Now I watched from a casement as Gabriel’s bullock cart made its way to the Urdu Bazaar and the servants of his quarters quickly unloaded the boxes from the carts and unpacked them for him in the haveli. Gabriel slowly walked into the central courtyard of this haveli, and must have noticed it looked a lot like his mansion in Agra. The bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchens, all opened into this main entrance. He entered one of the rooms where the servants were placing his belongings. I was waiting for him in the bedroom, dressed like a boy, wiping the furniture.
We embraced and then we talked for hours. I told him of the Qadiriya order and he told me about Bengal, which was slowly turning into the East India Company’s stronghold on the Indian subcontinent, as the village of Kalikata became bigger and more westernised. The trade was extremely profitable, and Gabriel was being credited with its success, in no small part because it was he who’d secured the trading rights from the Mughal King.
Gazing in wonder, Gabriel smiled, “This place is truly amazing!” It’s like walking through a Persian paradise.”
“It is great, isn’t it?” I giggled, my smile wider than any that had graced my face in the last couple of months. “Aba calls it ‘Paradise on Earth.’ When he visited it last month he said, ‘If there is a paradise on earth, it’s this, it’s this, it’s this!’ I liked what he said so much, I’m having it engraved on the walls of the new Diwan-i-khas.”
Gabriel and I spent the rest of the day walking through the majestic city of Delhi (conceived by Aba, but perfected by me). I showed him the different towns and told him what the names meant.
We walked around the town of Khari Baoli, meaning ‘Salty Well,’ so named because the salt water from the well in this area was used for animals and for bathing. Other towns – Churi Wallan, meaning the town where bracelets were sold, Chauri Bazaar meaning wide market, Darya Ganj meaning river trading post – reflected industry rather than honouring dignitaries or historical figures. I showed Gabriel how the city was to function like a well-oiled machine with everyone knowing where to go for what purpose, with no time wasted. This was the capital of India and it needed to function as such.
Gabriel wondered: “So did the people name the neighbourhoods, or did the neighbourhoods define the people?”
I said: “Well, we watched where the merchants and traders and artisans settled, and if we thought where they did made sense in the overall picture of the city, we allowed it. And then the town or neighbourhood got a name that reflected its purpose.”
As we walked, Gabriel was extraordinarily impressed with how much thought and analysis had gone into every nook of this new city. We next stumbled on a mosque, not the grand Jama Masjid that Aba had built as the heart of the city, but another, much smaller one.
I said, “This is Fatehpuri Masjid, Gabe, built by one of my stepmothers, Fatehpuri Begum. She’s very religious and always wanted to build a mosque, so I thought this would be a good opportunity to fashion one for her.”
Gabriel looked in awe at how I’d built this city, every lane and avenue of it.
I led Gabriel to a beautiful garden, Persian in style. “This is Sahibabad, meaning Garden of the Sahiba.” It recalled Persian gardens where men would kill one another over a dram of water, and where a small stretch of shaded land meted each day’s journey against the hot sun and arid climate, and such gardens were always filled with water pools and fountains, their trees and shrubs aligned unnaturally. These unabashedly artificial-looking gardens had no signs of natural variation; all were geometrically shaped to reflect semi-religious concepts. The lines of trees, the carefully pruned flower beds, the marble canals, were all created to give the inhabitant a semi-divine pleasure as he enjoyed the surroundings. Such were the gardens of the Taj Mahal, and such were the gardens now of Delhi.
Eventually the sun began to set, bringing the moment I was waiting for. I wasn’t going to let Gabriel see this part of the city until the time was right. It was now about 9:00 pm and the sun had just set, leaving the city in lamp and candlelight. We walked out of the garden and passed Fatehpuri Masjid, and I now led Gabriel to a wide avenue – the main one of Delhi.
This was the ‘backbone’ Aba referred to. It ran east-west, spanning the entire city and ending at the Red Fort. At a width of 40 yards and a length of 1,520 yards, it was the largest single avenue in all of India. Through its centre ran a water canal, on this moonlit night reflecting that orb in its water. The moon’s glow and reflection in the canal lit the entire avenue, with some help from lamps along either end’s far side. Just as in Varanasi, the glow of the lamps and moon in the water illumined the surrounding buildings and the people standing beside them.
“Gabe,” I said, staring into the avenue as Gabriel held my hand, “when my mother lay on her deathbed, my father told her she was like the sun and he was the moon. The moon has no light; its light’s all reflected from the sun. Without the sun, no one would ever see the moon. She was his sun – his light. Without her, no one would see him.”
Gabriel waited silently, and I went on: “My mother said it was their love that was the sun, and as long as he kept that love alive, he would glow. I named this Chandni Chowk, meaning Moonlit Avenue, to represent the light, the energy and illumination your love has given me.”
Gabriel looked at me silently, clearly speechless with emotion.
I said, “Before you, I lived for everyone else – the kingdom, my family and my people. You made me want to live for myself. I’m not ashamed of that anymore; it was my right to do something for myself. But here it must end. Gabriel, India is my life; its people are my children; and its king is the only man I can love.” I paused, and then said, “You not only saved my life, you gave me another, and this avenue is my love’s expression of that. This is my Taj Mahal, Gabe.”
Then Gabriel and I walked in silence the mile-long Chandni Chowk, watching other people holding each other’s hands, enjoying the romantic, sensual experience this corridor gave us all.
I told the heartbroken Gabriel I couldn’t leave with him for England, and that by refusing his invitation I realised I was in all likelihood saying goodbye to him forever. As enjoyable as the past few years had been for me, and as much as I valued his love, I wasn’t born to marry him – I was mistressed to the throne of India. Like any mother, I treated my children not equally, but uniquely, hoping to bridge the divide I knew was building and possibly avert the bloodbath every previous succession crisis in Mughal India had precipitated. I’d promised my mother I would take care of my siblings as if they were my own children. So I couldn’t leave. I was meant to be the Queen of India. The Daughter-Queen.
Gabriel understood my dilemma and though ravaged emotionally, had to accept my decision. And I knew that by denying myself this last opportunity to escape, I’d forever tied my fate to that of the Mughal Empire. That empire and I were now one entity, and there could be no further room for Gabriel in my world.
Though we knew this could last no longer, that night we pretended tomorrow would never come, wishing to stay as long as we could in that present, walking up and down our own Taj Mahal.
20
REVENGE
10th April, 1647
Aba went to visit Raushanara on the 10th of the following month, as I’d advised. I didn’t want to bear him bad news, but I hinted to him that something amiss was occurring in the zenana, and that if he visited her on that day, he’d surely find out what it was. He later told me what transpired:
Aba began: “You must miss Aurangzeb since he’s been on the front lines for so long?”
Raushanara lamented Aurangzeb’s plight as usual. “You have no idea, Aba. I can neither sleep nor sit. I worry for my brother and my countrymen all the time.”
“You are a good princess! Tell me, how do you feel the Taj is coming along?”
Raushanara answered quickly, “Wonderful, Aba! It’s your finest work yet!”
Aba felt Raushanara had answered too swiftly, almost as if she wanted him to leave, just as I’d
cautioned him she would.
Her head moved from side to side slightly. “Aba, we have something special happening tomorrow, just the zenana ladies. May I ask your permission to rest?”
Aba smiled thinly and asked, “My child, when was the last time you took a bath?”
Raushanara replied, “Why, today, Aba!”
Aba nodded. “My child, this summer heat is destroying everyone. Do me a favour, bathe again before you sleep. Your face shouldn’t rest tonight with the chemicals and substances of the flesh sitting on your otherwise beautiful skin. Let’s light the cauldron and heat the water at once!”
“N-no Aba!!!” she stammered. “I prefer cool baths in the summer!”
“Nonsense! I can’t risk you getting sick!” Aba motioned to one of the eunuchs to light a fire under the cauldron to warm it for Raushanara. Raushanara must have felt near-panic, wondering if and how her lovers might somehow escape.
The cauldron was lit, and Aba sat in front of Raushanara with a fixed smile, knowing full well that this wasn’t what Raushanara wanted.
“Keep the fire hot, eunuch!” he ordered. He glared now at Raushanara, a slick smile crossing his face. Raushanara looked downright fearful.
Just then, loud men’s screams echoed from the baths. Aba stared fixedly and ordered firmly, “Keep the fire burning, eunuch! And let no one escape the cauldron!”
Men’s screaming grew louder, and now sounds of struggle rose. Burly Uzbeks eunuchs must have been pushing the men trying to get free back into the cauldron.
“Aba, please don’t!” cried Raushanara.
“The bath must be sufficiently warm now,” said Aba wryly. “Keep warming that cauldron, eunuch!” he called cheerily.
Some time later the exruciating sounds died out, and Raushanara wept openly under Aba’s relentless stare. The eunuch appeared, slowly walked towards Aba and said, “All who were in the cauldron have been boiled, Your Highness.”
Aba smiled at Raushanara and shouted, “Good! Now, go feed them to the dogs!’
Aba then forced Raushanara to go to the courtyard and made her watch as her former lovers were indeed devoured by the dogs.
I was sad to hear of this cruel outcome of events. I’d thought perhaps Aba would simply imprison the men. Angry as I’d been at Raushanara, I couldn’t help pity my sister.
I heard she just lay on the ground wailing as the soldiers laughed at the sight of her lovers being devoured. Eventually the animals finished their meal and dragged off whatever bones were left, and Raushanara was left alone.
Dara, Gauhara, Aba and I went to the site of the Taj Mahal on a bright day in 1648, to witness the removal of the choking ramp constructed around it. We all dressed in expensive robes, with Nadira Begum taking care of Dara’s children in the Agra heat.
Dara now had three: Sulaiman and Siphor Shikoh (sons) and Jani Begum (daughter). Aba loved his grandchildren from Dara immensely, but was only lukewarm to his grandchildren from Aurangzeb: Mohammad Sultan, Muazzam (sons) and Zeb-un-nissa, Zinat-un-nissa and Badr-un nissa (daughters).
Already within this generation, political alliances were forming: I was close to my namesake Jani Begum and Aurangzeb’s eldest daughter Zeb-un-nissa, while Raushanara always clung to Badr-un-nissa. Raushanara even went so far as to convince my brother to change Badr-un-nissa’s name to Mehrunnisa, Nur Jahan’s original name. Upon my objections, Aurangzeb declined to do so, reserving Raushanara’s suggestion for some future progeny, perhaps.
On this day Aba’s other children were absent. Only Gauhara, Dara and I went with our father. Shuja and Murad sent gifts for the occasion with their apologies, while Aurangzeb wasn’t even invited by Aba, though he’d won Aba’s debacle in Central Asia less than a year before. Raushanara stayed back at the palace, still in mourning.
Drummers and elephants were present at the event while the crowds danced in jubilant drunkenness. Dara looked to Aba and asked him when the scaffolding would be completely off.
I said, “They’re saying three weeks, but they’ll remove the bricks from around the central dome today.”
Aba looked at me, as if he knew a secret I had yet to know. “Tell the men I want the scaffold off today, and whatever bricks they remove, they can keep for their own homes.”
This order was read aloud, and the 20,000 workers removed the bricks in a flurry of panic, each hoarding anything they could find in large bags and sacks. Peasants loaded containers with what they collected, with every small cart claiming an owner within minutes. The Mughals watched standing atop the raised platform of the central pool, while at a distance the Taj Mahal revealed itself, looking like a beautiful Persian maiden slipping a thin gown from off her perfectly shaped, olive-skinned body.
None of us Mughals moved; the heat didn’t bother us. We were witnessing an event none before us and possibly none after would ever be able to experience. How often does paradise unveil itself before you, while you enjoy a perfect view? This was the unveiling of a sculpture, disrobing of a goddess, exposure of a masterpiece. Hours and hours passed, and every eye stayed fixed on the Taj, no one moving even once to see what others may have been doing. A firecracker could have exploded behind us and we wouldn’t have moved.
Finally, the last of the bricks were removed, to reveal the solid white structure on a raised marble platform. It was perfect, its symmetry accurate to the final inch. All the stones were placed according to design and shone in the distance.
Aba calmly said, “Your mother is at home in paradise, my children.” I saw copious tears flow from his eyes as he contemplated what he’d created for her.
During the past 22 years, 20,000 labourers had constructed the world’s finest monument, at a cost of 3.2 crore rupees. Of course, this price didn’t include the 1,036 sacks of gold used to cast the railing surrounding the sarcophagus and the equal amounts of silver used for the doors.
Mumtazabad, now having its own civil affairs department and police force, had been settled around the Taj to offer it non-stop logistical support. Yet it was the act of building the Taj that Ami had truly craved, more than the building itself. By immersing himself in this project for so long, he’d been able to celebrate his love rather than mourn his lover’s passing. Nearly a quarter-century had passed since her death, and Aba had now found other reasons to awaken every morning: his children, grandchildren, and perhaps great grandchildren (should he live so long). And he had territories to conquer, buildings to commission and poetry to compose. Life was now too full to remain in melancholy. Ami had succeeded in her mission – to give Aba new life after her death.
Aurangzeb was promoted from Governor of Gujarat to Governor of Multan and Sindh, further north. Aba, realising Murad was an ineffectual leader in the troubled border province, had chosen to assign Aurangzeb that post. Aurangzeb, with his wife and five children, moved to Lahore and began ruling the province. Raushanara returned to Agra, content that Aba and I had now moved permanently to Delhi.
Kandahar now became the focus of Aba’s attention. Always a contentious city, its location was strategically important to both the Persians and the Mughals. Merchants from China, Persia, Central Asia and India all crossed through this Silk Road city. Control of it assured control of trade. My ancestor, Babur, first took the city, but it soon fell into Persian hands. Babur’s grandson, Akbar, then regained control, only for his son, Jahangir, to lose it. Aba then won it back in 1638. Under the weak and politically inept Murad, the Persians felt confidant Kandahar would be theirs for the taking. Thus, they launched a fresh assault against it in 1648, and by February 1649, Kandahar had fallen to the Persians yet again.
Aba asked me to stamp the royal seal on this letter he would send to Aurangzeb, delineating his instructions.
My Dear Aurangzeb,
As you know, we have lost Kandahar, in no small part due to the ineptitude of your brother Murad. It is now up to us to win it back and drive off the Persians once and for all. Certainly we can win Kandahar back; it has been done before – by me. I
need you to march on to Kandahar, right now merely to reinforce the troops already stationed in the area. I myself will be leaving Delhi by the time this letter reaches you and staying in Kabul, to act as a rearguard commander. Make me proud, son, just as you did in Balkh. I know you will win Kandahar back for the Mughals and defeat the enemy again.
Yours eternally,
Aba
I said, “Aba, you’re putting a lot of faith in Aurangzeb.”
Without looking at me, choosing instead to rummage through his papers, he mumbled, “Yes, yes… he’s the only one who can do this…” He moved to the other corner of the room, put his papers down and added, “Unfortunately…”
The word slipped from his lips, it seemed. I felt almost as if he hadn’t wanted me to hear it, but for some extent didn’t really care if I did. He looked up at me. “Just make sure this letter gets to the runner at once. I’m needed in the Khas Mahal.”
As per the royal instructions, Aurangzeb set out for Kandahar. He chose to leave his wife, Dilras, behind in Lahore with their children. My most beloved of her children was her oldest daughter, Zeb-un-nisa. Having failed to reach Aurangzeb, I had succeeded in befriending this child of his, who exhibited my characteristics more than her father’s. Aurangzeb had a complicated relationship with her. My traits – my independence, candour, strong opinions – Aurangzeb tolerated because I was his older sister. Women like Dilras or Zeb-un-Nissa who depended on him; he viewed as his inferiors, his property.
Dilras had learned through time not to cross Aurangzeb. He’d beaten her several times during their marriage, but hadn’t struck her since she gave him a son. In his mind, he seemed to think beating a wife was the right of a husband, and if she disobeyed him, it was absolutely necessary that he beat her or he wasn’t a real man. Most of Dilras’s beatings, I heard through sources, were the result of unknowing offenses against Allah – failure to cover her face when looking from the balcony, skipping a prayer session, and worst of all, complimenting her husband’s physical attractiveness. While the rest of us would have lauded Dilras Banu for one, if not all these things, for Aurangzeb such behaviour was worthy of a beating with a belt. Thus, Dilras during their marriage had aged considerably and now lived her days according to the wishes of her husband, never crossing him, and probably realising her fate was intricately tied to his interpretation of her role in Muslim society.
Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 21