When Mahabat heard the news the next morning, he was at breakfast with Muhammad Sharif. The ten years apart had changed the views and behavior of the two former friends; they no longer were one in thought and deed. At Mehrunnisa and Jahangir’s first command to come to court to answer the charges against him, Mahabat had written to Sharif, asking for help. Go to the Emperor, Sharif, he had said, make his Majesty see reason. If anyone can do this on my behalf, you can, dear friend.
But Sharif had not sent him a reply, only months of silence. And this morning, as they sat together, Sharif said, “You have done wrong, Mahabat.”
Mahabat flared up, his brown face set in clean lines of anger, eyes afire. “And what is it you have done, Sharif? Lived at court like a pig in a pen, content with your meals, wallowing in a sty filled with stink and sloth. Fed by a woman’s hand. The whole empire has rotted thus.”
But Sharif would not rise to meet Mahabat’s words. He said again, shaking his head with the disapproval of a strict mulla, “You have done wrong. You are not Emperor, Mahabat. This is not your place. Allah Himself has ordained who is to be king and who a subject—one blood cannot mix with the other.”
Mahabat was fighting panic at Sharif’s words when an attendant bent to tell him of the slaughter at the Rajput camp. Mehrunnisa was responsible, of this he had no doubt. How could she have managed to mobilize the entire contingent of the imperial bodyguards from behind her prison walls?
He turned to his friend, tears swamping his face. “Sharif . . .”
But Muhammad Sharif merely rose from his seat, bowed to Mahabat, and left his house. He no longer wanted a part of this. He left his unspoken accusations behind: if these men died, it is because of you. It is because you chose to stomp on the normal order of things, Mahabat.
Mahabat Khan wiped his face and raced to Emperor Jahangir’s apartments. He put up as much of a bluster as he could, complaining about the behavior of the Ahadis, demanding retribution.
Jahangir, propped up against the divan’s pillows so his breathing could be easier, did not budge. He even smiled at the quaking minister. His body had weakened, but nothing would take away the dignity of royalty. The Emperor gave Mahabat two Ahadis, who were said to be the leaders.
“If you speak anymore, Mahabat, of anyone else complicit in this, I will have your tongue cut out,” Jahangir said. He then banished Mahabat from his presence. “If your soldiers cannot defend themselves, perhaps they should look for another leader.”
• • •
At the end of that summer, in September of 1626, the imperial court set out from Kabul with Mahabat Khan still nominally in the lead. They were one day’s march from Rohtas when Mehrunnisa decided that the minister had weakened enough. She stole into Jahangir’s tent one night, cutting a slit through the canvas and slipping in. So lax was the guard around her that though the soldiers had seen her leave, not one hand had dared to raise itself to block her way. With the Rajput camp massacre, the balance of power had shifted, for Mahabat had had charge of those men, and he had not been able to defend them.
The next morning, Abul went to Mahabat Khan’s camp to inform him of Jahangir’s wishes. “The Emperor wishes to delay his march to Rohtas,” Abul said.
“Why?” Mahabat asked suspiciously.
“He wishes to stay back at camp to review her Majesty’s cavalry. You are to proceed to Rohtas.”
Mahabat listened to his new orders. He had been by the Emperor’s side for the last three months, knowing that if he left, he would lose everything. But he wanted to be gone. This was not the life for him. Mahabat did not want Jahangir’s hatred, and that was all he had now. He was tired of playing king. He had not wanted this coup, or the power that came along with it. Once . . . many years ago, when he had been younger, he could have seen it through. He also knew that Sharif was right—there was no royal blood within him, and the crown could only belong to those so blessed by Allah. He had done wrong.
Mahabat gathered his few remaining Rajput soldiers and fled as far away from Rohtas as possible.
For Mehrunnisa, Mahabat’s defeat was but a small victory. There was too much still to be done. Jahangir was going to die . . . and soon. Shahryar had to be groomed for his new position as Emperor, and this would not be easy. In the last few months the prince had cowered in his apartments, done what Mahabat had told him to do, played at marching and wars with his mock armies. And, more worryingly for Mehrunnisa, Shahryar had been falling ill too often lately, with strange and sudden fevers that came and went, rashes that blossomed in patches on his face and hands.
But there was one result of Mahabat’s coup Mehrunnisa had not yet come to fully recognize. With Mehrunnisa confined to her apartments, Abul had been her voice to the outside world, carrying her commands to the court and the nobles. The courtiers had not seen her at the jharoka, and without this sight of her, without the sound of her voice, they had lost their faith in her. Mahabat’s coup, ineffective as it ultimately was, had injured Mehrunnisa too.
If Jahangir died soon, it would be Abul they would turn to, not the woman who had directed their lives for the last sixteen years.
And if they turned to Abul, they would turn to Prince Khurram.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On becoming king, Jahangir was at first very severe. He meted out strict justice to all evil-doers, for which he was called Adil Padshah, or the “Just” king. This lasted until he got into the clutches of this woman, who has ruined his fair name.
—B. NARAIN, and S. SHARMA, ed.,
A Dutch Chronicle of Mughal India
The year turned into another while the imperial court was at Lahore. But these were not a quiet few months for Mehrunnisa. Jahangir sickened steadily during the months of Mahabat Khan’s coup. It was an enormous effort to keep his composure while Mahabat badgered him into signing farmans, exhausting to read every single one of them, to argue against estates bestowed on Mahabat’s relatives and friends. Over the years, Mehrunnisa had taken so much of this burden from him. She was the only person he trusted absolutely—Mahabat could not take her place.
And the nights were lonely and frightening, especially when he could not breathe and stayed awake coaxing air into his lungs. Jahangir wanted Mehrunnisa by his side desperately, he wanted to curl up against her, to hear her say that he would become better.
So it took Emperor Jahangir a long time to recover after Mahabat Khan fled. He would not allow Mehrunnisa out of his presence, and he was too sick to go to the jharoka or the Diwan-i-khas for the daily audiences. When she saw how much Jahangir had been undermined, Mehrunnisa sent her brother after Mahabat Khan. Abul was to bring him back alive, and she would decide Mahabat’s punishment personally. Abul left, and he raced behind the man who had so ignominiously captured him a few months ago. They flew through districts and jagirs along the northwestern edge of the empire, but Mahabat was always a day’s ride ahead, and Abul soon tired.
He returned to confess failure to his sister—Mahabat Khan was not to be caught. Mehrunnisa took her revenge in other ways then. She confiscated all of Mahabat’s lands, posted imperial guards over his fields and estates, and raided any caravans that traveled under his name. She made Mahabat Khan a fugitive.
There was, of course, yet another dissident in the empire, one of long standing now—Prince Khurram. Quiet at first in exile in Nasik, Khurram gathered an army and rushed north upon hearing of Mahabat’s coup. What it was he had in mind was not clear, least of all to the prince himself. He only knew that Mehrunnisa had somehow been vanquished by Mahabat, the crown floundered, perhaps if he stormed the treasury at Lahore . . . or he attacked the court itself . . . or he could snatch the imperial turban from his father’s head. So, filled with these fanciful ideas, Khurram came roaring up north, laying siege on towns and villages, asking for fidelity from the vassal kings he met on the way. Some agreed to support him, some did not.
Then the coup ended, and Khurram fled back to Nasik and from there to the Deccan kingdoms again. He
roamed the southern border of the empire, straining to set foot upon Mughal land again, detesting the inactivity, hating to be such a coward. But he could not take too many chances. Arjumand was pregnant again, and they had their little children with them. Also, Khurram kept falling sick with fever. But he wanted the empire. He still wanted the crown.
And this was when Mahabat Khan wrote to him from his place of hiding, offering to support Khurram in whatever he wanted to do. Neither thought it ironical that they should form an alliance—in Mughal India, with so much power and so much money at stake, loyalties shifted thus, from one person to another, as though born of lifelong friendships. Mansabs, jagirs, titles, gold mohurs, and robes of honor more than made up for enmities and hatreds.
Mehrunnisa spent long hours by Jahangir’s bed, keeping as many troubles from him as she could. So she did not tell him when news came to her that Mahabat Khan and Prince Khurram were now collaborators. But she kept herself informed of their every movement—whether it was to rise, or brush their teeth, or shout, or fight. She knew where they laid their heads at night, with whom, and why. She knew their thoughts before they did.
A week into February in 1627, Mehrunnisa held a hugely lavish party in her gardens at the Lahore Fort. She gave Shahryar a raised mansab, and every single noble at court of any significance was invited to this party. From behind a screen, she watched as the men bowed in front of Shahryar in the konish and backed out slowly with their spines still bent. This was her way of making sure the courtiers gave their hearts and minds to the man who would next be Emperor.
In March, Jahangir’s asthma worsened and they left for Kashmir again, hoping the clean, cool air of the mountains would relieve the pain in his chest.
• • •
The attendant timidly brought forth the mirror and held it in front of Shahryar.
He plunged back into the pillows and buried his head. “What has happened to me?”
Shahryar peeped over the embroidered edge of the sheet and yanked the small mirror toward his face again. A white, unblemished monkey stared back at him. His head was smooth as a shaven coconut, gleaming with oil. He had no hair—where his eyebrows had been, there was only the slight puckering of pink skin; his cheeks were clean of sideburns; his chin and upper lip were slick with sweat and nothing else. Even his eyes were little black holes ringed by lashless lids. Pale patches splotched uglily over his nose and neck.
“What is this?” he yelled. “Who is this in the mirror? What has happened?”
The royal hakims stood in a row at the bottom of his bed, their gazes downward. Finally, one bent in the taslim. With his back still bowed, he said, “Your Highness, it is a form of leprosy.”
Shahryar let the mirror fall. Leprosy! That dreaded, incurable affliction that ate away at extremities. He held a shuddering hand to his face and counted his fingers. Five, the nails were still wedged firmly under his skin, still pink with health, with little white half-moons. No, they had not vanished . . . yet. Shahryar dug his hands under his armpits, as though to keep them away from the disease. He did not want his arms and legs to become mere stumps. The prince moaned, drew his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around himself, and started to rock. He wanted to cry, wanted to shout against the fate that had brought him to this. Out of the corner of his eyes, Shahryar saw the eunuchs and slaves step back a pace or two. Hands flew stealthily to noses, as if the very air he breathed was poisonous to them.
He looked up at the hakims. Now they met his gaze. At least they did not fear being so near him, he thought. “Do something.” It was a plea, not a command.
The hakims bowed again. “We have done everything we could, your Highness. Nothing seems to work.”
“Nothing? Absolutely nothing?”
The physicians shook their heads. They could try, of course, and would try, a few brave ones spending hours at the prince’s bedside, but they had given Shahryar the best treatment imperial money could buy. Yet his hair had fallen out, the leprosy had spread.
An attendant entered the room. “Her Majesty has come to visit.”
Shahryar pulled the sheet over his nose and wrapped one edge around his head like a turban. “I cannot see her. Tell her to go away.”
“She insists, your Highness—” the eunuch started.
“I do,” Mehrunnisa interrupted the man and swept into the room, followed by Hoshiyar. “What has happened to you, Shahryar? What sort of illness is this? You have not shown yourself at court since May. Is this the behavior worthy of a future Emperor?”
At her entrance, the hakims sank to their knees, eyes fastened to the ground. One or two glanced up, this was a chance not to be missed, to be this close to the Empress, to perhaps see her face—surely, she was not veiled. But as gazes rose, Hoshiyar’s heavy hand came down upon their shoulders. He said softly, “It would be better if no man looked upon her Majesty.” After that, no one dared.
Shahryar had by now covered himself completely with his sheet.
“Go away,” he mumbled. “I cannot see you now.”
Mehrunnisa yanked at the sheet and froze when she saw the denuded creature. Her first thought was whether Ladli had seen him like this. Her second was, This is the man Ladli married? She flinched and let the sheet fall.
Shahryar laughed, his teeth salt-white against his mottled, diseased skin. “Are you afraid, your Majesty?”
Mehrunnisa ignored the jibe in his tone and turned instead to the hakims.
“What happened to him? Why didn’t anyone inform me?” she asked sharply.
“Your Majesty, the prince specifically asked that you should not be told.”
“What is it, though?”
The men did not speak. From the bed, Shahryar laughed again. There was just a hint of madness in that laugh, thin, from the edge of his mouth. “Leprosy, your Majesty. Your daughter’s husband has leprosy. Look”—he held up his hands, and Mehrunnisa’s gaze attached to them—“your daughter will be touched by these hands. Pray Allah it does not come to her.”
She turned away, forcing herself to do so, disgust beginning to rise in her. Why was she to be cursed with this behavior from every prince? Shahryar, the once malleable idiot, had turned, over the years, as stubborn as an ass. All this had come from her—if he was a commander of a lofty mansab, one just below hers, it was because she had raised his mansab; if he owned lands in the empire, it was she who had gifted them to him. And in doing this, she had raised his consequence, given him prestige. Like Khurram and Khusrau, he too chose to trample on her. What fools these boys were, she thought.
“Will the prince be able to take up his state duties?” she asked.
“His Highness is perfectly healthy, your Majesty. There is nothing wrong with his mind.”
Shahryar glared at his mother-in-law. “I am not going out in public like this.”
“You have to, Shahryar,” Mehrunnisa replied. “The Emperor is unwell and the people are getting restless. They must see the heir to the throne. You can wear a wig and some false eyebrows if necessary.”
“No,” Shahryar said mutinously. “I will not go out of my apartments. You cannot force me. Go away.”
Mehrunnisa stared at him in exasperation. What were a few hairs compared to an empire? Why did he not see what was at stake? Shahryar wanted the throne, he had said so many times, but did he think it would come to him without effort, a gift for his taking? “We will talk of this tomorrow.” She turned and left the room.
The next day, Shahryar sent a message to his father asking permission to return to Lahore. He hoped that the warm weather would bring some cure. Jahangir agreed and persuaded Mehrunnisa to let the prince go. She did not allow Ladli and Arzani to leave her, though.
So Shahryar set out with his retinue to Lahore, and a few days later Mehrunnisa and Jahangir followed—they could not risk being too far from the prince.
• • •
Camp was pitched at Bairam Kala, a favorite hunting spot. The town lay snug against the foothills of the
Himalayas, lush and heady pine forests smothering the slopes behind it. It was the gateway to India—called thus when Kashmir and the mountains had been foreign territory. Even thirty years after the conquest of Kashmir, when Mehrunnisa and Jahangir stopped at Bairam Kala they still felt as if they were putting a first step onto Indian soil. The Emperor, too weak to ride a horse, opened his eyes as the palanquin came to a stop.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Bairam Kala, your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa replied.
“Ah . . .” Jahangir fell back on his cushions. “I used to hunt here. Those were good days . . .”
“They were indeed good days,” Mehrunnisa said gently. “If you rest, you will regain your health and we can return here to hunt.”
“I wish to hunt today.”
“Not today, your Majesty.” Mehrunnisa shook her head. “Some other time, when you are better.”
“Will you deny me this last pleasure?” Jahangir asked.
“Hush, you must not speak thus of last pleasures.” She crawled forward on her knees until she lay beside him in the palanquin. It was midafternoon, the sun hung steadily overhead. Mehrunnisa leaned her head against Jahangir’s shoulder, and he touched her face with his hand. They both gazed out of the thin ochre netting into the shimmering waves of heat over the mountains. The pine trees swam in a sea of green, the air redolent of crushed pine needles.
“This is the end, Mehrunnisa,” he said softly. “Will you be all right?”
“Yes,” she said after a long time. “I will miss you, your Majesty.”
“Let me hunt.”
Mehrunnisa summoned the Mir Shikar and ordered him to round up game. Attendants went into the nearby forests and drove deer and other game to the hunting grounds. Jahangir was brought to the grounds in a chair carried on the shoulders of four bearers. They set the Emperor down and handed him his musket. He was too weak even to lift the musket or to sit up straight in his chair.
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