Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (16 page)

Then the front door was blown open, and the general arrived with blood in his eyes.

Meanwhile, at the other end of battlefield, near the port, the Europeans apparently had better luck. They were able to position themselves at different locations in various ships and engage in sporadic fighting against the Mughal army. Here, for every one European that fell, ten Mughals fell. However, the ratio was apparently not enough to help the Europeans – there were too many soldiers overall.

Gabriel fought off several soldiers, but then noticed one of his men was hit. As he tried to run towards the man to help him, a shot hit him across his neck and he fell into the Bay of Bengal. The remaining men each fell, either to their deaths, or into the Bay, or both.

Back at the church, the families of the fallen were all chained around the stage where they’d been praying, the crucifix and the statues of Christ overlooking their imprisonment. Their heads were covered with black cloths as they continued to pray and recite their religious chants.

“Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, spare us, O Lord. Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, graciously hear us, O Lord. Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us...”

Then the Mughal general ordered the entire church and all its occupants, burned. Though Aba had merely ordered the death of the missionaries and was silent on what should be done to the families, the battle-enraged Mughal general, not content with killing the men in armed combat and merely imprisoning the families, decided to avenge the deaths of his soldiers in a much more ferocious way.

As the women, children and Father Frahlo began to smell smoke, everyone screamed and writhed trying to free themselves from their bondage, but to no avail. Children could be heard screaming for their mothers; women screamed at the fumes that smothered their dresses; some continued to pray: “Christ, hear us. Christ, graciously hear us. Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, have mercy on us. Lord, have mercy on us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil!”

The Mughal army watched this spectacle at a distance and began celebrating, as if they were watching a fireworks display. Some even began drinking wine in celebration. Soon the sounds of people began to die out, and the smell of burnt flesh permeated the air. By morning, the entire church had burned to the ground, and no European in Hugli seemed left alive.

A full month later Isa paid me a visit at my apartment, with an update on her assignment.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “when you’re not in your apartment, Raushanara Begum welcomes herself here and looks through your belongings!”

I gravely looked at Isa, nodding gently, trying to hide my disgust and horror at learning of this invasion of privacy. “Anything else?” I
asked, staring straight at her.

I believe Isa understood I had to purposely refrain from showing any emotion. Doubtless sensing the gravity of the news she’d just given me, she added, “Mallikaye, I have worked in this zenana since before you were born. I know what goes on here. If you have kept personal items such as letters or presents in your apartment, I suggest you check them.”

I was appalled to learn that my quarters were being routinely ravaged by Raushanara in my absence, and then restored as if nothing happened. After Isa left, I opened my drawer to search for the one token I had from the man I felt something akin to love for: Gabriel’s letter.

Opening my copy of the
Ibn Majah hadith
, a holy book for us Muslims, I turned to number 2771. Number 2771 of the hadith stated ‘Paradise is at the mother’s feet.’ I’d purposely hid Gabriel’s letter there because of all the hadith messages, this one held a special meaning for me, as my Ami existed now only in my thoughts and prayers.

I turned the pages, anxiously trying to reach number 2771, hoping Raushanara hadn’t touched, and if touched, not stolen, this memento. I finally reached the number 2771, and the only thing staring at me was the message,
Paradise is at the mother’s feet
. There was no letter.

I picked up the book by its cover, opening it like a bird’s wings and shook vigorously from side to side, hoping the letter would shake out.

Finally a small piece of torn, flat paper folded into fourths popped out, that must’ve gotten caught in the seams of one of the pages. Though Raushanara must be sharp enough to know that I’d again look for the letter one day and, not finding it, would suspect something amiss, she hadn’t realised I’d kept the letter in a special place, with my Ami, and that if I didn’t find it there, I’d know someone had moved it. So Raushanara knew about Gabriel and me, and this is why she must have incited Aba to burn Hugli.

11

THE WHITE SERPENT

28
^th
May, 1633

A
urangzeb had seemed like an awkward boy for several reasons. First, his odd personality and cold intellectuality repelled anyone who might have found his skinny, peach-fuzz physique even mildly attractive. Secondly, he wasn’t interested in athletics or music, the two things women of the zenana saw as prerequisites in a suitor. So Aurangzeb went through childhood with no real friends or admirers, burying himself in the one companion that couldn’t abandon him: religion. And he began acting as if he owned it; only his interpretation was valid, and any deviation from his standards was heresy against Islam. He found admirers in the marginalised mullahs, who were still reeling from Aba’s rebuke following the massacre at Hugli.

The mullahs had seen for several generations the laws and tenets of Islam being stretched widely and skewed creatively to form an inclusive, pluralistic society in India. Beginning with Akbar in the 1500s, intermarriage between Muslims and Hindus was accepted, and Hindu traditions were observed in the Mughal kingdom. Jahangir and Aba continued this tradition, each taking Hindu wives and expanding the scope of our kingdom to now include Christian missionaries from the west. All this had led to a counter-revolution by the Islamic purists, who were, in their opinion, observing the incremental destruction of Islam by non-Islamic forces.

Thus far, though, no prince of any merit had taken up the mullahs’ cause as his own. For Shuja and Murad, life was about wine, women and wealth. Dara was a continuation of the infidel tradition of Aba, according to the mullahs. But Aurangzeb was the antithesis of Dara. Where Dara was inclusive, Aurangzeb was stringent; the more Dara spoke about the oneness of religions, the more Aurangzeb spoke about the strict letter of the law. The mullahs rightfully saw in Aurangzeb their opportunity to win back the kingdom and mold it according to religious doctrine as set forth in the Koran.

Aurangzeb, now 14, was becoming a handsome young man. He was now tall, well built, he had facial hair and a firm understanding of warfare. He had Aba’s physical frame and military acumen, and Ami’s skin tone and charisma. Aba had effectively shunned him numerous times, no doubt at the instigation of Dara, who still held resentment towards Aurangzeb for poisoning Gita. In fact, Aba called Aurangzeb the ‘white serpent,’ a stinging reference to his pale skin.

One day, in the northwest city of Lahore, Aba was seated at the royal balcony while 40 fighting Bengali elephants were presented to him. As the Padishah Begum, I was observing from behind the marble window, while the four royal princes watched the event from horseback. Suddenly, I noticed that one elephant, instead of fighting its opponent, began charging towards my four brothers. Dara, Shuja, and Murad all fled for their lives, but Aurangzeb stayed mounted, unwaveringly staying his ground. As the elephant continued to charge towards him, Aurangzeb, a spear in his hand, stared directly, without blinking, into the elephant’s eyes.

“Allah ho akbar, Allah ho akbar,” he murmured – and then to the amazement of all, the elephant moved around Aurangzeb and passed without harming him.

“All hail Prince Aurangzeb!” yelled the riders on the elephants and the guards at the gate. Aba smiled and nodded approvingly to his son (recognition Aurangzeb rarely received).

Then the crowds suddenly stopped cheering. Aurangzeb, looking towards Aba, and noticed the people in the balcony fall to worried
looks. He suddenly turned his head straight and saw that the first elephant’s opponent was now charging Aurangzeb in pursuit of his earlier rival.

Still with spear in hand, Aurangzeb again began to mutter his religious verse. “Allah ho akbar, Allah ho akbar.”

As the elephant came charging, Aurangzeb rode his horse into the beast’s path: an immense shape against a 14-year-old prince. Every moment seemed a day long; we hovered on the edges of our seats, our voices unable to leave our throats and make a sound. I was terrified though protected behind the screen. Suddenly Aurangzeb let out a loud cry and hurled his spear at the elephant, piercing its forehead. Though hurt, the elephant swung its trunk and knocked Aurangzeb off his horse, and the crowd gasped in horror.

The elephant didn’t advance further. Aurangzeb lay on the ground, his legs bent, his knees up. Dara, Shuja, and Murad all stood at a distance watching, no one intervening. Dara placed his hand on Shuja’s shirt as if trying to shield himself from any danger. Aurangzeb scrambled for his spear, took hold of it and threw it at the elephant’s head again, this time turning the elephant away in agony. The crowd together breathed a sigh of relief; I finally released my breath and began breathing normally again. Aurangzeb waved to the crowd to acknowledge their applause, while my other brothers remained standing at a distance.

Aba then descended from his balcony, as servants and nobles rushed to Aurangzeb to examine and tend to his injuries. Aurangzeb walked slowly over to the King, and our grandfather, Asaf Khan, said, “You’re walking slowly towards us, and it’s the Emperor who’s in an awful state of panic!”

Aurangzeb smiled grimly and quipped, “If the elephant was still here I might be walking faster, but now I see no reason to be worried!”

Aba hugged his son, immediately presented him with 100,000 rupees and said, “Thank God it all ended well, my son. Can you imagine what tragedy it would have been if things had turned out differently?”

Aurangzeb accepted the gift, but retorted, “Regardless of how things ended, the real tragedy is, my brothers, even the older ones, didn’t stay to protect me or defend their honour.”

Asaf Khan interjected, “But Aurangzeb, what were they to do? You chose to stay and take that risk.”

The Prince replied, “Are they not soldiers, Grandfather? If soldiers should stay and face danger, was it right for them to run away and hide in shame?”

“There, there, Grandson. You must not take this personally. Besides, we all know that in the art of military tactics you have no equal.”

Aurangzeb was now visibly angered that the adults took sides with my other brothers, particularly Dara, who hadn’t stayed in the arena to defend him. He stormed towards the exit of the arena past his brothers, all of whom hung their heads low. On his way he shouted to Shuja, “I don’t blame you, because you fell off your horse while running, but at least the heir apparent should have had some courage!”

He stopped momentarily, and Dara shot back: “Courage for what? For you?”

“For the kingdom! For our honour.”

“Honour?” Dara exclaimed. “You stayed in the arena to look like a hero, and trying to save you, I might have been killed. That’s what you would’ve liked, but I’m no fool. If you’re going to act foolish, do so at your own peril. Besides, beasts should fight beasts, not men!”

Aurangzeb looked appalled at Dara’s words. He dismounted, walked up to Dara, who was now equal in height to him and said softly, “I can’t wait for the day when you and I face each other on the battlefield. I will bury you!”

Dara smiled back, “That’ll be the best day of both our lives,
brother
!”