Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues)

by Ruchir, Gupta

  I couldn’t believe how oblivious my father was to the sin he was committing and the toll this was taking on me. I replied: “It’s not her death that saddens me. It’s you!”

  Aba jerked backwards, clearly startled.

  I railed on: “You’ve turned into a monster! You kill people for petty crimes, you tear down temples, and now you’ve burned an entire city just because it was Christian!”

  Aba stared wide-eyed at me as I went on: “Remember what Ami told you as she died? She said to keep your love alive, and you’ll shine. Do what makes you happy. Sing, write poetry, build. But what have you done? You’ve destroyed and torn down other people’s homes! You’ve not even stopped to think what Ami must be thinking as she watches all this in heaven!”

  I broke into tears; Aba looked shocked and speechless. Indeed, Ami’s soul would be turning in its makeshift grave if she knew what went on here.

  Aba said calmly, “But they were infidels, Jahanara…”

  “So are you, Aba,” I retorted. “You’re three quarters Hindu. How can you treat your own kind this way?”

  “Allah took your mother from me because I was too tolerant.”

  “Where in the Koran does it say that being tolerant is a sin?” I shot back. “Was Akbar a sinner? Was Ami a sinner?”

  Aba stared hard at the ground; I shook my head in dismay. “I’ll leave by the end of the week for Mecca, Aba. I’ve decided. You and the mullahs can continue to rule India however you please. If you wish to tear down temples and churches, then do so. But I won’t be here to witness it.”

  This said, I stormed from Aba’s chambers and began making preparations in earnest to depart for Mecca.

  News of my decision slowly began permeating the household. Dara and Aurangzeb seemed devastated to learn of my leaving, but Raushanara was openly ecstatic at this dramatic turn of events. Doubtless she figured that with me out of the picture she could posit herself as the next Begum Sahiba and eventually perhaps even become the empress.

  Dara and Aurangzeb both tried to talk me out of leaving, each in his own way – Aurangzeb by lecturing me about the duties of a woman towards her father as called for in the Koran, Dara by describing to me what he’d learned from the mystic Sufi saints about the essential oneness of religions

  I was flattered that my brothers wished for me to stay but not enough for me to reverse my decision.

  My day of departure soon arrived, and the royal caravan was assembled to take me on my one way hajj to Mecca. My brothers gathered in front of my apartment to say a final farewell. Dara, holding infant Gauhara in his arms, seemed on the verge of tears. The ladies of the harem gathered opposite the princes.

  Each in turn hugged me and gave me something of use for my journey. I fought back tears lest my determination to continue on my hajj be brought into question. Soon I found myself before Afzal Khan, whom I regarded as an uncle and addressed as chacha.

  But I looked past him and asked, “Afzal Chacha, where is Aba? I wish to pay my respects.”

  He looked at me with glistening eyes and a soldier’s smile. “My dear Jahanara, he is waiting for you in Samman Burj. Please go and see him, just once.”

  The Samman Burj was an apartment in the Red Fort overlooking the river. Previously the home of Nur Jahan, and then of Ami, this was the most beautiful apartment in the entire fort. Since my mother’s death it had remained empty, but it was still cleaned and repaired every day, as if royalty were still residing in it.

  I walked into the Samman Burj, not having done so since my mother’s death, and to my astonishment I saw a glittering figure in the distance, facing away from me towards the river.

  “Aba, is that you?” I said in wonderment.

  Aba turned around and reached his arms out to me, smiling for the first time I’d witnessed in almost a year. He was wearing his jewel-studded turban and his dagger; pearl necklaces, rings and other ornaments adorned his entire body.

  I smiled and walked towards him, mightily baffled. I held my father’s hands, and he leaned towards my forehead and kissed me. We walked over to the balcony overlooking the river. He said, “I want to show you something…” He paused. “…I intend to build.”

  The light reflected red from the rubies on his dagger, and I squinted to avoid the glare. He said, “You see that site over there, past the river? It belongs to my friend Raja Jay Singh. I’m going to buy that from him and build there.”

  I shaded my eyes, trying to discern which mansion he was referring to. “Build what?”

  “I will build a mausoleum for your mother. Look, I already have several ideas.”

  He led me to a drawing he’d made on a wide sheet of paper. We bent our heads over the massive parchment that covered the entire surface of the table it was resting on. Aba continued: “You know how the Koran says that paradise contains gardens? Well, we’re going to have four walkways and fountains that lead to a central pool. The flowers and shrubs in the garden are emblems of life, and along the walkway we’ll have cypress trees. Do you know what they represent?”

  “What?”

  “Death and eternity, Jahanara. Death and eternity.”

  My eyes began to glisten. I hadn’t seen my father show such enthusiasm or utter such coherent, lucid thoughts since before my mother’s death. True to my Ami’s advice, it seemed that only a hobby such as building, which my father had enjoyed since his childhood, would be able to bring him out of his despair. My mother knew my father better than anyone, and even in those final moments when life was draining from her, she must’ve been cryptically offering the cure to my father’s inevitable melancholy and depression she knew would follow her death.

  “And here…” Aba went on, waving his pointer up and down, “… here will be the mausoleum itself, pure white, just like your mother. It will be located where the Koran says paradise itself is, within the gardens. As your mother reclines on the thrones of paradise in heaven, her body will be forever housed in this paradise on earth.”

  “Aba?” I said as I stared smiling at the drawings. “When did you have time to do this?”

  “Ever since you told me you’re leaving, I’ve done nothing but think about building. I searched all of the other drawings on Mughal architecture to devise this. I want the domes of the building to be modelled around Akbar’s tomb, because like your great grandfather, your mother, too, was a tolerant and beloved ruler. Everything will have a symbolic meaning, Jahanara.”

  We stared at each other, as if two lovers had found each other after a long period of exile.

  Aba grinned, “I’m back, Jahanara. Somewhere between Burhampur and Agra I lost myself. It took a while, I know. But I’ve come home.”

  I fell into my father’s arms, wept and hugged him as tightly as I could. As he embraced me, I sensed his familiar scent, and a memory rose from my childhood in the Deccan when we played games together in our exiled world. Hoping he never would leave me again, I tightened my grip so he would be a part of me for a lifetime.

  “Does this mean you’ll stay?” asked Aba with both tears and a smile.

  “What about all the broken temples and churches?” I asked.

  “All the temples destroyed shall be rebuilt and an allowance for their maintenance will be given every year from the royal treasury. The Christians will be free to practice and convert as they choose. And I am having the mullahs removed from the Diwan-i-khas. Raushanara has been visiting Nur Jahan regularly, and she was the one who incited the mullahs to advise me to attack Hugli.”

  “But why Hugli? Why not some other Christian city?”

  “I don’t know, but she has been reprimanded, and Nur Jahan is now being banished to Lahore. She will not be allowed any visitors, certainly not any of my children. From now on, Dara will advise me on religious matters. I am anointing him the heir apparent!”

  Aba took my hand, and we walked across the marble floor towards the Jharoka-i-darshan. Afzal was waiting for us there along with my brothers, who by then, I presumed, had been told
by Afzal about Aba’s plan to convince me to stay.

  The dhundhubi beat began as we walked closer to the jharoka. I stopped a pace before reaching the balcony so Aba could offer his darshan to his people alone, as was customary -- but he seized my arm and gestured for me to walk with him.

  I walked out onto the balcony with my face covered, standing right next to my father, just as Ami always had since his coronation. Staring at us across the pale horizon was a sea of people with faces upturned like black dots with white clothes. Thousands upon thousands stood below, forming their own fluid river, filling the narrow gullies in a massive flood of humanity. At such an elevation, one’s vision begins to change; the world shrinks and the way others view you changes as well. Aba raised his hands to acknowledge his faithful subjects, as if to give them his blessing to officially end their mourning and resume their lives.

  9

  THE PROCLAMATION

  10th August, 1632

  I was livid about Raushanara’s involvement in Hugli. Until now, I’d sympathised with her and wished to have a close relationship with her. But now, I felt as if something inside me was changing. It was almost as if my heart and mind were undergoing a metamorphosis, and I began feeling rage and – dare I say —hatred towards her. Oh, my God! Was I becoming a Mughal in the spirit of all those before me who killed their siblings for the throne? But though I couldn’t prevent the change occurring in me, I was determined not to act on it. I simply would watch Raushanara and be more wary of her from now on.

  As news of my remaining in Agra permeated the royal household, my brothers and the other members of the harem rejoiced. Later that week, Aba ordered the first official celebration. A royal banquet was convened in the palace. Rich carpets of silk with golden and silver embroidery were laid on the ground to form tables. The most fragrant perfumes were burned to give the air a sweet aroma. The Emperor entered, preceded by several beautiful women wearing golden silk garments. My maternal grandmother and I walked on either side of him.

  Then entered Dara, followed by my other brothers. It seemed to me they, too, were satisfied with their royal titles. Perhaps because of my decision to stay or simply because of the majesty of the moment, their faces featured wide grins, as though this were now their kingdom. The drums began to beat, and those present bowed their heads as we entered.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  “Padshah zindabad!”

  “Padshah zindabad!”

  “Padshah zindabad!”

  I had never walked alongside Aba into such a room since he’d become emperor. Surprisingly, I found the feeling empowering. For once I felt I had the power to make a difference and that others cared what I thought. I held my face high, acknowledging my father’s subjects, and walked into this elegantly decorated hall.

  The drum ceased beating and music now began: Light sitar plucking and whines filled the air. An ambience was thus set, majestic yet mellow. As the royal household sat at our respective locations, four women came into the hall. Because these were slave girls, their incredibly thin veils revealed each girl’s different ethnic origin. The first, who had Turkish features, laid a white cloth in front of the King; the second, who was of undoubtedly Kashmiri descent, placed a jewel-studded golden vessel with a hollow centre covered with a fine grating in before him; the third girl, who looked Persian, came with water to wash the King’s hands over the vessel; and the fourth, with Uzbek features, handed him the towel to dry his hands.

  After the King had been served by the four maidens, 12 more entered to do the same for the Princes. The eunuchs, wearing different-coloured trousers and white coats of the finest transparent muslin, brought out the royal dinner in sealed golden dishes. Four placed themselves next to the King and handed dishes to the two women, the Turk and the Uzbek, kneeling on either side of the King. I saw Aba motion to the Uzbek girl to serve him his favourite dish: roast lamb steeped in spiced yogurt. As was customary, the seal was broken, the food was sampled by the girl, and then handed to the King. While the Uzbek served him, the Turkish girl, as if she’d been trained by one of my father’s servants, served him naan along with two, not three, pieces of tandoori chicken. The women continued to place the dishes before the Emperor, hand him drinking water and remove the dishes he no longer desired.

  The plates we ate from were of gold, and the feast was the grandest Agra had seen since Ami’s death. In addition to the Emperor’s favourite dishes, there were also bowls of chicken chaat, mugli masala, mutton saag, and tray after tray of seek kebabs, shammi kebabs, do peesah, roghali josh, shahi korma, with every imaginable fruit our kingdom had to offer: grapes, pomegranates, mangoes, papayas, watermelons, oranges, guavas, pears, custard apples and watermelons. All told, there were over 100 different dishes, served with lemon juice, mango juice and different types of wines.

  I noticed that some Europeans had also been invited and situated a certain distance away. I asked Sati, who was seated next to me where the firangi might be.

  She shrugged, “I have no idea, I can’t tell white people apart.”

  Then the desserts came out: European style pastries and cakes served by slaves. Aba remarked that the pastries were Portuguese and added that the Europeans would be a great people if only they didn’t eat pork and washed themselves more often. To this comment, one European replied to Aba, “Why generalise, Your Majesty? Not all Portuguese are like that.”

  “But they still eat pork,” sniped Aurangzeb.

  I looked at the European directly and asked him, “Are you Portuguese?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. His Majesty is right,” he remarked with a grin on his face, “some of us can be filthy.”

  “Have you spent time with other Portuguese in India?” I asked.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, in Hugli. My name is Sebastian Manrique.”

  I was pleasantly surprised, but didn’t have the courage to show my emotions in full public display. I said off-handedly, “Did you know a doctor there named Gabriel?”

  Sebastian began laughing, but couldn’t speak with a mouthful of food. Aba and Dara looked at each other in disgust at the poor etiquette and table manners the traveller from Europe was displaying.

  Manrique gulped, “Yes, Madame. Very well. He was with me in Hugli.”

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  Sebastian’s smile turned to a frown. Perhaps knowing he couldn’t criticise the King directly at a royal banquet, he seemed at a loss for words to describe the horror in Hugli. I later learned he had narrowly escaped death himself by playing dead and sneaking out after the Mughal soldiers left. “I believe he was wounded in battle, but I don’t know what became of him. I’m sorry.”

  I nodded unemotionally. “I wish to employ your services for our Jesuit mission in Agra, sir.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness.”

  “You will be escorted by my eunuch, Bahadur, to the zenana quarters tomorrow,” I said with a bit of royal cockiness I was now becoming accustomed to.

  Aba then began making an announcement. The crowd’s chattering halted as the heart of the empire, the King himself, demanded their attention: “My fellow countrymen and esteemed guests, I wish to inform you of something truly historic. Not too long from now, you will see the construction of a mausoleum for the Empress Mumtaz Mahal, across the river from the fort. I am assembling artisans from all over the world, even Europe,” he said nodding to Sebastian. “I intend this to be the finest structure the world has ever seen, and it will require my undivided attention. I am commanding my daughter Jahanara to manage this project.”

  The crowd began chanting and cheering. “Padishah Zindabad!” “Padishah Zindabad!”

  But Aba wasn’t finished. “I am also letting you all know that a kingdom without an empress is like a body without a heart. India shall once again have an empress, and she will be someone in whom we see our beloved former empress.”

  Dead silence fell upon in the Hall as Aba turned towards me and began walking in my direction. I wasn’t sure what to e
xpect, and my heart began beating faster. Finally he stood in front of me and handed me an object that was too large for my hand, as though it had been made not for a woman’s but a man’s. I clumsily held it with both my trembling hands and began examining it. Made of solid gold, it had Persian writings on the side and a large diamond on top. Even with both hands I had trouble holding it, and I struggled against its weight pushing my palms down.

  Then beside me Sati gasped, “The muhr uzak!” I was shocked: Could this truly be the legendary muhr uzak, the royal seal so important, no command, not even the emperor’s, could reverse its authority once stamped? It all made sense now. No object this grand could be for a small task. In its grandiosity lay its true purpose.

  Aba then cried: “Ladies and gentlemen, Jahanara Begum is no longer Begum Sahiba; she is now the Padishah Begum!”

  I was overcome with emotion; something inside me stirred as if another soul was trying to possess my body. Padishah Begum? Was I really worthy of such a title? What had I done to deserve this extraordinary honour?

  The crowd now roared, “Long Live Padishah Begum!” and continued to roar, and my stomach began to churn and my heart raced. Was this how all the empresses had felt when first given this title? The muhr uzak! This seal has changed so many hands. So many powerful, intelligent women have held it, and now it’s mine to hold?

  I noticed my brothers rejoicing. It seemed my betterment was the one thing that had brought Aurangzeb and Dara together. But Raushanara, seated on the far corner, ran out of the room in rage; hardly anyone but me, even noticed.

  Sati embraced me tightly and whispered excitedly in my ear: “You are the first ever Empress of India not to be married to a king. In bypassing all of his wives and bestowing this title on you, the King has redefined a daughter’s role in the royal household. You now control the throne. You are its mistress.” Mistress of the throne? What did that even mean? Was this a new title carved out just for me? Would some new, unknown responsibility accompany this title?