Shadow Princess (10 page)

“Yes, there will be an answer to his Majesty.”

Raja Jai Singh called for his writing materials and penned the only reply he could—he was overwhelmed with joy and gratitude on receiving his Majesty’s
farman;
he was blessed indeed that he could be of such service to his Majesty; the grant of the four other mansions in return for this worthless piece of land of his on the Yamuna was too generous, not necessary, but as his Majesty had seen fit to give these to him, he would accept with a deep thankfulness. Raja Jai Singh signed the letter to Emperor Shah Jahan and then added a small postscript—one he knew would be of great interest to his ruler: he would be packed and would leave his
haveli
by nightfall. Under all the writing, Jai Singh placed his own seal—at the very bottom, as befitted his status inferior to his Emperor.

And so Raja Jai Singh, willing or not, gave up his land. The four mansions in Agra that he received in return were but a poor trade, that much he did think privately, although the buildings themselves were superior to the one he had just relinquished, the lands more extensive, his total assets greatly augmented.

The land was now Emperor Shah Jahan’s (and it had always been his; he was Emperor and Jai Singh a vassal king who had enjoyed his tenancy on the land for so long), and the idea for the tomb was already present, in Mumtaz Mahal’s grandfather’s tomb across the river.

As much as he abhorred her, Emperor Shah Jahan very briefly acknowledged Mehrunnisa’s contribution to Mughal architecture in deciding that Mumtaz’s tomb would be constructed in white marble. But there the similarities would end, for the Taj Mahal would be of a purer white, flawless, such as the world had never before seen—a Luminous Tomb.

The elder daughter of Chah-Jehan, was very handsome, of lively parts, and passionately beloved by her father. Rumour has it that his attachment reached a point which it is difficult to believe . . . it would have been unjust to deny the King the privilege of gathering fruit from the tree he had himself planted.

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

Burhanpur

Thursday, June 25, 1631

26 Zi’l-Qa’da
A.H.
1040

B
apa.”

Princess Jahanara sat down beside her father, wrapped her hands around his arm, and rested her head on his shoulder. From this close, with his spent breath fanning her hair, she could hear the sounds of his chest. He had caught a cold the evening he spent outside on the ramparts of the fort, watching as they buried their mother. The servants were supposed to have wrapped him warmly, held an umbrella over his head, brought him inside after a half hour, but none of her instructions had been followed. So Emperor Shah Jahan had tarried in the rain too long, until he had come inside shivering, his
qaba
drenched, his hair clinging to his head, the skin on the palms of his hands shriveled as though he had immersed them for a while in water. Jahanara, drained as she had been after her mother’s burial, had undressed him herself, wiped him down, put him to bed, and slept on the floor on a mattress so that he could hold her hand through the night.

“What madness is this?” she said, her voice muffled in the cloth of her father’s white cotton
kurta.

When he responded, she heard the smile in his voice and her heart eased. After so many days he had found mirth in something, a little, inconsequential statement that had a wealth of meaning in it. “So you have heard?” Emperor Shah Jahan said. “And from which one? No.” He put her away from him. “I do not want to know. Aurangzeb was at the door to the next room when Mahabat Khan was granted an audience. That boy needs a horsehide whip against his back for listening in. Dara or you would never have done something like this.”

Jahanara kissed her father’s hand and tried to keep her voice even. “You cannot give up the Empire, Bapa. Whom will you grant it to? We are all so young, so untried . . . and you have fought too long for this crown.”

“Yes,” Shah Jahan said deliberately, “you of all people would remember the trials I have faced. You were with us all the time.” He looked down at her young, earnest face and thought for a moment he was looking into Arjumand’s face in those early days when they were just married. But it was a fleeting thought—although Jahan was uncannily similar to her mother in personality, physically, they were very dissimilar women. When he used that word,
woman,
in his mind, the Emperor felt a sense of upset. His wife’s death had created a woman out of their daughter, who had always seemed like a child before.

“If Dara, Shuja, and Aurangzeb take your past troubles lightly, Bapa—” Jahanara began, and Shah Jahan hushed her, holding his fingers over her mouth.

“I do not say they are irreverent,” he replied, “not in my presence. But they were not here, with us, during those last few years before the throne of Hindustan became mine. Empress Nur Jahan”—here his forehead furrowed with a frown of loathing for his father’s twentieth wife—“demanded them as surety in 1626, and so your Mama and I had to send them to the imperial court. She thought that if she retained the sons, I would not rebel again. She was right, but my sons were her husband’s grandsons; my father would not have allowed them to be harmed.” His voice faltered at the end, for he still doubted what he said. His father had been swayed by that evil woman and had disinherited Shah Jahan after declaring him heir. The boys would not have been safe if his father-in-law Abul had not kept them out of Mehrunnisa’s reach. He had never asked them about their life in the imperial court during those last two years of his father’s life, if they had been happy, discontented, homesick for their parents . . .

“Dara talks sometimes, Bapa,” Jahanara said, thinking back to those days herself. “The Empress was kind to them; they were treated as royal princes, provided
mullas
for study and entertainments to amuse them, but kept under guard. Aurangzeb once said that it was only right—Emperor Jahangir and his wife were victorious, and they, the boys who would one day inherit the Empire, were the spoils of the battle between you and your father.”

“Aurangzeb talks a little too much.” The Emperor rose and walked into the verandah, fretting the raised embroidery around the neck of his
kurta
with his fingers. In his father’s place, with a quiverful of male heirs given as a guarantee, he too would have posted a rigid guard around the boys, and perhaps not given them as much liberty, but he disliked being reminded of any thoughtfulness on Mehrunnisa’s part. He stood still as the thin silk curtains pushed inward, carving out his figure, their skirts whispering on the speckled marble floors. Every piece of fabric in the Emperor’s apartments—the covers on the bed, the cushions and the pillows, the drapes on the windows, the overhead
punkah
’s rectangular cloth, even the light Persian rugs on the floors—had been changed to a shade of white for mourning. The noncolors of the rooms created a cool and clean space. Shah Jahan stretched his arms over his head and swayed lightly on his feet. His body ached, his eyes hurt from the weeping, his chest seemed blocked by tears and grief, and in all these days that he had cried for his wife, and cried himself to sleep, Jahan had been by his side. He turned to see her watching him, her gray eyes somber. She was worried, he knew that, even though she had said little, only called his conversation with Mahabat a madness. These past few days
had
been an insanity to him, unbelievable, astounding, implausible. Yet here they were, the two of them, bereft of a wife and a mother whose every word had been a blessing to them, whose every deed a revelation. Allah had seen fit to call Mumtaz to His side and had taken her from them.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a fit of coughing. At once, Jahanara was by his side, leaning into him, allowing him to rest upon her sturdy shoulders. Emperor Shah Jahan put his arms around his daughter and held her, as much as she held on to him, her arms around his waist, her head on his chest. Girl children, he thought, were blessings from Allah; sons only caused worry. Almost from the beginning, Jahanara had been steady, calm, and had passed through her childhood without actually touching it. She was old beyond her years, and now, when he most needed the will to live, he remembered that he had her. Shah Jahan knew her every mood, her every wish (often subordinated to his), her sense of sacrifice, her pride—this last of immense importance to a princess.

“When did you think of this?” she asked.

“When your mother died,” he answered, knowing she was talking of his madness. “There did not seem any necessity to rule anymore.”

She clutched at the sleeve of his
kurta
until the fabric tightened around his arm. “And who do you think must follow you?”

“Do you need to ask that? Dara.”

“Is he ready to be Emperor in your stead?” A tremor in her voice. “Think, Bapa, the boys are so young and likely to be easily led by the
amirs
at court. Where will you be? Who will pay attention to an Emperor who has deposed himself?”

“Does it matter so much, Jahan?”

“Only as much as the Empire does. If the nobles array themselves into cliques, the land will be fragmented.”

A long silence followed as they stood there together by the railing of the balcony. The sun had dipped into the western sky by now, and its angled rays bathed the fort at Burhanpur with muted light. The day’s heat had diminished with the coming of the night, and, in the river below them, fishermen cast their nets out into the waters from their little dinghies with audible thumps. The river swallowed the wide nets as soon as they touched its surface, leaving only small blue and red floats visible. They watched as the nets were gathered in and hauled up to the boats, tiny fish writhing in masses of silver and white.

“I had thought of a regency. But only briefly.”

“Who? Mirza Mahabat Khan?”

Shah Jahan nodded. “Or your mother’s brother Shaista Khan, or your mother’s father, Abul Hasan. Of the two, perhaps Abul.”

Jahanara stepped back and glanced at him. “A regency would also be unwise. . . . There is no precedent for this, Bapa. Would you be willing to allow another man to counsel your son in matters of state?”

Shah Jahan rubbed the side of his neck thoughtfully. “Tell me, how much has this lunacy of mine affected your brothers?”

“Dara . . . he thinks he will be your choice, as I think also. Shuja does not know yet. Aurangzeb wants to be Emperor, but, Bapa, he is only thirteen.”

Even as she said this, they both remembered that Shah Jahan’s grandfather and Jahanara’s great-grandfather Emperor Akbar had also been a mere thirteen when his father died and he had been hastily crowned on a makeshift brick platform. But a regency had followed, for the next six years, and it was difficult to think now that the man who had left them this solid, glorious Empire had struggled to rid himself of his regent, and even of his controlling wet nurse, to both of whom he had given his affection, his love, and far too much power.

“Go now.” Shah Jahan pushed his daughter gently toward the steps and the outer door to his apartments. “And tell your brothers, and all who will listen, that I will be at the
jharoka
balcony at dawn tomorrow. In the afternoon, I will visit your mother’s grave.”

Jahanara reached up and kissed her father’s cheek. His beard, unkempt since he had not allowed a barber near him all these days, scratched at her lips. When she had crossed the length of the room, she looked back and almost ran to her father again. He stood framed in the light of the setting sun, his back bent with grief, his right hand over his eyes.

“How will we go on, Jahan?”

“By stepping firmly through life, Bapa.” She tried to keep the quaver out of her voice.

She knew of this Luminous Tomb her father meant to build for her mother. No other Emperor before, and none after, would ever think of honoring a mere woman with such radiance in marble. As her mother lay dead, Jahanara would take her place in almost everything, but she did not think her own life, or Roshan’s, or even that of poor little Goharara, whose coming had killed their mother, would amount to much in the centuries to come. They would remain Mumtaz Mahal’s daughters—always in the dark when held up to her light. They would be the princesses in the perpetual shadow of the queen who had died.

When she stepped into the darkened and cool antechamber, Jahanara tarried awhile. Her heart slowed with an effort and she realized that a crisis had been averted. And it was of her doing. On the other side of the door, her father moved around his room with a faltering step. Beyond, in the corridor, she heard the scrabbling of the flock of retainers who awaited her commands on matters trivial and important. Jahanara took a deep breath and went out to meet the servants. Young as she was, in the coming years, she would be asked to arrange marriages for her brothers or consulted on court affairs or act as a crutch upon which her sorrowing father leaned. This she would not mind. But she did not know that performing these varied duties would eventually cast a lingering shadow upon
her
life most of all. That posterity would only know her as a beloved daughter and an adored sister. Nothing more. Perhaps.