From this strong yet gentle man, I slowly learned first-hand what had happened in Kandahar.
It took Aurangzeb three years to prepare a counterattack on Kandahar, searching for the right opportunity of vulnerability to do so. The Persian King had become ill, and during this time his forces were thought to have been working in a disjointed manner, each jockeying for greater power with the next monarch, should the present King’s sickness lead to death. This was prime time for an attack, so with two crore rupees and 60,000 men, Aurangzeb again headed for Kandahar.
Aurangzeb commanded Gulrukh Khan to attack the Kandahar fort from the rear, making the Persians think the entire Mughal army was planning a rear attack on the fort. The plan was that while the Persians would engage our army in a rear assault, Aurangzeb would launch our cannons from the front!
Gulrukh Khan looked carefully at Aurangzeb’s plans and found them elaborate and well thought out as if they’d been architectural blueprints for a building.
“Take 50,000 men in your assault,” added Aurangzeb with urgency and conviction. “The Persians need to believe that the entire Mughal army is with you.”
“Sire,” interrupted Gulrukh, “are you sure 10,000 is all you’ll need for the cannons? What if they open the gates and charge you?”
“I don’t think they will,” replied Aurangzeb. “You’ll have to convince them with your strength that you’re all we have here so they’ll focus all their energies in your direction.”
Aurangzeb’s plan looked like it might just work. Gulrukh Khan marched towards the rear of the fort, causing the Persians to open the draw bridge and charge the Mughal army in arm-to-arm combat. When Aurangzeb felt the Persians were sufficiently bogged down with Gulrukh’s regiment, he ordered cannon firing from the front.
The walls of the fort began to crumble. For a moment, it seemed victory was at hand, but then the drawbridge opened, and 40,000 armed Persians rushed Aurangzeb’s contingent. It seemed he’d acted too soon; the Persians hadn’t turned their eyes completely to their rear. Then men stationed to defend from the rear were rerouted to the front, and Aurangzeb’s cannons weren’t able to mount a lasting defence.
Aurangzeb fired cannons into the densest areas of the Persian army, but large smoke clouds impeded his vision after each impact. When the smoke cleared the Persians simply reorganised and released more men. Aurangzeb ordered more cannons fired, and men hastily loading them. More blasts went off and more Persians died, but to no avail. Eventually, Aurangzeb ordered his men to retreat. He’d lost yet again.
In the days to follow, Aurangzeb tried his best to salvage the report of the Kandahar blunder, but for all his boasts of being a military genius, he’d lost the most prized city in the region to his biggest foe, the Persians. To make matters worse, he’d waited three years and spent two crore rupees and 60,000 men, more than half now either dead or permanently injured.
When Aba heard of this devastating loss, he minced no words in a letter, commanding Aurangzeb to withdraw from Kandahar.
Dear Aurangzeb,
I hereby order you to leave not just Kandahar, but all of the northwest. It seems your glory lay in areas like the Deccan, so I am reappointing you Governor of the Deccan. Go there, destroy the temples and burn the churches. It seems your greatest strength shows itself when you attack the unarmed and helpless. On a battlefield with armed enemies, your talents are useless.
Every man can perform some work well, Aurangzeb, but had I considered you competent to take over Kandahar I’d not have recalled your entire army last week as I did. Men of experience need no instruction. You wasted two crore rupees on your misadventure, and in answer to your complaints that the Taj Mahal has leaky ceilings, had we spent that money on those leaks, we’d have been better served. Now do your father and your nation a favour and leave for the Deccan immediately.
Yours,
Aba
Aba’s sarcasm in this sharply word attack was evident. I implored Aba to show some restraint, especially considering his success in Central Asia, but Aba took his anger at losing Kandahar out on his son. Aurangzeb begged Aba in subsequent letters not to send him to the Deccan, even offering to accept a subordinate position in the next assault, give him any opportunity to redeem himself, but it was too late; Aba wouldn’t relent.
Gauhara was now being attended to by the hakims. She’d attempted suicide a week before by drinking a potion she’d convinced one of the hakims to make for use on a prisoner. The hakim wondered why a princess like Gauhara would care to poison a prisoner, but didn’t refuse her because she was royalty. Instead, he merely followed her and kept careful watch. After she mixed the potion in milk and began drinking it, he quickly ran to her and forced her to vomit it up.
The matter was brought to my attention before Aba’s, and I chose to deal with it directly rather than let it escalate. Aba’s justice often involved crushing someone’s head under an elephant or something equally heinous. If Imtiaz had broken my sister’s heart, though shameless, he was still a human being, undeserving of death for disloyalty to her.
Yet again I visited Gauhara in her palace. This time she was lying almost lifeless on her bed, looking skeletal, little different from the starving souls I saw many years ago when I went with Ami to the Deccan and witnessed the famine in Gujarat.
Gauhara was looking away, but I could tell she knew I’d entered. I sat on her divan and waited there for her to make some movement.
“Why are you here, Jahanara?” she said hoarsely. She didn’t look at me, instead choosing to stare in the opposite direction.
I paused for a moment, then said softly, “I wanted to make sure you’re well, sister?” Would she blow me off again? I really hoped she wouldn’t. Gauhara continued to look away, but now fiddled with the curtain behind her bed.
At last she turned her head my way. I tried looking to her non-judgmentally. I smiled; I needed to comfort her. This was my Ami’s only child who’d never had any direct interaction with her, never heard her voice, never felt her warmth. Was it just a coincidence that she’d been the only one who’d tried to hurt herself?
She said, “Why are you really here? Shouldn’t you be in the Diwan-i-am, attending to the matters of state?”
We conversed in vagaries for awhile, but Gauhara eventually told me what was in her heart.
Raushanara intercepted Imtiaz’s letter to Gauhara and sent three soldiers to capture him before he reached Delhi. The soldiers shot an arrow aimed at his left chest, but it pierced his left shoulder instead, forcing him off his horse to lie face down on the ground in agony.
The soldiers galloped towards their fallen prey and began to kick him incessantly, and he cried out for help. But no help would arrive.
One of the soldiers then grabbed a rope out of the bag fastened to his horse and tied Imtiaz’s hands with it. He tried to break free, but was too wounded by the arrow still lodged in his shoulder as blood poured from the wound and his mouth.
Another soldier threw the other end of the rope over a tree branch and signalled to the third, who was standing on the opposite side, to hoist the ill-fated Imtiaz up several feet into midair, where he kicked his legs in mid-air desperately trying to free himself.
Meanwhile, Raushanara had invited Gauhara out on a hunting expedition. Feeling guilty for revealing to me Raushanara’s escapades, Gauhara accepted the invitation, hoping perhaps to mend ties with her sister. Together they hunted deer, rabbits and boars. Raushanara then motioned for Gauhara to break with the hunting expedition and travel with her to ‘a very special hunt.’ The two galloped over fields and woods, eventually coming to a shallow cliff, which overlooked a lush, open meadow with a few beautiful trees.
Gauhara admired the view, which looked less like a work of nature and more like a Mughal garden. She said, “Why did you bring me here, Raushanara. I mean… it’s beautiful, but why here… now?”
Raushanara smiled, her voice betraying a sense of victory. This was probably the moment she’d been waiting fo
r. “There’s still a hunt to be done, sister.”
Gauhara looked puzzled.
“Look, over there,” insisted Raushanara. “That looks like a good hunt!”
Gauhara squinted, and in the distance she saw Imtiaz dangling from a tree in agony, soldiers placing wood on the ground several feet under him.
“It’s a party, sister!” Raushanara cried, raising her arms triumphantly. “There’s a fire, some game, and plenty of targets for both of us!”
Gauhara gaped in disbelief. So this was why Imtiaz hadn’t contacted her sooner! She’d assumed he’d been delayed on his journey; now she saw him screaming in agony. She begged, “Raushanara, please don’t do this! I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll give you all my riches, I’ll be your spy, I’ll do your bidding. Just don’t hurt Imtiaz, I beg of you, sister.”
“Didn’t you hurt my lovers, sister?” Raushanara snarled. “My own lovers were boiled and then fed to the dogs before my eyes! I couldn’t even bury them according to Muslim rites!”
“But I never meant for that to happen! What I shared was misused...”
“What you shared!” Raushanara reminded Gauhara that her words had initiated the cascade of events that led to Raushanara’s downfall. Gauhara began to weep and cry out her lover’s name in anguish, though she knew he probably couldn’t hear her.
Slowly she watched as the soldiers lit a fire on the pile of wood on the ground under Imtiaz’s feet. The smoke rose, and gauged the fire’s intensity by Imtiaz’s cries. “Please, Raushanara, I beg you to stop this! I’ll do anything! I’ll leave the kingdom! I’ll support your claim as empress!!”
Raushanara suddenly looked at Gauhara. Gauhara had hit a nerve, but would it work in her favour? “You’d support me as empress? What makes you think, you wretch, that I need your support to be the empress?”
Gauhara was speechless. Raushanara clearly wasn’t interested in reconciliation with her sister. She ignored Gauhara’s pleas and went on watching her victim being roasted.
Imtiaz’s cries grew louder, it became apparent that he was now on fire, and both sisters inhaled the odour of burning flesh.
“You made me watch my lovers die. Now you’ll watch yours die!”
Gauhara wept in unspeakable pain. Then she grabbed hold of her rifle and loaded it. Raushanara seized her own rifle, probably knowing she was a better shooter than Gauhara if it came to that. But rather than turn the gun on her sister, Gauhara aimed at the tree Imtiaz was hanging from. She knew he was going to die; he’d been severely burned, his body was now blackened, and his cries issued faintly; still she couldn’t bear the thought of him suffering anymore. She aimed her gun at his chest and shot, murmuring, “Forgive me, my love.”
Shot in the heart, Imtiaz died instantly she said; Gauhara pierced the very heart she’d known belonged to her. As Gauhara watched her lover die, Raushanara broke into laughter. Eventually, the two returned to the hunting party, neither saying a word of where they’d been.
22
MYSTIC SOLDIER
4th December, 1652
I received Aurangzeb’s letter through a runner from Lahore, an uncommon location from which I might receive communications during the past several years:
Esteemed Empress,
I trust this letter finds you in good health and spirits. As you may have heard already, we have lost Kandahar to the Persians and everyone is blaming me. I am not in your presence to protect my name in your eyes, so I write this letter to uncover the veil of my ill wishers’ lies and convey to you the truth of the matter. The King himself told me three years ago to travel to Kandahar with only a reinforcement regiment. Upon arriving there, I learned that our countrymen in Kandahar were grossly unprepared for war with the Persians; thus my reinforcement regiment was completely inadequate.
I then asked His Majesty to allow me to organise a counterattack on my own timing, on my own terms. He graciously agreed to this, but when we attacked three years later, the Persians exceeded my expectations and repelled our forces successfully. I have asked His Majesty to give me another chance, even if just as a subordinate, to win back this strategic location for us, but instead he has chosen to send me to the Deccan, telling me he has no confidence in my abilities and calling me incompetent.
My dear Empress, can the blame for Kandahar be solely laid on my door, when in fact the fort first fell not under my watch, but under that of His Majesty’s former appointee, Murad? Can I be blamed for a failed counter-siege three years ago when in fact I was told to not go with more than a reinforcement regiment and upon my arrival, the reinforcement regiment proved to be inadequate?
We have lost Kandahar three times in as many years, and yet my folly is to blame for perhaps just one of these losses. Yet I am the sole bearer of the brunt of his Majesty’s wrath, now sent to the Deccan against my wishes, told I am unfit for military endeavours and therefore undeserving of another chance. I ask you, sister: which of your brothers has more military acumen than I? Who among this generation of Mughals has consistently upheld our honour more than I? I ask for your help, to prevent this injustice from occurring and allow me to restore my honour and dignity in His Majesty’s eyes.
Your loving brother,
Aurangzeb
I ran to Aba in the Rang Mahal, where he was enjoying light music and a dancing girl. I understood Aurangzeb’s frustration and knew my father’s unapologetic treatment of Aurangzeb over Kandahar was yet another manifestation of his bias against the young Prince. Yet, rather than discuss Aurangzeb, I chose to handle this situation by discussing the prince the Emperor was always fond of discussing: Dara.
I said, “Kandahar cannot be allowed to remain in Persian hands, Aba!”
Aba clapped his hands twice, gesturing for the dancing girl to leave the Rang Mahal and allow us privacy.
I continued: “It’s a strategic location, and we’ve controlled it for generations. We need to recapture it.”
“But we’ve already wasted so much money and manpower. Aurangzeb…”
“…Forget about Aurangzeb,” I interrupted. “Let’s talk about Dara. He’s the heir apparent. He’ll be king one day. Why not let him soil his hands on the battlefield.”
So I was pushing for Dara to go to Kandahar. It was only fair – if Aurangzeb and Dara each considered themselves worthy of being king, then both should have a chance to fight the same enemy and be compared on equal terms.
Aba lowered his brow, appearing irritated. Finally he said, “Your brother Dara…”
“…Is ready for the task,” I once again interrupted. I didn’t want to let this opportunity pass. Aurangzeb would continue to feel unfairly judged by his own father if Dara remain the heir apparent while staying idle, though he and his other brothers were made to put their lives on the line defending the empire. “I think you should convene an assembly at the Diwan-i-khas and command Prince Dara to assume the task.”
Aba stared straight ahead, unable to find reason to refuse my adamant request. He convened an assembly the following day.
Dressed in a royal blue robe and his jewelled turban, Aba looked down upon his assembly of royalty and nobles. As always, the nobles were arranged according to rank on the richly decorated Persian carpet of the hall. Standing on either side were Uzbek bodyguards, while Dara stood at the King’s side next to the Peacock Throne as always, while I watched the proceedings from behind the marble screen.
“As many of you know,” Aba began, “the Persians have illegally taken Kandahar from us. But as always, Allah is on our side.”
The nobles anxiously awaited the Emperor’s announcement of his next move.
“Prince Dara, I think you should now command our forces to free our Kandahar fort of Persian dominance once and for all.”
Dara looked startled; the battlefield had never been his forte; war was for his childish, immature brothers, not for him. Yet, he couldn’t disobey the Emperor in front of everyone, so he bowed his head to accept the command.
The nobles looked at one
another, probably wondering if the King had lost his mind. Send a mystic to do a military man’s work? Aba hadn’t consulted any of his advisors prior to making the announcement; he’d (perhaps rightly) feared they’d try to talk him out of it.
Then a voice began chanting loudly, followed by more voices joining the chorus: “All hail Prince Dara Shikoh! All Hail!” The nobles then reluctantly joined in, not wishing, of course that their silence be considered disrespect to the King. Dara smiled to acknowledge the applause, and the Emperor forced his own smile onto his aging face. Then, while all eyes were still on the Prince, Aba gently moved his head towards the marble screen and where he knew I’d be standing, as though hoping his eyes would make contact with mine, and my eyes would give him confidence that this mystic Prince would be just as triumphant on the battlefield as he’d been in his other endeavours.
Aurangzeb moved to the Deccan immediately after receiving instructions from Aba, devastated at being treated like a failure. So much time and energy planning and working for victory, first in Balkhh and then in Kandahar had all proved futile. Dara was still the heir apparent; Aurangzeb the forbidden leper. With Dilras and his children, he began the journey back to the Deccan.
The Deccan was essentially the southern peninsula of the India subcontinent. The Mughal Empire never really spread far into the Deccan, though it had been in our sights for nearly a century. Akbar’s efficient revenue system from the peasantry thus never found a home in the Deccan because we lacked proper authority there. The peasants of the region continued to be overtaxed and burdened as different armies fought over and conquered the land. This, along with the wars from local tribes and the two other large kingdoms in the Deccan, Golconda and Bijapur, had caused many farmers to flee the region, and their cultivated land to degenerate into jungles. This was the legacy of the Deccan: a warring, unlivable, wasteland where our family never found peace, but instead a graveyard for some of its most cherished members.
Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 23