The Crows of Agra

by Sharath Komarraju

  ‘Sire,’ said Mahesh Das, closing his eyes.

  This was it then. His game was up.

  Twenty Two

  ‘PERHAPS I COULD tell you a little of your story. Will you correct me where I go wrong?’ Akbar said.

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘You are a priest, but only by day. At night you are a thief and steal from the very people at whose houses you perform rites and rituals. Is that not so?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’ His best chance of survival, thought Mahesh Das, was to agree to everything Akbar said. If Akbar had wanted to behead him, then he would have done so without making conversation. If he wanted to speak, it meant that Mahesh Das still had a slim chance of life.

  ‘You are part of that very bandit team that you pretended to save me from,’ said Akbar. ‘I have heard from the spy that this is your method: the other thieves make a show of capturing nobleman and pretend as though they are going to kill him, and at just the right moment you appear and “save” them.’

  ‘Yes, Jahanpanah.’

  ‘And then you become friends with the trader or nobleman, follow him to his house, become his priest, and after a few weeks or months, you and your band of thieves ransack the trader’s house and strip him of all he has.’

  Mahesh Das felt a layer of cold sweat gather on his inner thighs, under his dhoti. He kept one hand pressed down on his chest to hold his shawl in place. Who was this spy who knew so much about him? Had he managed to capture Bihari?

  It did not matter. He licked his lips. Salty as sea water.

  ‘It is a great ploy,’ said Akbar. ‘The nobleman will be indebted to you for saving his life and he will listen to all the advice you give him. You can then manipulate him into doing exactly the right things for your bandit brothers. And at the end of it all, the best part is that he will never suspect you. You can pull off this charade over and over again, forever staying above the law, above suspicion.’

  ‘I…beg your pardon, sire. That life is now behind me.’

  ‘And this whole plan,’ said Akbar, ‘means that neither you nor the bandits will ever have to shed blood. You never have to kill anyone, which means you will never be wanted by the king’s men.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘You have fooled us with your stratagem too. You have crawled into our palace, and now you must be setting out a plan to ransack the treasury.’

  Mahesh Das opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but what was the use? He shut his eyes and said, ‘Yes, Jahanpanah, that was indeed the plan.’

  ‘But we are not one of those foolish noblemen that you have robbed throughout your life. We are the emperor! We have found you out, you lying snake.’

  ‘I beg for pardon, my lord,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘You have got it all correct. I came here with the sole purpose of finding a way to your treasury. We thought that if we do this one job well, we could ourselves become merchants or traders and bid goodbye to this life of robbery and deceit.’

  ‘And now, perhaps, you could bid goodbye to your life once and for all, for daring to deceive the Shehenshah himself.’

  Mahesh Das rose to his full height and said, ‘My lord, please hear me out. It is true that we plotted to rob you, but now that I have served you—for however short a time—as a servant, I wish to do it for the rest of my life, if you permit me.’

  Akbar waved away the approaching guards. Mahesh Das guessed that they would have been trained in matters of overhearing the emperor’s conversation with his audience, and whenever he used words of an abusive or threatening nature, they would converge, ready to pounce. Now, at Akbar’s cautionary finger, they retreated a couple of steps. Mahesh Das could no longer hear their waiting breaths.

  He pressed on. ‘You are not safe with Bairam Khan dead, Your Highness. Let me catch his killer, and ensure that you, our emperor, is safe. And then you can choose to have me whipped or sent to the gallows if you deem fit.’

  ‘You are asking us to trust a roadside thief?’

  ‘There is much honour in the code of roadside bandits, Jahanpanah,’ said Mahesh Das, and encouraged by the hint of smile that appeared on Akbar’s mouth, he continued. ‘If I break your trust this time, you know where I live. You know what I look like. You know my story. You will have no trouble catching me even if I manage to somehow escape the palace walls.’

  Akbar thought about it for a second. ‘That is true.’

  ‘One false move from me and you can have me beheaded, sire.’ Mahesh Das fell to his knees, pressing his nose on the cold marble at Akbar’s feet. ‘I only wish to serve you, Your Highness, and protect you from all these dark forces conspire to kill you.’

  ‘And in return you ask for–’

  ‘Just give me the gift of your forgiveness, my lord,’ said Mahesh Das to the floor.

  For a long moment, he heard nothing but silence. Mahesh Das counted up from one, to two, then to three. He reached out and touched the tips of the emperor’s toes with his fingers. ‘Your humble servant, Jahanpanah,’ he said.

  He heard the click of fingers. He did not dare to look up, but from the corner of his eye, he saw the guards retreat further, until they disappeared out of sight.

  ‘On your feet!’

  Mahesh Das got on his haunches and stood up in one smooth motion.

  ‘Do you have any weapons on you?’ asked Akbar.

  ‘No, my lord,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘I do not even know how to handle a kitchen knife.’

  Once again Akbar broke into a slight smile.

  The sweat from his armpits began to dry.

  Akbar sent all the guards out of the room, keeping only two at the door. With another gesture, a food cart appeared, wheeled by two young boys with moustaches and nervous eyes. Spread on it were cut apples, plucked grapes, silver bowls of yoghurt and cheese, plates with pickled beef and curried chicken.

  Mahesh Das suddenly realized that he was ravenous.

  And when Akbar said, ‘Shall we eat?’ all Mahesh Das could do was nod stupidly like a child.

  * * *

  They ate in silence.

  Mahesh Das, now with his Brahmin skin shed, tore into the chicken breasts and the goat liver. Relief sharpened his hunger pangs. In the first few minutes of the meal he tried to keep his chewing sounds down—he was with the emperor after all—but once he got to the oiled coriander powder and smeared it on his figs, decorum flew out of the window.

  Akbar did not seem to mind. He ate with the cultured and fussy manner of a king—now picking a piece of this, now tasting a bit of that. Every now and then, though, his eyes would come to settle on Mahesh Das.

  He once again felt like a caged exotic animal, but this time Mahesh Das did not mind. It was better that being a dead caged exotic animal.

  The food disappeared from the table bit by bit. Mahesh Das’s speed of eating slowed at the same rate. When at last he lifted the glass of buttermilk to his mouth, his stomach protested, but he downed it anyway in one purposeful gulp. The final belch of satisfaction brought with it the mixed aroma of spices, turmeric, and meat.

  Akbar swabbed at his lips with a towel and signalled to the boys. They came and wheeled the cart away.

  From outside the window, a crow cawed once, then twice. Then another one responded. In no time at all, the air filled with the cacophony of cackles. In the emperor’s garden stood an imposing Gulmohur tree, and this was the season of ripening. Mahesh Das had seen the crows perched on its branches that evening, some hopping from twig to twig, some hiding their heads under their wings.

  Akbar maintained a stony expression until the birds quietened down. Then he said, ‘How many crows do you suppose are there in Agra, Mahesh Das?’

  Mahesh Das was reminded of the long summer nights in his village, when he used to sleep on the floor beside the head priest’s cot. They would look up at the stars and tell each other stories. Mahesh Das had once asked him how many stars there were in the sky. Without batting an eyelid, the priest replied: ‘As many grains of rice
as there are in a cartload.’ And when he asked how he knew, the priest replied: ‘Do you not believe me? Then count them and tell me if the numbers do not match.’

  He Akbar’s question was similar to the one he had asked so many years ago.

  Removing the toothpick from his teeth and placing it at the edge of the table in front of him, he said, ‘How fortunate that I had very recently counted all the crows in the city, Your Highness! The number is thirty four thousand five hundred and eighty three.’

  Akbar’s left brow rose in a curve. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘By my last count, sir, yes.’

  ‘So if I get them counted and your number is not correct?’

  ‘Jahanpanah,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘My number cannot be incorrect. I have spent four years of my life going from one street of Agra to the next, painstakingly counting them. I am certain my answer is correct.’

  Goblets were brought out, placed on the table. They were filled with wine, first Akbar’s, then his.

  ‘But for the sake of argument,’ said Akbar, ‘let us say the number we count is less than yours.’

  ‘I can think of only one possibility as to why that would be.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Some of the crows from Delhi and Udaipur keep coming to Agra and leaving. In my count, I did not include them, because how can you count a traveller, who is here one moment and gone the next?’

  Akbar smiled. He reached for his goblet and nodded at Mahesh Das to do the same. As the first gulp slid down his throat, Akbar said, ‘And what if the number we count is more than yours?’

  ‘Some of the crows from Agra keep going to Delhi and Udaipur, Your Highness. I did not include them in my count because who knows if and when they will return? So if your count is greater than mine, perhaps some of these travelling crows have returned.’

  Akbar laughed. It was the first time Mahesh Das had seen him throw his head back so vigorously, causing his eyes to become slits. The wine in his goblet plopped up and down and the sound of his laughter rang through the empty room. Both the guards standing at the door looked up in alarm.

  ‘You,’ Akbar said, leaning forward and pointing a crooked finger at Mahesh Das, ‘you think you can talk yourself out of any situation, do you not?’

  Mahesh Das could not understand if it was a compliment or a reprimand, so he shrugged and smiled.

  ‘How many crows are there in the palace, Mahesh Das?’ asked Akbar, at once serious.

  ‘By my count, sire,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘there are six.’

  ‘Just six?’

  ‘Just six.’

  ‘And who are they?’

  ‘First, there is Ruqaiya Begum.’

  Akbar’s brow went up again. ‘Ruqaiya? Ruqaiya loves me.’

  ‘And that love may have been what made her kill Bairam Khan, Your Highness. You are aware that Bairam Khan did not approve of Ruqaiya Begum when he was alive.’

  ‘Khan Baba did not approve of many.’ He looked pointedly at Mahesh Das. ‘He would not have approved of you either.’

  ‘No one in this palace approves of me, sir, but you.’

  That pleased Akbar for some reason. After all this is finished, thought Mahesh Das, I should ask him just why he is being so kind to me.

  ‘Ruqaiya is your first crow. At least it is a crow that will weep at my death, huh?’

  ‘She will, Your Majesty, with all her heart.’

  ‘But I know Ruqaiya,’ said Akbar, his eyes crinkling. ‘She would not hurt a fly.’

  ‘A well-fed crow does not hurt a fledgling pigeon either, my lord.’

  Akbar waved with his hand. ‘Go on. Who is the second crow?’

  ‘Shamsuddin Khan, your general.’

  Akbar frowned and nodded. ‘Hmm. Yes, I would not be surprised if it was Atgah who killed Khan Baba. Why would he do it, though? Jealousy?’

  ‘My lord, jealousy is only one part of the answer.’ Mahesh Das took a large gulp of wine and smacked his lips. This was potent stuff; his head had begun to swirl. ‘It is my view that he believed Bairam Khan was a traitor. He could have killed him because he wanted to protect you.’

  ‘Another crow that would cry on my grave then,’ said Akbar.

  ‘Possibly, yes,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘You could not say the same thing about the third crow.’

  ‘Let me guess who it is,’ said Akbar with a thin smile. ‘It must be Adham.’

  Mahesh Das nodded. ‘Adham Khan had an appointment with Bairam Khan that night. He has the character to kill someone and think nothing of it. And he also has the motive—he wants your throne, Your Highness, more desperately than anything else.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Akbar, nodding, ‘that is so. I may have to clip his wings soon, but it would hurt Maham Anga.’

  ‘She is our fourth,’ said Mahesh Das.

  Akbar sat up on his seat, startled. ‘Maham Anga?’ he said. ‘She is like a mother to me, Mahesh Das.’

  ‘She is also a mother to Adham Khan, Jahanpanah.’

  ‘She fed me of her own breast!’

  The goblets were refilled again.

  ‘If a woman had to choose between two of her sons, my lord, one of them adopted and the other her own–’

  ‘Ah, rubbish!’ Akbar waved his arm so rashly it sent the wine tumbler flying across the floor. A servant swiftly picked it up and set it on the table. ‘I have heard these words many a time before and I refuse to believe them!’

  ‘Even then,’ said Mahesh Das in a soothing tone, ‘we must keep her on the list, for she had a reason to kill Bairam Khan.’ Akbar began to protest, but Mahesh Das continued, ‘And we know that in the palace, the one lady that has the most control over you, sire, is your mother.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Akbar unhappily. ‘My own mother and brother plotting against me! What has come of the world!’

  ‘The fifth crow,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘is your aunt, Gulbadan Begum.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Gulbadan Foofi has nurtured anger for Khan Baba for years. For some reason she thinks that he killed Hindal Mirza in the battle of Assam all those years ago. The same one where my father had to be rescued by Khan Baba. No one has been able to convince her otherwise.’

  ‘And Gulbadan Begum is known to walk around the palace during nights, like a ghost.’

  ‘And the last crow?’

  ‘Is Salima Sultan Begum.’

  Akbar’s face darkened. His fists balled up and his eyes widened. ‘Salima?’ he whispered. ‘Salima is the most loving wife anyone could ever ask for. What possible reason could she have for killing her husband?’

  ‘Perhaps she did not wish to go to Mecca with Bairam Khan, Jahanpanah,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘She is but a maiden of twenty.’ Mahesh Das paused for a moment, then, decided to risk it. ‘And she is in love with you, is she not?’

  He expected Akbar to slap him across the face, or at the very least, send the wine vessel flying across the room once again. But Akbar did neither. For a long while he sat with a distant look in his eyes, biting hard on his lower lip.

  ‘If I said something that is out of my place to say–’

  ‘No. What will come out of punishing you for telling the truth?’ He sighed. ‘Salima has always wished to be my queen. She has told me so.’

  ‘That is another crow, Your Highness, who will weep for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Akbar, once again looking away into the distance. ‘One hopes.’ Then his eyes narrowed, focussing on Mahesh Das. ‘You are forgetting a seventh crow.’

  ‘I…I do not understand, Your Highness.’

  ‘You, Mahesh Das. You are the seventh crow.’

  ‘I, my lord? What…why would…what would I gain–’

  ‘Well,’ said the emperor, ‘Khan Baba is gone, and you seem to have gained a lot from his death. Do you deny it?’

  ‘But…I could not have foreseen–’

  ‘Have you not gained from Khan Baba’s death?’

  ‘I have, my lord.’

  ‘So from where we a
re sitting, you are the seventh crow.’

  ‘You are right, my lord.’

  Akbar then broke into a smile from under his thin moustache. ‘But do not worry. We do not think you killed Khan Baba. We do not think you capable of such an act.’

  Mahesh Das bowed, then said, ‘Now that you mention it, sire, I think you are right. I have forgotten to mention a seventh crow.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The emperor looked at him with interest.

  ‘I refer, of course, to you, Jahanpanah.’

  ‘We? One of your crows?’

  ‘Yes, sire. You certainly have the strongest motive of all, that of protecting your throne. You have a history of fighting with the Khan. You have the physical ability to kill, too, because you have been trained to do so from a young age.’

  Akbar popped a grape into his mouth. ‘But?’

  ‘But for the entire two hours between the ninth and the eleventh stroke,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘you were here in this very room. With Salima Begum. The guards heard you.’

  ‘That is true, yes.’

  ‘And at the quarter gong after the eleventh, the guards saw you at the door too, bidding Salima Begum goodbye. And more importantly, it is your very power that deflects suspicion away from you, Your Majesty. After all, if you wanted Bairam Khan dead, you would have executed him by order, would you not?’

  Akbar smiled. ‘That would be the easier way, yes. But do you not think this same reasoning ought to free Salima Begum of suspicion as well?’

  Mahesh Das shook his head. ‘No, sir. Salima Begum is the person who discovered the body of Bairam Khan. Granted, she would have had only a minute or two to kill her husband, but is possible that she is the killer.’

  ‘Little Salima, with her tiny hands, killing Bairam Khan the warrior?’

  ‘I agree,’ said Mahesh Das, ‘it is unlikely.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Akbar, ‘consider this your test. If you do not succeed, my guards will take you back to your village, where you can go back to your ways. If you succeed, I shall make you a member of my court, for we have a need for people like you, men who have quickness of mind over quickness of limb. Do you accept my terms?’