Shadow Princess (13 page)

As the months passed, the earth itself was moved from one place to another as Shah Jahan’s engineers took meticulous measurements and pondered on the acclivity and declivity of the site. Early word from the Emperor’s court at Burhanpur called for the land to be perfectly flat and for the waters of the Yamuna to run close by the site of the tomb. So the peasants lined up in unending rows—hundreds of them, men, women, and children as young as five years—with rolls of cheap cloth on their heads, atop which they balanced battered and curved vessels. These were filled with mud, and the workers swayed toward another part of the site and dumped the contents there as ordered, and the mud was raked down as soon as it fell upon the ground. Shah Jahan had mentioned, briefly, to one of his nobles that he wished for the Yamuna never to dry into its summer sandiness in front of the tomb. So the course of the river was changed, to curve closer along the work site, and again the workers carried their burden of earth across the river and piled it on the northern side, to nudge its waters closer toward the other bank.

In flattening the land, trees were cut down. Raja Jai Singh’s grandfather had planted a guava orchard in the front of the
haveli,
and of those trees, forty-three had survived the torrid heat and aridity of Agra and flourished and grown to provide shade and color. When the trees were felled, despite their age, their trunks were as slender as a woman’s waist, but their branches were laden with the second, rain-brought fruiting—guavas the size of oranges, a mild green on the outside, pink and honeyed on the inside. The two enormous mango trees of an inner courtyard came down also, and their roots were harder to dislodge from the reluctant ground.

By December of 1631, there were no more signs of inhabitation left on the land that Raja Jai Singh had “gifted” to his Emperor—the earth finally lay quiet and deserted, awaiting a new history.

Along the way to Agra, everywhere the funeral cortege stopped for the night, a guard was set up around the coffin, torches kept burning, the Ahadis posted in a solemn circle, standing through the hours in full armor. Word had fled along their path of this coming procession, and in the towns and villages of Hindustan, people turned out in vast numbers to wait for their Empress and pay their last respects to her. In return, Prince Shuja dipped his hand again and again into bags of gold
mohurs
and silver rupees and threw them into the crowd to give thanks to the Empire that had come to honor his mother.

They reached Agra on the eighth of January 1632, about three weeks after they had set out from Burhanpur. They had traveled fleetly these past weeks, stopping only briefly for the night, unhindered by the entire contingent of the imperial
zenana,
and made the journey to Agra in a relatively short time. At the site of the Taj, Shuja presided over a small tract of land as his mother’s body was buried with haste and a small, domed building of red sandstone, some twelve feet high, was raised over her remains. He looked at the tiny furrows that marked out the lines of the mausoleum his father was going to build. The temporary resting place was in front of the future platform on which the tomb would stand according to the architect’s plans. Here—once they moved Mumtaz yet again—would be the top left quadrant of the
charbagh
gardens in front of the Taj Mahal.

Before he left Agra some twenty days later, Prince Shah Shuja knelt at his mother’s grave and prayed that she would come to his father in his dreams and speak of Shuja as a favored son. This he had not been when Mumtaz was alive. But there was some hope surely, he thought, in the fact that his father had entrusted this sacred duty to him. He put his lips to the cold stone slab, then rose. Through the morning fog that rolled landward from the Yamuna River, he saw another tomb take shape, resplendent in white marble, its very platform towering over the small structure in front, its frosted white minarets floating apart from the main building. The fog shifted in a streak of breeze and dissolved the outlines of the Luminous Tomb.

Whenever the King travels in . . . pomp he has always two private camps; that is to say, two separate bodies of tents. One of these camps being constantly a day in advance of the other, the King is sure to find at the end of every journey a camp fully prepared for his reception.

—
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE
(ed.)
AND IRVING BROCK
(trans.),
Travels in the Mogul Empire, by François Bernier
A.D.
1656–1668

Burhanpur

Wednesday, March 17, 1632

25 Sha’baan
A.H
. 1041

W
ill we return here, Jahan?”

“Bapa will not want to.” Princess Jahanara straightened from the edge of the balcony and stretched her arms above her head, easing the heaviness in her neck. It was early morning, and the air was still scented by the night and lay lightly upon the shoulders of the two women who stood atop the ramparts of the fort. Tea, fragrant with cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg, steamed gently in white and blue Chinese porcelain cups that had been laid on the flat edge of the balustrade.

“Too many memories,” Roshanara said softly, more to herself than her sister. “Of the unwanted kind. And yet, there are others also; I was born here, Jahan.”

“This is the first time Bapa and Mama have been apart.” Jahanara leaned over to search through the lightening gloom below. She could not see very well yet; the eastern skies were a melody of russets and reds, but the sun had not broken through, so the courtyard, lit only intermittently by torches, was more shadow than light. But they could hear sounds—the snickers of horses, a low trumpet from an impatient elephant, the clank of armor, swords against shields, buckles against mail, a water vessel falling to the ground with a thud. “Think about it,” she said, “in all the years that they were married, they were always together, and even in death . . . Mama lay but a mile away, but now, with her in Agra, Bapa did not want to delay our journey there. No”—her voice grew stronger—“we will not come back to Burhanpur.”

Roshanara reached out a hand to the delicate china cup and sipped her chai; it had cooled in all of their talking, though not even enough to form a skin of cream. It was still hot, not the blasting heat that would come later in the day, but enough for a bead of sweat to break from her forehead and run down the side of her nose. “Will we”—she hesitated—“you and I, have what they had, Jahan? Will you find this sort of happiness with the
amir
Mama mentioned—what was his name, Najabat Khan?”

“I would hardly speak to you of it, Roshan,” Jahanara said with asperity. “You should not take his name. He is my intended.”

“Oh?” Roshanara raised her eyebrows. “So it is settled, then?”

A horn blasted in the courtyard, low and sweet, its sound floating up to them, and they both pulled their veils over their heads to just below their chins. In the six months since their mother had died, the color at court and in the imperial
zenana
had been predominantly white—a blinding, snowy white that allowed for no relief. Emperor Shah Jahan still refused to wear any other color, steadfastly showing the world that he had not stopped grieving. But a month ago, Jahanara had sent orders to the cloth
karkhanas
—the imperial ateliers—to brush her whites with a tinge of crimson. She wore rubies in her hair, their colors so washed out that they were more pink than red, and her tight
choli,
which left her slender waist bare, was trimmed on the sleeves with tassels of red. A few days later, Princess Roshanara had sent a similar order—her clothing was of the palest green, emeralds glowing upon her person. The Emperor had seen but said nothing to his daughters when they altered the prevailing fashion. They were young, he had thought.

When the sound of the horn melted away, the sun broke free from the horizon and cast its low rays over them all, bathing them in a golden, liquid light.

“Not settled,” Jahanara said in a flat voice. “Nothing is decided yet about Mirza Najabat Khan. We have had no time for festivities, Roshan.”

“I know. Shall I talk to Bapa?”

“You?” Jahanara swung around quickly, smiling below her veil. “What would you say to him? Why would he listen?”

“Who then?” Roshanara asked. “Would
you
dare yourself? Ah”—she paused—“you think Dara will. Why do you like him so much, Jahan?”

“This is a stupid question,” Jahanara said slowly. “It is not any of your business whom I marry or how the alliance comes to life. And Dara”—she searched her sister’s face under the sheer covering of chiffon—“he is our brother. He’s the heir to the Empire and we love him. Or we should. What kind of a question is that?”

Now they both saw the crowd in the courtyard below clearly. Splendid Arabian horses from the imperial stables, all black with white fetlocks, their bridles and saddles picked out in silver and velvet, stood right in the front. The men mounted on them, the Ahadis, who were the most elite of the imperial bodyguards, held aloft their spears and also the Emperor’s standards and banners. Behind them, and for a mile or so that Jahanara and Roshanara could see, were ordered rows of camels, elephants, and men on foot—all carrying burdens, wrapped in cloth, strapped on their backs in
howdahs
or baskets. This was the
paish-khana,
the advance camp, which was leaving Burhanpur three days before the royal party departed, with a complete set of tents, cooking vessels, chairs and tables, bed linen and bedding, vegetables and spices. When they reached their first halt in the journey, this city of tents, glittering with silk and damask, the floors smothered by the finest Persian carpets, would be waiting for them.

“Do you remember when Bapa almost gave up the throne, Jahan?” Roshanara said as the elephants, a hundred in all, lumbered by. They transported the heaviest equipment of the Emperor’s camp—the tents, the tent poles, and the furniture. “Aurangzeb thought that he ought to be considered . . . for the position. It was not wrong of him to think so; he has as much right to the crown as Dara, doesn’t he?”

Jahanara held her hand over her nose and mouth as the elephants’ passing raised a fine mist of dust. When it had settled, they saw the white cows and gray bullocks swing through; they provided the milk, cream, yogurt, buttermilk, and
ghee
for the imperial kitchens. The most well fed of them went into curries and
biryanis.
“He does, by law, such as it is. But it was Bapa’s dearest wish that if he gave the throne to anyone, it would be to Dara. I think he was right.”

Roshanara’s mouth twisted. “Why do you like him so much?”

Jahanara shrugged. “He is my brother; that should be enough. For you too, Roshan.”

Just then, the thud of hooves quieted and four horsemen drew under the balcony where they stood. One of the two in the center was mounted on a magnificent white horse, its head plumed with a heron feather. The rider was similarly clad in white; Prince Aurangzeb had not dared to follow his sisters’ example and show in open court that he disregarded his father’s mourning for his mother. The man next to him, an
amir
of the court who had been asked to accompany him, rode a few paces behind, and flanking them were the two other horsemen—canopy bearers—who held long poles over their heads linked by the thick white cotton of an awning fringed with white silk tassels. As they passed under the princesses, the canopy bearers reined in their horses, and for a moment, Aurangzeb and his companion were visible. The prince looked up, smiled, and raised his hand. Jahanara and Roshanara answered his salute and saw the
amir
glance up in surprise, then quickly drop his gaze to the ground when he realized who they were.

They went on, followed by five hundred camels and the four hundred bullock- and ox-drawn carts. A hundred men had been employed for the special purpose of carrying the fine china that they ate from, the gold and silver vessels they served themselves from, the earthenware
matkas
that bore water from the holy Ganges River—the only water they drank.

When they left on their journey back to Agra in a few days, they would travel in an enormous entourage with at least as many animals of burden as the
paish-khana.
So long was their procession—for it could hardly be called by any less lofty name—that it would take twelve hours for the horses, the camels, the elephants, and the foot soldiers to pass by one single point, even given that they would travel with a considerable breadth about their forces, not just this mammoth length. When they encamped, the traders accompanying them would set up bazaars in an orderly manner wherever the Mir Manzil, the Quartermaster of the Empire, had determined the shops to be, and in these bazaars—which would each serve the nobility, the soldiers, and the more common people who accompanied the camp—there would be found every necessity: milk,
ghee,
eggs, meat, spices, cloth, needles and thread, grains, flour, jaggery, toys for the children, jugglers for entertainment, indigo for dyes, carpet weavers and coppersmiths.