Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (25 page)

Aba looked quickly at Dara, whose facial expression reflected, I thought, subtle opposition to the idea. I watched what transpired closely.

“No one in our family has been able to bring peace and order to Gujarat,” continued Aurangzeb, glancing vengefully at Dara.

Aba returned Aurangzeb’s gaze with his usual look of disapproval. He seemed about to speak when one of the mullahs broke in: “Begging Your Majesty’s forgiveness, I’d like to suggest that Your Majesty carefully consider Prince Aurangzeb’s request. As Prince Dara is being trained by you in the virtues of kinghood, Prince Aurangzeb’s presence in Agra would be…” The mullah moved his head searching for the right word…

“A distraction!” Aba finished the mullah’s sentence, and Aurangzeb rose in disappointed astonishment. Behind the windows, I sighed in dismay at the pain I saw on Aurangzeb’s face.

Aurangzeb had begun delving even deeper into religion, but without political power, his rage and anger at non-Muslims had remained strictly confined to his heart. Yet it seemed he and the mullahs were becoming close allies, together watching the court with scorn and contempt. Rumours even persisted that the mullahs were encouraging him to rise up against Aba, by making Aurangzeb false promises about what they could do to secure support for his candidacy.

Then Aba said, “Very well; you
shall
be made the Governor of Gujarat.”

Dara looked a mite upset, yet surprisingly content considering. Aurangzeb was receiving what he’d petitioned for, but clearly not in the way he had hoped – merely because he would otherwise be a ‘distraction’? How could Aba have spoken that way to him, I wondered? It was worse than calling him a serpent. The mullahs put a hand on Aurangzeb’s shoulder, and he walked out. I should have said something, but I couldn’t cross my king. I couldn’t chastise him for calling someone a ‘distraction.’ Instead, I only wished Aurangzeb a farewell.

16

REVERSE INVASION

1
^st
June, 1646

A
ba said: “Let it be written that it was during our time we reconnected the home of our ancestor, Timur, to the land of his descendants.” Aba felt that with the Taz Mahal almost complete, construction on the new city begun and his three sons now in different corners of the empire with the heir apparent, Dara, at his side, the time was ripe for the kingdom to expand its borders, but not south as it had done for the last couple of centuries. Now, the conquest would be north, to the original homeland of the Mughals in Central Asia. “I will instruct Prince Murad to initiate the conquest of Central Asia, including the areas of Samarkand and Uzbekistan.”

Murad was my youngest brother. Like my other useless brother, Shuja, Murad was interested only in extravagances such as opium, wines and engaging in debauchery with the women of his harem. Though he had political aspirations of his own, he was neither clever nor resolute as Aurangzeb had been while opposing Dara outright. Thus, Murad drifted in his existence like a passenger on a caravan whose direction had already been determined.

Now 21, he would be sent with 50,000 men to conquer the precinct of Balkh and Badakhshan. This was his big chance, his moment to prove worthy of the throne should he ever be chosen. Though the youngest, Murad must have been aware that age had nothing to do with inheritance. Aba wasn’t his father’s oldest son,
and a major victory here could do for Murad what it had done for Aba many years before in the Mewar.

In 1615, just three years after his marriage to Ami, Aba went to Mewar to subdue its king, Rana Amar Singh, who’d evaded Mughal conquest for almost half a century. Using brilliant military tactics and arts of warfare, Aba was soon able to win over Mewar for the Mughals.

Maybe Murad, too, had dreams of returning to Agra victorious with the heads of the kings of Balkh and Badkshan, while the entire public cheered and chanted. When Aba was victorious, his father renamed him Shah Jahan, a name superior to his earlier name, Khurram. What would Murad’s name be when
he
returned victorious?

Maruwwajuddin
. This was the name he’d chosen for himself: ‘The brother with Aurangzeb’s military skill and Dara’s charisma!’ His comrades chanted this slogan on the streets of Agra when Murad was given the charge of the royal army the following week. He would be next in line after the death of Shah Jahan, they began chanting. This was his moment, and with the Mughal army behind him, he hoped to prove himself worthy of both the title and the throne.

I couldn’t help but feel that the whole expedition was tactically insane. There was a reason why invasions outside India were uncommon and succeeded only rarely. In the course of Indian history, no more than two groups per millennium had ever crossed the rugged Hindu Kush mountains and succeeded in setting up an empire in mainland India. Yet here was my Aba, King of India, sending his troops led by his clumsy son to engage in a
reverse
invasion, from inside the fertile Indian subcontinent onto the inhabitable mountainous regions of Central Asia? Though I had the muhr uzak, in matters of conquest, which were the essence of male bravado, Aba listened only to himself. And the whole endeavour exuded an aura of madness, and only Murad’s myopic, megalomaniac ego allowed him to agree to lead such an expedition, not realising what kind of a death trap it might be.

Balkh and Badakshan, which lay beyond the Hindu Kush mountains along the Oxus river, were believed to be the stepping stones to the ultimate invasion of Samarkand, original homeland of Timur. Timur the Lame, or Timurlane, made Samarkand the capital for a vast empire he controlled in 1370 that stretched from Central Asia to Turkey. Every time he conquered a region, he would bring the artisans and gardeners back with him as prisoners. Samarkand thus grew to become one of the most beautiful cities in the entire empire and Timur’s people, we Mughals, became architectural geniuses of our time. A century-and-a-half later, when Babur, Timur’s great great grandson, succeeded in conquering the capital of India, Delhi, he brought the culture of beautiful gardens and majestic palaces with him to India – a reverse importation. Most likely some of the original artisans of Samarkand were conquered people from northern India. Now, their descendants were being brought back into India to import their culture from Samarkand. We Mughals took great pride in our roots, referring to ourselves as
Timurids
and our family as the
House of Timur
, and this conquest was an ill-conceived brainchild of that pride.

The regions themselves offered no wealth. Badakshan was a sparsely populated, mildly fertile region with poor harvest that was ravaged by primitive, savage tribes. Balkh, somewhat more fertile, hadn’t produced enough wealth even to sustain the army should it be victorious there.

Murad, dressed in traditional metal armour with a grated iron cloth hanging in front of his helmet, rode off with his 50,000-strong-army of Mughal soldiers. I felt a shiver crawl down my spine as I bid him farewell. I was convinced he would lose both the battle and his life, but I was helpless to stop the expedition.

I began spending more time with Dara, trying to learn more about the mystical world of Sufism, hoping to find some message, some
omen, some magical inscription within their beliefs that would sanction my relationship with Gabriel and give me licence to run to Bengal to marry him. But cryptically searching for one purpose, I would soon find myself realising something else altogether.

Sufism was the occult arm of Islam. By preaching the oneness of Man and the totality of Faith, it had alienated the very orthodox wings of Islam; but by repeatedly chanting Mohammad’s teachings it appeased the more moderate wings of Islam, thereby allowing it to remain within Islam’s fold. And many Hindus visited Sufi saints, regarding them as having special powers and teachings.

Within the broader umbrella of Sufism, the Qadiriya order piqued Dara’s interest the most. Pursuant to Qadiriya rites, Dara wore a green turban whenever he went to visit his Sufi mentors and insisted I wear one too (a request I initially refused to grant). Dara and I reconnected with Mullah Shah Badakshi, a man I hadn’t seen in almost two years but already regarded as my benefactor.

Said the pleased Badakshi, “It’s good to see you again, my child. Your scars are virtually gone.”

“It’s all because of your blessing,” I replied gratefully. “Were it not for you, I’d be dead right now.”

“Only Allah decides who will go to him, my child. We merely serve him. But it’s good to see you here.”

“Mullah Shah,” interjected Dara, “Jahanara wishes to learn more of the Qadiriya order. Like me, she, too, believes that in a city where an orthodox mullah resides, no wise man is ever found.”

Badakshi laughed and said sarcastically, “Why do you think we live so far away from the fort? We are not orthodox, my child,” he added, turning to me. “But instead of learning our teachings from me, I shall introduce you to the head of our movement, Mian Mir.”

Badakshi escorted Dara and me to a room in his haveli and showed us a painting of a man sitting with Badakshi and Dara. The picture contained several people, but it was easy to discern who was who. The young, dark-bearded man was Dara; the two men sitting behind him were Shah Badakshi and Mian Mir. Mian Mir was
dressed in all-white robes and looked older, while Shah Badakshi wore a white turban with black robes and a gray beard.

“Mian Mir is no more.” Dara stared morosely at the picture. “But somehow I feel every time I look at this painting, he’s speaking to me. Remember when I become ill, a few years after my wedding to Nadira? Well, for the four months I suffered, no one was able to help me, not Wazir Khan or any other hakim. One day Mian Mir came to my bedside and gave me a cup to drink, and within a week I was better.”

Badakshi broke into a smile. “Mian Mir had a very deep relationship with your brother.”

I was partly cynical and partly amused by everything I was seeing and hearing. Trying not to sound rude, I continued to force myself to have an open mind.

Dara continued: “One day Mian Mir had me take off my shirt, and he took off his. Then he hugged me. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. After a few seconds, so many lights came emanating from his heart into mine that eventually I implored him to release me, fearing that any more transference of this illumination would cause my heart to burst.”

I was pleased to know that there were established sects within Islam that preached tolerance, and I began believing that my brother had indeed become more enlightened than most men in our family. I now admired him not just as a man but also as a statesman and a friend.

He would often say, “Hands begin to stink once they’re soiled with gold. Drive egoism away from you, for like conceit and arrogance, it’s also a burden.”

Here was the heir to the Mughal throne, ready to inherit entire palaces made of gold and gems. Yet he was denying gold and shunning the ego? Under his tutelage, the empire would either disintegrate or achieve such a high level of spiritual enlightenment that wars and conflicts within its realm would end.

Shah Badakshi didn’t treat me as the Padishah Begum in his company, but merely a follower and he spoke to me as an equal. I
prayed with members of the order, then sat to eat with them, men and women together, something unheard of in traditional Islam. As I bid them farewell, I knew in my heart this order would be an integral part of my life from this day forward.