The Crimson Throne

by Sudhir Kakar

  Much later, I was told by the captain of Prince Dara’s bodyguard that Khalilullah had come up to the prince and said, ‘I have been in many wars, waged many campaigns, my prince, but I have never seen such a valiant commander as you. Only one thing now remains: the capture of Aurangzeb. Once you have done that, your name will go down in the history of the dynasty of Timur with the same honour as its founder. Let us not lose this opportunity. Aurangzeb is being pressed by Chatrasal’s Rajputs who are eager to avenge the death of their chief. Descend from your elephant and mount your horse so that we can quickly seize Aurangzeb. I have kept my troops fresh especially for this purpose.’

  All I could see from afar was the prince alight from Fateh Jang and mount his horse. Even I, a foreigner, fighting my first war in an alien land, knew how fatal such a move would be. In India, soldiers do not fight for a cause, a nation or a country, but for their leader. If the leader is killed or flees from battle, they immediately lose heart. Each man then becomes intent only on saving himself. All through the battle, the soldiers and their commanders had continued to keep an eye on the Wali Ahad’s elephant. Seeing the howdah suddenly empty, they presumed he was dead. Confusion reigned in the imperial army and in the midst of the chaos Khalilullah revealed his true colours. He joined Aurangzeb and turned on his own comrades. I could only watch in dismay as the once supreme army scattered in all directions like a dark cloud blown by a high wind. It was not a defeat, but a rout. And, as if to underline the fact that Aurangzeb was fortune’s favourite, a searing loo began to blow, enveloping the battlefield in a squall of dust. Cut off from their sources of water, thousands in the imperial army perished from thirst. The battle of Samugarh and, with it, the war for the Peacock Throne was over.

  ‘Betrayal, which had been quietly tiptoeing into the prince’s fate, had now taken full possessien of it’

  NICCOLAO MANUCCI

  RAGE, RAGE THE COLOUR of blood, washed over me. Rage over the blackest treachery that had reduced our once glorious army to a rabble in headlong flight. Hues of red abounded, every shade of it, wherever I looked: the baleful crimson of the afternoon sun seen through the cloud of whirling dust, the scarlet red of clotted blood on the manes and sides of wounded horses left to die in the gutted fields.

  I rode my mare hard, without a second look at the stragglers on foot, bent double against the hot wind blowing in their faces, coughing from the sand in their mouths, their tongues thick, lips scabbed. I closed my mind to the wounded who could no longer walk but lay on the ground gasping for breath. I rode ahead, past corpses of men and animals that lay scattered over the leagues of scrubby ground between Samugarh and Agra. Flocks of vultures surrounded the remains, renting to pieces their gory prey. Carrion crows circled overhead, the intrepid among them darting down to snatch at exposed entrails and carry them in triumph to a kikar tree, to then peck unhurriedly on a bloody twine trailing from a thorny branch. The defeated limped ahead, singly or in small groups, their horses stumbling, torn banners trampled into the ruddy sand, having discarded all except the essentials for flight—their miserable lives and footwear for their bloody feet.

  I arrived in Agra at around ten at night and made straight for the home of my friend Hakim Tabinda, who was sure to have the latest news. He told me it had just been three hours since Prince Dara had arrived and set up camp outside the city, fearful that he might get trapped if Aurangzeb were to lay siege upon it. As news of the defeat trickled in from the late afternoon, the city, Tabinda said, had turned into a charnel house of mourning. Loud lamentations had been heard from the emperor’s apartments in the fort, which were echoed and amplified by the wails that gradually arose from the streets, the bazaars and the dwellings of humble citizens.

  The prince had been so ashamed of his defeat that he had made no attempt to meet his father after he arrived in Agra. To the emperor’s request for a last meeting with his beloved son, he had replied, ‘Give up your wish to see my abashed face again. I only beg Your Majesty’s benediction on this distracted and half-dead man for the long journey he has before him.’

  The monarch had sent back a message of consolation: ‘An army is still intact in the east under the command of my grandson Sulaiman Shukoh. There is no room for despair, my son. Raise another army to reverse the fortunes of war.’ The message was accompanied by mules carrying sacks laden with gold coins and an order for the governor of Delhi to allow the Wali Ahad access to the city and the emperor’s treasury. Princess Jahanara too had sent him precious jewels with a message expressing her love and the hope that one day she would see him ascend the Peacock Throne.

  People milled about, hungry for news of how the battle had been lost. I had passed Khalilullah Khan’s mansion on my way through the city, and when an old woman emerged to enquire if I knew what had happened to their master, I had replied that I had seen Khalilullah lying dead on his back in the battlefield, a spear thrust into his chest, his arms tossed wide. ‘And a vulture was gouging out his eyes,’ I added spitefully, still furious over his vile treachery. The old woman had rushed inside weeping loudly, and I had felt greatly satisfied at the sounds of lamentation that emanated from the traitor’s house.

  I would have joined the prince that very night except that my mare was so worn out it could hardly stand. I decided to rest for the night and look for the Wali Ahad the following day. But the next morning when Tabinda shook me awake he informed me that the prince had hurriedly set forth for Delhi before dawn. He was accompanied by his wife Nadira Begum, his children and grandchildren, and an escort of five hundred horsemen, most of them slaves in his household.

  It was a wise decision, for by the time the sun had climbed to mid-heaven, squadrons of Aurangzeb’s cavalry had scattered themselves along the road from Agra to Delhi, blocking access to Prince Dara’s suspected sympathizers in the city who might have contemplated joining the fleeing prince. I had little choice but to remain in Agra and continue to be an impotent witness to the vile designs of the fiend princes, who arrived four days later with their armies and set up camp next to the Taj Mahal, across the river from the fort.

  Even before the battle of Samugarh, Aurangzeb had many secret sympathizers among the Omrah. He had, in fact, deputed his maternal uncle Shaista Khan to persuade the others to desert the Wali Ahad and the emperor. Shaista Khan, who loathed Emperor Shah Jahan, rightly seeing in him the agent of his wife’s dishonour and demise, was successful in persuading most nobles to embrace Aurangzeb’s cause. After Aurangzeb’s victory, it was pathetic to see the alacrity with which the few remaining waverers changed their allegiance. The only ones to hold out till the end and declare their neutrality even after the victorious armies marched into Agra were the foreign minister Danishmand Khan, and my friend, the emperor’s personal physician, Mukarram Khan, both natives of Persia.

  The emperor thus had little hope left of winning over the generals to his side. He could still have ventured out of the fort and into the city in an effort to rally the citizenry behind the throne. If this were Europe, such an outpouring of support for the emperor could have caused the interlopers considerable headache. But this is India. Indians are loveable, but too meek and cowed down for such spirited deeds. They are always ready to complain, but rarely to act. They will shed copious tears of sympathy on the misfortune of their king but will not come out on the street to avenge his humiliation.

  What the cunning emperor could not achieve by force he now decided to accomplish through wiles. But Aurangzeb was more than his match in devious ploys. The day after his arrival, Aurangzeb sent his trusted eunuch Itbar Khan to his father with a message. Shorn of Persian floweriness and Mogul ornamentation, the message said: ‘I am elated at the good news of your recovery. No one is sorrier than I that Dara’s ambition and evil intentions forced me to take the extreme step of going to war in which so many Mughals lost their lives. I am now in Agra, eager to receive and obey your orders.’

  The emperor sent back his eunuch with the message: ‘Who knows his children be
tter than their father? I have always been wary of the evil nature and small capacity of Dara Shukoh. I am delighted by your arrival and as a sign of the love I bear you, I am pleased to grant you all the territories of the Deccan. My longing to embrace you is great. I want to converse with you in person on how we should address the disorder convulsing the empire.’

  The monarch’s plan was to lure Aurangzeb to the fort and set the emperor’s personal guard of three thousand Tartar and Uzbek women, strong of limb and skilled in the use of arms, upon him on his arrival. Aurangzeb sensed that a trap was being set for him—in his father’s situation, he would have acted no differently—and repeatedly postponed his visits with many excuses. Once Aurangzeb’s control over Agra was complete, he instructed his son Sultan Muhammad to encircle the fort. The emperor had no choice but to prepare for a siege and made rounds of the fort encouraging the garrison to stand firm in the fight that lay ahead of them. He was unaware that Aurangzeb had already gained control of the commanders through bribes and threats. Within the next three days, most of the soldiers had deserted the fort.

  Aurangzeb sent his father a new message: ‘I have been ill. In my absence my restless soldiers acted on their own initiative. I would like to send my son with my apologies and humble respects. Once I am restored to health, I will hasten to present myself in person.’

  Hoping that his grandson’s visit was a precursor to Aurangzeb’s own appearance at the fort, the emperor gave his assent. But, as soon as the gates opened, Sultan Muhammad rushed in with a company of his soldiers, killing everyone who sought to bar his way. Emperor Shah Jahan was in his harem when he heard the uproar outside. A cautious and deliberate man, Aurangzeb had asked his son to halt at the harem’s gate and have a message delivered to the monarch: ‘Your Majesty should take your ease in the harem. You are not well enough to rule. I shall relieve you of the weight of the empire and take it on my own shoulders.’

  The desperate emperor now played his last card. He sent a message to his grandson saying that he found Sultan Muhammad to be such an able and brave young man that he wanted to crown his grandson the emperor of Hindustan. But Sultan Muhammad refused to discuss such a proposal. ‘My orders are to take possession of keys to the fort and nothing else,’ he replied roughly. Then he stationed his guards outside the harem with strict instructions and left. When, after a day or so, the emperor realized that the harem’s food supplies had been cut off, he capitulated and handed over all the keys and weapons to his grandson. He was now confined to the harem, along with Princess Jahanara, their female slaves and a trusted eunuch. Roshanara Begum, Aurangzeb’s younger sister and ally, was installed in a palace in the city with much pomp. The harem was fenced with wickets and gates, and guarded by strapping young female sentries. The emperor could neither write to nor speak with anyone outside the harem, or for that matter even enjoy a stroll in the garden, without the permission of the eunuch Itbar Khan, the governor of his prison.

  For the next three days, till he left Agra, Aurangzeb continued with his charade of being a devoted and dutiful son. He called a special assembly of the Omrah, where he read out a letter he had written to his father, one which he had no intention of sending. ‘I am only a guardian of the empire until Your Majesty is restored to full health. I will not, however, desist till I have captured Dara who is the cause of all strife in the empire. Once I have accomplished this task, I will present myself before Your Majesty like an obedient son and you shall be Lord and Master of the Mughal dominions as before.’

  In the second week of June, ten days after their arrival in Agra, the news spread that Aurangzeb and Murad had started for Delhi in pursuit of Prince Dara. Their two armies, separated by a short distance of a mile or so, were marching along the banks of the Jamuna, the river’s waters reduced to a trickle during the dry summer months. Disguised as a mendicant from Kashmir to explain my blue eyes and fair colouring, I joined their train. This was the only way of catching up with my master and once again dedicating myself to his service. In the rage that continued to consume me, I felt no risk to be too great.

  Our first halt was near Mathura. Knowing well the perfidy Aurangzeb was capable of, I could anticipate what was to come when I heard the soldiers discussing the lavish gifts Aurangzeb had been showering on Murad. Not only had the prince sent his brother two hundred and forty Persian horses, forty Ceylon war elephants, twenty-five young and attractive slave girls and two and a half million rupees, but also declared that the time had come for him to fulfil his pledge of crowning Murad the king of Hindustan. He had named an auspicious hour on the fifteenth of June in his dispatches and informed Murad that all preparations for the coronation and the festivities had been made.

  Murad’s eunuch Shahbaz was suspicious, as before. He entreated his master not to go to Aurangzeb’s camp. However, Murad, ever boastful, had laughed at Shahbaz’s warnings and replied with his usual, immodest claim, “Azman kase bahadur nist (None is braver than I)’.

  Aurangzeb and his officers received Murad’s party with joyous expressions of welcome. Aurangzeb led Murad to his own seat in the vast blue tent erected specially for the coronation. He stood next to him like a servant, wiping away the sweat from Murad’s face with a handkerchief and driving away the flies with a fly-whisk. Musicians and dancers, male and female, appeared. While they performed, rosewater was sprinkled over the guests. The feast began at two in the afternoon and continued for three hours, after which Aurangzeb’s officers invited members of Murad’s party to their tents for sessions of drinking and amorous sport with dancing girls brought from Delhi and Agra for the purpose. Hearing the sounds of music and mirth from Aurangzeb’s camp and concluding that their officers had settled down to a night of festivity, Murad’s soldiers, too, relaxed their guard. They wandered out in search of food for themselves and forage for their horses. Murad and the faithful Shahbaz were now the only ones left in Aurangzeb’s tent, where the prince was plied with more food and drink.

  Aurangzeb left soon after, saying he was off to oversee the preparations for the coronation the next morning, and urged his brother to enjoy what was to come next. Five enchanting dancing girls, the curves and swells of their supple bodies transparent through the folds of finest Dacca muslin, entered the tent, their eyes darting an unmistakable invitation as they began to dance. Murad’s one remaining eye—the other had been lost to Ram Singh’s spear thrust in the battle—began to shine in lust. He unbuckled his sword, laid aside his dagger, and untied the knot of his qaba. Stretching out on the divan, he asked for another cup of the special Persian wine he had liberally imbibed through the afternoon. He then gestured to the most attractive girl in the group to join him. The other girls quietly left the tent. From the entrance, one of them signalled to Shahbaz that he should afford his master privacy. As soon as Shahbaz emerged from the tent, he was lifted off his feet by eight soldiers. They left him no time to call out or use his weapons, but strangled and buried him in an already prepared grave. Inside the tent, Murad had submitted himself to a gentle, soothing massage with fragrant oils. Soon he was snoring. When the girl saw that he was in deep slumber, she put on her clothes, took Murad’s weapons and quietly stole out. Six men now entered the tent, and chained Murad’s feet in fetters. On the day of his ‘coronation’, Murad Baksh, the second son of the Great Mogul, was spirited away to the Gwalior prison, where he was later killed. His young son, who had survived the battle of Samugarh in the howdah under the protection of his father’s shield, was poisoned before he reached manhood.

  This was the first time that I was not agitated by yet more evidence of Aurangzeb’s duplicity, but was in fact delighted by its outcome. Murad Baksh had richly deserved his fate.

  I had set out for Delhi in the hope of joining the Wali Ahad’s fleeing party but was told by the Jesuit fathers, whom I visited on the evening of my arrival, that it was close to two days since they had left. The fathers asked me to stay with them since my own house, abandoned by the servant and the two guards I had left beh
ind, was unsafe in these lawless times.

  The fathers had not changed, except that Father Malpica’s paunch had shrunk, Father Buze was quieter and stroked his beard more thoughtfully and more often, while Father Roth had become even more cutting than before.

  ‘He could have made common cause with his brother Shuja in Bengal but chose instead to escape westwards to Lahore where he hopes to raise a fresh army,’ Father Roth said, expressing doubt about the success of the prince’s mission.

  Father Buze, still loyal to his friend, remonstrated, ‘What else could he have done? After the governor of Delhi behaved so shamefully by refusing to obey the emperor’s orders and closing the city’s gates and the imperial treasure house to the Wali Ahad!’

  ‘Just as the victorious are inundated with avowals of fealty, betrayals are the lot of the defeated,’ the German priest tried to be conciliatory.

  ‘I can only say that the prince’s fate has become a hammer and he the anvil,’ Father Buze addressed me. ‘The armies under Sulaiman Shukoh, on which he had laid such great store to redeem his fortunes, no longer exist. Prince Dara had no option but to flee Delhi.’

  ‘There have been more betrayals,’ Father Roth enlightened me on the latest happenings. ‘Of Sulaiman’s two chief commanders, Diler Khan has switched his loyalty to Aurangzeb. Raja Jai Singh, who had grown to hate the Wali Ahad since the siege of Kandahar when the prince had called him a mirasi, has led his Rajputs back to his own dominions of Jaipur. Suiaiman Shukoh is left with no troops except his father’s personal guard.’

  Reluctantly, I agreed that as the war neared its end, it increasingly appeared that Prince Dara had indeed been singled out by an implacable and malevolent providence.

  I was eager to set out for Lahore the very next day, but the fathers restrained me, saying that the troubles in the empire had made the highways unsafe. Since the fear of the emperor’s regime had waned, oppressed peasants were pouring out of their wretched villages, robbing and plundering travellers. I should wait, they advised, until a large enough group of armed travellers had assembled to set out for Lahore.