Muhammad Bin Tughlaq

by Anuja Chandramouli

  ‘Of course my father is to blame for this misadventure,’ he went on, ‘but not entirely. Bloody Malik Kafur did his fair share, as did Nasiruddin Khusrau Khan.’

  Abu wagged his finger at him. ‘And you were wondering where the rumours of the Sultan’s supposed death and your so-called hand in it had sprung up from.’

  ‘I know exactly how the rumours started . . .’ he barked, refusing to elaborate. Being all too familiar with that terrible glare, Abu decided to change the topic.

  ‘I understand your ire at the way the southern provinces have been governed by those who came before Sultan Ghiasuddin Tughlaq. It is all well and good to raid, grab and withdraw, with treasure enough to last you till the next such outing, but far more difficult to absorb enemy territory into an empire and centralize power in a land where every few miles people speak a different language, belong to a different caste, eat different food, worship a different God and take inordinate pride in the differences that are unique to them. Don’t be so hard on yourself; these things take time.’

  Jauna was not entirely appeased, but he nodded. Even if they were given all the time in the world, he had a bad feeling that this land would be wrestling with the same problems of cultural identity and personal pride.

  Kafur had overrun Telangana and been on the verge of sacking its capital, Warangal, but the wily Pratapa Rudra Deva had offered to surrender in addition to accepting Alauddin Khalji’s sovereignty and offering to pay regular tribute. The slave had also pocketed exorbitant sums for his personal gain, if the rumours were to be believed.

  Jauna shook his head. ‘Was there no end to his avarice? Having pocketed as much of the treasure as he could, he neglected to take action when the tributes came in irregularly, if at all, because he was too busy conspiring to take the throne for himself.’

  ‘Khusrau was no better, I suppose,’ Abu mused. ‘He marched against Pratapa Rudra of the Kakatiya line and was similarly gulled by the lure of filthy lucre. Of course this particular potentate managed to wriggle free from the yoke of Dilli during the power struggle between our Sultan and Khusrau, and here we are again! Still, it was overly optimistic of him to try the same stunt with the Sultan’s son by hoping to fob you off with a few baubles and the offer of support should you decide to hasten your father to an early grave.’

  Jauna glared at him. He was still brooding over being forced to withdraw to Devagiri, where he had been licking his wounds for the past four months. The failure of the siege had caused him to lose face and it was not a nice feeling. Worse, he couldn’t shake the notion that this had merely been a preview of what he could expect for the rest of his life.

  Sometimes he wished his father had not raised him to be abstemious like himself. It would have been nice to drown these troublesome thoughts in alcohol, drugs or between the legs of an accommodating woman. Unfortunately, he cared nothing at all for such distractions.

  The entire thing had been frustrating, especially since the siege had gone so well in the beginning. By dint of forced marches and leading from the front, he had managed the three-month journey from Dilli to the Deccan in half the time. His use of ‘newfangled’ (according to his detractors) war machines like catapults, fire throwers and siege towers—all built to his design—had had the most satisfactory results.

  However, far from receiving credit, he had to deal with stiff resistance to his methods from the ‘experienced and loyal chieftains’ his father had insisted he take along. They questioned his every move and sniggered behind his back. Bloody old farts and doddering fools! Despite them, his men had managed to breach and secure the outer wall of the formidable fortress of Warangal. Jauna had almost tasted victory then.

  But that was precisely when things had started to go horribly wrong. He supposed he should have seen it coming. They had been chafing at the bit from the protracted siege, uncomfortable in the sweltering heat and shitting blood from the ridiculously spicy food. But how could he have known that his underlings wouldn’t do the jobs they were supposed to?

  They had been sleeping on their feet while the damn rebels had cut off communication lines to Dilli, isolating them from the Sultan who had hitherto been monitoring the situation and offering his opinion at least once every two weeks. When his missives dried up and the inner walls resisted the efforts of his siege machinery—much to the delight of his detractors—his captains took to questioning his every move. Perhaps he should have paid heed to his instincts and lopped off their tongues.

  Sensing the dissent among their officers, the troops grew restive and even more derelict in their duties, which forced Jauna to enforce discipline using severe methods that did not endear him to them. To compound matters, they were running short of provisions.

  With the uncanny instincts of a cornered animal, Pratapa Rudra sent his blasted messengers with an offer of conditional surrender. If they lifted the siege, he would show his gratitude by accepting the suzerainty of the Sultan and would send them laden back to Dilli with all the treasures of Warangal. The nerve of that man! Jauna wasn’t willing to bite this time, but the fools who surrounded him were blinded by greed and couldn’t wait to get their grasping paws on the promised treasure. They had argued vehemently and nearly came to blows over it.

  ‘Buggers would have happily sold their mothers for a gold mohur or two!’ he had complained bitterly to Abu. ‘Short-sighted morons who would happily settle for a measly handout when we stand on the threshold of a complete victory that would throw open the doors not only to the treasures of Telangana but the rest of the south as well.’

  Then came the offer to support Prince Jauna should he make a bid for the throne. Those carelessly uttered words had the desired effect, and all hell had broken loose in his camp, with everybody determined to believe he was in cahoots with the enemy and openly questioning his loyalty to his father, the Sultan. It would have been laughable if it hadn’t cost him the damn siege and a world of trouble besides.

  ‘The Sultan is dead and it is his own son, whom he generously named as the heir apparent, who is responsible!’

  ‘The prince is guilty of the twin crimes of parricide and regicide.’

  ‘He has joined hands with the enemy and betrayed his own flesh and blood.’

  ‘There is no assuaging Jauna Khan’s bloodlust! He plans to assassinate every one of the senior officials who have been loyal to his late father and have accompanied him on this foolhardy expedition.’

  As if the situation had not been dire enough, a vicious outbreak of dysentery had roiled through their ranks, and they were all up to their eyeballs in shit and blood. The disgruntled soldiers had been irrationally inclined to blame him for the battle being fought in their bowels.

  ‘Prince Jauna may be clever, but what is the point if he is cursed with the worst luck imaginable?’

  ‘By following him, we are forced to partake of the misfortune that plagues him so sorely!’

  ‘God Almighty doesn’t favour him and frowns on his enterprises! It is an ill omen and a future with him in charge will be an inauspicious one.’

  Jauna knew his father would have wanted him to address the rumours and reassure the idiots who would not recognize the truth if it bit them on their incompetent and still sore backsides, but he had never been one to suffer fools gladly. Now he was willing to concede that his intractability could have been the reason many among the chieftains had withdrawn their support and slunk away like rats in the dead of night with their troops.

  Meanwhile, Pratapa Rudra remained safely ensconced in his inner fortress, drinking, feasting and making merry, no doubt laughing himself silly over the foolishness of his enemies. The humiliation could scarce be borne.

  ‘If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you are capable of killing your father, even though you are not above wishing he would die of natural causes,’ Abu interjected, ignoring the warning look his friend shot him. ‘You still haven’t explained why your father is to blame for this debacle. I thought you were fully on board wi
th his policies. It is about time we eschewed the smash-and-grab policies of yore and brought the entire extent of this land under the direct control of the Sultan.’

  By way of reply, Jauna pointed towards the entrance to the fortress. Abu didn’t bother to look. He knew about the two impaled figures which had been prominently displayed for many days now. The mutilated flesh, missing appendages, multitude of maggots as well as the rank odour were impossible to miss. They did little by way of aesthetic appeal but did serve as a grim reminder for those who conspired against the Prince or spread vicious rumours.

  ‘What do the sorry remains of Ubaid, a composer of middling poetry, and Shaikhzadah of Damascus have to do with your father? Though the Sultan has a reputation for being stern, none can accuse him of such savagery.’ As his oldest friend, Abu was allowed to speak his mind, even though it was always a risky enterprise with Jauna.

  The Prince sighed. ‘It all started when the Sultan chose to address the grievances of good men who had suffered when power changed hands after the death of Alauddin Khalji. In his eagerness to redress such wrongs, my saintly father got into a bit of a kerfuffle with a fellow saint, Shaikh Nizamuddin Auliya.’

  ‘I remember . . .’ Abu nodded, scratching his chin. ‘The Sultan decreed that all those who had wrongly benefitted from the tyrant’s reign of terror would have to return their ill-gotten gains or make adequate recompense to either the injured party or the state. The holy man declined to do as much, declaring that the generous contribution of Khusrau Khan had been used for charitable purposes, and he couldn’t possibly ask the poor to regurgitate the food they had eaten or deprive them of the clothes on their back. Needless to say, the Sultan was less than happy.’

  ‘And my father made it perfectly clear that he believed the saint was defrauding him and he would face dire punishment if he failed to obey his direct order.’ Jauna looked thoughtful. ‘In the meantime, Nizamuddin Auliya’s rabid followers—including but not limited to Ubaid and Shaikhzadah—decided that the Sultan and his son must pay for the perceived slight upon the saint. They sought to foment trouble between my father and me with their accursed rumour-mongering, thereby undermining his rule.’3

  Abu was flabbergasted. ‘And here I was under the assumption that you were very close to Ubaid, given the evenings the two of you spent closeted in the royal tent discussing mind-numbing poetry from ancient Persia and the more obscure points of Sufi mysticism, among other things.’

  Jauna grinned. ‘The man did have an excellent gift for conversation. It is too bad he allowed his religious beliefs to cloud his mind. And he was most unrepentant even under torture. But he was taken aback when he realized I had known about his designs all along.’

  ‘But if you had identified the root cause of the problem, why didn’t you pluck it out immediately?’ Jauna frowned in response.

  ‘Never mind; leaving the dear departed aside, what are you planning to do next? The Sultan isn’t going to be happy that Warangal is yet to fall.’

  Jauna shrugged. ‘I was able to make a full report to the Sultan. Ubaid and Shaikhzadah were the chief troublemakers. On my orders, the captains of the army who had rebelled against my authority have also been rounded up and captured. Their men were given no quarter and their remains accompany their masters, who are currently being dragged behind their horses on their way to an audience with the Sultan in Dilli.

  ‘It is not the ideal way to travel,’ Jauna continued, ‘but a fitting punishment for deserters, wouldn’t you say? They carry with them my request for fresh troops with more reliable leaders and fresh provisions. Once these have arrived, we will march again. And history will record that Prince Fakhiruddin Jauna Khan eventually emerged triumphant. As always.’

  Abu did not reply. After all, there was no arguing with that.

  7

  Jauna was happy for his father. Ghiasuddin Tughlaq’s ascent to the throne had been a great success and people were in raptures over his wisdom, generosity and benevolence. All who had stood by his side were amply rewarded. He had famously restored law and order within a week of coming to power and kept up the good work with exemplary governance.

  Though he revered the memory of Alauddin Khalji, he did away with the late Shah’s more stringent measures, which was a blessing for the administrators as well as the administrated. He reduced taxes but took steps to replenish a depleted treasury by implementing economic reforms that encouraged trade. He helped farmers enhance the yield per acre with agrarian reforms. The Sultan came down hard on petty thieves and local gangs, allowing his people to finally feel safe and free.

  The Sultan was blessed with the love of his people, success and prosperity. They all sang the same tune as the poet Amir Khusrau composed in honour of Ghiasuddin Tughlaq, ‘He never did anything that was not replete with sense and wisdom.’ His subjects were touched with the genuine consideration he extended towards their needs and the many ways he made their lives better.

  The rich and powerful had no cause to complain either. Despite his welfare schemes, the Sultan had ensured there was plenty left for those who sought to fill their own coffers without resorting to criminal activities or exploitation, both of which led to swift apprehension and harsh punishment. Miraculously, the Sultan even managed to care for his Hindu subjects without alienating his fellow Muslims.

  After the fiasco with the postal lines in the Deccan, the Sultan ensured that the postal system was up and running with unmatched efficiency, and in his wisdom did not reinstate his heir apparent, Prince Jauna, in his old position as the Barid-ul-Mulk. It was a stinging rebuke.

  Abu’s words had been conciliatory. ‘The Sultan is wise and it is not your place to question his judgement. In all likelihood, he has bigger and better things planned for you since you will take his place one day.’ They had not made him feel better.

  Clearly, the Sultan wasn’t too happy with Jauna’s handling of the Telangana expedition even after his eventual triumphant return, which he made abundantly clear in front of his gathered court.

  ‘The treatment meted out to Tamar, Tigin, Mall and Kafur, the maliks ordered to accompany you to Telangana, is unacceptable.’ The Sultan’s tone was level but his disappointment palpable. ‘They were handpicked for this expedition and had proved themselves to be good, loyal men. Did the fact that their family members have served and continue to serve the throne not give you pause? None of them deserved to be dragged to their deaths in this barbaric manner.’

  ‘I respectfully disagree, your majesty!’ Jauna couldn’t believe his father would take the side of cowardly deserters.

  ‘What exactly do you disagree with, Prince?’ It was the Khwaja Jahan, the grand vizier, who spoke, unctuous and presumptuous enough to take umbrage on behalf of the Sultan. ‘On being falsely informed by self-serving individuals that there was a plot to overthrow the Sultan, they arrived immediately to lend their support to one whom they have sworn to serve unto death. Surely you are not suggesting that loyalty to the Sultan is to be punished with death?’

  ‘That is certainly not what the Prince was suggesting.’ The Sultan did not shout, but the steel in his voice was unmistakable. ‘The amirs deserved punishment for deserting their posts, but the Prince overplayed his hand. They ought to have been sent to Dilli to face the Sultan’s justice.’

  The Sultan paused, and there was silence in the court as the nobles watched the Prince expectantly, wondering if he would lose that infamous temper of his. To their disappointment, he held his peace while managing to look respectful and unapologetic at the same time.

  Ghiasuddin Tughlaq thawed. ‘The lapse in judgement notwithstanding, your triumphs in Telangana are noteworthy. You did well to take a major chunk of Bihar en route to your conquest of Warangal and Bidar. It was chivalrous of you to treat Pratapa Rudra Deva and his extended family with respect and send them to Dilli with an armed escort. Your actions in pursuing the allies of the fallen king and storming Jajnagar in Utkala, where they had taken refuge, are also noteworthy. Th
anks to your efforts, Telangana has been fully absorbed into the empire.’

  The sudden smile that lit up Jauna’s handsome features was a sight to behold as he bowed in acceptance of the praise he clearly felt was his due. The assembled nobles rose to their feet to applaud him. Even the Khwaja Jahan settled for a nod and half-smile, noting to the flunkies who flanked him, ‘He is every bit as spirited and temperamental as those fine steeds he loves so much. But it is to be hoped that his father will have the time to break him into the finer aspects of rule and governance. He has the potential but is a little rough around the edges.’

  The Sultan noticed with satisfaction the effect his little speech had created before clearing his throat. When the assembly fell silent, he spoke again, ‘It pleases me that you enforced discipline among the troops and prohibited looting or desecration of places of worship. You did well to consolidate your conquests, divide the territory into blocks for administration by centrally appointed officials and set up military garrisons. Your accomplishments will be suitably commemorated at one of the sites of your conquest.’

  His father then presented him with a magnificent robe of honour and declared a week’s holiday to celebrate his victory. The applause began again, and this time, it did not stop for a long time. Jauna supposed it was his father’s way of making it up to him for the dressing-down.

  He smiled outwardly. Did his father think he was trying to usurp the throne and had conspired to assassinate him? Was he having second thoughts about having named him the heir apparent? A blind man could see that the Sultan favoured Mahmud over his other sons and kept him close at all times. Was he grooming the younger son to take his place?

  Jauna was conflicted. It would be a relief to give up the trappings of power and settle for a life of ease without the added burden of responsibility. Perhaps he could work on the stories he had always wanted to write. Tales of adventure and brave warriors, tomes on history, philosophy, religion. It would be nice to cross the seas and see the world. Jauna had always wanted to visit his hero Kubilai Khan’s lands. The possibilities were endless. On most days, he was tempted to walk away from the intrigues of the palace and wander through the land with no destination in mind, without ever coming back.