Muhammad Bin Tughlaq

by Anuja Chandramouli

  Naturally, the great majority felt that his choice of an Arab groom was simply insupportable, yet entirely typical. The Sultan’s love for the ferenghis was universally known and deplored. Did he not address them as aziz, his dear friends, and shower riches on them while his own poor subjects toiled to pay the exorbitant taxes he demanded?

  It amused Muhammad when it didn’t depress him. His father would have wanted him to do his God-given duty by his subjects without expecting anything in return. However, he couldn’t help feeling a little ill-used with the endless torrent of scorn and contempt for his painstaking efforts. As for the never-ending and cruelly creative expressions of dissent directed at him, they made him a contrarian, and Muhammad became even more profligate when it came to making presents to all the ferenghis who thronged his court.

  The fact that it was Makhduma Jahan who had chosen the groom did not matter to any of his subjects. The Queen Mother loved receiving the envoys and dignitaries sent by foreigner rulers. ‘They have a less prejudicial eye,’ she had told him once by way of explanation. She would never admit it, but she loved how much they fell over themselves to please the grand old lady whose reputation for generosity rivalled her son’s.

  Haniya arranged lavish and exotic entertainment for them, featuring the best musicians, acrobats, and circus menageries, including wild beasts, snake charmers, knife- and fire-eaters, as well as dancing girls from across the realm. She loved receiving and giving lavish presents, and had even appointed an accountant to note down these transactions.

  ‘I suppose it is so posterity can remember your great and noble deeds?’ Muhammad had teased her. ‘Perhaps I should build you a statue that would touch the very heavens!’

  ‘As if they could ever forget the legendary Makhduma Jahan, the great love of Sultan Ghiasuddin Tughlaq, who forbade the squandering of valuable resources on useless things like statues!’ she retorted haughtily.

  His mother had taken a shine to Amir Saifuddin Ghada, who had visited them from Arabia, and it was she who felt that he would be an ideal match for Khuda. Muhammad had been less sure. From what he could tell, the Arabs preferred their thoroughbreds to be fiery and spirited, while their women were expected to cower modestly behind their purdahs. But on his mother’s insistence, he had given his blessing to the union.

  He himself had thought Malik Firoz, their dependable cousin, would be a better choice for a groom because he was besotted with Khuda and had always been. But he had been overruled by his mother and sister both.

  Khuda preferred the Arab and informed her brother that in addition to being bold, dashing and masculine, unlike the toadies in his court, he was extremely easy on the eyes, which, in Muhammad’s opinion, were all terrible reasons to get married, but who was he to rule on matters of the heart?

  His sister had a caveat, though. ‘I don’t mind marrying Amir Ghada,’ she informed her brother, ‘as long as he doesn’t expect me to sail away to faraway lands where I have heard that savage sultans take a new bride every day only to behead her on the morrow. Why, I am told the Arabs whip their women for showing their ankles, remove the external genitalia of girl children and grab every opportunity to stone their women to death. I would rather remain right where I am. Besides, you would be completely lost without your lone supporter.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I have no intention of sending you anywhere, though if mother is to be believed, a good whipping will do you a world of good. Amir Ghada may be persuaded to stay here for the duration of his life. As for your other fears, between mother and I, we will keep an eye on you to make certain your groom doesn’t whip you or stone you to death.’

  ‘Who is getting stoned to death? What a terrible way to go . . .’ It was Saira who had spoken. Muhammad looked up in surprise. Usually she seemed content to give him a wide berth.

  ‘Thankfully nobody is,’ Khuda assured her. ‘It was just my wonderful brother making light of my fears. He is every bit the cruel tyrant people are forever accusing him of being. But he is going to give me a grand wedding and I am going to get busy making a son and a slew of daughters. Then he will have to name one of them as his heir apparent! Aren’t you excited?’ She grabbed Saira by the arm and twirled her around the room.

  ‘You are going to be a beautiful bride,’ Saira told her, eyes sparkling with warmth. ‘I wish you a lifetime of happiness, and may every one of your wishes come true.’

  Khuda whispered something in her ear and they giggled together like children. Muhammad watched them both with amusement. He wished he could make Saira laugh like that.

  The royal wedding was celebrated lavishly with due pomp and ceremony. Muhammad was determined to spare no expense and make it a memorable affair. The festivities went on for seven days. Grand pavilions were erected, and this time, they were sturdy structures that wouldn’t collapse even if an army of elephants went on the rampage or even if they were struck repeatedly with bolts of lightning.

  No royal celebration was complete without aspiring demagogues mounting pulpits to call out the emperor for his wasteful expenditure in the face of the rampant starvation and poverty that wracked his poor subjects. But even they couldn’t dampen the proceedings as the masses swarmed towards the palace gates, hoping to catch a glimpse of the handsome couple and become beneficiaries of the Sultan and his mother’s munificence.

  Even the mullahs seized the opportunity to point out that the emperor was marrying off his widowed sister, which was what civilized people did, as opposed to barbarians who burned their widowed women on funeral pyres. The Hindus muttered that it was just like the invaders to create such a hue and cry over an obscure ritual which was practised only by those who didn’t know better, or among the royalty for reasons of political expediency. Thankfully, everybody was having too much of a good time to get into a fight over it.

  The halls were adorned with gilded, richly embroidered tapestries, the finest carpets and a profusion of flowers. Painters worked on pictures depicting their Sultan, Makhduma Jahan, his sister and the groom in their nuptial finery. Jugglers, dancers and acrobats kept the visitors amused with their colourful displays and exquisite, perfectly coordinated performances, which included ropes, trapezes, burning hoops and flaming torches.

  There were singers and bands of musicians who kept the audience entranced with drums, cymbals, pipes and vocal performances that stirred the soul and made the heart sing.

  There were elaborate fireworks displays as well, courtesy of the Chinese ambassador, and this time they lit up the night skies much to the joy of the crowds watching from below. Muhammad had tried a few experiments of his own with the burning powder that went into their making. He was convinced that the magical substance was meant to be more than a toy and could change the way wars were fought.

  Unfortunately, the men who had been put to the task had only succeeded in blowing themselves apart, and provided more fodder for the gossip mills about his so-called idiosyncrasies. The Sultan wouldn’t give up, though, and those in his court with a more logical turn of mind were packed off to China so that they could learn about the powders. None of them would ever make it back, though. But the Sultan didn’t know his ill-advised experiments would come to nought during Khuda’s wedding, and his mood was expansive.

  Muhammad insisted that on this happy occasion even his lowliest should eat like Sultans. The royal kitchen churned out platters and platters of mouth-watering delicacies, as chickens, ducks, goats and game birds were slaughtered in the thousands to make savoury dishes to go with the mounds of flavoured rice, richly spiced gravies, rotis and vegetarian preparations. The Chinese ambassador had also presented the Sultan with sets of intricately carved ivory tongs fashioned from the bones of an ape, which he said would turn black if they came in touch with poisoned food. They delighted the Sultan and he had mastered the art of using them with ease.

  Out of respect to his Hindu subjects, no beef was served. And of course there was no pork. But there were flaky pastries, sugared confections and sweetme
ats aplenty as well as fresh fruit, tender coconut and iced sherbet. Enormous tents were erected for the commoners so that they too could partake of the Sultan’s largesse and be a part of the royal celebrations.

  Though the feasting and entertainment were known to go on until the wee hours of dawn, the Sultan was most particular that the celebrations be conducted in a manner that was sober and sedate in the Islamic manner so that the occasion wouldn’t be marred by unseemly drunkenness and debauched licentiousness. This did not go down well with those who felt no celebration was complete until they had had their fill of intoxicating beverages, but the Sultan compensated by being even more generous.

  Robes of honour, richly embroidered with gold and encrusted with precious stones, were presented to the guests with matching turbans, jewellery and bushel loads of gold and silver. The groom’s party, which consisted mostly of the Sultan’s own relatives, was dressed magnificently as the Arab had travelled alone. They made a big show of fighting their way past the bride’s party and making away with her, much to the Sultan’s amusement, and his laughter bounced off the walls.

  The bride wore robes of the finest brocade and was adorned head to toe with exquisitely wrought jewellery. Her mother distributed heaps of gold and silver among the poor and needy. At the conclusion of the wedding ceremonies, the Sultan presented the happy couple with vast tracts of land in Malwa, Gujarat, Khanbaya and Naharwala. Khuda was radiant with happiness, and the sight gladdened the Sultan’s heart.

  The Sultan wished the celebrations would go on forever. Even his detractors were too stuffed with good food and in too high spirits to spout their bilge at him. The entire realm was at peace and there was not a calamity in sight. As always, though, once the celebrations wound down, there was a lot to deal with.

  Khuda’s husband, Saifuddin, turned out to be every bit as wild and uncouth as his Bedouin ancestors, and did not wait long to make a nuisance of himself and embarrass the royal family that had taken him in.

  ‘This is all your fault,’ Muhammad’s mother informed him. ‘I have spent my life giving you sage counsel which you have ignored or dismissed, but the one time I make an error in judgement, you listen to me! If only you had got Khuda married to that nice Ibn Battuta!’ The Sultan didn’t think it wise to reply.

  Within a fortnight, Saifuddin’s boorish conduct landed him in trouble when he physically assaulted the Sultan’s own parda-dar, the doorkeeper, a crime that was punishable by death. The Sultan declared that the Kazi would make a ruling in the case, and Saifuddin Ghada was imprisoned.

  Khuda barely batted an eyelid and did not bother to visit him in prison or even send him bedding or food to make sure he was comfortable.

  ‘He is not without his merits,’ she confided in Saira, ‘but it wouldn’t hurt him to remember that I am the Sultan’s sister first and foremost, and my status as his wife will always take second place.’

  ‘At least he had the forbearance not to have him executed,’ Saira remarked.

  ‘Give him time!’ Khuda laughed at her own joke. But it was tinged with disappointment. Why couldn’t more men be like her brother? He was strong, kind and generous and he knew how to treat the woman he loved. As far as she was concerned, the Saifuddins of the world were not worth the Sultan’s toenails!

  10

  Muhammad refused to be discouraged by the disaster that was his proposed Khorasan expedition and give up on his plans for world dominion. Everybody felt it was a fool’s dream, but hadn’t they said the same about Alexander the Great? Rebellions aside—which had been crushed mercilessly—he was pleased that his empire was stable and flawlessly administered.

  He had secured the west by establishing peace in Multan. In the east, Bengal was under his control, and to the south, thanks to his efforts, Daulatabad was a sprawling metropolis that now rivalled Dilli. All that remained was to secure the northern frontier in the Qarachil region, where the Rajput rebels had retreated into the hills and still held sway. From there, they struck out at his military garrisons, interrupted his postal relays, and carried away the treasure chests that were supposed to make up the arrears in pay for his troops.

  Muhammad felt confident about taking and holding Qarachil, especially after his recent success at Nagarkot, where he had personally led a force against the Hindu chieftains and subjugated them to his authority. It had felt good to be on the march with his troops, astride his magnificent stallion.

  On horseback, he could pretend he was still the wild and carefree youth he had once been. These campaigns made him feel closer to his men and they in turn were delighted when their Sultan dined with them, asked them questions about their families and listened to the ribald humour and folk songs, which was their preferred form of entertainment since wine and women were strictly forbidden to them.

  ‘He seems so regular and he is so easy to talk to,’ they commented. ‘It is hard to believe what they say about his combustible temper.’

  ‘It is probably jealousy. How can you not envy a man who has everything? People tend to hate those who are this favoured by God and destiny . . .’

  ‘Did you ask him if he is in love with his stepmother?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him? Then we can ascertain for ourselves whether he truly has those who displease him flayed and impaled on stakes!’

  ‘You can say what you want about him, but he is clever and knows his way around a battlefield.’

  Muhammad decided he liked the rough company of his simple soldiers much better than that of his courtiers. It was a successful conquest and for once he had an easy time of it. Perhaps his luck was changing. Even his detractors had conceded that he had inherited his father’s military genius. Like Nagarkot, he would have liked to undertake the Qarachil expedition personally, but Ahmad had argued strongly against it.

  So it had been decided to send young Khusrao Malik, who was a distant cousin’s son and an ambitious and bright young man who was anxious to prove himself. He was sent at the head of a large army with a portion of the troops who had been recruited for the ill-fated Khorasan expedition.

  Muhammad planned it all down to the last detail, and he did it himself, as was his wont. He had little patience with the fools in his council who did little more than argue endlessly. These people seemed to exist for the sole purpose of taking up space, observing those who actually laboured, commenting on their deeds, proffering worthless advice, criticizing endlessly or conspiring to throw impediments in their path. They were the bane of every empire: the clerks, moneylenders, priests, astrologers, scribes and wastrels.

  The Sultan sent surveyors who studied the route across the terrain and charted a course for the army to follow. Their cavalry forces were unstoppable on the plains but up in the steep mountain paths they would be at a distinct disadvantage. Having scrutinized their reports, Muhammad ordered the construction of military posts that were to be stocked with arms, food and other provisions, all of which were to be placed under heavy guard, so his men would have these garrisons to fall back on should they be forced to retreat.

  It was the closest thing to a foolproof plan, and Khusrao Malik’s troops met with success, managing to take the citadel at Jidya, which gave him a foothold in the surrounding countryside at the foothills of the Himalayas. Muhammad sent instructions to Khusrao to hold fast, consolidate his position and await further instructions.

  If only the young fool had listened! His initial triumph had swelled his head and he ignored the royal command. Khusrao led the entire bulk of his army into the formidable barrier that was the Himalayas, eager to take the victory that was within his reach. His timing couldn’t have been worse since was it was at the peak of the monsoon season and the slopes were slick and treacherous. Unwary men plunged to their deaths and the Rajput rebels hounded them every step of the way.

  The mountains were their enemies’ home, and they knew it like the back of their hands. They fought guerrilla style, never forcing open confrontation but nipping at the flanks and harrying them from behind
, avoiding pursuit by melting back into the cover offered by the dense forest and the rocky slopes. They triggered landslides and started forest fires. The soldiers fled, convinced that it was the very hand of God that reached down to wipe them out.

  Thousands of men were destroyed in moments, buried under chunks of the mountain which came apart before their very eyes, the wall of rock hurtling towards them faster than they could flee. Entire regiments disappeared beneath giant boulders, uprooted trees and swathes of turf, wiped out as if they had never been.

  The lucky ones were those who had been killed outright. Worse off were the ones who were grievously injured and doomed to die in excruciating pain or those buried alive in shifting tombs, with no hope of rescue till the elements claimed them in a suffocating embrace.

  Even so, they were more fortunate than the ones who were claimed by the fires. The troops ran pell-mell when they spotted the raging fire that roared towards them, seeking frantically for an escape, only to discover that they were trapped in a valley of death with the flames pursuing them every which way, screaming in agony till they were burnt to cinders.

  All of a sudden, the hunters had become the hunted as panic gripped the army. Khusrao Malik died in an avalanche, and his men were in disarray, too distraught to make an orderly retreat to the military outposts. It was an unmitigated disaster as their enemy slaughtered them till nothing remained of the mighty force the emperor had put together. When news of the carnage reached the garrisons, they fled in terror, abandoning their posts.

  It was the worst defeat inflicted on the Sultan. His war council insisted that they strike back hard and fast. ‘The defenders think they can hold out against us forever but if we are persistent then it is only a matter of time before we prevail. And we must give them a fitting reply for the temerity they have displayed in daring to defy the Sultan.’