Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (17 page)

The year before I’d sent Shuja and Sati to the Deccan to bring Ami’s remains back to Agra. I instructed that along the way bestowal of enormous sums of money and food be made on the people along the countryside, the vast majority of whom were Hindus; and with each charitable act, the penniless peasants blessed the dead Empress’ remains with all their heart.

Aba and I received word from a runner when the remains were a few kos away, so the two of us and Dara went to the Samman Burj to view the caravan bringing the remains to the intended site, which was owned by Rajah Jay Singh and bought from him in return for four mansions in Agra.

We watched as the caravan reached the banks of the Jumna. A provisional tomb was constructed to hide the site of interment from public view. The spot was instantly converted into a sacred site for Hindus and Muslims. Hindus during their morning prayers would fold their hands in that direction, as if seeking blessing from a deity. Muslims would treat the shrine as a mosque in itself, though no one could enter it.

After the remains of my mother were interred in this new site, Dara and I walked down the stairs from the Samman Burj to the Macchi Bawan, a large hall located on the main floor. My father was already there with two other men, discussing the overall plan of the site.

A wooden model of the mausoleum had been constructed by the lead architects, Ahmed, a Persian astrologer and engineer who frequently directed Aba’s most ambitious architectural projects, and Ali Mardan Khan, one of the court’s great statesmen and architects.

Aba was telling the two men: “I want to make use of the number four. It is the holiest of all numbers in Islam, so I’m envisioning a garden laid out in a quadrate plan, with two canals running at perpendicular angles to one another.”

Ahmed asked, “Do you have any idea what you want at the intersection of the two canals?”

Piped in the architecturally obtuse Dara: “You could have the actual building in the centre.”

“No!” said all three men at once.

Aba said, “My son, you aren’t taking advantage of the reflective power of the canal.”

“How about a reflective pool in the middle?” said Ali Mardan. “That way, the visitor will see a mirror image of the structure in it.”

“Precisely!” said Aba. “Not just that, but all along the canal, the structure will reflect into the water.”

Dara and I gaped at the men discussing these ideas, hardly able to understand how such theoretical ideas could be developed and executed.

“But I’m concerned,” said Ahmed, “about the seepage into the Jumna, Your Highness.”

Aba put his hand on his chin and raised his eyebrows, pondering this challenging dilemma. The sheer size and weight of the structure would indeed place a tremendous burden on the already soft ground by the river. Then he said: “We’re going to have to excavate an area the size of fifteen kos by fifteen kos and fill it with sediment.”

The two men continued to discuss plans, as Dara and I watched from a distance and rejoiced to see our father coming alive once again. He wasn’t excited about
building
; he was excited about building for
Ami
. He was communing with her through art and celebrating his love through his work and keeping it alive, honouring his lover’s last wishes.

Aurangzeb told his partner Raushanara about the elephant incident, and I learned that the two apparently discussed how biased our father was towards me and Dara, and how they were always playing second fiddle to lesser-quality siblings. Raushanara, as I would learn from Bahadur, had pursued a dangerous course ever since I was proclaimed empress. Not only did she encourage Aurangzeb to openly challenge Dara for the throne of India, but while chastising Dara’s unislamic ways, she engaged in sexual promiscuity in her own chambers.

Every night servant men were brought to her, and she bedded them, often committing lewd sexual acts some of the zenana concubines had taught her. Sometimes she bedded several men at once and even had the men commit sexual acts with each other. On occasion, she would ask to have the servant men bed servant women while she watched. If ever she was displeased with any of their service, she would have them secretly killed by the prison guards on trumped-up charges of theft and burglary.

Princess by day, whore by night, Raushanara’s promiscuity was effectively hidden from all of the household members, even Aurangzeb. As intolerant as Aurangzeb was, he was equally critical of Muslims committing immoral acts such as premarital intercourse and adulterous affairs. She must’ve concluded that should he learn of this, she would lose her last ally. By inciting one side to fight another, the household members were kept warring with each other, with no one having time to learn of her affairs.

I was torn about what I should do with this information. There was no doubt in my mind that once Aba or anyone else learned of it, Raushanara would face the harshest of punishments, possibly even execution. Not wanting to be responsible for a family member’s death – not even a malicious family member’s – I decided to keep my mouth shut so long as her sexual deviance was affecting only her.

Seeking more allies to censure Dara for his passivity, Aurangzeb came to me one day. “I know what happened, Aurangzeb,” I nodded. “I was there. I’m sorry. You’re right, Dara should’ve intervened.”

“So will you censure him?” Aurangzeb seemed both hopeful and demanding.

“You know I can’t censure anyone, but Aba and I will speak with him.”

Aurangzeb’s face dropped. “Aba is on his side!”

“You know Aba doesn’t take sides,” I reminded him.

Aurangzeb looked sharply at me. “Are you blind? Do you know Dara refers to me behind my back as ‘the white serpent?’ What did I ever do to him?”

I just looked at the ground. I knew Aurangzeb was right, and that as the only surviving parent it was Aba’s duty to give all his children the love of both a father and a mother, but I was powerless to do anything. I had talked to Aba already about equalising his treatment of all his sons, but to no avail. I also was aware of this derogatory nickname he’d given my light-skinned brother.

“Go, Aurangzeb,” I told him. “You’ve made your point. I’ll do what I can, brother. But in the meantime, please don’t carry ill in your heart against Dara. You know he’ll be wed soon, and I want to put a unified ‘family’ face for the people to see. This will be our family’s first wedding.”

“First wedding… huh! First wedding, for the first son, who’s first always. Do you realise that my only fault is that I wasn’t born first? Were I older than Dara,
I’d
be Aba’s favourite, I’d be the heir apparent, and I’d be wed first. For my wedding, everything will be second-rate.”

“No, Aurangzeb, I swear that on your wedding I’ll spend just as much as on Dara’s. I’ll work just as hard…”

“I know you will Jahanara, but somehow Aba will remind me then also that I’m second-rate in his eyes. No matter what I do, it never stops!”

Having said these words, Aurangzeb left my apartment – and me to plan Dara’s wedding. I was disappointed by my inability to pacify my brother, but what could I do? I left him to rot in his self-pity and rage, unable to fathom how it might one day grow into a fury even he wouldn’t be able to control.

With Sati’s help I went to great lengths to plan for Dara the most extravagant wedding the country had ever seen. Nuptial costs alone exceeded 30 lakh rupees, of which I contributed half from my own savings. Dara was dressed in his mansion overlooking the Jumna. All three of his brothers, including Aurangzeb, gathered at his mansion
and accompanied him to the Diwan-i-am, where the nobles and public were gathered. Aba then put a pearl necklace on Dara and a groom’s crown on his head.

Dara rode behind Aba on his own horse, wearing a burgundy
sarapa
covered with emeralds, pearls, amethysts and gold embroidery. The younger brothers rode on lesser decorated horses behind him, as velvet and rose petals were showered on the ground in front of them and nautch girls whirled in ecstasy in front of the procession. The music was loud but peaceful, preventing anyone from hearing the sounds of silver and gold coins being showered as father and son passed by.

Over 1,000 nobles attended the wedding, and the gifts from each noble were paraded and then marched off to the royal treasury to be catalogued and recorded. (This show of wealth was out of respect for the king more than for the marrying couple.)

As they reached the house of Dara’s new bride, Nadira, all the royal men dismounted and stood at the gate, sunset’s rays shining off the diamonds on their turbans. They were greeted by Nadira’s family and escorted into her house. The men sat across from the women; the mullahs sat in the centre. I noticed Nadira’s hue from behind the screen, for she wasn’t permitted to see or be seen by anyone during this ceremony. I was told her
churidar
was made of the finest silk, and her
ghaghara
had streaks of gold running down its length. She wore a necklace with pearls the size of grapes and earrings made of emeralds.

The mullahs read a passage from the Koran, and then shortly after midnight proclaimed Dara and Nadira married. A great celebration ensued, with Chinese rockets providing a fireworks display and music thundering through the red sandstone halls of the fort.

Equal in beauty to Ami, Nadira shared Dara’s thirst for higher learning of other religions and had won his trust and love even more deeply than Gita had. Indeed, Dara first consented to the marriage when he noticed how closely Nadira bore a resemblance to Gita. It was as if Gita had come alive again, aged, and then had been
presented to him as a Muslim royalty. Dara, in turn, proclaimed that he would never marry another woman, adamant that the role that Manu and other wives of Aba had in the household shouldn’t be inherited by any others in future.

The zenana rejoiced in the privacy of its own quarters. There were copious amounts of wine and opium for those who desired them. Henna Begum, as usual, began disrobing in front of the other women as one of the eunuchs sang in the background to light, distant sitar music. Henna was so heavily intoxicated, I wasn’t sure she would even remember this event the next morning. At a distance, I saw Raushanara, also heavily intoxicated, carrying a giant jug of wine she poured into the mouths of the zenana women.

She growled thickly, “I command you to open your mouth!” Her eyes were glazed over. “You have to obey me, you are a mere concubine!” The women reluctantly opened their mouths, and as Raushanara poured the sour wine into their mouths and ordered them to swallow, the concubines squinted. I wasn’t pleased to see this forced intoxication. Standing next to her, holding her hand, was Gauhara, my younger sister and only sibling never to have known Ami. She, too, was drunk.

Raushanara and Gauhara slowly made their way to one young concubine who begged, “Please, Begum Raushanara, I do not wish to consume wine. I never take any intoxicating substances.”

“Oh?” Raushanara rasped. She walked up to the concubine, a young 16-year-old beauty with Turkish features. “Such intoxicating beauty, but no intoxicating substances?” This, I knew, was Aba’s favourite concubine, who had won several favours from him, much to the chagrin of the other zenana women. “You intoxicated my father, but no one can intoxicate you?” She then motioned to Gauhara and commanded, “Gauhara, hold her hands down!” Then Raushanara held the concubine’s mouth open with her hand and began to pour wine into her mouth.

I yelled: “Raushanara, stop it!” There was silence as both Raushanara and Gauhara loosened their grips. The concubine ran out crying. “Stop forcing people to drink if they don’t wish to!”

Henna Begum purred, “Begum Raushanara, may I have some of your love juice!” She continued dancing and disrobing, and Raushanara and Gauhara walked over to her, waggling their hips to emulate Henna’s moves. Henna opened her mouth and Raushanara began pouring the wine in Henna’s mouth as they both bumped and ground, causing the wine to spill onto her face and down her bosom. Henna laughed, “Gauhara, the wine is expensive! Don’t let it fall – lick it!” Gauhara licked the wine off of Henna’s neck and slowly went down to her nipples and the women laughed loudly at their debauchery.