The Crows of Agra

by Sharath Komarraju

  For a moment, nothing happened. The cries stopped. Absolute silence enveloped the courtyard.

  Then Adham Khan moved onto his side with a soft whimper. A large spot of blood covered his scalp.

  Mahesh Das gulped and averted his eyes.

  Akbar clicked his fingers. ‘He is still alive. Throw him down again.’

  The soldiers came running down the stairs, and carried the heap of bones and muscle and blood back up to the balcony. This time, the two soldiers carried him like they would a sack of grain. They came to the edge and looked down at the emperor.

  ‘On his head. Again,’ Akbar commanded.

  On a sign from the king, they guards sent Adham Khan down. He hit the floor with a sharp thud. His neck was hanging by his left shoulder. The black rag still dug into the dead man’s mouth and cracked the corners of his lips.

  Akbar walked closer to the body, and kicked it twice to turn it over on its back. He raised his arms to the sky and murmured a quick prayer. The soldiers around him also did the same.

  ‘Bathe him in oil and scented water, said Akbar, ‘We shall prepare for his final journey as it befits a royal.’

  Mahesh Das stole a bit closer to the mangled body, even though his stomach lurched at the sight of the broken prince.

  He closed his eyes and muttered the Gayatri mantra. He was not certain that it was the appropriate incantation for dead souls, but that was the only prayer he knew.

  * * *

  Sleep would not come to Mahesh Das.

  After what he’d just witnessed, he worried that sleep would never come by easily again. The execution had been ruthless. Mahesh Das wondered why the emperor had chosen to execute the man in such a manner. Did it serve to instil fear and obedience into the hearts of the people? Perhaps.

  The pieces of the puzzle did not sit easy.

  He ran through the points. Adham Khan had already confessed to the crime so, even if Atgah had found something that incriminated him, what made him kill the general? Then, the way he killed Atgah Khan had been so public, whereas Bairam Khan’s murder had been planned and done in secrecy.

  None of it made sense to him.

  Two crows had been eliminated. One of them had confessed to the crime. Why then was he still feeling uneasy? thought Mahesh Das. There was still something left. Some tiny little detail, robbing him of his peace of mind.

  He thought about the harem ladies. Maham Anga was the only one who could benefit from Atgah’s death, but even that was pointless now that her own son was dead. Akbar had sent a clear message to her. With one stroke, Akbar had turned Maham Anga from a scheming serpent to a diseased husk of a woman. She would not raise her head again to look Akbar in the eye. She would not find any interest in court matters. She would find it much easier to stay in the shadows, behind the veil where no one could see her.

  He thought of the meeting that had never happened. What would the general have told him if they had indeed met? There was no use thinking of that, because the dead could not speak.

  Mahesh Das sighed into his pillow.

  Perhaps it was Adham Khan who had killed Bairam Khan after all. Perhaps he had been the crow all along.

  Even if it didn’t make senses he fell into a fitful sleep, a question rang through his mind, over and over again.

  How many crows are there in Agra?

  How many crows?

  Thirty One

  MORNING DAWNED CLEAR and blue. Mahesh Das woke up with a smile on his lips, his mind free of the fog that had inhabited it the night before. He did not remember his dreams, but he surmised that they would have been good ones since he had woken up in the brightest spirits.

  He sprang out of bed in one swoop, and gathering his shawl from the chair, went to the window. His mouth watered and his stomach emitted a low rumble. Signalling for warm water and a neem twig, Mahesh Das counted the number of hopping black spots on the sturdiest branch of Gulmohar. He had always hated crows. He had once housed a family of pigeons on his window sill for four full months, only for a crow to swoop down and steal the eggs of the birds a few days before they were going to hatch. Crows were a menace.

  But today, he smiled at them. A batch of sunflowers in the garden had stood up to their full heights, their faces turned towards the rising morning sun. One of the garden boys, who was carrying a basket of chrysanthemums, snuck up behind his friend—who was watering the rose bushes—smacked him on the back and ran away out of reach.

  Yes, thought Mahesh Das, life at the palace had a certain charm to it.

  The servant entered with a large bowl of water. Mahesh Das gestured to him to leave. He picked up the neem twig and began to chew on its end, dragging out strands of sour wood and allowing them to slip in between his teeth, building up a ball of saliva, then spitting it out in the little bowl the servant had brought for the purpose. He then removed the lid of the bigger bowl gingerly, allowing the rush of steam to pass for a moment before immersing his hands into it. He sighed as the water warmed his knuckles and softened his wrists. Removing the twig and placing it beside the bowl of warm water, he took two handfuls of water and splashed it on his face.

  For the first time since he had arrived at the palace, he did not feel as though he were lost in a maze. He knew exactly what he was going to do, and whom he was going to speak to in order to get his work done. He knew what he was going to look for, where, and how he was going to find it.

  He thought back to when Akbar had asked him how many crows there were in Agra. But now he knew that the actual number did not matter. No one really knew how many crows there were; it all depended on how you counted them. Here, too, in order to know how many crows there were, one had to know who was a crow and who was not.

  He thought about the previous night. The inhabitants of the palace would not forget what had happened. Two of Akbar’s closest confidants had been killed. Another executed.

  This did not bring Mahesh Das any sadness. Instead, he felt uplifted. Not only had he slept well, there was the other matter. He finally knew what it was that had been bothering him all this time—that tiny missing piece of the puzzle, he knew where to find it now.

  A butterfly of an idea had floated out of the mists of sleep into his mind last night. The more he thought of it, the more it seemed to grow in size. He had to test it out, and if his suspicions were confirmed, it would make Akbar a happy man indeed and secure his place here at the palace.

  Perhaps forever.

  The crow that committed the first murder was still roaming free in the palace. Atgah Khan had been right. He had been looking at it all wrong.

  But not anymore.

  He had a plan. An experiment to test out his theory. He had asked Govindram to bring Nazneen and Ahmed to Bairam Khan’s chambers. If this worked, Mahesh Das would be closer to the truth than ever.

  Thirty Two

  MAHESH DAS CLIMBED up the stairs leading up to the ladies’ quarters two at a time. His rickety knees pinched right under the bone, but he wore a smile on his face. He barely noticed that there were more guards in his way than usual. When he got to the first floor landing, he heard the same soulful plucking sitar. A rather sad tune for such a bright morning, he thought. He turned right, but something at the longer arm of the corridor caught his eye.

  It was Akbar standing in front of Maham Anga’s open door.

  Akbar cocked his head and for a brief moment their eyes met. But Mahesh Das saw no sign of acknowledgement in his gaze. Even from this distance he could see that the emperor’s shoulders were slumped, and he appeared to be unsteady on his feet, tottering, ready to topple over on the hard granite floor any moment.

  It was then that realization struck Mahesh Das.

  He made his way to Akbar.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if life is not a touch too unfair, Mahesh Das,’ Akbar said, walking into the room.

  Mahesh Das followed him in. He immediately became aware of the quiet scent of lilac hanging in the air.

  The old woman had been laid on
her back, with her venous hands folded on top of her stomach. Like Atgah Khan, she appeared at peace, in a deep, dreamless sleep.

  ‘I have lost all my dear ones,’ said Akbar, his voice breaking. ‘Khan Baba, Atgah, Adham…and now Ammi, the woman who fed me from her own breasts, the mother who reared me to be the king I am now. I have pushed them all away from me, and why? Just because I wish to keep the throne to myself.’ His knees buckled. He reached out to clutch the back rest of a chair to keep his balance, and tumbled into it. ‘Poor Ammi. All she wanted was to spend her remaining days in peace and I denied her that small joy by killing her son. I broke her heart when I told her. I snapped her thread of life with my own hands, she who cared for me like I was her own.’

  Mahesh Das stood in a stoic pose, holding his hands in front of him, his head bent. He knew Maham Anga had not been a saint in life, but like so many others, she had become one in death. That was one thing we could all look forward to, he thought; no matter how you lived and loved, there would always be someone to shed tears at your last breath. If Akbar had waited for a more tactful way to break the news of Adham Khan’s death to Maham Anga, he could have saved her the shock. He could have said Adham fell to a beast in the forest. He could have…

  He finally raised his head and around him at the guards. He made a gesture, at which they all left the room, closing the door behind them. Mahesh Das made to leave too, but Akbar said, ‘Wait, my friend.’

  They remained in silence—Akbar, Mahesh Das, and Maham Anga’s body. Akbar finally wiped his tears with his sleeve and looked up. ‘I am afraid, Mahesh Das.’

  He looked less an emperor at that moment and more a silly, babbling child.

  ‘Jahanpanah, you are the emperor of the land. All of Agra is yours, and wishes to do your bidding. What have you got to be scared of?’ He took the king’s outstretched hand and squeezed it gently.

  ‘I have earnestly been a king for less than a few months,’ said Akbar.

  Mahesh Das saw fear in his eyes. They said the emperor did not show fear even if he had had to fight a bear with his bare hands, but now, seated by the body of his dead mother, he appeared a broken man.

  ‘And in these few months I have had to do more despicable things than I ever thought I would,’ Akbar continued. ‘I…I pushed Khan Baba away. I suspected Atgah and Adham of plotting against me. I even suspected Maham Anga and Ruqaiya of wishing to kill me. Why, even Gulbadan Foofi seemed to become more sinister as soon as I became king. ‘He looked at the sleeping figure of the old woman and smoothed her forehead with a caress. ‘It is not they who had changed, Mahesh Das. It is I.’

  ‘A king must forever be on guard against those who bring him ill tidings, Your Highness,’ Mahesh Das said in a soothing voice. ‘You shall get used to it in no time at all.’

  ‘This crown they mounted on my head, these marks they made on my arms, that throne they insist I sit on—these have changed me. I used to be good friends with Adham once. We used to go hunting deer in the forest as boys.’ A smile flickered on his lips. ‘And Atgah? Was it not just yesterday that he stood by me and fought against Khan Baba? Ruqaiya, Salima, Maham Anga—these are all my people! And I look upon them not with love, Mahesh Das, but suspicion!’

  ‘Jahanpanah, you are overcome with grief. You are not in the right mind to think of such things.’

  ‘You,’ said Akbar, looking up at him, tightening the grip of his hand. ‘You are the only person I can trust now. Maham Anga once said that I should build my own eyes and ears, not rely on someone else’s. I think she was wrong. What I needed was a brain too.’

  Mahesh Das bowed. ‘I shall endeavour to do my very best for your welfare, my lord.’

  ‘You have a sharp brain inside that head of yours,’ said Akbar. ‘The oafs in this palace see that you cannot ride a horse, that you cannot wield a weapon, but they do not see what I see. You may be a thief, but perhaps I need a thief to stand by my side now; a person with a thief’s way of thinking, who can see pitfalls in one’s path before they arise. I have enough men in my ranks who can hold a sword and swish it this way and that when told to. But not one who can foretell the complications of the future.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Mahesh Das.

  ‘We need to make a fresh start in the kingdom, now that we have put Khan Baba’s death behind us and now that we have gotten rid of all the usurpers to the throne.’

  Mahesh Das hesitated for a moment, before pulling his hand away from the emperor’s.

  Akbar looked up, surprised.

  With his hands once clasped in front of him, Mahesh Das said, ‘Pardon me, Jahanpanah, I do not think Adham Khan killed Bairam Khan.’

  ‘Who else could it have been?’ asked Akbar, concern creasing his brow.

  Mahesh Das shrugged. ‘How many crows are there in Agra?’

  Akbar got to his feet, anger clouding his eyes at once. ‘Are you saying that it was one of the ladies who killed Khan Baba?’

  ‘I do not know as yet, my lord,’ said Mahesh Das. ‘But I do know for certain that it was not Adham Khan.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’

  ‘Pardon me, but it is prudent of me not to answer right this moment. If Your Majesty will grant me the pleasure of your audience at sunset, I shall hope to have all the answers before you, and then you can choose to either punish or pardon the killer.’

  Akbar straightened his shoulders. ‘I hope this is not some elaborate ruse of yours, Mahesh Das, for if it is, I shall take back everything I said about you and have you punished instead.’

  ‘I shall not dare in this lifetime, huzoor, to play a joke on you about such a serious matter.’

  Akbar looked closely at Mahesh Das as if he was trying to penetrate the mask, see what emotions lay underneath. But Mahesh Das maintained a stoic face—vacant eyes and pursed lips.

  ‘Very well,’ Akbar sighed. ‘Let us have it your way.’

  Then he clapped for the guards. Shoes clacked against the floor outside. The door opened, and once again the room flooded with men in red tunics. Some of them bowed to Mahesh Das, but most of them stood at attention, waiting for the Akbar’s next command.

  Without a word either to his guards or to Mahesh Das, Akbar walked out of the room. The soldiers followed at a respectful distance, leaving Mahesh Das in the room, alone with Maham Anga’s dead body.

  For a long moment, Mahesh Das stood looking at the closed eyelids, the interlocked fingers that looked like branches of a dead tree. She reminded him of his mother, even though she had died a young woman, when Mahesh Das had been no more than two. He touched the toes with his fingertips, surprised at how soft they were, like petals of a rose bud. He murmured the only prayer he knew off by heart.

  The open doors let in the twangs of a sitar. He remembered what it was that had brought him to the harem in the first place. He cast one last look at Maham Anga before leaving the room.

  * * *

  By the time he had traversed the length of the corridor and reached Gulbadan Begum’s door, Mahesh Das had recovered his spirit. He stepped through the arched doorway, and found both Ruqaiya Begum and Gulbadan Begum present. They were sitting in opposite chairs, around the table by the window.

  Mahesh Das bowed.

  ‘You have not yet gotten rid of that ghastly plait, Mahesh Das,’ said Gulbadan Begum, making her visitor titter in pleasure.

  Both women must have heard the news of Maham Anga’s death, thought Mahesh Das. That would explain their good mood. ‘I plan to, madam, as soon as I solve this little puzzle about Bairam Khan’s death,’ he said.

  ‘My, it is a little puzzle now, eh?’ said Gulbadan, signalling to her servant to bring a chair for Mahesh Das. ‘We thought the killer had already died. Is that not true?’

  ‘Their deaths were most unfortunate, my lady.’

  ‘Ah. So you do not think either of them killed the regent?’

  ‘No. I do not.’

  The ladies stiffened in their seats. Ruqaiya Begum pushed aside her veil
and looked sharply at Mahesh Das. Was there a hint of fear in her eyes?

  ‘You interest us, Mahesh Das,’ said Gulbadan Begum. ‘Why, if you believe Bairam Khan’s killer is still at large, you must believe it is one of us.’ She laughed at Ruqaiya Begum, who kept her gaze fixed on Mahesh Das.

  ‘Not just you two, my lady. There is Salima Begum to think of too.’

  ‘Ah, the unhappy wife killing her husband on the night before he was to take her away from the pleasures of the palace.’ Gulbadan Begum’s hands rose in a grand gesture. ‘That is not an implausible tale.’

  ‘Indeed it is not, my lady.’

  ‘Do you believe it, though?’

  ‘I have come here today, madam, not to debate with you on matters I do not have knowledge of, but to ask you something. And since Ruqaiya Begum is here, I have a question for her too.’

  ‘You ask too many questions, Mahesh Das,’ said Gulbadan Begum, gesturing to the sitar player to stop.

  ‘My lady, I just have two questions: one for you and one for Ruqaiya Begum.’

  Gulbadan Begum frowned. ‘I suppose you will ask me first?’

  Mahesh Das bowed. ‘Yes, my lady, and I implore you both to be absolutely honest in your answers, for if you had been truthful with me from the start, it would have been much easier for us to catch Bairam Khan’s killer. And we could have avoided the deaths of many.’

  Ruqaiya Begum chafed at that, but Mahesh Das ignored her.

  To Gulbadan Begum he said, ‘My lady, tell me once again, will you, when did you last see Bairam Khan alive?’

  ‘I told you this yesterday,’ she said irritated.

  ‘Still, please humour me, my lady.’

  ‘I met him before dinner. Then I saw him at dinner. But after I retired early to my chambers, I did not see of him again until the gong sounded.’

  ‘So you did not see him after the tenth strike.’

  . ‘It must have been the tenth strike, yes.’

  ‘And after you entered your chambers for the night, you did not see him at all.’