“Thank you for your service,” I said, handing Bahadur a bag of pearls.
I told Wazir Khan about the results of my investigation and my fears.
“He should go to Agra, Empress,” said Wazir Khan. “There he has the Taj Mahal to remind him of his real love. All this debauchery started when he moved away from the Taj. There, he’ll turn back to normal, and the change of air will do him good. Besides, now that he’s healing, the last thing he needs is for someone to give him more aphrodisiacs or concubines.”
Aba’s health continued to improve for the next several weeks, and in early November 1657, unsure how long we’d stay there, I had my maids pack all my belongings, and the imperial caravan set out for Agra.
Bahadur said, “Your decision to leave Delhi during the day was quite wise.” His words were always wise, so this compliment meant much to me. “With you and the king in Agra with the full might of the kingdom, the people of both cities and the countryside in between will certainly know their king is well!”
I had not thought of that, but clearly this procession would help solidify the impression that Aba was well. I chose to ride on his elephant with him, still afraid for his health, which remained quite fragile.
Leaving Delhi and saying farewell to Chandni Chowk was more difficult than I thought. I felt grieved as if I was leaving Gabriel again. Yet my sorrow was lessened by the thought of seeing the Taj Mahal and paying homage to my mother again.
I could tell by the smell in the air that we’d left Delhi and now were near the Jumna. The riverside had its own unique aroma, and I welcomed the cooler air it brought. I peeked out of the canopy while Aba slept beside me. To my chagrin, I saw the same semi-naked sadhus I’d seen many years ago when I first visited Delhi staring back at me from the shallow edge of the river.
“Farewell, oh maiden!” shouted one of them, grinning stiffly. Others cried, “Farewell, oh ill-fated ones! Farewell, oh ill-fated ones!”
I felt anxious then, as though they knew something of my future I didn’t. “Farewell!” they mocked. “You’ve lost your Delhi.” Then others joined in: “Farewell! You’ve lost your Delhi. Farewell! You’ve lost your Delhi.”
I ducked my head back inside the palanquin, and felt my heart racing. I began to sweat and feel as if someone had grabbed my neck and was slowly strangling me. Eventually our caravan moved past the Jumna riverside, and much to my relief these feelings subsided. The rest of the journey passed uneventfully.
I sent Bahadur to Shuja in Bengal to muster Shuja’s support and reassure him that Aba was well and in full control of the state. I’d given up reluctantly trying to connect with Aurangzeb, but I tried to reach out to my more timid, less ambitious brothers.
Bahadur met me in Agra to discuss his trip; I greeted him on my balcony overlooking the Taj.
“Your Majesty,” he began, “before I could even bring your message to Prince Shuja I was summoned to his audience hall to hear his message.”
“His message?”
Bahadur looked at me soberly. “He’s preparing to challenge Dara for the next Mughal emperorship.”
This news saddened but didn’t surprise me. Bahadur further reported:
“Prince Shuja, seated in his chair in Rajmahal, the capital of Bengal, shouted, ‘Abul Fauz Nasiruddin Mohammad Timur III, Alexander II, Shah Shuja Bahadur Ghazi! This will be the name of the next emperor, and so I will be addressed by the people of India!’”
I thought to myself, if ever there was a buffoon who made someone as inept as Murad look like a wise statesman, it was Shuja. Sent to the Bengal as its governor, he’d no talents or accomplishments whatsoever to boast of. Though he was older than Aurangzeb, our father had more respect – though not love – for Aurangzeb than he did for Shuja. Shuja’s only distinction throughout his useless life had been that he’d accompanied Ami’s remains from the Deccan many years ago. At that time Aurangzeb was too young, and Dara was too beloved to the King to lose sight of the latter for even a short while.
Bahadur went on: “He then ordered the prayers to be read in his new name in the mosques of Bengal, and showed proof of the new coins he’d commissioned. These were to bear his image, side-profiled. He then turned his head to the side, showing off the profile he wished to see on every Mughal coin. His advisors looked at each other in dismay, probably unaware of how to relate further with with their imbecile leader.”
“What happened next?” I pressed.
“One of them asked if the Prince shouldn’t hold off on the minting until after his coronation at Shahjahanabad, to which the Prince yelled, Shuja–bad! That will be the capital’s new name.”
I thanked Bahadur for his service and asked him to do one more task for me: deliver this message:
Dear Dara,
Our younger brother, Shuja, has defected and is planning to crown himself king. While we both know this isn’t possible, his governorship has lent him the blindfold of arrogance and he’s even minting new coins in his name. Just as I feared, there will be bloodshed in this generation, too. You must send the army to stop Shuja before he enters the capital and threatens Aba’s legitimacy.
Love,
Jahanara
Dara sent his son, Sulaiman Shikoh, with a regimen of 45,000 troops charged to imprison, but not kill, Shuja. Meanwhile, my messenger from Gujarat returned with equally troubling news – of my other brother, Murad.
“‘Maruwwajuddin!’ That’s what Prince Murad’s yelling from his fort in Gujarat.”
I looked down, ashamed and embarrassed at another brother’s defection.
“He calls himself the Titan of Balkh. He says after subduing the Central Asian tribes and almost exceeding our boundaries north, he’ll finish the work he started.”
Though not so foolish as to mint his own coins, it seemed Murad was also dreaming of ruling the kingdom he wrongfully thought was his for the taking. Like the advisors had in Bengal, hundreds of kos away, the advisors to this incompetent Prince were said to have looked at each other bewildered, unsure of how to bring Murad to reality and remind him that his 10,000-strong cavalry was no match for our army from Shahjahanabad.
Somewhat relieved to know Murad was at least not initiating an immediate march on to the capital, I simply ignored his talk as senseless rambling.
A few days later I received a letter from Dara,
Dear Jahanara,
I’m pleased to inform you that my son has made us proud. Pursuant to my orders, Sulaiman Shikoh’s army met Shuja’s and he was surprised to see how disorganised the enemy was. Perhaps envisioning an easy victory against a young lad like Sulaiman, Shuja sought to sleep until midday on a divan under a mosquito net, while his leaderless men roasted in the heat on the battlefield.
Finally, on February 14, young Sulaiman’s troops descended on Shuja’s men from all sides and sent Shuja’s chaotic army fleeing in all directions. Sulaiman took the fight right into Shuja’s camp and looted his riches, including his illegally minted coins, making off with loot totalling over two lakh rupees.
Shuja was said to have been sleeping when one of his men tripped into him, suddenly awakening him from his sound sleep. The man informed our inept brother that his army was annihilated. In shock, Shuja instructed the soldier to fight to the death – a command the solder then refused to obey!
Shuja then put on a long scarf around his head as if he were a maiden, and mounted on a horse. Unfortunately, thus disguised Shuja managed to escape unscathed. But for now our problem is resolved, and Sulaiman will return home soon.
Love
Dara
I wasn’t as pleased as Dara may have hoped. Would Shuja resurface again? And with the two passive, weak brothers acting this way, what must the strong, military genius Aurangzeb be planning? Success or failure, Shuja had succeeded in initiating the first battle in this war, and now others might feel emboldened to do the same. Attacking one’s own kin was no longer unthinkable in our own generation.
27
THE STORM
Our stay in Agra was cut short by the news from the Deccan that Aurangzeb and Murad had formed an alliance and were marching on Delhi! I tried to quell the approaching storm by reaching out to Aurangzeb, who I was convinced was this rebellion’s architect. I wrote him shortly after learning of the alliance between him and Murad:
Dear Aurangzeb,
Aba has recovered from his illness and is now again fully in control of his administration, moving to correct any and all disorders that cropped up during his illness. Your armed advance, brother, is totally unwarranted and paramount to an act of war against your own father. Even if it’s directed at Dara, it’s still both sinful and unethical, since the eldest son both by Canon Law and common usage stands in the place of the father. If you value your name and reputation and truly seek salvation in this world as well as the next, you must obey Aba and convey any grievances in writing.
Yours,
Jahanara
I received this terse response from him a few days later:
My Dear Empress,
Aba has lost all true power and control of India. Dara is now ruling the land illegally and plotting to harm his brothers. Anyone who doubts this should just look at how he crushed Shuja in Bengal. He also foiled my attempts at Golconda when victory was at hand and repeatedly poisoned Aba against me. Against such overt hostilities, I have no choice but to take up arms and defend what’s rightfully mine.
As for Canon Law and common usage, were it so, Aba would never have been king. He wasn’t the eldest son of his father, Uncle Khusrau was. Rumour at the time even suggested that Aba murdered Khusrau to remove him and upon seizing the throne slaughtered his brother Shahriar and nephews. To now hide behind tradition and laws is to invite the title of a hypocrite. The best man should rule India, regardless of his order of birth.
Yours,
Prince Aurangzeb
I didn’t know who to be more upset with, my father or my brothers. I’d tried repeatedly ever since my father recovered from his illness to convene a summit between all four brothers with Aba as the arbiter, but to no avail. Aba was intent on the notion that merely crowning Dara the heir apparent was all that needed to be done to prevent any revolt.
His reasoning was that no prince would have the audacity to attack the capital while he was still alive, and that by the time of his death, all the military and nobility would be solidly in Dara’s camp. I knew his notion was flawed, but I was hesitant to push him on this issue for fear his illness would relapse.
As we rode towards Delhi I began to wonder if I was even justified in blaming my brothers for all of this conflict. After all, what did Shuja do that a generation ago Aba hadn’t done? Had he not rebelled against his father? Had his father not rebelled against his own father? Much of a moron as he may have been, Shuja was merely continuing family tradition. Had Aba addressed this bloody tradition earlier and taught his sons to live peacefully, perhaps all this turmoil could have been avoided.
Yet this was indeed Mughal tradition. Unlike other monarchies, there was no clear line of succession, no commonly recognised primogeniture. From our Central Asian ancestry, we Mughals had adopted a turbulent spirit of rebellion and sedition, where anything and everything was considered fair game to gain the throne. ‘Throne or coffin’ was the mantra, and all familial relationships were forgotten during wars for the throne.
I felt a clutch in my throat when Aba told me Delhi was in danger of an attack. He wouldn’t tell me where his intelligence came from, so I was suspicious of its reliability. Nevertheless, I agreed to leave Agra and march with our caravan to Delhi.
As my body moved from side to side over the rough, still yet-to-be-paved route to Delhi, I noticed Aba snoring loudly under his breath. He was taking copious amounts of opium to relieve the bladder pain that was now normal for him.
From the pocket of his robe I could see the folded letter from Dara dangling. Should I just read it myself? I wondered. Though not an offence (I was the queen after all), I held myself to a higher standard than that. Reaching into my father’s pocket and reading a private note sent to him was not in my nature.
But could I afford to be kept in the dark? Aba’s decision had led us to this point, and should I continue to let him chart the course going forward? As Queen of India, was I to let it crumble and fall into the wrong hands?
Ever since Aba’s illness I’d considered trying to sneak out to the river again and revisit my visions. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, because my spies and informants were telling me everything anyway, but I hoped perhaps these visions would give me something new that I could use to save my family. Unfortunately, Aba’s health prevented me from leaving his side for even a moment, and thus my desire to visit the river and receive visions went unfulfilled.
I wouldn’t pluck the letter from Aba’s shirt, I decided. Too much lying, deceiving and snooping had occurred already. I’d gone from being an innocent Begum Sahiba to become the manipulative, self-serving queen I’d always faulted Nur Jahan for being. I remembered asking Nur Jahan once if she’d always been this way and her saying, You won’t understand. This seal, the muhr uzak, makes you this way. It makes you constantly suspicious. In this seal lies so much power, to preserve that power you allow yourself to do anything, compromise any principle, violate any tenet...
Our caravan was nearing Delhi, and I now saw some withering ruins with partial brick walls standing in the distance. Again I felt a shiver overcome me, and I felt like a fish freshly plucked out of water. Would my kingdom end up like those ruins? Would Jani’s children end up like the half-naked peasants who were living in mud huts around these ruins?
I had to do something. I couldn’t let these foolish young men control India’s destiny. I needed to read that letter. Putting aside my reservations, I plucked it from Aba’s pocket and began reading:
Dear Aba,
I have just learned from Raushanara that Murad and Aurangzeb are communicating and coordinating with one another to invade Shahjahanabad. What should I do? I’ve sent all my top generals to Bengal with Sulaiman, and I fear that by the time they return, it’ll be too late. Please send me your advice and counsel, as I’m alone in Shahjahanabad with just Raushanara as my ally and saviour.
Yours,
Dara
Raushanara his ally? Why would he trust that witch? Ever since Aba threw her out of the kingdom, she’s been thirsty for revenge. What’s wrong with Dara? Aba must have kept this note from me because he knows I’d never have allowed him to leave Agra, with the royal treasury unguarded, based on information from Raushanara.
I peeked from my elephant canopy and motioned to the Tatar woman riding on horseback next to our elephant. “Tell the general to return the caravan back to Agra!” I commanded.
As we rode through the jungles between the capital and Agra, I considered what might have happened elsewhere in the empire with my brothers. Was everything that had transpired during the past few months somehow linked? Was Aurangzeb orchestrating everything? He must have done it, and that’s why I hadn’t heard from him!
I rested my head against the back wall of the canopy and closed my eyes, hoping for a vision of some sort.
I thought of what may have gone through Aurangzeb’s mind when news of Aba’s health spread like wildfire throughout the kingdom. Maybe he thought Dara, encouraged by me, would usurp the throne. Zealous for power, he was probably flabbergasted and ready to march on to Agra, but how could he? Dara had access to the imperial treasury and a standing army of 120,000 men. Aurangzeb’s ill-fated conquest of Golconda had left him with only 40,000 men with virtually no funds.
He knew no neighbours would come to his aid because he’d harassed all of them, the Hindu Marathas by destroying their temples, the Sultan of Golconda by an ill-advised invasion, and neighbouring Bijapur with continued threats of aggression.
So who would help this belligerent brother of mine who was out of money and manpower? Maybe in despair he contacted Shuja
and Murad to form an alliance. But why would both of them work for Aurangzeb who was weaker and unpopular, and turn on Dara, who was the clear favourite?
I kept trying to link the pieces together:
Perhaps Aurangzeb promised these two idiot brothers of mine some share of the kingdom – something Aba and Dara would never do. Maybe he thought he could control their armies and whatever funds they had, but in the end wouldn’t he turn on them once he won the throne for himself? If so, might Shuja’s rebellion have been just a diversion so the army would be in Bengal when Aurangzeb attacked Agra?
Where did Raushanara fit in all this? Could she be part of the plan? Or was she outcast by Aurangzeb and coming to us now because she had nowhere else to go? This last factor perplexed me, and my head was hurting. I didn’t want to know more, at least not for now.
My mind began to wander; I couldn’t believe this was happening. All the letters and lectures, the talks and meetings, all for nothing! There would be war now, and I knew I couldn’t stop it…
My reverie was interrupted by a soldier riding towards the caravan. “Your Majesty, I bring you news from the Deccan,” he announced.
“What is it, soldier?”
“Your Majesty, the armies of Aurangzeb and Murad are 50,000 strong. They’ve defeated our ally, Raja Jaswant Singh, and are marching on to Agra, not Delhi, to steal the treasury!”
“Alas, you were right, Jahanara!” screamed Aba, who’d awakened in time to hear this dire news. So was the original letter sent by Dara warning of an attack on Delhi based on faulty intelligence, or was Raushanara intentionally misleading us? Again, I wondered: Were we purposely made to leave Agra unguarded so Aurangzeb could seize it, or was this a misunderstanding?
Aba said, “Runner, ride to Delhi and convey this information to my son, Dara. Also, tell him to march immediately to Agra. We’ll plan our next move from there.”
Dara and Raushanara arrived in Agra a few days after we did, much to my dismay, as I was now openly questioning why Dara would trust her during this difficult time. “She should be the last person we talk to regarding strategy!” I yelled to him.
Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 28