Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (33 page)

We arrived at the Lahore fort a few days later, having taken our tents to rest overnight at stops so the journey wasn’t too taxing on anyone. Dilras had the fort glittering with decoration in anticipation of our arrival.

Arzani cried, “Wow!! This fort looks just like the one in Agra, but in white!”

I just stayed under the covered canopy, grinning. Many years ago, I, too, had been eager to see what lay outside my velvety prison, but I’d learned since. I was now the queen and I had to set an example for these two girls.

Poking her head outside the canopy, Hamida asked me again, “Why don’t you live here, Empress?” Meanwhile, Arzani remained dazed by the image of the Lahore fort.

I said, “Because Lahore is too far west to govern from, my darlings. The King wanted a more central location.”

The two girls shrugged at my explanation, almost as if my answer didn’t matter to them. Their question, it seemed, was just meant to impress on me how much in awe they were of this site.

Dilras was waiting for us in the zenana quarters, her face veiled (just as Aurangzeb would’ve wanted), her daughters by her side. I introduced Arzani and Hamida to Dilras, and she held their heads with her hands and kissed each on her forehead.

Then she asked, “How was the journey for you, Your Highness?

I looked over at my two Salatin cousins, almost motioning them to answer in my place, still drowsy from my limited sleep in the presence of their incessant giggling. “Our trip went well, Dilras. So tell me: how have you and the children been since my brother left for Kandahar?”

“Well! We go to pray in the Pearl Mosque five times a day, and we observe every tradition our lord has given us.”

I knew this
lord
, my brother Aurangzeb, was very vindictive when it came to his family. He would leave strict instructions on how the women were to behave in his absence, and his spies watched over them, to inform him of any deviation on his return.

We spent the night in the zenana quarters, and for once Arzani and Hamida tasted what life inside the Mughal zenana was truly like. Dilras was gracious enough to give me the largest quarter. As I’d expected since arriving in Lahore, Zeb-un-nissa paid me an unexpected visit.

Looking anxious, she said, “Aba has banned any writing or music, Your Majesty,” almost as if wanting me to overturn her father’s orders in one swoop. “He told us we can’t compose one verse even, and that to praise the beauty of any entity, even a flower, is anti-Islamic!”

I wanted to hear out this child, whose outlook on life had always been very similar to my own.

She confided: “I compose short verses of poetry and have formed my own little club in the zenana that no one knows about. We call ourselves
Makhfi
, the hidden ones.”

I smiled and commended this child’s cleverness at outwitting her father, but I also worried. “You mustn’t cross your father, my child. Not only is it wrong, if he finds out, his temper has no limits, especially for women.”

“I know, Your Majesty. I’m reminded of his temper every day when he’s here. It’s so suffocating. It’s as if we’re all truly in prison when he’s here.”

Zeb-un-nissa told me how Aurangzeb had spoken to Dilras before leaving for Kandahar. He’d ordered all the women to stay in the zenana at all times and observe the strictest of Islamic laws, including covering one’s face and praying five times a day.

“If this zenana is any indication of what all of India will look like if my father becomes king, I fear for our country, Your Highness,” cried Zeb-un-nissa, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. I
remained composed on my divan, unmoved by what I’d just heard. By now, I was immune to hearing narrow-minded comments by my intolerant brother. Mostly when someone mentioned him, it was to complain of abuse he’d inflicted on someone else.

I said, “That won’t happen, my child. Dara will be the next king, and he’ll never let these practices stand.”

I hugged my niece, bid her farewell and blew out the candles that had been lighting my room. After several days, I would finally sleep undisturbed.

I left Lahore a few days later, minus one companion: Arzani. She wished to live out her days near the tomb of her mother and grandmother, and it seemed appropriate to me that she do so. Agra and Delhi comprised the seat of Mughal power, and fraternal conflict would occur there. I wanted Arzani to remain far from all that. This poor child had already suffered enough.

Years had gone by since Murad’s tragic loss of Kandahar, yet Aba drew now on the promise that his other son, his ‘white serpent’ who was now suddenly his hero, would win the prize back for us. But that hope had evaporated a few months ago when our counter-attack led by Aurangzeb had met a devastating defeat.

“I told you he was useless!” Aba stared at me, blood in his eyes. “He can’t do anything right!”

As he walked away waving his hands in anger and frustration, I interjected, “He’s the one who brought our troops home from the ill-advised Balkh misadventure!”

I was sure to use the word ‘fiasco;’ I didn’t want Aba to forget his role in it.

“Who cares about Balkh! You can’t feed even a small regiment with the riches from Balkh! It was Kandahar I wanted!”

Losing wasn’t ever easy for Aurangzeb, especially when the battle involved physical strength. I could only imagine how personally defeated he must have felt. To learn what had happened in the past
few fateful years, I summoned one of Aurangzeb’s generals, Gulrukh Khan, to my chambers.

“Greetings, Your Highness,” the General said.

I accepted his salutation and asked him how close he’d been to Aurangzeb during the conquest of Kandahar.

“I had the pleasure of serving directly under the Prince, Your Majesty.”

“So I can trust your every fact, Gulrukh.”

“Where you suspect inaccuracy, I ask you tell me and I’ll clarify further.”

“Will you embellish things to make my brother seem better than he is?”

“No, Your Majesty. I serve you and the King. Though I consider the Prince my commander, I owe my loyalty to you.”

From this strong yet gentle man, I slowly learned first-hand what had happened in Kandahar.

It took Aurangzeb three years to prepare a counterattack on Kandahar, searching for the right opportunity of vulnerability to do so. The Persian King had become ill, and during this time his forces were thought to have been working in a disjointed manner, each jockeying for greater power with the next monarch, should the present King’s sickness lead to death. This was prime time for an attack, so with two crore rupees and 60,000 men, Aurangzeb again headed for Kandahar.

Aurangzeb commanded Gulrukh Khan to attack the Kandahar fort from the rear, making the Persians think the entire Mughal army was planning a rear attack on the fort. The plan was that while the Persians would engage our army in a rear assault, Aurangzeb would launch our cannons from the front!

Gulrukh Khan looked carefully at Aurangzeb’s plans and found them elaborate and well thought out as if they’d been architectural blueprints for a building.

“Take 50,000 men in your assault,” added Aurangzeb with urgency and conviction. “The Persians need to believe that the entire Mughal army is with you.”

“Sire,” interrupted Gulrukh, “are you sure 10,000 is all you’ll need for the cannons? What if they open the gates and charge you?”

“I don’t think they will,” replied Aurangzeb. “You’ll have to convince them with your strength that you’re all we have here so they’ll focus all their energies in your direction.”

Aurangzeb’s plan looked like it might just work. Gulrukh Khan marched towards the rear of the fort, causing the Persians to open the draw bridge and charge the Mughal army in arm-to-arm combat. When Aurangzeb felt the Persians were sufficiently bogged down with Gulrukh’s regiment, he ordered cannon firing from the front.

The walls of the fort began to crumble. For a moment, it seemed victory was at hand, but then the drawbridge opened, and 40,000 armed Persians rushed Aurangzeb’s contingent. It seemed he’d acted too soon; the Persians hadn’t turned their eyes completely to their rear. Then men stationed to defend from the rear were rerouted to the front, and Aurangzeb’s cannons weren’t able to mount a lasting defence.

Aurangzeb fired cannons into the densest areas of the Persian army, but large smoke clouds impeded his vision after each impact. When the smoke cleared the Persians simply reorganised and released more men. Aurangzeb ordered more cannons fired, and men hastily loading them. More blasts went off and more Persians died, but to no avail. Eventually, Aurangzeb ordered his men to retreat. He’d lost yet again.

In the days to follow, Aurangzeb tried his best to salvage the report of the Kandahar blunder, but for all his boasts of being a military genius, he’d lost the most prized city in the region to his biggest foe, the Persians. To make matters worse, he’d waited three years and spent two crore rupees and 60,000 men, more than half now either dead or permanently injured.

When Aba heard of this devastating loss, he minced no words in a letter, commanding Aurangzeb to withdraw from Kandahar.

Dear Aurangzeb
,

I hereby order you to leave not just Kandahar, but all of the northwest. It seems your glory lay in areas like the Deccan, so I am reappointing you Governor of the Deccan. Go there, destroy the temples and burn the churches. It seems your greatest strength shows itself when you attack the unarmed and helpless. On a battlefield with armed enemies, your talents are useless
.

Every man can perform some work well, Aurangzeb, but had I considered you competent to take over Kandahar I’d not have recalled your entire army last week as I did. Men of experience need no instruction. You wasted two crore rupees on your misadventure, and in answer to your complaints that the Taj Mahal has leaky ceilings, had we spent that money on those leaks, we’d have been better served. Now do your father and your nation a favour and leave for the Deccan immediately
.

Yours
,

Aba

Aba’s sarcasm in this sharply word attack was evident. I implored Aba to show some restraint, especially considering his success in Central Asia, but Aba took his anger at losing Kandahar out on his son. Aurangzeb begged Aba in subsequent letters not to send him to the Deccan, even offering to accept a subordinate position in the next assault, give him any opportunity to redeem himself, but it was too late; Aba wouldn’t relent.

Gauhara was now being attended to by the hakims. She’d attempted suicide a week before by drinking a potion she’d convinced one of the hakims to make for use on a prisoner. The hakim wondered why a princess like Gauhara would care to poison a prisoner, but didn’t
refuse her because she was royalty. Instead, he merely followed her and kept careful watch. After she mixed the potion in milk and began drinking it, he quickly ran to her and forced her to vomit it up.

The matter was brought to my attention before Aba’s, and I chose to deal with it directly rather than let it escalate. Aba’s justice often involved crushing someone’s head under an elephant or something equally heinous. If Imtiaz had broken my sister’s heart, though shameless, he was still a human being, undeserving of death for disloyalty to her.