Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (42 page)

My reverie was interrupted by a soldier riding towards the caravan. “Your Majesty, I bring you news from the Deccan,” he announced.

“What is it, soldier?”

“Your Majesty, the armies of Aurangzeb and Murad are 50,000 strong. They’ve defeated our ally, Raja Jaswant Singh, and are marching on to Agra, not Delhi, to steal the treasury!”

“Alas, you were right, Jahanara!” screamed Aba, who’d awakened in time to hear this dire news. So was the original letter sent by Dara warning of an attack on Delhi based on faulty intelligence, or was Raushanara intentionally misleading us? Again, I wondered: Were we purposely made to leave Agra unguarded so Aurangzeb could seize it, or was this a misunderstanding?

Aba said, “Runner, ride to Delhi and convey this information to my son, Dara. Also, tell him to march immediately to Agra. We’ll plan our next move from there.”

Dara and Raushanara arrived in Agra a few days after we did, much to my dismay, as I was now openly questioning why Dara would trust her during this difficult time. “She should be the last person we talk to regarding strategy!” I yelled to him.

My sister cried, “See, Dara, how she treats me? After all the help I’ve given you…” She flashed a pitiful, helpless look at him.

I rolled my eyes and pleaded with my father and Dara to not trust her. She was Aurangzeb’s ally, I maintained, and not to be trusted in the least.

Dara frowned, “Enough, Jahanara! You talk of family unity, yet this is how you treat our sister? What crime has she committed? She doesn’t
have
to be here!”

I tried to make Dara understand that all she was telling him was false information to trap him. But Dara wouldn’t budge; he insisted that she’d changed and could now be trusted. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Why would this person leave her equally scheming brother and help someone like Dara, who all his life had favoured me over her?

“Aba,” wept Raushanara, “if you don’t believe me, tell me, and I’ll drink poison and kill myself.”

No doubt this was another ploy of hers. Raushanara’d poison herself because her father didn’t trust her? She’d spent her whole life deceiving him and others in our family. But it was working. I could see Aba’s heart was thawing.

He turned to me, grabbed my hand and pleaded, “My child, forgive your sister for any offence you think she’s committed. She speaks from her heart now, I can feel it.” He then grabbed Raushanara’s hand with his other, brought our two hands together and said, “We must work together, my children. If we stay together, your brothers will hesitate to walk the path of violence. Forgive and forget what’s past, and let’s start again. We can do it, my children. Do it for your Aba – do it for Ami.”

I was sick to my stomach with all this treachery and gullibility, but what sickened me most was this invocation of Ami. Thank God she didn’t live to see this.

We were now in the Macchi Bawan, the same site where many years ago I’d helped plan the Taj Mahal. Now I was planning the battle of brother versus brother, my worst nightmare.

Raushanara said, “We have to prevent Aurangzeb from crossing the Chambal River. He has to cross it to march towards Agra!”

I just stood frowning with arms folded, watching my younger sister make detailed suggestions to the King.

“How sure are you he’ll cross there?” asked Aba.

“I know it. They’ve been planning this for months. I overheard the whole thing while I was in Aurangabad.”

Dara pointed to the location on a map. “Then this is where we’ll plant heavy guns. As they march towards us, we’ll sound warning shots, followed by real ones if we have to.”

I walked to the drawing of the Chambal river (a tributary of the Jumna located 40 kos south of Agra) and said morosely: “What about
this
area, 30 kos east of where you’re planning to place your guns?”

“What about it?” snapped Dara.

“Well, I know from building the Taj that when we wanted to run water for the canals through here, we learned it’s incredibly shallow. What if Aurangzeb’s army tries to cross here?”

Aba cupped his chin. “Maybe we should plant guns there, too…”

“…That may be overkill,” said Raushanara quickly, glancing directly at Dara alone.

“We’ll do it, though,” nodded Dara, hoping, I figured, to prevent another fight between us sisters.

Now that our plan was in place, the only thing left was to assemble an army of soldiers able to do battle should matters degenerate further and peace overtures be spurned.

Aba responded, given that his own generals were all hundreds of kos away in Bengal, by placing the entire treasury and arsenal of the Mughal Empire at Dara’s disposal. More than one lakh of horsemen and 20,000 infantry with 100 pieces of field artillery and 200 European artillerymen were quickly assembled for Dara. Well-armoured elephants and over 500 camels along with subordinates and shopkeepers also were drafted, meant to provide ready resources for the army should it be needed. Never before to my knowledge had a sitting emperor so enthusiastically provided a sitting prince with ammunition and resources for his fight against other princes of the empire.

Dara mounted his war horse amid cheers of ‘Allah-ho-Akbar’ by Muslims and ‘Har Har Mahadev’ by Hindus. Aba embraced Dara for an unusually long time, as if Aba knew this might be the last time he saw his son. Dara had given Aba such joy and happiness, that it seemed to have robbed all the love due the other brothers. In that tight embrace lay the seeds of this day – brothers joining hands to fight another brother and their father.

Aurangzeb outnumbered Dara in terms of career soldiers, and those soldiers Dara did have couldn’t compare in training and leadership with his enemy brother’s. Dara’s army was a patchwork of butchers, barbers, blacksmiths, tailors and carpenters, while Aurangzeb’s army had 50,000 well-trained soldiers. Dara’s forces hadn’t endured training in the Deccan’s blazing sun, half-submerged in water, crawling on their stomachs for the past 18 months as Aurangzeb’s likely had. Dara’s minions weren’t soldiers, but ordinary citizens.

As Dara was about to ride off, Mullah Shah Badakshi stood in front of him. He said, “Mullah, bless me that I may be victorious today.”

Shah Badakshi said, “The people of Hindustan are very malicious, Prince Dara. They deserve a malignant king, not a good-natured man like you.”

Dara glowered at Badakshi’s words, but then he smiled at his old friend’s wishes and rode off with his army to fight.

Shah Badakshi then turned to me. He placed his hand over my head and smiled. I returned his smile. Was he blessing me?

He said, “Your visions will cease from this moment on. At least, nothing they reveal to you will be of any value.” He was taking away my visions? How could I help Dara if I couldn’t see what the others were doing? Or was it now too late?

He then told me he’d had a premonition the night before that victory was not to be Dara’s. Yet he’d been summoned here to say both farewell to Dara and not give him false hope as the other Sufis had done.

The men began chanting “Manzil Mubarak!”

As the army left and the Diwan-i-am emptied, Aba and I watched our Prince’s army slowly fade into the darkness and eventually out of sight. I feared I would never see my Prince alive again.

28

MIDNIGHT

22
^nd
May, 1658

I
sent Bahadur with Dara’s army to report what was happening on the front lines. Apparently, Dara planted his heavy guns across the Chambal river as Raushanara had instructed, ignoring my warning of that shallow stretch of land 30 kos east which was perfect for crossing. He thought guarding that area also might stretch his army too thin, and hoping to repel the rebel forces just long enough for his son and his forces to arrive from Bengal, Dara planted his troops in just the one area.

Meanwhile the rebel army regrouped at the other end of the river. By morning, they were ready to march on to Agra.

Dara was said to have been shocked at hearing the horrific news. He called his entire army to attention and chaotically marched it from the riverside, with the heavy artillery he’d posted on the river front abandoned in the great haste. His artillery now greatly weakened, he rushed his dishevelled army of commoners back to their ill-fated home.

“Where are they now?” I asked Bahadur.

“They’re now occupying the great plains of Samugarh. Prince Dara’s army has sped past Prince Aurangzeb’s army.”

I stood pondering what that meant. I was confidant all of Aurangzeb’s moves were carefully calculated.

Aurangzeb’s army moved gingerly towards the plain, where the
decisive battle of Samugarh would be fought. Dara and his men had scouted the battlefield the night before, making sure they understood the terrain. At a distance they could see Aurangzeb’s army, readying itself for the following day.

I lay in my apartment in the Agra Fort, able to see the armies in the distance from my elevated residence. I wept alone as if all the life was draining from me. No matter who won, I would lose a brother, maybe two brothers, tomorrow. Nur Jahan’s plan had worked: by poisoning Aurangzeb against Aba, she’d gotten her revenge even after her death. Yet in my loss also lay the loss of my mother. There loomed the Taj Mahal, moonlight reflecting off of its white marble walls – illuminating the battlefield where her sons’ armies would face each other in battle.
What must her soul be thinking right now?
This battlefield, where the blood of at least one of her sons would be spilled the next day, had once been a hunting ground of Jahangir, my grandfather, for deer, cattle and tigers. Now, his own kin were going to hunt one another.

I knew Aba must be gazing at the same battlefield from his window, praying with every inch of his heart that his peaceful son would develop the courage and military acumen to defeat the military master Aurangzeb. I could imagine him walking over to his chair, opening the Koran, reading verses from it and weeping.

“I’m sorry my love,” he would say, looking towards the Taj Mahal. Like me, he too must have felt he’d failed his wife. Perhaps if she’d lived this day would never have come. She could have helped Aurangzeb become a better man. Neither Aba nor I had been able to stem the tide of orthodoxy and intolerance that had seized Aurangzeb’s heart after her death.

I didn’t know where Raushanara was, but I was sure she’d be smiling at the battlefield; the end was so close. She knew Aurangzeb would win, and then perhaps she’d be empress. After a lifetime spent in the shadows, finally she’d enjoy the limelight.

Yes, all of us Mughals would be looking at the plains from the majestic Red Fort, the glistening Taj Mahal reminding us of our common, deceased relative, while my two brothers look on
the moonlit battlefield, perhaps also realising that somehow their mutual mother was watching and would judge them at heaven’s gate for their actions.

I awoke early the next day and performed my early morning prayers, facing towards Mecca. The rug under me, I knelt with hands facing up before me, eyes closed.

I’d had Bahadur mount Aba’s telescope on the Samman Burj, so I could see the battle between my brothers’ armies. I’d studied the stars the night before just as closely. What was our destiny in them to be today?

Soon I saw Aurangzeb’s army wave their swords, javelins, daggers and muskets in the air, signalling to Dara’s army across the battlefield that an attack might be imminent.

Dara’s army arrayed a front row of artillery carriages, behind which he’d set out 20,000 musketeers and 500 camels. Another 28,000 cavalry stood behind them, and in the extreme rear, Dara himself rode atop a massive elephant. His army’s right wing offered several thousand men with saffron-painted faces. These were the Hindu Rajputs, I assumed. The left wing contained huge-sized bodies, the Uzbeks, no doubt.

Aurangzeb’s army stood in sharp contrast. His soldiers were all career fighters and all Muslims. Each man looked sturdy, wore the same exact uniform and stood in the same posture: back slightly bent forward as if ready to lunge at the enemy. They looked like men thirsty for blood. Aurangzeb was mounted on a grated-metal-armoured elephant; he looked even leaner than when I’d last seen him. Near him Murad, on horseback, also looked confident.