Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues)

by Ruchir, Gupta

How opulent this structure would look with giant doors made of pure silver! Almost embarrassed that I didn’t already know about the metals planned for the structure, I moved on to the next artisan.

  Ali spoke: “Your Majesty, I now present Amanat Khan Shirazi, master calligrapher from Shiraz.”

  A heavy-set middle-aged gentleman very gracefully rose and greeted me. Unlike the other artisans, this man seemed non-athletic; his art wouldn’t require him to build muscles or a chiselled physique. Rather, he was a poet, artist and master calligrapher with a visual acumen that would see the subtle flaws of everyday writing and thus create the most flawless depiction of prose wherever he put his ink.

  I said, “Tell me, Amanat, where will your calligraphy find a home on our structure?”

  “Your Highness,” he said with quiet assurance, “I will write Koranic verses on the entrance to the structure, so that Allah’s words will remain always a part of your mother’s home.”

  I smiled and nodded to this exquisitely polite gentleman, whose name would ultimately be the only signature on the structure.

  One by one, Ahmed and Ali Mardan presented more men to me. To the best of my abilities, I tried to question each in his area of expertise, only to find they’d been well pre-screened by my two chief architects; these were simply the best in their trades to be had anywhere. After several days of interviews and questioning, 37 men were chosen to form the nucleus of the project, with over 20,000 actually commissioned to work on the structure. Marble was to be dug from the quarries of eastern India in the state of Rajasthan and transported to Agra with ox carts for hundreds of kos. Red sandstone was to be brought from the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri as well as from local quarries. The precious stone inlays came from much more far and remote regions: turquoise from Tibet, lapis from Ceylon, chrysolite from the Nile, carnelian from Baghdad, rare shells from the Indian Ocean and jasper from Cambay. Forty-three different types of gems and precious metals were to be used in the structure, including diamonds, rubies, silver and gold.

  Aba and I spent the next several years steeping ourselves in the work for the new structure. Not even having a name yet, we referred to it simply as The Structure. Labourers and masons from all over India poured into Agra to help with the construction, and a ten kos ramp of bricks was constructed to haul the large marble slabs up to its highest portion.

  As we viewed the area from the Samman Burj I remarked to Aba: “There’s more life out there than there is here in the fort.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he smiled. “In fact, they’re calling that area Mumtazabad, after your mother I presume.” It was beyond amazing to me, how on a clear barren field along the banks of the river, an entire metropolis had erupted, chaotic-looking but dynamic.

  I said, “Mumtazabad? Hmm… I guess it has its own streets and avenues and lanes. They even have a bazaar and playing grounds for the childrens’ servants.”

  “Everything you’d expect to find in a city,” replied Aba. “In fact, a caravan from Baghdad went through our city yesterday and stopped only in Mumtazabad, not Agra, because they felt there was more business for their goods there than here.”

  “Really?”

  “Not only so, but some people are openly saying they’re residents of Mumtazabad, not Agra.”

  “Did they receive your approval to say this, Aba?”

  “No…” he said hesitantly, as if reflecting for the first time on the illegal nature of such a claim. “Yet,” he nodded, “I guess as long as they’re honouring your mother’s name, I’m content. In truth, were it up to me every town would be Mumtazabad.”

  I looked again at the makeshift town of Mumtazabad, marvelling at how the former empty riverside location was now bustling with life: children were playing in the streets; vendors were selling goods. I then turned to my father and said excitedly, “Next time we go to survey the structure, can we also visit Mumtazabad, Aba? I want to see just how much it has developed!”

  Years had passed since I first interviewed the master artisans for the mausoleum. I continued to coordinate changes to the design as well as negotiate with other kingdoms for precious stones, but I left supervision of the actual construction to Ali Mardan and Ahmed. Now, as Aba and I set out to survey the progress, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

  As we dismounted from the elephant, I felt in utter awe of how, amid the debris of broken lumber and bustle of half-naked labourers, their ribs visible and faces darkened with dust, there was rising a luminous, snow-white structure that looked as though it had fallen from Allah’s very paradise for our earthly pleasure.

  Along the side of the construction area, I saw rows of burly, muscular men gathering in long lines to give their names and areas of expertise, and if they were lucky, to receive their new assignments. Indians from all over the country came to us to seek employment, and each according to his skill would find employment to help build my mother’s shrine.

  I could tell many of the labourers were drinking, quite possibly to find comfort from the long, hard days their new job required. At a distance, labouring women balanced basins of earth on their heads, while their male counterparts dug with iron piks and dumped the earth into the never-ending line of empty basins. Slowly, the actual direction of the river was being changed so it might be brought closer to the site.

  As Aba discussed the progress of the structure with his architects, it seemed to me that the architects were torn over a dilemma: How would the structure simultaneously exemplify both the opulence and grandeur of the Mughal King and the utter simplicity of the Queen it meant to immortalise? This quandary seemed born from Aba himself, for he would vacillate between what the monument was supposed to signify – the greatest architectural glory of Shah Jahan the Magnificent – or the enduring love and devotion of his modest wife, Mumtaz. He would make one comment supporting the former and then regress and make a completely different comment supporting the latter. Ali Mardan motioned to me not to be concerned, though. The end – he would tell me – would perfectly combine both.

  We decided to venture on foot through the tented city of Mumtazabad. Much to our amazement, we learned that the makeshift town had indeed blossomed into a major metropolis. Tents were arranged in a specific section, with narrow streets leading to a main avenue where larger carts could be found. There were bazaars for several kos, where all goods one can imagine could be bought and sold. Of course, the residents of this town were all labourers on the structure being built, so many of the goods were cheap items they could afford – no noble would be caught shopping here.

  As we made our way back to our elephants near the structure, the sun began to set. On our way back to the fort, I decided to talk to my father about his treatment of Aurangzeb. Still concerned about the nickname he had been given, I was equally troubled by the biased treatment I saw with respect to both the elephant incident and overall inequalities between the treatment of the royal siblings.

  “I never called him that to his face!” my father protested.

  “It doesn’t matter, Aba. You must understand that your nobles can’t be trusted. Anything you say can poison your relationship with your son. And as bad as he is, is it your belief that calling him a ‘serpent’ befits a king as great as yourself?”

  Aba pouted. “Are you aware of the offence he’s committing since I made him Governor of the Deccan?”

  Aba had sent his sons to govern different regions of his kingdom. To the west was sent Murad, to become governor of troubled Sindh and Afghan regions; to the east was Shuja to govern the more passive Bengal region; and to the south was Aurangzeb to govern the Deccan. Dara remained in Agra to oversee the capital and reap the pleasures of the city.

  Aba said, “Ever since your brother was sent to the Deccan, I’ve received regular complaints from the people there of different temples he has destroyed. In Fatehnagar, he levelled a 6th century Hindu temple and used the statues to make a staircase for a mosque. His reasoning was that every time a believer in the Koran walks to the mosque, hi
s feet should crush the infidel’s idol to show the supremacy of Islam!”

  I shook my head in shame. I hadn’t been aware of what he’d done, but I knew he had it in him to do such things, and he was no more willing to change his ways than was my father.

  “He purposely usurps my authority whenever he can. No other son does this but him!”

  “But should you call your own son a serpent?”

  “I only said that a couple of times in a moment of rage,” Aba replied, his voice even more tense at being confronted about this matter.

  I continued: “I know Aurangzeb could never be king, and I know he’s intolerant of non-Muslims, but for you, he always tries to do well. He has always yearned to please you; always wants to be just like you. He’s mastered military matters better than anyone, and he does it because he wants to be just like you.”

  “Well, if he wishes to be like me, I suggest he start with more subtle approaches, such as respecting religious minorities. You know…” he continued, leaning near me, “he doesn’t even approve of all this,” he said twirling his finger in the air.

  “All what?”

  “This… the structure, the mausoleum for your mother. He says it is un-Islamic because it shows vanity.”

  “Then what does he want?”

  “He said the mud and wood covering we have on her grave is sufficient. We should be building mosques or conquering territories with the money we’re spending on this.”

  I just sighed. No matter how much I tried to help my brother, his actions and words always made it very difficult for me to convey my message and win him any allies.

  Just staring straight at the road, not even looking me in the eye, Aba continued: “No mausoleum, no music, no poetry, nothing that makes life worth living is acceptable with that son of mine. That’s why I sent him to the Deccan. Live there however you please. Just stop bothering me.”

  We, father and daughter, stayed quiet for the rest of the journey. I noticed my father was just staring out into the sky sadly, as if he felt devastated to see how Aurangzeb had turned out and felt helpless and frustrated at his own inability to mold his son into a better man. As if just giving up on him altogether, he’d merely banished him from the kingdom, but done so in a politically appropriate manner by calling him the Governor of the Deccan and giving him some limited power in a region that wasn’t very important to us. Aba concentrated almost entirely now on Dara and Dara’s newborn son, Sulaiman Shikoh. It was as if they alone were important to him. I didn’t even bother re-approaching the topic of the elephant incident. For every one incident in which Aurangzeb was wronged, there appeared to be ten in which he was committing offences. Any discussion seemed futile.

  12

  THE ACCIDENT

  5th April, 1644

  I could barely breathe, my nostrils were so clogged with soot and ointments filled to treat my burns. My mouth was so dry, I was perpetually thirsty but never received any water because of my inability to communicate. My head ached as if someone was poking it with sharp needles all day and night. Every part of my body ached, except those parts I could no longer feel. Every time I tried to move, I felt as though my body was covered with layers of bandages, but perhaps it was just scars from the accident that had swollen and developed into atrocious blisters of fat and skin.

  I slept most of the time from the opium they seem to have been giving me for the pain. Though I’m told I was never alone, I have barely any recollection of those months of my life.

  Ami would visit me in my dreams on some nights, but whenever she did she looked like she did when we were in Nizamshahi, not in Agra. It was as if my memory chose to recall her not as the grand Queen of India, but as a simple princess back when power and status meant very little to our family.

  In her sweet yet stern voice she would say to me, “Jahanara, stay close by; don’t run into the forest after any rabbit or deer!” I felt as though I was looking through a window transported in time, for in my dreams, I saw myself as a ten-year-old girl, running carefree, wanting nothing more than a beautiful deer to admire and a beautiful baby sister or brother to give way to my perpetually pregnant mother who through her days with a swollen belly, would run after me and pick me up in her arms.

  She was with me during those days when I lay in bed on the verge of death, my body badly disfigured from the flames that had consumed it.

  I don’t know how my family members were coping with this, especially Aba, whose voice would occasionally echo in my ears when I went in and out of consciousness, barely aware of my surroundings. But honestly, as much as I cared about them, I was in too much agony to think of their needs at this time.

  After we arrived in our palace from Mumtazabad that fateful day, I was walking back to my apartments, newly remodelled in the past several years, after I’d finished checking up on my father. Four female servants accompanied me as I walked through the marble and red sandstone corridors. On this night, I wore muslin I’d purchased from Mumtazabad. It was a beautiful turquoise colour, but was a little bit big on me. As I walked, the bottom portion of the rear of the muslin swung in the wind behind me like the train of a bride.

  I was enjoying the wind gusts created by the corridor of the palace and I began to walk faster, hoping the wind would hit my face harder as I enjoyed it on this hot summer day. I closed my eyes so they wouldn’t dry out from the cool, brisk air that was embracing my face. Suddenly, the bottom portion of the muslin already gliding in the air must have hit the flame of a candle and caught fire. At first, I didn’t even notice what had happened, but then the fire crept up my back and the flame touched my soft, olive skin. I turned around and saw that my muslin had caught fire and began to scream. “Help! Fire! Ahh! Someone help!”

  A number of female servants threw themselves on me, hoping to extinguish the flame, but it reached up my neck and then set my hair on fire.

  “Someone help us!” cried one of the female attendants. I then saw one of my attendants, Sharda, who’d rushed to me first, herself now on fire. Her hair, longer than mine, had caught fire as soon as she ran towards me.

  The other female attendants were now trying to extinguish flames burning us both. Then one of the other girls, much younger than Sharda, moved away as her scarf caught fire. She threw it off, but it was too late; she was already on fire. The last of the attendants smothered me, trying to choke off the flames, but to no avail. Each one by one was catching fire while trying to extinguish it. The flame engulfing all four of us was destined to permanently scar our bodies for life, or whatever would be left of our lives after this.

  “Get some water, help!” I yelled.

  My arms were now on fire, too; only my front side, from where my tears had wet my entire face, was left unharmed. “Wake up!! Someone help!”

  All I could see were four flame-embroiled shadows surrounding me.

  “Help us!” somebody yelled.

  I cried: “Where is everybody?”

  Every moment seemed like an eternity, and my body seared with pain I’d never known was possible.

  Finally two guards came running. I began to lose consciousness and everything turned into a blur. The guards were shouting that there was no water tank nearby to fill buckets with. I knew this area of the palace. The only deposit of water was in the fountains – beautiful, glistening fountains that looked like floating crystals in the sunlight. Though aesthetically pleasing, they would take time to fill water buckets. By then, we would all be dead.

  “Aba! Help me!!” I cried, my back completely covered in flames.

  I heard one of the guards shout, “We must do something besides just pour water, or they’ll die!”

  My attendants’ cries began to die out, and I feared they might have succumbed to the flames. Were they dead or was I? I wondered. Then suddenly two women covered me with a heavy shawl.

  I murmured half awake: “Save Sharda. Save my girls…”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” replied one woman anxiously.

  Afte
r several more minutes, they completely extinguished the flames. I then lost consciousness.

  During my recovery, some of my dreams involved visions of heaven. As pictured in the Koran, there were lush gardens with fountains and many rose bushes, and on the paved walkways people didn’t stand, they glided by. No one had feet, souls simply floated in air, with faces implanted with smiles that never eroded and happiness that never faded. I tried to run across this garden, searching for my mother, but realised soon that I myself wasn’t running, but gliding. Was I dead too? Was this dream in actuality my new reality? I continued to float, my skin tone no longer olive, but now a glistening golden, like a ray of the sun; my fingertips were pointed like the edges of a sword; my eyes were pointy and thin, like simple slits. Would I even be able to recognise my Ami if everyone looked as different?

  The weather was very warm, but we didn’t sweat, instead just absorbed the light as if we were a part of it. Wherever I went in this never-ending paradise, everyone greeted me like a long-lost friend. Was I drunk or simply enlightened? Was this paradise or simply an opium hallucination? I kept searching for my mother, crossing wondrous landscapes in my quest, floating and gliding past waterfalls and fountains – and then I saw a tall woman at a distance, wearing the same clothes my mother wore. She didn’t glide, nor was her colour gold. Instead, she simply stood as though she were still human.

  I glided towards her, crying, “Ami! It’s me, Jahanara! I’m here. Turn around!”

  Slowly the figure turned, and it indeed was my beautiful mother, her belly no longer swollen, smiling, and she stretched her arms out to hug me.

  I ran into her arms like a child bruised on the playground would run to her mother. She wrapped her arms around me, and I was able to smell her aroma – an aroma that had long since faded from her belongings. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, Ami” I cried, with no tears to run down my golden-hued face. I was now convinced I had died and was in paradise, for here you couldn’t cry. The only emotion you were capable of was happiness.