‘We did not think that a warrior such as you would surrender without landing a blow, Khan Baba,’ Akbar said, trying his best to keep his voice from breaking.
Bairam Khan bowed, and his helmet fell pathetically off his head to the ground and rolled to Akbar’s feet. ‘They told me that is your will, Your Highness.’
The old dog was not above showboating, thought Akbar. Now that Bairam Khan was in his power, he would of course say that he had always meant to surrender. Then why did he move his army all these miles? Why did he have to wait until his elephants got trapped in the paddy fields to remember that he had to obey the emperor’s will?
If Maham Anga had been here, she would have passed the order for Bairam Khan’s execution. Once a servant proves himself disobedient to your word, he had heard her say on many occasions, you behead him in plain sight of all the others of his ilk. So that they know what is in store for them if they did the same thing.
Akbar looked away at the swaying lanterns and sighed.
He signalled to the soldiers to let the regent go. This was no servant. This was his uncle, his guardian, his Khan Baba. He saw surprise wash over Bairam Khan’s face when the hands around his arms loosened their grip and then fell away.
‘We do not have anything against you, Baba,’ Akbar said.
‘Jalal.’
Akbar got to his feet, came to his uncle, and held him by the shoulders. ‘Come, sir, come and sit by us on our seat.’ He guided him to the cushioned couch on which he had been sitting. After the old man had taken his seat and made himself comfortable, Akbar sat with him, clasping Bairam Khan’s hand in his. ‘It pains me that it has come to this, Baba, that we had to call our armies against each other.’
‘If only you would listen,’ said Bairam Khan. ‘There is much afoot at the harem that you do not know.’
‘We trust you. We are certain that you shall see to it.’
‘You trust too many people too easily, Jalal.’ Bairam Khan’s quick eyes darted up at the standing figure of Mahesh Das. ‘An emperor cannot afford to be so liberal with his trust.’
Akbar smiled, and motioned to the soldiers for a vessel of warm water. ‘Let us get you some fresh linen, Baba, and then you must rest.’
‘You will still not listen to me.’
‘The time for listening and speaking is past, Baba.’ Akbar felt a slice of anger rise within him, but he smothered it. His voice remained soft and tender. ‘You are not the warrior or ruler you once were.’
Bairam Khan relaxed to Akbar’s touch, and looked down at the floor. A tumbler of steaming water and two white towels were brought to him.
Upon Akbar’s instructions, the soldiers washed the regent’s feet, massaged them with their hands, and dried them.
‘Let us fight no more, Baba,’ said Akbar. ‘Tomorrow, we will ride back to the city, and once we get there, we shall make arrangements for your departure to Mecca.’
‘Jalal–’
‘Shh. That has been your wish for years. We know. And we see that your hair has become grey. You have given your life to the Mughal throne, my lord. It would be selfish of us if we used you as support all through your life. This is our time. Let us take over. For you, the great journey beckons.’
They wrapped warm towels around the old man’s shoulders. Without his helmet, he now looked like any other tailor or cobbler on the street. His eyes still had that spark in them, Akbar noticed, but life appeared to be leaving him, one drop at a time.
‘Take him to the tent next to ours,’ he said to the soldiers, ‘and tend to him well. Make preparations for our journey back to Agra at dawn.’
Eleven
NEVER BEFORE IN his life had Mahesh Das had seen so many jewels.
The Imperial dining room was smaller than he had imagined. A black teak table took up more than half the room, and the cushioned red chairs lined up along its edges, stayed vacant. The royals had their own little thrones set up against the walls, and each one had three or four maids milling about them like bees around a flower.
Mahesh Das sat in one corner. Every now and then the emperor would lock eyes with him and send over a servant to ask if he wanted anything to eat or drink, but the rest of them never looked at him for more than a few seconds at a time.
The boy standing next to him with a jug in his hands bent forward and said, ‘Shall I fill your glass, huzoor?’
Mahesh Das shook his head, even though his mouth watered at the aroma rising out of the amphora. ‘No, my boy. But you will do me a favour if you tell me who these people are. Do you know them all?’
‘Sir, yes, sir.’
Akbar said something to the gathering at the moment in a loud voice, and three of the women tittered. An older woman sat to the far end, with two attendants on either side, and Mahesh Das noted that she had no jewellery on her except for a single bright sapphire around her neck, held up by a silver thread.
‘That is Gulbadan Begum,’ said the boy, ‘the emperor’s aunt, sister of Late Hindal Mirza, brother to Humayun.’
Mahesh Das looked at her bare wrists and her plain white garment. But his eyes kept returning to the sapphire. It would be worth at least a hundred mohurs of gold, he thought.
‘The lady sitting to the emperor’s right is Her Highness, Ruqaiya Begum.’
There was more to look at here. Bracelets around the wrists, cummerbunds around the waist, three different kinds of necklaces, earrings, anklets. There was gold, there was silver, there were diamonds and pearls. Four maids surrounded her, two on each side. One was fanning her. Another was offering her fruits. The third kept adjusting the cushion of the seat, and the fourth massaged her ring-studded fingers.
‘Maham Anga and Adham Khan,’ said the boy, nodding at a crone and a young man toward the emperor’s left. ‘She is the king’s foster mother, and he is her son.’ The old woman came decked in fine silk and an assortment of ivory hairpins stuck out of her white hair. The nose ring sported a diamond as large as any that Mahesh Das had seen in his life. The boy looked much like a girl, with his shoulder-length hair and shiny skin. Mahesh Das noted that the edges of his kurta were lined with gold.
‘Bairam Khan and his wife, Salima Sultan Begum.’ Mahesh Das did not immediately recognize the regent from the war prisoner of two days ago. In the tent he had looked dishevelled and worn out, but now he carried a regal air. The smile on his lips seemed a bit forced; something seemed to be weighing on his mind.
Salima Begum was petite, as small as some of the waiting women. The jewels she wore did not match those worn by the empress, and yet it seemed to Mahesh Das that she was the most radiant woman in the room. The emperor’s eyes and hers met often, he noticed.
The emperor beckoned him over. Mahesh Das got up, fumbling with his upper garment, and hurried to where the royals sat. As he came closer, the faces became sharper; he could see the shapes of noses, the darkness of their eyes, the lushness of hair, and the sumptuousness of their jewels. There must be enough wealth in this room to last the whole city of Agra for a whole year, he thought.
‘This is Mahesh Das,’ said Akbar out loud, sitting up and holding out his goblet of wine. ‘He saved our life from the bandits. If we are here today, alive and well among loved ones, then it is he who is to be praised.’
Mahesh Das bowed. ‘All I did was my duty, Your Highness.’
At that moment, a gong was struck, eight times. Maham Anga got up from her seat, her arm supported by Adham Khan. She considered Mahesh Das on her way out, and murmured something under her breath. To Akbar she said, ‘Jalal, I am retiring for the night.’
Akbar got up and bowed. Maham Anga patted him on his shoulder and hobbled away.
After she left, Akbar took Mahesh Das by the arm and walked him to a small bearded man who sat with his arms folded away from the rest. ‘Have you met Atgah Khan? He is like an uncle to us, and a fine, fine general to any army. I thank Allah every day that he fights on our side.’
Atgah Khan raised his hand to his chest and bowe
d. Mahesh Das returned the gesture.
‘And you have met Khan Baba too, have you not?’ Akbar said, guiding him to Bairam Khan, who looked up and smiled, his eyes little nuggets of emeralds. He would be an unpleasant man to be locked up in a room alone with, thought Mahesh Das, and a part of him felt glad that the regent was going away to Mecca the morning after.
It suddenly struck Mahesh Das that only the emperor was trying to keep up the spirits of the party, walking around, cracking jokes, and calling for the poets, while the rest of them seemed disinterested in the goings-on. They seemed eager to leave and retire to their private chambers.
At the half-hour stroke after the eighth, Salima Begum stood up, bowed to the emperor and said, ‘It is time for the audience that you sought, Your Majesty.’
‘Lady Salima, yes,’ said Akbar, finishing his glass and standing up. To the people present he said, ‘Lady Salima and I have a few pressing matters to discuss before she leaves for Mecca with Khan Baba tomorrow. And I shall retire to my chambers after the meeting. But the rest of you need not go just yet. There are poets and singers to entertain you throughout the night, if that pleases you.’
He escorted Salima Begum out of the room, one step behind. Mahesh Das turned to look at Ruqaiya Begum. What did he expect? A flash of envy, perhaps? But no, her calm never wavered.
He retreated to his corner. With the emperor gone, no one in the room paid him any attention. They did not speak among themselves much either, even as the poet began to recite some old Persian verses. Mahesh Das tried to catch the meaning of some of the words for a while, then gave up. He went back to his favourite pastime: appraising the gold and silver that abounded in the room, and making estimates on how much more there would be in the royal treasury.
After about twenty minutes, he tired of that too, and left by the side door to the chambers which had been allotted to him.
Twelve
BAIRAM KHAN TOOK OFF his regent’s uniform and laid it on the bed. He turned to the mirror and gazed at the polished silver frame for a moment. His eyes met with those of his reflection.
He removed his necklaces, one by one. First went the pearls. Then the emeralds. He laid them gingerly on the dresser. While removing his earrings, his eye caught the patch of silver just above his sideburns. In his beard too he saw specks near his left cheek that bristled against the night light. He grimaced.
Two short strikes of the gong came to his ears, indicating it was quarter to ten. Bairam Khan listened to the silence with both hands still on his earring. In the mirror’s reflection he saw the open door leading into the front room of his chambers.
He changed into his nightclothes, a milky white kurta-pyjama with a thick black, hand-woven border of roses lining the sleeves. Without his jewellery and armour on, he felt light, as if he were walking on air. He went into the front room, looked up at the two broken candle stands on the far wall that have left that part of the room in darkness. The five life-sized tin soldiers who stood by the weapons cabinet looked like silhouettes of real men.
As he smiled sadly at the figures and their hidden faces, his right hand went up to his waist and adjusted an invisible scabbard.
He heard steps along the corridor. Turning and taking a couple of steps toward the front door so that he can face the incoming visitor, he held an expectant smile ready on his lips.
A knock sounded on the door, and he said, ‘Come in.’
When the person walked in, Bairam Khan's face changed.
‘You?’ he said.
* * *
The half-hour gong after the eleventh had just gone off.
Salima Sultan Begum stood at the bottom of the steps that would lead her down the corridor to Bairam Khan's room. She thought she heard voices in the garden below. She stepped off the path and walked around the bend in the hedge that led to the water fountain. Past the fountain, she stepped onto a little clearing. This little garden was out of plain sight of the courtyard and the corridor, and yet within earshot an irate master’s call. Above them, Bairam Khan’s window loomed ominously. There, with their backs to the stony wall of the house, sat a young man and a brown-eyed girl, neither of whom she recognized.
When she approached they got up hurriedly and bowed.
‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.
‘My lady, the regent asked to be left alone, so all the waiting women left for the harem.’
‘It is rather late. Go back to your chambers, both of you.’
‘My lady, yes,’ said the boy.
She turned around and walked back to Bairam Khan’s chambers. In front of the ornate timber door she stood for a second, listening. No sound came from inside. She knocked. No answer. She brought the heavy door knocker down against the wood. Again, all she heard was silence. She pushed against the door, and found that it gave rather easily. It had not been bolted. Then she disappeared into the room and closed the door behind her.
A few minutes later, the servants outside, who were now just about to leave, heard a bloodcurdling shriek from Bairam Khan’s room.
Thirteen
MAHESH DAS AWOKE in a wave of panic. He blinked rapidly, but his eyes burned still. When he rubbed his face, he realized his palms were oiled with sweat. His throat itched. He passed his tongue over his lips, which felt like a sheet of coarse cotton. There was that salty taste to them, too, that reminded him of better times. Happier times, when there had been enough pickle to go with every piece of roti, and enough laughter to go with every meal.
A goblet and an amphora lay next to him on the brass table beside his satchel. He reached for them and poured a glassful. In the darkness he did not know whether it was water or wine. He had heard that no one in the royal palace ever drank water. He did not care.
The liquid passed through his neck without burning it, and cooled his stomach when it reached there. Greedily he took another gulp, sighing in relief.
Just then a clang came to his ears, from the direction of the courtyard. He got to his feet, wrapped a dry bed sheet around him like a shawl (the stone palace got colder than his mud shack did at night), and went to the window.
Torches were being lit in the courtyard, just outside the harem. Lanterns were being pumped with oil. The darkened palace windows were flickering to life.
Just then, there was a knock on his door.
* * *
‘Yes,’ said Mahesh Das.
‘My lord,’ said a voice. ‘The emperor wants you down by the courtyard.’
‘Come in, my man,’ said Mahesh Das.
A servant came in, dressed in a smart purple turban and a yellow kurta. ‘Now tell me what is the matter.’
‘Sir, it is the regent, sir.’
‘The emperor or the regent?’
‘Sir, the regent, sir. He’s dead! He has been murdered!’
* * *
Maham Anga responded to the news of Bairam Khan’s death with a remote nod at the messenger. She had been sitting at her usual spot, her favourite mustard shawl wrapped around her and pinned to the shoulder so that she would not need to tighten it every now and then. She had just finished knitting the petals on the hibiscus. For the fronds underneath she needed wool of a pale yellow colour. She had just been about to reach for the ivory casket to her right when a pale looking maid came running to the door, almost tripped over the frame and stumbled in, but caught herself with just enough control to bow in her direction.
‘Yes, Imaan.’
‘My lady.’
‘Awake at this hour?’
‘Yes, my lady. The emperor has asked for the gong to be sounded.’
‘Can it not wait for sunrise?’
‘I am afraid not, my lady. It is rather serious, the matter.’
‘Then you should perhaps spill it out without mumbling like a fool!’
‘Yes, my lady.’ The girl’s long face twitched, and her freckles appeared redder in the light of the room. ‘The regent has passed on, my lady.’
‘Passed on? Was he not supposed to pass
on tomorrow, to Mecca?’
‘No, my lady, not to Mecca!’ The girl faced Maham Anga now, and the old lady saw the young eyes dance with excitement. ‘He is dead!’
For the briefest of moments, Maham Anga’s needles got stuck in mid-air, and the whites of her fingernails went pink with pressure. But then she nodded the girl away, and after she was alone again, she reached for the casket for the yellow wool. She finished the two remaining stitches of that line. Then she set the needles aside and looked up at the painting under which she sat, one in which a pair of horses – one white, one black – were wrestling one another on a patch of grass in a meadow. Her eyes travelled from there to the picture of Adham that hung by the wall on the far side.
She sighed and got up to her feet.
* * *
Adham Khan woke to the sound of the gong with a smile on his lips.
He waited for his eyes to adjust to the pitch darkness, and as smudges appeared and formed into discernible shapes, he glanced at the sleeping form of the girl next to him. He stole under the sheet to cup her breast in his palm. Her nipple was still erect.
She stirred, and threw an arm around him. He kissed her on the cheek, whispered to her, watched her fall back into peaceful sleep.
When the gong went off again, he looked out at the open window. The breeze had gotten colder since they had fallen asleep, bathed in each other’s sweat. Now the girl curled in on herself.
Reaching for his snuff box, he flipped the jewelled case open and dipped two of his fingers into the powder. The smell went straight to his loins, and before he knew it his hand had moved to her breasts again, but this time it travelled down her body, not bothering to touch her anywhere until he felt the hairy mound of her sex.
Just as her body began to respond to him again, though, a servant knocked on the door.
Gruffly he asked: ‘Who’s there? Come back tomorrow!’
The Crows of Agra Page 6