be the practice at these appearances. So how then to convince them that the man who stood before them was their king?
Even as she thought this, Jahanara felt a warm flush cover her face, for she had in her own mind created a doubt, or rather picked up on it from the outside.
“What is happening?” said Dara in a low voice.
“I don’t know.”
“They think . . .” But he did not finish his sentence; he could not either.
Jahanara glanced at her four brothers and at Roshan, hovering behind them. She had ordered them all to be awake and present at this jharoka appearance without really knowing why. Complaints had poured into her bedchamber all night, in the form of letters from Dara and Shuja and a visit from both Roshan and Aurangzeb. They had not wanted to rise so early, they did not think it necessary to be present at the jharoka—this was their father’s duty, not theirs. She had responded to all of them with a simple injunction to be ready by daybreak, and they had all listened, but this did not surprise her; she was used to being obeyed. The youngest, Murad, she had kept by her side all night, had roused him and overseen his dressing herself. For the past five minutes, ever since their father had stepped outside, the four boys had grumbled in their throats, yawned widely, and rubbed their eyes in a pantomime of sleep, but now they were alert. They all sensed the change in the atmosphere, from adulation into something more . . . threatening.
Then the whispers began, and Jahanara felt her heart plummet. Little noises at first, arising from one part of the crowd, then another, then yet another, until they all seemed to rise in the air and meld together in one melody, like a thunderstorm’s wind.
Jahanara saw her father stagger. Emperor Shah Jahan’s hands shook, and he wrenched them from the balustrade to clasp them behind his back. He cleared his throat, half turned toward his children.
“Jahan,” Shah Jahan said, pleading, his eyes fixed upon the crowd below.
She pulled Dara up to her and said, “Go.” And then she propelled him out onto the balcony, edging him around her father and to his right. He went without a word. One by one, she sent the other three sons out also. Shuja to stand at Dara’s right. Aurangzeb to stand at Shah Jahan’s left; Murad to his left, until the four heirs of the Empire bounded the Emperor on either side. Murad, too short under the balcony ledge, stuck his toes in between the railings to hoist himself up and hung from there, his arms dangling over the side.
When Roshanara made a movement toward the balcony, Jahanara pulled her back. “Are you crazy? You cannot show yourself to the men of the Empire.”
“I will cover my face,” Roshanara said. “Empress Nur Jahan held audiences at the jharoka, and our grandfather allowed her to.”
“No,” Jahanara said, clutching her sister’s sleeves. “No woman will step out onto the balcony in such a brazen manner while Bapa is Emperor. Do you think the
amirs respected Nur Jahan for her actions? They laughed at her. A woman’s place—our place, Roshan—is behind the veil, behind the zenana’s walls, and if you want to do anything at all, do it here, in this space. But,” she added, unable to be kind to a sister she did not like, “you can do little, Roshan, you are but a second daughter. Stay away from the jharoka.”
Anger flashed through Roshanara, and she had opened her mouth to speak again when a wave of sound blasted from below, thrilling them all as the men clapped their hands and the trumpets played.
“Padshah Salamat!” the crowd shouted.
The Mir Tozak, the Master of Ceremonies, who was situated below the balcony, took up the chant and then recited the Emperor’s name and title as if affirming that he indeed stood above them, that there was no trickery, that the four glowing and brilliant boys who ensconced their father had shown to the crowd that this man was their king. They stood together, linking hands under the balcony’s ledge, where their hands could but barely be seen, but their shoulders touched at each side, their backs were straight, and these princes looked out into the crowd with open and courageous gazes.
As though introducing Shah Jahan for the first time, the Mir Tozak said, his voice swinging over the now-silent courtyard, “Bow to the mighty Emperor who bears the names of his ancestor Amir Timur and the titles of Abul Muzaffar Shahabuddin Muhammad Sahib-i-qiran-i-sani Shah Jahan Padshah Ghazi.”
Jahanara heard her father’s name being called out and bowed her head, as did her brothers on the balcony. Then, with a soft touch, she nudged Dara and Aurangzeb on their elbows.
“Come back,” she said.
The four princes shifted from their father’s side, and one by one, as they had entered the balcony, so they stepped away from it and from the sight of the crowd.
But their purpose had been achieved. Jahanara quivered with excitement as the jharoka progressed, knowing she had been instrumental in this immediate acceptance of Bapa (who had still not said a word to the people below) and knowing somehow that she had gained some power here in the zenana, on the other side of the balcony. The jharoka went on for forty more minutes, and the boys went back to their chambers to sleep; only the two princesses stayed on, sitting now on either side of the balcony’s opening, glowering at each other, both cast in the morning shadow of their father’s figure on the balcony.
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