Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (18 page)

I shouted: “Gauhara, what do you think you’re doing? Go to your chambers! Bahadur, take the wine from Raushanara; no more drinking tonight!”

“Sorry, Padishah Begum,” Raushanara said. “Aba has issued a proclamation that there will be boisterous rejoicing tonight to celebrate the heir apparent’s wedding. You sealed it with the muhr uzak!”

“Then I can unseal it also!”

“No, Jahanara, you don’t have the authority to unseal it. The King makes the decision, and you approve or disapprove, but you cannot initiate a decision already taken. Sorry!” She then began fondling Henna’s breasts and looked towards me, openly defying my orders and challenging me. Gauhara, completely inebriated from the opium and wine Raushanara had fed her, continued licking. I left the room as the women laugh and mocked on. I hoped my mother wasn’t watching from her place ‘beyond.’

The wedding having occurred with much fanfare, I was lauded by the King for my efforts and given more time now to manage the building of the mausoleum. This structure was preordained to be one of the most eclectic structures of all time. Designers from all over the world descended upon Agra and were presented to me in the Macchi Bawan, located behind the Diwan-i-am.

Ahmed and Ali Mardan presented their choices for the different parts of the structure.

“Empress,” said Ali, “may I present to you Ismail Afandi, from Turkey? He is a designer of hemispheres and a builder of domes.”

I asked “Tell me, Ismail, have you constructed many mosques for your former masters?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I have built several domed structures for both mosques and palaces, and I wish to make the domes of your structure perfect to the final inch.”

“What makes you think your construction of domes will be the finest?”

Ismail looked at me confidently. “Your Highness, I have spent a lifetime building domes. Though you may not see the subtle differences in domes, I assure you there is a significant difference from one structure to another.”

I probed his eyes deeply: “And I assume you know the difference?”

Ismail explained to me further how the domes differed and the techniques he would employ. This dome, he went on to tell me, would have a special fullness he felt would bring out its beauty. Satisfied with this self-described expert of domes, I moved to the next mason.

“Your Highness,” Ahmed said, “I now present to you Qazim Khan, a native of Lahore, a renowned expert in precious metals.”

A tall, slender man with a trimmed beard and moustache rose; I noticed his hands were covered with thick calluses, doubtless reflecting a lifetime spent welding metal. “Are we to have metals for the structure?” I asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” bowed Qazim. “I will be the artist to design a golden structure atop the majestic domes you create.”

“Does the drawing call for metal elsewhere?”

“Not to my knowledge, Your Highness, but perhaps the doors to the mausoleum will be of a fine material such as silver.”

How opulent this structure would look with giant doors made of pure silver! Almost embarrassed that I didn’t already know about the metals planned for the structure, I moved on to the next artisan.

Ali spoke: “Your Majesty, I now present Amanat Khan Shirazi, master calligrapher from Shiraz.”

A heavy-set middle-aged gentleman very gracefully rose and greeted me. Unlike the other artisans, this man seemed non-athletic; his art wouldn’t require him to build muscles or a chiselled physique. Rather, he was a poet, artist and master calligrapher with a visual acumen that would see the subtle flaws of everyday writing and thus create the most flawless depiction of prose wherever he put his ink.

I said, “Tell me, Amanat, where will your calligraphy find a home on our structure?”

“Your Highness,” he said with quiet assurance, “I will write Koranic verses on the entrance to the structure, so that Allah’s words will remain always a part of your mother’s home.”

I smiled and nodded to this exquisitely polite gentleman, whose name would ultimately be the only signature on the structure.

One by one, Ahmed and Ali Mardan presented more men to me. To the best of my abilities, I tried to question each in his area of expertise, only to find they’d been well pre-screened by my two chief architects; these were simply the best in their trades to be had anywhere. After several days of interviews and questioning, 37 men were chosen to form the nucleus of the project, with over 20,000 actually commissioned to work on the structure. Marble was to be dug from the quarries of eastern India in the state of Rajasthan and transported to Agra with ox carts for hundreds of kos. Red sandstone was to be brought from the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri as well as from local quarries. The precious stone inlays came from much more far and remote regions: turquoise from Tibet, lapis from Ceylon, chrysolite from the Nile, carnelian from Baghdad, rare shells from the Indian Ocean and jasper from Cambay. Forty-three different types of gems and precious metals were to be used in the structure, including diamonds, rubies, silver and gold.

Aba and I spent the next several years steeping ourselves in the work for the new structure. Not even having a name yet, we referred to it simply as
The Structure
. Labourers and masons from all over India poured into Agra to help with the construction, and a ten kos
ramp of bricks was constructed to haul the large marble slabs up to its highest portion.

As we viewed the area from the Samman Burj I remarked to Aba: “There’s more life out there than there is here in the fort.”

“Yes, indeed,” he smiled. “In fact, they’re calling that area Mumtazabad, after your mother I presume.” It was beyond amazing to me, how on a clear barren field along the banks of the river, an entire metropolis had erupted, chaotic-looking but dynamic.

I said, “Mumtazabad? Hmm… I guess it has its own streets and avenues and lanes. They even have a bazaar and playing grounds for the childrens’ servants.”

“Everything you’d expect to find in a city,” replied Aba. “In fact, a caravan from Baghdad went through our city yesterday and stopped only in Mumtazabad, not Agra, because they felt there was more business for their goods there than here.”

“Really?”

“Not only so, but some people are openly saying they’re residents of Mumtazabad, not Agra.”

“Did they receive your approval to say this, Aba?”

“No…” he said hesitantly, as if reflecting for the first time on the illegal nature of such a claim. “Yet,” he nodded, “I guess as long as they’re honouring your mother’s name, I’m content. In truth, were it up to me every town would be Mumtazabad.”

I looked again at the makeshift town of Mumtazabad, marvelling at how the former empty riverside location was now bustling with life: children were playing in the streets; vendors were selling goods. I then turned to my father and said excitedly, “Next time we go to survey the structure, can we also visit Mumtazabad, Aba? I want to see just how much it has developed!”

Years had passed since I first interviewed the master artisans for the mausoleum. I continued to coordinate changes to the design as well as negotiate with other kingdoms for precious stones, but I left supervision of the actual construction to Ali Mardan and Ahmed. Now, as Aba and I set out to survey the progress, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

As we dismounted from the elephant, I felt in utter awe of how, amid the debris of broken lumber and bustle of half-naked labourers, their ribs visible and faces darkened with dust, there was rising a luminous, snow-white structure that looked as though it had fallen from Allah’s very paradise for our earthly pleasure.

Along the side of the construction area, I saw rows of burly, muscular men gathering in long lines to give their names and areas of expertise, and if they were lucky, to receive their new assignments. Indians from all over the country came to us to seek employment, and each according to his skill would find employment to help build my mother’s shrine.

I could tell many of the labourers were drinking, quite possibly to find comfort from the long, hard days their new job required. At a distance, labouring women balanced basins of earth on their heads, while their male counterparts dug with iron piks and dumped the earth into the never-ending line of empty basins. Slowly, the actual direction of the river was being changed so it might be brought closer to the site.

As Aba discussed the progress of the structure with his architects, it seemed to me that the architects were torn over a dilemma: How would the structure simultaneously exemplify both the opulence and grandeur of the Mughal King and the utter simplicity of the Queen it meant to immortalise? This quandary seemed born from Aba himself, for he would vacillate between what the monument was supposed to signify – the greatest architectural glory of Shah Jahan the Magnificent – or the enduring love and devotion of his modest wife, Mumtaz. He would make one comment supporting the former and then regress and make a completely different comment supporting the latter. Ali Mardan motioned to me not to be concerned, though. The end – he would tell me – would perfectly combine both.

We decided to venture on foot through the tented city of Mumtazabad. Much to our amazement, we learned that the makeshift town had indeed blossomed into a major metropolis. Tents were arranged in a specific section, with narrow streets leading to a main avenue where larger carts could be found. There were bazaars for several kos, where all goods one can imagine could be bought and sold. Of course, the residents of this town were all labourers on the structure being built, so many of the goods were cheap items they could afford – no noble would be caught shopping here.

As we made our way back to our elephants near the structure, the sun began to set. On our way back to the fort, I decided to talk to my father about his treatment of Aurangzeb. Still concerned about the nickname he had been given, I was equally troubled by the biased treatment I saw with respect to both the elephant incident and overall inequalities between the treatment of the royal siblings.

“I never called him that to his face!” my father protested.

“It doesn’t matter, Aba. You must understand that your nobles can’t be trusted. Anything you say can poison your relationship with your son. And as bad as he is, is it your belief that calling him a ‘serpent’ befits a king as great as yourself?”

Aba pouted. “Are you aware of the offence he’s committing since I made him Governor of the Deccan?”

Aba had sent his sons to govern different regions of his kingdom. To the west was sent Murad, to become governor of troubled Sindh and Afghan regions; to the east was Shuja to govern the more passive Bengal region; and to the south was Aurangzeb to govern the Deccan. Dara remained in Agra to oversee the capital and reap the pleasures of the city.

Aba said, “Ever since your brother was sent to the Deccan, I’ve received regular complaints from the people there of different temples he has destroyed. In Fatehnagar, he levelled a 6
^th
century Hindu temple and used the statues to make a staircase for a mosque. His reasoning was that every time a believer in the Koran walks to the mosque, his feet should crush the infidel’s idol to show the supremacy of Islam!”

I shook my head in shame. I hadn’t been aware of what he’d done, but I knew he had it in him to do such things, and he was no more willing to change his ways than was my father.

“He purposely usurps my authority whenever he can. No other son does this but him!”

“But should you call your own son a serpent?”

“I only said that a couple of times in a moment of rage,” Aba replied, his voice even more tense at being confronted about this matter.

I continued: “I know Aurangzeb could never be king, and I know he’s intolerant of non-Muslims, but for you, he always tries to do well. He has always yearned to please you; always wants to be just like you. He’s mastered military matters better than anyone, and he does it because he wants to be just like you.”

“Well, if he wishes to be like me, I suggest he start with more subtle approaches, such as respecting religious minorities. You know…” he continued, leaning near me, “he doesn’t even approve of all this,” he said twirling his finger in the air.