Shadow Princess (23 page)

At night, he returned to his chambers in the harem for his meal, but his door, figuratively, was always open for reports of an immediate nature, and he was stirred from his dinner or his conversations with Jahanara or Dara to the antechamber outside the
zenana,
where he received the men not allowed in. He went to sleep at midnight, and, in those few minutes before he closed his eyes, he thought of Arjumand.

And now even the memory of her face had faded. He could remember it in the absolute in certain situations, but his everyday recall had grown fainter. The part of his heart where love for her had resided had come to rest upon Jahanara.

He said because they had been silent, “Did I shock you?”

“We know what you mean, Bapa,” Jahanara said.

“But she lives on, Bapa,” Roshanara said, “in this Luminous Tomb you are building for her.”

Shah Jahan grunted softly. “I think that it is the thought of her that will live; if this tomb survives through the ages, as I intend it will, it will be my name that will flourish.”

“And wasn’t that your intention in constructing this monument to Mama?” Roshanara asked. “I mean,” she hurried on, realizing what she had said, “that it is your tribute to Mama, so you . . .”

Jahanara clicked her tongue and put a restraining hand on her sister’s arm, and Shah Jahan felt a sliver of disgust at his child’s candor, if it could be called that. She spoke quickly, without thought, as she acted sometimes. He wearied too often of her talk, because she talked only thus, and he found himself not wishing to reply to this blatant statement. Why could she not be more like her sister?

“Should we go up, Jahan?”

“It is too early,” Jahanara said, rising to go to the verandah arches, “but it does not matter. Let’s go.”

They ascended the inner stairs of the terrace from the Tahkhana to the top, and then onward still up a flight of marble stairs to the platform which would hold the tomb. In the liquid heat under cover of the white tents, the golden screen surrounding the Empress’s cenotaph glowed. They stood there, gazing at it in awe. Bibadal Khan, the superintendent of the imperial workshops, had been responsible for its construction. It was four feet high, built in linked panels to form an octagon. The screen was made of solid gold, finely wrought with flowers and enamel work, and weighed a little over a thousand pounds. As part of the interior decoration for this central chamber, Shah Jahan had also ordered gold latticework oil lamps in the shape of a crescent moon, the sun, and stars. The screen had been bolted to the marble floor two months ago, and for this
‘urs,
workers had set up poles to hang the lamps over the grave. The imperial party knelt on the cotton mattresses and said their prayers until the sun set in the west, painting the vast canvas of the skies above Agra in daubs of gold and bronze. In the gardens below, Emperor Shah Jahan had arranged for alms and enormous platters of sweets and savories to be given to the gathered men. When they left, some six hours had passed since their arrival—the sum of two
pahrs,
two watches of the day.

Emperor Shah Jahan returned later that night and prayed at the site of his wife’s grave for another
pahr,
alone on his knees, facing west, toward Mecca. He had grieved for Arjumand for two long years. No one would, or could, take her place in his heart and his affections, but he was lonely, craving a woman’s gentle touch, the scent of a woman’s body, her arms around his waist, an oblivion that had nothing special to do with love.

He left, dragging his feet, only forty-one years old this year, but sorrow had grayed the hair on his head and in his beard and weakened his eyesight. When he stumbled while descending the steps from the Tahkhana to the pier, his eunuch, Itimad Khan, steadied him and said, “You have forgotten to wear your glasses, your Majesty.”

And so he had. Shah Jahan fumbled in an inner pocket of his
qaba
and put on his glasses to see better where he was going. As the vessel departed for the ride up the river to the fort, he looked back at the place where the tomb for Arjumand would stand to remind him, and future generations, that here was a woman so beloved that her husband had built for her—soon to be silhouetted forever against the night sky—a Luminous Tomb.

Aureng-Zebe, the third brother, was devoid of that urbanity and engaging presence, so much admired in Dara. . . . He was reserved, subtle, and a complete master of the art of dissimulation.

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

Agra

Saturday, May 28, 1633

19 Zi’l-Qa’da
A.H.
1042

T
wo days after the second
‘urs,
Emperor Shah Jahan ordered an elephant fight. It was to take place in the main
maidan,
a field of beaten mud, smooth and freed from weeds by the hundreds of men who trod upon it daily during the evening
jharoka,
at the base of the battlements of Agra fort, some thirty feet below the balcony of the jutting Shah Burj.

When news had spread through Agra of the elephant fight, bookmakers had swarmed in, laying odds on which elephant would win, how soon after the fight began, whether the
mahout
of the winning elephant or the losing elephant would die; even whether the reserve
mahout
was likely to die. It was as though a pall had lifted from the Empire. The Mughal Emperors were all keen warriors and avid sportsmen, at home in the saddle, in a tent, on a battlefield, at a blood sport—and of the last, the elephant fight was the ultimate sport. But Empress Mumtaz Mahal’s death had ended all amusements; the imperial orchestra had not played until Prince Dara’s wedding, the
maidans
had lain empty of entertainment,
nautch
girls had been dismissed from the doors to the imperial
zenana
—life had been dismal.

An elephant fight was the supreme diversion in Mughal India, because it was the exclusive prerogative of the Emperor—not even his sons could order one. Of all the animals Emperor Shah Jahan owned in quantities large enough to stable—the horses, the camels, the oxen, the mules—the elephants were the most revered. They were initially captured from the forests around India, and, from Emperor Jahangir’s time, their keepers had begun to breed them in the imperial stables, leading to strain after strain of fine animals used in war, in peace, as beasts of burden, as mounts for the imperial ladies of the
zenana,
on construction sites, and, last, for the pleasure of the Emperor in the fighting field. Each royal elephant had appointed for its care nine men and a boy, noted in the imperial registers as “nine and a half men”—five to tend to its education, to teach it to bow and obey orders; a
mahout,
who was its caretaker and the man who rode the elephant; three men to feed, bathe, and dress the elephant in its finery when presented at court; and finally a boy, who would sit at the back of the elephant with the
mahout
and assist him in managing the beast and take his place if needed.

The two elephants chosen for the fight in Agra were the imperial stables’ best
mast
elephants, categorized as full-blooded. They were both young males, feisty and fiery, given to trumpeting at all hours and eager to pick a fight whenever they could, and their names were Sukhdar and Surat Sundar.

By the time the sun was centered in the sky over Agra, the
maidan
was teeming with people who had been waiting for a place at the proceedings since dawn. A thrum of excitement swept over them as the imperial orchestra, housed in its own balcony in the ramparts of the fort above, played its music, rousing the frenzy of the crowd. Money moved from hand to hand surreptitiously, as bets were made under the keen gaze of the imperial guards, who pretended not to notice. Everyone knew that the Emperor did not approve of gambling for too-high stakes during elephant fights. Colored flags strung on ropes swung down from the fort into the crowd, tethered to poles around the field. At the periphery of the ground, vendors did a brisk business in chicken
kababs
rolled in flat and fragrant circles of
naan;
vegetables dipped in a chickpea-flour batter and deep-fried, served with a tangy tamarind chutney; jaggery-sweetened drinks of lime,
khus,
and orange. There was a women’s enclosure on the side of the Yamuna River, toward the very end of the field, and here the wives, daughters, cousins, and sisters of the more common men sat in a motley of color—splashes of bright yellows, greens, blues, pinks, magenta.

The princes came first to the
maidan,
and their appearance was heralded by the imperial orchestra, which played a song of welcome. The crowd parted to let them through, and in many an eye there was awe and an admiration that Emperor Shah Jahan, their lord and their master, was possessed of such magnificent sons. And they
were
splendid, mounted on perfectly matched white steeds from the imperial stables, the bridles of silver and gold, velvet woven around the reins in their hands, diamonds embedded into the leather of their saddles. Dara rode first, solemn and upright, raising his hand to acknowledge the love directed toward him, the press of fervent gazes taking in the sight of their future Emperor. He was newly married, this young man, and his responsibilities sat well upon his shoulders. Shuja received his share of adulation also, but it was more muted, although he smiled and nodded to the men. A ripple of laughter went through the people when they saw the youngest, Prince Murad, who was only nine this year, a child next to his brothers but with a stern expression that slipped when he smiled with delight at a juggler’s monkey that sprang up from its master’s arms and waved at the prince. After this his face lightened and he did not stop grinning.

Behind them was Prince Aurangzeb. In the two years since their mother’s death, he had retreated into himself and his studies, and this was the character he adopted most of the time. The reading of the Quran gave him something to do as he waited to grow older, and he knew most of the verses by heart. He glanced at Dara’s back, listened to the murmur of adulation from the people, and looked away again, his eyes smarting with tears. What was the matter with him? He had always known Dara to be so beloved among the masses; it was only at court, among the
amirs,
that this reverence was tempered with disapproval of his easy manners. And Dara was a fool, spending too much time with the Jesuit priest Father Busée, giving him far too much money for his churches and his missions, interested in every religion in a dabbling, casual way, and neglecting his own true faith of Islam.

Aurangzeb shifted in his saddle as they reined in their horses by the side of the
maidan
. The sun blighted the sky, turning its blue so pale that it was almost white, and the colors of the clothing, the glint of jewels from the turbans of the
amirs
gathered around the field, the sheen of metal in the horses’ bridles, all gave him a headache. In this heat, without even the relief of a cool draft of air from the Yamuna—for it was a still, airless day—the smells were intensified, and Aurangzeb held his breath from time to time, trying not to inhale the odor of the perspiration that flowed freely on brows and dampened underarms and backs, the hot smell of frying, rancid oil, the stench of old perfume. His hands shook as he held the reins of his horse and relaxed only when a series of parasols, held aloft by servants on horses, came to shade him and his brothers. The imperial orchestra announced the coming of the Emperor, and they all turned toward the Shah Burj, waiting for that first sight of his person. And when he appeared, the crowd roared, “Padshah Salamat!” Once. Twice. Three times.

They all bent their heads and performed the
taslim,
raising their hands to their foreheads thrice and letting them fall. Even Aurangzeb drew in a breath when he saw his father and felt his heart tug in a way it had not since Mama’s death with an overflowing gratitude that this man, so glorious, so patently a king, was his father.

Emperor Shah Jahan had finally divested himself of his mourning white, two years after his wife’s death and two days after the celebration of the second anniversary. He wore a
qaba
of raw silk in the color Emperor Jahangir had so favored as appropriate for royalty, and it was the deep red of a brilliant sunset captured faithfully by the dyers in the imperial
karkhanas
. On his head was a turban of white silk, an aigrette pinned to the center which was a three-hundred-carat diamond, an immaculate heron’s feather springing from it. There were pearl necklaces, fifteen in all, strung in different sizes and varieties around his neck. His hands were jeweled with rubies, emeralds, pearls, and diamonds. His
qaba
was studded with a thousand tiny diamonds so that, as he moved, his entire person seemed to be on fire. With all this magnificence, the crowds below did not notice the graying of his hair or the dimmed brilliance of his eyes. Here, finally, was the Emperor they adored. In his splendor was their security. And so many a heart soared with pride and affection.