Shadow Princess (40 page)

In the end, it was Aurangzeb, with his rigid views on propriety and decency, who reached out a hand to his sister’s son, a boy she would never acknowledge in public.

Begum-Saheb formed [an] attachment . . . for . . . a young nobleman remarkable for grace and mental accomplishments, full of spirit and ambition . . . [but her father] had indeed already entertained some suspicion of an improper intercourse between the favoured Nobelman and the Princess.

—
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE
(ed.)
AND IRVING BROCK
(trans.),
Travels in the Mogul Empire, by François Bernier
A.D.
1656–1668

Agra

Saturday, July 25, 1643

27 Jumada al-awwal
A.H
. 1053

F
or months, they had all watched the heavens with anxious eyes, the fields lying fallow, the rice crop shriveling under the sun’s blazing gaze, the skies a pale blue without even the glimmer of a cloud. The rains had come in June, and again a few weeks later, but splattering so weakly onto the parched earth as to barely settle the dust. Winds raged and howled around Agra, white-hot, blowing dirt, searing skins, and clogging noses.

The boys, ranging in age from six to eight, gathered together in the archery
maidan
outside the fort’s walls—in an open field of beaten mud ringed by a grove of tamarind trees. In the very center was the target in the shape of a man, ten feet tall, clad in the armor and mail of the Mughal armies. The target was made of stuffed cotton and wood chips, its arms akimbo, a helmet of steel thrust on its head. Ten boys were mounted on stocky Turki horses in a silent circle around the target. It was high noon, the end of the second
pahr
of the day, and the sun rode overhead, leaching their shadows tightly into the ground. Each boy held his head cocked, listening for the archery master’s signal, his concentration absolute even as the heated wind curved around the
maidan
raising a vortex of dust.

“Which one is yours, Mirza Najabat Khan?”

Najabat turned swiftly at the sound of that voice and bent in the
taslim
when he saw Prince Aurangzeb. When he had completed his salutation, he moved two steps back so that he was behind his prince and said, “The fourth from our right, your Highness. The boy in white.”

Aurangzeb gazed at Antarah, stroking his beard thoughtfully. He saw a lean boy who seemed more mature than eight years old, his expression intent and serious. Antarah glanced at them and raised his hand to his father with a quick smile that lit up his face. “Muhammad Sultan is here also.”

“Your son, your Highness?” Najabat asked in surprise. “Forgive me; I did not know the royal princes were at this lesson. Antarah . . . did not tell me.”

“So she named him Antarah, after the poet,” Aurangzeb murmured, more to himself than to his companion. Najabat bowed his head and did not respond. The two men stood under one of the tamarind trees, in the deep gloom of its shade, and beyond them the
maidan
glowed in the stark light of the sun. “A good name,” Aurangzeb said. “And he is a fine-looking boy. You must be pleased with him, Najabat.” Then, turning toward him, “Are you?”

The
amir
met his prince’s gaze evenly. “He is my only son, your Highness, and he makes me proud . . . always.”

Aurangzeb nodded. “And his mother?” he asked carelessly. “Is she equally so?”

A silence followed while Najabat pondered upon this question. Men of royalty, of nobility, were not given to talking of the women of their harems—if a woman was mentioned at all, her name was bandied about with ease. But Najabat knew that Aurangzeb was asking him about Princess Jahanara, and this was not a casual encounter, for the prince had found his way to his side, approached him, and inquired directly about his son . . . and the prince’s sister’s son. What was he to say, though? Jahanara disliked this brother of hers, for reasons Najabat could not well fathom, and so they were sure not to have talked about Najabat or Antarah. If she had confided in anyone at all, Najabat thought. It was only with him that she was open and enchanting, words spilling out of her mouth; in the
zenana
she always had a burdensome role to play—a daughter, the Begam Sahib, a sister—and the weight of all her responsibilities kept her mute about her personal life. This immeasurable strength of character was what had attracted him to her and was the aspect of her personality he least understood.

“His mother,” Najabat said, choosing his words carefully, “has blessed my life in more ways than one, your Highness. We are both proud and happy that Antarah is our son—there is no reason to be otherwise.”

Again that shrewd look from under lowered brows. “You think so? There is a correct way of living . . . and a wrong one. I wish sometimes that I could convince my sisters of it.” Aurangzeb lifted his shoulders in an eloquent gesture of defeat. “But they are not members of my
zenana;
if they were, things would be different. However, we are here to talk of your son.”

“And yours, your Highness,” Najabat said, determined not to answer all the veiled inferences. He too had heard of Aurangzeb’s interference in the supposed matter of an alliance between Jahanara and him, but, unlike the princess, he held no grudges. Because the Emperor would never have agreed himself, and Prince Dara would not have either, although he had told Jahanara that he would allow her to marry when he wore the crown—that was nonsense, Najabat thought; there were far too many obstacles in their way, and if they had waited, Antarah would not be here. The past eight years had gladdened Najabat’s heart beyond measure, and though he cherished the stolen moments with Jahanara when he came down to Agra, the boy was always in his home to remind him of his mother in his actions and his mannerisms. When Jahanara and he met, as they had the previous night, they passed half their time in talking of Antarah, some in their love for each other, and the rest as Najabat watched her sleep in his arms, at peace as she never was in the imperial
zenana.

A shot reverberated over the dusty
maidan
as the archery master lifted his musket and fired into the air. The horses whinnied and skittered about on their hooves, and then, one by one, in a well-orchestrated dance, the ten boys nudged the animals’ flanks with their stirrups and began to ride around the target. None of the boys was holding his reins; instead these were tucked into the saddles of their horses, so they gripped their mounts only with their legs and feet. The boys held composite bows—short, curved, and immensely strong bows made of mango wood, deer horn, and buffalo sinew, covered with lacquered enamel and leather. The strings of the bows were made of a thin and tough animal hide, and they had quivers filled with sixty arrows each slung over their backs. Every boy had a different colored arrow—red, blue, green, purple, yellow, black, or gold, as Najabat saw in the prince’s quiver. The fletchings of the arrows were made of crane feathers, and, in Prince Muhammad Sultan’s quiver, the fletchings were of eagle feathers, as befitted a royal prince.

“Who do you think will win, Mirza Najabat Khan?” Prince Aurangzeb asked, covering his mouth and nose as the dust from the riding churned its way toward them.

Najabat only had eyes for his son, steadily upright in the saddle, his bow held aloft in his left hand, his right trembling in the vicinity of his quiver. “Antarah, your Highness,” he said softly. “I beg pardon for saying this, but the prince is two years younger than my son, who has more experience and is the master’s favorite in this sport.”

To his surprise, Aurangzeb laughed aloud. It was a sound so rarely heard at court—where the prince had a reputation for being a morose and sullen man, unlike his brilliant brother Dara—that Najabat tore his gaze away from his son and glanced at him.

“Well said, Mirza Najabat Khan,” Aurangzeb said. “I do not wager; I dislike such diversions excessively, but if your son wins, you must come and serve under my command in the Deccan. That will be your reward.”

The riders had been steadily gaining speed around the target, their horses moving smoothly in a rhythm, each horse’s nose a few feet away from the preceding one’s tail. The master fired another shot. The boys dipped into their quivers in a fluid motion, fit their arrows into their bows, and let loose the arrows across the
maidan.
A mélange of colors flashed under the bright sun, and all the arrows found their marks in the target from all sides as the boys rode around. But Najabat watched only Antarah’s slight figure as he thundered past his father again and again, his heart in his mouth, praying that every arrow would find its way to the target and not beyond, to hit his son. All the young boys were experts at their craft, and they had been specially chosen for this most dangerous of all archery sports because they were superb riders, able to guide their horses with little prods from their knees, capable of keeping their seats, and adept at hitting the target every time they took aim. The question was which one would empty his quiver before the ending shot rang out.

Four minutes later, the master called for the end of the game, and the boys gracefully pulled up their horses and waited again, panting, their gazes fixed upon the half-broken target, which was littered with arrows. To Najabat, leaning out from the shade of the tamarind, it seemed that one color predominated—purple, that of the arrows Antarah had carried in his quiver. Najabat could not see his son, for he had stopped on the other side of the target. The two fathers watched in silence as the archery master ran swiftly around his charges, emptying their quivers and counting the arrows left in them. When he reached Antarah, he held his quiver aloft; not one arrow remained.

“Four minutes,” Prince Aurangzeb said. “So he shot an arrow an average of every four seconds, Mirza Najabat Khan. I did well in not making a wager with you. He has his father’s skill on the battlefield and will be formidable when he comes of age.”

Shaking with relief and joy, Najabat bowed to Aurangzeb. “Thank you, your Highness . . . for everything. I am honored that you choose to ask me to serve under you, and if I am ever given that opportunity, I shall take it.” He knew, and his prince knew, that this was more than a mere promise to serve—Najabat Khan had declared his fealty to Aurangzeb because he admired him. If there was ever a question as to which prince he thought should wear the crown, it had been amply answered today.

When Aurangzeb left and Najabat lifted himself from his bow, he found Antarah loping madly through the dust toward him. The boy flung himself upon his father and grasped him about the waist, hiding his face briefly in Najabat’s
qaba.
Najabat held him away so he could see that he was not injured in any way, and then he kissed him lightly on his sweaty forehead.

“Oh, Papa,” Antarah said. “Did you see what I just did?”

“Yes,” Najabat replied, and then, turning him toward another corner of the
maidan,
he pointed with a finger. “Look.”

A woman stood under the trees holding her veil in place. They could barely see her through the thick dust that still floated above the
maidan,
but they did see her touch her heart and then her mouth, as though she had sent a kiss toward them across the length of the field.

“Is she my mother?” Antarah asked, his young face serious, squinting to look better.

“She could be anyone.”

“Tell me,” Antarah said, facing his father.

Najabat put an arm around his son’s shoulders and pulled him close. He put his lips on his head and said quietly, “Yes, she is.
Beta,
matters between your mother and me are . . . complicated, so difficult to explain, but I wanted you to know that she was here, that she wanted to be here because she loves you very much. Do you understand?”

Antarah shook his head. “No.”

His father sighed. “Perhaps when you are older, you will. Come, we must go home now.”

•  •  •

Princess Jahanara Begam stayed on at the edge of the field long after Najabat and Antarah had gone, long after the
maidan
had emptied and the horses had been led away. Her heart had finally stopped its crazy pounding, and she leaned against a tree trunk, exhausted, as though she had taken part in the competition herself. Pride washed over her at Antarah’s antics, at the elegant way he had ridden his horse, at the speed with which he had shot the arrows, at the impatience in his manner while he had waited for the master to take down the quiver from his back. She had seen the empty quiver long before he had and known that he had won. And when he realized this, he had leapt down from his horse and thundered across the ground to his father. At that moment, she had nearly called out to him. But then, almost as soon as he had reached Najabat, there had been that gift from him to her as he turned Antarah toward her. Perhaps he had told him who she was, and so the boy had looked long and hard at her. She put her face against the rough bark of the tree and closed her eyes. As the years passed, she had come closer and closer to Antarah—in the beginning she had kept the width of the Yamuna River between them, but she had started stepping nearer as time passed. Although he had whirled past her as he rode around the target, she had been but ten feet from him and had seen him clearly—that thin face, those determined eyes, that open mouth through which he had breathed, his intense concentration.