The Architect's Apprentice (7 page)

He was taken aback by the sight of her swollen teats. Cautiously, he wrapped his thumb and forefinger around one of them and squeezed, hoping to milk her like a goat. Not a drop. He tried using more fingers and more force. Pakeeza flinched, almost knocking him down. Doing his best not to inhale, Jahan placed his lips around one of her nipples and sucked. As soon as the first drops reached his mouth he retched. It was the smell that got to him. He never knew milk could smell so foul. His second and third attempts were no more successful than the first, and before he knew it he was outside in the yard, throwing up. Elephant’s milk was like nothing he had tasted
before. Sweet and tart at once, thick and fatty. The nape of his neck was slick with sweat and his head felt dizzy. Covering his nose with a handkerchief helped. After that he was able to make headway. He sucked and spat the liquid into the pot, sucked and spat. When the pot was one third full, he stepped down and proudly carried his gift to the calf.

Throughout the afternoon he repeated this. The milk that he had so painfully extracted was always consumed by the baby in one happy slurp. After a dozen trips the boy awarded himself a break. While he rested, rubbing his sore jaw, he glanced at the calf, whose mouth had twisted into what he could only describe as an impish smile. Jahan smiled back, realizing they had become milk brothers.

‘I shall call you Chota,’
*
he said. ‘But you’ll grow big and strong.’

The calf made a funny sound in agreement. Although there would be many who would want to rename him according to their hearts’ wishes, at no stage of his life, neither then nor later, would the animal respond to any name other than the one Jahan had given him. Chota he was and Chota he remained. In three weeks he had grown tall enough to reach his mother’s teats. Soon he was stomping around the yard, chasing chickens, frightening the birds, fully plunged into the discovery of the world. Loved and pampered by all the females in the herd, he frolicked. A brave elephant he was, scared of neither the thunder nor the whip. Only one thing seemed to fill him with fear. A sound that every now and then rose from the depths of the wilderness, gushing through the valley, like a dark, rowdy river. The sound of a tiger.

When Jahan finished, still on his knees and having talked for the last hour at a tuft of grass, he dared neither to sit up nor to stare at her. If he had taken so much as a glance, he would have seen a smile etch on her lips, delicate as the morning mist.

‘Tell me what happened next?’ Mihrimah said.

Yet, before Jahan could open his mouth, the nursemaid broke in, ‘It’s getting late, your Highness. Your mother might return at any moment.’

Mihrimah sighed. ‘Fine,
dada
. We can go now.’

Smoothing her long kaftan, the Princess rose to her feet and, with a swinging stride, trod down the garden path. Hesna Khatun watched her quietly for a while. Then, as soon as Mihrimah was out of earshot, she spoke, in a tone so soft and so caring that Jahan did not grasp the chiding underneath until the nursemaid, too, was gone.

‘Hyacinth eyes. Milk brother to an elephant. You are a strange one, Indian. Or else a gifted liar. If that’s right, if you are deceiving my good and gracious Excellency, I swear I’ll find it out and make you regret it.’

The next time they came to see the elephant the nursemaid was seven steps behind and silent as a corpse. As for the Princess, Jahan thought that, in the receding light of the late afternoon, she looked more beautiful than ever before. On her finger shone a diamond, the size of a walnut and the colour of pigeon’s blood. Jahan was aware that if he could only get his hands on it, he would be a rich man all his life. And yet, somehow, he also knew he could never steal from her. After feeding Chota dried prunes, she sat under the lilac tree. A faint odour, of flowers and wild herbs, wafted from her hair.

‘I’d like to hear what happened afterwards.’

Jahan felt a shiver run down his entire body, but he managed to say, calmly, ‘As you wish, your Highness.’

About a year after Chota was born, Shah Humayun received an unusual visitor in his magnificent palace – an Ottoman admiral who had lost half of his crew and all of his fleet in a terrible storm. After listening to his ordeals the Shah promised the man a new caravel so that he could return home.

‘I set sail to fight the heathen,’ said the Ottoman. ‘But a gale brought me to this land. I now understand why. Allah wished me to witness the Shah’s generosity and to convey this to my Sultan.’

Pleased to hear this, Humayun rewarded the admiral with robes and jewels. Afterwards he retired to his private chambers, and it was there, in a bathtub full of rose petals, that an idea occurred to him. His troubles were endless; his enemies aplenty, including his own flesh and blood. His late father had given him some hard advice:
do not harm your brothers even though they may well deserve it
. How could he fight them without harming them, Humayun wondered. And if he did not defeat them, how could he remain in power? There he was, as naked as the hour in which he was born, drained by the steam, contemplating this quandary, when a rose petal caught his eye. Swimming gracefully, it slid towards him as if guided by an invisible hand and fastened itself to his chest.

Gentle by birth, mystical by disposition, Humayun gasped. Surely this was an omen. The rose petal had shown him his weakest side: his heart. He ought not to be enfeebled by his feelings. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed that the shipwrecked captain had been brought to him just like this petal. God was telling him to wage war on his enemies and, if necessary, to get support from the Ottomans. He left the bath, delighted and dripping.

Between the two Muslim sultanates there were sporadic exchanges – merchants, emissaries, mystics, spies, artisans and pilgrims travelled to and fro. Also, gifts. The last came in all sizes: silks, jewels, carpets, spices, mother-of-pearl cabinets, musical instruments, lions, cheetahs, cobras, concubines and eunuchs. From one ruler to the other, messages were carried along with tokens of largesse, and the answer, whether affirmative or not, would arrive with reciprocal flamboyance.

Humayun,
Giver of Peace and the Shadow of God upon Earth
, was curious about Suleiman,
Swayer of Sea and Land and the Shadow of God upon Earth
. He had heard from his spies that every night before he went to sleep the Sultan wore the Seal of Solomon, the signet ring that had given his namesake command over animals, humans and
djinn
. Suleiman’s strengths were apparent. But what were the foibles and the fears that festered under those precious kaftans, each of which he was rumoured to wear but once?

Humayun had also heard about Hurrem – the queen of Suleiman’s harem. Recently she had ordered a thousand pairs of turtledoves from Egypt that had been trained as carriers, tiny papers wrapped around their claws. The birds had been sent to Istanbul over seas and
rivers, and when they were released, the sky above turned as black as pitch and the people ran to the mosques, fearing the Day of Judgement.

Humayun decided to impress the Ottoman Sultana with a matchless present. His offering would honour the Sultan but at the same time remind him of the lands beyond his reach and, thus, of his limits. Swathed in a cape, the Shah called for his ewer-bearer, Jauhar, in whose wisdom he trusted.

‘Tell me. What would be the right gift to send to a man who has everything?’

Jauhar replied, ‘Not silks or gems. Nor gold or silver. I’d say, an animal. Because animals have personalities and each is different.’

‘Which animal would best convey to him the greatness of our empire?’

‘An elephant, my Lord. The biggest animal on land.’

Shah Humayun gave this some thought. ‘What if I’d like to imply that my kingdom, though splendid enough to have such an elephant, is in need of his help?’

‘In that case, my Lord, send him a baby elephant. It’ll be our way of saying that we cannot do battle just yet. We need a helping hand. But we shall grow and fight, and when we fight, we shall triumph, God willing.’

The morning Jauhar arrived with a regiment of soldiers, Jahan was feeding Chota, now weighing almost eight kantars and still the colour of ivory.

Jahan’s uncle, delighted to have such a respectable guest in his courtyard, bowed and scraped. ‘Our noble Shah’s noble servant, how can I be of help?’

‘I heard you had a white elephant,’ Jauhar said. ‘You must give it to us. The Shah wishes to send it to the Ottomans.’

‘Of course, what an honour.’

‘You’re not giving Chota away, are you?’ came a voice from behind. Everyone turned to look at Jahan.

His uncle threw himself on the ground. ‘Forgive him, venerable master. His mother passed away last month. Awful disease. She was fine one day, gone the next. She was with child, poor thing. The boy doesn’t know what he’s saying. Grief got into his head.’

‘Mother died because of your cruelty. You beat her every day –’ Slapped by his stepfather, Jahan tumbled down, unable to finish his words.

‘Don’t hit your son!’ said Jauhar.

‘I am not his son,’ yelled Jahan from where he had fallen.

Jauhar smiled. ‘You are a brave boy, aren’t you? Come closer. Let me look at you.’

Under the burning gaze of his uncle, Jahan did as he was told.

‘Why don’t you wish to let go of the animal?’ asked Jauhar.

‘Chota is like no other elephant: he’s different. He can’t go anywhere.’

‘You love the beast, that’s good,’ said Jauhar. ‘But he’ll be fine. In the Ottoman palace he’ll be treated like a prince. And your family will be rewarded.’ The Shah’s ewer-bearer then gestured to a servant who, out of his robe, produced a pouch.

Jahan’s uncle’s eyes glinted when he saw the coins. He said, ‘Don’t mind the lad, my Lord. What does he know? The calf is yours. Do with him as you wish.’

Once Chota’s fate was sealed, Jahan took it upon himself to make the elephant ready for his long journey. He fed him remedial herbs that would ease digestion; washed and oiled and perfumed his skin; trimmed the pads under his feet; clipped his nails – all the while knowing that it wasn’t he who would be accompanying Chota when the time came to climb aboard. A mahout, five years older and supposedly experienced, had been appointed for the task. A stumpy
youth with a protruding chin and close-set eyes. He was called Gurab – a name the boy would never forget. One did not forget the name of one’s enemy.

A massive cage was sent from the palace, its corners welded in gold and silver, its bars adorned with flowers and tassels. Upon seeing it, Jahan’s eyes brimmed over. Chota, frisky and of good cheer since the day he was born, would be kept in chains and put under lock and key like some common criminal. Try as he might to accept that this was the only way the animal could go by water, he could not bear the thought. Withdrawing into misery, he ate and spoke little. His sisters were worried; even his uncle left him alone.

Gurab dropped round every now and then to see how things were coming along and, as he put it,
to make familiar with the beast
. Jahan watched him like a hawk; and his heart warmed when the elephant paid his new mahout no heed.

‘Hold this!’ Gurab would shout, lifting the cane in his hand.

Chota would stay put, not even glancing at him.

‘Come, grab this stick!’ Jahan would yell from another corner and the elephant would veer towards him, ever so obedient.

A few times the two youngsters had come close to exchanging blows. Even so, since Chota listened to no one save Jahan, to make things easy it was agreed that the boy would travel with them to the port of Goa. There, the elephant would be loaded on to the vessel that would take him to Istanbul, and Jahan would return to Agra.

The morning they set off, Jahan’s eldest sister pulled him aside. Inhaling ever so slowly, she held her breath deep down in her lungs, not yet ready to let go either of her breath or of her brother.

‘You are leaving,’ she said, as if it needed to be announced.

‘I’ll help Chota and come back with uncle,’ said Jahan, putting into his sack the bread she had baked. ‘Just for a few days.’

‘The road can be short or long, who knows. This morning I asked myself, if Mother were here, what would she counsel you? I prayed to God that He would let me know so that I could tell you, but nothing came.’

Jahan kept his head down. He, too, wanted to know what his mother would have told him had she been alive. When he looked outside, he saw the elephant, glowing. The peasants had painted his trunk in swirling colours and embellished his mantle with sequins. As he watched him, these words spilled from Jahan’s mouth: ‘Be kind to the beast, and to the weak, she might have said.’

His sister’s eyes, which had been dark and doleful, now lit up. ‘That’s right. Whatever you do, she would have said, don’t hurt anyone and don’t let anyone hurt you. Be neither a heartbreaker nor heartbroken.’

The clouds above the Port of Goa rolled away across the pewter sky, bringing them the favourable wind they had been awaiting for days. The anchors were raised, the sails were hoisted, a pair of old and torn breeches was thrown into the water to expel bad luck. Gurab was rigged out in an embroidered jacket the colour of dead leaves. Next to the tatters Jahan wore, his clothes shone like a maharaja’s. Scowling at the boy, Gurab said, ‘You better take yourself off. We don’t need you any more.’

‘Not going anywhere until the ship leaves.’