Quickly, he gathered some papers and drew dark lines with a charcoal, trying to give shape to his dream. As he worked furiously on the paper, the vague shape of a mausoleum formed on it. In his mind he saw several structures that had impressed him – the Jag Mandir of Mewar Rana, situated amidst the lake Pichola, where he had spent some idyllic moments with Mumtaz Mahal while fleeing from his father’s army. Hoshang Shah’s tomb at Mandu, the tomb of Timur at Samarkand, Akbar’s tomb at Sikandra; so many mausoleums, and so many thoughts… his mind worked feverishly. Yet another one constructed by Nurjahan for her father, Itmad-ud-Daula, a beautiful elegy in marble with peitra dura. The images of another mausoleum, the tomb of his great-grandfather Humayun, at Delhi, came to his mind. Each of them had some flaw. He wanted a better and more beautiful structure, a unique one. It had to be delicate, as pristine as a moon beam.
Exasperated, he threw the charcoal on the ground. Too many images, too many structures were taking shape in his mind. He had to bring a semblance of order to his thoughts.
‘Oh, Arjumand!’ he exclaimed, frustrated, ‘will I be able to design a befitting memorial for you? It has to be the most beautiful mausoleum in the world. Nothing short of perfection will do.’
‘It has to be constructed out of the purest marble, absolutely virginal and ethereal,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘The dome has to be gentle and full, like the swell of a woman’s breast. It has to be located on the banks of the Yamuna.’ He worked furiously once again, giving shape to his words. ‘Minarets… there have to be at least four minarets flanking the main structure. And the approach will have to be through the most beautiful Mughal garden in the world. Like the charbaghs created by Babar, an echo of the famous gardens in Kashmir.’
Like a man possessed, he worked through the morning, excited at the shape that was emerging. ‘It is all there, buried somewhere in the recess of my mind. All I have to do is to dredge it out, bit by bit.’
‘It should be the depiction of paradise as narrated in the Koran,’ he whispered. ‘I can almost visualize it – a monument built according to Islamic concept of heaven, where calligraphic representations of the Koran are inscribed all over the walls. The surahs of Koran written on the wall must emphasize the vision of the Day of Judgement. My empress was a virtuous woman, who deserves the jannat. On the imposing portal will be the inscription inviting the mortals to paradise.’
Exhausted with his labors, he walked over to the balcony, looking across the tranquil water of the river for inspiration.
He sensed her presence even before he saw her. Her mild scent wafted into his nostrils and he smiled. His Jaani was standing behind him, quiet as a mouse. It was an old habit. Whenever she found him lost in contemplation, she stood still, not wanting to break the skein of his thoughts, but he always knew she was there.
He turned and faced her.
‘Abba,’ she began.
‘Ssshhhhh. Don’t say a word; just experience the presence of your mother. Can you feel it? She is here, guiding me.’
Whenever he was distraught, he spoke of her mother’s presence; Jahanara knew he looked at her for direction.
‘I could not grant her much peace and luxury during her lifetime; at least I can try to give her the comforts of paradise after her death. I want my Mumtaz to rest in the most beautiful mausoleum in the world,’ he muttered to his favourite daughter.
All of a sudden he began drawing with the charcoal. She watched with surprise as his vision took shape on the paper. ‘Yes, I know what I want,’ he rambled.
‘The four canals of the garden of the mausoleum must symbolize the four rivers of paradise mentioned in the holy Koran, which were seen by the Prophet Mohammad during his ascent to Paradise.’ The emperor explained, ‘On one side, the mausoleum must be flanked by a mosque so that the chanting of prayers brings peace to her soul.’
‘It has to be carved out of the purest marble, pristine and white.’ He shook Jahanara’s shoulders in frenzy. There was madness in his eyes. For a moment she was frightened. This was not the gentle father she knew. This was a man possessed. ‘She will be surrounded by a marble screen cut so fine that it would seem almost translucent, and it will be decorated with precious stones. The sun would rise scattering dappled light over her cenotaph, and ninety-nine names of Allah will adorn the top of my Mumtaz’s tomb.’
The words seemed to energize him. ‘Jaani, ask the architects to assemble at the Diwan-i-Khas. I must begin to give shape to my dream,’ he commanded.
Thirty
It was two years since the death of Mumtaz Mahal, but the court was still in mourning. Shahjahan wore nothing but white and the court was a sea of stark white, as the nobles also wore no other colour. An eerie silence reigned the empty corridors of the palace and the harem, with no music to cheer the hearts. There was no tinkling of anklets, or the musical resonance of laughter. A thick pall of gloom hung over the city.
The busy bazaars and streets, which had once been full of brightness were now crowded with sombre faces, as though people were scared to smile for the fear of offending the emperor.
For two complete years, Shahjahan had lived the life of an ascetic, refusing to touch rich food or jewels. No longer did the appetizing aroma of fancy dishes emanate from the royal kitchen, whipping up everyone’s appetite. Nor did he enjoy the elephant combat that had once been his favourite pastime. It was as though he nurtured a terrible guilt about his wife’s death, and had decided to atone for his mistakes by denying himself all the good things of life. Jahanara could understand his guilt. She knew that he blamed his unceasing passion for her mother, which had kept her pregnant and suffering all the time, and ultimately led to her demise. He held himself responsible for depriving her of a peaceful and luxurious life, by rebelling against his father.
The long hours spent in the personal mosque had drained his face of colour, it was as white as his robes. Every spare moment was spent on his project to construct a grand mausoleum for Mumtaz Mahal.
It happened during Shahjahan’s forty-first solar birthday. He woke up to a new dawn. He felt as if his penance was over, and it was time to begin a new chapter. There was a bright light in his eyes and a spring in his gait.
That morning, he appeared at the jharoka after a long absence. There was joy and jubilation as soon as the news travelled through the city. Hordes of people rushed to watch the emperor smiling, although it seemed to have frozen on his face. Perhaps the long interval had made his facial muscles rigid. They saluted and greeted him with loud cheering. He was wearing the rich robes of a Mughal emperor, once again. The mist of gloom lifted from the city.
Delighted with the favourable tidings, Jahanara decided that it was an occasion to celebrate. The period of mourning was over at last.
She was relieved to see the smile back on her father’s face after the long months of sadness. She ordered the royal kitchen to prepare her father’s favourite dishes and summoned the musicians to tune their rusty instruments. The nautch girls were ordered to prepare themselves for a scintillating evening.
Halls were decorated with festoons of flowers and vases were filled with beautiful flowers. Perfume was splashed and carpets dusted. The harem was a beehive of activity.
News travelled to the bazaars and there was laughter in the narrow lanes, once again. The entire kingdom woke up from a deep slumber and shook itself to merriment once again.
That evening, a pleasant surprise awaited the emperor as he walked into the harem.
‘Jaani, I am delighted with the joyous atmosphere you have created for me,’ he complimented Jahanara on the excellent arrangements.
After a sumptuous dinner and an entertaining evening, they settled down for a cosy family discussion. It had been a long time since the entire family was together.
‘I have been thinking a lot, these past weeks,’ began Shahjahan. ‘And I have decided that it is time for Dara to marry.’ He looked around for confirmation and continued. ‘He would have been married long back if Mumtaz had
been alive. It was her dearest wish to see her grandchildren.’
Enthusiasm charged the air. Both Jahanara and Roshanara greeted the news with delight. They teased Dara, whose eyes held a sparkle of pleasure. Everyone loved a good wedding.
Dara’s engagement with Nadira had taken place with great pageantry during Mumtaz Mahal’s lifetime. They would have been married by now, if she hadn’t passed away. The young couple, passionately in love, had been waiting for the emperor to get over his mourning.
‘Jaani, I want you to arrange everything,’ resumed the emperor. ‘Spare no expenses. It should be a spectacle that people will remember for generations. After all, he is an heir to the great Mughal Empire.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Jahanara, happy to take up the task. ‘People will never forget this wedding.’
Happy times were back in the palace as arrangements for the wedding began. Together, with the help of Satiunnisa and Zeenat, Jahanara started preparations on a massive scale. It was to be the most lavish wedding Agra had seen. The treasury was overflowing with jewels and riches; there was no need to curtail expenses. Generous gifts were planned for the guests and so were hundreds of dishes for the feasts; decorations and fireworks, processions and entertainment – everything had to be just perfect.
The harem women carried hundreds of silver platters, heaped with gifts of jewels, silks and perfumes for the bride, for the ritualistic bath. Nadira was bathed in milk and sandalwood paste, and her hands and feet embellished with intricate patterns of henna. Especially prepared unguent of turmeric, sandalwood powder, fresh cream and hundreds of other herbs, designed to make her skin glow, was applied on her body.
Nadira sat with the drying henna on her limbs, lost in thoughts of her future. Zeenat brought her lemonade fortified with dash of opium, intended to remove her nervousness. All around her the harem women sang songs of love and ardour, the lyrics loaded with erotic connotation. Together, Satiunnisa and Jahanara dressed the bride in a bright vermilion silk ensemble. A heavy gold tiara was pinned on her head to hold the veil in place.
The edges of the veil ended in tiny pearls and the ears were covered with gold and rubies. Layers of pearl strings reached down to her chest and her diamond nose-pin dazzled in the light. The arms were covered with dozens of gold bangles, studded with rubies and emeralds. The armlets were intricately designed ropes, woven out of gold and pearls, with strings of rubies dangling from them.
Minutes later, the emperor rode towards the glittering hall with the bridegroom in a grand procession. The other princes accompanied the impressive parade through the streets of the city. Musicians, riding on elephant backs, played lively music as the marriage party moved along. People flocked on both sides of the streets to watch the spectacle and strewed the path with rose petals.
A group of mullahs intoned verses from the holy book, uniting the couple in matrimony. And then Jahanara handed over an ornate mirror to her brother, Dara Shikoh, to view the bride’s face, which was still covered under the heavy veil. At her signal, Zeenat removed the veil and Dara gasped at the sight of his bride. She looked stunning.
The grandest banquet that anyone had ever seen followed the wedding.
Special cooks and chefs of the royal kitchen had worked round the clock to prepare the mouth-watering fare. The chef for the preparation of the array of meat dishes came from Kashmir, a Shirazi cook was in charge of the succulent kebabs, for the spicy pickles came a cook from Amber, and so did the cook who made papads. For the fish delicacies came a cook from the Konkan coast and a Persian chef was responsible for the delectable pulao. For the delicious variety of halwas, a Choubey chef was brought from Mathura, while a chef from Bengal prepared the sweets.
A platter of paan was passed to the guests. Tied in silk thread, the betel leaves were packed with fragrant zarda, ambergris and dates. In the evening, a fascinating display of fireworks lighted up the sky above the river Yamuna, much to the delight of the citizens. Music, dancing and other entertainment continued through the nights.
For weeks, Agra would talk of nothing but the marriage feast of the emperor’s eldest son.
The celebrations did not cease with Dara’s wedding. Prince Shuja’s marriage was next. Within a few weeks, the palaces resounded once again with music and pageantry as he was wedded to the daughter of a Persian nobleman.
Once the festivities were over, it was back to business for the empire. Shahjahan reverted to his old routine, and the subjects breathed with relief.
The emperor had completed eight long years of his rule. There was prosperity and peace in the country; the voices of dissent had been silenced. The imperial coffers were overflowing with gold and money. Shahjahan indulged in fancies that were beyond the imagination of people. He had many expensive obsessions, amongst which, the Peacock throne and the Taj Mahal held the prime place. The throne had been commissioned just a few months after he was crowned but it had taken seven long years to be completed.
The women of the harem were rushing towards the Diwan-i-Aam. There was utter chaos as they grappled for vantage positions behind the fretwork screens. Amazed at the sudden exodus, Zeenat, who had just entered the harem, stopped a woman who was rushing with the crowd.
‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Where is everyone going?
‘Have you not heard? The emperor’s new throne has been set up in the Diwan-i-Aam and everyone is going there to catch a glimpse of it. It is rumoured to be a wondrous throne.’
Zeenat had heard that an incredibly expensive throne was being crafted by a French jeweller, on the orders of the emperor. Now, she too joined the melee to steal a view of it.
The crowd gasped at the sight of the fabulous Peacock Throne, which was rumoured to have cost eighteen crore of rupees. There was pin drop silence as people stood awed at the sight of the enormous throne that was shaped like a bedstead, and stood on six massive legs, crafted out of pure gold. These were sprinkled with innumerable rubies, emeralds and diamonds. The glittering enamelled canopy above the throne was supported by twelve pillars, covered with emeralds. It was the peacocks standing on either side of the throne that arrested everyone’s attention. Encrusted with precious gems, they were exquisitely crafted.
Zeenat drew in a sharp breath as she caught sight of the peacocks. The tails of the peacocks were made of sapphires and other precious stones. A tree covered with diamonds, emeralds, rubies and pearls stood between each pair of peacocks.
‘This is magnificent,’ she whispered.
‘It has to be, after all the money spent on it,’ replied a woman standing next to her. ‘I have heard it has been crafted by a firanghee.’
Shahjahan, attired in a virginal white satin robe, delicately embroidered with gold threads, sat on the Peacock Throne. He is as impressive as the throne he occupies, thought Zeenat, staring at him.
Once she had been in love with him. It was such a long time back. So much had happened since then. They both had changed beyond recognition. From the foolish and incredibly beautiful girl, she had matured into a charming woman with streaks of grey in her hair. Age had also brought with it certain dignity and wisdom to her. Life teaches you many lessons, she often mouthed to her son. Indeed, her life had taught her many lessons.
The once handsome prince Khurram, on the other hand, had aged more rapidly since Mumtaz Mahal’s death. The fine features had fleshed out with good living, but the sadness in the expressive eyes remained. He has not recovered from his loss, she sighed.
Every woman in the harem knew that the emperor had ceased to live the life of an ascetic. His chambers resounded with the nightly tinkle of anklets as a continuous stream of women passed through it. Tales of lewd dances conducted every evening in the private chambers of the emperor abounded in the harem. Zeenat did not know whether they were true. There were also rumours about an incestuous relationship between Shahjahan and Jahanara, which she definitely didn’t believe.
Thirty-one
It was time to look for a suitable bride
for Abdul. For Zeenat, it was an enormous task. On her request, the emperor had granted her a long absence from her work to carry out her mission.
‘I will assist you,’ promised Jahanara, who loved nothing better than match making and she was quite good at it too. Her services were in great demand.
Like a fussy mother, Zeenat rejected many young girls. ‘I have only one son, and I want the very best for him.’
‘You talk as if you are an empress,’ laughed Abdul when she complained about not finding a suitable daughter-in-law. ‘If I wait for you, I will be an old man by the time you manage to find a bride for me.’
‘Marriages should not be conducted in hurry,’ she chided. ‘I know you are getting impatient, son, but I have to think of my welfare, too,’ she chuckled. ‘If I find you a wrong bride, she will make my life miserable, and all my dreams of retiring from imperial services to live with you will be demolished forever.’
‘Don’t worry, Ammi,’ Abdul consoled, ‘I am allowed four wives. If one does not please you there will always be another.’
‘Shaitan,’ shouted Zeenat, hitting him in mock anger. ‘I can’t find a single bride and you are talking about four.’
Staying at home with Abdul was so much more peaceful than being at the harem. Her fondest dream was to retire once Abdul was married. The royal family didn’t need her any more. Except Jahanara, there was nobody who really cared for her. Besides, with so many young women in the harem, who needed an old hag? She chuckled as she remembered Roshanara’s words.
‘At this rate, you will never find a bride for your son,’ Jahanara often teased her. ‘By now, you must have seen at least thirty girls, both in and out of the harem. I didn’t look so diligently for any of my brothers’ marriages.’
‘For a doting mother, her son is a prince, Your Highness,’ was Zeenat’s reply.
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