by John Speed
“Respect,” Jumla whispers.
Hing glares at Jumla. “What sort of man are you, general? Would you seek the approval of a profligate?”
“Look upon my brother,” Roshanara says. “Isn’t his merest nod worth more than a dozen robes of honor from my father?”
“My lords, you see how it is?” Alu speaks now. “You are angry. Confused. You bark and growl at one another like ill-bred dogs. For your master has lost his way. Which is more foolhardy? To be ruled by an unworthy king, or to rise up against the might of his throne, uncertain of the outcome?”
“Look at our house,” Roshanara says, “look at our history. Time and again, it has only been through rebellion that our empire has been saved. Why, this is the very way my father came to power!”
“That doesn’t make it right,” a soft voice says. The speaker is Aurangzeb. “There is a great chasm between discussing this act and doing it, and I am not yet sure that the time is right to leap across it.”
“Then why the hell are we here?” Shaista Khan sputters. “If we are not here to act, then I was misled.”
“Then leave,” Jumla answers. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword.
“Leave with your life, Shaista Khan,” Aurangzeb adds gently. “No harm will come to you.”
“I meant no offense,” Shaista Khan says. “But my question remains. Why are we here, if not for action?”
“Why you are here, I cannot say,” Aurangzeb replies, with a hint of sadness. “I am here to consider a dreadful undertaking, to learn the counsel of wiser men than I. For when the moment comes, Shaista Khan, you will have your wish—there will be no time for thought, but only for action.” Aurangzeb looks around the circle, as if to read each man’s heart. “Who will utter those terrible words, the words that I cannot say?”
But no one answers.
Finally, Jumla lifts his head. “Take it, lord. Take the throne. We’re behind you. Others will join us. Take it. Save the empire.” He looks firmly at Aurangzeb. “You know that this is Allah’s will.”
“No,” says Master Hing, his voice like ice water. “You cannot simply take the throne, highness. There must be a reason. Without a reason, your father and your brothers will come against you, and anyone with a conscience will join them. There must be a reason.”
“What reason can I have, Master Hing?” Aurangzeb asks.
“Well … there’s always God,” Hing replies.
“That is the perfect reason!” Shaista Khan says. “Let’s be rid of the Hindus! Your father coddles them, and worse. Make them the enemy! Who will stand against you if God is on your side?”
Aurangzeb turns to Alu. “What do you think?”
“It’s dicey, lord,” Alu answers. “What would you do to the Hindus? Kill them? We depend on them too much.”
“Force them to convert,” Shaista Khan bursts in. “Make them bow before Allah the All-Merciful.”
“And how would you do that?” Alu responds.
“Tax them,” suggests Jumla. “Tax them until they bleed. Restore the jizya. All who do not bow to Allah must pay the jizya, so it is written.”
“But Shah Jahan has been trying to collect the jizya for years,” Hing puts in. “He’s had no success.”
“Then it must be done with emphasis,” Jumla asserts. “At the point of the sword. At the head of an army, tearing down temples as we go.”
“Dara won’t stand for it,” Shaista Khan says. “He’s too close to Jai Singh. He won’t levy the jizya tax on Rajputana. Dara depends on the Rajputs for his very life. He trusts them more than Muslims.”
“You mean only that Dara trusts Jai Singh more than you, general,” Roshanara says. “With good reason, apparently.”
Shaista Khan bristles. “Why shouldn’t I be trusted?” he shoots back. Bits of saliva spray as he talks. “Do you think Jai Singh can be trusted? Do you think Dara doesn’t have meetings like this himself?” Aurangzeb looks up, and Shaista Khan realizes that he has stepped into a trap.
“Well, general,” Aurangzeb says. “Tell us of Dara’s meetings.”
“He’s had one or two,” Shaista Khan allows; each word painful.
“So Dara plots as well,” Hing interrupts. “Is anyone surprised to hear it? Knowing this about him, what shall we do?”
Unexpectedly Aurangzeb answers. “I will move when Dara moves. Not before.” He looks steadily around the circle. “But when Dara moves, I will not attack the throne myself. I will support Murad, my brother.”
Those in the circle lean back as if shocked at these words—but the faces of the eunuchs brighten. “Excellent, lord,” Hing tells Aurangzeb.
“But Murad can’t lead!” Shaista Khan bursts out. “I won’t stand for him being king!”
“Of course not, general,” Hing says, his voice croaking cheerfully. “And neither will anyone else. That is the beauty of this plan. With Aurangzeb as an ally, Murad can crush Dara. Dara will be isolated.”
Shaista Khan laughs. “And no noble will bet his family’s ass on a potential loser. But I must protest—Murad is more fool than your father. He is not worthy.”
“That’s the beauty of this thought,” Alu explains. “Once Dara is clearly doomed, the nobility will beg Aurangzeb to lead.”
“And nothing is more honorable than agreeing reluctantly to a heartfelt plea,” Hing says, with a cackling chuckle. “But what of Jai Singh?”
“When the time comes, Jai Singh will turn. If you cannot trust Jai Singh, then trust me. If Jai Singh comes against us, I myself will present this neck to you. Take my head and feed my eyes to the crows. Or take it to Murad, or to Dara, and use it to buy your peace.” His face hardens—the first time Basant has seen him angry.
“I don’t like this,” Roshanara says. “Waiting for Dara to move? That could take forever. He’s undependable, damn it. You can’t even depend on his treachery!”
Aurangzeb and the others chuckle. “I think I know how it might be accomplished, lord,” Hing says softly. “If I might suggest a plan … .”
So much has happened to Basant since the moon rose last night that he might be forgiven for ignoring the obvious. As he sits leaning against the railing of the Taj’s marble plinth, peering out from the shadows and listening to treason, it doesn’t cross his mind to wonder why he has not been invited. Why isn’t he sitting in that circle, instead of watching uninvited from afar? But Basant ignores such thoughts: he has begun to dream again as he watches that cluster of treachery plot and plan. He will tell of this conspiracy and make his fortune.
For years he has drifted rudderless on the waves of Fate, enduring the tragedy and insult, as all slaves must, and never had the power to respond.
Until now.
Fate has favored him, for a change. She has placed under his hand so many great ones. He has only to lift his finger and all of them will die. For just a word, Shah Jahan would give him anything he can dream of. Dara would give him even more.
Every fault, every slight, every outrage will be requited. Justice will be done: on earth, not in heaven; and by him, not by Allah; and before his eyes.
He will make them all pay. For the castration, the molestations, the indignities, the servitude, the deaths—all will be repaid. No more will Basant walk in fear, but all shall fear him.
In the pride of his thought, Basant has failed to account for a missing piece. He can feel it—something nagging, something important. It is the feeling he gets when he plays cards: He looks at his cards and thinks, I have won! These cards can’t be beaten! Only to find out too late that he missed a trump, a little card held by someone else, and watches his victory bleed away.
What is it, what is it, what is it? he asks himself. But he cannot answer, he cannot name it, any more than he can remember to count the trump cards in his hand. It is not his nature to notice the obvious.
Instead, he makes plans.
The first thing, he decides, is to get back to the palace. With studied care he starts to tiptoe back to the stairs that
lead to the river.
And then it happens: the glass vial must have shifted in his pocket. When he stands up, it falls out. He sees it drop, tracing an arc to the white marble tiles. He nearly screams.
But the vial does not shatter into a million noisy pieces after all. It bounces. Then it rolls, making the clinking, singing sound of blown glass rolling over marble. Dumbstruck, Basant watches. Suddenly his right arm stabs with pain. His chest is crushed. He doubles over as if pushed down by an enormous weight. He feels an enormous hand squeezing his shoulder so mightily that his arm grows numb, and he must gasp for breath.
This is the thing he has forgotten. That he is mortal. That he can be broken. Most of all he has forgotten the one who can break him. He is lifted off his feet. He opens his eyes and sees: The giant is what he has forgotten. Karm. Aurangzeb, the eunuch, Alu, and the deaf-mute manservant were there. Basant should have realized that the giant would also be around. Since he was not in the circle, he should have guessed that the giant would be patrolling, watching for spies.
Spies like Basant.
The giant Karm hauls Basant along the plinth for several steps and then stops. Without letting go of the eunuch, he bends down and scoops up the vial that has rolled along the tiles. He drops it into the pocket of his tunic and then lugs Basant like a sack to the circle of conspirators.
They are all standing now, all except Master Hing, who is still struggling to his feet. Every eye watches as Karm lugs him into their midst and sets him down a few feet from Alu.
Basant’s eyes flick from face to face: the dubious, uncertain faces of the generals who have never seen him before; Shaista Khan, who stands with sword drawn, wishing he had killed Basant last night; Alu, disappointed but curious; and Hing, who gives up his struggle to stand, and sits like an old, old man, shaking his head. Basant then looks at Aurangzeb, and finally, hesitantly, to Roshanara. “Oh, Basant,” he hears her say.
The words strike his heart, filling Basant with a righteous courage. Now that he is hopeless and helpless he sees his path clearly. I may be dead, he thinks, but not yet in the grave. “He asked me to kill you,” Basant tells Roshanara. “Your saintly brother.” He turns to the circle. “This prince you all think should be king? He’s a murderer.” It seems to him that his little boy’s voice is at that moment commanding and strong.
“And what did you answer when I asked you this favor, Basant?” Aurangzeb asks quietly, looking beyond Basant, at the crescent moon.
“I refused!” Basant cries out. “I refused,” he whispers.
Master Hing raises his hands to his ears to shut out the sound of Basant’s words. He lifts his head and Basant sees the watery, fishlike glistening of Hing’s eyes in the moonlight. “You fool, you young fool,” Master Hing mutters. “I am sorry, highness, so sorry.”
Aurangzeb nods at Karm. The giant moves to Basant, but the eunuch shies away. “I can walk,” he says. Karm points toward the orchard gardens, and Basant, taking one last look into Roshanara’s exquisite eyes, goes where he is told.
With Karm following, Basant walks blindly into the shadows, stepping off the sandstone pathways and onto the orchard grass now damp with dew. He barks his shins against low bushes hidden in the darkness. Why don’t you lead, you big oaf, Basant thinks. On he wanders deeper into the gardens, until sick of it all, he simply stops. He faces the giant, who stands away from him, a vague shape in the shadows, lit only by the bitter light of moonrise. The silver tip of the crescent moon trace the round fullness of the white dome of the Taj, and Basant thinks, Whatever is going to be done to me will be done soon.
Basant’s eyes return to the giant, still standing a little way off. Karm doesn’t carry a sword or even a knife. His weapons, Basant supposes, are those enormous hands.
Basant can imagine the crushing power of one of those fists. And worse, much worse. As he imagines horror after horror, Basant falls to his knees. “Whatever did I‘do to deserve this?” he wails. “I beg you, let me go!”
As Basant faces him, crying with his woman’s voice, Karm’s great eyebrows work up and down, he opens his mouth, but only strangled grunts emerge. At last he crouches and rests a heavy arm across Basant’s fleshy shoulders, his big eyes filled with concern.
“Are you going to hurt me?” Basant whispers. The big dark eyes of the giant stare steadily at the eunuch. “You will hurt me, won’t you? You will if they make you. That’s why they keep you around. You’re here only to crush and kill, just like I’m here only to flatter and lick. Oh, we are pitiful, you and I!”
Karm’s fingers gently squeeze Basant’s shoulder, and Basant, starting again to sob, places his own soft hand over the giant’s. “We’re not so different, you and I,” Basant sniffs, lifting his face to Karm’s. “They maimed us—they made us slaves. We’re like cattle to them—they just snip off the bits they don’t like. What choice did we have? No one ever asked me if I wanted this life.” He looks desperately at Karm. “I dreamed of vengeance. I dreamed of making them pay! But it’s no good! Listen to me! Forget vengeance! Be happy! There’s still time—do what you must to be happy!”
Alu approaches but looks only at Karm. “He’s to die. Drown him. Make it look accidental.” The words thud in Basant’s heart. Suddenly it occurs to Basant that his turban must look dreadful; he reaches up to fix it. It’s stupid, he knows, but he can’t stop himself.
“Don’t do that!” Alu hisses. “You’re going to die, you fool! What does your turban matter now? You were to be special, Basant. Aurangzeb’s khaswajara. It was yours for the taking. Only a fool would throw it away. You deserve this fate. You make us all look like fools.”
“Brother,” Basant whispers, not knowing what he else to say, but Alu glares at him, unconsciously swiping at his eyes. He’s crying.
“Master Hing sends this message,” Alu spits out. “You are no brother of his. He has forgotten your name.” Alu sobs, but controls himself. “And I too have forgotten you.”
But Basant barely hears him. He turns his eyes toward the magnificent onion dome, now silver in the moonlight, more brilliant than ever. He sees the play of shadows as the moonlight falls on the spires and domes, on the finials and minarets; he sees the vast yearning emptiness of the arches; he sees finally that the tomb of this dead queen is a poem written in marble: so glorious it seems now, so pathetic, so full of hope and of despair.
At that moment, Basant thinks, Ah, I understand.
He faces Karm. His heart is at ease, beyond good or evil. “I’m ready,” he says. He squares his shoulders, trying to look brave. They walk toward the river stairs. When he sees the place where Karm caught him, Basant looks at the giant as if they share a good joke. Then he walks toward the railing, with Karm beside him, like a huge and silent shadow.
She is still down there, Roshanara. He looks at her, and his chest heaves. She doesn’t see him, so he waves, but the shadows still hide him.
“Little Rose!” he calls. And again. She looks up, as do Alu, who stands beside her, and Hing, who is talking to Aurangzeb.
“I loved you!” he calls. “I would never hurt you!” Basant reaches into Karm’s pocket—the giant stares at him in surprise but does nothing—and takes out the glass vial. “Look!” Basant shouts, his piping voice echoing against the vast facade of the tomb. “I brought this! I was going to poison myself after I told you … After I told you about your brother. He’s evil, you know! He’s a very bad man!”
He starts to cry. He clutches the vial and shakes it at the princess, although in the darkness, it isn’t very likely that she can see it. “I was ready to die for you! Who else loved you so, Little Rose!” As his sobs overwhelm him, he sees Roshanara turn aside, and Alu leading her away
“Come on,” whispers Basant through his tears. “Lets get this over with.”
They come to the dark opening that yawns into the plinth, the stairs that lead down to the river. The way ahead is black, impenetrable except for a haze of silver at the bottom of the stairs: the door to the shor
e.
He almost tumbles on a broken step. He turns and starts to tell Karm to be careful, but then he thinks, Why should I warn him? Instead Basant goes outside, and hears with some satisfaction the surprised grunt of the giant as he comes down the last stairs.
Karm must lower his head carefully as he comes through the door, and Basant nearly laughs.
This is it, Basant thinks. This is it!
When Karm sees him, his heavy eyebrows shoot up. Suddenly Basant realizes that Karm is surprised that he did not run away. But where would he go, on his pudgy legs? Karm could catch him easily. Still the thought occurs to him that this play has not yet ended; maybe there is yet hope.
“I’m ready,” he tells the giant. “I’m ready to die. I’m not afraid.”
Instead of walking along the pier, Karm leads Basant to the edge of the bank, to the shore, to the dhobi stones where the women wash their clothes in the river. Basant’s pace slows. At last he wades in—another step, and another. The water is cold, colder than he thought water could be; as it laps around his ankles, he trembles. Karm’s hand still holds him fast.
“No!” Basant says, trying to pull away. “Not this way!” His feet slip on the slick round stones of the river bottom and he pitches into the water, landing on his hands and knees.
Karm pulls him out, standing him on his feet. How odd, thinks Basant, he could just have pushed me down. So he stands, cold and dripping; the water comes up to his groin, and chills the opening where his lingam used to be; his cloak, now heavy with water, clings to him. His turban falls off, and he watches it uncoil and tumble over the surface of the river like a dark snake.
“I don’t want to die this way,” he tells the giant through chattering teeth. “Please don’t make me die this way. I can’t stand it! I’m so cold.”
Karm of course says nothing, the expression on his face a mystery.
“You’re not a bad man,” Basant says, shivering. “Let me take this.” With a trembling hand, he holds up the vial of poison for Karm to see. “It was always my plan to use this. Don’t drown me.”