He saw ghosts of a leprosy-inflicted Shahriar standing on the balcony staring at him. Frightened, Aba moved his head away, this time claiming to see his young nephew Dawar Baksh, who was just a boy when Aba ordered his execution.
“Jahanara, my child, help me, I see ghosts!” he cried as the life drained from him. “How could I have been so cruel as to kill a man already sick from leprosy? How could I have killed a child… my own nephew… just for the throne? Jahanara… give me a path to salvation, my child! Please, show me a path!”
He sobbed in panic, truly believing the ghosts of the dead had arrived to haunt him and demand answers for sins he’d committed.
I remained calm, cradling his head in my lap. I then whispered something in Aba’s ear, so softly no one else present, not even Jani, heard what I said. I then wrote something on a sheet of paper and had Aba put his imprint on it. I tucked it in my blouse and held my father’s head on my lap, and we watched the sunset together. Now Aba was at peace.
Aba stared smiling at the Taj Mahal. I was keenly aware that he’d not see the next sunrise, and quite frankly, I hoped he’d die at that time and suffer no more. I knew it tortured Aba to see how death always evaded him, instead visiting his loved ones: Dara, Nadira Ami and – for a brief moment – me. No longer able to watch death from a distance, it seemed he decided to pull death into his own embrace finally, to escape his own misery.
He slowly spoke, still staring at the inviting golden Taj Mahal: “You know something, my child? Everything I did since your mother died, I did because of her. I built in hopes of celebrating my love for her through architecture, but it was never enough. From sarcophagus, to buildings, to entire cities, every time I was finished, I felt alone again. I even bedded many women hoping that perhaps one of them, just one, would be able to make me feel the way your mother had, but it never happened.”
Jani and I just listened, giving our dying loved one the opportunity to say his last words in peace: “True love really does come only once. You can’t reproduce it. It can’t be bargained for or compromised. Once you find it, nothing else will suffice. Anything else you see or try will fall short of expectations.”
I thought of Gabriel. Had I moved with him when he wanted, I’d be in the arms of my true love today. I might even be someone’s mother or grandmother, but alas, I’m living here in penury. The previous year I’d received word that Gabriel died in England in the Black Plague in London. While everyone else fled London, he stayed to help the people and died in the process. Having no more tears to shed, I now merely remembered and mourned his passing in my own, private way.
Aba was breathing hard through his mouth now, panting as if desperately trying to hold onto life. But true to his intuition, Aba breathed his last that night, a smile frozen on his face, his eyes still open. He was 75.
It was difficult to imagine that this was the face Nur Jahan and my mother had fought over. These lips had once commanded armies, ruled a nation and directed masons from around the world to build the most glorious monument India had ever seen. Behind the wrinkles of his skin had once been the young boy who yearned physically and emotionally for a 16-year-old daughter of a noble, and upon winning her, spent the next 14 years worshipping their love.
When he built the Diwan-i-khas in Shahjahanabad, he had engraved all over its ceiling, ‘If there is Paradise on Earth, it is this; it is this; it is this.’ Yet here he was, having died a slow miserable death, having been made to watch every branch of his family tree slowly fall to the ground as his intolerant son, a known enemy of art, music and architecture, undid everything Aba had worked for. The days awaiting India would be tumultuous, and his citizenry would pay a heavy price for their new King’s bigotry. Aba’s paradise would be lost in the whirlwind of intolerance and fanaticism that took hold during his son’s reign.
30
FATE OF THE INNOCENTS
23rd January, 1666
News of Aba’s death was sent to Aurangzeb immediately, and much to the surprise of everyone at his court, he quickly dispatched his son, Muazzam, to Agra to prepare the funeral, and he himself changed into white robes of mourning. This meant the court would mourn the former Emperor’s death.
Though I wanted a full state funeral for my father, the guards present would not allow this. Instead, a small funeral party escorted Aba’s body to the grave. Thirty-five years after the death of my mother, I would yet again be the only child to escort my parent’s remains to its burial site, a status that brought both honour and anguish to me.
At noon the following day, the sandalwood box bearing Aba’s remains was removed – head first – from the majestic Red Fort he’d remodelled a generation ago and taken to the Taj Mahal, with me, Muazzam, and Jani as the only relatives attending. It was Aba’s wish to be buried next to his wife so he might lie in eternity with her; this request Aurangzeb approved; he even agreed to fully finance a beautifully decorated marble sarcophagus for the deceased Emperor.
Aurangzeb visited the Taj two weeks later and offered his respects to both our parents, now permanently interred in the same mausoleum. Dressed more like a fakir than a king, he chose to walk on foot over to the Red Fort to visit me, his sister he hadn’t seen or spoken to for many years.
I hoped that as he walked he’d see the devastation in the eyes of the public. All India wept for the deceased King, a monarch who had brought India to its Golden Age, despite his personal faults. Now apprehensive about their future in a land ruled by mullahs, Hindus especially wept for their Muslim King, realising life would now only be harder for them and their children. I hoped Aurangzeb would be taken aback by this reaction, and also sad to know how much everyone had loved the man he’d grown to hate.
He slowly walked into the fort, and rather than sit atop a throne in the Diwan–i–khas, he walked straight to the Samman Burj, where I sat composed and silent on a golden divan, waiting to speak to my only surviving brother at his request.
“Greetings, Emperor Alamgir,” I said in a mildly mocking tone.
Aurangzeb looked like he had no idea what to say to me. In childhood he’d been putty in my fingers. Now he couldn’t look me straight in the eye since this was the first time he’d seen me after having killed all three of his brothers and numerous nephews, including Dara’s oldest son, Sulaiman.
“How have you been, Jahanara?” he said slowly, staring straight at the ground, his spine bent forwards.
“It’s been difficult,” I replied, “but Jani and I have managed. I wanted to distribute a thousand gold coins to the poor in honour of Aba, but your eunuch Itibar Khan took it from me and said I can’t do that until you say so.”
“Of course it’ll be done, sister!” he said suddenly, adding: “And I will add another 12,000 rupees of my own. And you’ll be happy to know that I gave Muazzam the specific orders to inter Aba’s body right next to Ami’s.”
I probably confused him by my evident lack of appreciation for his gesture, but I knew Aba would never have placed his own grave in that particular location. In the entire Taj Mahal, the location of Aba’s grave is now the only asymmetrical part. How little Aurangzeb knew of architecture or the arts in general! But perhaps the sloppy location of my father’s grave was his most appropriate contribution to the majestic monument.
“I also had a beautiful monument built in Aurangabad in Dilras’ memory, sister,” said Aurangzeb.
“I know,” I replied. “It’s called Bibi ka Makbara, right?”
“Yes! You must visit it.”
I had no intention of ever seeing it, having heard from one of the concubines who did visit it how poorly it was designed. Like the Taj, it too was made of pure marble, with four towers and a central dome. But it looked like a comedian’s distortion of the Taj; the proportions were all wrong; the width of the towers was too wide for the top dome; the top of the central dome, too large for the base. Like Aurangzeb’s love for Dilras, it was clumsy and disproportionate. Whereas my father designed every brick of his monument with love
and attention, Aurangzeb designed in haste, only so he could upstage Aba. Aba’s Taj was a product of love; Aurangzeb’s Makabara a product of envy and vanity. The two monuments reflected their creators’ feelings towards their wives and reaffirmed to me how every architectural glory of my father’s – and mine – was a product of genuine love for another human being.
Aurangzeb and I stared past each other for a few more minutes, neither knowing what needed to be said or how to move past the bloodshed that had divided us.
“I hope Ami takes better care of Aba than I did!” Aurangzeb blurted out, and he broke down and began to weep. He fell to my feet and to my amazement buried his weeping head in my lap, just as he had many years ago when Dara attacked him, and I took a blow to protect his little body from harm.
I stared straight ahead, not looking down at my weeping brother, but unable to keep myself from crying. My lips quivered and tears rolled down my cheeks.
Aurangzeb had never wept easily. Quite likely this was the first time he’d wept since receiving those ten lashes for poisoning Manu many years ago. It was as if with Aba’s death his last hope also died, that one day somehow Aba might grow to love him.
“I killed my own Aba!” cried Aurangzeb as his tears wet my pajamas. “I did it. Allah will never forgive me. Ami will never forgive me!”
Instinctively I moved my left hand from my side and placed it on Aurangzeb’s head, as a blessing and comfort to him in place of our parents’. Aurangzeb slowly gained control over his tears, but he remained at my feet, saying he felt more comfort there than he had anywhere for many years.
At last I whispered, “Get up, brother. Before he died, Aba gave me something for you.”
I reached into my blouse and pulled out the folded piece of paper, the letter ‘from Aba,’ written by me when Aba asked me to find him a way to salvation. I wrote it, but he’d put his imprint on it, and it had brought him peace:
My Dear Son Aurangzeb,
You and I are both sons of Allah, and he has chosen a path for both me and you, so who are we to judge each other? When I was young I committed a sin: I rebelled against my father and killed my brothers. Perhaps that’s why Allah took your Ami away from me and kept me alive for so long – so one day I might know how horrible it is for a son to rebel against his father or a child to kill another child.
I don’t resent or fault you for anything, my child. You only did what I taught you, and for that I apologise to you. I will pay for my sins perhaps more when I die, but I don’t wish for you to think I die wishing you ill. I forgive you for any and all offences you have committed against me. I ask that Allah open his doors of paradise to you, and that you may be a better father to your children than I was to you.
Love,
Your Aba
Aurangzeb looked up at me, red-eyed. “Aba is forgiving me?”
“Yes, brother. It’s over. Our long nightmare is over. It’s time to begin again. Ami and Aba are both praying for you.”
Aurangzeb wept deeply, as if letting go of a lifetime of sadness and depression with his tears. Ashamed, embarrassed, humbled, he would never know how to repay Aba for ‘his’ words, nor know that the words were really mine, and it was I who’d realised that the salvation of both my brother and father must rest in a reconciliation, albeit posthumous. The nightmare had to end; for the future of India depended on it, and I’d known I was the only one left who could do it.
Aurangzeb finally wiped away his tears, got off his knees and sat in a chair, holding both my hands in his. He said: “I want all my brothers’ children to live with me as my children, sister. I want Jani to marry my son Mohammad Azam, and you to preside over the wedding. Will you give her hand in marriage to my son?”
This gesture surprised me, but I said, “I will, but only if you’ll allow all of your daughters to marry freely. I ask that you end this tradition that denies marriage to Mughal daughters.”
“Consider it done!” he said. “In fact, since Jani is marrying my son, I think Dara’s younger son Siphr would be a good match for my daughter Zubdat-un -nissa.”
And not only the two he mentioned, but also before long, five of Aurangzeb’s ten children would marry children of my deceased brothers.
“I have one more request, Jahanara,” he continued after a short pause. “I ask that you come home with me now, to Shahjahanabad, and reassume your role as Empress of India.”
This request truly amazed me. I said, “What about Raushanara?”
Aurengzeb had learned earlier that year about Raushanara’s orgies, and even learned she’d concocted a secret plot to overthrow him in favor of his nine-year-old son. Realizing she was no true ally of his, but just using him, he banished her from his palace (though she would remain in the capital for a few more years).
He said, “She could have never been the empress this country needs. Now come, sister, let’s go. Let’s take care of our parents’ kingdom together.”
I was still unsure that joining Aurangzeb was the right course of action. Something in me resisted the urge to accept the offer, even though it would take me back to the majestic Chandni Chowk, a monument to my love for my Gabriel. But I decided I would accede to his request – on one condition: “I’ll always be allowed to criticise and question you, regardless of what the issue may be.”
“Of course, sister!” he retorted.
“And you will never harm any member of our family again, least of all the children of the deceased brothers.”
“Of course! I swear on the Koran I will not!”
I knew the next reign would be very difficult for India’s non-Muslims, and that I was the only person who could possibly protect them. I knew my brother still had a selfish and narrow spirit, who in seeking his own salvation might remain oblivious to the concerns of the outside world. Scrupulously following the letter of the Koran, he would strictly enforce his narrow interpretation – even on non-Muslims – and regard any deviations as direct threats to his own soul’s salvation in the afterlife. In a nation of many creeds and interests, such a man would be a nightmare if left unchecked.
I would go with Aurangzeb and fulfill my commitment to Nur Jahan: to always see a reflection of my father in the emperor and help him rule India. I would protect India from all threats, just as I had many years ago in Hugli.
Aurangzeb, for his part, would avoid harming any more relatives, a promise he kept for the rest of his life.
That night we both sat in the same palanquin atop a decorated elephant, each staring out onto the landscape as the beast slowly rode out of Agra. We didn’t look at each other, just stared at the great monument glowing in the moonlight – the Taj.
I was leaving my Ami and Aba for the first time ever. I’d never deserted my Aba before, pursuant to my vow to my mother, but now that he was with her, I was free to go. There were newer battles to be fought, hearts to be healed and causes to be furthered. I couldn’t rest now.
As we rode into the night the Taj faded but never completely disappeared, as if even from the grave my more tolerant parents were making their eternal presence known through the glow radiating from the monument. Aurangzeb had won the kingdom, but lost himself doing it. This much even he must have known as he rode away. Tears flowed down his face as he looked at the monument that now housed the parents he’d never see again.
Each shedding tears, but having no more words to express our feelings, we made our way to the capital, to put together the family now so dispersed. I would do the healing, if Aurangzeb would merely not get in the way.
AFTERWORD
Mistress of the Throne is a work of fiction, but it’s rooted in actual history. Jahanara Begum was seventeen when her mother died and though there were numerous other wives whom Shah Jahan could have installed as the empress after Mumtaz Mahal’s death, he opted instead to elevate his daughter to such a prominent position. European travellers to Mughal India at the time write about Jahanara – her feud with Raushanara, her burning accident, and her role in trying to prev
ent bloodshed for the throne.
A picture emerged from all of these accounts of a very mature, level-headed individual who reluctantly accepted the role of empress and used it to benefit her family and her kingdom. As her family feud began to deepen, I was astonished to learn that Aurangzeb and Dara both revered Jahanara, even more than their own father, with whom Aurangzeb had a feud till his dying day.
The more I researched her, the more I began to realise that Jahanara was one of the greatest unsung heroines of Mughal India. Her contributions were greater than perhaps even her mother; she helped bring Shah Jahan out of his melancholy and helped supervise the building of the Taj as well as the city of Delhi, which today is the capital of India. Thus, she possessed her mother’s timely beauty and calm demeanour while also possessing her father’s sense of architecture.
Rumours of her incest with the king troubled me. However, as I delved deeper into the origins of such rumours what I found was that these were chronicled mainly by European travellers during Aurangzeb’s reign and it remains suspect that perhaps the intention of such rumours was more to malign the deposed Shah Jahan than record actual events. Still, I found myself torn as to how to reconcile this disturbing rumour about a woman who seemed remarkable in every other way. I thus created a case of mistaken identity and used that as a way to describe this claim.
When one thinks of Mughal women, the names of Nur Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal are catapulted to the top. However, the character of Jahanara also deserves a prominent place alongside these two women.
Had Jahanara been born a man, she undoubtedly would have been the king after Shah Jahan. She possessed the intellect to rule and enjoyed the popularity to maintain a coalition. The weakening of the Mughal Empire and subsequent rise of the East India Company which led to almost two centuries of colonial hegemony would possibly have been avoided. Hence, it was Mughal India’s insistence on treating men with a more prominent place than qualified women that added to the eventual collapse of the kingdom.
Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) Page 31