Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (40 page)

“What? Is this common for someone at this age?”

“No, Your Majesty, it isn’t. But I think some of the aphrodisiacs the Emperor has been taking may be responsible.”

While Wazir Khan was respectful enough to refer to the substances as aphrodisiacs, it was widely known that for the last several years, Aba had taken just about every stimulating drug he
could find – from Europe, the far east, from Hindus, from hakims – to satisfy his urges. Yes, some mixture of all of these substances, taken simultaneously, had probably caused him to retain urine and made him increasingly sicker.

Now I could see that my father’s eyes bore the same look of death I’d seen in Ami’s that fateful day in the Deccan. “You must do something!” I shouted. “Call healers from all across the globe if you must, but the King cannot die.”

I felt in my core that despite all of Aba’s and Dara’s assurances, a war would erupt after Aba’s death and consume my family. There would be slaughter, tears, and millions of innocent Indians would lose their lives as unwilling participants in the bloodshed. Regardless of who won, India would lose, and the celebrations for the new monarch would occur alongside burials and cremations for the deceased. Though this seemed inevitable, I wasn’t ready for it just yet.

The next several days saw Aba’s health drastically decline though the royal physicians hovered constantly over him. His legs were now swollen, his mouth so dry he couldn’t talk, his stomach swelled to a gross potbelly. To make matters worse, he developed a steep fever. I even thought of writing to Gabriel, but I soon realised such thoughts were futile – he was thousands of kos away, and by the time he received the message and could return to India, months would pass.

I now slept near Aba, thinking how Nur Jahan must have felt when Jahangir was sick. She knew that after Jahangir was dead she’d be banished and exiled, or perhaps worse. Yet my worry was different; I wasn’t worried about myself – I never craved riches – I just couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was brewing in the Deccan and would erupt as soon as the King was dead.

I applied moist dressings to Aba’s forehead in a frenzy hoping to bring his fever down. I also wondered if perhaps Aba was being misdiagnosed. Rather than suffering side effects of aphrodisiacs, had he caught an illness through one of his female liaisons? With a harem of several hundred concubines and illicit affairs with other women,
the King in the past year must have enjoyed several hundred, maybe even 1,000 women from all across India.

I ordered my servants to check all the women who’d come into contact with the Emperor in the last month – no easy task – and report to me anyone who was feeling ill.

Over the next several days, my women fanned out across the harem and examined closely anyone, including nobility, even rumoured to have had recent relations with the King. Women suspected of liaisons were brought in from neighbouring towns and villages in carts, like cattle, and questioned by Bahadur.

All this was done secretly, because news of the King’s illness had to be kept private to prevent any uprising. The zenana women were all investigated, of course, and anyone with strange symptoms or some recent illness was examined by the hakims.

On September 12, the servants reported back to me. “We’ve found none of the women to be unhealthy, Your Majesty. About a dozen have died in the last month, but mostly from accidents; none were sick.”

Then, as a matter of last resort, I told Bahadur to find the one other person who might shed light on the cause of the Emperor’s illness – Chamani Begum.

“Do you know anything about her, Your Majesty?” she asked. “Where she lives, who she serves?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you even know what she looks like?”

I looked away and said somberly: “She looks like me.”

Despite my attempts to keep Aba’s illness private, news of it began to permeate the kingdom, and the people wondered even more avidly whether the rumours were true. When the public gathered now at the Jharoka-i-darshan, no King was was present. The rumours were worsening now; some were now openly saying the King was already dead, and that Dara was intentionally hiding this from the public to consolidate his empire.

Dara insisted to me, “Aba must come to the window and prove to the people he’s very much alive. They won’t believe me or you unless he’s with us!”

“What do you want from me?” I responded helplessly. “He can barely openly his eyes. Shall we prop up a living corpse?”

Dara and I now restricted anyone from visiting the Emperor for fear that one or more persons might be spies or hired guns from my other brothers who’d try to take Aba’s life to spark a bloody war. But though we intended to protect him, the effect was to feed the conspiracy theories even further, making people believe Dara and I must be plotting something.

On the morning of September 14, Aba was lying in his bed, covered with silk blankets; I was waking from fitful sleep on the Persian carpet nearby; Dara sat a few feet away, still asleep on the gold-studded chair, his turban placed on the table next to him. Suddenly I saw sunlight glare straight from the window onto Aba’s face, and it seemed to give him a boost of divine strength, for as the light hit, he opened his eyes and smiled.

“Is anyone here awake?” he asked looking around the room.

“Aba?” I cried. I stood up quickly, grinning and laughing hysterically. “Aba, you’re
well
! Allah ho Akbar!” My screams woke up Dara, who looked up still groggy from his uncomfortable sleep on the chair. “Aba, how are you feeling?” I asked.

“Weak.”

Dara said, “Well, that’s not surprising,” and knelt next to the King. “But you’ll get better now, I just know it.”

Aba seemed very drowsy from the opium the hakims had been giving him. I lamented, “Oh, Aba, you can’t know all that’s happened in this kingdom of yours during the last several days. Rumours are rampant that you’re dead, and that Dara and I have hidden this and are usurping the throne.”

Dara whined, “They’re saying I care more about the throne than for your health!”

“But I feel fine,” Aba sighed.

“Aba,” I said, “I know you feel weak, but I think it’s vitally important that after eating something you give darshan at the balcony to show that you’re alive and well.”

Aba seemed perplexed by this request, but we explained to him that only physical proof of his life would quell the rumours and
restore stability to the country. Then I advised Aba also to summon all the princes to Delhi and make his wishes for the future of India known to them.

Later that day, though weak, Aba rose to the balcony window and rallied a crowd of several thousand, who may or may not have been relieved to learn that they’d just been spared an unnecessary war for succession. Aba was a popular king, possibly the most popular India had seen in a long time. There could be no substitute for him; each candidate to succeed him was controversial in his own way, and no one before had ever shown the ability to form the broad ruling coalition the current Emperor enjoyed.

As was customary, alms were distributed in the King’s name, prisoners were set free and Dara received promotions and rewards for his devotion to Aba. But outside Delhi, the validity of his appearance at the window was questioned, and though all of us children had to know our father was still alive, I knew it would serve some to pretend they didn’t know and rally the support of their constituents.

I was lying in my chambers the next day, the sweet scents of flowers and cool water from the Paradise Canal cooling the city’s unusually hot September days. I thought to myself how great an idea the canals were, flowing all across the city, every avenue and lane on a boardwalk, and the sweet smell of the river mixing with the north winds, relieving the city’s normally dry climate.

An attendant broke into my thoughts: “Bahadur is here to see you, Your Majesty.”

When he entered the room, I asked, “Yes, what news do you bring?”

“Your Majesty, I’ve found Chamani Begum.” “Really? Where? Is she still alive?” Bahadur hesitated, as if he knew he had to bring bad news. “Your Majesty, Chamani Begum died a few days ago of swollen legs, a potbelly and a high fever. Her skin turned completely black, and she was cremated at the far side of the town so the fumes from her remains wouldn’t blow into the city. It was believed she died of a toxic infection.”

I stared confused at the servant. Aba had had those same symptoms, and though he was doing better now, I began to worry he might relapse. After a pause I said, “Who cremated her?”

“One of the untouchables who cleans the gutters. No peasant wanted anything to do with her.”

I sighed. This had been the end of Chamani Begum, whom I never knew but whose existence had caused me much unintended grief. A favourite of my father’s, this concubine probably could’ve mustered anything from Aba she chose; yet here she’d died as an orphan, with no relative or friend even to cremate her. Such was the fate of the Mughal concubine, to live and gain praise so long as she had a pleasing physical appearance, but to be discarded afterwards.

“Thank you for your service,” I said, handing Bahadur a bag of pearls.

I told Wazir Khan about the results of my investigation and my fears.

“He should go to Agra, Empress,” said Wazir Khan. “There he has the Taj Mahal to remind him of his real love. All this debauchery started when he moved away from the Taj. There, he’ll turn back to normal, and the change of air will do him good. Besides, now that he’s healing, the last thing he needs is for someone to give him more aphrodisiacs or concubines.”

Aba’s health continued to improve for the next several weeks, and in early November 1657, unsure how long we’d stay there, I had my maids pack all my belongings, and the imperial caravan set out for Agra.

Bahadur said, “Your decision to leave Delhi during the day was quite wise.” His words were always wise, so this compliment meant much to me. “With you and the king in Agra with the full might of the kingdom, the people of both cities and the countryside in between will certainly know their king is well!”

I had not thought of that, but clearly this procession would help solidify the impression that Aba was well. I chose to ride on his elephant with him, still afraid for his health, which remained quite fragile.

Leaving Delhi and saying farewell to Chandni Chowk was more difficult than I thought. I felt grieved as if I was leaving Gabriel again. Yet my sorrow was lessened by the thought of seeing the Taj Mahal and paying homage to my mother again.

I could tell by the smell in the air that we’d left Delhi and now were near the Jumna. The riverside had its own unique aroma, and I welcomed the cooler air it brought. I peeked out of the canopy while Aba slept beside me. To my chagrin, I saw the same semi-naked sadhus I’d seen many years ago when I first visited Delhi staring back at me from the shallow edge of the river.

“Farewell, oh maiden!” shouted one of them, grinning stiffly. Others cried, “Farewell, oh ill-fated ones! Farewell, oh ill-fated ones!”

I felt anxious then, as though they knew something of my future I didn’t. “Farewell!” they mocked. “You’ve lost your Delhi.” Then others joined in: “Farewell! You’ve lost your Delhi. Farewell! You’ve lost your Delhi.”

I ducked my head back inside the palanquin, and felt my heart racing. I began to sweat and feel as if someone had grabbed my neck and was slowly strangling me. Eventually our caravan moved past the Jumna riverside, and much to my relief these feelings subsided. The rest of the journey passed uneventfully.

I sent Bahadur to Shuja in Bengal to muster Shuja’s support and reassure him that Aba was well and in full control of the state. I’d given up reluctantly trying to connect with Aurangzeb, but I tried to reach out to my more timid, less ambitious brothers.

Bahadur met me in Agra to discuss his trip; I greeted him on my balcony overlooking the Taj.

“Your Majesty,” he began, “before I could even bring your message to Prince Shuja I was summoned to his audience hall to hear
his
message.”

“
His
message?”

Bahadur looked at me soberly. “He’s preparing to challenge Dara for the next Mughal emperorship.”

This news saddened but didn’t surprise me. Bahadur further reported:

“Prince Shuja, seated in his chair in Rajmahal, the capital of Bengal, shouted, ‘Abul Fauz Nasiruddin Mohammad Timur III, Alexander II, Shah Shuja Bahadur Ghazi! This will be the name of the next emperor, and so I will be addressed by the people of India!’”

I thought to myself, if ever there was a buffoon who made someone as inept as Murad look like a wise statesman, it was Shuja. Sent to the Bengal as its governor, he’d no talents or accomplishments whatsoever to boast of. Though he was older than Aurangzeb, our father had more respect – though not love – for Aurangzeb than he did for Shuja. Shuja’s only distinction throughout his useless life had been that he’d accompanied Ami’s remains from the Deccan many years ago. At that time Aurangzeb was too young, and Dara was too beloved to the King to lose sight of the latter for even a short while.

Bahadur went on: “He then ordered the prayers to be read in his new name in the mosques of Bengal, and showed proof of the new coins he’d commissioned. These were to bear his image, side-profiled. He then turned his head to the side, showing off the profile he wished to see on every Mughal coin. His advisors looked at each other in dismay, probably unaware of how to relate further with with their imbecile leader.”