Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (20 page)

“This is the Empress?” asked the firangi.

“Yes, why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Did the former Empress look like her?”

“Yes, sir. You’d think they were identical twins.”

“Now I understand why so much time is going into the ‘structure,’” replied the firangi.

Over the next several weeks, as the firangi was treating me, I slowly began regaining consciousness, though I was still unaware as to who was taking care of me and exactly what had happened during the last few months. My wounds were beginning to heal, and in a matter of a month, my skin had grown in the areas where it had been burned. I still wasn’t back to normal – that would take another month – but I began to follow commands and react to instructions.

Finally, I opened my eyes and after blinking a few times, experienced my first clear vision since the accident. I thought I was having another dream, possibly a hallucination, for now I was staring at someone else who was no longer in this world: Gabriel. A white, chiselled, clean-shaven man with shoulder-length blond hair and sharp features was staring straight at me.

Too weak to talk, I simply smiled. I knew I was staring at a figment of my imagination, so I had no desire to make a fool of
myself again and embrace him as I did with my mom. Yet, I wanted to finally wake up and face whatever reality God had now chosen for me. With all my energy, I concentrated on my throat and tried to utter a sound from my vocal cords. I finally formed a sentence: “Am I dreaming?”

The firangi called, “Arif, she’s awake!”

Another man came running in.
Who is Arif?
I wondered. I’d never known any
Arif
before. Aloud, I said, “Where am I?”

“You’re in your chambers,” said Arif anxiously. “You were in an accident, but you’ll be fine now. The doctor has cured you.”

For the first time in months, I felt actually awake. I could smell the Agra air, and soon I realised that the firangi sitting next to me was indeed the man I thought had died in Hugli: Gabriel. I was both surprised and grateful to have Gabriel in front of me; only my pain and weakness dampened my enthusiasm.

Gabriel and I continued to smile at each other, neither uttering any words, but both speaking volumes through our expressions. I don’t think Gabriel had any expectations of me. He probably didn’t even know I cared for him. Yet we continued to stare at one another, unable to move our eyes away and grace other objects with our vision.

I said weakly, “I don’t have words to thank you, sir.”

Gabriel raised his eyes, smiled more broadly and said, “You needn’t say anything, Empress. You probably don’t remember, but we met many years ago in Gujarat, and you honoured me with 100 mohurs.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and still smiling said, “Yes, of course I remember. How could I forget? You were the only man who would dare return a gift from royalty.”

“I won’t this time, Your Majesty.”

“Well, you won’t get just 100 mohurs either,” I continued. “My Aba will grant you whatever you wish.

“Just your full recovery for now will do.”

“You cut yourself short, doctor. You can secure for yourself a very handsome estate with official title for helping the Empress.”

“How about just a promise to accept my companionship and not banish me after you regain your strength?”

I replied, “I’m sure something can be worked out.”

“Rest then, my dear.” Gabriel, perhaps forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t talking to just a fair maiden from the English countryside, but instead the Mughal Empress, leaned into me and kissed me on the forehead. For me, the experience was very passionate, as no man had ever touched me except my father, and even then only with a kiss on the forehead or a cheek. I felt overcome with both emotion and confusion. After nearly dying, I couldn’t have experienced an awakening more special than this. For one moment – if just that – I chose to forget I was a Mughal empress, bound to a life of celibacy. For now, I offered no protest, emotional or physical, to the otherwise modest advancement of the charismatic firangi.

Arif, who’d watched the whole episode like a viewer in the front seat of a
tamasha
, seemed shocked at the firangi’s provocative moves on me, and unsure whether or how to intervene. But sitting still and smiling, I offered my approval to Gabriel’s advances and within myself wholeheartedly welcomed more future rendezvous with him.

“Jahanara? My child, are you awake?” I heard my father’s voice and his footsteps running towards my apartment.

I slowly opened my eyes, turned my head towards the door, squinted and said, “Aba!”

Aba ran to me and hugged me as tightly as I’d hugged him many years ago when he announced plans for the mausoleum.

Choked with emotion, he said, “I prayed every day for your health, my child. I spared no expense. Healers from around the globe have visited this city in the last six months.”

I kept hugging my father and just let him speak on of his tribulations during this time: “We gave alms every day in your name, and then your brother, Dara, brought a mullah to me.”

I frowned, fearing he’d reverted to the advice of mullahs.

He shook his head. “No, no, Jahanara. Not your typical mullah. This one was a Sufi saint. Indeed, a saint! He goes by the name of Mullah Shah Badakshi, and he’s the one that told me to do charitable acts and embrace
every
healer, even the firangi ones.”

Then Aba told me the whole story: how during my illness, Dara brought Mullah Shah Badakshi to visit. Aware that our father was deteriorating in health and purpose, Dara took the role I’d once taken at the death of our mother, to bring our grieving father out of his turmoil.

Mullah Shah Badakshi was a well-respected Muslim Sufi who’d introduced Dara to the head of the entire Qadiriya movement, Mian Mir. Shah Badakshi had built strong support for the Qadiriya movement from Lahore in the northwest to Bengal in the east, and Aba respected him well, though the two had never met. Originally sceptical of involving any mullah in his private affairs, Badakshi won Aba’s heart with his words and message. It was he who suggested to Aba to become more charitable by giving gold and silver from the treasury to beggars, in hopes that they, too, would pray for my health.

Taking Badakshi’s advice, every night Aba placed silver and gold valued at thousands of rupees under my pillow and dispensed them the following morning to beggars. Thousands of prisoners of petty crimes were released, death sentences commuted, and offerings of truce to neighbouring states were made. Oddly enough, it seemed my sickness brought a sense of tranquility in India not seen since before Ami died. People’s eyes began shifting away from their own disputes and towards my bed, as every religion and sect began reciting verses in my name every morning. Dozens of new baby girls were given my name, including Dara’s newborn daughter, whom he named ‘Jani.’

Aba summoned healers from all corners of the kingdom to offer advice and help me. Several months passed since the incident, and my precarious state remained. In the interim, two of the four female servants of mine who’d tried to save me succumbed to their wounds, a morbid reminder of what awaited me if something didn’t happen soon to reverse my own downward spiral.

Here in time present Aba said, “He recommended this man, Gabriel Boughton. Did we know him from somewhere?”

“Yes Aba,” I continued. He was the man we met in the western state of Gujarat on our way to the Deccan – the one who brought relief to the famine-stricken villages.”

“Yes! You’re absolutely right,” exclaimed Aba. “Now I remember… You know, it seems whenever we need him the most, he always comes to our aid.”

I just smiled at my father, not wanting to divulge too much to him on the subject of Gabriel, lest I risk exposure of my true feelings for him and create a political calamity for the firangi.

Aba said, “I think he should stay with us for a while, perhaps be our royal physician. At least until you’re fully better.”

I smiled and just nodded my head, not letting a word escape my lips on the subject.

“You rest now, my child. There will be celebrations louder than the world has ever seen once you’re feeling strong again!”

He leaned to kiss me on my forehead, his favourite place since I was a little girl. But I moved my face and pointed his lips to my cheek, hinting it was there I wished to be kissed. My forehead had already been graced by Gabriel, and I wanted to keep that location his, at least for a few more moments.

In time I slowly began catching up on everything that had occurred while I was in my semi-comatose state. Work on ‘the structure’ had all but ceased, as the men and women working on it lost all their enthusiasm while the royal family mourned my accident. I felt at once both guilty and humbled by all of this attention. Yet now that I began to regain my strength, I insisted the work on ‘the structure’ continue, for not going on meant that my mother’s remains would stay interred in a makeshift grave.

Meanwhile, conflict had arisen again between Aba and
Aurangzeb. I was disheartened to hear of this because my own relationship with Aurangzeb had turned tense before my accident. It all started shortly after his marriage to Dilras Banu Begum, the daughter of the military noble Shahnawaz Khan. As per my promise, I spent more money on Aurangzeb’s wedding than Dara’s, and Aba himself honoured him with jewels and gifts. For one day, Aurangzeb was the centre of attention and felt like the king. Though I did all the work and arranged everything, it was of course Raushanara who fronted the affair and acted like the favourite sister before the zenana. Whether her feelings were genuine or politically expedient, she wished to show the world that as far as she was concerned, this, not Dara’s, was the first marriage of this household.

So in the same breath he thanked me for the wedding preparation, Aurangzeb made me a shocking request: “I plan to challenge Dara for the throne of India. Do I have your support?” I was dumbfounded! Aba had made it clear that Dara was his heir apparent, and as the king, this was his sole decision. Besides, Aurangzeb’s intolerant attitude and closeness to the mullahs might well turn India into a war zone and splinter the fragile coalition of Hindus and Muslims.

I said, “You can’t challenge Dara, Aurangzeb. There’s to be no competition; Aba has already made his choice.”

“I don’t propose war, sister; I merely want to make it clear to Aba that
I
should be the next king of Mughal India. I want to challenge Dara to a series of competitions of strength, mind and body.”

“It’s not for you to challenge anyone, Aurangzeb. Again, Aba has made his decision.”

“Do I have your support if I go to Aba with this?”

“No, you do not!”

“Then consider this farewell!”

Aurangzeb left for the Deccan soon after, and we never had a chance to resolve any of these matters. After my accident, Aurangzeb had taken three full weeks to arrive at Agra to offer his help and assistance. Though I’m told he showed genuine concern once he did arrive, it had been too late – Aba was already angry and hurt at
the lukewarm interest such a delay reflected to him, and once again father and son fought.

According to Bahadur, Aurangzeb was again repeatedly referred to as the ‘white serpent’ by Aba, and far worse, relieved of his post as Governor of the Deccan. Aurangzeb felt devastated at this public humiliation and left Agra to find his peace and home elsewhere.