Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (35 page)

The Deccan was essentially the southern peninsula of the India subcontinent. The Mughal Empire never really spread far into the Deccan, though it had been in our sights for nearly a century. Akbar’s efficient revenue system from the peasantry thus never found a home in the Deccan because we lacked proper authority there. The peasants of the region continued to be overtaxed and burdened as different armies fought over and conquered the land. This, along
with the wars from local tribes and the two other large kingdoms in the Deccan, Golconda and Bijapur, had caused many farmers to flee the region, and their cultivated land to degenerate into jungles. This was the legacy of the Deccan: a warring, unlivable, wasteland where our family never found peace, but instead a graveyard for some of its most cherished members.

I always wondered if anyone ever went to the Deccan willingly. It seemed the Deccan was always associated with tragedy. In this land my uncle Khusrau had been killed creating a deep divide between Aba and his father. When Aba was exiled by his father and Nur Jahan, it was the Deccan they sent him to, and this is where my generation spent the better part of our childhood until our father became king. Then the Deccan again came into the limelight three years later, when Khan Jahan Lodi rebelled against the Mughals, sending my parents to this jinxed land to wage war. There my mother died and was buried. Going to the Deccan was like telling one of us to pitch a tent by our mother’s grave and be content with living in the cemetery.

I had a strangely vivid dream one night when Aurangzeb was travelling with his wife and children through this cursed land. Unlike my other dreams, which frequently had no meaning or were so strange and mystical I couldn’t help but believe they were a product of my over-active imagination, this dream was more realistic. It was as if I’d been transported to the Deccan and was staring at this scene from many different angles, watching and observing everyone’s expressions and movements.

The dream started with the royal caravan travelling through the Deccan’s rugged terrain:

Aurangzeb asks the procession to travel to Burhampur before moving on to Daulatabad, the city Aba commanded Aurangzeb to live in. But rather than move towards the main fort of Burhampur, Aurangzeb directs the caravan to the Zainabadi garden, where Ami was initially buried many years ago
.

Though her remains are no longer in that spot, the location is still treated like sacred ground, with a small, humble, makeshift
memorial made by the locals in its place. To Aurangzeb, this may very well be the only memorial she needed and deserved – a humble, heartfelt, simple structure built with well wishes from the heart, not by gaudy riches from the world. This was Aurangzeb’s Taj Mahal
.

He has the caravan wait outside the garden while he and his family pay their respects to the site. Each in his own way comes forward, Dilras Banu tearing as she pays her respects to the mother-in-law she never knew. Of his daughters, the two oldest follow their mother’s lead, each wishing that perhaps if only for a moment they might see and experience the grandmother that won the hearts of everyone they knew, even their seemingly cold-hearted father’s
.

Aurangzeb waits till after all his children and wives have finished, and then asks them to return to the caravan so he may have some time alone. As the royal family mounts atop their respective elephants, Aurangzeb looks again at Ami’s grave, without a single tear in his eyes
.

He bows his head before Ami and begins speaking to her, as if her remains are still there and her soul isn’t in paradise as all claim, but rather here in this modest memorial
.

“Ami, it’s been so long since you left me, yet I feel as if it was just yesterday you were wiping my wounds and giving me the hairs of the prophet. I still have them, Ami. I’ve carried them with me in all my military campaigns, and I still have them with me now. I don’t know why, really. I tell people because they’re the hairs of the Holy Prophet; but to be honest, it’s also because they’re the only thing you ever gave me. You left me, Ami, but I never left you
.

“I’ve tried so hard to win Aba’s love, hoping he would give me the love you once did, that through him I would maybe feel your presence in our midst, but I’ve failed. He hates me; he blames me for all of his problems. I honestly think he wishes I were dead. When I’m completely helpless, I go to Jahanara seeking some support, but what can she do? She, with time, is becoming blinded with talks of rogue mixtures of cultures and is giving into her physical instincts and committing lewd acts that would devastate you if you were alive.”

Rumours of me having an affair with Aba had indeed reached epic proportions, but what was I to do? Was I supposed to leave Delhi and Aba just to quell the dirty mouths of gossipy nobles? Almost everyone except Raushanara had no direct knowledge of a possible relationship, but as the rumours began to spread, the story began to change, and now even certain nobles were openly saying they’d watched Aba and me in compromising positions (though this was clearly at odds with the truth). But the vision proceeded, and Aurangzeb now said to the dream-Ami:

“I have no complaints from her, personally, Ami, but she’s not you. She can’t take your place, and her love can’t substitute for Aba’s. I’m here now, with you, in the Deccan, this destitute land of tragedy. I won’t ever leave, because no one but you wants me. Perhaps this is why Allah brought me here, because this is where you’ll forever be. Please guide me and give me the wisdom I need, Ami. Craving for your love and nurturing has long since passed; now just your guidance and wisdom will do.”

Aurangzeb breathes deeply and releases a long sigh, as if a tremendous burden has been lifted from his shoulder. Though Raushanara is with him in this caravan, accompanying him to the Deccan, she never dismounts from her palanquin to pay her respects. Unlike Aurangzeb, she never felt she was loved by Ami, though Ami often tried to treat her well. She feels more alienated than even Aurangzeb, and if Aurangzeb vents his frustrations by destroying non-Islamic monuments, she releases it in her infamous orgies, which she continues to hide from our brother
.

Aurangzeb rises and continues to the cramped fort of Daulatabad. There he speaks to his father-in-law, Shahnawaz Khan, who accompanies him to the Deccan. They discuss the conditions in which he is living
.

“No marbles here, Mirza Khan,” he claims. “No Paradise Canals, no gardens, just stones.”

The two men continue to look around the stone hall as the workers unload the royal family’s belongings
.

“Your Majesty,” says Shahnawaz Khan, his back arched against the wall as he sits in front of the Prince, “you must make the Deccan yours. Why are you staying here? Go to Fatehpur, where you were happy and safe, and at peace. Make that your home.”

“Not a bad idea,” says the Prince. “I mean, everyone’s building cities today, why not me? If I have to live in this God-forsaken town, I need to make it feel like home.”

“And name it after yourself!” says the aging Shahnawaz
.

“Aurangzabad?” asks Aurangzeb
.

“Remove the ‘z’, or else no one will pronounce it right,” replies Shahnawaz. “Aurangabad.”

“Aurangabad,” says Aurangzeb, smiling as if content. “All right then, that shall be its new name
, Inshallah.
”

There my dream ended. The next day I received information from our sources in the Deccan that indeed Aurangzeb had travelled through Burhampur to Daulatabad and then eventually to the city of Fatehpur. As rumours claimed, many years ago, he saw a 6
^th
century Hindu temple on a hill where temple prostitutes practiced sacred prostitution. Aurangzeb demolished it and used the stones from the temple as a staircase for a new mosque to be constructed on the plot. When a local Hindu priest protested the acts, he had him beheaded and then directed the prime minister of the region to keep quiet about the matter and not let it reach the ears of the King. Unfortunately, in our kingdom everything existed in abundance except loyalty and trust. News of the incident eventually made its way to Agra, and while it was unclear whether the Prime Minister had leaked it, he bore the brunt of Aurangzeb’s rage, and was skinned alive.

I was at once shocked and frightened to learn of the similarities between my dream and the reality as it being told to me. I immediately went to Mullah Badakshi to ask him if he had any insight into what was happening to me.

“Ah, this is due to the grace of Mian Mir!” Badakshi stretched his arms out and looked upward as if waiting for a sign.

“What does Mian Mir have to do with this?”

Badakshi put his hand on my shoulder, making me somewhat nervous. “He protects us, my child. His followers always find miracles occurring in their lives once they begin to embrace the Qadiriya order.”

I had heard of miracles of the order before, ranging from sudden cures of fatal diseases, to revelations that changed people’s outlooks. I’d often treated such thoughts with scepticism, but I hesitated to do so this time.

“Perhaps Mian Mir is giving you the help you need to prevent conflicts in your kingdom. He’s giving you sight and visions of events occurring thousands of kos away, perhaps in hope that you’ll use this information wisely.”

Badakshi took me to the river and asked me to hold his hands as we walked into the river. When the water reached to my breasts, we stopped. He said, “Close your eyes and meditate with me here.”

I followed his command, slightly shivering in the cold water. He then put his hands on my forehead and then moved them to his own forehead, while instructing me to keep meditating.

The he said, “Open your eyes and look there.” He pointed to the river. I followed his every command, somehow confident that he wouldn’t mislead me. As I looked into the river, I saw not the reflection of the sun or the trees above, but instead Aurangzeb standing in the middle of a city I imagined must be his new Aurangabad. He was ordering people to harvest water and build tanks. He seemed like a man on a mission, fully in control of his destiny. Shahnawaz stood next to him, presumably assisting him in any matter he desired.

Badakshi said, “If you focus closely, you may be able to hear what they’re saying.”

I did exactly as I was told, confident that this man had special powers he was now giving me. I focused as hard as I could, hoping to hear any voices.

“Do you hear them?”

“No.”

“Try harder.”

I continued to focus, but to no avail. “I can’t hear a thing!”

Badakshi smiled and put his hand on my back. “That’s fine. You can’t pick it up all at once. But at least now you know that Mian Mir is with you. Whenever you’re curious about what’s happening, come here and do as I showed you.”

I nodded and retreated discreetly back to the fort. The people mustn’t see their Queen wearing wet clothes.

23

AURANGZEB’S TAJ

26
^th
December, 1653

“C
hicken has been prepared in ten different ways as you requested, Your Majesty.”

Zafar Khan had gentle but strong hands, making him a profoundly gifted head cook for the zenana.

“And lamb?” I reminded him. “The Emperor enjoys rogan josh with raisins.”

Zafar Khan nodded, as though expecting the question. “It’s been simmering since this morning, and I’ll finish it myself.”

I knew Aba wouldn’t attend, but all zenana parties were arranged with the expectation that the Emperor would visit. He was the guest of honour even when he didn’t show up.

Light sitar music played in the background as the evening festivities began.

Perfumed scents permeated the room as Persian carpets were laid around the floor. Giant flasks of wine were brought in to commemorate the first major party of the zenana in the new capital. Most of the women in this zenana were new additions brought in by Aba. The few exceptions included me, Gauhara and Henna Begum.

A certain concubine who’d been inciting Henna to perform her usual mocking skits of the royal household couldn’t herself have been older than 16, but was already known for her bold personality. She teased, “We’ve all heard stories of your tamashas, Henna Begum.”

Henna chuckled. “You’ll need a little more opium and another few gulps of wine to get Henna to do a tamasha for you young birds.” Usually when Henna spoke in the third person, it meant she’d already had too much opium and wine.

But soon her skit began. She tied a stick around her waist as though it was a dagger and put kajal around her face to mimic a beard. She then sat on the divan, and a eunuch sat next to her as if ready to play a role in the skit.

The eunuch began it: “Oh, Dara Shikoh, what command say you? You have been entrusted to win Kandahar from the Persians.”

Henna put her hand to her forehead. “I, Dara Shikoh, command you to find me a sufi who will put a curse on the water the Persians drink the morning of the battle!”

The crowd erupted in laughter, and my heart sank. Dara had left for Lahore immediately after being commanded to do so by Aba. For some reason that continues to baffle me to this day, he opted to take two Sufi mystics to Lahore with him. Apparently during their journey to Lahore they’d prophesied what the fate of their enemy would be.