‘I do not know what it is, my lady, so I must act as if I can.’
‘But you know that you cannot.’
‘Perhaps when you look back on your life, it all seems like it has been destined, like it is the only way it could have happened.’
‘Could it have happened any other way?’
Mahesh Das tried to meet her gaze once, but she would not look at him. She kept staring at some distant point behind his right shoulder, through the open window.
‘We must live life as though anything were possible, my lady, even though it is all pre-ordained.’
‘If it is all pre-ordained,’ she asked lightly, a hint of a smile colouring her lips, ‘then why not give up?’
‘Some do,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘and insist that destiny wanted them to give up.’
A servant girl—a plump young thing with light brown eyes and a dimple in her chin, who had smiled sweetly at him when he entered—who stood next to Gulbadan Begum now bent to her mistress and said something in her ear.
Gulbadan Begum shook her head, and resumed her minute examination of the scenery behind Mahesh Das’s shoulder.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
‘I hope you have not called upon me to debate the wiles of fate, my good sir,’ said Gulbadan Begum. ‘If so, I must tell you that my nephew, Akbar, finds the subject much more interesting than I do.’
‘My lady, no,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘I have come here to speak with you about Bairam Khan.’
‘Bairam Khan?’ she said. ‘Why should I have anything to say about Bairam Khan?’
‘Because the regent was murdered last night.’
‘Ah.’ Gulbadan Begum waved at the air in front of her eyes. ‘Life is too short to waste time speaking of the dead.’ She looked at him finally. ‘Especially if the dead is a man of Bairam Khan’s nature.’
‘And what nature is that, my lady?’
Her lips spread into a smile. ‘You seem quite intent on asking questions, sir. Let me just say that Bairam Khan spent much of his life driving knives into other people’s backs, and it is only fair that Allah saw it fit to take his life in that very manner.’
‘You do not seem to have any intention, Begum, of finding Bairam Khan’s murderer, then.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you misunderstand me. I do wish you find his killer, so that I can bless his hands and proclaim him a hero of Agra!’
‘My lady!’
‘Sit down, Mahesh Das. That is your name, is it not?’
‘Yes,’ said Mahesh Das, sitting down on his chair again.
‘If you wish to survive in the Mughal court, you will take a more suitable name, like Mustafa, perhaps. And if I were you, I would start growing hair on the scalp and around your chin too.’ She gestured at her own chest. ‘And you will do well to get rid of that thread, and for Allah’s sake, do find some yourself decent clothes! You do not wish everyone at the palace staring at you wherever you go, do you?’
‘No, my lady, I do not.’
‘Then you shall do what I say.’ Gulbadan Begum clicked her fingers once, and the brown-eyed girl walked away, throwing one lingering look at Mahesh Das.
‘You must think me a heartless woman for speaking of Bairam Khan that way,’ she said, after the maid had retreated to a safe distance. ‘But I do think Agra is better off without that worm crawling his way all over the emperor’s throne. Do you not agree?’
‘I, my lady, am a lowly Brahmin. My opinion does not matter.’
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You do not speak like a Brahmin. You remind me of one of those cloth traders that come here every month from down south. They speak in strange languages, these men, as if they wish to chase and grapple with their own tongues. But they are clever; they tell you what you like to hear.’ She dabbed her lips with the very end of her garment. ‘I think you are the same—you tell us what we would like to hear.’
Beads of sweat gathered on the back of Mahesh Das’s neck. He sent his right hand under the plait of hair and wiped it away. ‘Perhaps I should rephrase,’ he said carefully, looking up once to meet the lady’s calm gaze. ‘I should say that I have not been at court long enough to form an opinion of Bairam Khan.’
‘At least not the living form of Bairam Khan,’ she said smiling. ‘You must have heard enough about him from the lips of everyone in the royal family. Tell me, Mahesh Das, what does his wife, Salima Begum, make of him?’
‘She is yet to grant me an audience, my lady.’
‘Ah. After you meet her, I wish you would come back and tell me what she thinks of the whole affair. Would you?’
Mahesh Das bowed. ‘If that is your command, Begum, I shall.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and her eyes acquired that cloudy look of being in a dream. ‘The girl is plainly in love with Jalal, but she had to marry Bairam Khan and have a child with him. I wonder what is going through her mind now.’ She bit her bottom lip. Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
This was the liveliest she had been ever since their conversation had begun. Gulbadan Begum evidently liked speaking about others more than herself.
‘I think Salima is secretly happy that her husband is dead. Now there is a good chance that Jalal will marry her, even she must know that.’
‘I wonder if there is anyone in the household who is sad at the regent’s passing.’
Gulbadan Begum chuckled and shook her head.
‘Not even the emperor?’
‘Jalal? He is relieved. Trust me, I am his aunt. I have seen him since he was a toddler, playing with wooden horses and toy swords.’
‘Atgah Khan?’
‘Happy! No two people who are friends for that long can truly love each other, Mahesh Das. It is only the world that sees love where I see resentment, jealousy, and even hate.’
‘Ruqaiya Begum?’
The lady thought for a moment, then sighed. ‘Poor Ruqaiya. She does not have it in her to dislike even the cruellest of people. But I think in her own kind way, she disliked Bairam Khan, because he was always urging Jalal to take more queens, so that he could have a son.’
‘So, this man, who built this empire with his two hands all these years, who ruled Agra as regent, fought and won countless wars for the emperor has no one in the royal household who will shed a tear for him?’
Gulbadan Begum smiled and waved to one of the maids to draw the window shutters. The sky had turned dark and the peaks of the mountains had slunk behind the curtain of evening. A streak of lightning revealed the silvery outlines of the clouds, and then a slap of thunder came to their ears.
‘You have a sentimental view of life, Mahesh Das,’ she said. ‘It is just our false belief in the notion that we are important that makes us think that when we die, we will leave behind a sea of weeping mourners. The truth is that we leave in silence and the world will not at all miss us.’
‘Who do you think killed Bairam Khan, my lady?’ Mahesh Das asked.
‘How should I know?’
‘I think you may have an inkling of who it may have been.’
‘Oh,’ said Gulbadan Begum smiling, ‘You know as well as I who it could have been. All the women turned their noses up at Salima yesterday, at the way she whisked the emperor away for a “private conversation”.’
He thought of Salima Begum—the short, thin, frail wife of Bairam Khan. He thought of her shivering little frame by her husband’s body, her face buried in her small hands as she sobbed. He thought of how it was she who had first discovered Bairam Khan’s dead body, and how it was her cry that had alerted the servants.
‘Could she have stabbed a man of Bairam Khan’s strength?’ he said.
‘A woman is capable of much, Mahesh Das, if she is provoked beyond reason.’
‘And you think she has been?’
‘I am but a woman,’ said Gulbadan Begum. ‘I can imagine what she must have gone through in the course of her marriage to that man. How she must have burned watching Jalal and Ruqaiya together, knowing all the whi
le that she could have given Jalal the son that Ruqaiya cannot. And then to have to leave behind the glorious palace life and go away to Mecca? It would have meant going away from Jalal, never seeing him again.’ She shrugged. ‘But I could be wrong. I am just an old woman after all.’
The maid returned, hesitantly, and bowed to Gulbadan Begum. Somewhere in the corner, Mahesh Das heard the sound of crockery and the smell of steamed mutton filled the air. ‘It is time for the lady’s meals,’ said the girl in a whisper. Another girl, younger and thinner than this one, appeared and sat down by the sitar. After a few moments of strumming, she began to play a low, soulful melody.
This was his cue to leave. He got up.
‘Mahesh Das, I like you. Jalal has done well,’ Gulbadan Begum said, looking him square in the eye.
‘Thank you, my lady.’ Mahesh Das bowed.
A vessel of warm water was brought to her, and Gulbadan Begum dipped her white hands into it with a sigh. ‘But most importantly, remember my words.’
Mahesh Das raised a confused eyebrow.
‘Grow a beard and a head full of hair. Real men have hair on their heads.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ he said, turning to leave.
Twenty One
THE SMELL OF chrysanthemums and wet jasmine had welcomed him when he stepped into the room, and Mahesh Das felt as though he had stepped into a garden early in the morning. It would have left a gay impression on his mind, but for the sombre figure in black who sat hunched in front of him with her hands clasped in front of her.
Salima Sultan Begum was draped in black up to her wrists and ankles. A black netted veil hung over her face, and although Mahesh Das could not see her eyes clearly, he could tell that she had been crying.
Or if what Gulbadan Begum had said was right, she was pretending.
If those smudges around the eyes are just pretence, thought Mahesh Das, then she is a fine actress. He had taken a moment at the entrance to question one of the maids if the lady had eaten, and she had told him that Salima Begum had not touched a morsel of food for the last two nights and days. Mahesh Das didn’t know whether to believe it or not, after all she could have instructed her servants to say so.
Mahesh Das noticed that the waiting women in Salima’s chambers had plainer appearances than those that he had seen in Gulbadan and Ruqaiya Begum’s rooms. Here, the girls were older and they attended to their tasks with leisure. There was none of that crisp efficiency of Gulbadan Begum’s brown-eyed girl, or the quiet omnipresence of Ruqaiya Begum’s maid.
No one stood by Salima Begum and comforted her. No one held her black tunic from draping the tiles. No one whispered in her ears or fussed over her.
‘I wish you had visited at a better time, sir,’ she said, holding a folded piece of cotton cloth under her nose, covering her mouth. ‘I would have taken more pains to give you a fitting welcome.’
‘Begum Salima,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘you must not worry about others at a time like this. I am but a poor priest who has lived all his life in a village. This is more grandeur than my body can handle.’ He smiled, nodding at the maid who had brought a jug of water and a bunch of fresh grapes.
‘I have heard your tale from the emperor. He thinks rather highly of you.’
‘It is to my good fortune.’
‘He thinks that you will make a fine courtier.’
‘If that happens some day, Begum, there shall be no luckier man on this earth than me.’
Salima Begum lifted her veil over her head and looked up to meet his gaze. She had an olive complexion, unusual for princesses that came from the mountains of Kabul, but her skin was taut, as though it had been lit by a soft brown lamp from within. Her eyes bore both the colour and nature of a cat’s.
He cleared his throat and said, ‘It must pain you, this sudden loss of your husband.’
This brought tears to her eyes. ‘He was not just my husband, good sir. He was the father of my son. Now he and I have both become orphans.’
‘I am certain the emperor will take good care of you both, Begum.’
‘The emperor has a kind heart,’ said Salima, ‘but he has matters of his own to attend. He cannot plunge himself into the affairs of the harem.’
‘I am certain, too, that he shall care for your young son as if he were his own.’
‘Are you certain of that? So perhaps I should entreat him to make my son the next crown prince!’ Her lips opened like a rose bud eager to flower.
Mahesh Das could now see what it was about her that the emperor found enchanting. Now, even Gulbadan Begum’s suspicion of her seemed unsurprising. Any woman could not help but be envious of such radiant beauty. Any man could not help but wish to possess it.
‘You seem to have lost yourself,’ she was saying, and Mahesh Das cleared his throat once again. ‘Perhaps my jest was in poor taste.’
‘No, my lady,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘My mind tends to wander.’
‘A restless mind,’ she said, ‘is a sign of great intelligence, they say.’
‘And a steady one a sign of great ruthlessness.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Your husband must have been a great warrior, a man of great ambition. A man with a clear, focused mind.’
She thought about that. ‘Perhaps.’
‘He must have seen that he was on the cusp of kingship. Did he ever confide his dreams in you, Begum? Did he ever tell you, perhaps, of how he wished to one day rule Agra as the sole emperor?’
‘Everyone says that he had designs for the throne,’ she sighed.
‘Did he not?’
‘No! He worshipped the emperor more fervently than any other person in the world, sir. If you trust just one person’s word of all that you hear in this palace, let it be mine. I am his wife. I knew him better than any of these other people. Bairam Khan loved…no, worshiped the ground beneath his feet. Let no man or woman ever make you doubt that.’
‘But my lady,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘he led a mutiny against the emperor.’
‘Because he was left with no choice! That was the only course left to him by Maham Anga.’ When he opened his mouth to speak, she silenced him with a wave of her arm, which made the diamond bangles on her wrist tinkle. ‘If he had won the battle, what do you think he would have done? He would have brought Akbar back to the palace and he would have advised him on what to do.’
‘Some say that he would have usurped the throne.’
Salima Begum laughed. ‘Bairam Khan had more than seven years to usurp the throne, good sir. For much of that time, Akbar did not even know what was going on in his city. All he had time for was riding—both horses and…women. Do you really think that if Bairam Khan had designs to become emperor, he would have waited all those years? And do you think anyone would have stopped him if he had truly set his mind to it?’
The answer seemed plain. No. He wouldn’t have waited so long.
‘I would like to know,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘what happened on the day of your husband’s death.’
Her eyes grew moist again but she blinked the tears away.
‘It pains me to bring you such discomfort, Begum,’ said Mahesh Das with all the earnestness he could muster. ‘But the till Bairam Khan’s killer is not caught the emperor’s life is in danger. Your husband would not like that, would he?’
She shook her head.
‘He would have liked you to keep him safe, would he not?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She sniffed.
‘Then please tell me what happened last night.’
‘There is little to tell,’ she said. ‘The emperor and I were among the first to leave from the dining room. We went to his chambers.’
‘At what time was this?’
‘We reached the emperor’s rooms shortly before the ninth stroke, I remember.’
‘What time did you leave his chambers?’
‘It was right after the eleventh stroke.’
Mahesh Das raised an eyebrow. ‘You were with the king for two hours, my
lady?’
‘Yes,’ said Salima. ‘You know how it is with conversations between old friends. Neither of us knew how fast the time had flown.’
‘Did you go back straight to Bairam Khan’s chamber?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The half-gong after the eleventh had gone off when I entered the room.’
‘And did you– yes, what is it?’ Mahesh Das scowled in irritation. Amaid had come in and stood between them with her head bowed. The girl showed no signs of remorse, just stood there like a statue looking down at her feet.
‘Speak!’ Salima ordered.
‘My lady, the emperor has sent for Mahesh Das to his chambers immediately.’
Salima looked at Mahesh Das.
‘Immediately, you say? Or do we have a few moments to finish my conversation with the Begum?’
‘This very moment, sir,’ said the girl. ‘The emperor’s orders.’
Mahesh Das sighed and got to his feet. He bowed to Salima Begum, who stood up and gave him a curt nod. ‘We shall speak more soon,’ she said.
‘We shall, Begum. I am certain of that.’
* * *
Akbar stood before him, stiff as a stone pillar. His face was grim. Half his face was shrouded in darkness.
Mahesh Das noticed that there were many more guards in the room today. He took two steps in Akbar’s direction, and the guards around them seemed to do the same. He bowed. Akbar did not acknowledge it.
‘You tell me you are a priest, Mahesh Das,’ Akbar said suddenly.
The first stirrings of fear began in his heart. ‘Yes, Jahanpanah, I am.’
‘For the lies you have told me, I could have you beheaded this very instant!’
Mahesh Das heard the spears around him go up. Just one command from the emperor’s lips…
‘You are the emperor of Agra, my lord. You could have anyone beheaded for any crime, real or otherwise. I am but your humble servant,’ Mahesh Das said.
‘Enough with the words!’Akbar had no turban or crown on his head. His hair was matted and thick. ‘A spy has returned from your village just this evening, bearing news of your life and deeds before you came here.’
The Crows of Agra Page 12