The Crows of Agra

by Sharath Komarraju

  Three

  IT WAS MAHAM ANGA’S laboured wheezing that greeted Akbar as he brushed away the pink silk curtains of her chamber. The servants scuttled out of his way—the older ones bowing, the younger ones hurrying away in panic. Only the girls fanning the old woman who lay on the hefty teak bed remained. The windows were open, the curtains drawn to the side, folded against the eves and tied with twine. And yet, where was the breeze that he and Ruqaiya had felt in the garden just a few moments ago?

  His hands behind him, Akbar made his way to the bed.

  ‘Jalal?’ said Maham Anga. ‘Is that you, my son?’

  In the golden light of the bedside lamp Akbar saw that her eyes had yellow spots, and the skin around her nose appeared stretched and dry. Maham Anga had never been beautiful. She had a thin, tired face with drooping eyes and a mouth that curved downward, giving her a permanent look of woe. When she smiled, life appeared to drain out from her instead of the opposite.

  ‘Yes, Ammi.’ He sat down beside her. ‘You called for me.’

  She reached out for him and he clasped her hand in his. Somewhere deep within his mind, a memory stirred: his tiny hand holding onto Maham Anga’s finger as they walked among the palace gardens. Her hands had been so big, her hair dark and glossy, her skin smooth as marble.

  ‘You must cover your ears against the cold, Jalal. The rains are about to come.’

  ‘And you must not speak when it troubles you so, Ammi. Rest a few days. We shall ask the servants to get you some warm water and sponges.’

  ‘They are doing enough, my boy. You should not worry about me. I am an old crank. One of these days I shall close my eyes peacefully, never to open them again.’

  Akbar began to protest, but she renewed her grip on his hand. ‘Wait, do not say anything. I have not summoned you here for pleasantries.’ She ran a parched tongue over her cracked lips.

  ‘Can this not wait until the morning, Ammi?’

  ‘Perhaps it can,’ she said. ‘But then again…’ She clicked the fingers of her free hand, and the two servant girls set down their fans and left the room.

  Akbar poured a glass of water and said, ‘Here, sit up.’ Maham Anga lifted herself up with a grimace of effort and allowed Akbar to hold the water to her lips. He smiled at her. ‘Now that we’re alone, tell me what it is that weighs on your mind?’

  ‘From the time you were born, Jalal, the only thing that weighs on my mind is your welfare.’

  ‘I know that, Ammi.’

  ‘Word has reached me that Pir Muhammad has been sent away from the harem.’

  Akbar’s expression did not change. He had stopped being surprised by Maham Anga’s ability to keep abreast of developments throughout the city without ever leaving her room long ago. He watched her drink the water instead.

  ‘Do you know where Bairam sent Pir?’ she asked, motioning for him to put the goblet aside.

  ‘Yes, Ammi. Khan Baba said that Pir will go to Delhi, to quell the uprising of the Rajput tribes.’

  ‘Ah, the uprising of the Rajput tribes,’ said Maham Anga, sneering. ‘Have I not told you, boy, that Bairam is not the person you must ask about these things? You must find your own people to be your eyes and ears.’

  ‘But Ammi, Khan Baba is like a father to me, as you are my mother.’

  ‘Remember, Jalal, that when you are a king, you are no one’s son and no one’s father. You are surrounded by family and well-wishers, but you walk alone.’ She ran her hand on his cheek, and Akbar closed his eyes. She had the warmest, smoothest hands. Up until a few years ago, sleep would not come to him if he did not rest his head on her lap, and get her to push is hair back from his forehead with her palms. She would sing to him verses from the old Persian poets. Akbar did not understand all the words, but they lulled him like fine wine drawn fresh from the vineyards.

  ‘Jala-al,’ she said and blinked lovingly at him. ‘It is time for you to grow up, my child. People on the streets of Agra do not even know your name now. It has been six years, has it not, since Hemu was vanquished?’

  ‘Yes, Ammi.’

  ‘And even today it is Bairam Khan’s name that is carved on that throne. Your throne.’

  Akbar’s legs suddenly grew tired. He felt a pressing desire to leave the room. ‘But Ammi,’ he said, averting his eyes, ‘Khan Baba–’

  ‘Khan Baba is like your father,’ she said. ‘I know. But fathers have not always been known to do what is best for their sons. Neither have mothers, for that matter.’

  ‘Ammi,’ said Akbar, his voice hardening. ‘If you have something to say to me, say it in as many words. Why this wandering talk that does no one any good?’

  ‘You want straight words?’ Maham Anga withdrew her hand. ‘Pir Muhammad has been sent to Delhi to instigate the nobles of the city against you.’

  ‘Lies!’

  ‘Bairam Khan sent Pir in order to gain support for himself. If you sit here smelling the roses and cavorting with the harem women, Jalal, you shall find yourself bound in chains in no time. And before you can raise your voice, your dear Khan Baba will have you thrown into a deep ravine. Allah knows there is no dearth of those in Agra.’

  Akbar got up from the bed and stepped away. ‘Lies!’ he said again, but his voice lacked conviction.

  What if they were not? he thought. After all, it was common knowledge that Maham Anga had her spies in all the right places.

  ‘Have you ever known me speaking a lie, Jalal?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Come here, my boy,’ she held out her hand to him. He took it and sat back on the edge of the bed, watching the shadows cast by flickering lamps on the polished granite floor.

  ‘Let us not quarrel over Bairam. That is precisely what he wishes. Will you listen to me, my child?’

  ‘Yes, Ammi.’

  ‘It is late for you to become aware of what surrounds you,’ said Maham Anga, ‘but it is not too late. Many of the nobles here in Agra still look at Bairam Khan as just the regent, and at you as the emperor.’

  ‘We are the emperor.’

  ‘Yes, you are. Bairam’s thinks the nobles of Delhi will be swayed to his side easily, for they have not seen you being crowned like the nobles of Agra have. Here, they know your seal. They know your face. They know your voice. They recognize you when you walk by the court. The women of the harem know you.’ She paused to caress the rings on his fingers. ‘But in Delhi, not so.’

  Akbar thought of the missives that went out to Delhi every full moon, about revenues and tribute and taxes and grain and all that (he had not looked at any of them with a close eye). They went out in Bairam Khan’s name. When Akbar had once asked Khan Baba why this was so, he had told him that it would be easier if the acting regent of the Mughal throne carried out all duties as though he himself was the emperor. Akbar had not thought much of it. Until now.

  Did the noblemen of Delhi really think that Bairam Khan was powerful enough to overthrow Akbar? But then he heard his own voice answering him. Is he already not?

  ‘He will use the support he has in Delhi against the people of Agra. And when the noblemen here realize that everyone in Delhi wishes you off the throne, which side do you think they will support?’ Maham Anga’s drooping eyes seemed to lift. She looked like the goddess the Hindu people worshipped before the onset of winter.

  ‘The noblemen are like hyenas,’ Ammi was saying. ‘They will always run with the fastest lion.’

  The last light of the day filtered away. Darkness gathered around the room in patches where the lamplight could not reach.

  ‘What should I do, Ammi?’

  She smiled, her uneven blackened teeth pressing down on her bottom lip. ‘You will first have to leave the palace. Go to a place where Bairam Khan cannot get you.’

  ‘What kind of place do you have in mind?’

  ‘I have made arrangements for some of the noblemen of Agra to assemble outside the city, on the other side of the forest. You shall go this very night and join them.’


  ‘Tonight? But I am not prepared to ride.’

  ‘Then you will be within the hour. By dinnertime you shall be on your steed. The servants will pack you some peppered grain for food.’

  ‘But the horses…the riding companions–’

  ‘There shall be only one horse and only one riding companion. You will both be dressed as traders, and you will carry one weapon each.’

  ‘But Ammi–’

  ‘We must not arouse the suspicions of Bairam, my son. He is not as naive as you. He has his people right here…in the harem.’

  Akbar looked around himself.

  ‘None in this house, I assure you,’ she said. ‘But you must lay low and make haste. Get to the noblemen before Bairam realizes that you are gone. That is why it is vital you leave tonight.’

  Akbar looked out of the window at the black woods beyond the harem gateway. The forest would not be safe for a king at this time of the night. But if Ammi thought he was in danger, what could he do? How right she was, Akbar did not know, but waiting to find out could be fatal. He had no choice but to run.

  What of Ruqaiya, though? Who would tell her? She would worry if he did not come to her straight after the morning prayers. Perhaps he had just enough time to tell her and also to seek the blessings of Gulbadan foofi–

  ‘No time for anything,’ said Maham Anga, as if divining his thoughts. ‘You must leave right now. Your steed and companion are waiting. He will give you the clothes into which you must change before setting out.’ She placed her hand on his forehead, and pushed back his hair, just like she used to. Tears welled up in Akbar’s eyes. ‘There,’ she said. ‘You have nothing to fear, Jalal, as long as I am here to look after you.’

  He fell to his knees, took her hand in his, bent his head, and muttered a prayer. Then he kissed her gnarled knuckles once and pressed them to his moist eyes. ‘We shall do as you say, Ammi,’ he said.

  ‘And not a word to anyone, child. Remember, even the curtains have ears.’

  ‘Yes, Ammi.’

  Just as he was at the door, he heard her say, ‘Hold your head up, boy. That is no way an emperor ought to walk.’

  * * *

  The notes of the sitar made him look up at the balcony. He did not recognize the tune, but it seemed vaguely familiar. The lamp in Gulbadan foofi’s room shone a bright reddish yellow, which meant that she was writing.

  Akbar could not remember the moment when he had stopped running into Foofi’s room every evening to pester her for tales of the old Shahs. She, of course, loved to tell young Akbar the story of his father, Humayun, and how he came to rule over this land they called Hindustan. It had once been the favourite part of young Akbar’s day; after sword and riding lessons were over, after his prayers had been said and meals had been had, he would rush to sit by Foofi’stable to listen to her quill scratch over paper. Once in a while she would say something to him. It was often a question. ‘Are you still there, Jalal?’ ‘Shall I tell you a story, Jalal?’ ‘Tell me a little about matters at the court, Jalal.’

  Gulbadan foofi had tried during the early years to teach him to read and write, but after months of effort brought no joy, she gave up. He had asked her if it was necessary for an emperor to know how to read from the big books, and in her kindness she had said no. You could be good listener, she had said, and remember everything everyone tells you. He who reads and forgets is worse than he who cannot but listens and remembers well.

  Akbar knew that both his grandfather and father had been learned men. Khan Baba read and recited Urdu poetry, perhaps wrote some as well. How sweet the sound of Foofi’s travelling quill. How divine the sitar notes that caressed his ears now. And yet, the beauty that came down to us from Allah, Akbar thought, was despite whether we could read or write, or not. It only asked that we worship it, care for it, experience it.

  The red stone doorway upstairs darkened with her figure. She stepped out onto the balcony, the lustrous white of her upper garment gleaming in the night. She floated to the balcony’s edge, laid her hand on the pillar and looked out, her eyes fastened on something in the distance, beyond the palace walls.

  And yet Akbar felt she was looking down at him.

  He had heard palace guards say that when Gulbadan Begum walked around the aisles and halls of the harem, she resembled a ghost. Her distant eyes never seemed to move, and her lips, parched and glass-like, mouthed silent words. For fear of the emperor, perhaps, these guards called the Begum a guardian angel, who would protect the palace from invasion and the emperor from ill tidings.

  They stood there for a long minute, Akbar and Gulbadan, he looking up at her, she watching the dark clouds in the gathering gloom. He wondered momentarily if he should run up the stairs and kneel in front of her, take her blessings, ask her to remember him in her prayers, but at the same time he remembered Maham Anga’s words of caution and he stiffened. He turned away from Foofi to walk the long corridor that led to the harem’s exit. On his way, girls bowed low and the guards thrust aside their spears and clutched their breastplates, murmuring salutations of respect.

  Akbar ignored them all, looking straight ahead.

  Four

  THEY SET OUT after the crescent moon had climbed up to the zenith. The lamps of the harem, and the torches lining the palace corridors, now glowed serenely, more blue than red. The watch fires of the outer walls, on the other hand, blazed with purpose, and as they approached, Akbar heard the clank of the guards' metal stockings against the granite.

  Akbar cast a sidelong glance at his companion, Hussain. Clean-shaven and baby-faced. Dreamy sluggish eyes. Hands and feet of a woman. He would be more at home in a harem than in a battlefield. You couldn’t train a rabbit to fight no matter how many daggers you gave it. Hussain rode on his fresh Kabuli colt—a breed that was no good; even in the army, only the new recruits who had never seen horses in their lives (especially when they came from the villages) were trained on these.

  Akbar had been assigned a sluggish Indian breed of horse for Akbar, to better suit his disguise. This was going to be a long journey, he thought. This thing did not respond to kicks, caresses, or grunts. All it knew was the language of reins, it seemed. Akbar pulled at the horse’s ear to see if it would resist or snort. But it did neither. It willingly turned its head to the side, as though it wanted him to scratch it behind its ear. This was no horse. It was more like an affectionate dog.

  Both he and Hussain wore clothes shorn of jewels. On their steeds they carried a sack each of grain and pulses, along with a small purse tied to their waists that contained twenty silver and five gold coins. Maham Anga’s instructions had been that if they ran into bandits in the forest, they were to attempt no heroics. They were to simply hand over their coins and beg for mercy. Even though they both carried a set of jewelled daggers under their vest coats, they were in no circumstances to use them. Akbar felt under his cummerbund, allowed his hands to run over the cold jewels, one after the other. There were six of them in all, so he could take care of the bandits by himself, if it came to it.

  Their cheeks and foreheads had been smudged with coal and ash, their horses made to roll in the mud before the journey. Their clothes stank of sweat, their turbans laced with fresh dung from the stables. Every sign of royalty had been removed, except for the seal Akbar carried, buried deep within the folds of his kurta, cushioned by three or four layers of bundled silk.

  The guards at the gates bowed in their direction. Akbar raised an arm. The head guard craned his neck and gave a signal. The sound of metal rang clear in the cool night, and the gates began to rise.

  The horses whinnied restlessly as fresh wind came rushing along the plains and hit them in the face. Akbar stilled his with a firm pull on the reins and a kick to the side. With the loose ends of their turbans flying behind them, they leaned forward and galloped out of the gates toward the city.

  * * *

  Akbar felt naked in the streets of Agra. For the first time in his life, he was without a retinue of horse
s and trumpeters, girls fanning him, showering him with flowers, people peering at him behind their windows, from inside stalls, kids in torn clothes huddling together and pointing, old men and women drawing on their pipes and smiling.

  Every time he ventured out into the city, it was as if a festival had come unannounced. They laughed and joked and danced and blessed and revered and gave way.

  But today, as they trotted along, Hussain slightly ahead of him showing the way, no one gave them a second glance. An old hag looked up from her basket of rotten turnips to frown at them, but then someone shouted at her and she scurried away with a curse on her cracked lips.

  They passed Mir Asif Khan’s stall of muslins and cotton drapes that Khan Baba had shown him on their last trip to the city. This was where the royal harem and the court got their curtains made. Asif Baba’s son, a gangly youth of about seventeen, appeared at the front door to peer out at them, but there was no sign of recognition on his face. The lights had been dimmed inside the store, and the colours of their fabric—so rich and vibrant in daylight—now appeared sullen and drab.

  When they passed Muhammad Aslam’s little shack of carpets, Akbar knew they were making their way northward. All the shutters had been pulled down, but for a single lantern that stood behind the glass enclosure displaying the wares, darkness shrouded the little shop. Akbar remembered Bairam Khan say that Muhammad Aslam’s carpets were not good enough even for the poorest people in Persia. ‘But these Hindus,’ he had said, ‘what do they know of carpets? Let him thrive while he can, but we shall not allow even his shadow to darken our court.’

  They passed by the diamond cutters, the ruby dealers, the pearl sellers. Much of the jewels in the royal household came from the white countries of the West, but these local traders ought to be good enough for the common folk. Akbar tried to remember whom these dwellings belonged to, but unable to read the signs mounted at the top, and too proud to ask Hussain to read them for him, he remained silent, resolving to know everything about the city of Agra once he ascended to the throne in earnest.