Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (30 page)

19

JAHANARA’S TAJ

7
^th
March, 1647

M
y relationship with Gabriel now began to stabilise into extremely close friendship, not the lustful dependency it had been while he was in Agra. One day I received a letter from him:

My Love
,

My work here in Hugli is complete. The factories have been set up, and Kalikata, the once-impoverished village along the Hugli river, is fast turning into a major commercial centre, and along with the neighbouring villages of Suntanati and Govindpur, it’s now being reorganised into a central city, renamed Calcutta. I’m returning to Surat at the end of the month and from there will go back to England forever
.

I want you to come with me. Leave your family and make it seem like an accident. You can have a new identity, a new name and a new beginning. Leave all this – the gossip, the fighting, the kingdom – and let’s begin our new life together. You’ll fit in perfectly with English society, your olive skin a refreshing tinge of colour among the pale crowds that await me in England. We can start a family, and you can give them all Muslim names if you wish. All I want is to begin our life together, in the open
.

I’ll meet you in your new capital of Shahjahanabad
(Delhi)
at
the end of the month, and then we’ll escape in the darkness in my bullock cart to Surat. From then on you’ll be known as my ‘bibi,’ someone I met and married in Bengal. No longer Jahanara, you’ll have a new name, a new identity, but the same love. I’m tired of hiding and hurting. This isn’t how it has to be. Do what’s right and shake off the chains that have bound us for so long. I’m willing to leave it all for you. Will you for me?

Love
,

Gabe

I’d meet Gabriel in Delhi, but I had other plans than he suggested. I worked tirelessly for the next several weeks to complete construction of the new city, to make sure it was perfect when he arrived.

I divided my time between planning out the details of the city – locating gardens, canals, parks, havelis – and learning about the Qadiriya order. Just as Aba had after Ami’s death, I was coping with the loss of Gabriel by immersing myself in architecture, using Delhi as my pallet.

I remember discussing the planning with Aba many years ago. He’d asked me, “What do you wish to do with the water on the riverside?”

I replied, “I think we can use it to make canals all across the city, just as you did for the Taj Mahal.”

“
Taz
Mahal, Jahanara,” corrected the King, “not
Taj
.”

“You know, Aba, I think Taj sounds better, and everyone’s using that word now. Nobody seems to be able to remember it’s Taz. Let’s just go with that: Taj.”

Aba wasn’t particular about names, and as long as the shrine was devoted to his deceased lover, he had no problem with that minor distortion.

“Aba, the climate of our new capital is even more arid and dry than Agra’s. But if we flow canals all through the city, into the private chambers and all around the fort, it will cool the city on the hot days.”

“It shall be like paradise!” said a proud Aba, commending my budding architect’s mind.

“The Paradise Canal, Aba. That shall be its name.”

Now Delhi would be
my
Taj Mahal. Here, I’d fight the depression of losing Gabriel
and
celebrate through architecture the love that I shared with him. I took trips to the city regularly, no more than a few hours each way.

The entire city was a semicircle enclosing over 1,500 acres, was walled, with eight gates, each named after the city toward which it was pointing: The Lahori gate led to the city of Lahore; the Kashmiri gate led north to Kashmir; Ajmeri gate to the Rajput western city of Ajmer, and so on. The design of eight gates was also intentional: Four gates represented the four directions; the other four represented the gates of heaven. Within the walled city was another walled structure – the new Red Fort, situated in the west. The west was an important direction for us Mughals for this reason – it faced Mecca. All prayers were done facing west; mosques – including the Jami Mosque – opened their doors facing West.

Built of stones quarried from the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri, the walls of the fort formed an irregular octagon. Four large gateways, two small entrances and 21 towers lined the walls of the fort. A deep moat surrounded it, filled with water and fishes, beyond which were gardens of jasmines, roses, frangipani, violets and mango, apple and banyan trees.

The Paradise Canal pumped water several kos upstream from the Jumna and ran through the harem apartments into all areas of the Red Fort and the city at large, feeding pools and sending fountain jets high into the air, creating rainbows wherever they went. Flowers and trees surrounded the canal, but were often barely visible behind the drifting spray of the fountains. The largest apartment here was mine, and I created it with the utmost care and attention to detail, just as Aba had taught me.

The princes’ mansions were situated outside the Red Fort’s walls, each haveli looking itself like a miniature fort. The new Red
Fort was the first building completed, at a cost of 60 lakh rupees, almost half spent on the lavish design for the new Diwan-i-khas.

The Diwan-i-khas was made of solid marble, with inlays like those of the Taj Mahal. Built entirely of white marble, its outer wall was studded with agates, pearls and other precious stones. Sheets of gold in a threefold pattern decorated the ceiling; shards of glass sent sparks of light bouncing across the hall.

Gabriel had sent me a message informing me of the date of his arrival at this majestic new city. I’d already arranged for him to stay in a dwelling near the military encampment, the Urdu Bazaar. I myself had moved into my apartment, but I wouldn’t stay there this night. As was customary with our meetings, I would put on a boy’s outfit and a turban – green for the Qadiriya order and Mian Mir’s blessing – to meet with him.

Now I watched from a casement as Gabriel’s bullock cart made its way to the Urdu Bazaar and the servants of his quarters quickly unloaded the boxes from the carts and unpacked them for him in the haveli. Gabriel slowly walked into the central courtyard of this haveli, and must have noticed it looked a lot like his mansion in Agra. The bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchens, all opened into this main entrance. He entered one of the rooms where the servants were placing his belongings. I was waiting for him in the bedroom, dressed like a boy, wiping the furniture.

We embraced and then we talked for hours. I told him of the Qadiriya order and he told me about Bengal, which was slowly turning into the East India Company’s stronghold on the Indian subcontinent, as the village of Kalikata became bigger and more westernised. The trade was extremely profitable, and Gabriel was being credited with its success, in no small part because it was he who’d secured the trading rights from the Mughal King.

Gazing in wonder, Gabriel smiled, “This place is truly amazing!” It’s like walking through a Persian paradise.”

“It is great, isn’t it?” I giggled, my smile wider than any that had graced my face in the last couple of months. “Aba calls it ‘Paradise on Earth.’ When he visited it last month he said, ‘If there is a paradise
on earth, it’s this, it’s this, it’s this!’ I liked what he said so much, I’m having it engraved on the walls of the new Diwan-i-khas.”

Gabriel and I spent the rest of the day walking through the majestic city of Delhi (conceived by Aba, but perfected by me). I showed him the different towns and told him what the names meant.

We walked around the town of Khari Baoli, meaning ‘Salty Well,’ so named because the salt water from the well in this area was used for animals and for bathing. Other towns – Churi Wallan, meaning the town where bracelets were sold, Chauri Bazaar meaning wide market, Darya Ganj meaning river trading post – reflected industry rather than honouring dignitaries or historical figures. I showed Gabriel how the city was to function like a well-oiled machine with everyone knowing where to go for what purpose, with no time wasted. This was the capital of India and it needed to function as such.

Gabriel wondered: “So did the people name the neighbourhoods, or did the neighbourhoods define the people?”

I said: “Well, we watched where the merchants and traders and artisans settled, and if we thought where they did made sense in the overall picture of the city, we allowed it. And then the town or neighbourhood got a name that reflected its purpose.”

As we walked, Gabriel was extraordinarily impressed with how much thought and analysis had gone into every nook of this new city. We next stumbled on a mosque, not the grand Jama Masjid that Aba had built as the heart of the city, but another, much smaller one.

I said, “This is Fatehpuri Masjid, Gabe, built by one of my stepmothers, Fatehpuri Begum. She’s very religious and always wanted to build a mosque, so I thought this would be a good opportunity to fashion one for her.”

Gabriel looked in awe at how I’d built this city, every lane and avenue of it.

I led Gabriel to a beautiful garden, Persian in style. “This is Sahibabad, meaning Garden of the Sahiba.” It recalled Persian gardens where men would kill one another over a dram of water, and where a small stretch of shaded land meted each day’s journey
against the hot sun and arid climate, and such gardens were always filled with water pools and fountains, their trees and shrubs aligned unnaturally. These unabashedly artificial-looking gardens had no signs of natural variation; all were geometrically shaped to reflect semi-religious concepts. The lines of trees, the carefully pruned flower beds, the marble canals, were all created to give the inhabitant a semi-divine pleasure as he enjoyed the surroundings. Such were the gardens of the Taj Mahal, and such were the gardens now of Delhi.

Eventually the sun began to set, bringing the moment I was waiting for. I wasn’t going to let Gabriel see this part of the city until the time was right. It was now about 9:00 pm and the sun had just set, leaving the city in lamp and candlelight. We walked out of the garden and passed Fatehpuri Masjid, and I now led Gabriel to a wide avenue – the main one of Delhi.

This was the ‘backbone’ Aba referred to. It ran east-west, spanning the entire city and ending at the Red Fort. At a width of 40 yards and a length of 1,520 yards, it was the largest single avenue in all of India. Through its centre ran a water canal, on this moonlit night reflecting that orb in its water. The moon’s glow and reflection in the canal lit the entire avenue, with some help from lamps along either end’s far side. Just as in Varanasi, the glow of the lamps and moon in the water illumined the surrounding buildings and the people standing beside them.

“Gabe,” I said, staring into the avenue as Gabriel held my hand, “when my mother lay on her deathbed, my father told her she was like the sun and he was the moon. The moon has no light; its light’s all reflected from the sun. Without the sun, no one would ever see the moon. She was his sun – his light. Without her, no one would see him.”

Gabriel waited silently, and I went on: “My mother said it was their love that was the sun, and as long as he kept that love alive, he would glow. I named this Chandni Chowk, meaning Moonlit Avenue, to represent the light, the energy and illumination
your
love has given
me
.”

Gabriel looked at me silently, clearly speechless with emotion.

I said, “Before you, I lived for everyone else – the kingdom, my family and my people. You made me want to live for myself. I’m not ashamed of that anymore; it was my right to do something for myself. But here it must end. Gabriel, India is my life; its people are my children; and its king is the only man I can love.” I paused, and then said, “You not only saved my life, you gave me another, and this avenue is my love’s expression of that. This is
my
Taj Mahal, Gabe.”

Then Gabriel and I walked in silence the mile-long Chandni Chowk, watching other people holding each other’s hands, enjoying the romantic, sensual experience this corridor gave us all.

I told the heartbroken Gabriel I couldn’t leave with him for England, and that by refusing his invitation I realised I was in all likelihood saying goodbye to him forever. As enjoyable as the past few years had been for me, and as much as I valued his love, I wasn’t born to marry him – I was mistressed to the throne of India. Like any mother, I treated my children not equally, but uniquely, hoping to bridge the divide I knew was building and possibly avert the bloodbath every previous succession crisis in Mughal India had precipitated. I’d promised my mother I would take care of my siblings as if they were my own children. So I couldn’t leave. I was meant to be the Queen of India. The Daughter-Queen.

Gabriel understood my dilemma and though ravaged emotionally, had to accept my decision. And I knew that by denying myself this last opportunity to escape, I’d forever tied my fate to that of the Mughal Empire. That empire and I were now one entity, and there could be no further room for Gabriel in my world.

Though we knew this could last no longer, that night we pretended tomorrow would never come, wishing to stay as long as we could in that present, walking up and down our own Taj Mahal.