Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues)

by Ruchir, Gupta

  Hira Bai and Jaswant told us the funds looted were used for Aurangzeb’s farming project in the Deccan. According to them, Aurangzeb had embarked on an ambitious project to cultivate the vast jungles of the Deccan into granaries that could be used to produce wealth for the kingdom. Acre upon acre of land was cleared away and given to peasants to farm and cultivate whatever crops were in greatest shortage. Areas once swamplands were now filled with earth to create lush ground for crops, while canals were dug for irrigation to improve harvests.

  Hindus as well as Muslims were given the opportunity to cultivate the fields, but the better lands went to the Muslim peasantry. Aurangzeb himself visited the areas and assessed their progress. If a peasant was found to be neglecting his land, he was promptly removed, punished and his lands confiscated and given to a more able individual.

  After months of toiling, and with most of the treasury of the Deccan spent on this project, slowly the jungles were clearing away and more fields were taking their place along the countryside. It was autumn now; the crops planted needed to be harvested, sold or traded with neighbouring countries in return for riches.

  But Aurangzeb’s fortunes took an ill turn on the night of 11th October, 1654, when hundreds of men came out from the woods with machetes, swords and torches and began lighting the hard-won crops on fire.

  The Mughal army awoke and mounted a counter-offensive against the rebels, but couldn’t see anything in the black smoke that filled the area. But the rebels were unaffected by the dark; the smoke didn’t seem to hinder their movements at all, and they soon were killing more soldiers and burning more crops.

  After the last of the crops were burned to the ground, the rebels gathered all the Mughal soldiers who’d not yet retreated and piled them into a large heap in the middle of the field. There they cremated the soldiers, denying the Muslims their required religious burials.

  Aurangzeb dispatched his army to avenge the dishonour and damage that had been inflicted on him. With his harvest completely obliterated, Aurangzeb now needed more funds to start again. He must have had to swallow much pride to write Aba in the most conciliatory tone he could muster.

  The spies fell silent and Aba spoke: “Perhaps we should assign a new governor for the Deccan. Maybe Prince Shuja would do a better job.” The nobility gasped in shock! Such open criticism of Aurangzeb by the king himself was uncommon in the Mughal court. While father-son disputes had occurred for generations in the Mughal kingdom, they were always kept in private, leaving bazaar gossip as the only source to learn about who was angry with whom.

  Now Sadullah Khan sought to defend his hero from this unprecedented outburst. “Begging forgiveness, Your Majesty, this servant of yours would like the opportunity to speak before you.”

  Aba nodded, giving the intolerant noble his chance to defend his choice for King of India.

  “What has Prince Aurangzeb done that is so outrageous?” said Sadullah. “He’s merely acting on your behalf, trying to increase the revenue of your domain. Don’t you think this is a wise investment?”

  Aba replied: “He was sent to bring wealth, not drain it from other regions. And while trying to create growing fields, he’s destroyed temples and churches all along the coastline, killing thousands of innocent priests, worshippers and disciples of other religions. Now, some of them have joined our enemy, the Marathas, making them ever stronger!”

  Dara grinned, and Aba added: “They were there when I was in the Deccan as a young officer under my father. But no one feared them then. They were weak! Now, thanks to the many intolerant acts of my worthless son, all my Hindu subjects have begun supporting them, because they too are Hindus. Now they’ve become a growing threat and menace!”

  Aba wrote ferociously back to Aurangzeb:

  Dear Aurangzeb,

  Your congratulations for the marriage of Sulaiman Shikoh are too late to display any genuine affection. I’m surprised you didn’t refer to your new daughter-in-law as an infidel, and merely called her by her title. Yet it seems your hatred for her people has only grown. Are you sure you’re happy with this marriage?

  As to your request, it is categorically denied. You brought this on yourself. You robbed Hindus, burned temples, and even tore their families apart just to fund your farming project. Allah has decided to punish you for your intolerance, so he has sent the Marathas to burn your fields and slay your men. You’re lucky they didn’t attack your life.

  Furthermore, even though you hadn’t heard of the Marathas, I have! They were a small, worthless bunch until you went there; but now because of your poor judgment and intolerance they’ve grown stronger, convincing Hindus in the Deccan as well as elsewhere that I am not their king and they should find one elsewhere.

  Aurangzeb, no doubt you possess the resources, majesty and pomp that might make a future king; but you lack that critical acumen that all just kings must have: the ability to tell right from wrong. You appear to always be good to bad people and bad to good people. Until you learn to do things properly, I certainly will not come to your aid.

  Yours,

  Aba

  I feared the ramifications Aba’s letter might cause. With no help from us, would Aurangzeb now attack even more helpless people in his thirst for wealth? Much worse, I wondered what role, if any, my evil sister had been playing in all this.

  25

  GOLCONDA

  11th June, 1656

  Sadullah Khan abruptly fled Delhi, and I couldn’t help but think he was up to something. I’d hoped for a vision the following nights that would send me to wherever he was going, and caution me about any mischief he might be planning, but to no avail.

  I finally opted to once again go to the river, this time with a pearl necklace I’d confiscated from one of Sadullah’s concubines as a memento from him. Yet again, I escaped from the rear entrance of the Red Fort in a black robe, hoping to evade recognition by anyone. Yet again I walked into the river, closed my eyes and concentrated on Sadullah Khan’s face, his necklace wrapped around the fingers of my right hand.

  I then opened my eyes and stared out into the river, the usual fog dissipated in the distance, and the water surface became a large screen.

  I saw Sadullah, sitting with another man I assumed was a mullah of noble stature, based on his robes, in a haveli, presumably that of the mullah.

  “Doomsday is upon us, Sadullah!” cried the mullah. “All we’ve ever known is being thrown into the fire by this infidel Dara.”

  The mullah was a short, old man with a long white beard and no mustache. The beard had been trimmed to perfection, allowing his light-skinned cheeks to be seen. His voice cracked as he spoke: “What is the definition of an infidel, Sadullah? Someone who merely denies Allah? Or is it someone who openly contradicts the teachings of the Koran? Tell me!” Sadullah stared at the mullah. “This I ask because Dara has done both. He even wrote a book, Mingling of Two Oceans, where he says Islam and Hinduism are one.”

  Indeed Dara had written such a book, much to the chagrin of everyone at the court who felt he’d gone too far trying to reconcile the religions. He’d further angered the orthodoxy by then claiming in court that the Hindu texts, the Upanishads, were really the Lost Book of Islam. Such talk was acceptable in the privacy of the Qadiriya, but public display of such beliefs was very dangerous, and Dara refused to see that.

  “And he’s always taking the side of Rajputs,” added Sadullah. “Even the king takes his side, not realising that Dara’s loyalty is not with him, but with the Hindus.”

  The mullah then leaned closer to Sadullah, as if about to whisper something important. His eyes fanned out over the hall in which he was sitting, presumably to make sure no one else from any other corner of the room could hear him as he spoke to Sadullah. “Sadullah,” he said, “I have something to tell you that you must keep a secret.” Sadullah nodded, and the mullah said, “The King is demented!”

  Sadullah sprang up. To speak ill of the King was treason, punishable by death.

 
“Don’t be alarmed, Sadullah. I’m not the only one who feels this way. There is much you don’t know. I tell you the King is demented, my son, and I can prove it!”

  “How?”

  The mullah paused. Presumably both men were worried someone else might be listening. “Every night a boy visits the Emperor’s harem, and it’s widely believed that this ‘boy’ is really a young woman named Chamani Begum.”

  “Why dressed as a boy?”

  “Ah!” shouted the mullah, waving a finger. “Now, ‘why’ is the right question, Sadullah. Why would the King need to hide a woman in a boy’s clothes? We Mughals have always allowed our Kings to exercise their manhood with anyone they desire – wives, concubines, even first cousins. Why, then, hide a woman?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s hiding her in a boy’s clothing because she is his daughter!”

  “Chamani Begum is the Emperor’s daughter?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m confused,” said a frustrated Sadullah, his head shaking. “There’s Jahanara Begum, Raushanara Begum and Gauhara Begum. I’ve never heard of Chamani Begum.”

  “What if I told you that Jahanara Begum was Chamani Begum!”

  “What?”

  “Yes, my friend. The King is having an illicit relationship with his own daughter. Why else would he make her the Empress, bypassing all his other wives? Why else are they always together? The King began losing his mind when his wife died, and now his life is nothing more than a hotbed of sin, where incest and orgies occur in the kingdom day and night!”

  The words struck me like a knife through the chest, but these rumours now had a life of their own, so what could I do? How many people could I silence? How could I even ask my father to address such a sickening rumour?

  “Just imagine, Sadullah. If Dara becomes king, things like this will happen in every street and home in this country! Fathers sleeping with daughters, sisters having affairs with brothers – our daughters will be whores, and our sons will be philanderers. Not one mosque will be left still standing,” cried the mullah. Tears began to roll from his eyes. “Idol worshipping temples with their sacred prostitution will take over the land, and the Rajputs will rule while we Muslims are slaughtered and imprisoned!”

  “Sir, don’t be worried about anything,” said Sadullah as he stood up and put his hands on the mullah’s drooping shoulders.

  “I will go to Aurangabad at once and rally our hero, Prince Aurangzeb, to return to Shahjahanabad and claim his rightful throne!”

  Sadullah walked the mullah to the door, closing it as he left. Sadullah mounted his horse and rode towards the Deccan.

  I had heard and seen enough. Not realising it, I had started crying and my vision became blurry. I needed to go home and rest.

  I thought long and hard that night about how I could secure the support of my other three brothers for Dara’s ascension to the throne. I was encouraged by the notion that even if Aba gave up the throne during his reign, no brother would dare attack the capital while he was still alive. Thus, by crowning Dara in advance, he was trying to prevent the usual war of succession. However, what would stop the brothers from attacking Dara once Aba died? Or would any attack be too late? Would Dara already be in such a strong position as emperor that any challenge from a brother would be quelled easily?

  I decided to try and convince the other three that Dara was the right choice for the next King of India, and win their hearts and support. This was an ambitious goal for even me, yet if anyone could achieve this, it would be me. Hoping to reach Aurangzeb before Sadullah did, I decided to write to and try to win his support first:

  My Dear Brother Aurangzeb,

  I know it has been long since I wrote to you last. I know that sending you to the Deccan wasn’t right and that in doing so the King acted against your wishes. Yet you have worked tirelessly to turn that cursed land into fertile soil. I also have heard of the horror of the Marathas and the denial of funds from the King. Though you have never asked me, I’m writing to you to offer my help for your efforts. I offer you the use of my allowance and earnings to finance your projects in the Deccan – in other words, to provide everything you need.

  In return, I ask, for this time only, for just one thing, brother. I ask that you support our brother, Dara, for the throne of India. I know certain people of high rank are filling your head with crazy thoughts about me and Aba, but let me assure you, they are not true. These people don’t love you; they’re just using you to further their own agendas. Do not succumb to their persuasions, brother. They are not your friends.

  Please show this world that our family will reject the legacy of bloodshed that’s tainted our name for generations. In return for granting me this favour, whatever you wish will be yours.

  Your Loving Sister,

  Jahanara

  Aurangzeb never replied to this letter and might not even have considered the offer I made him. To him, the whole notion of supporting someone else for the throne, especially Dara, was probably unconscionable.

  So I still worried for my brothers’ lives. Though relatively peaceful, Dara might grow violent in the heat of a brutal war and in the process slay one or more of his brothers. That possibility was very difficult for me to contemplate.

  I went to Dara’s mansion atop a beautifully decorated palanquin on an elephant. We sat on the steps alongside the Jumna, speaking like friends; but I wasn’t here to chatter, but to give him a very stern warning: “If any of my brothers die in wars of succession over the throne of India, I’ll poison myself.”

  Dara suddenly shook his head as if unable to believe his ears. He bent his brows inwards and said, “Who’s mentioned anything about killing, sister?”

  “I don’t care whether it was said,” I said, looking towards the river, away from my brother. “You Mughal men have a history of committing treacherous acts against one another whenever it’s convenient.”

  Dara continued to stare at me, and I shifted my gaze directly to him. “You are the crown prince, and will ultimately be king. I need you to promise me,” I continued as I walked over to him and folded my hands before him, “that if any of your brothers declare war on you and you are victorious, you will not kill them as punishment.”

  Dara held my hand in his and stood up, his eyes widening as if with optimism and promise of a better tomorrow. “Jahanara, I promise you that not only will I not slay any of my brothers, I will forgive their offence against me and treat their sons and daughters as my own.”

  I began to tear with delight, confident in Dara’s virtues and honesty. I then asked him for one more favour, a favour I’d dared never to ask my father for fear I’d be viewed unfavourably: “When you’re king, Dara, please allow your daughters to marry. Please allow Jani to love a man as you’ve loved Nadira and Aba loved Ami.”

  Dara smiled at me, his chiselled, bearded face looking down on me, wrinkles forming on his forehead. “Yes, Jahanara. I’ve already told this to Aba: Once I am king, every Mughal princess will be allowed marriage, and I will treat not just Jani’s marriage as my own, but also the marriages of all of Aurangzeb’s daughters. All of Aba’s grandchildren will be married the way I was. I promise. This pleases Aba, too.”

  I began to cry open-heartedly. Had some aunt of mine asked for this when Aba was crown prince, perhaps I this day would have been someone’s love, someone’s mother and perhaps even someone’s grandmother? I wouldn’t have had to endure the humiliation of allegations of incest, nor run around in shadowy alleys to meet with Gabriel like a thief. For all the power Nur Jahan held and for all the influence she’d at one point wielded, she’d never thought of the plight of the Mughal daughters as her own, and never once considered that her own grand-nieces were doomed to lives of celibacy because of these ancient traditions. Other princesses wouldn’t suffer the way I’d had to. Jani would be someone’s love, and through her, I would be victorious.

  “Your Highness!” yelled an approaching runner. “Someone is he
re from Golconda requesting to speak to you. He’s badly wounded and being treated by the hakims in the fort. He brings you a message from Golconda.”

  Golconda, further south from Aurangzeb’s Deccan, was home to the world’s only known diamond mines. Aba had purchased a large beautiful diamond from Golconda for his Peacock Throne, the Kohinoor. Golconda’s capital city, Hyderabad, was famous as a centre for diamond trade for the entire world. In Golconda one could find steel for Damascus blades; swords, daggers, and lances produced here were used throughout the world; and carpets, fish and wheat were produced in large quantities. Maybe the rest of the Deccan was wasteland, but Golconda was fertile, with tobacco and palm trees everywhere.

  Golconda was ruled by Sultan Abdullah Qutb Shah, a decent yet aggressive military man. For all the riches of Golconda, he’d resisted the urge to engage the Mughals in battle for several decades. The Mughals, in turn, left Golconda alone, content with their own riches farther north.

  I said, “We’ll see him in the Diwan-i-khas. Tell the hakims to give him the utmost care, and when he’s feeling able, we’ll receive him properly there.”

  What did the presence of this wounded runner truly represent? Sadullah had run to the Deccan to rally Aurangzeb; my letter to Aurangzeb had been rebuffed; and now a representative from a neighbouring kingdom was appearing before us, severely wounded? I prayed to Allah that Aurangzeb had nothing to do with this.

  As I sat on my divan later that night, Bahadur prepared my hookah for me. I asked her, “What do you think went on in the Deccan, Bahadur?” The question was rhetorical. My visions had already given me enough information to know Aurangzeb was creating mischief.

  “Your Majesty,” she replied, “what do you think is happening there?” Still readying my hookah, she continued, “Everyone knows how wealthy Golconda is, and with no financial help from the Emperor, I suspect Prince Aurangzeb must’ve tried to invade it.”