by John Speed
“I take pleasure in our wager, uncle,” Aurangzeb answers. “With Allah’s mercy, your service will never be required—we can hope so, at least. But to know that it is now mine eases my beggar’s heart. Those pyadas made all the difference, eh, Basant? It is so important to remember the little pieces, is it not?” Aurangzeb sighs. “We must always pay attention to the little pieces.”
The manservant discreetly comes near, offering juices from a silver tray. Basant chooses melon mixed with mango, and a candy wrapped in silver foil. Aurangzeb takes only water, a fakir in the midst of splendor.
Basant knows how Aurangzeb decries extravagance, but his little drink seems sad without a bit of ice to clink against his cup.
In the harem, ice is so common that Basant has forgotten that it is worth its weight in silver. Basant has seen the icewallahs floating rafts of ice down the Jumna while children swim nearby hoping to chip away a piece when no one sees; ice rafts that started in the Himalayas as chunks of glacier a thousand times heavier. Master Hing has told him that ice is the harem’s single greatest expense, more than clothing, food, or gems.
Basant looks through the arches to the river, at the children swimming amidst a herd of sleek black water buffalo in the slow-moving current. Their laughter, he realizes, is mingling with shouts from the garden behind them. The shouts increase, and soon at the entrance a whole crowd of men appears; Aurangzeb’s soldiers. “My lord, I couldn’t stop them,” Alu cries. “Look, this dispatch has just come from the palace.” The men crowd into a tight circle, all eyes on Aurangzeb as he takes the parchment.
General Jumla pushes through the crowd. “Has it come?” he asks.
“As we hoped, general,” Aurangzeb replies. “Please, open it and read it aloud.” Jumla and Jai Singh both seem surprised that Aurangzeb would hand Jumla the scroll without first reading it himself. It is a firman—an imperial order, heavy with sealing wax and ribbon—signed by Shah Jahan himself. Jumla reads aloud and as he reads, his eyes widen with surprise.
Shah Jahan has completely reversed the morning’s decisions. He now orders the army to attack Golconda and Bijapur without quarter. But the language is so flowery that even Basant has trouble understanding it. At last Aurangzeb translates it into plain soldier-talk: “We attack! The Deccan is ours!” he shouts, and the men cheer.
The firman goes on, however. As if Shah Jahan’s reversal of the morning orders were not surprising enough, he now makes Jumla a mandsabar of fifty thousand men and ten thousand horses. In effect, he gives him half the army of the Deccan. Further, the emperor orders that Jumla should lead not only his own troops, but Aurangzeb’s also.
The firman makes Jumla the supreme commander of the Deccan army, a hundred thousand strong. Jumla stops reading and looks up slightly embarrassed. The soldiers look confused, puzzling over what the fancy talk all means. Again Aurangzeb interprets: “Jumla’s in charge, men,” he says. “He’s the general of us all, now.”
The men cheer at first and then their shouts fade. It seems wrong to cheer Jumla while Aurangzeb stands nearby. Aurangzeb, however, congratulates Jumla. His words are plain, though his demeanor is formal. The soldiers cheer uncertainly again.
“That’s all,” Alu says at last. “Let’s leave these men alone—I’m sure they have things to discuss.” Encouraged by Alu, who is backed by Karm’s silent presence, the soldiers slowly turn and walk off.
“Congratulations, general,” Jai Singh says to Jumla. “This recognition must be very satisfying.”
Jumla nods, but seems embarrassed. “Is this what you expected?” he asks Aurangzeb uncertainly. “Is this what you wanted?”
Aurangzeb looks at him coolly. “I am only a beggar, general. I tell you this but I fear you don’t believe me. I am resigned to Allah’s will. I extend my congratulations.” Basant can’t decide if Aurangzeb is the calmest man he has ever known, or the angriest.
“Sketch out the campaign, general,” Aurangzeb says when Jumla bows in reply. “If I may request it humbly, please make haste.”
“For tonight’s meeting, you mean,” Jumla says, then suddenly clasps a hand over his mouth. “Forgive me, lord!” he gasps.
Aurangzeb’s smile never wavers. “I’m meeting with my staff tonight,” Aurangzeb says casually to Jai Singh. “There is nothing to forgive, general.” Jumla, clearly embarrassed, backs out of the room. Basant wonders why such a meeting would cause Jumla to be embarrassed.
“This firman brings unexpected news, lord,” Jai Singh says.
“Do you find it so, uncle?” Aurangzeb replies. He turns to Basant. “You heard the firman, Basant. Would you care to share your reflections?”
“Shall I speak frankly, lord? Many people think that Shah Jahan is the puppet of Prince Dara. But this firman reveals that the emperor still rules.”
“The eunuch is right. Your father has openly taken your side,” Jai Singh agrees. “Golconda is clearly a threat. Dara is a fool to accept the assurances of the Golcondan King. Shah Jahan knows this. Also, Shah Jahan knows he’s bleeding the treasury—too many monuments and mosques, too many mistresses. But Golconda is so rich, its fall will fix all that.”
“And about Jumla—” Aurangzeb asks.
“I may say something that offends you, lord,” says Jai Singh. “The decision to give Jumla command means only one thing. Your father fears you. If he weakens you, he assures the succession will be Dara’s.” Unconsciously, Jai Singh pats his forehead with the cuff of his silk shirt. “It is an ill wind that blows no good. Despite his preference for Dara, your father has done you a service by removing you from command. Without an army, you reduce Dara’s need to kill you. Consider that.”
Aurangzeb looks at him squarely. Jai Singh continues: “And think of this: Why has he given an order like this only to you? Why not strip your other brothers as well? Here’s what I say: Murad is no threat; he cannot lead. Shuja is no threat; he is a wastrel. Dara can subdue them easily. I’ll speak frankly: it would be no great loss for those two to die.”
Basant finds himself interrupting Jai Singh in his eagerness. “He’s right, lord. You alone are a threat to Dara; only you confuse the succession. Shah Jahan realizes this. He wishes to neutralize you, for Dara’s good and also for your own good. I think he loves you, lord, though I think you are a mystery to him. You do not love the things your father loves.”
Basant halts suddenly, realizing he has said too much.
“I am not like Dara, you mean,” Aurangzeb says, shaking his head. “I, unfortunately, have a conscience.”
“You see it clearly, sir,” Jai Singh agrees. “Your integrity is unassailable.”
The room is silent for a long time. Only the sounds of the river in the afternoon sun can be heard. At last, Jai Singh asks leave to return.
“But remember our wager,” the prince says as he walks the general to the door. “You have promised me a service, uncle.”
“A wager is sacred debt, a debt of honor, sir,” the general answers. Basant wonders what service Aurangzeb could want that would be so difficult for the general to provide. “Let us hope that the need for that service will never arise. It seems to me that Shah Jahan, with this order, may have made the fulfillment of my promise unnecessary.”
“Let us pray it will be so,” Aurangzeb agrees, bowing thoughtfully. “A safe journey, uncle. I will return to the Deccan with tomorrow’s sunrise. Let us hope that we play chess together soon.”
“Next time I’ll be more careful of my wagers!” Jai Singh answers, and they both laugh politely.
When Jai Singh has gone, Aurangzeb seats himself by the arch that frames the river. Basant takes out Roshanara’s letter.
Aurangzeb glances at it. “You wrote this,” he says.
“Yes, lord.”
“My sister’s script is indecipherable.” He smiles, Basant notices, with only one side of his mouth. “Your script is quite attractive.”
“Thank you, lord.” Aurangzeb stares into space, and motions with his hand. Basant su
pposes he wants the letter read aloud.
There is the usual puffery at the start—what a wonderful person Aurangzeb is, how he shines brighter than the sun and so on. Basant, who wrote this flattery now feels embarrassed. Spoken before a man dressed in cotton, not silk, who wears no jewels, who drinks warm river water from a plain cup, the courtly prose seems silly and extreme. Basant hurries to the core of the letter—Roshanara’s concern for Aurangzeb, and her plans.
First, Roshanara introduces Basant—she calls him “that best of servants, the mukhunni we discussed.” Basant, she says, is her closest confidant, instructed to be open and truthful. Privately she emphasized—Tell him anything! Everything! Hold back nothing!
Then she affirms her love for Aurangzeb. She uses words that Basant finds embarrassing between a brother and a sister—yet when he suggested alternatives, she pinched him and ordered him to write as he was told.
Next she tells Aurangzeb not to be concerned about their father’s decision—soon she will set things right, she says; the Deccan will be Aurangzeb’s. There are ways, she says, that she is not afraid to use.
“She risks too much,” Aurangzeb mutters. “Some treasures are so cursed that only fools will dig them up.” He nods at Basant significantly, as though Basant understands his cryptic remarks. Basant closes his eyes to give the impression that he thinks the same dark thoughts himself.
Basant continues: “‘The tiger is on the leash, ready for riding … .’”
Again Aurangzeb stops Basant. “What do you think of that, Basant? There’s an old saying—The problem with riding a tiger is when you try to get off.” The prince stands abruptly. “Let us walk along the river.”
Here it comes: this is the test, Basant thinks, but he can’t guess what is to be tested. Grunting, he lumbers to his feet, brushing his silks. Aurangzeb has already moved a few paces ahead of him, and he chuffs along trying to catch up. Finally Aurangzeb stops to gaze across the river. Basant falls in beside him, peering up at his hawklike profile.
Basant always thinks of Aurangzeb in profile, perhaps because it is rare for him to see the prince’s face full on. Aurangzeb never looks squarely at him; Aurangzeb never seems to look squarely at anything.
After a few more paces, Aurangzeb gestures, and they move down the steps of the pavilion, past a garden full of fragrant roses, blood red. Basant is too nervous even to look at them; if Aurangzeb has noticed, he gives no sign. His mind seems fixed beyond the gardens. “Tell me, Basant: what do you think of my sister? Is she to be trusted, do you think?”
Basant remembers watching the court artists in their workshop; how before they paint a bird, they trap it under a heavy glass jar. Sometimes they fill the jar with water to see the drowned bird magnified. Now he knows how those birds feel.“My lord, do you trust her?” Basant replies at last.
At this the prince snorts. “Do you love my sister?” he asks.
“I am a eunuch, lord.”
“Surely, Basant, eunuchs can love.” Aurangzeb steps in front of him, and looks him full in the face. “Would you do me a service, Basant?” the prince whispers. His deep-set dark eyes, shaded by black eyebrows peppered with gray, glow like banked embers.
Basant is struck by their power. “Any service you require, lord.”
“Don’t agree so quickly, Basant,” Aurangzeb cautions, his forefinger raised, reminding Basant of a mullah or a dervish making a point. “Suppose this service were of great moment—not just for me, but for the kingdom. Would you do it? Even though it broke your heart, would you do it? For in truth it breaks my heart to ask you.”
Again Basant finds himself blurting out, “Of course, lord, of course!”
Aurangzeb lifts his head and glances around the garden, with an expert furtiveness that surprises Basant. The prince leans close to Basant’s ear.
“Would you kill Roshanara for me?” he whispers.
My life is over, thinks Basant.
He weeps inside the curtained palanquin, wailing, not caring who might hear. Back in his room, the last red rays of the setting sun bathe the white marble walls with a light that glows like the fires of hell.
Why, oh why had he answered Aurangzeb so?
He had said no. Then yes. Then no again. But before he could change his mind once more, Aurangzeb had drawn back, and wearily, sadly, waved him away.
Yesterday his was a child’s life: everything was provided for him; he lived with women and had little to do with nasty, hairy men. The world was simple and he would always be happy.
Today he is a child no longer. But what does that mean for Basant, who can never be a man?
Finally he understands Master Hing: he had always thought of him as twisted, shriveled, vile, soured by the bile of his anger. Finally he sees that people slowly become what they are, never conscious of the steps that brought them there. Maybe Hing too was happy once, gentle once, and had watched his life collapse around him.
On the sleeping cushions that lie strewn across his carpet (his new, red carpet), is the package that Alu gave him as he left the Rambagh.
How much does that damned hijra know?
As Basant walked dazed from his talk with Aurangzeb, Alu had caught up with him, still all sweetness and flowers. “This token is from the prince,” he told Basant, handing him a small parcel. “He says to tell you that he has the other, too.”
Of course it would have been bad manners to untie the colored string right then, so Basant waits until he is in the palanquin. While his bearers lurch down the bank that leads to the river, cursing Basant’s weight with each struggling step, Basant unfolds the heavy white paper that wraps his gift. Basant yelps, and clasps both pudgy hands over his mouth. It is a jeweled slipper, the delicate slipper he had worn only yesterday, now brown with dried blood.
Basant remembers the hard hand of Shaista Khan lifting his feet, and the slap of each wet slipper landing on the bodies and the blood. He was so glad that the bodies had disappeared that he gave no thought to how, or who. He simply gloried in his escape from disaster, and reveled in Ali Khalil’s confusion. When those bodies had disappeared like the morning mists, he convinced himself he had been dreaming.
Muhedin dead, Muhedin who had been his friend, and with him some poor man he had never met. And Haridas dead, his own servant, his neck snapped like a bird’s. And in his lap, a token: more will die.
Basant, would you kill Roshanara for me?
If he would kill his own sister, what will he not do to me?
Basant thinks of the goat, staked as bait, a noose around its neck, slashed along its flanks to lure the tiger with the scent of blood. Did it matter to the goat if it was eaten or merely bled to death?
He has heard too much. His life is worthless. And what about Roshanara? Can I save myself? Can I save my Little Rose? Must we suffer? Must we die? Then he knows what he must do, and as quick as that knows also how to do it.
Across the room he has a lacquered chest with many drawers. It belonged to his predecessor: a gift, Haridas had told him with some pride, from the empress herself.
Then twisting one of the drawer pulls, and sliding a false bottom aside, the servant showed Basant the secret drawer.
With eyes moist with tears, Haridas looked at the contents of that compartment. Without showing them to Basant, he quickly stowed each item in his pocket. Only when it was empty did Haridas step aside and let him see.
Though Basant lives with rich clothing, jewels, paintings, carpets, he is not rich; they are but on loan, not his. He has no family, no heirs: they’ll go back to the emperor when he dies.
What was his, really? Things hidden in the bottom of this secret drawer; precious, worthless things: A rose, now fragile as tissue, that Roshanara had touched to her lips the day they met; the small plain quill he used the day he had been made; the paper that wrapped the broken coin he now wore on a chain around his neck (and tucked inside, a thin braid of long black hair); his bill of sale, written in extravagant calligraphy (for after all, he had cost a
small fortune), which he had stolen from Master Hing; and last of all, a gift from Tambula, precious indeed—a small vial of delicate greenish glass that holds a thick, greasy-looking syrup.
The dark liquid clings to the glass vial as Basant examines it, turning it in the red light of the setting sun.
He sets the vial on the low table near his bed. His hand drifts to his hidden necklace, grasping the coin through the filmy cotton of his shirt. He can feel the saw marks of its ragged edge. For a moment he thinks about putting it into the drawer as well. Of all his treasures, it is his most precious. But when he shuts the drawer, the coin still hangs around his neck.
He picks up the vial, its smooth glass cool and pleasing to his fingers. Who will know about that secret drawer when I am gone? he thinks. Now that Haridas is gone, who will tell my successor about that secret drawer? Who will collect my things into his pockets?
As the shadows creep into his room, he quickly takes fresh silks from a nearby chest: jama, pants, brocaded girdle, skirt of gauze and silken cloak the color of midnight. He puts on slippers, soft and quiet as a cat’s paws. He then pockets the vial and steps into the corridors of the harem.
While the serving eunuchs bustle past with sharbats and fruit drinks in gold salvers, pitchers of wine and chilled candies, while the nautch girls ready themselves on the dancing platform that rises from the fountains of the Khas Mahal, while the youngest concubines splash their feet in the rosewater pool before the emperor’s door, Basant heads for the apartments of Roshanara. Tonight, no joy for him.
As he approaches Roshanara’s door, he hears far-off singing: a ghazal full of yearning and despair, the cry of a lover spurned by her beloved. His heart aches at the sound of it, almost he begins to weep. He despairs at what he is about to do.
The door opens, as he expects, even as he approaches, but it is not Roshanara who emerges, but her maid Shaheen. “Our mistress will not need you tonight, Basant,” she says, and begins to shut the door.