‘It is not my place to question the Sultan’s decisions, sire,’ he hurried on when Muhammad made an impatient noise. Everybody knew that all the Sultan’s decisions were questioned every step of the way. ‘But it is hard to comprehend why you would dismiss the old officials of impeccable lineage and rub salt in their wounds by installing lowborn drunkards, barbers, cooks, gardeners, weavers and rogues in their place. Whatever do you propose to do next, your highness? Hand over the reins of rule to women perhaps? To nautch girls and courtesans even . . .’
His anger clearly knew no bounds since he had the temerity to address his Sultan in those strident tones, but Muhammad forgave him his lapse in decorum.
‘Why ever not, Barani?’ the Sultan looked at him with fond indulgence. ‘I am sure the ladies will not make a hash of things, unlike us men, who have reduced this bountiful land to a battlefield. The trouble with you is that you are a snob and a hardened reactionary, who will resist progress to preserve the old way, even though it has repeatedly proved to be ineffective.’
‘But what is wrong with that, sire? The wisdom of the ages has been handed over to us for a reason.’ It was fascinating to watch Barani finally cast aside his caution. ‘What will become of this land if the mean-spirited and squalid take the places of mighty men? What will become of order in a structured society if the master is replaced by a slave, as if there was no difference between the two and both are equally qualified for the role allotted them by birth? Does a common whore have a right to believe herself entitled to the respect a virtuous wife or mother is accorded?
‘Do the young have a right to cast aside the elders who have the benefit of hard-earned experience and have won the right to hold exalted positions, having devoted their entire lives to serve the emperor? How could you find it in your heart to remove those who have served the throne for generations in favour of lowborn wastrels? Why do you deliberately insist on doing these awful things?’
Muhammad felt the familiar surge of anger for his subjects, who refused to let him or themselves rise from their base level and regressive mode of thinking.
He controlled his temper with an effort. ‘My people need me to provide them with protection and a reasonably good life. In order to do that, I must allow the affairs of state to be handled by capable, courageous and clever men, irrespective of their origins. Rogues and fools are present not just among the peasantry but are equally distributed among the nobility as well. Yet you would have me make no attempt to help my people free themselves from the limitations of class and caste.’
Barani refused to back down. ‘The poor and downtrodden are no doubt grateful for the compassion and opportunities you have shown them, but even you will admit it is a wasted effort. Wouldn’t it be far more practical to extend the same courtesy to those who share your faith and noble antecedents? At the very least, you could refrain from punishing them so severely . . .’
‘If you are suggesting that I deal with my enemies who plot and scheme behind my back with love and affection as opposed to the lash of the whip and the executioner’s block, then you are the one who needs to be practical. We live in troubled times, and he who has qualms about killing is the one who gets killed instead.’
Barani could think of no response and merely looked dejected.
‘Do you think me quite mad, Barani?’ Muhammad enquired.
‘Sire?’
‘You are free to depart for Baran and you shall be compensated for your many years of loyal service. I have enjoyed our conversations on all things related to history and other matters besides. It saddens me that you seek to leave my side when the end is so close but I shall not stop you. But first you must answer my question honestly.’
‘I know for a fact that you are not mad, your highness.’ Barani looked him in the eye for the first time since the regrettable events leading to the death of Shaikh Imamuddin. ‘But you are always in the midst of madness, and a lot of it is of your own making. Your generosity is boundless, as is your genuine concern for the welfare of your subjects. There can be no denying your intelligence, competence and innate goodness, but for reasons known only to God, none of it has worked in your favour or that of your subjects. If you will forgive my boldness, I will suggest that you set aside your doubts about the benevolence of God and surrender to his will completely. Therein lies your sole hope for success as well as salvation.’
‘What a memorable occasion this is turning out to be!’ Muhammad clapped his hands in glee. ‘Why, Barani, this is the first time your words and thoughts haven’t been at odds with each other, and I appreciate your honesty. Your suggestion is sound but one that I cannot follow, for surrender has never been an option for me. I have carved out my destiny with my own hands, and I always will. It may have filled me with hubris but it is also what helped me survive. You may go now, Barani, may God keep you safe and ever guide your writing hand.’
Barani bowed. There were tears in his eyes. Despite everything, he could never find it in his heart to despise the Sultan.
‘Why would you want to leave?’ Ahmad asked him, somewhat uncharacteristically, as their paths crossed briefly. ‘You will drive yourself mad by isolating yourself in Baran, which is little more than a boil on the bottom of the empire. Have a care that you don’t squander away all your savings and become a broken, bitter old man with nothing but bile to pour on to his pages.’
Without waiting for Barani’s reply, he approached the Sultan, who reproached him. ‘Why do you insist on teasing him, Ahmad? You know he is sensitive. But I suppose you have come to me with unpleasant tidings as per usual.’
‘Your majesty’s wisdom exceeds even his generosity!’ Ahmad took less and less effort to mask his sarcasm nowadays. With all the heads that had rolled in vain, everybody seemed to have become acclimatized to the bloodshed.
‘Unfortunately, trouble has broken out on multiple fronts,’ the Khwaja Jahan went on in clipped tones. ‘The Amiran-i-sadah have rebelled and their members stationed in various parts of the empire have joined hands to throw off the yoke of imperial authority.’
He was waiting for instructions on how best to deploy the imperial troops to deal with the series of rebellions, but Muhammad dismissed him and leaned back, eyes closed and brows furrowed. His joints ached and he was fatigued. This one was going to be even worse than all the others put together. He could feel it in his bones, which were creaking in protest.
The Amiran-i-sadah—his centurions, cobbled together from amongst the Mongol and Afghan nobles—had always been loose cannons. He had given them a free rein and had enlisted their aid in keeping his subjects in line, but they had proved themselves to be no less susceptible to the seductive pull of corruption and disaffection than the others. Now they had turned on him like the rabid dogs they were, stealing from the Sultan as well as his subjects. He had been riddled with the thankless task of hunting them down.
This lot had the sympathy of the sainthood, and he had heard that they had pooled their considerable resources to depose of him and put someone they approved of on the throne. It was why he had sent for Malik Firoz before making plans to mop up this ungodly mess.
‘You wished to see me, your highness?’ his cousin knelt before him in that formal and stiff manner of his.
‘My dear cousin! You are just the person whose counsel I need in this disastrous time.’ Muhammad grasped his hand warmly.
‘Is this about the rebellion of the centurions, sire?’ Firoz asked worriedly. ‘It was most imprudent of Aziz Khumman, the recently appointed governor of Malwa, to summon the centurions for official purposes and then have them slaughtered en masse. He claims he was acting on your orders.’ Firoz hesitated during that last part. Muhammad saw no reason to elucidate further. He was tired of giving explanations.
‘What do you think, cousin? It sounds like something a tyrant known for his devious stratagems would do.’
‘It is not impossible that you would have done such a thing,’ he said in his careful manner, ‘but it is
highly improbable, given that the mass killings have led to a wave of fury among the Amiran-i-sadah and near-frenzied levels of agitation in an already prevalent mood of fear, unrest and disaffection. It has all resulted directly in civil war, which certainly does not work in your favour.’
Not for the first time, Muhammad admired his cousin’s ability to always say the right thing, though he seldom said much.
Malik Firoz had never chased fame or fortune. Unlike Muhammad himself, he had a pacifist attitude that somehow pleased the hardliners as well as everybody else. In the eyes of his enemies, he also had the added virtue of being a most orthodox Muslim who had taken pains to give the impression that he deferred to the Ulama while maintaining a healthy distance from them. It was why the rebels had chosen him as the one to replace the tyrant Sultan.
Muhammad stroked his beard and looked at him closely. ‘It has come to my notice that the Ulama have chosen you as my successor.’
His cousin shook his head with distaste. ‘I am aware of that, sire, and I told them the same thing I told you at cousin Khuda’s wedding years ago, when you had the kindness to inform me that I was your chosen successor. The throne demands skills which I neither have nor am inclined to acquire. May Allah in his infinite wisdom confer the sceptre of rule on the one who is equal to the impossible task of bringing peace and prosperity to this troubled and divided realm. For my part, I am content to serve the Sultan.’
Muhammad allowed himself a smile. Only Firoz could refuse the Ulama and win their admiration and unstinting support in place of the scorn and contempt they were ever ready to heap on all else. ‘You will find, cousin, that power is more likely to fall into the hands of those who run away from it rather than those who run towards it. But that aside, not reporting treason counts as treason, and, as you know, that is a capital offence.’
‘Your majesty doesn’t need me to inform him when his vast network of spies are there to do the needful.’ Firoz spoke firmly. ‘And I refuse to have the blood of fellow Muslims on my hands. Besides, as he most certainly knows, even before the passing of Sultan Ghiasuddin Tughlaq, malcontents have been trying to pin their ambitions on me and my response has always been the same. However, if you feel the need to put the question to me under torture, I am not a coward, but a confession is very likely to be wrung out of me.’
‘If you are referring to the tragic circumstances that led to charges of conspiracy and treason levelled against Masud Khan, it was his confession that led to his public execution. Despite my dubious reputation, in all matters related to the judiciary, it is my policy not to interfere, unless of course there are exceptional factors involved.’
‘It was a most distressing affair, your highness! Your half-brother was just a boy and there were too many who tried to manipulate his grief over the demise of Saira Begum against you. Ultimately, though, he was innocent, and it pained me to bear witness to his passing.’
Muhammad frowned at the memory. The fools with their love for all things theatrical had carried out Masud’s execution in the very spot where Saira had breathed her last, just to generate a grand spectacle and create an almighty uproar. He had always avoided the boy and had wanted nothing at all to do with the charges levelled against him, incidentally by the same Kazi who had caused the downfall of his mother.
Saira had tormented him for days and nights afterwards, flooding his dreams with her hate and fury. How magnificent she was when her anger was roused!
‘You always resented the fact that my son is the only member of the opposite sex I truly loved. It was bad enough that you treated me like property you owned, on which nobody was allowed to trespass. The least you could have done after my passing was to spare my innocent child your malice! May Allah make you pay for every one of your evil deeds over the course of eternity!
‘I never loved you! Your father was always the better man and you are not worth his toenails! Even your mother is ashamed to have borne a wretch like you!’
He had to admit that her words were hurtful. Even so, it had been nice to see her and hear her voice, and definitely worth doing nothing to save the boy.
Firoz was looking at him expectantly, and Muhammad cleared his throat. ‘I have decided to deal with the rebels personally. It is going to be a bloody business but I don’t trust anybody else to handle it. You are hereby named the regent and will take command here in Dilli during my absence. If it is Allah’s will that I don’t come back alive, you will take your place as the rightful Sultan of the Tughlaq dynasty.’
‘I thank you for your faith, sire and will pray to the Almighty to grant you a mighty triumph over your enemies and a safe return.’ Firoz accepted the onerous chore placed on him with dutiful resignation, though nine out of ten men would have literally killed to be in the same position.
‘You mean every word, don’t you?’ What a strange creature his cousin was! Muhammad remembered the naked ambition of his own youth.
‘I have always admired you, sire!’ he said simply. ‘Your talent is matched only by your kindness. And you have never been afraid to do what you think is right, even in the face of universal and vehement opposition. Which is why this land needed you to be its ruler. And yet, you always deserved better . . .’
Muhammad was strangely moved on hearing the same words he had uttered to his father so long ago. ‘This land needs you too! And you certainly deserve better. But you should stop worrying about Khuda’s disapproval, Ahmad’s ruthless ambition, and all who would seek to strike you down. There is a quiet strength to your personality which the empire will find to be a refreshing change.’
‘I thank you again for your trust and I will strive not to let you down,’ Firoz promised him. ‘As for cousin Khuda, in her eyes you can do no wrong and she is never going to forgive me for presuming to take something that she feels is the rightful due of her son. But perhaps none of it will come to pass. I wish you Godspeed and every success, sire.’
‘Thank you, cousin! God knows I need it!’
Something told him he wouldn’t be coming back. And truth be told, he didn’t mind a bit.
10
Muhammad went to see Khuda before he left. She flung her arms over his shoulders and burst into tears. ‘I hate those nasty centurions and wish they were all dead. Why can’t you send your Khwaja Jahan to deal with them? Dawar needs you to be close to him and teach him how to be a good Sultan. I need you too! And whatever possessed you to release my husband from prison? I have a good mind to leave him behind and march by your side.’
‘When did you become so sentimental, Khuda?’ he teased her. ‘Cousin Firoz will take good care of you while I am gone. He has far more patience than I ever did for your little eccentricities. I still don’t understand why you refused to marry him. He is a good man, you know.’
Khuda made a face. ‘Firoz is a bore and a poor man’s Muhammad. He is better than my husband, but that is not saying much. I don’t want to be around the two of them. Why won’t you let me accompany you?’
‘You son needs you,’ he reminded her. ‘Besides I don’t think you will enjoy the rough life of a soldier, the stench of latrine pits and the bloodcurdling sight of rude buttocks exposed and in the throes of diarrhoea. As I recall, you refused to go anywhere near your own son till he was properly toilet trained.’
She sniffed in distaste. ‘If only mother could hear you now! But if I can’t come with you then you must make haste to come back to me. Don’t spare the blasted Amiran-i-sadah and kill every last one of them. You have always been too kind and people take advantage of your large-heartedness. Only you could have found it in your heart to spare Ain-ul-Mulk after he dared to betray you. Don’t make that mistake again. Make them pay for daring to rebel against the greatest Sultan this land has seen.’
Muhammad embraced her and held her close to his chest. ‘Only you could say that.’
‘That is because everybody else is too stupid. Promise me you will come back!’ she murmured. ‘If you don’t, I will never ever forgive you!
’
~
The days, months and years passed by in a strange blur of frenzied activity as the rebels led him on a merry dance. They dared not meet the imperial forces out in the open where the latter’s superior numbers and training would have made short work of the rebellion. Instead, they preferred to strike in a series of attacks like gnats worrying a lion, dancing just out of the reach of the royal troops.
He journeyed across Gujarat, pursuing them into Dabhoi and Baroda, where the rebels were forced to fight. It was a long and bitter battle. It always was for him. Muhammad watched men on both sides disappear into the depths of a river of blood. Chunks of bloodied, mutilated flesh and severed arms littered the battlefield. Battle formations were cleaved and shattered over and over again. But they retreated, fled, reassembled and came back for more. The process went on and on. It felt like he had been running all his life, only to discover that he hadn’t moved an inch.
Muhammad rode to battle on his horse or elephant. But he always led the charge, lopping off heads and limbs, wielding swords and releasing showers of arrows and spears that tore through flesh.
So much fighting and bloodshed in his lifetime. Was peace an impossible dream? Would this land never be free of the ravages of war? Perhaps he should have named Khuda as his regent and successor. A woman’s touch would be just the thing, though Khuda was at heart twice the savage he himself was.
His enemies fled before his advance towards the Muslim clergy and the Hindu muqqaddams, who helped them with weapons and supplies. While he fought them in the north, they took Daulatabad. Muhammad would have been shattered, but he didn’t have the time. All he could do was vent his feelings on the banks of the Narbada when he overtook the rebels yet again and exacted bloody vengeance. Another day, another massacre.
Barani was right. He was always in the midst of madness, while all around his men were swept by the tides of battle, helpless as driftwood, on the waves of their Sultan’s will. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the endless saga of butchery that had come to define him. His mother would have told him that it didn’t have to be that way. But it had been that way for him. And it was too late to do anything about it.
Muhammad Bin Tughlaq Page 20