Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues)

by Ruchir, Gupta

  His plan was to let our army invade head on with a smaller number than the enemy’s, but letting them believe we’d underestimated their forces. Once they thought they were winning, they’d release their remaining soldiers to finish our men off. Then our Hindu Rajput contingent would rise from the trenches and overpower them; they’d have no time to retreat, and we’d slaughter them summarily.

  The day of the first battle came and Aurangzeb ordered his Rajput officers to bury themselves in trenches along the rear edges of the valley. The Mughal men, swords in hands, met the Bukhara army in close combat, slashing and being slashed in return. The Bukhara army seemed to be overpowering the Mughal men, moving deeper into the Mughal-controlled area of the battlefield, while Aurangzeb watched from the hilltop. Thinking victory would be theirs, the Bukhara army released their reserves, overpowering the doomed Mughal souls who would be the first regiment sent to their deaths on this battlefield. When the last of the Bukhara regiments charged in, Rajputs attacked from the trenches using muskets – routing the unsuspecting Bukhara army.

  The Central Asian men ran from the battlefield in all separate directions. But to Aurangzeb’s surprise, these men had made holes in caves alongside the valley, and using tunnels they’d linked the caves to allow themselves safe passage home. So Aurangzeb’s hopes to destroy the enemy in one day were dashed – but he’d won an important battle. Half of the enemy troops had been annihilated, including numerous commanders who’d rushed the battlefield hoping to achieve glory by capturing Aurangzeb himself.

  The trumpets of victory sounded as the Mughal soldiers, Hindus and Muslims, cheered at their general who’d given them this much-needed victory after months of death and disease.

  In repeated engagements that continued for the next several weeks, Mughal muskets and arrows triumphed over the Bukhara army’s primitive weapons. Aurangzeb gradually plugged up the caves, and the Bukhara army’s clever cave-tunnel structure collapsed.

  Though far from home and away from any mosque, Aurangzeb prayed regularly during this time and insisted on holding daily prayer services. A tent was designated as the provisional mosque where all Muslim men could pray. Aurangzeb believed this was important both for morale and for the continued blessings of God on his endeavours.

  Slowly the Bukhara resistance thawed. Many began to desert and either go home, or in some cases join the Mughal army in return for clemency. And unlike Murad, Aurangzeb stayed true to his word and delivered to these poor souls what he’d promised.

  Finally a turning point came in this months-long battle for an unworthy prize. During one late day’s battle, Aurangzeb, heavily bloodied from the fighting, began to notice it was time for him to say his daily prayer. The young Prince rode his horse to a clearing at the far side of the battle field, dismounted and spread a rug across the floor. The commanders of both armies slowly turned his way, each unsure of what the Mughal was doing during this raging battle. Aurangzeb kneeled and performed his prayers, completely oblivious to the vicious fighting around him. His men were in awe, as were the Bukhara generals. The Bukhara king, seeing this unrealistic vision from a hill top couldn’t believe his eyes, and is to have felt a wave of emotions overcome him.

  “Islam is about brotherhood,” muttered the King to the soldier standing beside him. “If this man believes so much in the Koran that he’s willing to risk his life to pay homage to Allah on the battlefield, then I can fight him no longer. To fight such a man is to invite one’s own ruin.”

  The King ordered his men to retreat and then he himself walked out onto the battlefield. As the Mughal soldiers were about to charge him, the generals stopped their men, convinced that this wasn’t an attack but possibly a surrender. Aurangzeb, still kneeling on his rug with his eyes closed and chanting his verses, realised the fighting had stopped and something unusual was happening, but he refused to be disturbed during this moment.

  The Bukhara King walked over to the Prince and laid his sword in front of the kneeling, shut-eyed Prince Aurangzeb. “Open your eyes, brother,” said the King calmly. “I cannot fight the truest believer in the Koran I’ve ever met. Take what you will from our humble kingdom. It’s yours.”

  Aurangzeb rose, and the King continued: “This will be our understanding, brother. You go home now with our treasures and tell your King you’ve won. I will stay here and rule my people as I see fit. You don’t control me, and I won’t cross you. Officially, we are now a part of your empire, but for all intents and purposes, you will have no control over us. We won’t send men into your army, nor allow you to tax our people. On paper, though, we’re now a part of you.”

  Aurangzeb embraced the Bukhara King, effectively accepting his truce; but he exacted one condition: the King had to submit a formal submission, plus a request for a pardon. To everyone’s astonishment (and delight), the King acquiesced.

  The war was now over, essentially as a stalemate. The day of the surrender arrived but much to Aurangzeb’s chagrin, the King himself didn’t show up, instead sending his two grandsons to bow in his place. Though livid at first, Aurangzeb did reluctantly accept these substitutes.

  While the war in the northwest raged on, a war needed to be won here at home as well – between Raushanara and myself. I’d never asked to be at war with my own sister, but now that she’d spread such a vicious rumour about me, I was ready to fight back.

  My other sister, Gauhara, was slowly coming of age, and like other women of the harem, she was taking delight in the pleasures of the zenana. Like Raushanara, it was rumoured that she, too, was enjoying the company of a man (though Raushanara had many more than one). Gauhara’s lover was a soldier named Imtiaz Khan; he’d visit her every night, promptly at one am (at least, that’s what my eunuch told me).

  I began to befriend my sister, the love child of my parents born on the day my Ami died.

  “Shirazi?” Gauhara’s olive skinned face lit up. Gauhara, with her fair-skinned complexion and slender, sharp features, looked more like me and Ami. This had only served to alienate Raushanara, who deeply resented her own tanned complexion and round features. What’s worse, every summer Raushanara would break out with the worst case of acne, and the hakims would give her every herb and potion they knew to clear her skin, but to no avail. Both Gauhara and I had clear skin, and this enflamed her even more.

  I asked, “Do you know Shirazi wine, Gauhara?”

  She chuckled, blushed and then nodded in the affirmative.

  Then I asked, “Tell me, have you had any other wines?”

  She laughed profusely and reached to take the Shirazi from my hand. I moved it behind me to evade her grasp. “Jahanara!” she lamented, whining like the child I felt she still was inside.

  “Have you also had Canary wine, because I have that too?”

  “So this is what you do with you title?” she tittered. “You import foreign wines and horde them in your chambers? Well, I’m tired of drinking araq,” she pouted. “It has a tangy flavour and makes me sick the next day.”

  “No araq for you tonight, sister! Shirazi awaits!” I poured her a glass of Shirazi, expecting her to just sip it slowly as I normally would. As if she were a thirsty traveller receiving water, Gauhara drank it all down in one gulp.

  “That was fast,” I said playfully.

  Gauhara squinted as the final gulp drained down her throat. “Mmmm! That was good!”

  I poured another glass. This was going to be easier than I thought! After several more glasses, Gauhara splayed herself across her divan and looked at the carefully carved ceiling. “Oh, Jahanara! Allah made wine for women like me… so we can drink our sorrows away!”

  Clearly drunk now, she began confiding in me. This is where I needed her to be, but I knew I had to tread slowly. I said, “Why such sorrows, sister?” Not that I really cared; I knew why she was sad because she wasn’t with her Imtiaz. But I wanted to let her do her talking, and I gently steered the conversation towards Raushanara.

  “She’s a bitch!” she blurted out.
I was surprised. I’d thought she and Raushanara were friends. Why would she say such a thing about her? She rolled onto her stomach and purred, “I have just one love, and all I asked her was to pull some strings to make sure he wouldn’t leave for the northwest to fight there.”

  I sipped my Shirazi but swallowed little. I needed to be sober for this, so I could learn more, and clearly. “And did she?” I sighed. Of course I knew the answer, but I wanted to prod her more.

  “That bitch ignored me! She hushed me out of her apartment and told me I was being a nuisance.”

  “But why?”

  Gauhara took another sip of the wine, as if she needed more fuel to spill the secrets. “She had her own lovers hide in the baths next to her apartment!”

  “What?” This sounded strange, even for Raushanara. “But why?”

  Gauhara moaned. “She is soooo wicked, Jahanara!” Then she whispered: “Even after I told her about Imtiaz, she wouldn’t let me know who she was having sex with.” She took another sip.

  “So she hides them in the baths?”

  “Yes! And most nights she has more than one! Raushanara rarely has sex with one guy at a time!”

  I just nodded my head. I couldn’t make Gauhara privy to my plan. She mustn’t know why I was prodding her. “Is there any specific time of the month she has these ‘lovers’ over?”

  Gauhara swayed drunkenly and the side of her mouth dripped wine. She slurred, “She does it when the hakims tell her she’s least likely to be fertile!”

  Pregnancy was the most feared outcome of sex for the zenana women. It was clear to us that we belonged only to the King; thus, if one of the King’s women he hadn’t visited turned out pregnant, that was proof she’d been unfaithful. And in the case of us daughters, we weren’t to be touched by anyone, so how could we be pregnant? “So when is that time?” I ventured.

  Gauhara thought for a moment. Then she said stuperously, “Around the 10th of every month. Just visit her then, and you’ll always find men hiding in her baths!”

  Visit her? I wouldn’t need to visit that witch who took from me the love of my life. No, the person who’d visit her on the 10th of next month would be the King himself!

  For the Mughal army the march back from the northwest was cruel and unforgiving. Most of the pack animals died or got injured, making it virtually impossible to bring back any treasures from the region to Aba. Those men already sick or injured at the start of the journey almost all perished somewhere along the way. The price of this war was high – most of the original 50,000 soldiers deployed under Murad were now dead, including generals. Aurangzeb started out insisting on a proper burial for any Muslim soldier, including a recitation of the hymns; but he eventually gave up and chose not to be informed of further deaths, forced to embrace the ‘bliss’ ignorance can at times bring under such conditions.

  When Aurangzeb returned to Lahore, he did carry a gold dagger from the King of Bukhara that he managed to keep through the journey, hoping to present it to Aba in Agra. Aba couldn’t help but be disappointed, not with Aurangzeb, but at the disastrous cost in resources and human lives of this campaign. He chose to remain in Agra, consoled by his art and architecture and not greet his son in Lahore, as Aurangzeb had hoped. He further told Aurangzeb not to bother coming to Agra but to instead go to Gujarat.

  It seemed there was but one victor in this entire war – Aurangzeb. After having spent a lifetime treated as a black stain, he only could claim credit for bringing home the deserted army from the Central Asian debacle. He secured the submission of the enemies’ royalty, and he cut hard spurs in the icy grounds of the torrential northwest. More importantly, he won the admiration of Mughal generals, who’d seen in him both the discipline and the strength of a true military commander.

  To me, his success and strength were both exciting and scary. I was proud to see my brother be victorious, but I feared his strong military acumen along with the allies he must have made in this expedition would embolden him to challenge Dara for the throne some day. With time, Aurangzeb would need friends in the military should anything happen to the King. Aurangzeb’s fortunes were beginning to turn, and I became increasingly worried.

  19

  JAHANARA’S TAJ

  7th March, 1647

  My relationship with Gabriel now began to stabilise into extremely close friendship, not the lustful dependency it had been while he was in Agra. One day I received a letter from him:

  My Love,

  My work here in Hugli is complete. The factories have been set up, and Kalikata, the once-impoverished village along the Hugli river, is fast turning into a major commercial centre, and along with the neighbouring villages of Suntanati and Govindpur, it’s now being reorganised into a central city, renamed Calcutta. I’m returning to Surat at the end of the month and from there will go back to England forever.

  I want you to come with me. Leave your family and make it seem like an accident. You can have a new identity, a new name and a new beginning. Leave all this – the gossip, the fighting, the kingdom – and let’s begin our new life together. You’ll fit in perfectly with English society, your olive skin a refreshing tinge of colour among the pale crowds that await me in England. We can start a family, and you can give them all Muslim names if you wish. All I want is to begin our life together, in the open.

  I’ll meet you in your new capital of Shahjahanabad (Delhi) at the end of the month, and then we’ll escape in the darkness in my bullock cart to Surat. From then on you’ll be known as my ‘bibi,’ someone I met and married in Bengal. No longer Jahanara, you’ll have a new name, a new identity, but the same love. I’m tired of hiding and hurting. This isn’t how it has to be. Do what’s right and shake off the chains that have bound us for so long. I’m willing to leave it all for you. Will you for me?

  Love,

  Gabe

  I’d meet Gabriel in Delhi, but I had other plans than he suggested. I worked tirelessly for the next several weeks to complete construction of the new city, to make sure it was perfect when he arrived.

  I divided my time between planning out the details of the city – locating gardens, canals, parks, havelis – and learning about the Qadiriya order. Just as Aba had after Ami’s death, I was coping with the loss of Gabriel by immersing myself in architecture, using Delhi as my pallet.

  I remember discussing the planning with Aba many years ago. He’d asked me, “What do you wish to do with the water on the riverside?”

  I replied, “I think we can use it to make canals all across the city, just as you did for the Taj Mahal.”

  “Taz Mahal, Jahanara,” corrected the King, “not Taj.”

  “You know, Aba, I think Taj sounds better, and everyone’s using that word now. Nobody seems to be able to remember it’s Taz. Let’s just go with that: Taj.”

  Aba wasn’t particular about names, and as long as the shrine was devoted to his deceased lover, he had no problem with that minor distortion.

  “Aba, the climate of our new capital is even more arid and dry than Agra’s. But if we flow canals all through the city, into the private chambers and all around the fort, it will cool the city on the hot days.”

  “It shall be like paradise!” said a proud Aba, commending my budding architect’s mind.

  “The Paradise Canal, Aba. That shall be its name.”

  Now Delhi would be my Taj Mahal. Here, I’d fight the depression of losing Gabriel and celebrate through architecture the love that I shared with him. I took trips to the city regularly, no more than a few hours each way.

  The entire city was a semicircle enclosing over 1,500 acres, was walled, with eight gates, each named after the city toward which it was pointing: The Lahori gate led to the city of Lahore; the Kashmiri gate led north to Kashmir; Ajmeri gate to the Rajput western city of Ajmer, and so on. The design of eight gates was also intentional: Four gates represented the four directions; the other four represented the gates of heaven. Within the walled city was another walled structure – t
he new Red Fort, situated in the west. The west was an important direction for us Mughals for this reason – it faced Mecca. All prayers were done facing west; mosques – including the Jami Mosque – opened their doors facing West.

  Built of stones quarried from the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri, the walls of the fort formed an irregular octagon. Four large gateways, two small entrances and 21 towers lined the walls of the fort. A deep moat surrounded it, filled with water and fishes, beyond which were gardens of jasmines, roses, frangipani, violets and mango, apple and banyan trees.

  The Paradise Canal pumped water several kos upstream from the Jumna and ran through the harem apartments into all areas of the Red Fort and the city at large, feeding pools and sending fountain jets high into the air, creating rainbows wherever they went. Flowers and trees surrounded the canal, but were often barely visible behind the drifting spray of the fountains. The largest apartment here was mine, and I created it with the utmost care and attention to detail, just as Aba had taught me.

  The princes’ mansions were situated outside the Red Fort’s walls, each haveli looking itself like a miniature fort. The new Red Fort was the first building completed, at a cost of 60 lakh rupees, almost half spent on the lavish design for the new Diwan-i-khas.

  The Diwan-i-khas was made of solid marble, with inlays like those of the Taj Mahal. Built entirely of white marble, its outer wall was studded with agates, pearls and other precious stones. Sheets of gold in a threefold pattern decorated the ceiling; shards of glass sent sparks of light bouncing across the hall.

  Gabriel had sent me a message informing me of the date of his arrival at this majestic new city. I’d already arranged for him to stay in a dwelling near the military encampment, the Urdu Bazaar. I myself had moved into my apartment, but I wouldn’t stay there this night. As was customary with our meetings, I would put on a boy’s outfit and a turban – green for the Qadiriya order and Mian Mir’s blessing – to meet with him.