If he had believed those who had consoled him that the passing of time would blunt his pain, he would have been disappointed. Although the pressures of ruling might preoccupy him for a time, immediately afterwards his mind returned to his loss. His emotions were as raw as on the first urs to be held in the mausoleum. Yet not to feel loss would mean he was forgetting Mumtaz, something he could never do … He could at least find comfort in what he had created. His love and loss could not have found more perfect expression.
Even now the tomb was not quite finished. Craftsmen were still putting the final touches to the pavilions of finely carved red sandstone set into the boundary walls where musicians would play, and he had ordered further embellishments to the mosque and guesthouse. Only last month, his comptroller of revenues had reported that the costs of building the tomb had reached fifty lakhs of rupees. He had hinted that such great expense might soon become a drain on the imperial treasury, but Shah Jahan had cut him short — the Moghul empire was wealthy and powerful enough for any project he wished to pursue including the bejewelled Taj Mahal, as people had begun to call the tomb from a shortening of ‘Mumtaz Mahal’.
What a legacy he, Shah Jahan, would bequeath to future generations … what majesty his buildings would convey, whether the Taj Mahal, his monument to his personal loss, or his new city of Shahjahanabad in Delhi, a symbol of his imperial power. History would not easily forget his reign. He had extended the Moghul empire’s boundaries farther south than ever before and who knew what further expansion he and his descendants might achieve to the north?
That thought made him glance over his shoulder at his four sons — all dressed like him in mourning white and matching their pace to the sombre beat of a single kettledrum from the gatehouse as they followed him, walking beside the central north-south water channel with its softly bubbling marble fountains. As he neared the mausoleum, he heard the voices of his dark-robed mullahs as they prayed for the repose of Mumtaz’s soul in the gardens of Paradise. Reaching the sandstone platform, he led the way up the steps on to the smaller marble plinth and into the tomb’s central octagonal chamber. Silk wall hangings gleamed in the light of golden chandeliers and smouldering frankincense crystals spiced the air.
Shah Jahan took his place before the latticed screen of polished jasper. Carved from a single block of stone to resemble filigree and inlaid with gems, it veiled the white marble cenotaph that was an exact copy of the sarcophagus in which Mumtaz lay in the crypt below and over which was spread a sheet of perfectly matched Arabian pearls.
The ritual of commemoration enveloped him, but when the formal prayers were over and he was left once more to his memories and the sharp pangs of grief they evoked, he felt an intense and urgent need to be alone. Leaving the tomb, he walked swiftly back towards the southern gateway whose white marble chattris stood out pale in the moonlight. He did not pause as the guards stood to attention but continued down to the riverbank where his barge was moored. The crew, who had not been expecting the emperor so soon, ran to lower the gilded gangplank. ‘Take me to the gardens opposite,’ he commanded.
While Mumtaz’s tomb had still been only half built, he had had his gardeners create him a mahtab bagh, a moonlight garden, planted with heavily scented night-flowering shrubs, on land directly across the Jumna from the Taj Mahal where his great-great-grandfather Babur had once laid out a pleasure ground. Now it was his private retreat where he could walk and think as he contemplated the mausoleum.
Although the barge swayed a little in the Jumna’s swirling current, Shah Jahan remained standing. As soon as the boatman nosed the prow on to the bank, he stepped ashore without waiting for the gangplank and made his way into the garden to a small marble pavilion overlooking the river. Sitting down, he leaned his back against one of the pillars and closed his eyes. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the water.
For a while his only thoughts were of Mumtaz. He would never forget the look on her face that night as she realised she was dying — or her courage in those final moments they had shared together … It sometimes seemed to him that only then, at the moment of parting, had he truly and fully understood the woman he had loved so intensely. In all their years of marriage he had taken her unconditional love for granted — drawing strength from it in the darkest of times. Her beauty and sweet temperament had sustained him like meat and drink, but had he really appreciated her selflessness and fortitude? Her final thoughts had been for him and their children. And there, perhaps, he was failing her. She had been the beating heart of their family … the one to whom their children revealed their thoughts and feelings. Empathy had come naturally to her. Why couldn’t he be the same? Sometimes he felt his children were strangers to him. Was it because his relations with his own father had become so strained? Or was the reason simply that as emperor he must necessarily become distant and preoccupied with the affairs of the empire, a father and a figurehead to his people with less time for his own offspring?
Times of crisis had united the family, of course. During the long, anxious months of Jahanara’s recovery from the fire, he had drawn comfort from the presence of his children. Yet over the years since then they had seldom all been together — not even at the annual urs for Mumtaz. As a result, how well did he really know some of them, especially his sons? Thirty-two-year-old Dara was his frequent companion, seldom absent from court, but what about Shah Shuja, a mere fifteen months younger? He had come to Agra for the urs but was clearly eager to return to his governorship of Bengal. If his behaviour in Agra these past weeks was anything to go by, it was probably because he enjoyed the freedom of being far from court — and his father — rather than because he relished responsibility or nurtured ambitions for the betterment of his province. To Shah Jahan’s critical paternal eye he remained indolent and pleasure-seeking. Yet weren’t those the usual vices that afflicted wealthy high-born young men, although they had not been his own?
Shah Jahan frowned. His third son was a greater puzzle, even if no one could accuse him of frivolity. Aurangzeb, now nearly thirty, had returned from the Deccan even more intense and self-contained, seldom sharing his thoughts although Shah Jahan suspected he had plenty. He spent hours reading or discussing religious points with members of the ulama, and praying. He ate and drank sparingly, never touching alcohol, and spending his energies honing his military skills. Such an austere, disciplined life, though hard to criticise, seemed almost unnatural in a young man. It was a pity Aurangzeb didn’t have more of Dara’s engaging manner. Both were interested in religion and philosophy but while Dara was open and curious — ever ready to debate ideas with those who disagreed with him and even to change his opinions — Aurangzeb seemed to prefer the company of those whose stern view of the world mirrored his own.
His son’s detachment — coldness even — was disconcerting. Though he found it easy to talk to Dara he never knew quite what to say to the taciturn, serious-minded Aurangzeb. Perhaps it was because he saw less of him; Aurangzeb was as eager as Shah Shuja — though probably for very different reasons — to leave Agra as soon as possible. Shah Jahan had agreed he could go. Yet on reflection it might be better for him to remain at court a while longer and learn the art of pleasing others that seemed to come more naturally to his eldest brother.
Suddenly Shah Jahan heard approaching footsteps and opened his eyes. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Only me, Father.’ He heard Jahanara’s voice, then saw her pale figure emerge from the darkness and further behind her, some soldiers. ‘I saw you leave the tomb through the women’s screen. I was worried about you.’
‘Did you come alone?’
‘Roshanara offered to accompany me but I told her there was no need. I crossed with some of my attendants and some of your guards.’
‘Ask them to withdraw to a distance. Please …’ he added, suspecting she was about to remonstrate with him.
‘But you will let me stay with you, won’t you?’
Shah Jahan hesitated, then nodded. Jahanara h
urried back down the path to speak to her escort, then returned and sat down.
‘I was just thinking about you and your brothers and sisters … How things have changed since your mother died.’
‘We were so young then — Dara and I barely grown up, the rest just children.’
‘And now you are men and women and I’m getting older. When I was young time seemed to stretch out for ever — a summer was a lifetime. Now the seasons are always on the turn. Even the fruits on these trees I had planted here seem to form, ripen and fall in the blink of an eye.’
Jahanara said nothing, but drew her shawl a little closer around her as a cool breeze blew from the river.
‘Perhaps it’s time I decided where I should be buried,’ Shah Jahan continued.
‘Father, please …’
‘Why not talk about it? Death claims us all. I’ve often thought of building a tomb identical to your mother’s here in this moonlight garden but of black marble, not white. I’ve even sometimes contemplated a silver bridge to connect the two across the Jumna so that at night my soul could rise up and cross the bridge to be with her … But perhaps that would be too fantastical even for a Moghul emperor.’
Jahanara looked at him, wondering whether he was serious. It was sometimes hard to tell these days. At times he was still the pragmatic, decisive, dominating figure she remembered from her childhood, at others a whimsical melancholy seemed to cloud his mind. She had long ago found it in her heart truly to forgive — if not entirely forget — the incident in which she had been burned and over the years they had grown closer again. Now as she watched him, visibly ageing as well as mentally troubled, her eyes filled with tears. If only he could become his true self again.
‘I need your opinion, Father. I think my builders have done a good job but there is still time to make changes.’
‘I’ll come this afternoon. You should too, Aurangzeb. It’ll be your last chance to see Dara’s new mansion before you return to the Deccan.’
‘I’d prefer to remain here in the fort. Buildings don’t interest me. Anyway, I promised to visit Roshanara today.’
‘You can do that later. I wish you to accompany myself and Dara.’ Shah Jahan’s tone was sharper than he’d intended, but as so often these days Aurangzeb was exasperating him. ‘Now leave me, both of you. I have matters to attend to.’
Two hours later, Shah Jahan rode along the banks of the Jumna, Dara and Aurangzeb on either side of him and a small escort behind. Though still dusty and raw-looking, Dara’s new sandstone mansion glowed handsome in the warm March sunshine. As they dismounted in the courtyard, Dara’s yellow and gold liveried attendants ran forward to take their reins. Shah Jahan looked around with interest as Dara led them through the network of airy rooms and terraces on the ground floor and then up to the flat roof in the centre of which stood a domed chattri. ‘So Nadira and her women can catch the evening breezes,’ Dara explained.
Shah Jahan nodded. ‘Your builders have done well.’ As they reached the ground floor again he turned to Aurangzeb. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s very fine, but I imagine cost wasn’t an issue.’
Dara looked surprised. ‘As I told you, Father gave me the land and the money to build this new palace some while ago to mark the birth of my second son Sipihr.’
‘If our tour is complete, with your leave I would like to return to the fort,’ Aurangzeb addressed his father. A report arrived this morning about tax gathering problems south of Burhanpur that I haven’t finished reading.’
It was Dara who answered. ‘The tour’s not quite over. You haven’t seen my underground chamber. I’ve had it lined with giant mirrors imported from Aleppo and my architect has designed a series of wind tunnels — such as they have in Persia — to keep it cool in summer. Father, I’d rather show it to you when it’s nearer completion — the decoration’s not finished yet and it’s still dusty and dirty — but I’d like Aurangzeb to see it before he leaves Agra.’
Shah Jahan nodded and was already turning away when he heard Aurangzeb reply in a strange tone, ‘No, I’d rather not.’
‘Aurangzeb.’ Shah Jahan looked back towards his sons. ‘Surely your business from the Deccan can wait a few moments.’
Aurangzeb was silent for a little, then replied, ‘No. As I said, I don’t want to see the underground room and must ask to be excused.’
Shah Jahan stared, unable to believe his ears. Aurangzeb’s expression was set and determined. What on earth was the matter with him? Was it pique that he had given Dara such a generous present? If so, it was unfair. He was open-handed to all his sons. He wasn’t in the mood for childishness. ‘I wish you to visit the chamber as your brother requests.’
‘Father, please think before you order me or I will have to disobey you.’
Shah Jahan’s temper was rising. ‘I don’t understand your behaviour. You are being discourteous to your brother and insolent to me. I am no longer asking you to do as Dara asks as your father, I am ordering you as your emperor.’
‘Then, as your subject, I refuse!’
Shah Jahan strode over and grabbed his son by his thickly muscled shoulders. ‘What’s the matter with you? Do as I say or I’ll have you punished!’
‘Perhaps, but at least I’ll keep my life. I’ve heard about this room — that only one door leads in and out. I don’t understand its purpose — unless it is a trap.’
Dara gasped. ‘What are you suggesting? That I plan to murder you?’
‘How can I be sure that you don’t?’
Shah Jahan pushed Aurangzeb away from him. ‘If you are accusing your brother of wanting to kill you, you’re insane. I won’t force you to go down to the chamber but I want you out of my sight immediately.’ Walking out into the courtyard where their horses were tethered, he shouted to the captain of his escort, ‘Take half your guards and escort Prince Aurangzeb back to the fort at once. The rest of you wait here.’ As the enormity of his son’s behaviour hit him, Shah Jahan struggled to keep his voice low as he re-entered the house. He had no wish to be overheard by the soldiers outside. ‘Aurangzeb, you will return to your quarters in the Agra fort immediately.’
‘Father, I …’
‘Silence. I’ve no interest in your excuses. Just go!’ Shah Jahan turned his back as his son walked quickly out into the sunlit courtyard. Soon came the sound of hoof beats. Shah Jahan realised he was shaking with anger. Some troublemaker must have seeded in Aurangzeb’s mind the idea that Dara wanted him dead — his obstinate expression, the utter determination in his voice had seemed the result of genuine conviction. Otherwise why make allegations that he must have known would bring trouble upon him? Shah Jahan stood a while longer, caught between bafflement and rage. Glancing at Dara, he saw that his son’s handsome face was averted as if not wishing to meet his eye.
‘Aurangzeb, I have a right to an explanation.’ Shah Jahan’s anger hadn’t abated during the hour it had taken to return to the Agra fort and then make his way to his son’s apartments. It would have been better to wait until he was in a cooler frame of mind, but he couldn’t rest until he knew the reason for his third son’s extraordinary behaviour.
‘I’ve no more to say than I said at the time.’ Aurangzeb’s expression was unflinching.
‘You made it clear that you suspected Dara’s motives in inviting you to his subterranean room.’
Aurangzeb nodded but said nothing.
‘Why?’ Shah Jahan shouted. ‘Answer me!’
‘Even if I tell you, you won’t believe me. Dara has poisoned your mind against me.’
‘Aurangzeb — do not play games with me.’
His son hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Very well, since you insist … Ever since my return to Agra I’ve noticed how Dara has changed. He was never modest but now he struts around the court like a peacock. While Shah Shuja and I have been trying to serve you in distant parts of the empire, he has remained here, pampered and preening …’
‘So that’s what all this is ab
out — you’re simply jealous!’
For the first time Aurangzeb smiled. ‘Jealous? No. I despise Dara. He is all show and no substance. I’d suspected it for years. All he cares about is the image he presents. He acts as if he was already your acknowledged heir and we his brothers are of no account. He should take care how far he tries our loyalty.’
‘Be very careful what you say, Aurangzeb …’
‘You demanded to know my true thoughts and feelings. It’s not my fault if you don’t like what you hear. As I said, Dara is arrogant and ambitious …’
‘But if, as you claim, he thinks his brothers unimportant, why should he contemplate killing you?’
‘He maintains to the outside world that he is your acknowledged favourite, basking in your approval with no fears for his position. Secretly, though, he is weak enough on the inside to fear that one day one of us may challenge him. Hasn’t that always been our way, “throne or coffin” as they called it in the old days? You too had to fight for the throne and in so doing you disposed of two of your half-brothers. I respect you the more for it.’
Shah Jahan was silent, anger and guilt contending within him. Eventually, keeping his voice level with an effort, he said, ‘That was different. I had no choice. I only did what I did because otherwise my half-brothers would have killed me — and indeed you — to rid themselves of potential rivals. But such times are long gone. I’ll not tolerate such barbaric notions within my family. All my sons are full brothers, brought up by a caring father and mother to love one another — not the offspring of rival wives and concubines scheming against each other.’
‘You think because we are full brothers that will unite us? Ask Dara if that’s what he believes! Have you forgotten Cain and Abel? Fraternal rivalries are a part of fallen man.’
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