Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) (4 page)

Dara appeared intrigued as I recited the story, as though it were some imaginary tale. My view of things differed: It had hurt me to see family members fighting for the throne while their father hadn’t even been buried.

Dara swung both hands in the air and chanted: “One day I will be a valiant warrior like Aba!” I stared at him in mild amusement. He continued. “I will defeat my brothers and descend upon Agra to seize the throne after Aba is no more!”

From then on shivers went down my body whenever I thought that my brothers would likely quarrel among each other while we, his sisters, mourned our father’s death. Dara cried, as he raised a wooden stick sword-like in the air: “One day,
I
shall be King of India!”

2

RETRIBUTION

29
^th
April, 1628

P
arties were one of the more enjoyable aspects of zenana life. Royal chefs would prepare authentic Mughal dishes for us: lamb in yogurt sauce, grilled
kebab
, lamb
pulav
garnished with raisons, chicken
korma
, and grilled fish in lemon sauce. Our vegetarian Hindu members like Manu were served vegetable
pilaf, moong dal
, yogurt with vegetables with
tandoori
bread and the like.

The palaces of the zenana were like a giant jewellery box with an almost limitless number of compartments, each connected through lush gardens and verandahs. In effect, the zenana was its own separate little society, with its own hierarchy and rules, the wives and relatives of the royal family on top, concubines and scullery slaves next, followed by lesser slaves. Room size and furnishing luxury were according to the occupant’s rank.

Children were born in the
zenana
and grew up there. The Emperor would occasionally come to the
zenana
and spend the night with someone, either a wife or a concubine, and while competition and jealousy ran at all levels, no one dared show these to the King, as that would be deemed disruptive. A concubine or slave, for example, who won the King’s favour would be left alone with him on the night of his choosing – but perhaps would be made to pay dearly the following morning, when the King was gone.

The ladies would spend literally a full day decorating themselves. When they finished, they splayed themselves on the velvety
divans
, awaiting the other ladies.

If we were lucky, during a kingly visit all the ladies would smother him, each for different reasons: the wives for gifts, the concubines for sex and us daughters to receive genuine love and affection.

Henna Begum was an eccentric member of our zenana. She had the annoying habit of walking around the harem naked as she readied herself. I found this odd and unnerving; because she was rather attractive, her body made me admittedly self-conscious.

Women in the zenana knew they could display such promiscuous behaviour because no unaltered male but the king was allowed anywhere near us. Our zenana was guarded by three different levels of individuals. The highest were the Tatar women, Uzbeks, who were women of gargantuan proportions, larger than even the largest of Amazons and stronger than many of the soldiers in the imperial army. The next level was the eunuchs, who played a central role in advising the individual wives and serving as their representative to the outside world. The lowest level women were regular female guards.

“Where is Henna?” Kandari sipped her usual glass of
arak
wine as she began what I suspected would likely be a jealous diatribe about the overly flamboyant Henna Begum.

“Probably running naked somewhere,” sniped one of the other concubines.

Kandari grinned. “As long as she doesn’t show up naked in front of the King, I’ll be happy.” From a distance Raushanara and I watched Kandari, resting semi-intoxicated on the divan. We still weren’t sure whether, or even how, to participate in these parties, but their entertainment value was unmistakable.

Manu yawned, “What’s the occasion for this party?” Manu knew her place here and never protested Kandari, because she knew well Kandari’s belligerent and condescending ways.

“So innocent, Manu,” Kandari’s voice slurred. “Don’t you know
tomorrow is Nur Jahan’s sentencing? Perhaps Jahanpanah doesn’t want to see us after tomorrow for a while because he’ll be executing the former Queen of India. It’s not every day former zenana queens are killed!”

“Hush, Kandari,” Ami chided, “there’s been no word from Jahanpanah to attest to that. For all we know he may pardon her or exile her.”

Kandari snorted. “How can he simply pardon that whore after what she did to him and all of us? We lived like animals in tents for so long!”

Ami said brusquely, “That’s for the king and no else to decide!” When Ami spoke, others in the zenana knew to control their tongues. Her word was usually final.

Just then, Aba entered, and the women instantly smothered him as usual, someone handing him a glass of wine, another stuffing a small sweetmeat in his mouth. As he sat in their midst, one of them lifted his turban and padded his hair. Ami sat beside him.

The women weren’t allowed to question him regarding stately affairs such as how he would punish someone, at least not publicly. Thus, all the women vied for his attention, hoping their night would be spent with the King, and that in the intimate privacy of his company they could both learn and influence forthcoming events.

Before long Henna Begum arrived, in a tight choli and salwar. The clothes hugged her skin so one could make out every contour of her flesh. Today she looked particularly stunning.

Aba stood up and removed himself from the company of women surrounding him. Ami pouted. Aba walked up to Henna, who stood at a distance, seductively smiling at him. She then performed the customary salute – the
kornish
– as she greeted the King. Placing her head in her right palm, she offered Aba homage. She would remain with her head bowed until Aba gave her permission to rise.

Aba said, “The zenana looked incomplete without you, Henna Begum.” Henna looked away as if embarrassed by the compliment. Aba came to stand in front of her and put his hands on her waist. “Where did you get this stunning outfit?”

Henna slowly looked back at the King, staring down out of respect for him, for she wasn’t ‘good’ enough to stare at his face. “The court tailors, Your Majesty.”

Aba squeezed his hands into her waist. For a moment, it seemed the night would be hers. Then Aba removed his hands and began to inquisitively look at his fingers, almost as if the colour of Henna’s tight salwar pants had rubbed off on his fingers.

“What’s wrong, Jahanpanah?” asked Henna, frowning.

Aba moved away and looked more carefully at his fingers. “My fingers have blue paint on them.” Henna looked at Aba’s fingers. Then both craned their necks to see where on Henna’s waist the colour could have come from. To everyone’s astonishment, beige finger marks showed on Henna’s waist at the exact location where Aba had touched her.

Kandari ran up to Henna. “You foolish girl! Did you paint yourself?”

Henna looked flustered, as though she was searching desperately for answers. “Jahanpanah… I… well… what I mean…”

Kandari cried: “She
painted
herself!”

The women broke into mocking laughter. Aba, apparently unaware of just what was happening, stepped back a few feet and said, “Let me see – my God, woman, you’re
naked
!”

The women laughed harder, and Aba began to join in. Now everyone, including the children of the zenana, was laughing at Henna Begum as she stood in the middle of the room, painted but naked. Henna began blushing and sweating with embarrassment, and soon the sweat rolled down her body, creating clear streaks of skin.

Aba guffawed: “Did the court tailors really not satisfy you, my dear? Yes, yes, Henna Begum… go – put some clothes on!”

Henna ran out of the zenana as quickly as she’d come in. Aba sat back in the midst of his wives; soon the laughter died out, and he resumed his eating and drinking. All wondered who he would choose for the night: a wife, a concubine or a slave. Most importantly, would the individual be a proponent for a harsh sentence or a mild one for Nur Jahan?

Aba began to yawn; the decision time was coming near. Kandari hissed, “It’s your bedtime, Jahanpanah.” If the night went to her, Nur Jahan would surely be executed; she’d made that clear even before Aba arrived.

Aba said, “Indeed, we should all get some rest. You ladies must be ready for tomorrow.” That was the only public hint Aba would give about the forthcoming events. He looked at Ami and said, “My dear, let’s go.”

Heavily pregnant Ami helped Aba up and escorted him to her chambers. As nearly always, the night would be hers.

Next day, we found ourselves in the Hall of Special Audience, the Diwan-i-khas. Nur Jahan was summoned to the Diwan-i-khas, with Aba and Ami seated together, the remaining zenana women watching from behind the screens.

The Diwan–i–khas was where the King handled more sensitive matters of State. Smaller than the Diwan-i-am, the purpose of this hall was merely to shelter the nobles and the royal family from the gaze of the common man. To the public, the royal family was still God’s representative on earth, and the King was the personification of God himself. The debauchery of the harems, the drama of the household, the poisoning, political posturing and so forth were kept far away from the eyes of the public.

This was a rare display – Mughal women were never seated with their emperor husbands. A slightly plump, fair-skinned elderly woman with beautiful azure eyes was escorted into the hall. She looked like an older version of Ami – similar straight hair, dimpled cheeks and red lips. I now understood why men in her time had admired her beauty so much. I was tempted to think she must have aged more in the last few months, having lost not just her husband but also her kingdom.

Nur Jahan was not only my step-grandmother, but ironically also my mother’s aunt. My grandfather had fallen madly in love
with her, married her, and then given her as much power as she desired. Rumours even whirled that she was the true ruler of India, while my opium-addicted grandfather was merely a puppet.

Aba said: “Begum Nur Jahan, you have been accused of sedition and plotting to kill me and my family in your quest to place your son-in-law, Shahriar, and your daughter, Ladli, on the throne. Is there anything you would like to say in your defence before I announce my verdict?”

Nur Jahan had originally wanted her own daughter, Ladli, to be the next Queen of India; thus she had demanded many years ago that my father marry her and make her his primary wife. My father had flatly refused, saying he could view Ladli as a sister, but never as a wife. Nur Jahan had retaliated by having Ladli marry my father’s younger brother, Prince Shahriar.

Prince Shahriar was never much of anything. He had neither military skill to boast of nor artistic talent to display. Much younger than my father, he was clearly a weak choice to be king, and though Nur Jahan was influential at the royal court, even her influence wasn’t able to displace my father as the rightful heir to the throne of India.

Now Nur Jahan spoke: “Jahanpanah, you are the Emperor, and I a former love of your father.” Staring straight ahead, her spine arched backwards as though she were still the queen. She avoided eye contact with anyone, adopting an almost mocking posture. “What bargaining can I do with
you
? I ask that you understand that I did what any loving mother would have done for her daughter, and that is, give her a happy, prosperous future.”

Ami yelled,
“Even if it would trample on other people’s happiness?”
This was a rare display of anger for a woman as sober as she. The entire harem gasped in shock; Nur Jahan remained motionless before the royal couple.

It was surprising that Ami, related to someone as calculating as Nur Jahan, should emerge so innocent and selflessly loyal to her husband. She had gone from campaign to campaign with Aba never questioning or rebelling, but always supporting and strengthening
his resolve. She was a rare combination of modesty and candour, a woman highly intelligent but, happily, not shrewd.