Shadow Princess

by Indu Sundaresan

  He read over what he had written and copied it onto Jahanara’s letter. This would be the first time he had communicated with her since he left her apartments at the fort at Agra without saying good-bye. Though he had muttered the word at the doorway, he did not think she had heard. But she would be interested in reading what he had to say here, this much he assured himself, because he had tried to copy Emperor Babur’s writing style from the Baburnama, a book precious to both his father and Jahan. He could not keep from adding these words at the end of Jahanara’s letter, because he really did not know how to be humble—I will touch only briefly upon the matter we talked of last. . . . Whatever happens, I will look after you, Jahan.

  rauza-i-munavvara

  The Luminous Tomb

  I always thought one of the chief faults of Hindustan was that there was no running water. . . . A few days after coming to Agra, I crossed the Jumna with this plan in mind and scouted around for places to build gardens, but everywhere I looked was so unpleasant and desolate that I crossed back in great disgust.

  —WHEELER M. THACKSTON, (trans. and ed.), The Baburnama: Memoirs of Babur, Prince and Emperor

  Agra

  Thursday, February 1, 1635

  13 Sha’baan A.H. 1044

  With the riverfront terrace completed, the tomb itself rose rapidly into the sky. When workers raised wooden walkways on stilts to build the dome of the central, marble monument, two other walkways zigzagged up to the top of the Miham Khana and the mosque on either side. All three buildings were constructed from brick and mortar, layer upon layer, with thick walls, domes, and arches, so that they would endure in their unsullied, new-built splendor five hundred years from now. But the facing of the main tomb was attired in the speckled white marble that Ustad Ahmad Lahori had convinced Emperor Shah Jahan to use, and the mosque on the left and the Miham Khana on the right, absolutely identical to each other in look if not in function, were clad in red sandstone. These two latter buildings, guardians of the Luminous Tomb through time, were to provide sanctuaries for the meeting of the nobles and commoners and hallowed places for prayer.

  With all the aspects of the riverfront terrace finished, Ahmad Lahori stepped again onto the platform of the Great Gate and viewed his creation. The earth gaped from where he stood to the tomb itself, and the sun had carved out a space for itself in the roasted dirt and turned all of their skins a corroded brown, broiled their brows, desiccated their insides. It was finally time to begin planting in the gardens. For almost four years, they had all labored in the hundred-degree heat of the summers without even the meager shade of a sapling to cover them, and now that the main part of the tomb’s complex was done, they could breathe and rest as they performed the pleasurable task of raising greenery.

  The first thing to do in the tomb’s gardens was to build the four immense sandstone pathways that would meet at right angles in the very center. Here would float a pool in white marble with severe square rims on the outside and voluted edges on the inside. There would be five fountains in this pool to mist water into the scorching air of the summer, and the waters would be clean and cool, for pilgrims to stop at, wash their faces, drink from the cupped palms of their hands. The main pathway that led from the Great Gate on the south to the tomb itself in the north would be similarly interspersed with fountains; the pathway crossing it, from east to west—thus dividing the gardens into the traditional charbagh—would be a blank walking path.

  With the pool in place, Ahmad Lahori began drawing up plans to bring in the water. He experimented with various engineering styles, visited the gardens around Agra, especially the first imperial garden, built by Emperor Babur some one hundred years ago, and mulled over an ingenious technique by which to lift water from the Yamuna River and into the gardens of the Taj Mahal. While Lahori was pondering how to conceal the workings of the system, so that it would seem as though the gardens produced water out of the heat and dust and the emerald trees, he met a Venetian, a traveler who was writing a history of India, or so he said to the great architect. Only mildly curious about this foreigner (for there were so many in Agra), Lahori invited him home for a meal so that the women of his zenana could have a look at him through the latticework net that divided the public and private spaces of his house. Amid the tittering and laughter from behind the screen, as the women examined the man’s red hair and his sweaty red beard and colorless eyes, Lahori let slip his dilemma about the gardens of the Taj, and the Venetian, in turn, boasted of some ancient waterworks in a country called Rome. Lahori clapped his hands, gestured to shoo the women away, and sent his guest on his way to write his history as he would, laden with gifts of silk cloth, a mule to carry his belongings in all of his wanderings, and a manservant. Lahori spent the night sketching, for the Venetian had given him an idea which he wanted to explore, and he had not had the heart to tell the man that, though the waterworks he spoke of had been in Rome for some one thousand years, in Hindustan they had existed for much longer.

  An inlet was dug out from the river on the western side of the complex—the side which housed the mosque on the riverfront terrace—and here batches of sixty-two oxen went around in endless circles so that a waterwheel with buffalo-hide buckets could scoop water in turn and tilt it into an elevated aqueduct with channels open to the sky. The aqueduct ended in three large cisterns raised to the level of the western compound wall, and the entire system lay outside the western wall of the Luminous Tomb’s gardens. From the cisterns, a lone pipe snaked its way into the wall and then downward, and the elevation was just enough so that when the pipes were connected with the fountain spouts of the central pool and the long pool of the north-south pathway, water gushed and played as it was intended to do.

  In the gardens themselves, all the pipes, made of copper or kiln-fired or sunbaked terra-cotta, were buried inside the stone pathways—if a leak developed, or the system failed to work, the stone would have to be broken and lifted from the ground for the fixing. But Ahmad Lahori had just finished constructing a tomb formed of luminescence—a little seeping of water did not worry him, and, confident of his design, he boldly interred all the pipes in stone so that water would be seen, heard, touched, and felt in abundance in the gardens but its source would be concealed from view.

  With the water in place, they began to lay out the trees in the sixteen quadrants of land in the gardens—each of the four quadrants formed by the main pathways had then been split into another four. Tall cypresses, chenars, evergreens, cotton trees, and medlars all struck root along the pathways in groups of two and three, and under their welcome, opaque shade, Lahori put stone benches to rest aching legs. The remainder of the gardens was left all light, brilliant and searing during the day, blue and silver in the moonlight. And here, in consultation with the Empire’s most expert landscapers and with agreement from his Emperor (by correspondence), Ustad Lahori laid out a series of parterres of finely wrought, slender sandstone pieces in the shapes of stars, rectangles, squares, and octagons, and crammed these with flowers. The land around the parterres was the green of a painstakingly cultivated lawn. And in this lush jade were jewel points of color according to the season—heavy pink and purple roses from Kabul, burnt orange marigolds, white carnations, sweating poppies, tulips and daffodils from the gardens of Kashmir.

  And that was how the living frame for the building was formed, the sumptuous cool greens of the trees, the scent of flowers, and, floating above it all, the shimmering white of the Luminous Tomb.

  Nineteen

  The underside of the canopy is covered with diamonds and pearls, with a fringe of pearls all round, and above the canopy . . . there is a peacock with an elevated tail made of blue sapphires . . . the body of gold inlaid with precious stones, having a large ruby in front of the breast, whence hangs a pear-shaped pearl of 50 carats or thereabouts.

  —WILLIAM CROOKE (ed.) AND V. BALL (trans.), Travels in India by Jean-Baptiste Tavernier

  Agra

  Saturday, February 10, 1635

>   22 Sha’baan A.H. 1044

  Seven years in the making, Emperor Shah Jahan thought as he ascended the three steps to the Peacock Throne and sank down on the main gaddi—a mattress thickly stuffed with cotton and upholstered in red velvet embroidered in gold zari and minute pearls. He was alone in the Diwan-i-khas at the fort at Agra, having sent all the guards and eunuchs outside, and this was the first time he was seeing the throne which he had commissioned soon after his coronation. Bibadal Khan, the superintendent of the imperial karkhanas, had begged to be allowed at this viewing, wishing to see his Emperor’s reaction for himself, to note his Majesty’s pleasure when his eye lit upon the glitter of gold and precious stones, to see whether he had executed this task to his ruler’s satisfaction. But Shah Jahan had banished him also, wishing for some quiet from the bustle of life that surrounded him daily. He had carved out this time from his sleep, rising before the sun as usual for the early-morning jharoka, and then, instead of returning to the zenana for a few hours of sleep, he had turned to the Diwan-i-khas, where the Peacock Throne would be unveiled to the amirs in the evening.

  It was the month of February, and an impenetrable mist eddied into the courtyard from the Yamuna below, turning the battlements of the fort waxen, hiding from view the waters themselves. The white marble of the Diwan-i-khas’s pillars was dim and cold to the touch, and with the throne positioned in the center of the balcony, even the inlay work in blues and reds seemed to have lost its luster. For the Peacock Throne was brilliant. It was in the shape of a platform, six feet by four feet, atop four thick stumps clad in beaten gold sheets. On the main platform, on three sides of the throne, were arranged twelve pillars, which held up the canopy—the front, where the Emperor would sit and face the court, was open. Inside the pillars was a raised back for the throne, constructed of solid gold and inlaid with a thousand shimmering gems.

  Shah Jahan had picked out the stones himself over the years, as merchants and governors of provinces far and near brought him these jewels from their lands. He had paid for the stones according to the value assessed on them by the court jewelers and rewarded the men who brought them with increased mansabs and grants of estates, so that it would never be said that the Emperor took and did not give back in return. And this, he thought in wonder, looking up at the inside of the canopy—a sky filled with an impossible sparkle—was the final result. The canopy was studded with thickly set emeralds, diamonds, and rubies, with a fringe of perfectly matched teardrop-shaped pearls. Each of the pillars was also made of gold, and emblazoned on each of them were two peacocks, their tails set with sapphires and rubies, their eyes of emeralds. Bouquets of flowers sprang to life on either side of the peacocks, their details picked out in rubies, diamonds, and topazes. The sides of the steps leading up—for these too were part of the throne and would not be used anywhere else in his palaces—were also inlaid in patterns of flowers and geometric designs. In the center of the backing for the throne was a diamond the size of his fist, some one hundred carats in weight. When he sat on his throne, this diamond would shimmer over his turban, meant to inspire awe in his audience as it shed its dazzling shine over him.

  He felt the light from the throne glow over him, encompass him, lend him its glory even on this hazy morning. With the sun caressing the stones, as it would when it leaned over west later this evening, he would seem on fire. This, he thought, was not only the privilege of kingship but the duty of a king—to present his person as omnipotent, all-knowing, commanding, ablaze in the radiance of jewels and precious stones, which represented wealth and power. The Peacock Throne had cost the imperial treasury, in its making, a little over ten million rupees, twice the expense of the Luminous Tomb. And that was just the price for the exquisite workmanship—the jewels had cost another hundred and ten million rupees.

  Emperor Shah Jahan rose and walked from the throne until he was a few feet away, then turned to look again at the marvel he had created out of gold and stone. As valuable as the gemstones of the throne were on the open market, there was one ruby—a Balas ruby from the mines at Badakhshan, which was embedded into the tail feathers of the central peacock—which had a history dear to him. Many years ago, Shah Abbas of Persia had sent this Timur ruby to Shah Jahan’s father, Emperor Jahangir, and on it were engraved the names of the descendants of Timur the Lame. First, Timur himself, then Mir Shah Rukh, Ulug Beg, Shah Abbas, Akbar, and Jahangir. The ruby had come as a gift from his father in happier times, just after his victories in the Deccan, because Jahangir had recognized his son’s fondness—nay, fascination—for jewels of the first water and was aware that no other present would be as welcome. Shah Jahan had had his own name inscribed below, knowing with a certainty even then—when his hold on the crown was so shaky—that only kings had their names engraved on the ruby and that he intended to be Emperor or die in the attempt.

  Now, he thought, no other king whose name was on that jewel would leave a legacy such as his for posterity. The rauza-i-munavvara, the gorgeous apartments at the fort at Agra, the entire new city of Shahjahanabad, the gardens in Kashmir, his own father’s tomb at Lahore . . . and this glorious throne.

  As the mists around the fort and in the courtyard of the Diwan-i-khas loosened in the heat of the wakening sun, the Emperor saw a lone figure striding up and down the terrace on the riverfront. Jahanara moved awkwardly, with none of her usual grace and elegance, hampered by the skirts of her ghagara and the long, full cloak she wore over it. Her arms were crossed over her chest and rested on the small bulge of her belly.

  He leaned against one of the pillars and watched her stumble, trip, right herself. She cast a quick glance at him, but at that moment the sun broke over the roof of the courtyard and blinded her. She was waiting, he thought, to see if he was ready to retire to his apartments for a nap before his breakfast and the first of his duties at the Hall of Public Audience. He had known she would be there, even though he had ordered the Diwan-i-khas emptied before he stepped in, wanting to savor the beauty of the Peacock Throne for himself. And so she was. How far along was she? To his experienced eye—and he had sired sixteen children, including those from his other wives—it seemed like five months, perhaps six. Yet she barely showed. In a month she would be ungainly and big, and there would be no hiding her fatigue and her still-present nausea from him or anyone else. The women of the zenana knew, of course, as they were wont to, yet not a word had been breathed in his presence or in the corridors or at court.

  His heart ached as he watched his beloved daughter negotiate this hurdle all by herself. He could not talk to her about it; she would not want it, for it would mean admitting the presence of Najabat Khan, and admitting also that his strict injunction against her ever marrying had led her to this. She had asked him to let her go on a pilgrimage to Ajmer and Delhi and had said that it would take a few months, four, maybe five or more. Could he spare her for that time?

  Two days ago, they had both received Aurangzeb’s letters, filled with his exhausting praise of Orchha and the victory there. Earlier intelligence had informed the Emperor that Raja Jhujhar and his son had escaped into the Deccani kingdoms and been killed there—all of the Raja’s possessions were now in imperial hands. Jahanara’s eyebrows had knotted in anger as she read her letter, but she did not offer to show it to him.

  Emperor Shah Jahan sighed, the Peacock Throne forgotten, the troubles of his children overwhelming him. Dara was his firstborn son, the one to whom he intended to leave this Empire, yet he was unsatisfactory, too flighty in matters of politics, too interested in books and learning. Never a good combination for a sovereign—for the hand on the sword must always be mightier than the one holding the quill. Shuja and Murad were disappointing in their own ways, fire and frost, not enough of one, sometimes too much of the other. Aurangzeb was strong, levelheaded, cut from the cloth of kings, but far too intolerant to be a good one. And—Shah Jahan rubbed the back of his neck slowly, there was that one incident from the past . . .

  When Arjumand had been p
regnant with Shuja at Ajmer, in the last days before giving birth, she had craved apples. Servants had been sent into the June heat to look for them; there were none to be found in that season, but Arjumand had been so insistent and unreasonable that they had all doubted her ability to survive the confinement. Shah Jahan had gone out himself, scouring the bazaars in the hope of an early apple from Kashmir or Persia or Qandahar, his pockets laden with gold mohurs. And then a passing fakir, unshaved and unwashed for many days, had reached into his filthy robes and brought out two perfectly formed golden red apples, their skins smooth, fragrant in the sun-fired air. Shah Jahan had given him a bag of gold, which the fakir had waved away, accepting only one gold mohur instead and leaving him with this prophecy—that a son would be born to him who would be, in the end, the death of him. And that son would be marked with a scar at birth.

  Of his four sons, only Aurangzeb had a birthmark, on the middle of his back in the indentation of his spine, shaped like a scorpion’s claw. Over the years it had faded, but Shah Jahan had seen it and had never been able to find much empathy with his third son because of it, much as Arjumand herself had tried to dispel his fears.