‘Thanks for the history lesson, brother, but why don’t we focus on things as they stand today?’ Mahmud was impatient.
‘He was getting to it . . .’ the Sultan admonished him.
‘Shamsuddin was Bughra Khan’s descendant, and he died recently,’ Jauna continued. ‘He is succeeded by four sons: Shihabuddin, Nasiruddin, Ghiasuddin Bahadur and Qutlugh Khan. The smart money is on either Nasiruddin or Bahadur to take the throne. Bahadur seems to have the advantage, which is probably why Nasiruddin or one of the others has invited our father, the Sultan of Dilli, to join forces with him.’
‘Very good, Jauna, it is Nasiruddin who has approached me. I suppose you can predict the outcome of this clash as well.’ The Sultan smiled.
He did not miss a beat. ‘You will prevail, your majesty! Bahadur will be vanquished, and with Nasiruddin having sworn allegiance to you, the kingdom of Bengal will be yours. Not even your beloved mentor managed this feat. May you live forever!’
The Sultan cracked a smile in acknowledgement of the fulsome praise. ‘Bahram and Mahmud will march with me. In my absence, you will be my regent, for I have decided to leave the empire in the capable hands of my heir apparent.’
Bahram merely bowed his head in acquiescence. Mahmud was slightly put out that his father had not singled him out for special duties, but consoled himself with the thought of being on the road again. He winked at Jauna before turning to address the Sultan. ‘Wishing you every success, your majesty! But surely we still have to take care of the situation in Gujarat?’ Mahmud persisted.
‘One of the keys to success is knowing when to walk away,’ the Sultan replied somewhat obliquely, ‘and when to persist. The unholy mess there will be cleaned up in time. Malik Tajuddin Jafar will leave for Gujarat at the front of a substantial force. If all goes well, he will rule as the governor and answer to me.’ He looked at Jauna as he said this.
‘And there is one other thing,’ he continued. ‘I hope the three of you will remain united no matter the circumstances and be a source of strength and support for each other. We have come a long way from our humble origins, which is all the more reason not to take the blessings showered by the Almighty or each other for granted.’
He paused. It was a long speech for a man of action. Mahmud was the first to reply, ‘Of course, your majesty. We are your sons after all, and despite what everyone thinks, some of your nobility and good judgement has rubbed off on us as well.’
The brothers smiled at each other, and for just a moment, they all believed they were one big happy family.
9
It was the latest triumph in a distinguished military career. Bengal had also fallen with minimal resistance. The Sultan had vanquished his namesake, Ghiasuddin Bahadur, and placed Nasiruddin, who had sworn allegiance to him, on the throne. Satgaon and Sonargaon had also fallen, as had Tirhut. It seemed as if the Sultan could not put a wrong foot forward if he tried. As ever, he was merciful towards the captured. The common folks of the fallen kingdoms were treated with the consideration and kindness he was famed for and they were grateful.
In light of everything that happened, Jauna was happy for his father, for the fact that he had lived long enough to rule over an empire that was larger than even Alauddin Khalji’s had been. It was a proud moment for the Tughlaqs. However, he remained immeasurably saddened that at the very zenith of Sultan Ghiasuddin’s glory, death came calling.
Jauna considered himself a strong man, but he still had difficulty accepting that the worst had come to pass. That Sultan Ghiasuddin, who had left his indelible footprint on the pages of history and been hailed as a behemoth among the greatest monarchs of all time, was no more. How had it come to pass? Even now it was all a blur in his head. And the debilitating guilt did not help.
When the royal messengers had brought in the glad tidings of the Sultan’s triumphs, he was surprised that the predominant emotion he was feeling was envy. Success came so effortlessly to Ghiasuddin Tughlaq, whereas it seemed that for him everything was a struggle. His father had handed over the reins of administration to him and he had wanted to make him proud. But his courtiers, led by the curmudgeonly Khwaja Jahan, had fought him at every turn, and the entire experience had left Jauna with a bad taste in the mouth. It had reached a point where he wanted to execute the lot of them.
The resentment he was feeling kept him up at night. Which was why he had sent for Ahmad bin Aiyaz, the inspector of buildings, first thing in the morning and asked him to raise a magnificent pavilion at Afghanpur, where they would receive the Sultan on the eve of his triumphant return to Dilli. As usual, there had been pushback when it came to the execution of his schemes.
The courtiers had groused about the expenses and impracticability of raising a structure on the scale and grandeur he had envisioned within a span of three days. Fortunately, he had chosen the right man for the job, and Ahmad carried out his instructions by cajoling the courtiers to fall in line with their regent, before cursing and harrying the workers till they got the job done.
All had been in readiness for the Sultan, and his father had been most pleased. His mood had been expansive as he mingled with all who had gathered to celebrate his triumph, and there had been a festive note to the proceedings. The Sultan had displayed the treasures that had come into his possession at Lakhnauti and distributed weighty quantities of gold, silver and precious stones among those who had rendered distinguished service to the throne.
He singled out the heroes of the war, from lowly foot soldiers to stalwarts of the imperial army, honouring them with gold, land and titles. All basked in the warm approbation of their emperor. Like the others present, Jauna marvelled at the ability of his father to take note of and reward the little things that made all the difference in the world.
Then the thrice damned, richly caparisoned elephants had been brought out for the parade on his orders. It had been a blisteringly hot day and the air had a heavy, oppressive quality to it. The creatures had become increasingly restless, having waited in the sun for long hours prior to the Sultan’s arrival. One of the mahouts lost control of his beast and there had been instant pandemonium as the creature trumpeted and charged.
The sudden blast of sound deafened them, and when the mountainous beast thundered forth with surprising speed, people began screaming hysterically. The panic goaded the pachyderm into a state of fury and he attacked, grabbing an unfortunate soul and dashing him to the ground, killing him instantly. Others were less fortunate as the swinging trunk struck down on unprotected backs with the force of an axe blade, breaking spines and maiming its victims.
In the ensuing stampede, the guards struggled to hold back the panic-stricken crowd. Jauna had asked Mahmud to stay with his father while he himself rushed out to deal with the situation and restore order.
‘With pleasure, brother!’ Mahmud had joked, though his forehead was beaded with perspiration. ‘You have a way with animals. I would rather stay here where it is safe.’
Jauna would have liked to inform him that nobody ever feted the deeds of cowards who cowered in the safety of the pavilion, but there simply hadn’t been enough time as he dashed out, taken aback at the extent of the carnage that had been wrought in those few minutes. Fortunately, most of the other elephants had been led away. Only the one remained, its back bristling with arrow shafts that seemed to have done little to improve his temper.
The mahouts and a dozen soldiers were trying to haul him back, using their spears to force him to submit, but succeeding only in making the poor creature furious, which in turn gave fresh impetus to his capacity for destruction. Before Jauna’s horrified eyes, he trod on two more men beneath those massive padded feet and speared another with his tusk before raising him heavenward and pounding him into the dust. He heard every bone in the wretched man’s body break before he took his last agonized breath.
Jauna cursed them all. What a disaster! And he was certain he would be blamed for this entire fiasco. As if it was his fault that the elephant had
run amok. He wondered if his father was watching and with an effort stopped himself from waving his arms frantically while shouting instructions that were being completely ignored.
Finally, one of the swordsmen struck, driving the entire length of his sword into the space between the ribs and deep into the great beast’s heart. Blood gushed out from the end of the trunk, spraying everyone in the vicinity. Even so, it was long moments before he died, fighting off the soldiers who swarmed over him, hacking and thrusting like butchers. Finally, the grey warrior succumbed to his injuries as his feet gave out beneath him, and he crashed to the earth.
The Prince was still trying to make himself heard over the hullaballoo when the crash and boom of thunder drowned out everything else. Rain pelted down on them without warning. Clearly, even the elements were determined to compound an already miserable situation. A wild premonition of disaster gripped his heart as he turned to gaze at the pavilion. Forked lightning tore across the heavens as the wind shrieked in his ears like a wailing woman bemoaning the loss of the most precious thing in her world. Lightning flashed again, and it seemed to strike with malignant intent.
Through a sheet of water, he saw the pavilion break apart and collapse to the ground with excruciating slowness. Jauna ran. As he struggled to speed across the slippery terrain, he heard the infernal screams of terror, torn from throats in mortal pain. He would never forget that sound. Struggling to get a grip on his emotions, Jauna spotted Ahmad and shouted for pickaxes and shovels. Over and over again, he tried to make himself heard even as the accursed storm swallowed up his words. ‘Dig in the name of all that is holy!’ he bellowed. ‘Dig with your own damned hands if that is what it takes! Find the Sultan! Bring the hakim!’
He had tried frantically to get to his father, using his bare hands to work his way through the wreckage till they were shredded and bleeding. They needed to be bandaged for days afterwards. But his frantic effort was futile. It was far too late to do anything for his father and brother.
He held the Sultan’s broken body in his arms, drenched in the driving sheets of rain, screaming again for the hakim, praying for a miracle. His father had thrown himself over Mahmud, and the back of his skull had caved in under the weight of a fallen beam. Bahram knelt by his side, head bowed, hands clasped as he prayed. Of all the things, that made Jauna weep. He had no idea how long they remained that way while the work detail, summoned by the ever-reliable Ahmad, worked their way through the wreckage to pull out the bodies of the deceased and the injured.
The storm raged on through the night, and for the life of him, Jauna had no idea what he did during those long hours. Later, his detractors would insist that he had paid off all those who had been a part of the conspiracy to kill the Sultan and used the time to cover his tracks so that the dastardly deed would not be traced back to him.
The next day, the funerary procession wound its way towards the mausoleum at Tughlaqabad, and the simple sepulchre the Sultan had designed for himself. Throngs of people gathered to say their farewells to the emperor they had loved so well, whom they had prepared to greet with petals and cheers to celebrate his greatest triumph.
Hysterical mobs converged on them every step of the way. Women tore at their hair, beat their chests and ululated wildly, lamenting the loss of one they had revered as a God and protector. Grown men were on their knees weeping like children and pounding on their heads, demented with grief. Prayers were conducted in the temples and mosques as for once the Sultan’s warring subjects set aside their differences, united by their shared grief over the passing of a beloved monarch.
Jauna observed it all across the great gulf of his own profound grief, a lone figure in the middle of the multitudes of humanity, unable to stop the tears that streamed down his cheeks. Later, he won laurels for his so-called histrionic talents on the strength of those heart-rending tears. ‘Can you believe the nerve of him?’ they whispered behind his back. ‘He commits parricide and then sheds copious fake tears to divert suspicion from his despicable deed.’
‘Stop blaming yourself!’ Abu whispered urgently. ‘Even if the Sultan had died peacefully in his sleep at a ripe old age, fingers would still be pointed at you. If you carry on nursing this senseless guilt, your old friends the rumour-mongers will have a gay old time carrying on.’
But Jauna did feel responsible. For the resentment he had harboured in his breast over the success of his father, the happiness his new wife had found in his arms and the paternal love enjoyed by his brother, Mahmud. It had been a malignant infection of the spirit that had spilled out of him and struck down his loved ones, hadn’t it?
Worst of all was the tiny part of him that was inexplicably happy because the path ahead had been cleared. Even though it could lead nowhere but to damnation. He was sure of it.
10
In the days leading up to his coronation, Jauna wished he could be fully rid of old friends. Like rumours. And Abu. They were everywhere, circling around him. Ephemeral spirits that taunted and teased armed with their barbs. Always out of his reach when he lashed out.
Parricide. That was what they were accusing him of. It was felt that the freak accident that had claimed the life of Ghiasuddin Tughlaq had been too much of a coincidence. And worked out a little too conveniently for his son, who would ascend the throne as Muhammad bin Tughlaq. Abu, bless his soul, felt otherwise.
‘They don’t know you like I do,’ he said staunchly. ‘You are too much of a good planner to leave so much to chance. Even if you built a flimsy structure designed to collapse, the forked lightning is beyond the powers of even an aspiring monarch.’
‘Some are saying there was no storm to speak of,’ Jauna replied moodily. ‘Apparently, on my instructions, Ahmad built the pavilion using poor quality wood with a hollow foundation, triggered to cave in on command.’
‘It does not help your case now that everybody knows you intend to promote him to the post of Khwaja Jahan once you ascend the throne,’ Abu mused. ‘That is quite the leap for the former inspector of buildings. These late converts to Islam seldom ascend the ladder of power so quickly.’
‘He is the best man for the job and it goes without saying that he has proved his worth. As the son of the former ruler of Devagiri, he has been well-trained as a warrior and administrator. More importantly, he was converted to the true faith by Nizamuddin Auliya himself. Besides, his predecessor also lost his life when that accursed pavilion fell. It was considerate of him to exit life when he did, otherwise I might have been tempted to have him executed.’
‘Speaking of Auliya, you must be aware of his “prophetic” words uttered during a trance, which many believe led to the death of the Sultan. It is all his faithful followers can talk about. Apparently, the royal messenger carried a missive saying that if the saint did not pay back what was owed the state by the time the Sultan returned, Dilli would not be big enough for the Sultan and the saint, and it would be best if he left the city. To which he is said to have replied that Dilli is still pretty far . . .’
‘Hunuz Dilli dur ast,’ Muhammad finished for him. ‘Everybody is saying that we colluded to make this tragedy happen. But saying such things about a saint or Sultan is not really good for one’s general health, is it? You would think that would stop people from spreading filthy lies, but no!’
‘We have the venerable Shaikh Rukhnuddin to blame for that. He claims to have been an eyewitness to your conduct on that day. As a rabid follower of the true faith, he has always been voluble about the fact that your father was a traitor because of the benevolence he has shown the Hindus,’ Abu whispered. ‘Convinced that you will follow the same policy of tolerance, he has seized this opportunity to begin a smear campaign against you.’
‘I know. He claims that I pretended to summon the work detail with their pickaxes and shovels while giving them orders to wait till sundown to commence digging, and it was the delay that killed my father.’ His eyes filled with tears as he remembered that awful day.
‘That is not
all!’ Abu continued in a hushed voice. ‘He also claims that the Sultan was still alive and your men finished the job with spades. Perhaps you should make an example of that lying Shaikh and all the slanderers out there. Have his toxic tongue ripped out to caution others.’
‘That would merely give credence to the rumours.’ Jauna sighed.
Abu sighed in tow. ‘It didn’t help that before the prescribed period of mourning was completed, you met petitioners who came on behalf of Nizamuddin Auliya and agreed to change the name of Ghiyaspur in his honour, and sanctioned a request to build a fabulous dargah for him. It gave your detractors a chance to insist you were in cahoots with the saint and his followers.’
‘First of all, he is ailing and doesn’t have much longer to live. It was verified by my informers. Secondly, I cannot begrudge him these things given that he has devoted his life to the propagation of truth, wisdom and purity,’ Jauna insisted. ‘Not to mention the many welfare schemes he implemented to help the poor and needy. Granted, he had his differences with the late Sultan, but I know my father respected him. I did it to maintain goodwill and preserve peace. And he had no more to do with the Sultan’s death than I did. Denying him his due to still insolent tongues would be an exercise in futility.’
‘All I can say is that Sultans are easier targets than saints.’ Abu was thoughtful. ‘Ahmad has been wise too. He busies himself with his job and ignores calumny, which is the only way to deal with it. You care too much about what people say. It makes you susceptible to their attacks.’
Muhammad Bin Tughlaq Page 6