Opening a fresh page in his diary, he began again:
From the year when I first came to Kabul, I had coveted Hindustan. Now, through God’s great favour, I have conquered a mighty adversary, Sultan Ibrahim, and won for my dynasty a new empire.
After a moment’s further thought he added,
The best thing about Hindustan is that it is a large land with an abundance of gold and other wealth. .
Yes, much could be done here by a man if he only had the will. .
Babur’s mood lifted further as he continued his progress south-eastward. He began to notice that the land was not as bare as he had thought. Despite the dryness and the hot winds, some flowers bloomed, like the red gudhal with blossoms deeper in colour than those of the pomegranate, and the oleander, five-petalled like peach blossom, with a faint but exquisite scent.
With his new optimism came the thought that — if he was indeed to establish himself here — he must try to understand this new land and its customs. With the aid of Junayd Barlas as interpreter, he began to question some of those they passed on the road, farmers, merchants, peasants, about the things he saw. One day he noticed a man in a purple turban striking with a mallet a brass disc big as a tray hanging above a tank of water. He learned that this man was a ghariyali — a timekeeper. In Babur’s homeland each day was divided into twenty-four hours and each hour into sixty minutes but he discovered that in Hindustan his new subjects apportioned day and night into sixty parts — gharis — of twenty-four minutes, while night and day were also each divided into four watches, pahars. Ghariyalis measured the passage of each pahar by submerging in water special pots with a hole in the bottom that took exactly one ghari to fill. At the end of the first ghari of their watch they struck a large, thick brass disc so that all could hear. At the end of the second ghari they struck it twice, and so on until their watch was over, when they struck it many times in rapid succession.
From a money-lender whom Babur observed counting coins in the marketplace, he discovered that the Hindustanis had an excellent numbering system: one hundred thousand was equal to one lakh; one hundred lakhs equalled one crore; one hundred crores equalled one arb, and on it went, even higher up the scale. In Kabul there was no need of such high numbers but here in Hindustan, where the wealth — at least of its rulers — seemed almost limitless, there was. It was a pleasing thought.
Babur watched the laborious way in which the farmers irrigated their fields, using leather buckets hauled from the well by oxen, and tasted the sweet, intoxicating wine of the date palm, a plant he’d never seen before. Most of all he attempted to understand more about the Hindu religion, learning that Hindus believed in reincarnation, and that their bewildering multiplicity of gods — from many-armed women festooned with skulls to a pot-bellied elephant-man — were all manifestations of a central trio or trimurti: Brahma, the creator of the world, sky and stars; Vishnu, who held them all in balance and harmony; and Shiva, the destroyer. But it still seemed shadowy, confusing, even disturbing. What had Sultan Ibrahim — a Muslim like himself — made of it? Babur thought again of the temple priest’s words: ‘I am the destroyer. .’
He soon discovered that he was not the only one to find Hindustan unsettling. Sitting outside his tent one night, hoping for some touch of a breeze on his face, he saw Baba Yasaval approaching.
‘Majesty.’ His commander touched his breast and waited respectfully.
‘What is it?’
Baba Yasaval hesitated.
‘Speak.’
‘Majesty, my men are growing restless. . They do not like this new land. . these hot, incessant winds. . Many are becoming sick. .’ He paused, torchlight falling on his mosquito-bitten face. ‘We’re not cowards — we never flinched in battle — but this place is alien to us. . We want to return to Kabul. I speak not just for myself and my men but for some of the other commanders. They asked me to speak for all of us.’
‘Summon them here — now.’
Baba Yasaval had spoken from the heart, saying what had been in Babur’s own mind only a few days ago. But hearing those things from the lips of another made him realise how passionately he wanted to keep what he had seized. While he waited, he turned over carefully what he must say. When the commanders were gathered, some avoiding his gaze, he addressed them slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving their faces.
‘Conquest isn’t easy. For years we’ve struggled, overcome great obstacles, travelled great distances, subjected ourselves to hardship and danger, fought great battles. By God’s grace we’ve overcome numerous enemies and conquered a vast new realm. How can we throw away what we have won at such great cost? How can we go back to Kabul and abandon what God has given us? What will our people say of us? That we were afraid of greatness. .’
Babur paused to let his words sink in. ‘Any man who wishes may take his share of the booty and return across the Indus. But I promise you this. When, as old men, you sit by the fire with your grandchildren and they ask you to tell them what great warriors you once were, you will have nothing to say. You will be ashamed to admit that you left your king — no, your emperor — who had given you a chance of seizing the world. . You will stay silent and hang your heads, and your grandchildren will drift away. .’
The commanders looked at one another uneasily and for a few moments there was silence. Then, led by Baba Yasaval, a low chant began, words that Babur had not heard for many years which took him back to his days as boy-king of Ferghana: ‘Babur Mirza! Babur Mirza!’ The chant grew louder and louder, vibrating through the heavy air. They were affirming their allegiance to him, their king and Timur’s heir. They would not leave him. At least, not yet.
Humayun was waiting in the courtyard, his commanders behind him, when, a few days later, Babur rode up the steep ramp into the mighty Agra fortress. As he dismounted, his son knelt briefly before him but Babur quickly raised and embraced him.
‘Father, the treasuries are secured. In the harem we found Sultan Ibrahim’s mother, Buwa, and his wives and concubines. Buwa called us barbarians — she said she despised us. . I ignored her insults and ordered that she and the other women be well treated. . We had no trouble from the local people — indeed, they were relieved to see order restored. When news first came that you had defeated Sultan Ibrahim, bandits — dacoits — took advantage of the chaos to plunder the villages and steal grain, animals and women. We caught some and executed them publicly, here on the parade-ground, in front of the fort where all could see.’
‘You’ve done well. What did you find in the treasuries?’
Humayun grinned. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it — whole vaults filled with gold and silver. . more gems than I would have believed the mines of the world could produce. Everything has been counted, weighed and noted. .’
‘Good. I must reward my men well and I’ll send money to every man, woman and child in Kabul in celebration of our success. In a few days’ time, we will hold a victory feast, but now there are things I need to discuss with you and something I must ask. On the road from Delhi, I had time to reflect. . I thought of other great warriors drawn, like us, to Hindustan — Alexander of Macedonia, who brought his army over the Indus but turned back, and Timur who raided Delhi but did not stay. . I began to wonder whether we could prosper here. . Some of my men, brave as they are, also began to question it. . They don’t like this place. . We could just pile all this treasure on to the backs of our pack-beasts and go home. If we stay, we face many more difficulties and dangers.
‘Panipat was a great victory but it was just the start. Only a part of this land is ours — in truth no more than a corridor a mere two hundred miles wide, even if it does extend a thousand miles down from the Khyber Pass. We’ve met little resistance since Panipat but only because the other rulers of Hindustan have withdrawn to their strongholds to watch and wait. They think we’re mere barbarian raiders, nomads, whose rule will be as easily blown away as the morning mist. Already they will be plotting to challenge and expel us.
We must ask ourselves whether we have the stomach to fight and fight again until we can call ourselves secure here. Have you that strength, that will, as I do?’
‘I have, Father.’ Humayun’s brown eyes looked unflinchingly at Babur.
‘Then we cannot fail, I’m sure of it. I’ve chosen a name for our new dynasty and lands. On the journey from Delhi, a messenger caught up with me bearing an impudent message from the Shah of Persia, written before he’d learned of our victory at Panipat. He said that he had heard of my enterprise — a “brigand’s raid” he called it. He called me a “Moghul” — the Persian word for “Mongol” — in hopes of insulting me as a barbarian pillager. But I wrote back that I take as much pride in my descent from Genghis Khan, greatest of all the Mongols, as I do in my descent from Timur. To be called a “Moghul” is no insult. I told him I will carry that name with pride and so will our new empire which, God willing, might soon eclipse his own.’
Preceded by two guards with drawn ceremonial swords, Babur slowly approached the gilded leather double-doors of what had been Sultan Ibrahim’s private entrance to his apartments where his commanders now awaited him for the victory feast. Their men were already celebrating in the courtyards below and in tents set up along the riverbanks. No one who had helped in his victory must go unrewarded.
In the torchlight the emeralds in Babur’s turban flashed. Round his neck hung a triple string of yet more emeralds intertwined with pearls and on his finger was Timur’s ring. His green brocade tunic was fastened at one side with bunches of pearls and Alamgir hung from a heavy gold chain at his waist. Gazing at his reflection a few minutes earlier he had been satisfied to see a glittering image — the embodiment of power and magnificence.
To a blast of trumpets, attendants threw open the doors and Babur entered. Instantly there was silence as each of his commanders, themselves elaborately dressed, fell to the ground to perform the formal obeisance of the korunush. Ahead of Babur in the very centre of the room was a tiered white marble dais. On the highest tier was a golden, jewel-encrusted throne beneath a green and yellow canopy. His commanders, lined up in rows before the dais, remained prostrate while Babur, head high, back straight, ascended it, took his place and gestured to Humayun to seat himself on a blue velvet stool placed on the right side of the tier below.
‘You may rise.’ Babur waited until all eyes were upon him. ‘God was magnanimous to us at Panipat. He gave us victory because ours was a just cause. The throne of Hindustan is our birthright. Sultan Ibrahim, who tried to oppose us, is dead. All of us — all of you, my commanders, who came through fire and water with me — are the victors. This is the beginning of a new page of our history, a new destiny for our people, now that we have made ourselves the masters of Hindustan. Still greater glories lie ahead, but tonight let us forget everything but the sweet taste of our victory. .’ Babur stood, raised his arms above his head and cried, ‘ To our new empire!’ as a great roar of acclamation burst out around him.
Sultan Ibrahim had lived well, Babur thought a little while later as he looked critically about him. With its finely carved red sandstone columns, central cupola and rose-pink silken hangings this chamber was more magnificent than anything he had seen since Samarkand. Fragrant smoke curled from two tall golden incense burners shaped like peacocks with outspread tails of sapphires and emeralds on either side of the dais. The wall to Babur’s right was a carved sandalwood purdah screen separating the room from the adjoining harem.
In the week since he and his exhausted army had arrived at Agra, the temperature had fallen a little and a breeze had at last begun to blow — perhaps this always happened in the last days before the rains or perhaps it was just good fortune. Babur watched the silk hangings stirring gently.
He and his guests were also being cooled by punkahs, huge rectangular pieces of flowered brocade suspended on long silk cords which ran through iron rings in the ceiling before disappearing through small apertures high in the walls to be pulled by punkah wallahs — concealed on the other side — so that the brocade swung slowly to and fro above the diners’ heads. At low tables set up along the walls facing Babur, they were feeding on roasted mutton, stewed chickens and flat bread, the food of their homeland, but also the fruits of Hindustan: orange-fleshed mangoes oozing juice, creamy, soft papaya and dates.
Many, like him, traced their descent from the clans of Genghis Khan and Timur. All had served him well. Before the feasting had begun, he had bestowed gifts — robes of honour of scarlet silk, sable jackets faced in blue, jewelled daggers, swords and gilded saddles. Babur could see their satisfaction. Baba Yasaval was examining the emerald-studded hilt of the curved sabre he had given him.
As he ate, Babur glanced towards the purdah screen to his right. Normally during feasts the royal women would have been sitting behind it, observing what was happening through the fretwork as they feasted, too. Could Buwa in her apartments within the harem hear these sounds of celebration coming from her son’s former quarters? Babur hoped not. Her grief and courage, as much as her royal blood, deserved his respect. The venomous words she had spat at Humayun were no reason to punish her. Wouldn’t Esan Dawlat have said exactly same if it was Babur who had been killed and his throne seized? He had decreed that Buwa could keep her jewels and servants and had granted her a pension. He hoped that in time she would be reconciled by his generosity.
Earlier that day, on the banks of the river, Babur had staged fights between trained male elephants from Sultan Ibrahim’s stables with names like Mountain Destroyer and Ever Bold. Goaded by riders sitting on their necks, the enormous, painted beasts had faced one another across a specially constructed earth rampart, slashing at each other with their great tusks until one lost heart and retreated. Now it was time for something different — the Hindustani acrobats and dancers who had belonged to Ibrahim’s household. Babur clapped his hands.
Two young men, their oiled bodies naked but for orange loincloths, their long black hair knotted on top of their heads, ran lightly in to where space had been cleared before Babur’s dais. Between them they carried an oblong yellow box about three feet long and eighteen inches wide with a mysterious eye painted in red on each side. They put the box down and stepped away from it. Babur’s men gasped as, slowly — as if of its own accord — the lid began to open. One small hand appeared, and then another, and suddenly the lid was thrown back to reveal a boy with his legs hooked back over his shoulders. It seemed incredible that any human — even one as lithe as this youth who must be double-jointed — could contort himself into such a space. Unravelling himself, the boy stepped out of the box and, as the other two acrobats spun brass hoops around their foreheads, knees, hands and feet, somersaulted around the room, slim legs flashing so fast they were a blur.
Next, one of the young men jumped up on the shoulders of the other and the boy then shinned up the two of them as easily as if he were climbing an apple tree. Balancing on the head of the topmost man, he threw back his own head and a rush of flame came from his mouth. Babur’s commanders yelled their approval. Quick as a flash the boy was on the floor again. Coiling up his limbs, he fitted himself back into his box and, with a farewell flourish of his hand, snapped the lid shut. The other two acrobats bowed before Babur, who threw them gold coins. Then they picked up the box and to thunderous applause bore it away.
A rhythmic stamping and jingling announced a line of eight barefoot dancing girls who entered the chamber one by one through a small servants’ door. At the same time, musicians came in by another entrance. The girls formed a circle before Babur. Their thick, dark hair was plaited with sweet-smelling white flowers. Above red and purple many-layered skirts their midriffs were bare. Tight-fitting silk bodices revealed more than they concealed of their breasts, and rows of tiny bells were twined round their wrists and ankles. Six drummers in baggy white trousers and with chests naked beneath open gold-cloth waistcoats began to beat with their palms on the long, thin drums suspended from around their necks, jumping and swaying
in time to the beat. The dancers’ bodies began to undulate rhythmically. Soon they were whirling faster and faster, skirts flying up around them revealing their long, slender legs and hands pressed together above their thrown-back heads. As they danced they sang, their high-pitched, honey-sweet voices rising and falling.
The other musicians joined in, playing instruments Babur had never seen before — a sort of lute but with a neck over a metre long that he was told was a tanpura, another stringed instrument with two bowls, a rudra-vina, and a wind instrument like a compressed trumpet, a shahnai. Babur felt the whole performance with its fluid, lithe young bodies, pulsing drums, plangent strings and cascading voices was of an overwhelming, compelling sensuality unique to his new kingdom.
It was late but Babur realised that his men, pulses raised by the dancers, were just getting started. Some were singing, in deep bass voices, the songs of the steppes and mountains they’d left behind. Others were getting up, arm in arm, to dance wild, martial dances, stamping and shouting, sharing this great moment of joy and triumph. Humayun left his stool to join them.
Babur, though, was lost in his thoughts. He was celebrating more than a victory. Tonight was the start of a new phase in his life when he would bring everything he had done, everything he had learned, to glorious fruition. But the elation was bitter-sweet. Another face should have been at the feast, sharing in it all, but wasn’t — that of his truest friend and wisest commander. Babur picked up his goblet and drank a silent tribute to Baburi.
Chapter 24
Buwa
As Babur looked out one Friday evening from a covered watch-tower on the battlements of the Agra fort, the sky was piled with deep grey, almost purple, stormclouds that were releasing sheet after sheet of rain. The raindrops were bouncing off the flagstones of the courtyard and rainwater was pouring from the drainage channels out through the holes cut in the sandstone walls. On the northern and eastern sides of the fort, it fell fountain-like into the muddy waters of the river Jumna in full spate below. On the southern and western sides, it cascaded down into the already large pools that had formed on the parade-ground. Occasionally flashes of lightning lit the low, misty horizon, accompanied by the distant rumble and growl of thunder.
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