Shah Jahan hesitated a moment. The battle was won and he was curious to know who the riders were. Calling to his bodyguard to follow, he kicked his horse forward and galloped down the hill towards a clump of trees where the riders had reined in. As he got closer he saw there were six of them — five soldiers and a white-haired man in dark green robes. As the man turned his head, Shah Jahan recognised Aslan Beg. What could have brought his elderly steward from Burhanpur to the field of battle?
Kicking his tired horse so hard it snorted in protest and flattened its ears, he outstripped his escort and thundered towards the little knot of men. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ he called out as soon as he was in earshot.
‘Majesty, the empress has gone into labour before her time. The lady Jahanara asked me to send word … I felt it was my duty to come myself …’ The old man was swaying with fatigue; the exertion of the hard ride had clearly drained his strength.
Shah Jahan felt a sudden coldness in the pit of his stomach. What had prompted Jahanara’s message? If all was well, wouldn’t they have left the good news of the birth to await his return? ‘How is the empress?’
‘I don’t know. The hakims were with her when I left … I did not wait to ask them. Your daughter was insistent no time be lost.’
Shah Jahan hesitated. His every instinct was to ride at once for Burhanpur but he mustn’t throw away a longed-for victory gained at such cost. He thought quickly, then turned to his captain of bodyguard. ‘Tell Ashok Singh he is to assume command here. My orders to him are to pursue the Bijapurans as far as seems prudent but to take no risks, to garrison this fort and then to bring the rest of the troops back to Burhanpur. And quickly bring me a fresh horse.’
As he rode, urging his new mount on, Shah Jahan’s eyes were fixed on the hazy horizon, willing the battlements of Burhanpur to come into view though he knew many miles separated him from his goal. His injured left ankle was throbbing painfully and glancing down he saw that his garments were spattered with blood — whether his own or his enemies’ he couldn’t be sure — but memories of the conflict were already fading. All he could think of was Mumtaz and how soon he could be with her. At least it would ease her mind to know he had come safely through the fighting.
At last, through the fast fading light, he saw the Tapti river before him and overlooking its northern bank the square tower in which were Mumtaz’s apartments. Urging his blowing horse down the bank, he splashed through the shallow, sluggish waters and rode on up to the gateway through which each evening his elephants were led down from their stables, the hati mahal, to the river to bathe and drink. This wasn’t the way he usually entered his fortress but it was the quickest. He saw the guards’ surprise as he cantered into the small courtyard outside the hati mahal, jumped from his saddle, pain shooting through his ankle, and half running, half limping, made for the stairs leading into the heart of the fortress and the haram. He mounted the steps as fast as he could, unbuckling his breastplate which he thrust into the hands of an attendant as he reached the entrance to the haram. Normally he would have washed away the blood and sweat of battle but he rushed towards Mumtaz’s apartments just as he was.
His appearance was so sudden that there was no time for the usual cry of ‘the emperor approaches’ to precede him. Jahanara was standing by the half-open door to her mother’s room. Hearing his steps on the stone floor she raised her head and he saw tears running down her face.
‘Jahanara, what is it? What’s happened?’
‘The baby will not come. She has been in such torment these past hours. Nothing seems to help. I tried to calm her but all she will say is that she must see you …’ Before Jahanara could finish, there came a long agonised scream more animal than human. Fear such as he had never felt on the battlefield took hold of Shah Jahan. Stepping forward, he pushed the door fully open and looked inside.
Mumtaz was lying on a low divan, knees drawn up, back arched, her hands clenching the sides of the bed. Her white shift was soaked in sweat and her long hair was plastered to her contorted face as raising her chin she screamed again. Satti al-Nisa, who was kneeling by the divan, attempted to take her in her arms and hold her still but Mumtaz was threshing so wildly that she couldn’t. Two hakims, one elderly, the other a youth, were standing in a corner of the room by a small brazier of burning charcoals over which some bitter-smelling potion was bubbling in a copper pot. ‘Leave her be, madam. The opium is almost ready and will ease her pain,’ one of them said.
Looking up, Satti al-Nisa saw Shah Jahan in the doorway. Her face wore the same helpless expression as his daughter’s as she rose and stepped aside. Slowly Shah Jahan approached the bed. Somehow Mumtaz sensed he was there and turned her head towards him as another spasm racked her body. She gasped but this time did not cry out, and as he knelt beside her she managed a smile. ‘You came,’ she whispered.
‘Of course. All will be well.’
‘No. The baby won’t come … I’ve tried and tried … I don’t want it to die inside me.’
‘It will come when it is ready … try to relax.’
‘That is what the hakims say but I can’t. My body feels about to split with pressure and pain but nothing happens.’
‘Majesty.’ The older of the hakims was by his side, a cup in his hand. ‘This medicine will relieve her suffering.’
‘Give it to me.’ Kneeling by the side of the divan, Shah Jahan held the cup to Mumtaz’s lips. ‘Drink …’ At first the amber liquid trickled down her chin but at last she swallowed some.
‘That will soothe her, Majesty, relax some of the tensions building within her. This is the sixteenth hour of her labour and she is exhausted. In a few minutes she will grow drowsy,’ said the hakim. But as if to contradict his words, Mumtaz began to cry out again. As she struggled she knocked the cup from Shah Jahan’s hand and it rolled across the floor. ‘It’s coming,’ she gasped. ‘Thank the heavens, it’s coming at last …’ Her nails dug into the flesh of his right forearm as she clung to him.
‘Transfer her pain to me. Let me be the one who suffers,’ Shah Jahan found himself praying.
Suddenly Mumtaz let go of him and dragged herself into a sitting position, knees doubled up beneath her shift. Then she flung back her head but this time her cry was one of triumph rather than despair. The next moment Shah Jahan heard the sound of a baby crying.
‘Majesties, look. A beautiful girl.’ Satti-al Nisa was holding out a tiny bundle already wrapped in a piece of green linen — fit clothing for this newest addition to the Moghul line.
Feeling dazed, he got to his feet and looked briefly at the child, but all his thoughts were for Mumtaz. ‘I knew all would be well …’ he began. But as he looked at her again he saw not joy but terror on her face and realised that her shift, in fact the entire divan, was crimsoning with her blood. He didn’t need the hakims’ cries of consternation to tell him that this was not the ordinary blood-letting of childbirth.
He moved aside to allow them room to work while Satti al-Nisa, who had handed the child to an attendant, rushed to fetch the cotton pads for which the doctors were calling to staunch the blood. Mumtaz was lying back, eyes closed and her body very still. As the minutes passed, it seemed to Shah Jahan that the hakims were doing nothing except mopping up the bright red flow which continued to stream from Mumtaz. Water from the copper basins in which they were rinsing out their cloths slopped crimson on the floor.
‘Surely you can do something,’ he heard himself say but there was no reply, only a shaking of heads and a muffled conversation between the two doctors.
‘Leave us!’ Mumtaz’s voice suddenly rang out sharp and clear. ‘I wish to be alone with my husband. Go … go now!’ Never in twenty years of marriage had he heard her sound more commanding.
The hakims and Satti al-Nisa looked at Shah Jahan. ‘Do as the empress says but remain within earshot,’ he ordered.
‘Mumtaz …’ he began as soon as they were alone.
‘No, let me speak. My life is flowi
ng from me with my blood. I’m dying … I know it. There is nothing anyone can do. I must have these final precious moments with you. Put your strong arms around me … let me feel the beat of your heart.’
Kneeling down again he cradled her in his arms. ‘You have given birth to a fine child and you will recover … the hakims will stop the bleeding …’
‘No, my heart tells me that it isn’t so. Listen to me … our remaining time together is short. I have things to ask of you while my mind is still clear …’
‘Anything.’
‘Please don’t marry again … if you have more children by another woman they will be a threat to our own sons. That mustn’t happen … rivalries between half-brothers bring nothing but sorrow. We both know that.’
‘I could never marry another. You are everything to me … everything.’
‘That gives me such comfort — knowing that I can endure anything, even the pain of parting from you. But I have something else to beg of you. In my dreams I’ve seen a white marble tomb, luminous as a great pearl … build me such a resting place where you and our children can come to remember me.’
‘Don’t speak of tombs. We will have many more years together.’ He held her even tighter, as if by doing so he could make the life force pulsing within him flow into her and give her strength.
‘Please … you must promise me … you must. Then I can go in peace to whatever awaits me.’
‘When the time comes I will create you a paradise on earth. I will spare nothing, no cost, no effort. It will be the marvel of the world not only for its flawless beauty but because people will know it represents a flawless love.’
He heard Mumtaz give a deep sigh as if what he said had satisfied her. For a few minutes they clung to one other in silence, then Mumtaz whispered, ‘You mustn’t spend your life in regret, not you or Dara, Jahanara or any of our children … Love them as I did … They have so much before them, as I once did, the night I first saw you at the Meena Bazaar. Do you remember that night? All the lanterns hanging on the trees and how you came to my stall. You didn’t bargain very well … Shah Jahan, in the years to come remember how much I loved you — more than I ever thought it possible to love another …’
‘And I love you … that is why you mustn’t leave me …’
‘My fate is written. I don’t have a choice. Stand up and let me look at you one last time …’
As if in a dream Shah Jahan released her and rose. Her pale face held such an expression of yearning that tears came pouring down his face as all sensation drained from his body and he struggled to find words. ‘Mumtaz …’ was all he could manage. He knelt and cradled her once more.
A veil was already falling over her beautiful eyes. So many times on the battlefield he’d seen that look on the face of friend or foe at the very moment the soul was about to flee the body. ‘Don’t forget me …’ she whispered as her head fell back. As he looked down on her small, blood-soaked form it seemed to him that her last words to him on this earth still lingered, though the woman he loved was gone for ever.
Chapter 5
The face reflected in the mirror of burnished silver was a stranger’s. Shah Jahan studied the gaunt features, the bags beneath the swollen eyes and the locks of hair straggling from beneath his cap that looked silvery white when they should have been dark. The mirror must be faulty. He flung it against a stone pillar and watched the tiny seed pearls dislodged from the frame roll over the carpet. What did it matter what he looked like anyway — whether he ate or drank … whether he saw another sunrise or not? Without Mumtaz his life was over.
From beyond the double doors of his room he caught the murmur of voices and frowned. He had ordered that no one was to disturb him … not even his sons and daughters. For the past five days nobody had dared intrude on his grief though now and then he had heard footfalls and subdued voices, doubtless debating how long the emperor intended to seclude himself. He hardly knew himself. Perhaps for ever … resuming court life was unthinkable. How could he listen to petitions from fawning courtiers concealing selfish ambitions beneath honeyed words or decide between plaintiffs arguing about trivial matters when his whole being was empty and drained of emotion?
For the first hours after Mumtaz’s death he had moved in a kind of numb trance, distant from the horror and the shock. He had watched Satti al-Nisa gently cleanse Mumtaz’s body with camphor water, untangle her long hair with an ivory comb and dress her in a plain shift as tears ran down her own cheeks. When she had completed her work and the imams had recited verses for the dead from the Koran, everyone had left the death chamber so that he could take his final leave. As he had kissed those already chill lips goodbye, for a moment his hand had strayed to the dagger in his sash, so strong had been the temptation to end his own existence and join her in Paradise.
And now Mumtaz, wrapped in the traditional woman’s shroud of five pieces of white cotton, was lying in her temporary resting place across the Tapti river within the walls of an old Moghul pleasure ground — the Zainabad Gardens — her head to the north and her face turned towards Mecca. He had followed her bier dressed in the plainest of clothes, wearing not a single jewel and barely conscious of the procession of elephants bearing his children and his courtiers following behind, their solemn pace set by the slow beat of a single drum.
Walking over to the casement Shah Jahan looked across the Tapti, imagining that through the pearly early morning light he could see the glow of the thousand candles he had ordered to be kept burning around Mumtaz’s grave. Suddenly his head began to spin and he gripped the edge of a marble table to stop himself falling. With shaking hand he reached for a pitcher of water and emptied its contents down his throat. As the liquid hit the pit of his stomach he thought he was about to be sick. Slumping to the ground, he leant back against the wall and closed his eyes.
‘Father … Father … wake up!’
A gentle voice was intruding into his troubled sleep and a hand was shaking his shoulder. Shah Jahan opened heavy eyes to see Jahanara kneeling by him. ‘Why are you here? I said I wanted to be alone …’ he muttered. The sun was slanting through the casement but he had no idea how long he’d been sleeping.
‘I’ve been so worried about you, we all have … We couldn’t obey your order not to be disturbed any longer.’
Shah Jahan pulled the cap he had been wearing from his head. As he ran a hand through his hair he heard Jahanara gasp.
‘My appearance shocks you, but I’ve no more use for fine clothes or rich gems … I followed your mother’s bier in these coarse garments and I’ll wear them until they fall from my body.’
‘It’s your hair, Father …’
‘What d’you mean?’ He tugged a lock forward and examined it. When he had ridden from the battlefield to Mumtaz’s side it had been dark as night. Now it was mostly white. The mirror hadn’t lied. ‘God has truly cursed me. He has punished me for my sins and cast me out. This is one of his signs.’
‘Father … Father, please … Shock and grief are the cause …’
‘No, it’s a message. God is reminding me that despite my power, my wealth, I’m only human — born to suffer just like the peasants who are dying because of the drought.’ He gave a mirthless laugh, then stopped as a yet darker thought came to him. What if Mumtaz’s death was God’s retribution for the deaths of his half-brothers? As he stared down at the carpet, the swirls of crimson red and indigo blue danced before him and he felt himself growing dizzy again. Leaning forward he put his head in his hands and began rocking gently to and fro.
‘Father, you are making yourself ill. You must eat something,’ Jahanara was saying. ‘Let me order your attendants to prepare you some food.’
‘The very thought turns my stomach.’
‘You must try, for the sake of our family. We need you. And you forget you have a new daughter. Satti al-Nisa is caring for her as tenderly as our own mother would have done, but we need to know your orders for her care …’
Shah
Jahan held up a hand. He had no wish to think about the child whose birth had cost Mumtaz her life. ‘Tell Satti al-Nisa I am grateful to her but that such matters must wait.’
‘You can’t just stay here avoiding the world.’
‘I don’t intend to. It is exactly a week since your mother died. Tonight I will go again to her grave.’
‘Let me come with you, Father … Dara too. As your eldest children it would be fitting — and we want to.’
His first impulse was to tell her he would make the journey alone, but his children had the right to mourn Mumtaz as well. ‘Very well.’
That evening, three palanquins decked in purple so dark it was almost black bore Shah Jahan, Jahanara and Dara Shukoh out of the same gateway through which Mumtaz’s bier had been carried head first from Burhanpur and which hadn’t yet been bricked up. The country people, who dreaded ghosts, believed that a corpse must be carried that way and the route of its final journey blocked to confuse the spirit and prevent it from finding its way back to the place where body and soul had parted. Shah Jahan had always thought it a foolish superstition but now he wished that it was true — to have Mumtaz return to him even in spirit would be some balm. Her ghost could never frighten him.
The bearers crossed the river at a ford where the river was little more than a foot deep and continued up the bank towards the Zainabad Gardens, whose semi-ruined arched gateway emerged out of the darkness. ‘Set me down here,’ Shah Jahan ordered. Stepping from the palanquin, he waited for Jahanara and Dara Shukoh. Then, with them following, he approached the gateway, acknowledging the salute of the Rajput guards with a brief nod. Through the arch the white marble pavilion beneath which he had ordered Mumtaz’s grave to be dug glimmered palely as a crescent moon appeared through the scudding clouds. Beneath the canopy over the simple white marble slab bearing Mumtaz’s name flickered the mass of small candles.
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