The Crimson Throne

by Sudhir Kakar

  ‘Idols are not gods, Niccolao,’ he explained, ‘but aspects of the Divine. They are the symbols of the many different paths the human soul takes in its attempts to approach the infinite. They are the bridges men need to enter the unknowable realm of the Divine. Would a father, whom his child has never seen, be angry if he returned one day and saw himself being adored as an idol in which the child sees his imaginary form?’

  After this exchange Kavindracharya warmed towards me. When we passed each other on the palace grounds he often stopped to ask me about my patients and discuss the methods of treatment I used. Inevitably, both of us gravitated towards the riverbank when we were on our own—I from an atavistic Venetian affinity to water and Kavindracharya because he missed the Ganges which flowed by his home in Benares. I think Kavindracharya opened up to me because he was flattered that I showed genuine interest in the questions I asked him about Hindus and their religious beliefs. He was a recognized authority on both.

  It was Kavindracharya who told me that Hindus looked upon the Wali Ahad as the reincarnation of his great-grandfather, Emperor Akbar. He patiently explained that Prince Dara was similar to Akbar in advocating peace among different religions but went further than Akbar in his attempts to demonstrate their essential unity.

  ‘Emperor Akbar was a rationalist, dismissive of what he perceived as absurdities of Islam, of the Hadiths, the Traditions of the Prophet. He often remarked that only simpletons mistake the traditions of the ancients for the dictates of reason and are thus condemned to eternal perdition. The Wali Ahad’s writings, on the other hand, are full of quotations from the Quran and the Hadiths. The Wali Ahad does not reject religious faith. He is not a rationalist but is a mystic who believes the Quran and the Hindu Vedas to be revealed texts.’

  Emperor Akbar had dismissed the story of the Prophet’s physical ascension, an article of faith for the orthodox, as absurd because of its physical impossibility. Other Islamic rationalists had tried to arrive at a compromise by asserting that it was the Prophet’s subtle body that was involved in the ascension, and not his physical body. Prince Dara took the orthodox position but gave it a Hindu flavour. He said that in the cave of Hira on the mountain called Jabal Al-Nur in Arabia, where the Prophet Mohammed received his first revelations through the angel Gabriel, he had practised controlled breathing, pranayam as Hindu yogis call it. This Yogic exercise resulted in his body becoming lighter than air and more transparent than a diamond. Why, then, was the Prophet’s ascension to the seventh heaven in his rarified physical body considered an impossibility?

  These beliefs and the support he lent to the Hindu subjects of the kingdom had led to widespread doubts regarding the Wali Ahad’s commitment to Islam. But when I mentioned this to Kavindracharya he was quick to dismiss the idea of the prince being an apostate. ‘No, our prince is a good Muslim, although not an orthodox Sunni who piously cleaves to the letter of faith. He is a Sufi who goes beyond the letter of the Quran to its spirit, and in so doing he has discovered that the spirit of Islam is identical to that of our Upanishads. This scandalizes the mullahs and orthodox Muslims, especially since the prince does not keep the Sufi mysteries secret but impetuously broadcasts them to all and sundry.’

  It was common knowledge in the Wali Ahad’s court that Mullah Shah would sometimes get irritated with the prince because he was not more circumspect, and constantly advised him to be discreet. ‘Inwardly, every act of ours should conform to our own reality and outwardly all acts should be like those of people at large,’ he said. But Prince Dara prided himself on being a plain speaker, in banishing ambiguity from his communications. In open fora, like the imperial court, he would declare that the Sharia laws were in conformity with the use and facility of mankind in general and not of Muslims alone. He flouted the strict rules relating to prayer and fasting and countered the criticism from the pious of his wine drinking by repeating Mullah Shah’s unorthodox interpretation of the Quranic verse: ‘O, you who believe, don’t approach prayer when you are drunk.’

  ‘What it means,’ Prince Dara said, ‘is that if the drunkenness is earthly, the prayer is forbidden out of respect for the prayer. If the intoxication is that of God, then the prayer is forbidden out of respect for the intoxication.’

  Following the direction of Kavindracharya’s thoughts, I too began to closely observe the prince’s activities. I soon realized that if Hindus loved the Wali Ahad it was not just because of the prince’s spiritual explorations, or his genuine respect for and admiration of their religion, but for his active interventions on their behalf. It was apparent, even to a recent arrival like me, that Emperor Shah Jahan was a bigot and had been one all his life. The stories of his intolerance were recounted in hushed tones all over the kingdom. In the early years of his reign, every act of intolerance and bigotry had had his approval: conversion of ancient temples into mosques, destruction of Hindu idols and the inexplicable ban on the ringing of temple bells, not to speak of the harsh punishments meted out to those who refused to convert to Islam. The emperor was even said to have applauded his younger son Aurangzeb for ‘cleansing Bundelkhand of infidels and infidelity’ and making it a hell for non-Muslims after that prince had captured the Rajput kingdom.

  In the last twenty years, however, under the growing influence of Prince Dara and Princess Jahanara, the emperor had not himself ordered the destruction of any Hindu temple. And when the zealot Aurangzeb, during his governorship of Gujarat, desecrated the ancient temple of Chintaman by sacrificing cows within the temple grounds and then converting it into a mosque, the noble Prince Dara used his influence with the emperor to restore the temple to the Hindus. Such restoration of idol worship in a place where the cry of the muezzin had recently been heard and the faithful knelt in prayers was without precedent in the history of Mogul rule. There was little doubt that the incident left Aurangzeb—who had taken upon himself the responsibility of restoring the purity of his faith and establishing a rigidly Islamic state—cold with fury. In fact, it further added to the storehouse of Aurangzeb’s rage against his elder brother. In indignant letters to the emperor, the young prince warned the emperor that Prince Dara was gnawing at the roots of Islam in Hindustan; he was patronizing Hindu pandits and had surrounded himself with Hindu friends. ‘Suffer an infidel to be equal to you and from that moment he will be your superior,’ he had written to his father. ‘Remove your boot from the top of the head of a snake and it will rear up to bite.’ Emperor Shah Jahan ignored Aurangzeb’s missives.

  On many occasions, the Wali Ahad went out of his way to intercede on behalf of the Hindu subjects of the empire. He was said to have pleaded for leniency for a Hindu mansabdar who was accused of keeping a Muslim concubine, a crime that carried the death sentence. But the prince’s greatest public act in aid of Hindus was to use his influence in securing the remission of the hated pilgrim-tax in the Hindu holy sites of Allahabad and Benares. For the latter, the prince was instrumental in persuading Kavindracharya to lead a deputation to plead the Hindu case in the imperial court. He coached Kavindracharya so well and the scholar spoke so eloquently that it is said there were tears in the emperor’s eyes when he finished. Father Malpica, who came into contact with the Hindus much more than I, told me that with this act Prince Dara had gained a place in Hindu hearts which even Emperor Akbar had not occupied.

  And the Muslims? I am only acquainted with the views of ordinary Muslims 1 met in the taverns which I continued to frequent in spite of my recent elevation. If some of them were uneasy about the Wali Ahad it was not entirely because they believed the dire warnings of their mullahs of the danger he posed to Islam. They felt the prince’s attitude and actions threatened their status. Under Mogul rule, except for a short period during Emperor Akbar’s reign, it was possible for even the most wretched Muslim to feel superior to a socially elevated Hindu simply because the former was a follower of the Prophet. And when it came to a certain social obligation, he belonged to the master race even if his circumstances were ever so misera
ble. For in India, as much as in Europe, there is one part of life where the ruler-subject relationship can never be hidden: marriage, the surest indicator of which community is dominant and which subordinate in any society. A Muslim who belonged to the lowest strata of society would never consider giving his daughter in marriage to a Hindu, however high the latter’s status may have been. When Emperor Jehangir, generally tolerant and more liberal than his son Shah Jahan, learnt that a Muslim community in Kashmir was giving their daughters to Hindus, he was so incensed that he forbade the practice on penalty of death. Hindu princes gave their women to Moguls as wives or concubines. Some of the proudest Rajput kings, such as those of Jaipur, even considered it an honour to send their daughters or sisters to be part of the emperor’s harem. The reverse was unthinkable.

  There were exceptions, of course, stories that have become the stuff of legend. In Emperor Jehangir’s time, the French physician Bernard fell deeply in love with a dancing girl. After he had effected a remarkable cure of an inmate of the royal harem, the emperor asked him what he would like as his reward. Bernard boldly claimed the girl. The assembled Omrah smiled at a request that was unlikely to be granted since the girl was Muslim. Jehangir, however, surprised everyone by ordering that the girl be seated on the doctor’s shoulders and that he carry her away.

  During my time at the court, there was another such exception. Jagannath Pandit was a renowned Brahmin scholar from Telangana. He was the author of highly regarded treatises and was patronized by many rajas. I had, in fact, seen him seated next to Kavindracharya on the evening I was first presented at Prince Dara’s court. Jagannath became infatuated with a beautiful slave girl in the emperor’s harem. In a verse dedicated to her, he addressed her as his ‘doe-eyed Lavangi with well-shaped breasts and body as delicate as butter’. Shunning offers of elephants, horses, land and riches, he persisted in asking for Lavangi. Finally, the Wali Ahad intervened on his behalf and Jagannath’s heart’s desire was fulfilled. But this story did not end happily. Jagannath was maligned and taunted by other Brahmin scholars for marrying a Muslim. In the beginning he defended himself by writing the work Aniyoktivilas, which satirized his foes. But the ostracism by his peers gradually wore down his spirit and blighted the couple’s love. He and Lavangi committed suicide by drowning themselves in the Ganges at Benares.

  I am a fair man. I have witnessed the Moguls treating Hindus very poorly and also with great consideration. The way they behave with Hindus varies from one province to another. Kashmir has very little bigotry; the Punjab a great deal. It also varies with the character of the governor. There are Mogul nobles known for their extreme courtesy, even in dealing with Hindus. There are others like Husain Khan, the governor of Lahore who once remarked that he almost died from shame because he had greeted a Hindu civilly—from the way the man was dressed, Husain Khan had thought him to be a Muslim. To avoid such social disasters in the future, the governor ordered that Hindus were to sew a patch of cloth, different in colour from the rest of their garments, on the underside of the sleeves. He further ordained that in accordance with the Holy Law, the infidels could no longer ride on saddles but would have to sit on pack saddles while journeying on horseback.

  Here it would be remiss for me not to admit that men are essentially the same everywhere. At any time in history and in any place, the powerful have always treated the powerless like lower forms of life. My own land boasts of itself as Libertas Veneziana, ‘Venice, state of liberty’—which is a complete myth. The majority of Venetians, the poor, have no rights, and the nobles and ‘citizens’ treat them like dirt. In this respect, the only difference between my land and Mogul India is that we belong to the same faith, and religious persecution is not included in our burden of oppression.

  In the three years I spent in Prince Dara’s court, my name had become well-known in the court circles. My practice was flourishing. I had adopted the strategy of refusing to see too many patients, further increasing the number who wished to be treated by me. Though complicated cases still perplexed me at times, my run of success continued through a combination of luck and good advice from a young Hindu doctor, whom I had employed as an assistant to prepare medicines according to the Hindu system.

  I believe it was during the incredibly hot summer of 1657 that my luck began to desert me. There were many minor factors that contributed to my ill-luck, but as the Hindus would say, the larger part of my misfortune probably lay in a constellation of planets that had long ago, perhaps even in a previous birth, linked my fate to that of Prince Dara.

  Eager to complete his translation of the Upanishads, the Wali Ahad did not accompany the emperor when the latter retreated to the Himalayan foothills to escape the unbearable heat of the plains. The mounting temperatures and his absorption in his work led the prince to dispense with our daily attendance at his court. I presented myself before him only when I was called upon, and that was seldom.

  During the exceptionally hot summer, there was a surge in cases of spirit possession. This is perfectly logical if, like the Indians, one believes that spirits are demons from hell and thus presumably at ease with its fires. My preparations for exorcism in the harems of two important Omrah involved finding out more about my patients from members of their households. My experience had proved that this was the best guide to the method I would use to summon and talk to the spirits. If I knew a woman’s story, I could intuitively use the right mix of threats and blandishments in forcing the spirit to leave her body. In my preoccupation with the tasks at hand, I paid scant attention when Maria said that she expected to soon have a client for the special ointment. By the time I found out who the client was and could put a stop to the hazardous transaction, it was too late. The delivery had already been promised and two large strings of the finest Basra pearls received as a token of what we could expect if the result was success.

  Prince Dara was so faithful to his first wife, Nadira Begum, that few people were aware he was also married to Meher Begum. Renowned for her beauty, Meher Begum was originally a dancing girl. The story goes that in his youth the prince fell deeply in love with her. Rana-dil—that was her original name—was firm that if the prince wanted her to voluntarily offer herself to him he would have to marry her. The emperor refused to give his consent to such an outrageous match. His passion unslaked, the prince sulked and pined till the emperor finally gave in and agreed to the marriage. This was twenty years ago when Meher Begum was nineteen. The Wali Ahad’s passion lasted a full six months before he returned to Nadira Begum. All his eight children were born of her. He was unfailingly polite to Meher Begum whenever he came across her in the harem but rarely shared her bed again. In this matter, as in others, Prince Dara did not show any respect for the Sharia, which enjoins upon the Believer to treat all his wives equally.

  It had been some months since the prince had visited Meher Begum’s apartment and she had decided that she needed to be prepared if the impending visit should spill over into the night. The chances of such an occurrence were slim but always a possibility. Maria’s mysterious ointment was her last hope of reviving some of her husband’s youthful passion for her.

  I do not know if I made an error in instructing my assistant on the right proportion of the ingredients for the ointment—jasmine flowers, marjoram, hemp, buffalo milk and a secret ingredient whose name I do not wish to disclose—or if he made a mistake in its preparation, as I later insisted. The unfortunate result was that a rash of reddish pustules erupted on the outer and inner lips of Meher Begum’s vulva, where she had applied the ointment. Within a day, these filled up with pus and began to give off a most disagreeable odour that could not be disguised by even the strongest attar. The harem was in uproar. Prince Dara ordered the head eunuch to probe into the circumstances of the affair. The Aitmad did not seek the medical testimony of the court hakims, but turned instead to a French physician recently arrived in Delhi, a M. Bernier.

  Both Maria and I were banned from the harem till investigations were comple
ted and the Begum was on her way to full recovery. I was to learn only later that this M. Bernier had had the gall to call me a quack, a quack who had brought shame to Europeans in India and dishonour to European medicine! He had, in fact, gone so far as to recommend that I be struck by a hundred lashes of the kora on my back and be thrown out of the Mogul dominions. This from a man whose own education, I was to later discover, was a three-month condensed course in medicine, which qualified him as a doctor on the condition that he would never seek to practise on French national territory!

  M. Bernier’s intemperate attack dented my reputation somewhat, but could not do it lasting damage. Some of my former patients belonged to the highest circles of Mogul nobility and were prepared to bear personal witness to my healing skills. Prince Dara too did not doubt my explanation that my assistant had made a mistake in the preparation of the ointment. I compensated my assistant generously while regretfully dismissing him from my service. I also convinced the prince that I had been unaware of the intended user of the ointment. This was a deception Maria had urged on me.

  Instances of such disgusting adulation at the morning court of the monarch. There is, it seems, no Mogul who has not grown up with this Persian proverb repeatedly dinned into his ears:

  ‘If the monarch says the day is night

  Reply: The moon and stars are shining bright.’

  When the emperor says something, however trifling be his words, the Omrah extend their arms heavenwards as if anticipating benediction and cry out in a chorus, ‘Karamat! Karamat!’ (Wonderful! Wonderful!)’ Father Roth, a German Jesuit priest who became my friend and was also close to Niamat Ah, a senior eunuch in the monarch’s household, had reported that the same words are repeated by the emperor’s personal attendants when he happens to loudly break wind during his morning ablutions—and I have no reason to doubt Father Roth’s report.