‘You would be bothered too, had it been you who stands accused of murdering your father and brother.’
‘Don’t be childish, Jauna, and stop brooding about the past when the future awaits,’ Abu lectured. ‘Your father’s legacy is a shining one and he would have wanted you to outshine him. You have inherited a vast empire from him that extends from the Himalayas in the north-east, the Indus in the north-west, all the provinces up to the sea in the east and west, and up to Madurai and Malabar in the south. You also have a treasury filled to overflowing. With all this, you have the chance to make a truly remarkable career for yourself.
‘As for the rumours, those with an iota of sense would realize that unlike Alauddin Khalji and his ilk, you were directly in line to the throne and your father was an old man. Therefore, you had no reason to kill him. Besides even if you had conspired to do so you would have done a neater job of it. A pillow over his head while he was sleeping would have been far more elegant and effective as opposed to rampaging elephants, bolts of lightning and collapsed pavilions.’
Ignoring Jauna’s reproving glare, Abu ploughed on, ‘So what if your mother looks at you with doubt in her eyes because you allowed love to cloud your judgement and had your stepmother Saira and your half-brother Masud Khan moved to new quarters at Jahanpanah with indecent alacrity? So what if the accusation of parricide hangs over your head for the remainder of your life? So what if petty historians refuse to give you the benefit of doubt and taint your good name for all of time? You know the truth and so do I! That is all that matters.’
Sensing his desolation, Abu tried again. ‘Remember that you have a thankless task ahead of you. Don’t get distracted; focus on what needs to be done. People will forgive murder, but they will not forgive either stupidity or failure. Be careful and make certain that you are guilty of neither. If you can do that, there is every reason to believe that your reign will be remembered as the greatest in the history of this land.’
Jauna grunted. Sometimes he wished Abu would just shut up and leave him to his misery. But he was right. There was a lot to look forward to. Tomorrow was the day of his coronation. It would be a glittering occasion in the Red Palace built by Balban, which had been renovated and suitably spruced up on his orders. And he had a beautiful speech prepared, even if he did say so himself. All wasn’t well. But he supposed it could have been worse. He could have been sitting in that pavilion with his father and brother when it collapsed and his life would have been over before it could even begin.
PART TWO
SULTAN MUHAMMAD BIN TUGHLAQ
‘Muhammad Shah is the ambitious and magnanimous king of the whole world. In comparison to the waves of his heart, the river found itself reduced to a drop.’
(inscription found carved into stone monuments from Muhammad bin Tughlaq’s time)
1
Sultan Muhammad bin Tughlaq was a thinker. Sometimes, when his thoughts started running amok in his head, he wished he wasn’t one. Surely his head would feel lighter when emptied of thoughts?
Given the circumstances of his father’s death, everything had gone smoothly. He had just inherited a mighty empire without having to kill for it, as well as the woman of his dreams and an enviable treasury. His mind and body were sound. It appeared to him that he had all the advantages he could have asked for. Yet he could not shake off the foreboding that hounded him relentlessly.
As a child, every time he spotted a rainbow or a cloud, he would do his utmost to touch it. He had even started to build a ladder that would help him achieve his aim. Having seen the amount of time and effort he was lavishing on his ambition, to the detriment of his lessons, his tutor had made him tear down the edifice. Furious, he had launched himself at the man and would have torn off a chunk from his arm if a blow to the face had not stopped him in his tracks.
Prepared for a whipping, he had been surprised when his tutor addressed him quietly instead, ‘If you spend your life with your gaze turned towards heaven, you will certainly miss the treacherous openings in the world of the living and fall headlong into the fires of hell. Be prudent with the expenditure of your resources, Jauna!’
That damnable incident was on his mind these days. Some nights, he dreamed of it. Every step on the ladder of his design would take him closer to the rainbows and clouds. Closer and closer. He was a heartbeat away from touching it and so intent was he that he did not notice the gaping, fiery maw that had opened up beneath him. It had consumed his creation, and the moment he realized that, he fell. Then he would wake up with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, convinced that now he had climbed as high as he could, all that remained was the fall.
~
The coronation had gone without a hitch. After all, he had planned it to perfection. It was a new beginning for them all, and he wanted to commence his reign in a blaze of glory, not a cloud of mourning. Besides, it would set the tone for what would be a magnificent reign.
For the first time in living memory, the transition to power had been a smooth one, free of insurrection and bloodshed. It pleased him that the bureaucrats as well as common citizens, irrespective of their faith, had accepted his ascension wholeheartedly.
His father’s body had been interred in the mausoleum at Tughlaqabad, the famous gilded citadel that Ghiasuddin had built for himself, preferring not to live with the ghosts of the Alai family at Siri or the preferred bastion of the slave kings, the Qutub complex at Dilli. Tughlaqabad boasted of fine palaces, the grand assembly and one of the marvels of the known world: a treasury made of bricks coated in gold. This housed all the valuables he had accumulated and boasted a deep cistern filled to overflowing with molten gold. Muhammad would have happily traded it all for his father’s life.
Forty days had been spent in mourning, and he had sat at his mother’s side throughout, holding her hand and nursing her past the worst stages of her grief. She had aged considerably, barely able to bear her terrible loss. Her eyesight had always been weak and he worried about her frailty. Muhammad insisted she partake of her meals and take the potions prescribed for her by the royal physician, Wasim.
‘I always thought it was a barbaric practice to burn those poor Hindu women along with their husbands, but now I truly understand why they do it . . .’ Haniya had confided in him during an unheard of moment of weakness.
‘Don’t you say that, mother!’ Muhammad had taken her hand in his. ‘This land needs you. We all do. Without your wisdom and strength, we are lost. As for that abominable practice of burning good lives away, I will abolish it if it is the last thing I do!’
Haniya extricated her hand and used it to nurse her head. Muhammad wished he could make her feel better. And for some reason, she had difficulty looking him in the eye and seemed ill at ease with his presence by her side. It saddened him. If only she knew that she was providing fodder for the gossip mills.
Saira, understandably, had been less distraught, but then, sometimes, she reminded him of a statue sculpted from the purest alabaster—breathtakingly beautiful but also cold and unyielding. It was frustrating because he could sense the warmth at her core. It was what had drawn him to her.
When Muhammad inquired about her well-being after the tragedy, Saira had said, ‘My husband was a great Sultan and his premature passing is an insurmountable loss. But more importantly, he was a good man and kind. There will never be another like him and I will always be grateful for the benevolence and consideration he showed me.’
Her words irritated him. He concealed his feelings under a practiced veneer of courtesy and graciousness but she must have sensed it for she never mentioned Ghiasuddin Tughlaq’s name in his presence ever again. As to her opinion on how he measured up to his father, she never shared it with him. But then she didn’t have to. He could always sense her thoughts, and they hardened into certainty soon enough.
The consensus was that he was but a poor imitation of the great man. At best. Originally, it had made him sad. Then it drove him mad.
Grief had done nothing to
make Bahram less reticent, and his brother kept his thoughts to himself. ‘Do you think I had something to do with father’s death? And Mahmud’s?’ Muhammad couldn’t help but ask.
He had shrugged. ‘It would be most unlike you. Besides, if I thought you did it, I wouldn’t be standing here before you, taking the risk of getting murdered myself, now, would I?’
It had been Muhammad’s turn to shrug. Bahram looked at him for a long moment. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘For what it is worth and to the extent you will allow yourself to believe me, you have my support.’ His brother’s gaze was steady and unwavering. It was Muhammad who had trouble looking him in the eye.
Their cousin Firoz, the son of Ghiasuddin’s brother, Rajab, had approached him too with the utmost politeness and correctness that was typical of him. ‘The Sultan, your father and my uncle, was a legend, and his legacy remains in good hands with you, his worthy son. You can count on my loyalty and unwavering support, your majesty!’
It was most considerate of him. But later, Muhammad could not help but wonder if Bahram or Firoz had an eye on the throne and murderous designs towards him. After all, that was the way of it, wasn’t it?
He remembered when his younger brothers Nusrat and Zafar had died. Neither had survived the notorious ailments of childhood. Their funerals had been solemn affairs and Muhammad had been immeasurably saddened then. He had also received the whipping of his lifetime for wondering out loud, ‘Why should God take children? Why did he make them suffer so much? They were so little . . . if he were as merciful as everyone says he is, he wouldn’t have done this to them!’
But now he was glad they were gone. There was also a palpable sense of relief that they or their children weren’t around to kill or be killed by him or his own sons.
It was with relief that he had marched out of Tughlaqabad in a stately procession towards his new life. His instructions had been precise, and he was pleased to note that the decorations had been done with elegance and taste. The dusty roads and avenues leading to the city had been cleaned and paved. Foot soldiers posted at regular intervals stood at attention, their armour and helmets polished to a bright sheen.
The streets and turrets had been festooned with streamers and brightly coloured banners of silk, trimmed with gold, with painstakingly embroidered images of his handsome mien, which he had inherited almost entirely from his mother. Musicians played their instruments and pounded on drums. The citizenry were exuberant as they came out in droves to welcome the new emperor and call out their blessings.
Seeing his smiling countenance, some felt confident enough to call out ribald suggestions, referring to his royal sceptre and the desirable creatures who would warm his bed. One was bold enough to cry out, ‘May you have brave sons who won’t have you killed with stampeding elephants and collapsible buildings!’
Muhammad did not respond, but the smile disappeared from his face. The crowd fell silent as the guards used the butts of their spears a little more freely to dissuade the loose-tongued and insolent.
Sultan Muhammad bin Tughlaq then proceeded stiffly and in state beneath the royal parasol, accompanied by his courtiers who would take office on that day. His officials, mounted on elephants, worked the catapults and showered the assembled with armfuls of gold and silver, which he was no longer sure they deserved. The crowd went berserk with joy and scrambled around scooping up coins, pushing and shoving, while the guards continued to use their weapons to keep them in line.
He had planned another surprise for his subjects at the instigation of the ambassador from China, who had enjoyed his hospitality during the period of Muhammad’s regency. Initially, the citizenry had reacted with alarm at the sudden explosion of light and sound high above their heads, but then the shock and amazement had made them forget about the coins. Those who were craning their necks instead of closing their eyes in terror spotted the source of the explosion behind the turrets arcing towards the heavens. Ear-splitting booms accompanied the brightly coloured streaks radiating outward in spirals leaving behind a trail of dense smoke.
Once they got used to it, they laughed and cheered at the marvel, excited as the children jumping up and down trying to catch those splintered pieces of gold, silver, ruby red and emerald green. A propitious way to mark the beginning of a new era, Muhammad patted himself on the back, trying to distract himself from the bitter taste that flooded his mouth.
Before proceeding to the palace where his coronation would take place, Muhammad had addressed his subjects, ‘My father believed in justice for all, and I do too. It will be my life’s mission to ensure that none of you will ever have to suffer from unjust acts and unfair deeds. The old and infirm in my realm will be treated the way I would my own parents. The youngsters are akin to my siblings. And your children are my own. It is my wish that every single one of my subjects enjoys a life that is blessed with peace, prosperity and plenty, irrespective of their status at this moment. With your blessing, it will be my duty to dispense justice and uphold it till your emperor’s name becomes synonymous with justice!’
The Mullah had recited the litany of prayers and outlined his duties in a sonorous tone. Muhammad barely registered what the man was droning on about before placing his father’s glittering crown on his brow. As the petals rained down on his head, he felt the sheer weight of every single one of them, and the crushing burden of the great Sultan Ghiasuddin Tughlaq’s formidable legacy. At that moment, he realized that he wouldn’t achieve in fifty years what his father had in five. It was a sobering thought.
I may never measure up to you, father, but I swear to do my utmost to make you proud. I swear it with every fibre of my being!
The new Sultan had kept his emotions in check and held himself erect with the steadfast resolve and fortitude that had characterized his father in life.
Once the formalities had been dispensed with, and after enduring one flowery speech too many, the Sultan got down to business.
In keeping with tradition, Muhammad had conferred titles on the deserving, confirmed appointments and released prisoners, all of which he had worked out beforehand. Of course, there were many who would have preferred to be consulted, but Muhammad believed that when you wanted a job done, it was best to do it yourself.
Ahmad, of course, was given the title of Khwaja Jahan. Muhammad’s cousin Firoz was named the head chamberlain. Firoz had managed to cultivate a manner that was friendly yet reserved. He enjoyed a decent rapport with his cousins, though they weren’t particularly close. His neutrality and dutiful air, however, seemed to endear him to one and all. As for Muhammad’s youngest brother, Mubarak, he had decided it was best for him to be given a post in the judiciary department, where Ahmad could keep an eye on him.
Bahram was told to take command in Lakhnauti, where their father had enjoyed one of the greatest triumphs of his military career. The ill-fated Nasiruddin, who had solicited his help against his brother Ghiasuddin Bahadur, had succumbed to injuries sustained in the war and had not lived long enough to savour his success.
As usual, it was impossible to ascertain whether Bahram was pleased with the post or not. However, he did look less than thrilled when informed that Muhammad would be releasing Ghiasuddin Bahadur, who had been imprisoned by their father. Bahadur and Bahram would be joint governors of Lakhnauti.
Everything had gone as well as could be expected, and it was the near-perfect start to his reign. He had honoured his mother with a title too: Makhduma Jahan (Mistress of the World). His sister, Khuda, however had felt left out and waylaid him when he went to visit their mother. ‘How come I did not get a glorious title? Personally I think I wouldn’t mind being called the brightest light of the world. Noor Jahan! Or something.’
‘Or something it is then,’ he teased, and she wagged a finger at him in warning. ‘I am going to find a nice husband for you instead and you shall have a splendid wedding,’ he added. Khuda winked at him and he could tell she was pleased. He was sure his father would have been pl
eased too.
He knew the title would make his mother happy and proud, but you wouldn’t know it from the tirade she launched into on seeing him. There was no sign of the disconsolate, broken woman from earlier who had been contemplating ending her life, and he wondered if he had imagined it all.
‘I didn’t raise you to be so sinfully extravagant,’ Haniya began with a flash of the same iron spirit he knew so well. ‘Your father left you an abundant treasury, and if you carry on like this it will be empty in a matter of days. Allow me to remind you that Sultan Ghiasuddin Tughlaq did not feel the need to buy the love and respect of his people, preferring instead to earn it. Alauddin Khalji, on the other hand, felt compelled to resort to such cheap tactics on his coronation day because he hoped the glitter of gold would blind his subjects to the inescapable fact that he had murdered his king, who had also been a father to him.’
Muhammad had seen it coming, but her pointed barb made him wince anyway. He could have explained that he had merely wanted to infuse some joy after the dolorous period of mourning, but what was the point? His mother had already made up her mind, and she was only getting started.
‘And what is this I hear about the latest addition to Dilli?’ Haniya went on. ‘Am I to be forced to leave Tughlaqabad and made to take up residence in Jahanpanah, as they call it? Your father built Tughlaqabad and it is good enough for me, even if it isn’t for you. Thanks to your abandonment, its splendour will be lost to the encroaching decay, and it will be land fit only for grazing cows, just as that odious Nizamuddin Auliya predicted. How can you dishonour your father’s memory in this manner?’
She paused, waiting for her son to explain. When nothing but imperial silence greeted her words, Haniya tried to work herself up into a proper fit of rage. But he was massaging her feet gently and she sighed. Her Jauna was a good boy even if he frustrated her and could never hope to be the ruler his father had been.
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