Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (22 page)

Gabriel was presented to Aba in the Diwan-i-khas the next day. My knees were shaking as I watched the proceedings from behind the screen. What if someone knew about me and Gabriel and told Aba in front of the whole court? Surely Aba would have Gabriel executed instantly.

I tried avoiding Sati, who kept tugging me as she stood beside me, trying to remind me that I was supposed to be looking more at the Emperor and not the firangi. Then I saw Gabriel present his knife to the imperial soldiers guarding the entrance to the Diwan-i-khas, and I heard the announcing voice: “Presenting hakim Gabriel Sahib!”

Gabriel was now apparently the hakim, a literal translation of the word physician, but a title which nonetheless seemed oddly bestowed on a firangi.

To my astonishment, Gabriel appeared to be dressed in traditional Mughal attire. I suppose he wanted to make a good impression on the King yet take nothing for granted. I pushed my face against the screen hoping to catch a better glimpse of my Mughal firangi, whose long burgundy robe made him look like a true prince.

“I’m here Gabe,” I wished to say but knew I couldn’t. The other zenana ladies, noticing my interest in the handsome doctor, began to chatter.

I turned to them, a finger to my lips.
“Shshshs!”
I wanted to miss nothing that was happening.

Gabriel then made what seemed like a sloppy attempt at the
kornish
. I giggled under my breath as Aba shrugged at his nobles in mild disappointment.

Aba said: “You’ve impressed us with your skills as a doctor.” Gabriel nodded, smiling modestly. “First in Gujarat and now with the Empress, there’s no denying that you’ve helped our kingdom in our greatest hours of need. Tell me, firangi hakim, what do you wish of my kingdom: a mansion, a title, women, wealth – you may choose one or all of these!”

Gabriel took a sharp inward breath. Then he began speaking in the best Persian I’d ever heard a firangi utter, as if aware of my invisible presence and therefore wanting to impress me. “Your Majesty is too kind – but all I wish to ask for are exclusive trading privileges in Bengal for my company.”

Aba laughed merrily. “You wish for trading privileges in Bengal? Here I’m offering you estates and titles, with hundreds of concubines if you so wish, and you merely want the writs to trade in the eastern port of Bengal?”

“I do not wish for titles, Your Majesty. I merely ask that you allow me to remain in Agra to finish my treatment of the Empress, and afford my company, East India Trading Corp, the rights to set up a trading post on the ruins of Hugli. I also ask that you allow my company to set up factories along the outskirts of neighbouring villages, including Suntanati, Govindpur and lastly, Kalikata.”

“Hugli?” asked Aba incredlously, looking at the ground. “Hmm… Well, consider it done, then. I have no use for those neighbouring villages anyway.”

I knew Aba was still reeling from the massacre at Hugli he’d ordered many years ago, perhaps he saw this as an oddly appropriate opportunity to make amends on this matter.

Aba added: “Still, I feel you deserve more for your service than just trading rights. What will people say? That the Empress’ life was worth mere trading rights?” Aba’s vanity was a function of both his titles and his heritage. Most Mughals cared more about royal appearances than anything else. I was glad to know Aba’s love for me was a close second to his love for his own glory. Nevertheless, I was ecstatic at the turn of events.

Then he sighed, “Then if there are no more matters to be discussed, I will retire to the Moonlight Gardens along the Jumna.”

“Jahanpanah,” I interrupted from behind the grilled screens. “There is one more matter which I believe deserves your attention.”

Aba turned his head toward the screens, keenly aware that the voice from behind was mine.

I said, “Jahanpanah, I ask that you grant me one favour after all of the hardship I have endured for the past several months.”

“Anything, my child.”

“I ask that you allow my loving brother, Aurangzeb, to return to Agra and be enlisted in your royal service once again.”

Aba shot a glare of clear disapproval; he no doubt still angry at his younger son for having taken so long to come to Agra in the difficult time of my illness. He could have forgiven his son had he come late for Aba’s own sickness, but not for coming came late for mine.

I said, “I know His Majesty must be upset by Aurangzeb’s late arrival during my illness. But my informants tell me that news of my accident didn’t reach his ears until very late, and I have only the deepest trust in his love and affection for me.”

I had already learned that Raushanara was the culprit in this delay in news transmission, and while I wasn’t privy to exactly how and why she went to such great lengths to deny him this information in a timely manner, I knew I had to use this opportunity to push back against her actions.

I added: “If he’s not the Governor of the Deccan, so be it. But please, allow him to return to your graces, Your Highness.”

Aba made no utterance; but did nod his head in the affirmative to Afzal Khan, who would now carry out his wishes on the King’s behalf. Aurangzeb would be asked to return to court.

14

CHAMANI BEGUM

2
^nd
September, 1644

I
received this letter from Gabriel the following week:

Dear Jahanara
,

I know not how love is practiced in the Mughal dominion, but in my country when you care for someone, you show it. I know you are the mperial Queen of India and I am only a common merchant, but my heart doesn’t recognise these artificial titles. You consider me your saviour, but it is you who’ve saved me. Had you not convinced the King to show mercy to the Christians after Hugli, I would surely have been found by your soldiers during my recovery and executed. I began to respect you then, and my respect changed to love when I cared for you those many months when you were ill
.

I wish to remain here in the midst of your company for as long as you and your King allow me and pretend there is nothing between us. We may continue to meet in secret, but know that it pains me to keep our love a secret. Yet we will keep this secret only as long as you wish to do so, for I have no fear of anyone’s wrath
.

Love
,

Gabriel

By now, I had assumed Bahadur knew what occurred that night in the warehouse. Though a raw structure smelling of spices, the warehouse was so special to me because of my time with Gabriel there, that it seemed as glorious a structure as the Diwan-i-khas in my heart.

Bahadur received and transmitted messages from Gabriel on my behalf, and through our time together, I learned that Gabriel’s feelings for me were as intense as my own for him. Yet I was always frightened of what might happen were our secret ever discovered. Surely I would be removed as Queen and possibly even exiled, but what about Gabriel? I had no doubt he would be executed, and the Christians would face the wrath of our forces yet again for something they never were a part of. I needed to find a way to keep my secret safe.

I sat before my mirror and looked at myself in intricate detail. I’ve always felt that in such moments of solitude, when no one else is nearby and we stare at ourselves in the mirror, the image reflected is different somehow than the one we always show to others. We strip veils of deception from our faces, thereby revealing our innermost secretive thoughts and our demons, so far hidden behind our angelic exteriors. What I saw there often frightened me.

I began decorating my face. My scars ironically helped the situation. My eyebrows had been burned off, and I’d used makeup to create beautifully arched eyebrows for myself ever since. Now I’d use the same makeup to give myself more boyish features. I opened one container of makeup after another to see what effect each could produce on my face. Finally, I perfected my look: I was a brown-skinned boy with a slight fuzz on the upper lip (made from a cream of crushed coal). I wrapped a blue turban on my head, having learned how to do so from one of the zenana boys whose mother washed our clothes.

I looked again in the mirror and realised I was no longer Jahanara. Staring back now was a young boy, a liar, a deceiver, someone who had to do this because in Mughal society, deceit was an absolutely necessary evil.

I began to visit Gabriel every day, seeking his company, his love and his counsel. With Gabriel I could dispense with the cloying formalities of the court. I felt as though I hadn’t lived until now. I dress in a boy’s apparel with a blue
kurta
and pajamas. The loose attire allowed me to hide my well-developed female physique. We’d decided earlier that dressing like an imperial soldier was too risky, because as a soldier people might expect me to intervene in domestic disputes of the bazaars if they saw me walking through the streets, and then my disguise would be discovered. Being a young boy was less risky and more discreet, so I would go as a young boy to Gabriel. I hoped my mother wasn’t watching this from ‘beyond.’

Chamani Begum was her name. She had the levity of a young girl and the body of a goddess. Every day, every night, she was the whore who decorated my father’s dreams. The name ‘Chamani’ literally meant ‘garden,’ and she would prove a sharp thorn in the pride of my family and to my reputation.

I never knew her, nor did I ever meet her, but my father was infatuated with her. He would have her come to his chambers on many occasions and share night after night with her, never seeming to even notice she was my age!

Afzal disapproved of this liaison, but this never stopped Aba. Always self-righteous and often self-destructive, Aba’s indiscretions were destined to plunge our family forever into darkness. This woman, an unsuspecting silent player in our lives, did more to harm me than Raushanara or anyone else. Whether she may have meant well, I’ll never know, for I never made her acquaintance and she never made mine. Our lives, thus, would exist parallel, but still influencing one another monumentally, like two giant magnets whose force fields kept colliding.

She wasn’t even a royal concubine, but a street prostitute Aba brought into his harem. Here he was, the undisputed ‘King of
the World,’ yet he chased a street whore with the excitement of a pubescent teenager.

To placate Afzal, Aba agreed to have Chamani meet him more discreetly, dressed as a young boy. Afzal, now unable to openly oppose his royal friend, acquiesced and tacitly gave his approval, confident that one day it would cause him and his family great harm if the truth ever came out.

And come out it would. Like an eruption of a volcano long contained, it was to wreak havoc on our lives, and we would all be consumed by Aba’s vices.

One rainy autumn day, I put on my blue kurta with my white pajamas and wrapped a blue turban on my head. As always, I applied sufficient makeup to hide my female attributes and look like the young boy the world had to know me as.

The weather wasn’t my friend this day, and my biggest fear was that the rain would wash away the makeup I’d applied to give my face the masculine looks. Putting my faith in Allah, I walked out of the main gate of the zenana, squinting so as to avoid my eyes’ invasion by the flying dust that roared through the sky. I kept my arms folded to hide the mounds of my chest which were still visible below the baggy kurta and my head down as I continued walking, hoping to escape the gaze of any onlooker who might be suspicious of my appearance. Though most people had never seen my face and so wouldn’t tell who I was even if my make-up failed me, I couldn’t risk that someone might be suspicious about why a woman was dressed as a boy.