The Moghul Saint of Insanity [1 ed.] 9781443883429, 9781443877329

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The Moghul Saint of Insanity

The Moghul Saint of Insanity By

Farzana Moon

The Moghul Saint of Insanity By Farzana Moon This book first published 2015 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2015 by Farzana Moon All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-7732-8 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-7732-9

For Mustafa, my computer genius.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword .................................................................................................... ix Chapter One ................................................................................................. 1 Peacock Throne Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 26 Shivaji the Worthy Rebel Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 47 East India Company Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 63 Beloved Udaipuri Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 84 Demolition of Temples Chapter Six ................................................................................................ 94 Treason of a Prince Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 110 Tabernacle of a Throne Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 123 Fortress of Golconda Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 137 Torture of Shambhuji Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 147 The Emperor, Besotted and Lonesome Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 165 Guru Gobind Singh

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Chapter Twelve ....................................................................................... 181 Dwindling of the Great Empire Chapter Thirteen ...................................................................................... 199 Inception of the British Raj Bibliography ............................................................................................ 216 Index ........................................................................................................ 217

FOREWORD

This historical, biographical account of Aurangzeb’s life is the last in the series of the Moghuls, depicting the Fall of the Moghul Empire. Aurangzeb stands out as the Master of Distortion, defacing the Face of Islam in conformity with his own sense of perception and interpretation. Blind to his own sins and acts of violence, he plunges deep into the ocean of ruin and devastation. His ancestors—the architects of beauty and tolerance—are forgotten by him in his mad zeal to conquer and subjugate all who do not fit the vision of his Islam. The victim of his own spiritual leprosy, he fails to see his acts of cruelty and injustice as stark contradictions to the precepts of Islam. More faces emerge in this war of ambition and hypocrisy; those of foreign traders, lurking in ambush to possess the jewels of the emperors and the empire at the first golden opportunity. And Aurangzeb becomes the first one from the progeny of the Moghuls to throw open the gates of this Golden Cage for plunder and invasion, leaving behind one legacy, of a golden rule: tolerance leads to peace and prosperity, and intolerance to doom and destruction. The Fall of the Moghul Empire attests to the validity of this legacy.

CHAPTER ONE PEACOCK THRONE

Words do not the saint or sinner make Action alone is written in the book of fate As we sow, so shall we reap —Nanak

The Puritan Emperor, seated at his desk, was bathed in light from the reflections of the jewels on the marble pillars, and from the swath of diamonds in his gold turban. This man of forty-eight warring seasons was none other than Aurangzeb, the sixth Moghul Emperor of Hindustan. The Shah Burj balcony at the Agra palace was holding him prisoner, as he had held his father prisoner, usurping his throne and murdering all his brothers to crown his ambition with the wealth of deceit and bigotry. He was no prisoner though! The master of a glorious empire and yet a prisoner to his zeal and guilt! To grant his own self a few moments of rare solitude, he had chosen the Shah Burj balcony to read the letters of his antagonists before facing weighty decisions in the Audience Hall. This blessed day was garnished with the festivities of the seventh anniversary of his accession to the throne. The glorious Taj Mahal was in full view, and the golden waves of the Jamna were dancing under the sun. But Aurangzeb’s senses were blunted by the knives of his zeal and tyranny, making him deaf and sightless to the bounties of awe and wonder. If the Taj Mahal was slipped under his very nose, with all its glory and perfection, he would have sniffed it away, and if nature was to sing to him hymns of joy and love, he would have brushed them away with an imperious wave of his arm. Seated thus, Aurangzeb seemed invulnerable, but the daggers of love had carved deep trenches inside his heart, making him vulnerable like a babe exposed to the mercy of the world by the power of the one and only, his own beautiful beloved. Her name was Udaipuri, his fourth wife, corrupting his heart with the flagons of her sinful passion, since she was addicted, rather wedded, to wine and drunkenness. Her flowerlike face with dark, laughing eyes was a shuddering reflection in his mind’s eye,

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along with the throbbing wound of a recollection very terrible and distasteful to the rungs of his pride and passion. Udaipuri was a slave girl from Georgia, the concubine of his late brother, Prince Dara Shikoh. Aurangzeb had fallen in love with her the very first time he had seen her. He had guarded the violence of his passion inside him most patiently, and had succeeded in marrying her after murdering his brother, Prince Dara Shikoh. Udaipuri was the most precious of his gifts from the war of succession, and he knew he would not ever relinquish her, even if it cost him his life and empire. With the power of this thought alone, Aurangzeb’s surface calm was shattering, the tongues of shame and remorse waging their own war of succession within him. A subtle flush was pervading his angular features, as if escaping the turbulent pools of his mute contemplations. His aquiline nose too was gilded with a glow against the quivering of his features, where zeal and passion throbbed naked and unashamed. The lapping of emotions inside him seemed caught in the eyes of the round, smooth pearls around his neck down to his waist as he scooped a part of the string up in a fist, his other hand smoothing the gold embroidery on his satin vest. All of a sudden, his eyes lit up with fever and implacability. His hand reached out to the unsealed letter which he had postponed reading while writing edicts and epistles to his viziers and grandees. Now he snatched it from his rosewood desk, his look savage and piercing. The words were dancing before his eyes like the demons of lies and flattery, and he knitted his brows in an effort to absorb all, swiftly and punctiliously. This letter was from the lord of the rebels, the living idol of the Hindus – Shivaji. He had written this letter after he had been installed into imperial favor, sending his son Shambhuji to the imperial court as a token of his gratitude. Your Majesty, this sinner and offender, hereafter, will remain firmly engaged in performing the emperor’s work as a reparation for his past life and an amendment of his uselessly spent days. He will never deviate from the position of rendering service, risking his life and carrying out imperial mandates. He hopes that out of the store-house of Your Majesty’s grace, life to this slave may be granted, and an imperial Farman may be issued pardoning his offences, granting security to his house and family, and bestowing life on him.

Aurangzeb’s gaze returned to the heap of letters, piled high, with a burning intensity, as if he could reduce all lies and flatteries to cinders by the mere command of his gaze. But his thoughts were summoning the canker of his unwise, which he could neither cease to regret, nor forget.

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The words penned by his hasty decision were poised before him like little troopers, slashing their expressions with blows wild and merciless. I, out of my characteristic noble habit of shutting my eyes to faults and granting the pardon of lives, do forgive your past sins and deeds and grant all your prayers—

Aurangzeb’s thoughts closed the shutters of his missive, the soot of regret inside him one billowing cloud of rage and hatred. The emperor leapt to his feet as if stung, yet darted a baleful look at the pile of the letters on his desk and snatched another, more to abate the fever of unrest in his thoughts than to fathom the dark trails of Shivaji’s evil genius. The letter poised before him, Aurangzeb’s very thoughts devoured Shivaji’s words with the gluttony of pride and gloating. The script itself was coming alive before his gaze with the rhythm of ecstasy and illusion—dancing like a whirling dervish, awesome and mocking. The meanest of life-devoting slaves, who wears the ring of servitude in his ear and the carpet of obedience on his shoulder like an atom, acknowledges the good news of his eternal happiness, namely favors from the emperor. This sinner and evil-doer did not deserve that his offences should be forgiven, or his faults covered up. But the grace and favor of the emperor have conferred on him a new life and unimaginable honor.

Aurangzeb’s ego was swelling to the size of a mountain as he tossed the letter back onto his rosewood desk. Then he stood smiling to himself, the fever of unrest within him no more, and he alone the master of his fate. Much like the pillar of inevitability he was, short of stature, yet lifted high by the bellows of piety and disdain. His gaze was reaching out and lingering over the marble purity of the Taj Mahal. Yet, he could neither catch its ethereal beauty, nor admire its contours sublime, missing even the passionate serenade of the Jamna waves, kissing the marble monument in holy abandon. His heart was silent, the icy sparkle in his soul cracking open a wound of a kiss, where Udaipuri lay naked on her royal bed of sins and charms. Much like an eternal beloved, Udaipuri had invaded his soul to the very fabric of its torments, and he was destined to love her despite her wedlock to wine and oblivion. Rather, accursed in love, one impudent thought flew loose from the quiver of his doubts this precise moment. Yes, accursed in love, to endure the stabbing thorns, just for the privilege of sleeping on a bed of roses? Suddenly, his heart was overwhelmed by tides upon tides of pain and longing. As if whipped by a hurricane he stumbled towards the narrow staircase with the intention of paying homage to his

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wives, before facing his nemesis in the guise of the Qazis, viziers and the courtiers. The harem walls, in conformity with the seventh anniversary of the emperor’s accession, were decked with fresh ivy and clusters of tuberoses. Aurangzeb, gliding through the lofty halls into the inner sanctuary of his harem, inhaled the scent of peace and prosperity, if not of the roses, white and fragrant. Donning a mask of goodwill and serendipity, he could be seen approaching the palatial chamber where his royal household was assembled as customary, hoping for the privilege of an intimate parlance before the emperor was lost to the world of royal duties. Of late, this privilege was woven into the tapestry of inquisition by the begums, who were intent on advising the emperor, and more so on fraying his armor of piety and justice with comments both bold and troubling. Accustomed to such a weight of knowledge, branded by the fire of his love for Udaipuri, Aurangzeb’s pace dwindled to a leisurely stroll, keeping at bay the chamber of female intrigue and rebellion. Intrigue and rebellion were the mirror images of jewels in the eyes of the ladies and on their royal persons as Aurangzeb stepped into this chamber of ivory and damask. A stab of disappointment cut through his heart, causing rivulets of pain, at not finding his beloved amongst the bevy of begums and princesses; his step became heavy and ponderous. But, the master of pride and ceremony without fail, he greeted all with gracious smiles, in turn being greeted with a profusion of curtsies and exclamations. Abandoning himself to his gilt chair, he was quick to weave each knot of parlance into one smooth pattern inside the book of his memory. His gaze was absorbing all, reading the lovely facial expressions and diving deep into the hearts and souls of all present. He could boast of having been keen and perceptive since early adulthood, facing no difficulty in gleaning motives, noble or corrupt, despite the façade of smiles and words, and was still sure of his aplomb and perspicacity. But these faculties of his perception were marred by the soot of his zeal and ambition, and he himself was unaware of the tragic marshland within the borders of his psyche and intellect. He had killed the kernels of his clarity and intuition with the bullets of his tyranny and intolerance, oblivious to the ruins of his deeds and greeds, and still believed himself to be the king of clairvoyance. Crowned with the laurels of his piety and righteousness, he had neglected to discover the precious losses within the reach of his succor and introspection. The gifts of perception and prediction were lost to him, and he was happily ignorant of this loss. Seated thus in the bliss of his powers, great and infallible, he was sadly mistaken in distinguishing pearls from the pebbles within the hearts of his kin and kindred. Reality was standing

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before him like a mirror, bright and self-revealing, yet what his senses sifted through were castles on sand dunes and delusions in word and reflection. Aurangzeb’s gaze was glossed with memories, shifting from one to the other with a profound intensity, though he sat conversing with as much light-hearted gaiety as permitted to him by his puritanical self. Dilras Begum, the first wife of his youth, though buried under the shroud of peace a decade hence, he could see in the sweet issues of sons and a daughter. Princess Zebunisa, already on the rungs of twenty-eight springs, is the queen of poetry and intrigue, he thought. Prince Azam, only eleven years old, is lean and lanky, and unpredictable in his moods and studies. The ten-year-old Prince Akbar, shy and precocious, was invading his thoughts, but his attention was already turning to his chief wife, Nawab Bai Begum. She rules the harem with a rod of discipline and decorum, Aurangzeb’s thoughts were murmuring, shifting to the blessed fruits of his sons and another daughter from this lovely bloom of a wife. Prince Muazzam, heedless of his thirteen years of royal discipline, was laughing with a wild abandon. He was teasing his sister, Princess Zabdatunisa, his eyes shining with mischief. This pair of laughing doves as his blessed progeny reminded Aurangzeb of Prince Muhammed Sultan! Prince Muhammed Sultan, the brother of these free birds, was imprisoned inside the fort of Salimgarh for his acts of rebellion. Aurangzeb’s heart sank at the abrupt recollection of this tragic memory.

The emperor tried his best to slough off the impudence and invasion of his dark thoughts as he sat talking and listening. But his thoughts were defiant and impertinent, returning to his eldest son—twenty-six years old, none other than Prince Muhammed Sultan, a rebel and a victim. He could see him inside the great fortress of the prison, strong-willed and impenitent, though awaiting pardon and a miracle from the very hands of the fates. The fates were inching closer to the emperor’s troubled heart, carrying the fort of Salimgarh on their shoulders and releasing the spirits of his kin and foe who were rendered powerless to tell the tales of murder and humiliation. Sadness, followed by a hurricane of loneliness, threatened Aurangzeb’s calm. No waters of shame and penance were there to check the impending violence of the storm and devastation. Udaipuri was his only anchor of comfort and salvation, and now his heart was pleading with her, the familiar ache and longing within, savage and inviolate. He could summon her here at the dictates of his will and mood, but pride and propriety shut the doors of his supreme agony. Instead, his gaze and thoughts found diversion in the bower of his other wife, Aurangabadi Mahal Begum. The begum’s daughter, Princess Mihrunisa, was the cynosure of her attention, and Aurangzeb’s own heart was aching with the

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recollection that this tender bloom of eleven summers was his love and joy too. In spite of the trickling of such aches and tendernesses, Aurangzeb was becoming the master of his thoughts by the sheer discipline of his wit and will. His wit, he knew, had grown brittle at the whim and caprice of time, though retaining its quality of steel when forged to fashion the weapons of offence and defense. He held his will under scrutiny for one flash of a moment, finding it solid and indestructible. His thoughts, like swift currents, hastened to meet the psychic and ethereal planes with the ease of gymnasts. He could talk, think and listen, not simultaneously, but concurrently. This ability allowed him to knead his thoughts into a ball of dough, soft and pliable. Later, he could bake this ball under the fire of his will and decision, and mould it into parchments for future perusal. That was what he was doing right now, attentive and contemplative, drifting through the labyrinths of conversations with perfect ease, leaving room for his thoughts to seethe and breathe. His eldest sister, Princess Jahanara, and his youngest sister, Princess Gauhara, the former in her fifties and the latter almost thirty-five seemed, to be in league in peeking through the gates of state affairs, tossing around fervent opinions and judgments. Princess Roshanara, another of the emperor’s sisters, only a year older than him, usually profuse and impetuous, was courting silence this particular afternoon. Aurangzeb’s attention was shifting to Prince Muazzam, more to escape the missiles of his sisters than to test the intelligence of his capricious son. “Come here, my heedless prince! You are under the emperor’s inquisition, or rather favored by his indulgence to test your memory, since you were sent to Deccan to chastise Shivaji! Weren’t you, under the command of Jaswant Singh?” Aurangzeb demurred and commanded both. “And Jaswant Singh, though dutiful, was quite unsuccessful in meeting his obligations. Giving you free rein to indulge in the idle pleasures of hunting and feasting, isn’t that correct? Considering all the discrepancies, do you remember what Shivaji said when Jai Singh and Dilir Khan confronted him?” His look was warm and piercing. “Your Majesty.” Prince Muazzam jumped to his feet, offering a gallant bow with one sweep of his arm. “Your devoted generals, Your Majesty, didn’t tell me much about Shivaji. But they did show me his letters. I read them all, but remember only a couplet he had scribbled at the end of one. The wise should beware of this river of blood From which no man has borne away his boat.”

He stood there flushed, feeling discomfited.

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“Poetry is the work of the devil, my prince! Shun it completely.” Aurangzeb breathed reproof and disdain. “Strange, that you remember this figment of deviltry, but not his evil boasts? The strong forts and skykissing hills are going to shield me from the might of the Moghuls, didn’t he say that?” “When from my cheek I lift my veil The roses turn with envy pale.”

Princess Zebunisa flaunted her genius, defiance and challenge shining in her eyes. Actually, she had been reciting her couplets for quite a while now, a sort of entertainment for her younger sisters, and deriving much pleasure from their rapt, awed expressions. But she had kept her voice low and endearing. Catching the drift of the emperor’s reproof, her tender heart was moved to tears, lending voice to the poetic justice within her, which had no name but a will of its own. Princess Mihrunisa and Princess Zabdatunisa, at this breach of etiquette from their older sister, could barely contain their laughter, giggling and whispering most besottedly. Aurangzeb’s eyes were flashing fire and brimstone, aimed directly over the beautiful head of Princess Zebunisa, but no words escaped his lips. Prince Muazzam was slipping away, glad to be cut loose from the chords of inquisition. Nawab Bai Begum’s eyes were fixed on the emperor in mute appeal, her heart thundering, and one bullet of a comment shot forth from her lips to divert the emperor’s attention from the young princess, lest she be consumed by his anger. “Your Majesty, Shivaji should not be permitted to come to the open court today! I still insist. My heart is troubled.” Nawab Bai Begum’s eyes were sparkling with fear. “How could you, Your Majesty, after you learned about his acts of deceit and cruelty? How awful, the way he murdered your vizier Afzal Khan with tiger claws hidden in his hand and a scorpion dagger under his sleeve? And to think, Afzal Khan was not even suspecting any foul play, meeting him unarmed, carrying only the promise of a peace treaty! Not knowing that he was embracing death.” Her voice was choked, the diamonds in her ears and around her neck throbbing and glittering. “That mountain rat, my love! Do you think that the emperor would entertain any fear on account of him?” Aurangzeb’s rage shifted from Princess Zebunisa to Shivaji. “That son of a dog! He is to be searched thoroughly before he gains the emperor’s audience. Have I not employed Shambhuji in my court? Yes, Shambhuji, that infernal son of the infidel Shivaji, just to quell the fears of my loving wives? Shambhuji now stands

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as a pawn in the chess game of the Moghul court, and he would be torn limb from limb most brutally if Shivaji were to make but one false move!” Aurangzeb hissed, his eyes glowing with the fire of hatred. “Your ban on building new temples, Your Majesty, that’s the cause of all the troubles, making you unpopular, if I dare protest.” Princess Jahanara, in turn, was inviting the emperor’s anger to fall on her head, instead of over the heads of his sweet wives. “That edict was written in haste, my wise sister!” A conflagration of a reproach escaped Aurangzeb’s eyes to scorch the very air if it challenged his authority. “Now that edict is to be ratified. All the old temples are to be demolished, that’s my new edict and command. Especially the ones which the despicable infidels have begun to repair! It is proper for all Muslims to do their utmost to assert the rules of the Prophet’s religion.” His gaze was unfolding the prayer-rug of piety and self-righteousness. “Prophet’s religion, Your Majesty!” Princess Jahanara’s eyes were smoldering with disbelief. “There should be no compulsion in religion. Surely, right has become distinct from wrong, so whosoever refuses to be led by those who transgress and believes in Allah, has surely grasped a strong handle which knows no breaking. And Allah is All Hearing, All Knowing. In this one verse of the Quran is contained the entire religion of Islam, Your Majesty, if I may say so?” Her thoughts were reduced to cinders against the blaze of fire in the emperor’s eyes. “So, my sister is going to teach the emperor the precepts of Islam?” A murmur of thunder was suspended in Aurangzeb’s tone. “I make my edicts known beforehand, not for the benefit of opposition by the dear ladies of my harem, but to test my patience in doing right against all odds. My next step to make Islam the shield and scepter of Hind is to impose jizya on non-Muslims! Hoping that heathens will see the light of the One and only God, Allah!” His eyes were lit up with the stars of fanaticism. “Just think, Your Majesty, that all the lands of Hind are like a vast ocean!” Princess Jahanara pleaded, her eyes gathering the stars of profundity. “And all the members of our royal household are like ships, navigating its waters and ploughing through its waves. And think, Your Majesty, if jizya was lowered into that ocean, wouldn’t it stir up a storm, endangering the peace and prosperity of the royal family first and foremost?” “Isn’t it mentioned in the Quran, Your Majesty, that the rights of the non-Muslims are equal with those of the Muslims?” Aurangabadi Mahal Begum couldn’t fight the temptation of challenging her emperor-husband. “So much so, that Muslims are required to defend non-Muslims! So why

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impose that hated tax, jizya, which your great-grandfather Akbar abolished?” “Their property is like our property and their blood is like our blood. And the property of the non-Muslims living under the protection of a Muslim is not lawful for Muslims.” Princess Roshanara quoted this verse from the Quran before the emperor could pour the flagon of his rage over the head of his dear wife. “Think you that I would walk in the footsteps of my great-grandfather? Or even my grandfather, Jahangir, who spent most of his time indulging in wine and sports?” Aurangzeb’s eyes were shooting daggers at his wife, condoning entirely the Quranic injunction recited by Princess Roshanara. “It would never be like that with me! All my thoughts are turned towards the welfare and development of my kingdom, and towards the propagation of the religion of the great Muhammed.” He averted his gaze, his heart tearing open the wound of loneliness all of a sudden, longing for the nearness of Udaipuri. “The religion of great Muhammed, as we all profess, Your Majesty, is love, mercy and justice,” Princess Jahanara could not help expound, noticing the emperor’s gaze sweeping over the royal brood of younger princes and princesses. “The emperor gets only javelins of opposition for the good of Islam, and no credit for revoking the edict for royal princesses not to marry?” Aurangzeb murmured to himself. “Come here, Prince Azam. The emperor needs to seal your fate with Princess Jani. We are in need of festivity, a royal wedding, and you are of age. Do you like her?” he commanded, rather than asked. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Prince Azam blushed like a girl, his ears tingling. “Then it’s all settled. Soon, Agra Palace will be—” Aurangzeb’s thoughts were swallowed into the stormy oceans of his heart by the sudden appearance of his beloved, her approach so swift and theatrical. Udaipuri Begum’s abrupt appearance on this scene of royal parlance was all magic and illusion, it seemed. Her porcelain-like figure, draped in shimmering silks, was swaying. She was creating ripples of light and sparkle, from the sequined décolletage on her dress down to her velvety slippers, studded with jewels. Clusters upon clusters of rubies and diamonds in her hair and around her neck were radiating their aura of fire and blaze. Her small, white face, flushed with wine, was kindling stars of mirth in her dark, flashing eyes. She pirouetted on her toes, caught under the spell of her mirth and wild abandon. In one hand, she was holding a rose and in the other, a rock crystal cup, its gold cover encrusted with

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rubies, emeralds and diamonds. All those present were suspended mute, breathing the pulse of spellbound silence and watching Udaipuri skip and dance. This chamber of ivory and damask had become Udaipuri’s stage, the palpitating hush echoing the love song she was singing. The lamps of awe and shock were lit bright in Aurangzeb’s gaze as he sat there, rapt and speechless. He had never seen her under this spell of inebriation, at least not outside the confines of his bedroom, and now his heart and mind were drumming disbelief. He could neither move, nor speak, his look glazed and piercing. And before he could cut open the glacier of his shock into splintering words, Udaipuri’s voice soared high and rapturous. “We all Sit in His orchestra Some play their Fiddles Some wield their Clubs Tonight is worthy of music Let’s get loose With Compassion Let’s drown in the delicious Ambience of Love.”

Udaipuri’s poppy-red lips were savoring the nectar of the poetry by Hafiz. “You have been drinking, Udaipuri?” Aurangzeb heaved himself up to his feet, as if jolted out of his shock. Aches and tenderness inside him were flooding through his eyes like the rivers of agony. “Have you no shame or sense of propriety?” he murmured under his breath, unable to take another step. “Where did you find that cup of rock crystal?” “In your library, Your Majesty.” Udaipuri Begum bowed her head in a mock curtsy, laughter trilling from her lips in drunken glee. “It was filled with sweet nectar for the gods, and I was tempted to quench my thirst.” “It was filled with water, my love’s curse, not with the sweet poison which God has forbidden!” Aurangzeb drifted toward her as if sleepwalking. “How can the emperor lead his subjects to the path of righteousness, when his own wife is intent on inviting hell fire into the palace of Islam?” There was a tempest in his eyes, softened by the desperate appeal in his voice. “The righteous shall surely dwell in bliss. Reclining upon soft couches they will gaze around. And in their faces you shall mark the glow of joy.

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They shall drink of a pure wine, securely sealed; whose very dregs are musk. A wine, tempered with the waters of Tasnim, a spring at which the favored will refresh themselves!” Wws Udaipuri’s giddy response, snatched right out of the poetic verse from the Quran. “Is the emperor ignorant of what the Quran says? He knows too well that it sanctions not levity and blasphemy!” Aurangzeb snatched the cup from her hand and dashed it to the floor. “What madness is goading you to expose yourself to ridicule?” he demanded. “Only the joy of carrying the seed of your love in my womb, Your Majesty! Now that Anagaji has confirmed it!” Udaipuri stood smelling the rose, as if lost in her own world of joy and oblivion. “All the more reason not to pollute your soul with the hemlock brewed by devils during these auspicious months of—” Aurangzeb’s thoughts were flying back to the one-year-old princess from this wedlock of love and blasphemy. “I hope you are not nursing princess Satiunisa, while wallowing in the rivers of wine?” He snatched the rose from her hand, the soft touch of her fingers coursing through him like a fever. Aurangzeb stood there, gazing into the eyes of his beloved Udaipuri like one possessed. His soul was famished for the wine of love which was forbidden to him by the mere light of mirth and giddiness in the beautiful cups of her eyes. He was smitten to the very core of his heart by the naked charm of her beauty and sweetness, almost blinded by the glow of purity and incandescence in her flower-like face. Swinging back with a sudden violence, he stalked out of this chamber, the rivers of agony inside him the ebb and flow of love and rage. The gold railing on the terrace was gilded to a pewter gleam as Aurangzeb stumbled out into the sunshine. Standing there stock still, he seemed to be stricken numb to the very depths of his pious soul. His fingers were crushing the rose as if intent on squeezing wine out of the poppy-red lips of his beloved, to quench the thirst of his agony and desire. His mood was one of rage and passion, his heart thundering, savage and uncontrollable. Amidst the onslaught of many of his moods, this one was rare, since he had erected a tomb of ice over his heart, shutting out all the light and warmth of love and beauty. But Udaipuri was an exception, who had the power to split open that tomb of ice, and to make his heart dance the dance of pain and exhilaration. The true light of love was missing in his heart, though, replaced by zeal and ambition. And if it was there somewhere, embedded deep in chilling neglect, it was obscured by this astonishing globe of haze and bewilderment, along with the need and implacability to transform Hind into a jewel of Islam, where the mosques could be seen soaring up to the heavens and the temples buried under the

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mounds of earth. In his head was etched a grand vision where he was the architect of Islam, employed by God to efface the claim of all other gods, till the name of Allah could be seen throbbing with the pulse of reverence in the ether of the entire cosmos. Believing himself to be the servant of Allah, as is true in the case of all madmen, no one could convince him that he was tarnishing the name of Islam with the rust of hatred and bigotry. The swords of his zeal and ambition were hacking off the limbs of love, tolerance and brotherhood in Islam. Aurangzeb was aware of all such charges behind his back, but the noose of piety was around his neck, and he would permit no impious hands to loosen even one knot. The rose lay crushed and neglected in Aurangzeb’s fist, and his gaze swept over the succession of carpets, their floral designs gleaming under the sun from the palace gates to the steps of the Audience Hall. He did not see the designs, only felt their color and opulence, the violence of rage inside him abating, and the agony of love smoldering with the ache of despair and loneliness. The pomp and glory of the festivities in honor of his coronation were unfolding before his eyes in shades rude and turbulent. The tides upon tides of canopies in gold and crimson had been erected artfully over the Persian carpets, boasting floral motifs in rosette and medallion. A great city of silk sprawled far and wide over the palace grounds, decked with silk friezes and pennants. Aurangzeb was sketched alive on the terrace, only his gaze roaming free, now lured by the dancers, their jewels vying with the sparkle and gurgle of the fountains bathed in sunlight. His gaze undressed the dancers, their erotic limbs in shimmering chiffons exposed to his intense absorption; even their kohl-rimmed eyes and henna-dyed hands didn’t escape his scrutiny. Something inside him was constricting and crackling—the sense of disgust and revulsion! The gloss of his puritanic armor was in danger of attracting the dust of evil and corruption, and his heart was as heavy as lead. A coterie of viziers, always vigilant of royal protocol, had signaled the orchestra to commence their welcoming tunes, becoming aware of the emperor on the terrace. The great procession of courtiers and grandees was also in motion to follow the emperor towards the Audience Hall. A din of tambourines with trumpets blaring, accompanied by the beating of kettledrums, was reaching the emperor’s agonized heart, and jolting him out of his chilled awareness. He stirred mechanically, almost colliding with Danishmand Khan, his vizier, who had prostrated himself at the gleaming steps, subservient to the commands of his duty to escort the emperor toward the Audience Hall. “Didn’t you read my edict, my bold vizier, that the emperor has forbidden all kind of prostration before him?” Aurangzeb snapped with a

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sudden flaring of anger. “Only God is worthy of such reverence! Neither a saint, nor a king, nor man, indeed, deserves to be deified, unless one is willing to carry the burden of sin on one’s shoulders.” His very eyes were commanding him to rise and hold his head high. “Pardon me, Your Majesty.” Danishmand Khan was quick to bounce back to his feet. “I was not sure which saber you would wear while presiding over the court, so I fetched a variety of your favorite ones. I did read your edict, Your Majesty, and didn’t forget it either, but out of habit, this negligence. Besides, the sabers were heavy, and my arms needed rest.” He scooped the neglected bundle into his arms, and spread them out for selection. “Let me see.” Aurangzeb’s eyes were lit up with interest. “Here’s Lightning! Alamgir, my favorite one! But Kafir Kush, meaning infidelslayer! Yes, I will wear Kafir Kush today, since Shivaji is presenting himself at court.” He claimed Kafir Kush, his eyes worshipping the very steel, which could shed rivers of blood. The emperor stood and thrust this exquisitely carved saber into his jeweled belt. The haze of zeal was in his eyes and the fire of loneliness inside his heart, both making him forget the rose in his clenched fist. And now as his saber demanded the assistance of his other hand, the rose petals fell to his feet like fresh wounds, all scarlet and mangled. A shadow of pain crossed over the Lucifer-charm in his eyes, and his gaze went scudding down the terrace steps, where fresh roses bloomed with all their glory, drunk on the serenade of the fountains down below. “I thought, Your Majesty, you would choose Alamgir—the Conqueror of the Universe?” Danishmand Khan murmured while waiting. “Each and every rose bush in the imperial garden is to be plucked out by its very root! That’s the emperor’s Farman, Danishmand.” An abrupt command bristled forth on Aurangzeb’s lips, as if he had not even heard his vizier’s comment. “The emperor forbids planting any kind of roses in the palaces at Agra and Delhi.” He began dismounting the steps, his look bright and smoldering. “Yes, Your Majesty,” Danishmand Khan murmured in response. “Music, singing and dancing, all are banned after the festivities of my coronation! A Farman to this effect is to be issued soon,” Aurangzeb commanded over his shoulder. He was floating towards the Audience Hall to claim his Peacock Throne as the very emblem of Islam, stunned viziers following him under the sway of the orchestral splash and splendor. The Peacock Throne, ablaze with precious jewels, cradled the puritanical emperor in its arms of wealth and opulence. His own jewels were no less radiant and sparkling, but no match to this wondrous work of

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art of a throne, designed by his late father, Emperor Shah Jahan. Enameled with pure gold and encrusted with rubies, emeralds, diamonds and sapphires, the Peacock Throne seemed to be illumined by its fire of tragedy and legend. The jeweled peacocks, in an ecstatic dance of sparkle under the pearl-fringed canopy, could be seen lowering their beams of defiance at Aurangzeb, though he seemed unaware of this incongruity, receiving embassies and smiling graciously. Behind him and on either side of his throne were glimmering files of nobles and grandees. The colorful tides of viziers and ambassadors were there too, along with the pious Qazis and the avaricious merchants, waiting to be addressed by the emperor. The gifts of gold coins and jewels were a glittering shower, bestowed upon the nobles and the courtiers. A group of generals, holding the treasures of valor and victory in their eyes, were rewarded with the robes of honor. Aurangzeb sat on his Peacock Throne, drunk with zeal and pride, inhaling the scent of musk and ambergris from the gold censers. From the palace mosque, an invocation in the name of the emperor was proclaiming him the sixth Moghul Emperor of Hind. The voice of the muezzin was more like a chant, sonorous and intoxicating. A sea of courtiers in colorful turbans had begun to cheer and applaud, Long Live the Caliph of Age! This panegyric applause pumped Aurangzeb’s ego to the size of a mountain, reaching out to kiss the lofty skies. He lifted his arms up, jewels blazing on his fingers, and the jewel lamps in his eyes commanding silence. The court was in session. The music and applause were no more. Muhara Khan announced the name of Marhamat Khan, who would be the first one to present his petition to the emperor. But Aurangzeb’s eyes flashed disapproval at the very sight of this vizier, who had dared wear a long robe that touched his feet. This was a blatant violation of court etiquette, since Aurangzeb had set the so-called Islamic standard that men’s robes had to be of a certain length so as to reveal the knees. “The emperor is not going to accept the petition of Marhamat Khan, my bold vizier.” Aurangzeb turned his attention to Muhara Khan, knitting his eyebrows with displeasure. “Fetch the scissors and clip the robe of Marhamat Khan two inches shorter before he is allowed to voice his petition.” He waved dismissal. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Muhara Khan obeyed, all flushed and flustered. He was quick to beat a hasty retreat, along with the mortified Marhamat Khan. Accustomed to the emperor’s moods of caprice and reprisal, no one dared blink in offence, and a string of petitioners and ambassadors edged closer to gain audience. Foremost among them: Malik Salih! He was the

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emperor’s former tutor and preceptor. Bold and confident, he stepped forward unescorted, seeking the emperor’s attention without being announced. “Your Majesty, pardon my audacity, but I am taking the liberty of asking a favor. Your generosity, if you will? If you would grant me a piece of land?” Malik Salih bowed twice. “I want to end my days in teaching and sharing knowledge, without the need of seeking compensation from my pupils, or worrying about the income for sustenance.” “The emperor should be weeping with shame in remembrance of those days, when he in his tender age fell into your hands, my unworthy mentor!” Aurangzeb exclaimed with the sudden implacability of Nietzchean outrage. “Was it not incumbent upon my preceptor to make me acquainted with the distinguishing features of every nation on this earth? Of their resources and strengths, their modes of warfare, their manners, religions, forms of government, and wherein their interests principally consist? And, through a regular course of historical reading, to render me familiar with the origins of states, their progress and decline, the events, accidents or errors owing to which such great changes and mighty revelations have been affected? A familiarity with the language surrounding the nations may have been indispensable!” His heart was swollen with loathing for this man, his thoughts waving brands of fire. “But you would teach me to read and write Arabic! Doubtless, conceiving that you placed me under an everlasting obligation for sacrificing so large a portion of time to the study of a language wherein no one can hope to become proficient without ten or twelve years of close application? Forgetting how many important subjects ought to be embraced in the education of a prince? You acted as if it was chiefly necessary that I should possess great skill in grammar, and such knowledge as belongs to a Doctor of Law. And thus did you waste the precious hours of my youth in the dry, unprofitable and never-ending task of learning words.” Swept by his torrent of rage, he was feeling powerless against the onslaught of his own thoughts. “Ought not you to have instructed me on one point at least, so essential to be known by a king, namely the reciprocal duties of the sovereign and his subjects? Ought you not also to have foreseen that I might at some future time be compelled to contend with my brothers, sword in hand, for the crown, and for my own existence? Such, as you must well know, has been the fate of the children of almost every king of Hindustan. Did you ever instruct me in the art of war? How to besiege a town, or draw up an army in battle array? Happy for me that I consulted wiser heads than yours on these subjects! Go! Withdraw to your village. Henceforth, let no person know either who you

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are, or what became of you.” He dismissed him with an imperious wave of his arm. Niccolao Manucci, the Italian adventurer, was the chosen of the day to present the next embassy. He was hoping that the emperor would not satisfy the greed of the Abyssinian ambassador whom he was reluctant to announce. Siddi Kamil was the name of this ambassador, representing the King of Abyssinia, a Christian monarch. This wise monarch had chosen a Muslim ambassador to seek fortunes, with the pretense of building mosques in his Christendom of churches and monasteries. Aurangzeb kept Siddi Kamil waiting with a slight gesture of his arm, resting his head against the cushioned throne in a manner of quiet contemplation. In fact, the emperor’s attention was arrested by a dialogue between a pundit and a French physician by the name of Francois Brenier, and he wanted to catch the drift of their conversation. “You bow before the statues! Can’t you see the absurdity of such a reverence?” Francois Brenier’s tone was brimming with arrogance and amusement. “We do not believe that these statues themselves are gods and goddesses, but merely their images and representations,” the pundit explained with utmost calm. “We show them deference only for the sake of the deity whom they represent. And when we pray, it is not to the statue, but to the deity. Images are admitted in our temples, because we conceive that prayers are offered up with more devotion where there is something before the eyes that fixes the mind. But, in fact, we acknowledge that God alone is absolute; He only is the omnipotent Lord.” “As one Dutch trader by the name of Francis Palsaret told me once, almost all heathens follow the sect and teaching of Pythagoras! Not that I hold Hinduism under that category, mind you.” Francois Brenier’s tone was patronizing. “But tell me, do you think our religion is false, and is your law and religion of universal application?” “We pretend not that our law and religion are of universal application, which God intended only for us, and this is the reason we cannot receive a foreigner into our religion,” was the pundit’s patient response, on the verge of annoyance! “We do not even say that yours is a false religion. It may be adapted to your wants and circumstances. God having no doubt appointed many different ways of going to heaven—” Aurangzeb’s thoughts were tearing themselves away from this talk of heathenish wisdom. Besides, the dictates of court decorum did not permit him to postpone this embassy for too long. So he returned his attention to the statue of wait, attempting a smile, but succeeding only in eliciting a grin replete with mockery.

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“Is your king a devout Christian?” Aurangzeb contemplated aloud, then asked. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Siddi Kalim repeated his curtsy with a great sweep of his arm, touching his heart. “Our king is not only a devout Christian, Your Majesty, but a patron of Muslim missionaries too.” The fervent stars in his eyes were kindling more lamps of devotion. “Recently, a mosque was ruined by the raids of the Portuguese, Your Majesty, and our king was grieved and outraged. We are a poor country, Your Majesty, and don’t have means to repair the mosques. That’s why the king has sent me, asking whether Your Majesty’s generosity would lend us the funds to repair the mosques?” “Marhamat Khan!” The flickering of zeal and anger in Aurangzeb’s eyes shifted to his vizier, leaving the ambassador standing there in mute anticipation. “Grant this Abyssinian envoy the gift of twelve thousand rupees, and make sure it is spent on the repair of the mosques. The Portuguese are breeding here like locusts; send orders that they be banished from our empire.” His eyes were lit up as if unfolding some glorious vision. “The name of Joao Carvalho is coming to my mind, a Portuguese philanderer! He is reported to be enjoying the hospitality of the pundits in a Hindu temple at Puri. He is to be arrested without delay.” The beacons of rage in his eyes were spilling their own commands. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Marhamat Khan bowed his head, hugging his snipped-short robe. “Are contributions from our royal treasury being sent regularly to the Sharif of Mecca?” Aurangzeb held Marhamat Khan imprisoned inside the fire of his gaze. “For the benefit of the Sayyids and servitors of the mosques, to be precise, I hope, and for the maintenance of the shrines at Mecca and Medina?” “Yes, Your Majesty,” was Marhamat Khan’s quick response, with a sprinkling of pride. “That Chief of Islam writes that the heart of the entire Muslim world is turning to Allah in prayer five times a day. Even a Sayyid from Barbary, employed at the temple of Kaaba in Mecca, has sent a complimentary letter. He says that his heart is filled with gratitude for the generous contributions, and he thanks Your Majesty most humbly.” “Thanks and gratitude belong to God,” Aurangzeb murmured piously, waving dismissal. Marhamat Khan himself was the one to announce the next embassy, and he presented an ambassador from Tibet, standing next to him to receive the emblematic golden key of surrender. The emperor had been informed of this embassy beforehand, but one look at this stiff-looking

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ambassador, and his heart was bloated with gall and bitterness all of a sudden. “An ambassador from Tibet!” Aurangzeb feigned surprise. “Has your king Daddan Najmal read the emperor’s edicts and commands, and is he willing to accept our proposal of friendship?” “Your Majesty, our king submits to all your commands most willingly,” the envoy from Tibet murmured in response, his look proud and haughty. “We would build mosques and the call to prayer would be heard from the minarets five times a day. As commanded by you, Your Majesty, the gold and silver coins would be minted in your name for trade and currency. Here’s a token of our friendship and submission.” He held out the gold key, claimed by Marhamat Khan most swiftly. “A wise decision! Extend the emperor’s compliments to your king.” Aurangzeb’s attention was already shifting to Jai Singh, his arm signaling dismissal. “Something of utmost concern is throbbing in the very vein of your neck, my bold vizier? What turbulent news?” His sense of perspicacity itself was speaking, gleaning omens ill from the dark eyes of his vizier. “Uprisings in Malwa, Your Majesty!” Jai Singh was quick to shoot the missile of his apprehension. “Chakra-sen has joined hands with another rebel by the name of Darjan Singh. The Raja of Jammu is plotting unrest too. The Mina tribe in Ajmer is on the verge of sedition. Bhubal Singh, along with his brother Muradas, is gathering forces to attack Bhilsa.” “No dearth of soldiers to quell all these rebellions, Jai Singh.” Aurangzeb managed one thin smile, his heart atrophied of all reason and kindness. “Choose four valorous generals at the command of the mighty battalions, and instruct them to crush all sprigs of rebellion till there are no seeds of sedition left to nurture opposition!” “Yes, Your Majesty.” Jai Singh stepped back, leaving room for Shayista Khan to unleash his bulletin of insurrections. “Your Majesty, the burden of disturbing news sits heavy on my shoulders. Rebellions are sprouting everywhere,” Shayista Khan began boldly, his shoulders revealing no such burden which he claimed to carry. “The Jats of Mathura are sedition bound, swelling in numbers. Especially after the demolition of their holy of holies, Ram Temple. The Satnamis are another recalcitrant tribe, Your Majesty, loaded with fervor and revolt to disrupt peace in the villages of Narnaul and Mewat. Bhagu, the leader of the Yusufzai tribe, is claiming to be the descendant of Sher Shah. He is plundering the districts of Attock, Hazara and Peshawar, and has sealed a pact of alliance with Gokal.”

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“Do they know not the fate of Guru Tegh Bahadur, my valorous uncle?” Aurangzeb’s thoughts were holding the spears of disdain and indignation. “You must remind them, uncle, how the guru embraced the fires of hell as a reward for his rebellion, shunning forgiveness as a result of his pride and ignorance, since he refused to accept Islam as his shield and honor. No need to tell this to the infidel Gokal, just command Abdul Nali at the head of ten thousand men and horses to crush him and his horde of vermin, base and stinking. As for the Satnamis, their fate is already sealed. The emperor would deal with them personally, reducing that villainous race to dust.” The fires of self-righteous indignation were blinding his sight and thoughts. “May I, Your Majesty, glorify Islam for the benefit of all the infidels?” Abdal Wahhab, the notoriously corrupt Qazi of the age, stumbled forward. He had no fear of breach of etiquette since he was the favorite of the emperor. “For the glorification of the true faith of Islam, Your Majesty, even if we throw dirt into the mouths of the infidels, they must without reluctance open their mouths wide to receive it. Qazi Mughisaddin told me this, and I agree with him completely.” His zeal was blossoming afresh after noticing the look of admiration in the emperor’s eyes. “The Prophet has commanded us to slay them, plunder them and take them captive—” His zeal was cut short by a sharp nudge from his son, who, having the privilege of a court Qazi, stepped closer towards him. “May I, Your Majesty, quote a verse from the Quran?” was Sheikhul Aslam’s humble appeal. Reading consent in the emperor’s eyes, he continued swiftly. “And when it is said to them: create not disorder. They say: we are only prompters of peace.” His tone itself was a subtle appeal to wisdom over bigotry. This appeal and wisdom were picked up by Nawaz Khan, the emperor’s father-in-law, and he edged closer to the throne. “May I, Your Majesty, also have the privilege of reciting a verse from the Quran?” Nawaz Khan smiled winsomely. “Yes, Nawaz Khan. It is the emperor’s privilege to learn from the wisdom of the Quran at all hours of the day or night,” Aurangzeb breathed in consent, concealing his impatience behind a sliver of a smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Nawaz Khan intoned suavely. “Our Prophet, Your Majesty, was kind, loving and forgiving. A humble servant of God! To impute harsh judgments on his part, or any unkind word from his blessed lips, is not only sinful, but an act of blatant heresy. This verse from the Quran, which I am going to recite, is proof that no ill-will escaped the lips of our Prophet, and that he had a great respect for all

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religions. It is not thy responsibility to make them follow the right path. But Allah guides whomsoever He pleases.” “Noble verse and noble thoughts, Nawaz Khan!” Aurangzeb applauded, with a sudden mingling of fervor and sincerity. “It is the repose and prosperity of my subjects that it behooves me to consult, to meet the demands of justice, the maintenance of royal authority and the security of the state. I was sent into this world by providence, to live and labor, not for myself, but for others. It is my duty not to think of my own happiness, except in so far as it is inseparably connected with the happiness of my people.” He waved pontifically, signaling consent for the next embassy. “Your Majesty.” Tarbiyat offered one gallant curtsy. “A letter from Shah Abbas of Persia!” He held out the letter, his heart cringing at the sudden daggers of sunshine in the emperor’s eyes. “Ah, my good envoy! Finally, back from the purgatory of Persia!” Aurangzeb declared with a dint of humor. “Read the venerable words of the Shia heretic to the emperor,” he commanded. “Your Majesty!” was Tarbiyat Khan’s flustered response! “The king, Your Majesty, instructed me to deliver this personally into your hands. Commanding, rather warning, that the contents of this letter are not to be disclosed to anyone. Owing to the delicacy of the subject, the king told me, these words are intended only for the ears of the emperor.” “You are back in the haven of the Moghul court, my fool of a vizier, not in the bazaar of Persian glitter, all false and inglorious,” Aurangzeb chided impatiently. “Read this letter quickly! The emperor is getting wearied of the embassies,” he commanded. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Tarbiyat Khan cracked open the seal, his hands trembling as he began to read. “After addressing Your Majesty with all reverence, Shah Abbas of Persia writes: I learn that most of the landlords in Hindustan are in rebellion because their ruler is weak, incompetent and without resources. The chief of them is that infidel Shivaji, who long lived in such obscurity that none knew of his name. But now, taking advantage of your lack of means and the retreat of your troops, he has made himself visible like the peak of a mountain—seized many forts, slain or captured many of your soldiers, occupied much of the country. Plundered and wasted many of your ports, cities and villages, and finally wants to come to grips with you—” His lips were sealed shut by the appalling tone of this letter, his expression aghast. “Go on with this offal of ignorance from the lips of that Persian heretic, my fool! He is still stuck in the marshlands of the past, unable to feel the breeze of prosperity in our empire,” Aurangzeb muttered. His face was livid with anger!

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“I lost the line, Your Majesty, forgive me,” Tarbiyat Khan murmured wretchedly. “Here it is. I can see now. You style yourself a world conqueror, Alamgir, while you have only conquered your father. And having gained composure of mind by the murder of your brothers, who were lawful heirs to your father’s land and wealth! You have abandoned the royal practices of doing justice and charity and are busying yourself in the company of men who recite incantations, believing in Satanic magic, and claiming to possess the knowledge of God, the only arbiters of Truth— ” Currents of fear and shock themselves were whipping his tongue into silence. “Continue, you base coward! This is the emperor’s Farman,” Aurangzeb thundered against the haze of charged silence all around, something inside him vile and masochistic. It was goading him to absolve his sins in this mire of degradation. “Yes, Your Majesty,” Tarbiyat Khan resumed after a bellow of a sigh. “You have failed in every undertaking that required manliness. It is beyond your power to repress lawless men. You have become helpless and distracted by your lack of material and money and the defeat of your troops. Thanks to the favor of God and the Imams, it is my nature to cherish those who are crushed, and my ancestors have been the refuge of the kings of the world. Witness how we restored the thrones of Humayun and Nazar Muhammed Khan. Now that you, the successor of Humayun, are in distress, it is my royal aim to come personally to Hindustan with my multitudinous army to meet you, which has long been my desire. And to give you every help and extinguish the fire of disorder with the luster of my sword, like that of Ali. So that the people might be delivered from the oppression of lawless men, and sing my praises. God keep you safe amidst your misfortunes,” he concluded apologetically. “Feed this letter to the flames till all traces of its corruption are turned to ashes! And you yourself are commanded to seek refuge in the penal province of Orissa. Don’t even think of returning to Agra until you have learnt the art of successful embassies.” Aurangzeb’s eyes were holding back the flood of rage and murder. In a flash, the veil of silence was torn to rags, as if an unexpected storm was rising inside the very ranks of the viziers and grandees. An abrupt wave of commotion in the third row was rippling forth to create more waves. This row was occupied by the noblemen of lower rank, and angry voices were spurting forth from them in a splish-splash of stealthy warnings. This situation was unheard of in the arena of the Moghul court, where high silence and decorum were practiced at all times. Aurangzeb’s eyebrows arched, as if ready to shoot poisoned arrows from the quiver of

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his outrage. This outrageous scene was unfolding before his eyes like an ugly nightmare, the intricate details of which his keen senses could guess without even looking. The cause of this commotion was Shivaji, his eyes wet with shame and his teeth grinding rage. He had just discovered, probably, that he had been assigned a seat in the common row, a rank lower than his son Shambhuji, and that of the Governor Netaji Palker. In all reckoning, he could not bear to be assigned this low status, and feeling himself insulted, he was heard ranting and protesting. Aurangzeb’s attention turned to Jai Singh, the hurricane of violence inside him juggling balls of fire. “What impudence and impropriety are slicing thin the fabric of etiquette in our royal court?” Aurangzeb demanded imperiously. “Shivaji, Your Majesty, seems upset to be assigned an undignified place in the Moghul court,” Jai Singh murmured apologetically, divining the cause of this strange scene correctly. “Didn’t he receive my missive, in which I commanded him to come here without delay in full confidence of my grace, and perfect composure of mind? Does he know that after he obtains my audience, he will be glorified with my royal favors? Where is the robe of honor he is to receive?” Aurangzeb tried to expel the explosion of his rage with a sling of questions and recollections. “Fadai Khan, Your Majesty, is presenting to him that robe right now.” Jai Singh was quick to draw the emperor’s attention to that blustering scene. “I refuse to accept this robe.” Shivaji’s voice was loud and belligerent. It was a wild echo, reaching the blaze of the Peacock Throne with a whiff of lightning. “I decline the emperor’s favors of land and riches. I will not be his servant. Kill me. Imprison me, if you like, but I will not wear this robe of honor—” “What is the meaning of this outrage, Ram Singh?” Aurangzeb’s eyes were flashing rebuke at the vizier beside Jai Singh. “You are the one who conducted him to the court, weren’t you? Edify the emperor, if you will: why is he behaving in such a delinquent manner?” The flames of rage and incredulity were licking their own pale tongues in his eyes. “This tiger is a wild beast of the forest, Your Majesty,” was Ram Singh’s blunt response! “He feels oppressed by the heat in the Moghul court, and has been taken ill.” “He should be suffocated under the weight of the very same jewels which were reserved to be bestowed upon him as our treaty of goodwill! And the gift of an elephant, which could have lent him grace and dignity, might carry him to the very gates of prison, if he ever dared come to the

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royal court again.” Aurangzeb eased himself up, his eyes flashing warrants of arrest and imprisonment. The blaring of the drums and the trumpets rose in the air in a billowing crescendo as the emperor dismounted from his Peacock Throne. It was the signal to all present that court was dismissed when the emperor abandoned his throne - whether abruptly or intentionally always remained inconsequential. Shivaji had fainted after his maudlin outburst, and had been carried by the guards towards his own camp. Before the emperor could turn his back upon the tides of his viziers and courtiers, some spasm of caprice made him halt, the blight of his anger a cloud of anguished thunder in his eyes. Clapping his hands for silence, he stood facing the sea of his courtiers, in their colorful robes and jeweled turbans, with a burning intensity. “The emperor has decided to impose a ban on music, dancing and singing.” Aurangzeb’s voice boomed loud and clear. “This proclamation is in effect as of this hour. Keep the royal grounds clean of such frivolous entertainments.” He turned to his heel, marching toward his palace, attended by a retinue of viziers and grandees. The Palace of the Mirrors was the emperor’s sanctuary this afternoon, where Udaipuri was wont to indulge in her idle pleasures of drinking and reading. Cradling the wounds of raw torment inside him, Aurangzeb had stormed into this dimly lit chamber, all mirrored, like a gust of wind. But seeing Udaipuri lolling against one pillow on the davenport and immersed deep in her reading had arrested his advance, the tormented wounds within him hushed and gasping. His beloved, in shimmering silks with jewels twinkling in her hair and on her dress, was so utterly engrossed in her book that she had not even noticed this wild gust was her emperorhusband. What had arrested Aurangzeb in this spell of awe and agony could not be described in words, for he himself was bereft of all speech or thought. And yet, it was neither the perfection of her beauty, nor the charm of her absolute abandon which had numbed his senses to abeyance, but her small alabaster-like feet, as if chiseled to pearly exquisiteness by the very hands of the angels. Inside the cold anguish of his heart was kindled a spark of reverence. He himself was not aware that the raging oceans within him were silent, draining their torment somewhere, and courting the sweetness of familiar ache and longing. The lips of longing in his aching heart were fluttering open, kissing the sweet toes of his beloved, and bathing them with tears of love and agony. A shudder of a revelation was dawning upon him with the violence of a volcanic eruption. He was the prisoner of love, condemned to the torments and agonies of the soul everlastingly, and would never be free.

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His thoughts were giddy and mocking, and yet they were celebrating the music of love. Standing there like one condemned, he tore his gaze away, peering into the eyes of the tiny mirrors where pale flames from the candelabras were a dance of colors. They were whispering to him lovely secrets, all sinful and luscious. The Persian carpet, burdened with the ornate bed, was a serenade of mysteries to the newly awakened sense of love and tenderness in Aurangzeb’s heart. He could not move, but his gaze was restless, espying his rock crystal cup which he had dashed to the floor earlier, but was obviously not damaged. Perched gracefully on the jade table beside the davenport, it was boasting of its ruby red nectar. Aurangzeb’s gaze returned to his beloved, only the ache and tenderness within him stirring him to his feet. The ache of loneliness alone was hurling him toward his beloved, and before she knew, he was kneeling before her, kissing her toes with the passion of a lover gone stark mad. “Your Majesty!” Udaipuri leaped to her feet, flushed and trembling. “Beloved! Forever Mine!” Blood was rushing to Aurangzeb’s own tingling cheeks. “What were you reading?” he asked in an effort to conceal his embarrassment. “Tulsidas, Your Majesty,” Udaipuri could barely murmur, all flustered. “Read to me, love.” Aurangzeb claimed her hand, making her sit beside him with utmost tenderness. “Won’t you?” He handed her the book, which had been neglected on the davenport. “Strange, that you ask, Your Majesty.” Udaipuri’s dark eyes were feverish and shining. “From a large seed The sky-laboring palm Whose shade none protects From a tiny seed Smaller than a fish egg Grows the mighty Banyan Sheltering a royal army Of elephants and chariots Horses and men The big one not always big Nor the small always small,”

she recited in faltering tones, the wine of poetry licking her lips, and the fire of wine in her veins sending delicious tremors into her heart. “Why do you read the works of the heretics and of the non-believers, my love?” Aurangzeb murmured. His heart a volcano of pain and longing!

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“The Hindu, though a non-believer Believes in much that I believe.”

Udaipuri’s response was this couplet from the inebriated sense of her joy and song. “Amir Khusrau, Your Majesty, a Muslim poet, wrote this couplet.” “Are you unhappy, Love?” Aurangzeb averted his gaze. “Do you lack riches? Do you doubt the wealth of my love for you?” He kept his attention focused on the rock crystal cup, as if afraid to look into her beautiful eyes. “I want to be poor, Your Majesty,” Udaipuri sang brightly. “I don’t like to be shut up in this palace. I want to roam free, go to the Himalayas! Get lost in the pine valleys. Or even venture forth on my own to visit Cambia! Anagaji told me that there is a hospital there, for birds and beasts alone. A venerable old man with a white beard lives there, who is fond of mice. He keeps their babies in a box filled with cotton, feeding them milk with a bird’s feather, because they are so—” Her reveries were drugged by hot, searing kisses from the emperor. “Beloved. Sorceress! You have cast a spell on me.” Aurangzeb was stripping her naked of all fineries, his heart hungering for the violence of love and agony.

CHAPTER TWO SHIVAJI THE WORTHY REBEL

In renunciation of the worldly blessings, the pious emperor was pacing in his library of gilt and damask under some spell of doom and foreboding. His heart, blinded by zeal, was hermetically shut, permitting no light of love, beauty or brotherhood, since his mind itself had styled himself as the prophet of Islam. His edicts, harsh and terrible, had unleashed the demons of revolt, following him wherever he went, and waving the slogans of cruelty and injustice, which, in truth, he himself had fashioned in pious rage against the infidels. But in his judgment, he was all just and kind, persecuted for being the messenger of Islam, and determined to make his empire the prayer rug of piety by exterminating all the gods of the heathens. Allah was his shield and scepter, and he had surrendered all to His will, with the exception of his own will to let the earth tremble against the sword of Islam if the infidels insisted on worshipping their gods. Another exception to his so-called surrender to the will of God was his passionate surrender to the canker of love within him for his one and only beloved, Udaipuri. Paradoxically, this self-surrender of his to his beloved could be his only salvation, if he was to turn the canker of love within him into the rose of a scented grace, wafting love for all creatures. Incapable of seeing God as the manifestation of all gods on this earth and in the heavens, he had started a war of hatred, with all its wildfire of ruin and devastation. Unfortunately, the lamp of his zeal had attained the size and shape of an enormous globe, distorting the reflection of his deformed will as the Will of God, and shutting out the true light of God as All Gracious, All Merciful and All Forgiving. This particular morning, the paragon of zeal, Emperor Aurangzeb, was donned in all white, only one large emerald in his turban, the emblem of his power and sovereignty. Almost two and a half years had rolled past in a thunderous march of wars and revolts since the celebration of his coronation, and no hope of peace or harmony could be seen in the glazed eyes of the future, since his will alone was the architect of rifts and dissentions. After his coronation, he had set up his court in Delhi, and had recently returned to Agra to stir up more strings of campaigns than

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anticipated, intending to quell the major rebellions, if not the petty threats. This being the month of Ramadan, he was wont to convene court in the mornings and then repair to the mosque for noon prayers. Today without exception, he was fasting, of course, but his stomach was full and churning—the receptacle of rage and hatred straight from the cauldron of his mind, bloated and restless. The raging storms in Aurangzeb’s mind were stirring embers of the past two years to kindle fresh fires. Shivaji, who, after his fit of ill humor and ill health, was confined inside the house of a vizier, had contrived to escape most ingeniously. He had succeeded in confounding the most vigilant of guards, who were boastful of their skills that no captive would dare break the chains of their surveillance. The news of Shivaji’s escape had fallen upon the emperor like a thunderbolt, his rage wild and uncontrollable for a few months at a stretch, but then dissolved into simmering neglect against the onslaught of intrigues and rebellions from all quarters of his empire. Now this simmering rage had been resurrected once again upon his return to Agra, as Shivaji had had the audacity to send a letter of petition, glossed with apologies. Shivaji’s words chased him, mocking the very act of his pacing with open defiance, as if the letter abandoned on his rosewood desk had ears and eyes, and a serpent’s tongue. Though his thoughts were contriving escape, they could be heard hissing in return to trace the footsteps of this hated infidel. After defying the emperor publicly on that fateful day of coronation, Shivaji was placed under strict guard inside the house of Ram Singh. Shivaji had been Ram Singh’s guest, initially, but after that tragic scene during the court session, he had become the prisoner of his kind host. Aurangzeb, fearing a public scandal, had had him watched day and night, until he could decide how to deal with this tiger of the jungle. The weight of indecision had held his imperial rage in check. If he pardoned him, his sense of vengeance would be violated, and if he ordered his execution, he would be courting the hostility of the Rajputs—such had been the emperor’s thoughts during the imprisonment of Shivaji. Meanwhile, Shivaji had been planning. Three whole months of confinement, and he had secluded himself even from his friends, pretending to be ill. The first part of his plan was to shun his friends so as to dispel the doubts of the guards, whose vigilance was heightened when his friends were present. The guards, noticing this change of behavior in their prisoner, had grown lax, not even suspecting that he had befriended the servants with bribes, contemplating escape. The servants had taken the porters into their confidence, who were wont to supply sweetmeats in large quantities to this household. All varieties of sweetmeats were stacked in two large baskets

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suspended from a bamboo pole in the manner of a scale, and the porters would hoist that bamboo pole over their shoulders while bringing the supplies inside, or carrying the baskets out of the house. So one evening, as planned, Shivaji and his son Shambhuji were concealed in those baskets and carried away, without being detected by the guards on duty. Their escape was not discovered till late in the afternoon the next day. Search parties were sent after him, but, skilled as he was in hiding and evading pursuit, he could not be captured. The imperialists had learnt, twenty-five days after his flight, that he had reached his hometown of Rajgarh, throwing himself into the arms of his mother in the guise of a mendicant. He was hailed as a hero by his family and clansmen. Later, divine powers were ascribed to him, lending him the aura of great mystery which had stricken the Moghul guards blind with terror after his escape. Aurangzeb’s rage after the escape of Shivaji had landed on his own guards and viziers with the impact of a hurricane, knocking them off their feet with edicts harsh and bitter. Suspecting both Jai Singh and Ram Singh privy to Shivaji’s miraculous escape, the emperor’s bullets of rage had hit them the hardest. Jai Singh, who had been sent to Deccan, was recalled under clouds of reproof and disgrace. This man of honor was so deeply stricken by the mere grain of doubt in the emperor’s heart that on his journey toward Agra, he had died on the very borders of Burhanpur. Prince Muazzam, with Jaswant Singh, was then sent to Deccan to rule that turbulent province. Ram Singh, the victim of the emperor’s chief suspicion, was dispatched to Chittagong to fight the Portuguese. Aurangzeb’s pace was slackening, his thoughts trying to escape the fire of doom and to enter the circle of love. His thoughts, even in their feeble quest for love, were gilded with the glitter of piety and self-righteousness. In reverence to the holy month of Ramadan, the emperor was practising the rites of purification from within and without. At least holding a whip of restraint over his turbulent heart to choke the ripples of rage and vengeance, Aurangzeb’s thoughts were bubbling with enthusiasm. And yet, he was succeeding only in ameliorating his sense of zeal and ambition to fashion the entire world into the mould of a sacred land, that of the Meccans. Painfully and profoundly aware of his thoughts, he was exercising his will to awaken the primal, raging storm of his love for Udaipuri to fight the demons of doom and despair from within and without. He had no need to awaken this tempest of love, his thoughts chortled, for this love was his everlasting foe, churning an ocean of agony and desire which he could neither drain, nor appease. His heart was splintering open with ache and torment inexpressible at the mere thought of Udaipuri, and somersaulted all of a sudden.

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Udaipuri had blessed him with a son, whom he had named Kam Bakhsh. Now almost a year old, Prince Kam Bakhsh had stolen the emperor’s heart, though his sister Princess Satiunisa was still the emperor’s favorite. Aurangzeb’s thoughts stumbled upon the chilling revelation that he had no love for his other sons, rather suspected them of betrayal and deception, as if they were plotting evil against him. His feet, too, came to a stumbling halt beside his rosewood desk, and he flung himself into his gilt chair, heeding not the voice of his chilling revelation. Instead, he was holding on to the reed of his love for Prince Kam Bakhsh. Kam Bakhsh! A gift of love from my Beloved! Aurangzeb’s thoughts dissolved this reed of love with the flame of mockery, reminding him of his other son, whom he had loved once. Muhammed Sultan! My unfortunate son! The unloved one! Languishing in a prison! A shadow of pain and fear crossing his brow, his hand reached out to claim the letter from Shivaji. His gaze scorched the very words with rage and impotence as he began to read the letter, his eyes shining with the glint of hatred and murder. To the Emperor Alamgir. Aurangzeb’s eyes sliced this mockery of a greeting with daggers drawn. This firm and constant well-wisher Shivaji, after rendering thanks for the grace of God and the favors of the emperor, which are clearer than the Sun, begs to inform Your Majesty that, although this well-wisher was led by his adverse fate to come away from your august presence without taking leave, yet he is ever ready to perform, to the fullest extent possible and proper, everything that duty as a servant and gratitude demand of him. My excellent services and devotion to the welfare of the State are fully known to the emirs, khans, rajahs and princes of Hindustan, to the rulers of Persia and Central Asia, Turkey and Syria, to the inhabitants of the seven climes of the globe, and to the wayfarers on land and sea! And very likely their light has flashed on Your Majesty’s capacious mind. So, with a view to rendering good service and earning imperial favor, I submit the following words in a spirit of devotion to the public welfare. The fury of a warlord was gathering in Aurangzeb’s eyes, his hands trembling. It has recently come to my ears that, on the grounds of the war with me having exhausted your wealth and emptied the imperial treasury, Your Majesty has ordered that money under the name of jizya should be collected from the Hindus and the imperial needs supplied with it. May it please Your Majesty to refresh your memory with the generosity of your ancestor! The fabric of the empire, Akbar Padishah, reigned with full power for fifty-two lunar years. He adopted the admirable policy of universal harmony in relation to all the various sects, such as Jews,

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Christians, Muslims, Dadu’s followers, the sky-worshippers, with atheists and materialists, and with Jains and Brahmans. The aim of his liberal heart was to cherish and protect all the people. So, he became a famous ruler under the title of the world’s spiritual guide. Emperor Jahangir, who ruled for twenty-two years, spread his gracious shade on the head of the world and its dwellers. He gave his heart to his friends and his hand to his work, and gained his desires. Emperor Shah Jahan ruled for thirty-two years and cast his blessed shade on the head of the world and gathered the fruit of eternal life, which is only another name for goodness and fair fame, as the result of his happy time on earth. He who lives with a good name gains everlasting wealth. Because after his death, the recital of his good deeds keeps his name alive. His features constricted with pain as he continued to read. Through the auspicious effect of his sublime disposition, wherever Akbar Padishah bent the glance of his august wish, victory and success advanced to welcome him on the way. In his reign, the state and power of the emperors can be easily understood from the fact that you—Alamgir Padishah—have failed and become bewildered in the attempt to merely follow the political system. They too had the power of levying the jizya, but they did not give place to bigotry in their hearts, as they considered all men, high and low, created by God, to be living examples of the nature of diverse creeds and temperaments. Their kindness and benevolence endure on the pages of time as their memorial, and so prayer and praise for their pure souls will dwell forever in the hearts and tongues of mankind, among both great and small. Prosperity is the fruit of one’s intentions. Therefore, their wealth and good fortune continued to increase, as God’s creatures reposed in the cradle of peace and safety in their reigns, and their undertakings succeeded. Aurangzeb got to his feet as if stung, reading and pacing against a haze of pain and stupor. But in Your Majesty’s reign, many of the forts and provinces have been taken out of your possession, and the rest will soon do so too, because there will be no slackness on my part in ruining and devastating them. Your peasants are downtrodden. The yield of every village has declined. In the place of one lakh rupees, only one thousand! And, in the place of one thousand only ten are collected, and that too with difficulty. When poverty and beggary have made their homes in the palaces of the emperor and the princes, the conditions of officers and grandees can be easily imagined. It is a reign in which the army is in ferment, the merchants complain, the Muslims cry, the Hindus are grilled. Most men lack bread at night, and in the daytime inflame their cheeks by slapping them in anguish. How can the royal spirit permit you to add the hardships of jizya to this grievous state

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of things? The infamy will quickly spread from east to west and become recorded in books of history that the Emperor of Hindustan, coveting the beggars’ bowls, takes jizya from Jain monks and Brahmans—from yogis and Sannyasis—from paupers and mendicants and the famine-stricken. That his valor is shown by attacks on the wallets of beggars. That he dashes down to the ground the name and honor of the Timuirids! The hot coals in Aurangzeb’s eyes were stinging his sight, but he continued to pace and read. May it please Your Majesty! If you believe in the true Divine Book and Word of God, you will find in the Quran that for all men God is styled Rubb-ul-alamin, meaning God of Mercy and Justice over all! Not as Rabbul-Musalmin, the Lord of the Mohammedans only. Verily, Islam and Hinduism are terms of contrast. They are diverse pigments used by the Divine Painter for blending the colors and filling in the outlines of His picture of the entire human species. If it be a mosque, the call to prayer is chanted in remembrance of Him. If it be a temple, the bell is rung in yearning for Him only. To show bigotry for any man’s creeds and practices is equivalent to altering the words of the Holy Book. To draw new lines on a picture is to find fault with the painter. Let not thy hand in disapproval fall on anything you see, be it good, be it bad. To call the handiwork faulty is to find fault with the craftsman. In strict justice, jizya is not at all lawful. From the political point of view, it can be allowed only if a beautiful woman wearing gold ornaments can pass from one country to another without fear or molestation. But in these days even the cities are being plundered; what shall I say of the open country? Apart from its injustice, this imposition of the jizya is an innovation in Hindustan and inexpedient. The fever of vengeance inside Aurangzeb was impaling his feet to one accursed spot, his eyes glued to the letter. If you imagine piety to consist in oppressing the people and terrorizing the Hindus, you ought to first levy jizya on Rana Raj Singh, who is the head of the Hindus. Then it would not be so very difficult to collect it from me, as I am at your service. But to oppress ants and flies is far from displaying valor and spirit. I wonder at the strange fidelity of your officers that they neglect to tell you of the true state of things, but cover a blazing fire with straw! May the sun of your royalty continue to shine above the horizon of greatness! His hands crushed the letter into a shapeless lump, a bellow of a sigh escaping his lips.

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At least, one false believer is dead! The carrion-eating demon of Persia, Shah Abbas II, no more, no more! Aurangzeb stamped on the crumpled ball of a letter with violence akin to murder. The emperor left this chamber of torture bent double under the weight of his grief and despair. He sought the sanctuary of the Mirror Palace, in hope of soothing his heart with the nearness of his beloved. The damasked halls and the dimly lit parlors were dissolving beyond his awareness; only the marble staircase winding aloft met his gaze with the promise of rest and reprieve. He mounted the narrow staircase, his heart constricting and expanding. It longed for an eternal embrace in the arms of his beloved, where all the cares and sorrows of the world could be reduced to smithereens, if not to vacuum and nothingness. Paradoxically, for him, the only reality, with all its joys and pains, was his beloved, who could offer him peace and salvation in this jungle of bewilderment. But peace and salvation were denied to him, for he could not banish zeal and ambition from his heart and mind, hugging the sword of cruelty and injustice with utter devotion, as if it was the scepter of Islam, most holy and blessed. Intoxicated as he was by the poison of his will and caprice, he had robbed himself of the power of insight and understanding. He viewed each act of his as the will of God, knowing not that instead of promoting the cause of Islam, he was corrupting its name in the sight of both man and God. God was his shield and shadow, Aurangzeb had convinced himself, molding his own will as the Will of God. A wretched prisoner within the confines of his mighty perception, he was accosting the valleys of ruin and devastation! Deceived most besottedly by his self-confidence that he was climbing the rungs of success! His only virtue, of which he himself was not aware, was his capacity to love Udaipuri with all his heart and soul, despite her faults and weaknesses. He was aware only of his weakness in love, of the delicious sense of guilt and vulnerability with all its pain and pleasure, the sweetest of torments he would not ever exchange with bliss in serenity. Disciplined in the art of gaining equanimity at the swift command of his will, his thoughts were already sloughing off the burden of grief and despair as he sailed closer toward the chamber of his beloved. Tiny rivulets of warmth and tenderness were seething in his blood, his feet coming to a sudden halt at the scented abode of his beloved. The rosary of his loving thoughts snapped loose as the houri of his desire came into view, cradling Prince Kam Bakhsh and holding his attention with the sweet nectar of her voice. “E’en as the tree with golden fruitage blest Gladly bows down to earth, its lofty crest Just so, the more enriched by fortune kind

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More and more grows the humble mind.”

From this quatrain, Udaipuri appeared to be drunk; Prince Kam Bakhsh was squealing with glee. “You are corrupting the intellect of our sweet prince with poison from the reed pens of the infidels!” Aurangzeb exclaimed with a mingling of rebuke and tenderness. He snatched his son into his arms, holding him up in the air. Prince Kam Bakhsh squealed more, kicking his legs with a wild abandon. “How would you know, Your Majesty, that this quatrain was written by an infidel, if you had not read Tulsidas yourself?” Udaipuri tossed a bright challenge, her cheeks borrowing a rosy blush from the rubies in her hair and around her throat. “Those heedless days of youth, my lovely rebel! I was tempted to read the works of the impious heathens.” Aurangzeb lowered the prince down to the Persian carpet. He stood watching Princess Satiunisa wobbling toward her brother, with little fists as her weapons of jealousy. “Poetry wafts the scent of bliss supreme, Your Majesty, if divinely inspired!” Udaipuri’s dark eyes flashed defiance. “How could divine inspiration be impious? Especially from the lips of Tulsidas!” She shifted her gaze to the jewel flowers on her gold dress, as if she had just noticed them. “The words of the heathens and madmen, love, if you only knew!” was Aurangzeb’s lame lament, low and tender! He lowered himself beside her on the davenport, watching the prince and the princess lost in their world of toy drums and ivory swords. “Princess Zebunisa, Your Majesty, is conducting a poetry recitation in the privacy of her room, lending breath to words most noble and sublime,” Udaipuri confessed, mockery shining in her eyes. “What’s so impious or heathenish about seeking the joy of divine inspiration? And offering thanks to the essence of love and beauty?” “Poetry recitation! And in the month of Ramadan!” Aurangzeb exclaimed, leaping to his feet suddenly. His senses were more assailed by the whiff of wine from the breath of his beloved than pained by the knowledge that his daughter was holding a recital in the month of Ramadan. His heart was awakening to torment. Pain and outrage surfacing in his eyes, he began to pace. Prince Kam Bakhsh and Princess Satiunisa were distracted, fear shining in their innocent eyes. “A horde of rebels in the emperor’s palace?” Aurangzeb continued, while pacing. “Knowing fully well that the emperor has issued a ban on all frivolous entertainments? Music, dancing, singing and the idle pleasure of

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versification! Who will heed the emperor’s edicts, if his royal household lacks discipline and obedience?” “Music and dancing, Your Majesty! Great gifts from the heart of nature itself! The manifestation of joy and love from the bounties of God! Such beautiful gifts! Why spurn such blessings, or choke them with manmade laws?” Udaipuri’s lips spilled forth mirth and protests. “Nature itself in all its riot of color and poetry, singing and dancing!” “Nature! Raining down bolts of thunder and lightning to remind us not to stray from the path of righteousness!” Aurangzeb hummed one smoldering reproof. “You have been drinking, Udaipuri? Not fasting? Why?” His pacing itself was a ludicrous dance reflected in the tiny mirrors of this chamber. “Moon tides, Your Majesty! Women are exempted from this pious act of fasting during the time of their monthly cycle, as if you didn’t know?” Udaipuri chirped deliciously. “Unclean and unapproachable? We become the victims of our own faith in our pain and banishment.” Her dark eyes were kindling the lamps of mischief and challenge. “Purity in living and thinking, that’s what is most dear to the emperor’s heart!” Aurangzeb dared not meet her gaze, his heart longing for love, yet churning edicts harsh and bitter. “Simple and pure living! The reason I renounced all pomp and pageantry, even in my dressing! Hoping that others would adopt this blessed way of living, shunning material temptations and seeking the riches in heaven. My viziers and their wives are adopting the simple way of living, but what could I say of my wives, still attached to the glitter of jewels and fineries?” His feet slowly came to a halt at the foot of the davenport. He stood there gazing. The fire of jewels in Udaipuri’s eyes and on the décolletage of her dress enveloped him! The fire of pain in his eyes was draining away, leaving behind the haze of longing and sadness. His heart longed to gather his beloved into one eternal embrace, but pride and bitterness kept him chained to his own cell of loneliness. “The wives of your viziers, Your Majesty!” Udaipuri declared, shifting her gaze to her royal innocents, who were absorbed in their games once again. “Jafar Khan’s wife purchased not too long ago a pair of velvet slippers studded with diamonds, worth one hundred thousand rupees! The expense of her jewelry in gems and gold could match the worth of your Peacock Throne. Come to think of it, Your Majesty, you still hold court while sitting on your Peacock Throne; is that an exception from the edicts of pomp and pageantry?” Her poppy-red lips flowered into a smile. “An emblem of power and authority, my sweet rebel! The Peacock Throne is certainly an exception to the rule, to instill fear and obedience

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into the hearts of the foes and rebels.” Aurangzeb’s angular features were breaking into a thin smile. “And this emblem of power alone keeps my viziers away from the vices of wine and debauchery.” “Even the harem walls testify against such confidence as you have in your viziers, Your Majesty!” Udaipuri’s eyes were flashing dark secrets. “Your vizier Asad Khan, Your Majesty, drinks by the flagon, and keeps a retinue of young girls who sing and dance before him at his whim or command.” “He will be whipped with eighty lashes in the open court, if found guilty!” Aurangzeb’s heart was a splintering of rage and longing. “This very day, if possible! A lesson to all others. Equipped with such a cannon of news, my love, the emperor must attend his court before noon prayers.” He snatched her hand to himself, kissing her, his lips trembling. The emperor left leaving this chamber of mirrors, his heart splintered with pain and loneliness. A sharp dagger of a revelation was poised before his psyche: his beloved would never conform to his edicts of piety and righteousness. The fever of hopelessness coursed in his veins, the stabbing, lacerating pain inside his heart cutting the very fabric of his loneliness to shreds. His thoughts were rising above the rills of despair and longing, and willing pious miracles straight from the hearth of the heavens. Before his mind’s eye, the glory of Islam was etched like a noble portrait, stretching over the entire land of Hind, swept clean of all idols and infidels. Holding high the mirror of deception over the chamber of his loneliness, he was not even aware that his feet were arrested in one spot at the foot of the staircase. Yet, awareness was dawning upon him in a flood of voices from the blue chamber where his defiant princess was holding her session of poetry and recital. A jingle of voices and merry ripples of laughter uprooted his feet, but he stood still again in the middle of the parlor. The marble floors and the tapestried walls, lit to dancing effulgence from the ribbons of sunshine, reached out to appease his pain and loneliness. But his senses were catching snippets of poesy and parlance from the blue chamber in the background. “Why did you choose the pen name of Makhfi, Princess Zebunisa? It doesn’t suit you!” The voice was that of Aurangabadi Mahal Begum, sprinkled with mirth and indulgence. “If you knew what it means, you would style yourself Makhfi too!” Princess Zebunisa’s laughter was escaping the confines of her restraint like the tinkling of bells. “I know what it means! A Concealed One, doesn’t it? Mysterious and beautiful, my dear, don’t you think?” Aurangabadi Mahal Begum’s tone was soft and patronizing. “Let us hear that quatrain of yours! The one you

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wrote while rocking on your gold swing in the garden, and watching the waterfall?” “To strike thy head against stone and to shed tears, Oh, waterfall, for whose sake art thou weeping In whose sorrowful recollections hast thou wrinkled thy brow What pain was it that impelled thee, like myself, the whole night.”

Princess Zebunisa’s voice knocked at the gates of the emperor’s heart with brands of fire. Aurangzeb’s thoughts were churning storms, and he marched toward the parlor doors as if fleeing, more to escape the madness within him, than the madness of the begums and the princesses indulging in the heathenish pleasure of poetry and idleness! The parched, hungry lips of his thoughts were breathing violence, a sort of implacability and hunger to crush the whole world into a fistful of ashes. The chaos and violence within him were blinding his sight, and he almost collided with Princess Jahanara on his way out of the parlor. “You are on your way to preside over the recitation of gossip and poetry, no doubt?” was Aurangzeb’s blistering comment, the delicate nostrils on his aquiline nose flaring and constricting. “No, Your Majesty,” Princess Jahanara murmured calmly. “I am going to see Nawab Bai Begum, who is ill.” Her look was sad and contemplative. “Why does everyone have to remind the emperor that she is ill? Doesn’t the emperor know? Has he not appointed Francois Brenier for the welfare of her health and comfort?” Aurangzeb’s anger was landing on this innocent victim of a sister, who had happened to cross his path on his way out to the Audience Hall. “I was not reminding you, Your Majesty, merely stating the fact,” Princess Jahanara murmured again, as if consoling a child. “Besides, Francois Brenier is in Delhi. Right now, Niccolao Manucci is with the begum.” Her features were attaining the sheen of the pale silks she was wearing, though absorbing a glow and warmth from the pearls in her ears and around her throat. “Charlatans all! Professing to be men of medicine?” Aurangzeb waved his arm, disbelief shining in his eyes. “And when did he study the art of medicine to claim himself as a physician?” “He is skilled in alleviating minor pains, Your Majesty,” Princess Jahanara intoned soothingly. “He has achieved astonishing success with his herbal medicines. The painless procedure of bleeding and curing is his

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specialty. Twice this year already, he has offered great relief to the begum with his skill in bleeding.” “And the emperor’s heart bled white with horror by the impious rebels in his palace and in his empire, who heed not the edicts of discipline!” Aurangzeb waved his arms in utter hopelessness, as if seeking comfort from the serene oceans in his sister’s eyes. “You need rest, Your Majesty.” Princess Jahanara’s eyes were kindling sparks of apprehension. “Rest! When the whole empire is burning with the fever of anarchy and lawlessness?” Haze and delirium were swimming naked in Aurangzeb’s eyes as he began to pace. “Even during this month of Ramadan, when I should be praying and reciting the Quran, I am compelled to preside over my court. All the blithering fools, at this moment, no doubt, are waiting in the Audience Hall to hurl absurdities and try the emperor’s patience. My viziers, weak and mindless, serving their own wills to greed and corruption, and ignoring their duties to quell rebellions! How can the emperor rest when the wildfire of unrest is reaching the very gates of Agra and Delhi?” “Rest from zeal, Your Majesty, if I may be as bold as to suggest?” Princess Jahanara murmured quietly. “No noose of zeal imprisons my thoughts, Princess, but the rosary of truth!” Aurangzeb exclaimed amidst the ritual of his mad pacing. “Truth must be pounded into the heads of the heathens, so that they can see the light of salvation.” “What truth, Your Majesty?” a lament of a protest broke forth on the lips of Princess Jahanara. “Jizya? Demolition of the temples! Cruelty and oppression?” “As a Muslim emperor, it is my duty to enforce the law of Islam, for the good of the people and for their salvation!” Aurangzeb thundered, his heart churning foams of piety and self-righteousness. “If I allow a single regulation to be violated, all of them will be disregarded.” “Does Islam sanction killing, Your Majesty?” The pain and fear in Princess Jahanara’s heart were making her bold and unintimidated. “It is for your own safety, Your Majesty, that I dare voice my fears and concerns. Your edicts, harsh and terrible, are turning everyone against you, and your life is in danger. Why was Guru Tegh Bahadur permitted to be tortured for five whole days and then murdered? The Pious Muslims to blacken the name of Islam by murdering a holy man revered by the Sikhs? Why?” “He was given the choice of becoming a Muslim! Since the infidel guru refused to embrace Islam, he deserved no mercy, but hell.”

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Aurangzeb breathed fire, his frenzied pacing in rhythm with his violent thoughts. “All religions come from God, Your Majesty, and in His sight, there is no distinction in religions,” Princess Jahanara demurred aloud. “The Quran itself attests to this fact. To every people have We appointed ways of worship which they observe. If God is one, Your Majesty, then He is the God of all people. Of Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims, all praying to the One and the same, only in different ways with different names.” “God! Sikhs have no God. You are so naïve and ignorant, my rebel princess! Didn’t their unblessed Guru Nanak proclaim: O brethren, the Vedas and the Quran are false, and free not the mind from anxiety.” “I am not as ignorant as you deem, Your Majesty.” Princess Jahanara blinked away pain and disbelief. “In the same breath the Holy Guru Nanak expressed this pearl of an advice: God can be obtained by prayer and humility. And by self-restraint! By searching for God within one’s heart and by keeping one’s gaze fixed on Him. Knowing this much, if Muslims still insist that their God is different from Allah, then they should heed this injunction from the Quran: And revile not those whom they call upon beside Allah, lest they out of spite revile Allah in their ignorance. Thus unto every people have We caused their doing to seem fair. Then unto their Lord is their return. And He will inform them of what they used to do.” “The God of the Sikhs could be any mortal besotted enough to claim divine inspiration!” Aurangzeb permitted himself the luxury of one snort of mirth. “The fruits of their stupidity and ignorance are paraded on the streets of Agra and Delhi, for the benefit of reason and argument. One Sikh, after learning that his guru liked a certain parrot, proceeded to buy it from its owner! When the owner fixed an exorbitant price on the parrot which was beyond the means of this disciple, he sold his wife and daughter to the shopkeeper in order to have the parrot for his guru!” “God taking the blame for the actions of man? While men can’t help but lean towards the staff of lies and distortion?” Princess Jahanara murmured hopelessly. “And true it is that the Sikh’s devotion is toward the Immortal, Self-extant God, the Pure and the Invisible.” “Infidels all! Vile and pugnacious!” This cry of mad zeal was Aurangzeb’s only response as he stalked past her, breathing fire and disdain. The emperor fled the silence and mockery of the gleaming chambers in his palace. His heart was a cauldron of rage and violence. Trooping down the marble corridors, he could hear the din of arguments from the Audience Hall. The voices were loud, and jarring to his frayed nerves.

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They seemed to be ebbing and splitting in discordant notes, much like the pulse of fever in his volcanic heart. An orchestra of inharmonious sounds made on the strings of arguments were the only notes of music to herald the emperor to his throne, since he himself had banned music. Aurangzeb’s heart was aching all of a sudden, for some sort of harmony of voices sweet and soothing. A wave of awe and fear had silenced the courtiers as soon as Aurangzeb stepped into the Audience Hall. He weaved his way toward his Peacock Throne, acknowledging curtsies with a wave of his arm, his angular features taut and unsmiling. The glitter and opulence of the Peacock Throne, in stark contrast to the emperor’s simple demeanor, was evoking a feeling of dread and uncertainty in the hearts of all present, as Aurangzeb willed and guessed correctly. Hugging his sense of power, and gloating inwardly, he sank into the sparkling depths of his throne, his look stern and profound. Mahabat Khan, in conformity with protocol, was the first one to announce his embassy. This embassy was from England, and the name of the ambassador was William Norris. He was invested with the robe of honor, which he was wearing right over his European suit, the red turban over his English hat, bright and voluminous. He swept his arm in a flourish of a bow, and stood waiting to be addressed by the emperor. “This imperial robe you must wear close to your skin, Norris, to feel its softness, and the honor it bestows on the recipient. And it is not becoming to wear a turban over a hat.” Aurangzeb’s disapproval was masked by a sliver of a smile, his gaze piercing. “The Moghuls and the Europeans locked in one friendly embrace, Your Majesty, that’s my way of showing gratitude for this honor bestowed upon me,” was William Norris’s gallant response! “And what new requests are blooming under your hat to gain sanctions for trade and alliance?” Aurangzeb breathed suspiciously, the smile fading from his lips. “None, Your Majesty, not during this holy month of Ramadan, at least!” William Norris’s eyes were gathering stars of mirth in their blue pools. “Study the teachings of our Prophet, Norris, and you would be blessed with bounties manifold, during and after this holy month of Ramadan.” Aurangzeb waved a quick dismissal. “This holy month of Ramadan has blessed us with the news of victory, Your Majesty.” Asad Khan was equally quick to gain the emperor’s attention. His eyes were shining with zeal, in conformity with the religious fervor practiced by all in the presence of the emperor. “The imperialists have defeated the Afghans on all the north-western frontiers. Muhammed

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Shah, the leader of the Yusufzais, is either dead, or hiding somewhere between Attock and Peshawar. Our valorous general, Amin Khan, deserves praise, for under his command the Afghans have suffered such severe blows that they would not dare rebel again!” “May God sweeten your breath with eternal blessings, Asad!” Aurangzeb chanted fervently. “And yet, Affridis, Khattaks and Yusufzais are known to breed and multiply underground, waiting for opportunities to mend their strings of rebellion.” The clouds of suspicion in his eyes glittered and expanded. “And yet again, this is good news indeed—the first in two whole years since our conquest of Chittagong. No more Maghs and Feringhis to frighten the Bengal peasants, or to ravage their farms and homesteads!” He paused, his eyes tearing open the bales of zeal. “Besides quelling rebellions, we must attend to the precepts of Islam. Our empire must be purged clean of all corruptions, Asad! Wine, gambling, illicit traffic of women, all must be banned. The rite of sati is abolished, and yet I hear that this wicked practice is still rampant. Report directly to the emperor if any widows are being forced to burn themselves on the pyres of their husbands! Also, appoint several officers to punish those accused of blasphemy, or omission of obligatory prayers and fasting in the month of Ramadan.” “Your edicts are enforced most diligently, Your Majesty,” Asad Khan tossed out, one harmless lie, his expression solemn and reverent. “Spare neither the Sufis, nor the Shias! Especially not the heretics of Gujrat, the Bhora community—what do they call themselves, Ismailia? Is that correct?” Aurangzeb commanded. Without waiting for a response, he sanctioned audience to his next vizier. “Shivaji, Your Majesty, is gathering large forces.” Jafar Khan seemed a bit reluctant in offering this report. “The most recent reports indicate that he is planning to attack Surat, also planting the seeds of rebellion in Gujrat and Khandesh. His son Shambhuji, Your Majesty, has sent a letter to Ram Singh. This letter itself is a cannon-ball of provocation. This kingdom belongs to Gods and Brahmans, Shambhuji writes. Hindustan is the land of the Hindus and they will be the ones ruling it with justice.” “The young Mountain Rat and the old one will boast no more when their heads are blown away by the might of the Moghuls!” Aurangzeb stifled a curse under his breath, granting audience to the next vizier with an impatient wave of his arm. “Your Majesty, Ram Singh is not succeeding in defeating Ahoms in Assam.” Fadai Khan’s voice was thick with apprehension, his yellow turban with ropes of pearls accentuating his pallor. “The new commander, Rashid Khan, whom you sent with reinforcements, is suspected of

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treachery. Ram Singh writes that Rashid Khan was corresponding with the enemy, so he expelled him from his camp.” “The emperor believes not Ram Singh’s claims, and suspects that he himself is weak and indolent,” Aurangzeb demurred aloud. “Forty warvessels at his disposal in Brahmaputra, and he is still incapable of destroying those gnats called Ahoms. Send him a message that he must show action and valor, lest the emperor lose patience with him.” Aurangzeb waved dismissal, girding himself for the bulletin of news from the lips of his Imams and grandees. “The district of Mathura is in the grips of chaos and lawlessness, Your Majesty.” Qazi Abdal Wahhab rolled his beady eyes to accentuate his grief and regret. “Gokla, the leader of the Jats, is inciting all farmers to defy the laws of the Moghuls. The venerable Qazi Abdun Nabi, whom you sent, Your Majesty, to collect revenue, was found murdered in the village of Bashara.” “Vile, mindless heathens! How dare they murder the emperor’s Qazi, and defy his edicts!” Aurangzeb’s hatred for the Hindus was a churning storm in his very eyes. “Punishments harsh and terrible are in store for them. The emperor himself would hack them to pieces.” A sliver of lightning in his gaze was flashing edicts. “Send an army of the imperialists to demolish their shrines, temples and schools. And proclaim the emperor’s Farman to the effect that they are banned from celebrating any holy festivals until they learn not to challenge the might of the Moghuls! If anyone is seen celebrating the festivals of Holi or Diwali, they will suffer the wrath of the emperor, their songs silenced and their lamps smashed on their very heads to bathe them in the color of Holi, red as blood.” “Edicts harsh and terrible indeed, Your Majesty!” Sheikhul Aslam stepped in front of the bigoted Qazi, his own father. “Abdun Nabi has been oppressing the peasants for his greed, collecting gold from them which never reached the imperial treasury. He invoked their anger a year ago by building a mosque over the ruins of a Hindu temple. Slave of his whims, he also removed the stone railing from the temple of Keshav Rai. The same railing which was a present to the Hindus from Prince Dara Shikoh—” He paused, overwhelmed by his indiscretion in mentioning the name of the emperor’s brother, murdered on his order. But he continued with vehemence, bold and exigent. “The poor peasants, Your Majesty, deprived of their dignity and of their means of sustenance, how else would they live, but to feed their bellies with the fires of vengeance?” “Vengeance is God’s alone, and the prerogative of the emperors!” Aurangzeb thundered. “And the emperor commands that the temple of Somnath be razed to the ground, along with the others.”

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“A little drop of compassion works wonders, Your Majesty.” Mahabat Khan edged closer, mustering courage. “Compassion is known to melt the very mountains of unrest, making the waters of peace gush forth from the dust of their own ruins.” “Compassion, my besotted vizier, falls dead on the hearts of the infidels.” Aurangzeb shot him a baleful look. “All those infidels most savage and covetous. Robbing this great empire of its peace and prosperity! Hamir Sen in Shahabad! Another brute of a Rajah in Jammu! And the Mina tribe in Ajmer! And that most corrupt of all savages, Shivaji! The fruits of compassion as well as of repentance are denied to him, for he grovels only into the mire of his own dark deeds. Will he ever admit his guilt and do penance?” He left a long pause, his gaze dark and forbidding. “Since your tongue is tied to your palate, my brave fool, should the emperor consult Abdal Wahhab as to the size of the army to be sent against the Mountain Rat?” “It is unnecessary to send even a small battalion against Shivaji, Your Majesty.” Mahabat Khan’s lips were unlocked, suppressing a mockery of a smile. “A proclamation by Abdal Wahhab would do the work, since Your Majesty puts implicit trust in his Faith.” “Another witless remark like that, Mahabat, and it will cost you your head.” Aurangzeb’s anger was draining away, as if exhausted of its fury and madness. “In this holy month of Ramadan, Your Majesty, this head would feel honored if released from my stiff neck!” Mahabat Khan quipped brightly. This bold vizier was bowing his head in all reverence as the call to prayer sounded from the Pearl Mosque with all its fervor and urgency. His lips, though, were stifling the urge to laugh, for his thoughts were airy and irreverent. Often, he had teased the muezzin that he used the bellows in his lungs to impress the emperor alone, and now the same thoughts were creating ripples of mirth in his heart and mind. The emperor was rising to his feet, as if to gather dewdrop blessings straight from the heavens, and his gaze returned to Mahabat Khan. “Since you have chosen madness as your talisman, might the emperor choose Asad Khan as a chief commander to fight the infidel Shivaji?” Aurangzeb dismounted his throne, waving dismissal and commanding all to repair to the mosque for noon prayers. “Asad Khan, that suckling child—” The low comment from Mahabat Khan did not reach the emperor’s ears. “Does the reek of the world offend your nose?” This comment was directed at Jafar Khan, who stood shielding his nose with his hands.

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This comment too escaped the emperor’s notice, his eyes and ears weaving a curtain of silence. But his feet came to a sudden halt, and he turned around as if impelled by daggers of curiosity. While abandoning his throne and acknowledging curtsies, he had espied Jafar Khan and Fadai Khan in secret communion with each other, and the strange behavior of Jafar Khan, and now his eyes were darting around suspiciously. As he stood watching them, he could not help noticing that Jafar Khan’s hand was still a shield over his nose, his features revealing disgust. Jafar Khan was oblivious to the emperor’s scrutiny, but Fadai Khan, feeling the intensity of the emperor’s gaze, lifted his eyes to meet the emperor’s, his hands smoothing a large sheet of paper into a neat roll. “I have never met a more sensitive soul than Jafar Khan, Your Majesty.” Fadai Khan braved an explanation without any comment from the emperor. “He likes not the plans of his house, it seems. Since I designed the plans, it was my duty to point out to him all the details, including the privy retreats. But how this clean piece of paper could waft any odors to assail one’s senses is beyond me.” “The house of prayer is calling us, you simpletons! Let’s not linger at the carpet of levity at this hour!” the splinter of a command escaped Aurangzeb’s lips, his feet obeying the command of his own urgency to mount his graceful steed. The emperor, astride his caparisoned horse and followed by a grand procession of the viziers and grandees, could see Pearl Mosque in the distance, its white domes and slender minarets gleaming under the sun. Suddenly, the air was charged with a chorus of protests and lamentations. Not far from the mosque was a large crowd bearing ornamental biers, their voices drifting aloft in a symphony of grief and despair. Aurangzeb could see the mourners dressed in white with black plumes in their turbans, beating their breasts and raising bootless cries. This procession, carrying grief and sorrow on their shoulders, was a slow tide, smooth and slithering. The great biers sprinkled with rose petals were being shifted from shoulder to shoulder, the tide of men inching closer towards the mosque. Aurangzeb’s gaze itself was splitting sunshine into letters of gold and he counted twenty biers in all; his attention shifted to Danishmand Khan, riding beside him. “Who have died? A host of them, it seems?” Aurangzeb demurred aloud, his gaze searching the calm demeanor of his vizier. “These men are weeping like women! Go, find about the cause of their sorrow. And shamelessness!” he commanded. Danishmand Khan spurred his horse to the speed of Pegasus, pressed more by his curiosity than by the emperor’s command. In a flash, he

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landed in the midst of this funeral procession, demanding the cause of their woe and distress. Moved and astonished by the showy grief of his fellow men, he let his horse gallop at full speed, returning to the emperor with the burden of woe in his eyes and inside his heart. “They are all musicians, Your Majesty.” Danishmand Khan let his horse trot beside the emperor at an even pace. “They say they are attending the funeral of the music, slain by Your Majesty’s orders. They are the children of music, they say, honoring its demise with tears and prayers. The biers on their shoulders represent the corpses of music, which they are carrying to unmarked graves, though with all due rites and expressions of loss and grief.” “Tell them that the emperor approves of their piety and decorum,” was Aurangzeb’s singeing comment! “They should pray for the soul of music and see that she is buried deep, not ever to be resurrected!” He spurred his horse, longing to find peace in the white sanctuary of the Pearl Mosque. In the silence and comfort of the mosque, the emperor became totally absorbed in the ritual of prayer. He rose and kneeled, or folded his arms in absolute surrender at the throne of God, the anguish inside his heart murmuring Suras from the Quran. He seemed oblivious to the Imam in front, or to the files of viziers and grandees, kneeling and prostrating themselves in conformity with the ritual of this noon prayer. The men who had finished their prayers left quietly, but the emperor sat there genuflected, his head lowered and his hands clasped in his lap. His features were calm, as if he was lulled into peace by the void of silence within and without. The cries and laments of the fake mourners were no more, since they had been dispersed by the royal guards even before the emperor had entered the sanctuary of the mosque. The cool marble of the floor was seething in Aurangzeb’s awareness, stealing into the silence within like a blade of ice, and cutting his heart open in two equal halves. The one half was awakening to the will of its own, the other half kneeling at the altar of his beloved, bereft of joy or hope. He could feel the dagger of loneliness inside him, aiming violence at the bleeding halves of his broken heart. The splinters of agony sprouted inside him at the mere threat of violence from this dagger of loneliness. His thoughts were coming back in droves, equipped with the brushstrokes of consolation, unveiling the beautiful face of his beloved. Udaipuri was with him, licking clean the wounds of his loneliness with kisses sweet and intoxicating. His beloved was leaving, the rent of his loneliness a gaping hole of loss and horror. The dark corridors of his will were forced open, famished for the burnt offerings of his foes and the infidels. He was startled to his feet by the stark revelation of his will, and abandoned the sanctuary of the mosque.

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Riding back to the palace, Aurangzeb was quiet and brooding. The music was buried in the unctuous graves of her pallbearers, and no more musicians were there to invade the arena of his repose and loneliness. The palace gates, gilded with sunshine and marquetry, were already in view, but before the royal retinue could claim their gleaming welcome, a bold intruder in rags materialized, from the very haze of gold, it seemed. This scrawny man with the look of murder in his dark eyes had sprinted forth from behind a tamarind tree. He was seen rushing toward the emperor with his sword uplifted. Immediately, he was seized by the royal guards, their own swords poised before him with the intent of puncturing his jugular vein, if not cutting his head off. Aurangzeb watched this scene with utmost calm, a whimsical command escaping the razor-sharp steel of his own lips. “Don’t slay this wretch! Take him to the prison of Ranthambhor and—” Aurangzeb’s voice was truncated by the impact of a brick landing close to the hooves of his steed. This heavy brick had been flung at the emperor by an angry Sikh, words pouring out of his mouth in a torrent of obscenities. This mad pauper too was seized by the royal guards and pinioned to silence. Aurangzeb spurred his horse, racing toward the palace gates, neither looking back, nor issuing any commands. His thoughts were molded in the fashion of a double-edged sword, sharp and gleaming. Proclaiming that there was no fear in his heart, but the fear of his own will not willing to surrender to the will of God. Inside the palace gates, the ripple and gurgle of sunshine were caught in the splish-splash of the fountains. The marble terraces could be heard whispering of warmth and abundance, but Aurangzeb’s heart was barren like the parched flowerbeds, thrown into utter neglect by his command. Inhaling the scent of emptiness, he seemed to be carried on the wings of longing toward the chamber of his beloved. Aurangzeb’s heart shut its ears against the singing, lapping waves of sedition, its eyes pleading for the feast of love, and its lips longing for the sweet wine of surrender at the feet of his beloved. Despite the pleas of his heart, his thoughts were tightening the noose of piety around his neck, and holding him prisoner to their commands. How he had reached the chamber of his beloved, and why he was kneeling at her feet, he had no idea but the tearing, maddening violence of need and desire. “Udaipuri!” An agony of a prayer was woven thin in this one word, as Aurangzeb kissed her little toes under some spell of wild delirium. “Love! Beloved! Help me, Sweetness! Banish me from your sight, so that I don’t fall victim to my lust and incontinence, and roast in hell forever for breaking my fast. Comfort me, love. Let me hold you tight. Just hold you

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close to my heart. This aching, tormenting need—” He caught her into a crushing embrace, kissing, kissing.

CHAPTER THREE EAST INDIA COMPANY

The gilded domes of Jami Masjid, smitten pewter by the afternoon sun, were speaking in mysterious tongues to the inhabitants of Delhi, it seemed. Its slender minarets, white and ethereal, could be seen rising up to the heavens as if guarding secrets which a few favored ones were privileged to behold. Qazi Abdal Wahhab was posted at the door to discourage all intruders, while the emperor sat not too far inside this sanctuary, cherishing his solitude. At his own will or whim, he could either converse with the Qazi, or indulge in the luxury of quiet contemplation. This mosque had been Aurangzeb’s sanctuary, in the literal sense of the word, for the past two weeks, sinec his return from the warring province of Deccan. Upon his return, he had found Delhi itself simmering in revolt, its rabble intent on persecuting him whenever or wherever he appeared in public. In the hope of gaining a few hours of repose and solitude, he had been coming to the mosque without the pomp and pageantry of his retinue, thus avoiding the riot and persecution. This particular day, he had made an exception by coming to the mosque on his richly caparisoned elephant, which was stationed in the rear, waiting for its royal master to need transporting back to the palace. This exception of the emperor in choosing his mount was by design, since he wanted to instill fresh awe and fear into the hearts of his subjects. Two more exceptions were his talismans to deck this day with the laurels of hope and victory. First, he had permitted himself the luxury of donning a white vest of satin, embroidered with flowers in silk and gold. He had also selected a matching turban adorned with precious jewels. The second exception was a monumental task, exacting a ransom from his pious soul to erect a façade of might and splendor. And might and splendor were flaunted most splendidly, since the emperor had made his intentions known that he was to march to Hasan Abdal in Peshawar to quell the Affridi rebellion. The royal guards were already posted at the palace gates to stage a parade of royal forces with all their insignia after the emperor’s return from the mosque. The lion, the dragon, the silver fish, the hands and scales, all emblematic of different battalions, were painted bright on silken

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pennants. They were in the possession of the royal guards, ready to be unfurled at the approach of the emperor for his approval and inspection. Right now, the emperor was seated cross-legged on a Persian rug, inside the sanctuary of the Jami Masjid. Abdal Wahhab was seated opposite Aurangzeb, watching the emperor absorbed in his favorite occupation of knitting a skull cap. This was Aurangzeb’s very own unique way of prayer and meditation, or rather self-discipline, to strengthen the bond of piety with his sense of humility. As a young prince, he had knitted countless skull caps, and had now returned to this mode of discipline and concentration, although recently. His cheeks had grown more angular than before, pallor spread thin over his austere features. It had been six years since the scene at Agra when he had been attacked by a pauper and a mendicant both, in the end almost collapsing with desires sinful at the feet of his beloved. Nothing much had changed since then; the tides of wars and intrigues pressed behind him like the shadows of evil, and he himself hugged his kernels of zeal and self-righteousness as the most sacred of all virtues. With an exception—? This exception, his rule rather than an exception, was that he was ruled by the violence of his passionate love for Udaipuri. Claiming shame and agony as the seeds of his sin and virtue both, he would think, the blessed, blessed rewards straight from the Garden of Eden. He was in Paradise right this moment, weaving songs of love for his beloved into the skull cap, and tasting the wine of wisdom in thoughts sweet and delicious. Abdal Wahhab, truly drunk on the wine he had secretly purchased from Francois Brenier, was watching the emperor in a stupor of bliss and devotion. He could feel the currents of warmth and serenity flowing smoothly into his veins; his thoughts were rivulets, bright, sparkling and gurgling. Unable to contain the deluge of his giddiness, he ventured forth to tease the wings of his hopes and imaginations at the risk of disrupting the emperor’s concentration. “God has chosen you to gain victory over the infidels, Your Majesty, and soon the Empire of Hind will know no other God but Allah!” Abdal Wahhab’s eyes were lit up with the fire of joy and inebriation. “Allah is testing the emperor by planting devils in his way! The chief amongst them, Shivaji!” Aurangzeb murmured without lifting his gaze. “While the emperor is busy quelling rebellions of the Jats, the Sikhs and the Feringhis, Shivaji is ravaging other parts of the empire by means of stealth and treachery. Surat, Kalyan, Sinhgarh, Khandesh—all victims of his plunder and pillaging! Chewing on the bones of his exploits, he is yelping loudly to conquer Bijapur! Is he not planning a grand coronation for himself against the reek of his raids and murders, while the emperor is

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constrained to march to Peshawar to chastise the Affridis?” He abandoned his skull cap beside him, sighing to himself. “Plague on him, Your Majesty!” was Abdal Wahhab’s drunken exclamation! “God will smite the lands of his evil possessions to chaff by causing drought and famine, like the ones in Golconda. Infidels dying in droves and fathers selling their children for a loaf of bread!” “May the curse of famine never visit any, Abdal, infidel or believer.” A sliver of compassion escaped Aurangzeb’s thoughts, his gaze a mingling of reproof and profundity. “Don’t forget, I was in Deccan and I have seen it all. Many relief measures were commanded by me, but nothing could be sufficient to dispel the hunger and the calamity.” “Pardon me, Your Majesty.” Abdal Wahhab assumed a contrite expression, his thoughts were still light and giddy. “I might go to that grand mosque built over the ruins of the temple Kasi Visvesvar, or to the one over the ruins of Keshab Rai, and pray humbly for the hungry and the dying.” He was failing in his attempt to suppress his witless, drunken expressions, though trying his best to humor the emperor. “Shivaji, though devil incarnate, can see the light of virtue at times, it is obvious,” Aurangzeb murmured to himself, as if he had not even heard Abdal Wahhab. “Though robbing and plundering indiscriminately, if he finds copies of the Quran in his booty, he returns those holy books to the Muslims with due reverence, the imperialists swear by the name of Allah while bearing witness to this fact. And if women are taken captive during his raids, he guards their honor till the ransom is paid for their freedom!” “All canards, Your Majesty, just to crown the head of this infidel with the aura of holiness!” Abdal Wahhab tossed out the shining lie, his shameless thoughts digging out a reed of a diversion. “The only truth I believe in that your courtiers tell, Your Majesty, is that you are still mourning the death of Princess Roshanara. Three long years, and you are still grieving? She is at peace, Your Majesty, and you need to slough off your grief.” “Court gossip! I didn’t know!” Aurangzeb’s eyes were bright and piercing all of a sudden. “Princess Jahanara misses her, but the emperor has no time for mourning. The emperor is getting old, and has no time for solitude or reflection. All my sons and daughters getting married, almost all!” The gold stars in his eyes were shedding a subtle glow on his nose, large and aquiline. “Prince Azam married to Princess Jani! Prince Akbar to Princess Salima Banu! Princess Zabutinisa to Prince Shiphr Shikoh! And our little princess, can you believe, Princess Mihrunisa to Prince Izad Bakhsh! All happy! All undisciplined! All covetous!”

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“They are the blooms of virtue and devotion, Your Majesty,” Abdal Wahhab concocted another lie, though earnest in his intentions to cheer the emperor. “Prince Kam Bakhsh, though only seven, adores your very shadow, Your Majesty. A few more years and he will be of age to be wedded. But Princess Zebunisa, she—” The weight of his indiscretion and the kindling of rage and suspicion in the emperor’s eyes had sealed his lips. “Princess Zebunisa! She is wedded to her poetry,” Aurangzeb muttered under his breath. “She is a bundle of mystery and indiscretion. Her infatuation with that besotted vizier, Aqil Khan, is no more a secret, though the emperor is the last one to know. She writes to Prince Akbar regularly, plotting—” He almost sucked his words back, becoming aware of his folly in sharing personal secrets with the Qazi. “Grant the emperor a few moments of repose and solitude, Abdal.” He signaled dismissal with a slight wave of his arm. “Inform the guards that the emperor will be ready to return to the Audience Hall shortly.” Aurangzeb heaved himself up under a spell of fever after Abdal Wahhab had effaced himself most obediently. His head was spinning, the fire of the jewels on his gold turban spilling down over his spine, it seemed! An imperceptible shudder in his back and a loud one in his thoughts made him abandon his prayer rug, the cool marble under his feet a subtle reprieve and comfort to the coursing of fever inside his very veins. This reprieve was short-lived, his feet hot and stinging all of a sudden, as soon as he began to pace. The fever and activity of his body and mind were violating the sanctity of this mosque with the inharmonious rhythm of his pacing. This House of God was no more his sanctuary. It was the hall of Judgment Day, hurling him down into the abyss of chaos and confusion. The past six years of his reign were sculpted into the cannonballs of war and destruction. Inside the darkness of his abyss, a hurricane of rage was swirling, his own rage from his raging heart, counting all defeats as cankers of fate most baleful and pernicious. The kingdoms of Beltala and Darrang were lost to him. Assam too was lost, since Ram Singh had suffered defeat at the hands of the Ahoms, and had retreated to Rangamati, close to the border of Bengal. Bir Singh in Ajmer was the chief rebel, raising the banners of sedition at every opportunity. The district of Schwan, to the West of Sindh, had beenravaged and plundered by the warring clans of Uchhrain. More and more imperialists were needed to check the constant flow of unrest and rebellion in the provinces of Hardi and Allahabad. Aurangzeb’s thoughts held on to the hem of Allahabad, greeting the clouds of doubt where Prince Azam could be seen as the statue of his own suspicions.

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Prince Azam had been accused of gaining support from the emperor’s governor, Mir Khan in Allahabad. It was reported to the emperor that his son was plotting against him, and employing all means of force and stealth to become the independent ruler of Shambal. Both the prince and the governor had been severely punished. Mir Khan was divested of his rank and post, his property confiscated. Prince Azam was incarcerated inside the palace, forbidden to communicate with any viziers or grandees. Later, he was pardoned, then wedded, and immediately dispatched to Bijapur. My craven and slothful prince! Aurangzeb’s rage and rancor were rising afresh. This lowly sparrow, my ambitious prince, has not the strength of a high-soaring falcon! He lacks courage, his heart trembling with fear at the very thought of a slight disturbance! His feet came to a slow halt by the marble screen, reflecting a lacework of sunshine in exquisite patterns. Aurangzeb stood there, gazing at the artwork of nature and sunshine in some sort of blind stupor, the mists of awe and silence inside the mosque enveloping him. His heart was heavy, no light of peace or comfort entering its fiery domain. Astonishingly enough, though sightless to the present moment of warmth and beauty, he could see the impatient retreat of his thoughts, marching past five years hence, at the time when the Jats in Mathura had risen in a great rebellion. Their leader Gokla had been captured and his limbs hacked off one by one, in public. The splinter of piety in Aurangzeb’s heart was sharp and merciless at the recollection of this memory, condemning Gokla into the pit of everlasting torments for not accepting the offer of Islam. His family was converted to Islam, so spared from the brutal punishments of hell in this world and the world hereafter. Aurangzeb’s thoughts were pious and sanctimonious. The Satnami revolt was next, ballooning into Aurangzeb’s head like an old spirit of the past, alive and threatening. The Satnamis’ rebellion had flared up between a peasant and a soldier at Narmul, near Delhi. Soon, they had gathered a large force, goaded and encouraged by an old crone of a sorceress. She had written out spells for each rebel, prophesying that these spells would protect them from any harm, also boasting that, equipped with such charms, if any man fell in the battle, seventy would spring forth from the earth to take his place. Aurangzeb, upon learning of these charms and boasts, had contrived his own spells, sewn onto the banners of the army, and succeeded in hurling the evil wretches into death and extinction. The great tides of fresh rebellions surfaced in Aurangzeb’s head as he stood invading the lace patterns in the sunshine, but his thoughts themselves whipped these storms to silence, his feet stirring on the will of

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their own. He abandoned the sanctuary of his solitude, the awe and silence behind him charged with the arrows of fates, evil and leering. The melee of his crushed thoughts was scribbling one name, the name of a great rebel, the leader of the Sikhs, no other than Guru Gobind Singh himself. Before the emperor could erase that name, he found himself standing on the glittering steps of the mosque, and forced his thoughts back into the shoebox memories of the past and the present. His feet felt safe in their gold-pointed shoes, which his royal page had helped him slip on, and now he trooped down the front lawn to reach his caparisoned elephant. The velvet-lined howdah, all gilded and painted and perched elegantly on the back of the elephant, housed the emperor on his journey toward the palace. His thoughts had commenced a journey of their own, breaking free of discipline and revived by their zeal. The windows of his mind were thrown open on a scene from two years ago, the site of an execution. Mohammad Tahir was the victim, branded as a Shia heretic, committed to the gallows for cursing the first thee Khalifas of Islam. Another heretic who had met the same fate five years earlier was a Portuguese friar, who had embraced Islam, then turned apostate, returning to his own faith. The unclean heretic! Aurangzeb’s thoughts were an undisciplined march once again. To discipline his thoughts, Aurangzeb focused his attention on the procession of royal guards in the distance, to their right, the waves of the Jamna, quiet and glinting. The mounts of the guards were adorned with jeweled saddles, glinting with sparkle and sunshine. Tassels of yak tail on either side of the saddles are fluttering in the wind, like the spirits restless and implacable, Aurangzeb thought. Those were not the only spirits his gaze could hold and arrest, but also a throbbing, pulsating mob of angry men—enraged spirits, indeed; those of the Sikhs and the Hindus, lurking close to the edge of the imperial highway to block the emperor’s path and the path of the royal entourage. The waves of men, teeming closer, were raising a wall of protests with the sudden fury of a tempest. Their voices ebbed in disgruntled chants against the emperor, and against his edicts of jizya and of the destruction of the holy temples. “Keep on riding! If they are not trampled under the feet of the horses and the elephants, more ignominious death than this will await them!” was Aurangzeb’s firecracker of a command, falling over the shoulders of Uighar Khan, riding beside his elephant. Uighar Khan, the imperial commander, was prompt in obeying the emperor’s command. In a flash, the Arabian steeds, spurred by the Moghul cavaliers, were breaking down the wall of unholy protests, the yak tails on their saddles the wings of evil and nemesis. Trodden under the horses’

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hooves, the men fell left and right, the melee swift and merciless. The groans and laments of the wounded and the dying were loud and heartrending, the beams of the sun itself parting their lips and shuddering. Through this haze of gold, painted red with bleeding wounds, the emperor’s elephant inched closer to the palace grounds. Aurangzeb, hugging the comforts of his howdah in velvet and brocade, was intent upon reaching his palace. Blind with rage, his thoughts could not see the misery and mutilation of the slain and the suffering, his gaze slicing thin the imperial grounds, aware only of the red sandstone palace in the distance. He seemed deaf to the cries of agony and despair all around, accosting only the magnificent contours of this Delhi palace, which were coming into view, lofty and imperious. His puritanic features were taut and flushed, the lamps of zeal in his eyes bright and smoldering. The ocean of torment was left behind, the entourage of the emperor proud and triumphant. Aurangzeb’s gaze admired the valor of his cavalry, or rather, assessed the worth of their armor. He could see their coats of mail gleaming like the desert sand, the leather shields, varnished black, held high and gilded with sunshine. The neat ranks of the imperialists, wearing gold turbans with red plumes, were parting on both sides of the sandy tracks to let the emperor’s mount enter the palace gates. The emperor was impatient to dismount his howdah, waving away all assistance, and headed straight towards the Audience Hall without heeding protocol or acknowledging curtsies. The Audience Hall, with its scalloped arches in sprays of silk and brocade, was hosting Aurangzeb as the arbiter of truth and might. The jewels on his turban were losing their luster against the inlay of chaste flowers in amethyst and carnelian on the marble pillars, his look glazed and ponderous. But the Peacock Throne, upon which he sat in all splendor, was an object of awe and veneration for all present. There was no music, only the jingle of notes from the lips of the viziers, who were permitted to speak following the strict protocol of the royal court. With the exception of the proceedings of the court, a curtain of silence was lowered over all. Even the tassels of gold seemed to hold the flowered canopies in restraint, lest they commit a breach of etiquette, incited by the wind. In conformity with court etiquette, the emperor’s personal attendants and standard bearers were standing below the throne in utmost obedience. To the sides were tiers of balconies divided by silver railings, the first rows reserved for the emirs, the rajas and the ambassadors. Below these were other balconies marked off by red lacquered railings. These housed the foot soldiers, standing there at full attention with their hands crossed and their eyes downcast.

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State affairs were brought to the emperor’s attention in a succession of reports to be read by viziers and grandees. As well as these reports, each one was obliged to inform the emperor of every detail of any events or new developments from all four poles of his empire. The treasurers were the first ones to present their reports this particular afternoon. Then the rajas and the nabobs laid bare their maps of concerns, dotted with seditions which they were unable to quell for the lack of funds and troops. As soon as Jafar Khan was presented to voice his fears, the emperor’s attention was keen and intense, as if burning the cloak of his vizier’s apprehension with the torch of his own penetrating gaze. “Shivaji, Your Majesty, after his coronation, addressed his followers in this manner—” Jafar Khan paused as if afraid to divulge all that had been reported to him. “Why should we remain content with what the Muslim rulers choose to give us? We are Hindus. This whole country is ours by right, and yet is occupied and held by the foreigners. They desecrate our temples, break our holy idols, plunder our wealth, convert us forcibly to their religion, carry away our women folk and children, slay the cows and inflict a thousand wrongs upon us. We will suffer this treatment no more. We possess strength in our arms. Let us draw the sword in defense of our sacred religion, liberate our country and acquire new lands and wealth by our own effort. Are we not as brave and capable as our ancestors of yore? Let us take this holy mission and God will surely help us. All human efforts are so helped. There is no such thing as good luck and ill luck. We are the captains of our own fortunes and the makers of our freedom. This is his speech and threat to the Moghuls, Your Majesty, though he is still enjoying the festivities of his coronation,” he concluded with a mingling of fear and relief. “That Mountain Rat, running wild over the fields of his lies and deception!” Aurangzeb exclaimed, his eyes kindling the flames of rage and self-righteousness. “He should have been guarded well at Agra. A most bitter lesson, which we all must learn in order to safeguard our interests in the future! And that lesson is that a trifling negligence leads to incalculable harm!” The wildfire of rage in his eyes was obscured by the dust of curiosity, as he asked abruptly: “How could this lowly-born wretch be crowned a king, Jafar? Explain this paradox to the emperor?” “The Hindu priests, Your Majesty, are not only his friends, but support him in all his riots of plundering and pillaging. They are the ones who proclaimed him to be of the caste of Kshatriya, tracing his ancestry back to the Sisodia clan of Udaipur, who were great warriors.” Jafar Khan was eager to supply this information, hoping to be dismissed soon.

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“How was this evil crow crowned?” Aurangzeb’s quiver of curiosity was bulging, his eyes shooting arrows. “Grand ceremonies, Your Majesty! If I may quote the English ambassador, Oxenden, who was present at his coronation?” Jafar Khan breathed reluctance, yet continued, noticing the flood of impatience in the emperor’s eyes. “Vedic incantations befitting a Kshatriya hero, as Oxenden reported. He was weighed in gold, which was distributed amongst the poor. Fifty thousand people gathered to celebrate this occasion, and were rewarded with sumptuous meals for several weeks. He is invested with the title of the Maharaja. Being the head of Kshatriya Kula, he is also called the Lord of the Throne, and the Lord of the Umbrella.” “Oxenden! He suffered the hardships of journeys long and grueling just to watch this farce of a coronation?” Aurangzeb shot another missile of inquiry, his look smoldering with disbelief. “He even gave him presents, Your Majesty. They were donated by the East India Company.” Jafar Khan let this bullet of information escape out of the shield of his caution and restraint. “First, the throne of the Mountain Rat will be shattered to pieces, and then the emperor will wave his wand of vengeance over the shoulders of the East India Company.” Aurangzeb signaled dismissal, his gaze spiraling over his viziers like bolts of lightning. Asad Khan was next to open his bale of reports at the emperor’s feet. “Your Majesty. Sikhs are planting seeds of revolt in the Punjab, much like what Shivaji did in Maharashtra,” Asad Khan began promptly, trying to escape the raging intensity in the emperor’s eyes. “Guru Gobind Singh, to avenge the death of his father, Guru Tegh Bahadur, is taking up arms and inciting the Rajputs to rebellion, his sway reaching as far as the Siwalik Hills. He says he is the next Guru, sent by God as savior to save the virtuous and destroy the evil-doers. He quotes from the holy book of the Puranas that God deputed Durga to destroy evil-doers, and now he himself is blessed with this task: to fight the Moghuls. He enjoins that every Sikh must fight against cruelty and tyranny, and should help the poor and protect the weak—” His report was cut short by the whip of lightning in the emperor’s eyes. “Guru Gobind Singh! That reptile most base and savage! How dare he accuse the Moghuls of cruelty and tyranny, when all they are doing is to squeeze a little peace out of the pot belly of chaos and ignorance in Hind?” Aurangzeb’s features were flushed with rage, his eyes flashing commands. “Order a large contingent of imperialists to march to the Punjab without delay, and to crush all heathens who dare malign the edicts of our justice

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and reform with lies bold and malefic!” His gaze was attaining the luster and warmth of a Lucifer charm as he added: “It would be a miracle, to receive even one crumb of good news this inauspicious day!” His attention was already turning to Danishmand Khan, the next vassal of evil or good. “A miracle indeed Your Majesty, because I am the messenger of good news!” Danishmand Khan beamed, flashing his teeth from under the bush of his black moustache. “Shayista Khan sends happy reports, Your Majesty. The Maghs are totally routed, and the Feringhis defeated and expelled from Bengal. Moghuls have captured the fort of Chittagong, and all piracy and oppression are under control. Thousands of Bengal peasants who were kidnapped by the Feringhis and held in serfdom have returned to their homes. The Feringhis have left behind many cannons, matchlocks, camels, swivels and much ammunition. Shayista Khan expresses his joy in relating all this and adds that the revenue of Bengal, in truth, is the composure of the minds of the Muslims with regard to the pirates. I can imagine how fast cultivation will increase in Bengal, now that the Maghs’ violence has been put down. That’s all Shayista Khan has written, Your Majesty.” “Bengal! A hell well-stocked with bread!” Aurangzeb declared happily, espying Francois Brenier behind Danishmand Khan. “How do you hail the defeat of your fellow Christians, Brenier?” His joy was soaring toward the rungs of good humor. “I disown them, Your Majesty,” Francois Brenier confessed pontifically. “They are Christians in name alone, ruled by the most detestable of passions. Poisoning or massacring one another without a grain of remorse or compunction, even assassinating their own priests. Men hard of heart! Killing even little children, and boasting amongst themselves of having reached the very acme of evil-doing. Their barbarous habits were satisfied by the Magh king, who employed them for raiding and marauding, and paid them rich rewards in gifts and salaries.” “For your honesty, Brenier, you will reap rich rewards in this world and the world hereafter,” Aurangzeb murmured piously, clapping his hands for the quick succession of the audience without much delay or ceremony. “Golconda is still a cauldron of unrest and rebellion, Your Majesty,” Randaz Khan began without hesitation. “Abul Hasan is not the valiant warrior you deemed him to be. He prefers a life of ease, heaping honors upon himself. He calls himself king. When Mirza Muhammed asked him about this boast and indiscretion, he replied: If we are not to be called kings, how can the emperor be styled the king of kings?”

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“He has an evil and wicked tongue. It will be cut off if he dare speak in such a manner again; send him this reprimand as the emperor’s Farman!” Aurangzeb swallowed the bitter pill of his folly and judgment, adding: “He is valiant, no doubt, that’s why the emperor’s choice fell on him. But considering his indiscretion, the emperor might change his mind. Also, send a letter to Prince Muazzam through a swift courier saying that he is to repair to Golconda, and instruct him to keep a close watch on Abul Hasan.” He waved his dismissal, his gaze shifting to his father-in-law, Nawaz Khan. “Pardon me for burdening you with this information, Your Majesty, but the Qazis of your empire have become notoriously corrupt, gathering puns and ridicule from every sect and clan.” Nawaz Khan’s noble features were a portrait of regret and sadness. “To trust a Qazi is to court misfortune. This has become an adage amongst nobles and peasants alike. They sell religion for worldliness, regarding this noble office as an easy one, taking bribes and doing away with the rights of men. Their eyes are blinded with greed, their mouths thirsting for gold, and their bellies hungering for the bread of the poor. Your laws and edicts of justice are good and wholesome, Your Majesty, but no one is willing to observe them.” His voice was almost choked by despair and hopelessness. “A universal plague, besides the plague of war, this greed!” Aurangzeb admitted, much to the chagrin of his own piety and pride. “These issues will be addressed and judicial standards made strict than ever before.” A feeble wave of dismissal was all he could command before granting audience to Zulfiqar Khan. “A courier from Agra arrived last night with disturbing news, Your Majesty. The Taj Mahal is under attack this time,” Zulfiqar Khan began ominously. “No one has been arrested, but agate and carnelian from its cenotaph have been chipped away. It appears from the damage that the thieves used chisels and hammers,” he concluded, noticing the stars of impatience in the emperor’s eyes. “Order immediate repairs to the sacred tomb, Zulfiqar! Also, guards are to be posted at the gates of the Taj Mahal at all hours of the day and night.” Weariness was settling in Aurangzeb’s gaze and manner. “Or summon Fadai Khan from Lahore. He can be trusted with the delicate repairs to the Taj Mahal, as he has been trustworthy in quelling the rebellions. Has he sent any word about the construction of the Badshahi mosque? When it is to be completed?” “A courier arrived just this morning, Your Majesty,” was Zulfiqar Khan’s prompt response. “Fadai Khan confirms that the Badshahi mosque is almost complete, a grand structure in the very heart of Lahore. He hopes

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that the emperor will be pleased with its design and architecture,” he concluded happily. “The emperor would surely be pleased if he could dissolve all warring factions with some magical wand, and retire to that mosque, making it his altar and hermitage!” A sprig of dry wit escaped Aurangzeb’s lips, his gaze arrested by the next vizier in line. “Your Majesty.” Qasim Khan stepped forward, encouraged by the emperor’s attention, and minding not Zulfiqar Khan’s slow retreat. “Any new reports from Peshawar, Qasim Khan?” Aurangzeb’s gaze was profound and piercing. “The emperor must arm himself with each little sprig of intrigue on the part of the Affridis before he marches to Peshawar to chastise those inveterate rebels!” “Amin Khan and Shujat Khan are still suffering assaults from the Affridis, Your Majesty, finding themselves at a great disadvantage in being encamped at the foot of the hills,” was Qasim Khan’s bold and earnest response! “Mahabat Khan has sent a bitter letter complaining about all the generals, including Jaswant Singh, calling them low rascals. He says that the emperor has his favorites, but the reason the Moghuls are suffering at the hands of the Affridi rebels is that they are craven and indolent. Hugely slack in performing their duties, especially Amin Khan!” “Mahabat Khan, the low rascal himself! Send him to Kabul. Tell this low rascal that he needs to thaw his bitterness in the snow valleys of Kabul, and need not seek the emperor’s audience until commanded.” The gold daggers of rage were shining in Aurangzeb’s eyes all of a sudden. “Why is he so much against Amin Khan?” “Amin Khan has suffered two defeats, Your Majesty, as you know,” Qasim Khan began cautiously. “After his first defeat, when he returned to Peshawar, he committed a murder. The victim was the chief of Peshawar, Mustajab, accused by him of siding with the Affridis. Mustajab, while suffering the death agonies, begged for water. But Amin Khan replied: Many Muslims have died of thirst. It is not wrong that you should die of the same cause, as reparation for your treachery. He is known to have fits of madnesses, I hear,” he added enigmatically. “Treachery and disloyalty, great evils of this age, moving brave men like Amin Khan to acts of violence?” was Aurangzeb’s sanctimonious comment, condoning the cruelty of his general as something insignificant. “Send a letter to Prince Akbar, commanding him to meet the emperor at Hasan Abdal in Kabul. I want to see him before I march toward Peshawar. Are all the preparations for our campaign in order?” He got to his feet, abandoning his magnificent throne slowly and ponderously. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Qasim Khan bowed his head.

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The ocean of viziers parted to let the emperor pass through, a few chosen ones following him through the maze of the terraces and the colonnades. Aurangzeb was quiet and contemplative, dismissing all with a low command over his shoulder. Soon, he was lost in the marble hallways, his heart burdened with torments strange and unfathomable. The gilded paintings on the walls and the damask hangings appeared to be mocking him, as if he was an unwelcome stranger in this vast palace of marble and red sandstone. Involuntarily, he drifted toward the private mosque at the end of the hall. The Persian carpets under his feet, in colors rude and bright, were whispering to him of secrets old and jolting him to awareness. A marble screen with patterns of lace and sunshine was luring his attention, but he sprinted past it and entered the little mosque. He could not take another step, his gaze arrested by Princess Jahanara, who was kneeling most reverently, her eyes closed and her lips moving in mute prayers. Sensing a presence, she scrambled to her feet, the net of opals in her hair catching shafts of sunshine and changing color. “Stay, my dear princess! The emperor will kneel beside you,” the plea of a command escaped Aurangzeb’s lips as he stepped out of his gold pointed shoes, not meeting his sister’s gaze. Princess Jahanara slumped back on the floor, her pale silks rustling and her heart thundering. She shifted her gaze up to the jeweled ceiling encrusted with amethyst and carnelian as if seeking guidance from the handiwork of the artisans. Aurangzeb lowered himself to the floor beside her, his gaze still averted, probing the inlay of jewels on the walls as if he was seeing it for the very first time. “The emperor is much in need of praying, though his heart is empty of all prayers,” Aurangzeb lamented to himself. “How can you say that, Your Majesty? You pray five times a day without fail,” Princess Jahanara murmured, her look sad and comforting. “A ritual of penance, imploring for Divine Guidance,” Aurangzeb murmured back. The jewels in his gold turban were catching shafts of sunlight and blazing, as if revealing the fire of his inner torment! “Guidance enters a loving heart, Your Majesty. With the Grace of God! Without the need of prayers or penance,” was Princess Jahanara’s Sufic response. “A loving heart, mutilated by the swords of intrigues and rebellions?” Aurangzeb breathed piously. “Your edicts are too harsh, Your Majesty, breeding discord and contention,” Princess Jahanara warned, but gently.

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“Islam must reign supreme in Hind! All infidels must be given the opportunity to embrace light and truth.” Aurangzeb’s gaze, as well as his heart, was gathering the mists of piety. “There is nothing Islamic about killing the Sikhs, murdering the Hindus, or demolishing the holy temples, Your Majesty!” Princess Jahanara was voicing her bewilderment, not accusing her emperor–brother of such unholy blunders. “Temples are the dens of profanity, flaunting the evils of idolatry and falsehood!” was Aurangzeb’s pious justification. “The infidels should consider themselves fortunate in death, since their wicked hearts don’t permit them to surrender to the will of Allah!” “All God’s creations and created are gifts of holiness, Your Majesty!” Princess Jahanara demurred aloud. “As Prophet Muhammed claimed, the whole of this earth is a mosque. What difference does it make, Your Majesty, if some call it a temple, others a church, and still others a mosque or a synagogue? All cannot be imprisoned in one particular house of worship. God is manifest everywhere, in plains and valleys, from the very depths of the oceans to the tops of the mountains—” Aurangzeb had jumped to his feet, and fled as if lanced by the arrows of blasphemy, his heart bleeding and constricting. The sea of hatred inside him was wild and stormy, contemplating a flood of vengeance to drown all infidels in the waters of the damned. Blinded by the tempest of his rage, he did not know that he was barefoot, and flying through the halls like a madman. The corridors leading toward the seraglio were dimly lit and guarded by eunuchs, but he seemed oblivious to all, seeing only the reflections of his inner torment all around. The chaste walls, blemished by gold and gilt paintings, were the shadows of his anguish; so were the rude colored tapestries, tainted with the fogs of reality and illusion. Even the eunuchs, bowing double before his haste and madness, were the phantoms of his imagination, Aurangzeb’s thoughts proclaimed. The only reality amidst the throes of his mad flight was the painful realization of his sister’s voice, reason and compassion laced with the poison of absurdity. Princess Jahanara had always been his savior and mentor, and now her words were haloed around his thoughts like a ring of fire. Yet his thoughts were squirming and protesting. They could be heard raging against a world teeming with the kernels of evil and infidelity, diving deep into the mirror’s reflection of their piety and justice. And yet, from the frenzied pores of his raging thoughts was oozing forth the wine of love, a concoction most sweet and bitter. Almost choking with bewilderment, his thoughts could not help muttering that he must swallow this bitter-sweet potion and know the measure of his love for Udaipuri.

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The walls of the harem, all gilt and damask, soothed Aurangzeb’s rage, the trickling of a dewdrop of love commencing its journey, vague and unpredictable. He stood outside the chamber of his beloved, inert and brooding. The sunlit foyer, flanked by marble screens and casting lace shadows, held him prisoner with its chains of beauty and mystery. His heart was tender and aching. An overwhelming sense of fatigue and loneliness was swaddling his heart into rags of despair and longing. He stood fondling the flowers on his satin vest, the jewels in his turban lit by the fire of sunshine. He thought his soul was smoldering, and yet he could sense its sadness and stillness, the echo of love in its quiet folds a canker or sickness. Suddenly, his heart was a thunderbolt of longings, his body dissolving into mists stark and fiendish. He was literally whipped to action, lifted to his feet like a stray cloud, and landed in the chamber of his beloved, all cottony and flustered. A volley of laughter greeted him from the lips of Udaipuri, his own lowering the standards of reproof. “What madness is this, Udaipuri? To laugh like a heathen, lacking all propriety and refinement?” Aurangzeb’s voice choked against the assault of love and bewilderment from his anguished heart. “Your feet, Your Majesty!” Udaipuri was trying her best to stifle her mirth. “Isn’t it ludicrous, gold and jewels on your head, and not a patch of velvet on your feet?” A fresh tinkling of mirth poured from her ruby-red lips. “The emperor has to come barefoot to pay homage at the shrine of your beauty, my love,” was Aurangzeb’s half tender, half mortified response to discovering that he had left his shoes at his private mosque. “A great honor, Your Majesty! For my beauty never moved you to such lengths before!” Udaipuri’s dark eyes were lit up with drunken mirth. “Beloved and adorable!” Aurangzeb sighed to himself. “Wine in your eyes and honey on your lips, why do you have to corrupt your youth with the poison forbidden to all the faithful?” He drifted toward her like one drunk and stricken to the very core of his heart. “In faith, Your Majesty, I drink what God made lawful to all!” Udaipuri sang blissfully. “If the emperor didn’t love you, my heathen princess, you would be stoned for uttering such heresy.” Aurangzeb crushed her into a maddening embrace, his kisses wild and scalding. The emperor was caught in a vortex of passion, terrible and savage. The brute, primal desire in him was the fire of animal hunger, devouring not only her flesh, but consuming the marrow of her body and soul. He had ripped open her dress, feasting on her breasts, the dagger of his madness piercing her with such violence that he had to stifle her screams

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with kisses more violent than his act of love and madness. One last convulsion of ecstasy, and he was relaxing his hold on her, becoming aware of her bruised lips with a sense of horror and self-loathing. In a flash, he was kneeling beside her, kissing her feet. Something inside him had snapped loose, some wound fresh and cankerous. It was the flower of deformity, bloated with shame and grotesque-looking. Almost concealed by this flower of deformity was his own, very little, insignificant bloom of love, wilted and swooning in the ocean of his hatred for mankind. He could see his heart as the battleground of zeal and vengeance with swords drawn over the heads of the infidels. The infidels were breeding like locusts, and he had to destroy them all for the salvation of his soul and sanity. “Love hurts! Wine comforts—” Udaipuri was dragging her naked and bruised body to the sanctuary of her own salvation, a rose and ivory chest concealing flagons of wine. “The nectar of the Gods! How could it be forbidden?” Her lips, glowing with the soma of wine, poured forth mirth, loud and hysterical.

CHAPTER FOUR BELOVED UDAIPURI

The red sandstone palace of Delhi was hosting a splendid court in its forty-pillared hall, painted white, its awnings bright and colorful. Aurangzeb, seated on his Peacock Throne, was donned in white, no jewels adorning him, only the sparkling dance of the gems on his throne radiating colors bright and glorious. As part of his ascetic discipline, he had vowed to himself not to wear any jewels or fineries, but in this court of splendor and magnificence, he could as well be judged the victim of his absurdities than the author of zeal and asceticism. The entire court, this particular day, was an arena of high decorum, and so were the courtiers, in colorful robes and jeweled turbans. The viziers and the ambassadors, in disciplined ranks, were standing in utmost obedience to the will and command of the emperor. According to their ranks, the nobles and grandees occupied different tiers, flanked by silver railings. Down below were more tiers, separated by wood railings, all lacquered red, where the soldiers stood awaiting the pleasure or displeasure of the emperor in conformity with his mood or caprice. Right now, the gold stars of displeasure were shining in Aurangzeb’s eyes, his angular features attaining the gleam of disdain. He was listening to the report of a lieutenant, his gaze piercing even the fabric of thin air with a sparkling assiduity. Paradoxically, Aurangzeb was feeling the sparkling of pain and fear in the cold, cold chambers of his heart, but his eyes were gathering the mists of probity and judgment. The false decorum of this court, with all its awe and unreality, was a slithering revelation, dawning upon him like the clapping of distant thunder. Inside him were chaos and storms, real and relentless, much like the blight of the seasons. And outside him were order and discipline, dreamy and strange. Deep within him was the tinkling of the music which he had banned, and the ripple-laughter of the dancers whom he had stifled. These sounds, sweet and distant, flowered into blooms of mockery, choking his sense of zeal and reason. His psyche was a cauldron of pain, abysmal and profound, much like the Scythian night, without life and sound.

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A dark pit of grief and mourning was opening its doors in the emperor’s psyche too, and had more substance to him than all the weightless burdens of his zeal and atrocities. He could see them scattered over the land and sea in rivulets of ruin and devastation, unreal and allusive. And yet the mournful silence in his psyche was unreal too, lending no voice to the maddening mission within—to purge the entire world of all idols and infidels. Five grueling years of war and destruction were blackened with the soot of time—unclean and forgotten. Scars and wounds too had been left behind in utter neglect, but the one scar which he could neither efface nor forget was the scar of a tragedy, the death of his eldest son, Prince Sultan Muhammed. This particular day, even at this precise moment, as Aurangzeb sat receiving the embassies, the ghost of his son wearing the death mask of three silent years had come out of his grave to challenge the very fabric of sanity in living. Though fiercely attentive to the reports of unrest and rebellion in his empire, Aurangzeb’s thoughts were retreating into the tunnels of the past, where Prince Sultan Muhammed could be seen following him as his nemesis, most stern and tyrannous. In an effort to escape this painful vision, his thoughts channelled their retreat into the fields of the past two years, where revolts were buried under the fire of the muskets and cannon shots in the city of Peshawar. In order to quell the rebellions of the Afghans and the Affridis, the emperor had encamped on the verdant hills of Hasan Abdal, between Peshawar and Rawalpindi. A Turkish noble by the name of Aghar Khan had been chosen as commander of the army to clear the Khyber Pass of all Afghans and caravans. Meanwhile, Prince Akbar, under the guardianship of Asad Khan, had been commanded to march to Kabul by way of Kohat. Mahabat Khan had been divested of his post of viceroy and held under suspicion of plotting against Shujat Khan. The presence of the emperor at Hasan Abdal, with mighty forces at his command, had poured fear and consternation into the hearts of the rebels. More awed than disheartened, the smaller tribes and the Bangashes had abandoned their plans of rebellion, joining hands with the imperialists to vanquish other clans still on the road to rebellion. Soon, the clans of the Ghorai, Ghilzai, Shirrani and Yusufzai were defeated and ousted from their villages. After these sweeping victories, the tribes of the Tiroli, Daudzai and Tarakzai had been quick to offer their submission. Khushal Khan, the Chieftain of Khatak, who had mustered a great force under his command, had been in no mood to submit to the Moghuls. He had been up in arms, challenging the authority of the imperialists with great stratagems. Aghar Khan had gained victory in the West of Peshawar, creating much havoc and bloodshed. Learning in advance that the Mohmands were

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planning a night attack on his encampment, he had surprised them in return, slaying three hundred of their soldiers, and gathering much booty. In addition to the rich booty, two thousand rebels were taken captive. After this success, he had added more forces to his command with the help of Fadai Khan, the Governor of Kabul. Then he had marched toward the Khyber Pass to pave the way for more victories. Before he could reach it, he had to confront four thousand Afghans on the slopes of Ali Masjid, who were equipped with arms and courage to retain their hold on the Khyber Pass. The fighting had been fierce and savage, resulting in heavy losses on both sides. Many were slain and wounded, but Aghar Khan had emerged victorious once again. Though injured, he had managed to raise the morale of his troops with cries of victory and promises of reward. In a fresh burst of frenzy, the imperialists had fallen upon the enemy with such force that they had fled in utter panic. In this pandemonium of flight and confusion, many were slain and many taken prisoner. Aurangzeb’s thoughts stirred the soot of the past, though looking straight into the face of the present, which was bleak and dismal, seething with the evil reports from the lips of his generals and courtiers. He appeared to be resting inside the sanctuary of his black peace, both distant and attentive. All events paraded before his sight and mind’s eyes were stripped naked of time and consequence, Aurangzeb thought, emitting a few sparks of reality here and there to remind him of his role as the emperor. He was half listening, half dreaming, his heart suddenly crying with the pure agony of hopelessness for the nearness of Udaipuri. His heart was a volcano of longing, throbbing with the violence of a wound fresh and cankerous. To defy and kill this passionate violence, his thoughts returned back to the cloister of time, where Hasan Abdal was clothed in the mists of illusions. Aghar Khan, though victorious, had had many more battles to fight, since the tribal Afghans, as a motley of clans, had resorted to guerilla tactics to thwart the authority of this tireless Turk. The leaders of these Afghani tribes had blocked the roads to impede the advance of Aghar Khan. But bold and fearless as an arrow, Aghar Khan, after taking Fadai Khan, under his wing, had marched to Jalalabad, fighting all the way and conquering Nangrahar. His next campaign was at Jagdalak Pass, which he had succeeded in wresting free from the hands of the Ghilzais, who had seized it a few months earlier, claiming it as their territorial possession. Then he had marched to Gonamak, securing it as his outpost, but had been attacked during the night by a contingent of forty thousand Afghans. This battle had lasted till late in the afternoon the next day, bathing the soldiers

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on both sides in pools of blood, but the Afghans were the ones beating a retreat and fleeing. At this juncture, the emperor had commanded Prince Akbar to advance eastwards from Jalalabad. He was instructed to crush the rebellion of the Afghans, and to keep the Khyber Pass open for the sole privilege of the imperialists. This move was further strengthened by sending a posthaste message to Jaswant Singh to post guards at the Khyber Pass, while Hasan Beg was commanded to keep a close watch over the defile at Karapa. Hasan Abdal, the seat of all the warring expeditions, had become the emperor’s prison and battlefield. Soon, the news had been brought to him that Fadai Khan on his way from the Kabul to Peshawar had been attacked by the Afghans. They had killed his Arab commander near the precincts of Jagdalak Pass, seizing a great store of artillery, including the war elephants. Learning of this tragic incident, Aghar Khan, who had been stationed at the borders of Gandamak, had hastened to the aid of Fadai Khan. These two generals had then succeeded in routing the rebels and reclaiming the Jagdalak Pass. Aghar Khan could not divide himself into several Aghar Khans to win victories for the Moghuls in all quarters, so the battle at Bajuar, headed by Mukaram Khan, had ended in defeat for the imperialists. A majority of his soldiers were slain, and Mukaram Khan himself, with a handful of survivors, had fled Bajuar, taking refuge in Thanadar. Incensed and outraged, the emperor had commanded Aghar Khan to take charge, and as expected he had succeeded in reversing this defeat to victory. But the Afghans were not ones to cease making their assaults whenever an opportunity presented itself to their advantage. They were defeated, but their spirits were not deflated. Soon, the rod of their vengeance had fallen on the Chief of Jagdalak, Hazbar Khan, whom they murdered, killing his son also, along with several Moghul guards. Their nex,t victim was Abdullah, the Chief of the Sukhab and the Barangob. He was forced to abandon his post after many of his soldiers were slain by the Afghans. Aurangzeb had deemed these little skirmishes insignificant, bestowing cloaks of martyrdom on the slain, and applauding the victories since most of the major forts at strategic points in Afghanistan had succumbed to the might of the Moghuls. So, after a stay of one and a half years at Hasan Abdal, the emperor had returned to Delhi, intending to direct his attention to the affairs of Deccan, where Shivaji was waging his own war of rule and supremacy. Delhi was no bed of roses for the emperor. The thorns of Afghanistan followed at his heels, his tormentors everlasting. A splinter of reality, insurrection was the most hated of his foes, one which he could neither

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pluck out nor dissolve. This splinter of reality had dawned upon him with volcanic fury; whenever his back was turned, his kingdoms gained would be pillaged and plundered by the rebels, if not the foundations of Islam. One more splinter of reality which had become his foe and tyrant both was that his love for Udaipuri was his need for sustenance, the breath of his soul. He wanted to absorb and devour her entirely, inside the cup of his piety and passion, purging her utterly of her passion for drink and impious abandon. Foundering deep down in the depths of his need and desire, he had ended up abandoning himself most slavishly to the will of his beloved. But his will could not slumber for long, discovering his love sublime and passion supreme to be the children of devilry. Though loving by the virtue of his need, he was becoming a victim of his fears and suspicions. Fears, for the salvation of Udaipuri’s soul alone, were many, and suspicions countless concerning his sons and generals. Prince Muazzam, of late, had become the subject of the emperor’s prime suspicion. In fact, he had begun to suspect all his children, excluding not even his daughters. Upon his return to Delhi, a strange sense of fear and premonition had taken hold of him, as if fate was holding him by the noose, and jolting him out of his passion supreme for Udaipuri. And yet, the fear was not for loving his beloved, but for awakening to another sting of reality—how he had treated his father. In the shackles of grief and imprisonment, his father Shah Jahan had written to him that he—Aurangzeb—would receive the same treatment from his own sons, and would be dethroned. This recollection of the past had become Aurangzeb’s living scourge, breeding inside him like an ulcer, and feeding on his fears, already swollen with the abscesses of suspicion. Prince Muazzam had failed in all his campaigns against Shivaji, and the emperor had grown suspicious of his motives and intentions. Besides, the prince was in constant conflict with his lieutenant, Dilir Khan, heaping all the burdens of his failures on his shoulders. So Aurangzeb, judging his son slothful and contentious, had decided to appoint someone else to deal with the exploits of Shivaji. Since he didn’t trust any of his generals with such a task, his thoughts, on the rungs of impatience, had found the candidate of his choice, his eldest son, Muhammed Sultan. Muhammed Sultan had been incarcerated for the past twelve years inside the fortress of Salimgarh at Delhi on some vague charges of indiscretion and disobedience, though suspected of revolt. All of a sudden, Aurangzeb had decided to release him, more to incite the jealousies of his sons against one another than to invest him with the power of rule and commandment. By favoring Prince Muhammed Sultan, the emperor had meant to show Prince Muazzam that his favors could shift to any of his sons in

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choosing an heir to the throne. Prince Muazzam had been released from his duties of war campaigns, and brought into the palace under a shower of gifts and honors. He was greeted as a bridegroom—literally, since the emperor had arranged his marriage with Dostar Banu, the daughter of his late uncle, Prince Murad. Within a few months of his bliss in freedom, another marriage was contracted for him with Bai Devi, the daughter of Raja Khistwar. After his third marriage to the niece of Daulatabadi, the emperor had recalled Prince Muazzam to Delhi. He had intended to send Prince Muhammed Sultan to fight Shivaji, when the hand of tragedy had struck one fatal blow. Prince Muhammed Sultan’s life had been cut short by the decree of death, swift and sudden. The prince was only thirty-seven years of age. A stab of pain carved deep rents into Aurangzeb’s heart at this recollection, his gaze sharp and piercing as he sat imbibing an evil report from the lips of a general. His thoughts had donned the mantle of mourning since the death of Prince Muhammed Sultan, and now they were retreating further into their cloister, silent and mournful. Clusters upon clusters of memories were awakening there, shaded against the veil of reality, all stark and palpitating. These memories inside his head were highlighted, sharing both the worlds, within and without, with equal respect and attention. He was accustomed to living in both the worlds, more so in the inner, especially during court sessions, when reports could flare up into conflagrations of scenes—ugly and doleful. Aurangzeb’s thoughts were lowering a curtain of reprimands over the heads of his princely sons, Prince Akbar and Prince Muazzam. Unwise, willful, guided by the moods of their whim and caprice, was the litany his thoughts rehearsed against his sons. Prince Muazzam’s face was emerging before his mind’s eye like the star of fate, cold and glittering. It was brightened by the light of deceit and ambition. After the death of Prince Muhammed Sultan, the emperor had taken Prince Muazzam back into his favor, bestowing upon him jewels, grants and honors. He had been styled Shah Alam, and was made Chief Commander of Afghanistan and advised to discipline the warring clans of the Afghans. Aurangzeb’s thoughts were reaching a stalemate, his attention to the reports becoming vague and splintered. He couldn’t remember when Prince Muazzam had returned to Delhi, his gaze flying to the first tier where his sons, as royalty, were seated. The report of one vizier was just concluded, and the next embassy coming into view, but Aurangzeb had seen Prince Azam, Prince Akbar and Prince Muazzam sitting together, sharing secrets, and the emperor’s heart was murmuring suspicions. All of a sudden, his heart was thundering with the savage impulse to hurl all three of his sons into the prison of

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Gwalior, yet this impulse was as absurd as the absurdity of his thoughts, locked in a stalemate. Slowly, his thoughts, marching like the little troopers, were escaping this stalemate, and splashing through the puddles of memories, dark and profound. Prince Kam Bakhsh was peering into the window of the emperor’s mind, a lad of almost twelve, and pouring a little sunshine into the unloving heart of his royal father. Aurangzeb was blocking out this sunshine, ill reports from the lips of his viziers clouding his brow. His thoughts, after rejecting the offering of a little sunshine, shot straight toward Marwar, where hatred against the emperor was mounting to a culmination. It had been a year since Raja Jaswant Singh, who had ruled Marwar as an independent ruler by the sanction of the emperor, died at his post near the Khyber Pass. He had left no heir, so many claimants from the clans of the Rajputs and Rathors had sprouted forth with the hope of ruling both Marwar and the neighboring state, Mewar. To crush these contentions, the emperor himself had marched to Marwar, annexing this state to his empire, to be ruled and guarded by the imperialists. A semblance of peace had been restored in Marwar, and the emperor had returned to Delhi. Khan Jahan was left behind, commanded by the emperor to clean up Jodhpur by demolishing the unholy temples. Within a month, Khan Jahan had returned to Delhi bearing a cart load of idols as living proof that the emperor’s orders had been duly executed. Aurangzeb had ordered those idols to be cast down in the Armory Square, between the Delhi fort and the Jami Mosque, to be trodden upon. After this pious act, his just reward to the infidels, Aurangzeb had appointed Indra Singh, the grandson of Jaswant Singh’s elder brother, to rule the state of Marwar under the suzerainty of the emperor. Indra Singh was instructed to enforce the law of jizya, since the Hindus had grown slack in making payments during the months of warfare. Jaswant Singh was very much alive in his grave, the emperor was to learn later. After his death, five of his wives and seven concubines had burnt themselves on his funeral pyre, but two of his queens, in advanced pregnancy, had been spared from committing the rite of sati. A few months later, both the widows were delivered of their burdens, giving birth to sons. The son of one widow had survived only a week, but the son of the other was in good health. He was named Ajit Singh, and presumed to be the heir of Jaswant Singh. The emperor, being informed of such facts, had commanded that both the queens along with Ajit Singh were to be brought to the palace at Delhi. The infant Ajit Singh was to be reared properly inside the imperial harem until he came of an age to take command of Marwar. A couple of weeks

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ago, the queens, with infant Ajit Singh, had arrived in Delhi, choosing to stay in the old mansion of their late husband, King Jaswant Singh. A Rajput leader by the name of Durga Das had accompanied them, acting as their guide and protector. His father Askaran had been a devoted friend of Jaswant Singh, so Durga Das had assumed the role of a family member to safeguard the interests of the queens and the heir apparent. Aurangzeb’s disapproval was great concerning these arrangements, and he had sent a message to Durga Das telling him to bring the ladies and the infant to the palace, adding that the child would learn the proper etiquette of the Moghul court in order to be the future King of Marwar. Durga Das had not responded to the emperor’s message, so the emperor had commanded that guards be posted at the old mansion under the command of Tahir Khan. He was also entrusted with another message to Durga Das, to say that the willful guardian was under suspicion of treachery. At this recollection, Aurangzeb’s thoughts unfolded another sprig of suspicion which had been sprouting in his mind with the tenacity of a vile creeper. This vile creeper of suspicion was coiled around Prince Akbar and Princess Zebunisa, as if they were in league against him, though he had no solid evidence to validate his suspicions. Waving a quick dismissal at the messenger of Gujrat, his gaze alighted on his sons again, fear uncoiling inside him like the tongue of a serpent. But his attention was already shifting towards Amir Khan, who was approaching the throne with utmost confidence. Amir Khan was the Governor of Afghanistan, who had won the emperor’s favor by skillfully keeping the Khyber Pass safe from all troubles and guerilla warfare. He was rewarded with a smile from the emperor as he bowed his head. In the emperor’s smile was reflected the memory of a rebel, an Afghan by the name of Khushal Khan. Khushal Khan had been betrayed into the emperor’s hands by the treachery of his own son, and cast into prison for life. The smile faded from the emperor’s eyes, replaced with suspicion, as he caught Amir Khan’s genial tones. “Kabul is basking under the sunshine of prosperity, Your Majesty. Peace and order in Afghanistan too,” Amir Khan began cheerfully. “The Afghans have become quite friendly, I keep telling myself. They are not shy or unsocial anymore. Even coming up to me for advice concerning their domestic affairs!” “What is your secret, Amir Khan?” Aurangzeb’s eyes were absorbing the colors from the sparkle of jewels on his Peacock Throne. “The secret of success, in making friends and in keeping the Khyber Pass safe from the recalcitrant Afghans?”

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“The wise counsel of my wife, Sahibi, Your Majesty!” Amir Khan’s eyes twinkled with pride, his smile and mirth restrained. “If that is the only criteria of success, then most men are doomed to failure,” Aurangzeb murmured pontifically, his gaze voicing dismissal. “That’s not all, Your Majesty!” The sprinkling of mirth vanished from the lips of Amir Khan. “Success needs hard work and sound judgment. To keep the Afghans happy, I assign them good posts in the imperial army. At times, they are entitled to gifts of gold and jewels, from the imperial coffers or from my own salary.” “Your salary must be sumptuous, my generous vizier?” Aurangzeb’s lips parted in a crescent of a smile. “The skullcaps which the emperor knits with his weary hands fetch him but little. A pittance, only a few rupees to buy one coarse robe for the season, and nothing saved for a death shroud which might lend him a decent burial!” His thin arm shot up, waving a quick dismissal. Amir Khan could not help thinking that the mountain of jewels upon which the emperor sat could fetch millions if sold in this bazaar of greed and opulence. With this thought as his talisman, he stood his ground, intending to empty the quiver of his news before departing. “The skill of knitting skullcaps could benefit the prisoners, Your Majesty, to keep their hands clicking and their tongues silent,” Amir Khan appealed. His look was wild and apprehensive! “Especially Khushal Khan’s! His tongue has grown sharp as a sword since he lost his freedom and tools of destruction.” “The whip of his own mad inspiration will serve him as his executioner,” Aurangzeb murmured wearily. “What new verses has he construed lately?” Anger and suspicion slithered inside him like the serpents dark and dangerous. “Incendiary ones, Your Majesty, which make the other prisoners more slothful, if not gleeful!” Amir Khan’s tone was brimming with regrets, his heart now shuddering to look at the trail of confessions. “I would not dare repeat those in your august presence, Your Majesty.” His eyes were shining with unvoiced apologies. “The emperor commands! Don’t dare omit even one word of that devil’s versification!” Aurangzeb’s eyes lit up with the beacons of curiosity. “Your Majesty, as you command, this is what he wrote.” Amir Khan breathed reluctance, but continued. “I am he who has sorely wounded Aurangzeb’s heart Khyber Pass have I made to the Moghuls their dearest purchase In every spot have they paid taxes to the Pathans

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“Cut his tongue out and feed it to the dogs! And the other prisoners will suffer the same fate if they dare repeat such wickedness.” Aurangzeb’s final wave of dismissal brooked no disobedience. Dilir Khan, obedient to the call of protocol, was stepping forth. He had gained the emperor’s favor too, since he had assumed the role of advisor and guardian to Shambhuji, the son of Shivaji. Shambhuji had deserted his father, joining hands with the Moghuls, and helping them in their campaign to invade Bijapur. He had shown great skill and valor at the battle of Bhupalgarh, fighting side by side with the Moghuls, and earning both honor and victory. This victory was much to his credit, since he was familiar with every corner of the city. After the victory, he had revealed to the imperialists the location of an obscure place where a great treasure was concealed. The treasure had been found and claimed by the imperialists, of course, and sent to the royal treasury at Agra. Aurangzeb, after learning about this unselfish and generous conduct by Shambhuji, had not been able to bring himself to rejoice and reward, stricken instead by the arrows of doubt and suspicion. To him, Shambhuji was the son of an enemy, probably advised by his father to act thus, or a ruse designed by Shivaji himself. While the emperor’s suspicions concerning Shambhuji were simmering inside him, Shivaji had sent arms and provisions to Bijapuris, accusing Dilir Khan of the atrocities committed there. Dilir Khan had been vehement in denying all accusations, though Shambhuji, being a witness to the cruelties done to the Hindus, had even appealed to Dilir Khan on their behalf. Dilir Khan was incensed, shooting a snide comment with the authority so consonant with his character: I am my own master. You have no business teaching me lessons in good conduct. This rebuff by Dilir Khan had been met with approval from the emperor, brimming with anger against the Hindus since they were infidels and not worthy of kindness. Aurangzeb could hear the verdict of his thoughts as he watched Dilir Khan bowing before him most devotedly. He recalled also that he had commanded him to bring Shambhuji to Delhi as a prisoner. Certain that his command had been executed most diligently, Aurangzeb’s thoughts were lolling against the rungs of joy, but master of discretion as always, he chose to enquire about Shivaji’s exploits. “When will the Mountain Rat be exterminated from Deccan? How are the imperialists conducting themselves to check the pestilence of guerrilla warfare designed by Shivaji?” Aurangzeb’s gaze was intense and probing.

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“Since most of our troops are employed in the Afghan war, Your Majesty, not enough troops are there to check the exploits of Shivaji,” Dilir Khan responded with caution. “What are his exploits?” Aurangzeb demanded, a sudden weight of lead clutching his heart. “Besides Golconda, Your Majesty, he has captured Karnatak. He has also won Vellore through the support of the French at Pondicherry.” Dilir Khan’s heart was quivering against the burning intensity in the emperor’s eyes. “His health is failing though, Your Majesty, and he is not planning any further expeditions—” “Instead of arresting the son of this Mountain Rat, hurl him onto the battlefield against his own father! Then take them both captive for punishments great and terrible,” Aurangzeb interrupted imperiously. “Shambhuji, Your Majesty! He escaped—” Dilir Khan blurted out as if goaded by the shuddering of his heart. “How! Where is he now?” Aurangzeb’s voice sank, his eyes a blaze of fire. “We don’t know how he suspected arrest, Your Majesty,” Dilir Khan confessed humbly. “But one night, he and his wife, disguised as Moghul soldiers, escaped my camp at Athni. By the time their flight was discovered, they had found a safe refuge with Masud Khan. Later, I was informed that he had bribed Masud Khan heavily and escaped to Panhala. He was received there by Shivaji himself, who had journeyed to Panhala to welcome his son.” “Welcome and rejoicing, indeed!” Aurangzeb exclaimed bitterly, summoning self-discipline to whip his rage back into his raging heart. “Have the Moghuls grown weak and craven, letting all these pests escape justice so that they can disrupt the peace of our empire? What fear is making you pale all of a sudden, Dilir? Has Shivaji declared himself immune to all Moghul justice?” “No, Your Majesty,” Dilir Khan murmured, a flush creeping over his cheeks. “He is protesting though—against the edict of jizya, strictly reimposed.” “And why do you look so squeamish, not telling the emperor about the wicked protests of this Mountain Rat?” Aurangzeb breathed fire and impatience. “I meant to tell you all, Your Majesty, but Shambhuji’s escape weighed heavy on my mind,” Dilir Khan admitted honestly. “Shivaji is protesting against jizya as a blemish of oppression against the innocent multitude, adding further: God is the Lord of all men and not of the

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Mohammedans only. Islam and Hinduism are only different pigments used by the Divine Painter to paint the human species.” “This lowly infidel blasphemes!” Aurangzeb declared with pious rage. “All jackals howl alike, and the day is coming when he will rot in the jungle of his own schemes.” He waved dismissal, the blaze of his rage landing on Mirza Muhammed. “Isn’t Abul Hasan the culprit in losing Golconda to Shivaji? Sealing a secret pact with the infidel, and ruling the country himself, and yet professing fidelity and obedience to the emperor? He must be provoked on any pretext, so that we can engage him in a fair battle. Your mission is to go to Golconda, and demand from Abul Hasan those two famous diamonds which he has in his possession. Mind you, the emperor doesn’t care for those useless bits of stone. My sole intention is that you should not humor him, but bandy words with him so fearlessly that he may be harsh with you, thus giving us justification for extirpating him. Or devise some sort of quarrel with him. Never treat him politely in public or private, till the mask of his fidelity and obedience is shattered.” He waved imperiously, his gaze arresting Rahullah Khan with a singeing intensity. “Yes, Your Majesty,” Mirza Muhammed doubled low, his bow unacknowledged by the emperor. “Infidels all!” Aurangzeb exclaimed, his gaze holding Rahullah Khan captive. “Do the Sikhs feel chastened, now that their temples are destroyed? Is your tongue sticking to your palate, Rahullah? Why don’t you answer the emperor?” “Your Majesty.” Rahullah Khan bowed his head in great consternation. “The Sikhs don’t seem to be chastened. Guru Gobind Singh is taking up arms to avenge the death of his father, Guru Tegh Bahadur. Besides training all his followers in warfare, he has bestowed upon them the title of Khalsa, meaning pure. They are the chosen race of the Lord’s elect, he tells them. This chosen sect is not allowed to cut their hair. They are required to keep four objects on their person at all times—a comb, a sword, an undergarment and an iron bangle. His ardor and hatred for the Moghuls is freshly aflame. He says he would mould all the four castes of the Hindus into lions to destroy them.” He gasped for breath, but continued against the blaze of rage and impatience in the emperor’s eyes. “Further, he adds, he would convert jackals into tigers and sparrows into hawks. His slogan is: God subdues the enemies, so does the sword, therefore the sword is God, and God is the sword. He has coined this verse for his followers, which they sing like a song of communion: In the name of the Lord of the Sword and the Axe The Lord of the Arrow, the Spear and the Shield

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In the name of Him who is the God of warriors To seek redress by truth and sincerity.”

“Command a lionhearted army of well-trained men, and kill this maggot of infidelity! Along with his sons, all four of them!” The flaming torch in Aurangzeb’s gaze singed all who fell under the sway of his raging intensity. “When you have an enemy to destroy, spare nothing rather than fail. Engrave this commandment upon your hearts, you all! Yes, spare nothing, neither false oaths nor deception, for anything is permissible in war with the infidels. Make use of every pretext in the world that you judge capable of bringing you success in your projects.” “Your Majesty.” Sheikhul Aslam edged closer, adamant in defending the name of Islam. “Islam does not sanction false oaths, Your Majesty, and believes in coexisting with others as friends, not enemies. Tolerance for all religions! No deception or cunning or—” “How dare you tell the emperor what Islam teaches or sanctions, you impious fool!” Aurangzeb snapped shut the lips of his Qazi with one savage wave of his arm. “The common herd scorn cunning and deception, yet the wise know that we cannot rule without practicing deception. God Himself in His Holy Word has prescribed cunning to His own Holy Self, saying: God is the best of plotters.” His eyes were smoldering with rage, yet his heart was sinking at the mutilation of holy words to suit his purpose. Aurangzeb’s features were washed by a pallor as he sat there motionless, unable to control the fluttering inside his heart. His heart missed a few beats as he noticed the arrival of Tahir Khan and granted him audience with a wave of his arm. “Are the queens and Ajit Singh lodged safely in their palace?” Aurangzeb’s inquiry was crisp and harsh. “No, Your Majesty.” Tahir Khan fell prostrate at the foot of the throne, in violation of the emperor’s edict which permitted no such curtsies or groveling. “Stand straight, you groveling wretch, and explain your haste in seeking the emperor’s audience!” Aurangzeb commanded. “Ajit Singh and the queens escaped, Your Majesty,” was Tahir Khan’s shuddering response, a string of words following in succession. “When the imperial guards tried to access the palace of Jaswant Singh, several bands of Rathors came out to oppose them. Their leader, Ragunath, holding a lance in his hand, his face as grim as death, was at the head of the Rathors. A great fight ensued, Your Majesty, but the Rathors dyed the streets of Delhi with the blood of the imperialists before they fled. Another contingent of imperialists is on its way in pursuit of the fugitives, but no

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word yet—” His thoughts were muddled by the piercing intensity in the emperor’s eyes. “Great tragedies breed great fools, you maudlin dolt! You have neglected to relate the prime event. How did the queens and Ajit Singh escape?” Aurangzeb heaved himself up, the blaze of jewels on his throne glittering all of a sudden. “Pardon me, Your Majesty,” Tahir Khan intoned, trying his best to escape the ocean of his inertia and confusion. “Durga Das is the chief plotter who contrived this escape. A maid dressed as a queen, with her own child as Ajit Singh, was lodged in the chamber of the queens. Durga Das, along with the queens, dressed as male servants, with Ajit Singh all bundled up, had left the palace much earlier than conjectured. The confrontation with the imperial guards was just a ruse for lending time to the fugitives to reach Marwar safely.” “The death-loving Rajputs! They must have drugged themselves with opium before challenging the imperialists in the very heart of the Delhi!” Aurangzeb demurred aloud, all rage and color drained from his eyes and face. “Priorities lead the emperor by a noose around his neck. Fetch the child of that maid, Tahir. Entrust him into the care of Princess Zebunisa. He will be raised in the palace as Ajit Singh, and the rest will be forgotten like dust. Next, the emperor himself will dye the streets of Mewar and Marwar with the blood of the Rajputs. Don’t just stand there, go fetch the child!” He commanded, shifting his attention to his sons. “Yes, Your Majesty,” Tahir Khan breathed in relief, bowing and retreating. “Prince Akbar, you will take charge of conquering Marwar,” Aurangzeb voiced his decision, holding all three of his sons in abeyance under his profound gaze. “You, Prince Azam, will return to Mewar, the other cauldron of sedition. And you, my valorous prince, Prince Muazzam, will be chasing the Mountain Rat, of course.” He began dismounting his throne. “Time for noon prayers! Under the blessed feet of Allah, we may forget about all the cares in this world, and pray in earnest for peace and prosperity.” His heart was heavy with the burden of grief. The Jami mosque with its three-domed edifice was sparkling under the noon day sun, stark and imposing. Its slender minarets, floating upward, seemed to be challenging the very heavens to war, but inside all was peace and silence. Aurangzeb, kneeling on the marble floor with his head cupped in his hands, was lost in contemplations dark and tormenting. The noon prayers had ended, but a few of the courtiers were still keeping the emperor company. They were squatted on the floor, their feet tucked under them, their looks vacant. Most of the courtiers, after saying their prayers,

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had left the mosque. They were standing outside, waiting for the emperor before the royal procession could return to the palace. Whispering occasionally, or admiring the scalloped entry, with the Arabic shields on its arches, they looked more like tourists than courtiers. In the distance, royal guards could be seen grooming their mounts, immersed in the idle pleasures of banter and gossip. Aurangzeb, the puritan, was stirring, straightening his back slowly and carefully. His head was still cupped in his hands, his eyes closed. No prayers had escaped the lips of his glacier-like heart; his thoughts were chilled. He had gone through the ritual of prayer, as if drugged with sorrow. Chill and sorrow he could feel within and without, but underneath the ice inside his heart were stormy grief, and the crackling of desire. Now, as he sat there with his back straight, he could feel the surge of his passion shooting up his spine, and exploring the fountains of silence and darkness inside his very head. Against the closed shutters of his eyes, he could feel the tingling of mists splitting and splashing. All his grief, all his ambition, all his hypocrisy were stripped naked, but the fogs of his piety were effacing all, and chasing away each little speck of nudity and outrage. Blinded by the clashing of fogs and mists, all he could feel were vacuity and loneliness, sprinkled with the most savage of longings to love Udaipuri and to be loved by her. The window of his mind’s eye was flung open—his beloved standing there, mocking, drugged with wine and spilling mirth from her lips divine. His lips parted as if to devour the very essence of that rose-petal mirth, as if only it could melt the weight of his grief and loneliness. His hands fell limp at his sides, the unholiness of his thoughts inside this holy mosque sending a wave of shock down to the very pit of his stomach. Love is holy! Pure and divine! a tender bloom of sanity in Aurangzeb’s soul murmured. It was silenced by the insanity of his thoughts, donning the cloak of pious zeal. You are defiling this mosque with longings vile and lustful! How could you, when the sword of Islam has been entrusted to you to exalt the name of Allah? Slay the infidels, and purge this earth of all idols and temples unholy— He sprang to his feet as if stung. “Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” The courtiers were quick to offer him their services, handing him his turban and muttering inanities. “No fuss, no fuss.” Aurangzeb donned his turban and sailed toward the door. “To the palace, and then to war in Mewar and Marwar!” He halted at the gleaming steps of the mosque as if drugged with hatred and bitterness.

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The royal entourage returning to the palace was a spectacle grand and incongruous. The incongruity of the scene was not missed by the spectators: the emperor all attired in white with no jewels adorning his royal person, while the courtiers were a colorful sea of silks, their turbans sparkling with jewels and bright plumes. Even the emperor’s caparisoned horse, compared to the mounts of the courtiers, looked ill-clad and sprightless, as if bemoaning the lack of his own state and decorum. The guards, in liveries of gold and green, were riding ahead, aware only of the crowd of low born men gawking at the emperor’s mean attire with mute anger and rudeness. Their eyes seemed to be conveying one message in unison: that the emperor’s wealth in zeal and tyranny could not be depleted with the bribes of prayer and supplication. From amongst this motley crowd in rags and riches, teeming on both sides of the street, a Sikh darted forth like the tide of nemesis. He was carrying a brick in his arms, and after espying the emperor, aimed it straight at his face. More Sikhs with solid bricks in their hands were seen pelting the road than there were members of the shining entourage, and they pumped the bellows of their lungs with great violence. Death to Islam! Death to the emperor! Death to bigotry! Fortunately, the aims of these Sikhs went awry, and their bricks grazed only the flesh of a few horses. Before the Sikhs could incur any serious injury, the guards had pounced upon them with their lances. Injured and fleeing in return, they were chased down the road like wild animals. Aurangzeb was beyond shock and anger, swallowing this affront with stoic dignity. Pale and serene, he kept riding, the dust of memories rising up to his throat like the bullets of gall he had digested before on days like this one with pious reserve. Many moons ago, while he had been returning after his Friday prayer, a fakir had thrown a pot full of human excrement on him, and he had let him go free without inflicting any injury or punishment. The reek of that memory was now pervading his mind, unleashing more incidents, all odious. Once, some mad paupers had attacked him with naked blades shining in their uplifted arms, but they had been seized by the guards, and he had remained unscathed. His heart bled all of a sudden at this recollection, more naked blades, of shame and grief, cutting through the very chills of his soul. A wound, a laceration, something inside him was abscessed and throbbing, and a cry of despair and loneliness came from deep within. This cry, sharp and piercing, tore open the mouth of his volcanic love. This need for love, so unholy, so savage, so inviolate, lit up his thoughts with the fire of reproof and warnings. Some sort of hunger and sickness was rising inside him, and he was on the verge of physical nausea. A thirst so

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deep, his thoughts were blasting the trumpets of caution, that even if he could wade into the oceans of love, his hungers and thirsts would remain unslaked. Even his throat was dry and parched, his gaze burning through the ranks of guards and courtiers to reach the palace grounds. The palace grounds were coming into view, all lush and velvety, no flowers to soften this oasis so green and sparkling. Aurangzeb rode toward the massive gates, his gaze now singeing the blades of grass, since they seemed to greet him with defiance and laughter. Rude and mocking, he was thinking, daze and illusion his dearest of companions. The red sandstone palace before his eyes was whirling like a mad dervish, his thoughts spinning and somersaulting. He alighted from his horse, brushing off the dust of haze and illusion, and fell prey to despair as if condemned by the edicts of his ambition and austerity. Dreamlike, he plodded toward the sanctuary of his palace, the guards and courtiers melted away as if by shafts of sunshine and etiquette. The late afternoon, with its lengthening shadows, was polishing the scalloped arches in the parlor, where Aurangzeb sat, immersed in his usual battle of decisions and arguments. Sunshine streaming through the exquisite grillwork of marble screens was accentuating the chaste pillars too, their floral carvings in amethyst and carnelian alive and glittering. The white marble of the floor was turned to a rosy glow, lending warmth and beauty to the Persian rugs and the furniture, all gilded and brocaded. The gilt paintings on the walls and the colorful tapestries were stealing warmth and a glow from the sunshine and yawning to awakening. With the exception of the emperor, all the royal occupants in the parlor were adorned with the finest of silks and the most precious of jewels. They had done justice to the sumptuous luncheon, served on gold plates, though Aurangzeb had eaten sparsely. He was still donned in white, the robe of poverty, if not of piety and purity. Paradoxically, the only pious member of the royal household gathered here was Princess Jahanara, now aged sixty-five. The emperor too was advanced in years, carrying the burden of sixty-one years in his eyes and on his brow, and letting his white beard grow long and conical. His wives, much younger than him, were the blooms of youth and beauty, heedless and vivacious. Nawab Bai Begum, Aurangabadi Mahal Begum and Udaipuri Begum were all wearing colorful silks with matching jewels. The emperor’s daughter, Princess Zebunisa, was boldly attired in panel upon panel of chiffon, diamonds glittering in her ears and around her throat. She had just turned forty-one, decking herself in a revealing décolletage and cutting her hair in loose ringlets. Prince Kam Bakhsh, on the verge of his teens, was permitted to wear a jeweled sword, his waist adorned with a red

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cummerbund. Princess Satiunisa, almost two years older than Prince Kam Bakhsh, was modestly dressed, though she had embellished her hair with a net of pearls. The other princes were young men now; Prince Akbar, twenty-two, Prince Azam, three years older than him, and Prince Muazzam, on the rungs of twenty-six, had all donned colorful robes with ropes of pearls around their turbans. Princess Zebunisa was reciting her own poems to Prince Akbar, while Aurangzeb’s mind was mired in the muddied waters of indecision as to whom to trust with campaigns amongst his unworthy sons. He was certain of one aspect: he himself would go to Ajmer, if he was to send Prince Akbar to Marwar to chastise the Rajputs. His thoughts were somersaulting, though, on whether he should strengthen his troops and gather more alliances before dealing with Shivaji as well as with Sikander Shah of Bijapur in Deccan. Or should he march straight to Marwar with Prince Akbar? Absorbed thus in his profound contemplations, Udaipuri was banished from his mind, and so were his suspicions concerning his sons and his hatred for the infidels. But noticing Prince Akbar and Princess Zebunisa whispering together, the quivers of his suspicion were stirred. “Are you two conspiring to depose the emperor? And to cast his empire into the furnace of idolatry and wickedness?” Aurangzeb tossed this bantering inquisition as if sweeping clean the cobwebs of his fears and doubts. “God forbid, Your Majesty! With all filial piety, I remain the humblest of your slaves,” Princess Zebunisa quipped, her eyes sparkling with the fever of poetry. “Consider me among the most humble of your servants, Your Majesty, wishing to walk in the shadow of your grace!” Prince Akbar intoned brightly, though his heart was sinking. “Slaves and servants, the emperors have many, but none to trust,” Aurangzeb smiled, the leeches of suspicion drawing blood from his very heart. “Your Majesty. Why do you let doubts breed in your mind concerning your own sons?” Princess Jahanara commented demurely. “Because the kingdoms are built over the graves of family and friends! The very foundations of peace and prosperity! And when the tempests of war rage and roar, worthy sons are seized by temptation to whip their steeds of ambition to conquer and subjugate.” Aurangzeb’s psyche, not his guilt in usurping the throne from his father, had flung loose this tortured confession. “Such is the fate of kings and emperors, Your Majesty, whether they rule wisely or unwisely,” was Udaipuri’s inebriated comment.

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Aurangzeb’s thoughts, blinded by the whip of his suspicions, had not even caught the comment of his beloved, his gaze falling on Prince Muazzam. “The reports of your unseemly behavior have reached the emperor but recently, my gallant prince.” Aurangzeb’s gaze held his son captive under the fire of reproof and warning. “Indulging in elephant fights? Setting up screens while praying in the mosque? And erecting a high throne to hold court? This last one, my proud prince, is an act of treason, if you didn’t know!” “All just accusations, base and groundless, Your Majesty! The seeds of jealousy to make me fall from your grace since all know that I am much loved and favored by you,” Prince Muazzam lied adorably, his expression bold, yet endearing. “For your own benefit, my bold prince, the emperor hopes that what you say is true.” Aurangzeb seemed mollified, but his expression was still harsh and unmelting. “You will be chasing the Mountain Rat and all the vipers of infidelity, while the emperor himself will crush the death-loving Rajputs in Marwar,” he breathed unctuously. “Your Majesty!” An abrupt protest trembled on the lips of Princess Jahanara from the tormented deeps of her anguished soul. “All creatures are God’s children. Prophet Muhammed himself prevented the believers from using derogatory comments against anyone, including the polytheists.” Her soul was communing with her late Sufi brother, Prince Dara Shikoh, murdered by Aurangzeb on charges of heresy. “Your edicts are harsh, Your Majesty, pardon my boldness. Why must we fight the Hindus, and why call them infidels? They have their own gods! Already, your edict of jizya is causing much grief and turbulence. Your blessed life is in danger—” She could not continue against the blaze of rage in the emperor’s eyes, and inside, the pyre of her tortured memories. “You, indeed, are forgetting, my presumptuous Princess, that Islam’s noble task is to wash this earth clean of all infidels!” Aurangzeb declared, pious rage thundering in his eyes. “And as to jizya, it’s but a pittance for the salvation of all infidels, a ransom for their sins in idolatry and in paying tribute to their false gods. The emperor is willing to remit all other taxes if necessary, but not jizya, which benefits the souls of the unbelievers. If you only knew! Their own gods are unjust, and Allah in His great mercy has sanctioned this respite to them.” His thoughts, seated on the chariot of piety, could not see that they were trampling over the blooms of truth without mercy. “Merciful God, Your Majesty!” Princess Jahanara’s fear was cradled int the arms of a loving presence, that of her brother, Prince Dara Shikoh.

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“Isn’t the Quran the emblem of truth and mercy for all? Each verse, with the exception of one out of one hundred and fourteen, starts with: In the Name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, not to include the countless blessings repeated in prayers from moment to moment in eternity! Islam, endowed with the universal attribute of mercy which the Almighty extends to all, to the good and the wicked, to the believer and non-believer alike. Didn’t Prophet Muhammed say: I have not been sent for cursing, but as an inviter unto God and as Mercy. O God, guide my people and forgive them as they know not.” Her eyes were blazing, the light of truth in them bright and challenging. “No wonder the scepter of truth God entrusts into the hands of men, not into the hands of women.” Aurangzeb’s thoughts were seeing the reflection of truth, all distorted, truthful and glowing against the fever of his zeal. “And to think, God commanding men to follow the footsteps of women?” Udaipuri’s lips were unfolding a smile half sober, half mocking. “Literally, that is, if one goes to Hajj in Mecca, following the footsteps of Abraham’s wife Hagar seven times, as a pilgrimage rite between As-Safa and Al-Marwah! This first act of pilgrimage performed by a woman, Your Majesty, and all the men following!” Her dark eyes were brimming with laughter and mockery. “Such an absurd pilgrimage in your little head, my beautiful rebel!” Aurangzeb’s eyes were shining with molten torment, which had nothing to do with religion, but with passion unholy and love inviolate. “Ignorance is not bliss in the realms of theology.” He got to his feet, softening his torment with the act of pacing. “Every Muslim child knows, Your Majesty, that Islam teaches in its pure form, not when corrupted by the hypocrisy of the mullahs.” Udaipuri breathed fire and disdain. “Love, peace, unity, brotherhood! And mercy, of course! Prophet Muhammed affirming: We have sent thee not save as mercy for the people.” “In the name of mercy, all men are to turn toward Kaaba, and it is imperative that all idols and temples of the infidels are to be demolished.” Aurangzeb knotted his hands behind his back, more so to stifle the surge of his passion than to restrain the downpour of his rage. “All Merciful God has appointed me on this earth to uproot evil and to plant the seeds of Islam.” His heart was a throbbing battleground, witnessing the battle of love with hatred. “Our pilgrimage will be to Ajmer, then we march to Marwar.” His feet came to a slow halt before Prince Akbar. “You, of course, will march straight to Marwar; the emperor would follow.” His gaze shifted to Princess Zebunisa, sitting there pale and listless.

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“No, Your Majesty! Please don’t leave Delhi!” A sudden appeal escaped Princess Jahanara’s inner torment. “Why must you torment the emperor in the throes of his duties noble and unavoidable?” Aurangzeb swung back to face this besotted request, then his royal sister. “Are you ill?” His gaze was probing the orbs of fear in her shining eyes. “I have this feeling, Your Majesty, that if we left Delhi, we would never come back!” Princess Jahanara murmured with such profound conviction that its import went seething into the hearts of all present. “What absurdities! The emperor must get away from it all.” Aurangzeb turned his back on her, the loneliness inside him one raging tempest. “Please, Your Majesty, send me to Agra. I want to stay close to the Taj Mahal,” Princess Jahanara pleaded, heeding not the assault of memories tragic. “You do as you will, my Princess! Whatever you wish!” Aurangzeb drifted toward his cruel beloved, racked by the gusts of his need and desire. “Come, my love, you must entertain the emperor with the bliss of your ignorance,” he commanded, holding out his hands. The bedroom, all gilded and damasked, was Aurangzeb’s sanctuary, where Udaipuri alone was the slave and mistress of his desire, dark and shuddering. Tightening the robe of loneliness around him, he had succeeded only in tearing open the garments of his desire and madness. Stripping her naked of all jewels and fineries, he seemed to devour her entirely into his body and soul, his kisses hungry and stinging. The rod of his need pierced her over and over, even after she lay there ravished and pleading! Drinking her tears with a shower of more kisses mad and burning, he didn’t even notice the violence of his passion until sated at last, he tasted the salt of blood on her lips all bruised. A sigh of agony more devastating than the desert of his loneliness was holding him in the pincers of pain, rising forth to confront his madness. He held her to him then, reverently and remorsefully, murmuring most tenderly, in violent contrast to the storm of thunder and lightning inside his breast. “Sweetness, forgive me. My own love is a battleground of sin and temptation—” Aurangzeb had abandoned his head on her bosom, bathing it with his tears of pain and loneliness. “Ajmer, and then to Mewar and Marwar! Battlegrounds all! Is it possible that I may spare the idols and temples? Only, if I could worship at the altar of your beauty!” His anguished pleas sought the comfort of sleep. Nightmares awakened!

CHAPTER FIVE DEMOLITION OF TEMPLES

Almost two months of make-believe rest or reprieve, and Aurangzeb’s heart had adopted the armor of zeal, his passion for love or lust choked inside like an infant, mute and defenseless. At times, the splinters of love would dare peek out, stabbing the armor of his heart, but he had grown immune to such attacks, closing the windows of his love and loneliness. Spending the month of Ramadan in Ajmer, strictly fasting and praying, he had grown calm and emaciated, missing Princess Jahanara more than he would admit, since she had returned to Agra. He shared with others only the surface calm and no one could see the churning of the storms within him, of hatred and ambition. They could not be silenced, that much was obvious; his eyes were the windows of zeal, feverish and glittering. His angular features too had attained the sheen of piety and power, the religious fervor throbbing in each pore of his face and beard. This particular afternoon, Aurangzeb’s ascetic features were dull and inscrutable as he sat mounted on his Arabian steed like the lord of tyranny. He was not riding alone, accompanied by a contingent of his troops, all mounted on graceful horses. The red flags with the couchant lion in the middle were their standards of victory, pride shining in their eyes. An ocean of men and beasts in the background were a rippling procession, caparisoned elephants with gilded howdahs housing the ladies of the harem. The European gunners were a part of this procession too, driving camel loads of cannon and musketry. Ahead of this cavalcade was the infantry, equipped with swords, lances and arrows, but confronting no tides of warfare from foes or marauders. Inside the heart of the emperor were tides of hatred for the Hindus, mounting the rungs of fanaticism. He could not wait to reach the city of Udaipur, the capital of Marwar, and wreak vengeance on the sons of the idols and idolaters, namely the death-loving Rajputs, as he styled them. Udaipur was not far away though, the deserted Pass of Deobari mocking his gaze, if not cutting the fabric of his zeal and tyranny to rags foul and worthless. It was no surprise that the pass was deserted, since Marwar had fallen under the might of the Moghuls even before the emperor had

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commenced his journey from Ajmer. This slice of victory had been gained by the emperor’s sons and generals, boasting might, yet knowing how hard it would be to defeat the Rajputs. Prince Akbar had been the first one to reach Marwar, at the head of a large army, assisted by his commander, Tahawer Khan. He was to fight Raj Singh, who had taken up the cause of the infant Ajit Singh, hoping to defend the city of Udaipur. Raj Singh had succeeded in barring the path of Prince Akbar near the temple of Boar at the sacred lake of Pushkar. This journey of battles was unfolding in Aurangzeb’s head as he let his horse fly through the files of his infantry. He was riding on the wings of a hurricane, it seemed, the large emerald in his turban lit by the shafts of sunshine hurling fire and sparkle into the bosom of the land, mournful and desecrated. The journey in his head was swifter than his steed, swallowing morsels of time in one large gulp and spinning out the feats of warfare with giddy speed. Prince Akbar had fought with the death-loving Rajputs or Rathors for three grueling days, the armies of Prince Azam and Prince Muazzam joining him before Raj Singh could be defeated. This vanquished foe had then fled towards the Aravali Pass, finding refuge inside the fortress of Chitor in Mewar. The royal princes had entered Udaipur in a fever of exultance over their victory, trampling over the melee of Rajputs, slain and wounded, who had failed to defend their homes and hearths, now lying bleeding on the streets, their valor crushed. Another page of blood and carnage was fluttering open in Aurangzeb’s head, on which Hasan Ali stood trapped in the mystery of time and continents. Hasan Ali had been dispatched in pursuit of Raj Singh at the head of seven thousand horses and men, and commanded to capture him alive or dead. He had succeeded in capturing the fortress of Chitor, but Raj Singh had escaped once again. He seemed to have been swallowed by the vast, terrible terrains of the Aravali Hills. After this great victory, Hasan Ali himself had vanished somewhere, and the emperor had not heard from him for two whole weeks. Swift couriers had been dispatched in all directions to gather clues concerning the fate of this general. This had been just a week ago, and Aurangzeb’s thoughts were clinging to this memory as he kept riding. A Turani general by the name of Mir Shahibudin had offered his services to the emperor to venture out in search of Hasan Ali. A bundle of suspicions were blowing away Aurangzeb’s thoughts like chaff, a gust of storm and violence inside him escaping his gaze, and enveloping the ranks of his infantry in clouds of commands unvoiced. The sting of rage was inside his heart, and his thoughts were jolted out of the blood soaked fields of war, warring within themselves with the lightning

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of awareness. He could not help noticing the mansion of Raj Singh in the distance, standing there defiant and ubiquitous, as if enveloping all Udaipur in its sprawling architecture. As a young prince, Aurangzeb had frequented Udaipur quite aggressively, signing treaties and waging wars, so every nook and cranny of this land was mirrored in the memory book of his hopes foiled and ambitions violated. In a flash, he reined his horse to a standstill, his eyes scanning a grand temple to the side of the deserted mansion of Raj Singh. “Raze this monument of ugliness to the ground by the very trumpets of cannon and musketry!” Aurangzeb’s command rang loud and clear. The files of infantry and the entire sea of the cavalcade in their color and opulence were frozen solid amidst their ocean of leisurely marching. The march of silence in Aurangzeb’s heart was gathering rills of outrage, resurrecting another memory, of when Raj Singh had defied the might of the Moghuls near Lake Pushkar. “How these infidels waste their money erecting these taverns of shame!” Aurangzeb alighted from his horse, his eyes striking bolts of lightning at the holy temple so terrible and majestic. “All the temples in Pushkar and Udaisagar are to be pounded to dust and ashes. Spare not a single one. The ones in Amber too.” He plodded toward the mansion as if drugged with fatigue. His rage was spent, and simmering. “The emperor needs rest, not to be disturbed unless absolutely necessary,” he commanded over his shoulders. Suddenly, the curtain of silence was ripped open, a flurry of commands fluttering forth from the lips of the generals. The royal guards rushed ahead to throw open the gates of the mansion, a coterie of soldiers following to tend to the needs of the emperor. But the emperor was drifting past all inside the fog of his memories, stark and throbbing. He was oblivious to the noise and commotion behind him. A bold rider, no other than Mir Shahibudin himself, materialized all of a sudden, cutting through the ranks of the cavalcade in hope of speaking with the emperor. He was galloping onward with the speed of lightning, and heeded not the requests or the warnings of the guards. The emperor had just stepped into the parlor, all stripped bare of paintings and furnishings, when a guard approached with the weight of urgency on his shoulders, quickly announcing the arrival of Mir Shahibudin. “Admit him into this skeleton of a parlor where even the ghosts dare not enter,” the wisp of dull humor escaped Aurangzeb’s lips, his look glazed and unseeing. “Your Majesty.” The guard bowed with utmost relief, not even noticing the ubiquitous presence of Mir Shahibudin at the portals.

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“Your Majesty.” Mir Shahibudin offered a gallant curtsy with a flourish of his arm. “What news, my trusted general?” Aurangzeb’s sight was cleared of all haze and memories, his look profound and piercing. “I found Hasan Ali lodged in an obscure encampment not far from Chitor, Your Majesty,” Mir Shahibudin began brightly. “He is in good health, only lamenting his failure in not finding Raj Singh. He has entrusted me to inform you, Your Majesty, that in obedience to your command, almost one hundred and seventy-two temples in Udaipur have been demolished. He supervised the destruction himself before he marched to Chitor.” “Yes, my son of righteousness! Now truly, you have made the emperor’s heart sing with the hymns of victories. Islam will surely uproot all heresy and wickedness from this land of the infidels.” Aurangzeb’s eyes were lighting up with the stars of zeal. “Being the messenger of good news, you will rise high in rank and in my favor. Before we return to Ajmer, we will destroy all the idols and temples fashioned by the hands of the infidels! Even the palaces and gardens, as far as Deobari!” Pious rage was shining in his eyes, kindling a dance of gold, twinkling stars. “Now leave the emperor, he would find a quiet corner to rest and pray.” He turned on his heel. No prayer rugs were unfolding inside the emperor’s heart as he straggled from one room to the other in a stupor of elation and madness. His royal attendants were furnishing his room to suit his needs, the emperor was informed, but this strip of knowledge was lost to him as he kept exploring. This was a palace of ruins, the walls bemoaning the loss of tapestries, and the floors screaming at the clutter of silks and broken furniture. Aurangzeb halted at one window, under some spell of great fascination, where the damask drapes had been torn from their gilded rods and flung on the floor in a crimson heap. Banishing this scene from his sight, his mind was creating another! A scenic splendor of a dream, where the scepter of Islam was raised up to the very ether in the heavens! The land and the sea, purged of all the idols and the temples, and the carpet of righteousness unfolded from pole to pole, across continents far and wide. But this dream in all its glory was hammering down the gates of his hatred, knocking at the windows of his madness, and shattering the glass of his sanity. Aurangzeb stood there inert, as if arrested in the desert of his own silence and darkness. So terrible and frightening was this hush within him that he could feel the tingling of chill and fever in every pore of his body. Shuddering involuntarily, he looked out of the window, the rent of

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loneliness inside him loud and painful. He was becoming aware of, rather blinded by, the glitter of jewels and brocades down on the lush lawns, where the ladies had abandoned their gilded howdahs and were being escorted into the ruin of a mansion. Udaipuri. Beloved! My soul and my shining mirage! Aurangzeb could hear his thoughts, the lips of his heart bleeding and murmuring prayers sad and sublime. A loud thunder was exploding in Aurangzeb’s heart, yet the thundering was in his ears, ricocheting back from the cannon and musketry which were let loose to demolish the very foundations of the holy temple. Staggering as if drunk, he turned his back on this scene of smoke and destruction. He felt his way toward a narrow staircase, aiming his thoughts towards a sanctuary where he could rest and sleep. The ghosts of his brothers were following him, and yet he had found his sanctuary, despite this awful journey from the flight of steps to the bower of nightmares. To Ajmer, to Ajmer! To pray and to repent! Aurangzeb’s thoughts themselves were cradling the soft pillow as he abandoned himself on the bed, the emerald in his turban glinting omens dark and terrible. Ajmer, torn out of the emperor’s dreams, was a reality this particular day, yet he had stayed in Udaipur for more than a month, issuing edicts and planning more campaigns. Seated on his gold throne in an open pavilion, he could sense the imposing presence of the fortress behind him, lofty and unscalable. This fort at Ajmer was perched on top of a hill, beyond which glowed sandy tracts, revealing a cluster of bamboo huts scattered indiscriminately here and there. All wealth and glitter were gathered in the open court this day, for the emperor was celebrating his victory over Mewar and Marwar. A great occasion for joy and celebration since Chitor, Jodhpur and Udaipur were annexed to the empire, promising rich revenues. The Moghul standards in red and yellow were fluttering free over the ramparts and on the imperial gates down below. Against this splash of color were the colorful robes of the courtiers, their turbans plumed and bejeweled. The emperor himself was garbed in all white, no jewels shining in his turban, his face ascetic and bronzed. His white beard, long and conical, seemed to complement his aquiline nose, though his angular features, with their glow of puritan justice, were marking him as the lord of tyranny and deception. He was bestowing the rare treasures of his smiles on his guards and generals, who deserved praise for their valor and fidelity. The embassies were few, yet cumbersome, and his gaze and thoughts strayed at times to reconnoiter the blooms of extravagance he himself didn’t approve of or sanction. The courtyard down below was displaying one such bloom

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of extravagance: the horses of the courtiers, decked with gold bells and velvet saddles, were waiting for the pleasure of their masters. Aurangzeb’s thoughts were murmuring revolt against such extravagance while he absorbed the gist of the embassies, though he knew he was powerless to check the vagaries of each and every man in his empire. Much less to check his own vagrant need in loving his beloved in the stormy waters of his lust and violence, Aurangzeb was thinking, dismissing one ambassador and granting audience to another. Both his lust and violence had supped to their fill in the month-long stay at Udaipur, yet hungered for more and ever more. He too had returned to Ajmer, as if afflicted with the plague of need and desire, his body and soul knowing neither peace nor surfeit. No prayers of penance had touched his lips since his return to Ajmer. Instead, the wall of tyranny inside him had grown to the size of a colossal bridge, under which the infidels were to be buried alive, or drowned in the waters of oblivion. His mind and heart were cauldrons of conflicting emotions. Even now, as he sat there conducting his court, his heart was aching for the nearness of Udaipuri, yet his mind was erecting mountains of edicts to disfigure the face of infidelity. A familiar serpent of suspicion was licking its tongue inside the cell of Aurangzeb’s subconscious as he listened to a report concerning Prince Akbar. He clamped shut the mouth of this serpent, and killed all assailants of suspicion, raw and menacing, holding on to only the bare facts with all his might and concentration. Prince Akbar had been left in Chitor to guard the fort against insurrections from the Rajputs, and to accomplish the feat of arresting Raj Singh from his den of intrigue and concealment. Prince Azam was in charge of Jodhpur, instructed to cultivate discipline, working toward peace and prosperity. Prince Muazzam had been left in Udaipur— Aurangzeb’s thoughts left the trails of his capricious son, his gaze espying Mir Shahibudin as soon as he dismissed Tahawer Khan. “Come, my faithful vizier, and welcome! Gladden the emperor’s heart with news joyful and miraculous! Somehow, you are endowed with this gift of being the messenger of joy!” Aurangzeb’s eyes were kindling the lamps of probity and superstition. “The emperor can see the stars of fate shining in your eyes; what news from Marwar?” “Your Majesty.” Mir Shahibudin’s eyes were lit up with the beacons of zeal. “The Aravali hills are sanctified with the breath of purity, since most of the temples are reduced to dust and ashes. Your obedient servant Hasan Ali himself has witnessed the demolition of sixty-three temples in Chitor alone! In Amber, sixty-six, including the temple of Someshwar!”

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“Allah be praised! Islam is awakening to the trumpets of glory and success in Hindustan,” Aurangzeb declared piously, praying to the God in his heart, where mercy had no name and truth glittered faceless. This faceless truth was hugging the emperor’s heart of stone, and gilding it with more layers of hatred, the mirror of tyranny and distortion, all bright and polished. The fever of zeal was in his eyes, blocking all visions, and he did not even notice Abu Turab, who was seeking his audience with all the marks of humility and reverence. Aurangzeb was smiling to himself, ecstasy and laughter in his eyes pulsating louder than his heartbeat. He was not long in noticing his faithful vizier, whom he had dubbed the servant of God, granting him his full attention, his smile widening. “Allah’s blessings may always shine on your brow, Abu Turab.” Aurangzeb greeted him beaming. “Your face is glowing with the light of good news, I can tell. Fill the coffers of the emperor’s joy today, for this is a day of rejoicing and celebration, all balmy and propitious.” “Shivaji is dead, Your Majesty.” Abu Turab sang this eulogy of a confession with great aplomb. “The infidel went to hell!” Aurangzeb exclaimed, his very eyes spinning the rosary of relief. “The bounties of Allah have entered my very soul, I can feel. He did succeed in depleting the strength of our armies for nineteen long years, always eluding arrest, always causing unrest—” He paused as if stung by a sense of his guilt and impropriety. “How did the Mountain Rat succumb to death? So soon? And where?” His face was flustered, his gaze feverish and piercing. “He was in Raigarh, Your Majesty.” Abu Turab obeyed promptly. “A week before his death, he performed the thread ceremony of his son Rajram. Suddenly, he had an attack of fever, from which he never recovered.” “An auspicious day it is! Indeed!” Aurangzeb got to his feet, waving dismissal. “Now the emperor can concentrate on subjugating the Deccani lords in Bijapur and Golconda!” He sailed through the parting sea of courtiers without uttering another word. A portrait sublime and glittering with the stars of success was molded, alive in Aurangzeb’s head. He trumpeted his way down the graveled path, swathed by spluttering fountains on both sides. Waving dismissal right and left, he seemed to be in a hurry to reach the sanctuary of his harem. His heart was drinking the wine of zeal and ambition, shooting up dreams terrible and fantastic. The white minarets of the mosques were rising up to the skies, much like the swords of Islam, pure and gleaming. Proclaiming the name of one God alone, Allah! The canker of infidelity and corruption

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had been plucked out from the very sinews of the earth, and the faces of the idols were mutilated, buried deep under the ruins of the temples. All these dreamy thoughts were hovering above him, and shimmering before his sightless eyes like visions truthful and glorious. But all these visions faded as soon as he stepped into the parlor of gilt and damask. A succession of carpets in rude colors was mocking the rivers of his piety and pious exultation! The vision of glory and the throb of exaltation had left him, leaving behind a vacuum so profound that he could hear the voice of his anguish and affliction from the silence in his soul deep within. A noose of a revelation was tightening around his heart, its message and violence sudden and terrible. He was transformed into a statue of immobility, much like the masterpiece of a mad artist, arrested on the thin fabric of a canvas and left to the mercy of time and Judgment Day. Clamped thus to one spot, with his eyes glued to the bold tapestry on the wall, he could not move. Aurangzeb closed his eyes, pressing his temples, his head spinning. The noose of a revelation was nothing but the rope of his sin and guilt in time and timelessness. Sin was the cold-blooded dagger with which he had killed his brothers, and now he could feel their blood trickling over the glacier of his heart like wounds, fresh and scarlet. And guilt was his pious will, more savage than the cry of agony and loneliness inside him, jolting him out of this nightmare of a memory, presumed buried and sealed forever. The emperor thought he was alone, a curtain of silence thrown over the walls of the palace, as if all the occupants were wrapped in silken sheets of dreams. No silken sheets were coming to the rescue of this lonesome wraith of an emperor, his heart awakening to the pangs of love and sorrow. This love, strange and terrible, for Udaipuri alone, was his agony supreme, and his salvation. The abscess of sickness and deformity inside him was throbbing, startling him to his feet. Love rode above this offal inside his heart, and the sheer magic of its presence had washed away all the fogs of his sins and revelations. He drifted towards the staircase at the far end of the parlor under a spell of haste and elation. His feet came to an abrupt halt by the alcove, where Princess Zebunisa, seated at her rosewood desk, was writing feverishly. So immersed was she in her flood of thoughts that she didn’t even notice the breezy approach of the emperor. “What secret missives are you constructing, my princess, while the whole world is lost in the Eden of siesta?” Aurangzeb asked suspiciously. “No secrets, Your Majesty.” Princess Zebunisa was startled to her feet, abashed and flustered. “Just copying some poems I wrote in Udaipur.” She stood guarding her papers, fright shining in her eyes.

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“Poetry! The voice of the devil, my princess, must you heed it?” Aurangzeb flashed a quick reprimand. “The sheer nectar of poetry in the verses of the Quran! How could poetry be inspired by the devil? The voice of God—” Princess Zebunisa murmured low, remembering the recent blow of tragedy. “Grievous news, Your Majesty, you haven’t heard as yet, it seems. Her Royal Highness Princess Jahanara has died in Agra—” She could not continue, a sudden wave of sorrow clouding her eyes. “My dear soul, yes, she has. Her love and wisdom will live forever.” Aurangzeb sought the marble steps, his ascent heavy and ponderous. Princess Zebunisa was caught in abeyance, shuddering inwardly. The weight of sorrow profound was not the only tyrant inside her heart, but the flame of fear that the emperor could have read her missive of secret import to Prince Akbar. She could feel the pounding of her heart, as if it was sucking in the tears of pain and betrayal, and fluttering over the clouds of war at the very gates of Udaipur. Aurangzeb had reached his bedroom of gilt and damask, and was seated there on the davenport, alone and forlorn. Udaipuri was sleeping on the great bed, a white lily on dewdrop silks of gold and green, he had thought, poetically. The taste of grief and bitterness had been in his mouth as he entered his chamber, but then he had been awed and humbled at the sight of the flower that was his beloved swaddled in dreams sweet and peaceful. Abandoning himself noiselessly on the davenport, he had sat there gazing, gazing. His heart was moved by this miracle of youth and beauty. So soft, so adorably fresh, Aurangzeb had repeated to himself, oblivious to the time in eternity and to the waves of tenderness within him. For the first time in his life, the violence of his love and passion were replaced with pain and sadness. So innocent, so vulnerable, so exquisitely fresh, as if molded out of ivory and gold in sunshine; these were the songs of ineffable tenderness on the strings of his bruised soul. He dared not blink, lest she dissolve into the mists of dusk and night. Aurangzeb stirred to his feet, tiptoeing towards the bed, wearing the look of a suppliant. His coarse white robe, matching his beard, was portraying him more like a mendicant at the altar of some goddess than a suppliant. This mendicant was bent double under the weight of his piety, the lamps of unholiness burning in his eyes. His eyes were closing, his head abandoned on the satiny covers. But the torches of desire inside him were holding flint to his passion, his need hot and searing. His passion itself was feeling the blight of love and tenderness, inhaling the aroma of wine without even tasting it on the lips of his beloved. Slipping beside her carefully, he greeted the bliss and comfort of dreams inside the rivers of

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his pain and loneliness. Sleep was only a wavelet away in the slow, turbulent churning of storms within and without. Love, beloved! Why—the lips of agony in Aurangzeb’s heart were sealed shut. A blanket of loneliness was his pillow, fatigue and oblivion his comforting shroud! Princess! Her Royal Highness Jahanara—the windows of grief in Aurangzeb’s sleep were thrown open as if by the mighty powers of an invisible hurricane. Dreams melted into dreams, rippling and shuddering. The late emperor Shah Jahan, the prisoner of Aurangzeb’s cruelty and injustice, was holding out his arms to receive the beloved princess. The late emperor’s wife, Aurangzeb’s own mother, Mumtaz Mahal, appeared like a rainbow, her lovely form molding itself into the marble glory of the Taj Mahal, then dissolved into the mists, white and glittering. Prince Dara Shikoh galloped down from the heavens astride a snowy steed, whisking away the princess in a shower of roses and violets. This dream of magic and beauty then changed to one of horror and incredulity. Prince Dara Shikoh’s eyes and heart turned into rivulets of blood, his hands dyed crimson, slapping away the sin of murder and cruelty from the apparition of Aurangzeb himself, but succeeding only in erecting mountains of more sin, caked with blood. Chaos and confusion were spurting forth like evil spirits, long lost and long tormented. Shah Jahan’s cries were a tempest billowing, striking forth the drums of thunder and lightning into the heart of the apparition, the venerable Aurangzeb himself. The puritanical son of sorrow was crushed under the rubble of his own sin and hatred. The Empire of Hind was a volcano of absurdities. Lava poured forth from the bosom of the earth. Prince Akbar was seen clipping the wings of an eagle. Udaipuri’s face was bloated and disfigured. Bijapur was crippled, Golconda turbulent and whirling. Inside the whirlwinds of Aurangzeb’s nightmares, Shambhuji was rising aloft like a tornado unwinding its own white robe of fate. A cry of agony! A whisper from the lips of love! Aurangzeb’s beard was gathering hoary flames, all crackling and luminescent.

CHAPTER SIX TREASON OF A PRINCE

Delhi mourns her empty and depopulated streets.

Aurangzeb’s thoughts were murmuring this refrain, though he himself didn’t know the author of this adage. The emperor was pacing in his splendid tent within the confines of the imperial encampment at Dorahah, in the outskirts of Ajmer. This encampment stretched far and wide, much like a silken city, displaying the splendor of the courts at Agra and Delhi. However, there were no palaces for the emperor on the sandy tracts of Dorahah where this royal city of tents was erected to witness the battle of the emperor with his rebellious son, Prince Akbar. The emperor’s own tent was of the imperial color red, and more like an Audience Hall, furnished with silk and velvet canopies. This makeshift hall was the size of a courtyard, lined with chintz, all hand-painted, and fringed and embroidered with silks in gold and silver. The floors of this tent were laden with Persian carpets, cushions of brocade scattered along the walls, and a throne of gilt-wood with a silver footstool. These amenities were for the sole luxury and convenience of the emperor, who could turn this private chamber of his into a courtroom at his will, conversing with his generals or issuing edicts before a hall full of courtiers. This interior splendor of the courtroom had an equally imposing exterior, flaunting the light of the heavens, strung on a high mast over gates of silk and damask. A body of royal sentries with public criers at their disposal were posted in front of the gates to convey the emperor’s orders outside this city of tents, or to the imperialists equipped for assault or defense at all hours of the day and night. The imperial army had their own private tents, separated from the royal encampment by wooden screens. In the middle of this arena were the tents for the ladies of the harem. They were furnished more opulently, as if to compensate for the lack of the comforts and luxuries of the palaces left behind. The inner linings of these tents were of chintz and velvet, splashed with designs of floral embroidery in gold and silver. Aurangzeb was accustomed to visiting one of these floral wonders, that belonging to none other than his

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beloved Udaipuri, where he could feed the hungers of his body and soul. Immersed deep in the pools of duties and sorrows, he had not visited his beloved for the whole week since the encampment had shifted from Deorai to Dorahah. The champion of faith, as Aurangzeb deemed himself to be, was donned in all white this evening. Paradoxically, the stark contrast of his coarse dress amid the articles of luxuries all around him never even grazed his awareness, as if the mask of piety on his royal person had nothing to do with the insignificant opulence of his birthright, or with the pomp and pageantry of his troops. His thoughts themselves were little troopers, gaudy and rambunctious. Arrayed in undisciplined files and waging war on the field of his anguish and suspicion. His suspicions had flared too quickly into the fires of reality in the case of Prince Akbar. The prince had sloughed off the mask of obedience, donning the mantle of rebellion. Another suspicion of his had materialized full bloom, sprouting in his head and creeping into the head of Princess Zebunisa. In fact, this very morning, he had learnt that Princess Zebunisa had been secretly corresponding with Prince Akbar, serving both as a spy and an instigator in provoking her brother to this act of rebellion. This thought alone was a throbbing ulcer in Aurangzeb’s head as he kept pacing, feverish and distraught. He was distracted, but even in his distraction his thoughts were shooting the missiles of reminders that Princess Zebunisa would be coming soon, as commanded. He had sent her a summons, allotting her the entire afternoon to cover up her follies or devise a tapestry of defense. She was advised to seek his audience one hour after dinner, and instructed to say her prayers before coming. This last injunction was the emperor’s whip of a warning, which he never failed to wield at the throats of his royal brood, regardless of their penchant for neglect and disobedience. The emperor’s dinner was left untasted on the brass table, cold and forgotten. His only sustenance was the ritual of the evening prayers, which he had offered under a spell of despair, both profound and somnambulant, suffering more the chills of his piety than the fever of his misery and loneliness. The emperor seemed to be hugging the prayer rug of his piety close to his heart, his pacing an act of devotion and self-annihilation. And yet, the fever of awareness was alighting in his eyes with shafts of quicksilver lightning, his pace dwindling. The little troopers of his thoughts were abandoning the schemes of his daughter, and gathering the pieces of a puzzle to refashion the face of the rebel prince who had dared challenge

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his emperor father. The unscrambled pieces of this puzzle were protesting, but his thoughts clamped them into their own fists. During Aurangzeb’s brief sojourn in Ajmer, his doubts and suspicions concerning his sons and foes had come true, much to the chagrin of his hopes and fears. There was nothing new under the sun, just the old revelations that whenever his back was turned to his conquests, they would be splintered with unrest and anarchy. As predicted, the districts of Mewar and Marwar, collectively known as Rajasthan, had gathered the clouds of sedition. The vanquished factions had adopted the mode of guerilla warfare, and were intent on pillaging and plundering. Prince Akbar, who had been instructed to maintain peace and order in Udaipur, was failing in his duties and blaming his failures on the paucity of troops and provisions. The fort of Zafanagar had been captured by Gopal Singh. A group of Rajput marauders had even looted Prince Akbar’s camp, launching a surprise attack during the night and escaping with the booty. Prince Akbar was to discover later that these men were employed by Raj Singh to cause panic and confusion inside the encampments of the imperialists. Raj Singh was supported by another Rajput leader by the same name as the infant Ajit Singh. He was gaining alliances and invoking terror into the hearts of the imperialists. Together, these leaders had succeeded in seizing a convoy of grain, ordered by the emperor from Ajmer, and intended for the use of imperialists in the district of Marwar. The Rajputs had also plundered a caravan of ten thousand oxen, which Prince Akbar was expecting from Malwa, on the highway between Nimach and Mandesor. Prince Akbar, it was reported, had not even stirred from his post, either to chastise the marauders or to retrieve the provisions, which he himself had requested with a sense of panic and urgency. Our army is motionless through fear, Prince Akbar had written in defense, to the emperor’s outrage and inquisition. Aurangzeb’s thoughts were feeling the sting of this memory as he kept pacing. His gaze darted from one object to another with an intensity akin to murder in the gilded prison of his encampment! So incensed had he been at that time, about his son’s indolence and failures, that he had commanded him to repair to Chitor. At the same time Prince Azam had been given command of Udaipur. Prince Akbar, feeling disgraced and disgruntled, had then marched to Chitor, trying his very best to prove his valor on the road to warfare. Pretending to be fighting and winning, he had accrued the credits of his so-called victories on his own shoulders, and ascribed losses and defeats to the stupidity of his lieutenant, Tahawer Khan. He had been successful in keeping the emperor in the dark, plotting treason and insurrection, not even informing the emperor that Ajit Singh was wreaking

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havoc in Marwar. Ajit Singh had captured the towns of Jhalor and Siswana, as far away as the East and South of Godwar. Prince Akbar had entrenched himself in the town of Nadol, while Tahawer Khan had dallied near the village of Deosuri, both cowering against the onslaught of the Rajputs. The Rajputs had advanced boldly towards the precincts of Jhilwara without facing any threat from the imperialists. In fact, that had been the time when Prince Akbar finalized his plan of rebellion. Six months after the dalliance of the prince and his lieutenant, the emperor was to learn that they had formed an alliance with Raj Singh and Ajit Singh to usurp the throne. Durga Das had also come into the open to rally the ambitious prince, and he was gaining support from the inveterate rebel, Shambhuji himself. Encouraged by the mighty support of the Rajputs, Prince Akbar had sloughed off his mask of obedience and girded the mantle of courage to fight the emperor. Selecting four theologians as his pillars of strength, he had made them sign a decree that Aurangzeb had forfeited his right to rule by violating the canon of Islamic Law. Next, he had crowned himself emperor, bestowing the title of premier noble on Tahawer Khan. This missile of news had reached the emperor through the devotion of Shahibudin Khan. Prince Akbar had crowned himself in the absence of this man, who had been away from the encampment for a long time. Upon learning of these strange events, Shahibudin Khan had charged post haste to Ajmer to inform the emperor of his son’s treason and treachery. The emperor, of course, had rewarded him bounteously, grateful for his devotion and friendship. I am now defenseless! The pain of loneliness within Aurangzeb had raised a shrill cry, but not even a sliver of anguish had escaped his lips in front of Shahibudin Khan. Aurangzeb could still feel that whiff of pain as if it was a fresh blow, buffeting his heart, suffering and suffering. This ache in his soul was a palpitating reality this moment, the soles of his feet tingling from the ritual of pacing, as if nothing would check their motion even if his body was to drop dead with fatigue. And yet, his body was a castle fortified, he knew, where his former feeling of defenselessness had molded itself into fortifications sound and impregnable. This missile of news as to my son’s rebellion landed upon me in Ajmer, he had told himself later, only because I had a small contingent of troops at my disposal at that time. The two main divisions of his army, though untainted by the soot of treason, were stationed far away in Chitor, across from the lake of Rajsamundra. The soldiers in those contingents were stricken with terror, since they had been the first ones to receive the news that the newly crowned prince was marching towards Ajmer.

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Recovering from this initial shock, Aurangzeb was not to be disheartened. The master of his own destiny, he had sent couriers galloping along the four poles of his empire, commanding his troops to return to Ajmer. Prince Muazzam had been summoned from Deccan, along with his troops and armaments. His soldiers had been quick to dig entrenchments as far as Lake Pushkar! Without waiting for further reinforcements, the emperor had marched six miles south of Ajmer, pitching his camp on the field of Deorai. This was the same spot where Aurangzeb had vanquished his brother, Prince Dara Shikoh, while contesting the throne of Hind, and his spirits were high. Prince Akbar was encamped at Khirki, but dared not challenge his father in open combat. Each day, many of Prince Akbar’s soldiers were deserting him and joining the imperialists. Aurangzeb had decided to maintain a defensive strategy, but he was getting impatient with the silence and inaction from his royal traitor of a son. So he had marched four miles further south, selecting the plains of Dorahah to test the courage and presumption of his scheming son. Prince Akbar’s encampment was only three miles away, but he was making no move, probably not daring to challenge the emperor in open, bloody warfare. Aurangzeb’s feet came to a stumbling halt before his neglected dinner, though his gaze was unseeing. An evil gleam kindled his eyes to gold stars in anticipation of a late night visitor, if his luck would favor him as a reward for his own piety and strategy. The decisive battle between the prince and the emperor was to be fought tomorrow, but the emperor had employed the arrow of his wisdom to secure the prize of victory even before a single shot could be fired. He had sent a secret missive to Tahawer Khan, promising him a pardon if he came to him with a sincere pledge of devotion and submission. The postscript to this message was that, in case of his noncompliance, his family, though lodged in the imperial encampment under the favor and generosity of the emperor, would be murdered. His women would be publicly humiliated and his sons sold into slavery at the price of dogs. Aurangzeb stood smiling to himself. It was a convulsion of a smile straight from the pools of his self-righteousness, where pain and cruelty sat churning side-by-side. The sewer of his self-torment released one small bubble, revealing the pearl of his white strategy, not the slime of his dark deception. He had written another letter, a false one, to his son, intended for the sole agony—or pleasure—of the Rajput chiefs who had formed an alliance with the rebellious prince. In this letter he had commanded Prince Akbar to bring the principal Rajputs with him in conformity with the emperor’s plans, so as to have them crushed by the imperial army in the

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battle to be fought in the morning. This letter had been dropped near the Rajput encampment, aimed like a silent missile for the chief warlords who had instigated Prince Akbar to rebel against his father. What if the Rajputs find their letter first and inform Tahawer Khan? Aurangzeb’s heart missed a beat, lurching down a chasm more evil than his own dark deeds and black thoughts. The memory of Aurangzeb’s own rebellion, imprisoning his father and murdering his brothers, was coming back to him, its eyes the windows on the storm clouds. Against the closed shutters of his mind there were rivulets of blood, garnished with severed heads, all wild and pleading. Shuddering inwardly, he began to pace again, driving the demons of his pious deeds back to their dark abodes. More demons, more real than the phantoms of the memories, were coming alive inside the dungeons of his schemes and strategies. Sikander Shah in Bijapur was rising like a foul monster to corrupt the very foundations of the Moghul Empire. That Shia dog! Aurangzeb’s thoughts were raining down the bricks of wrath and vengeance. Abul Hasan of Golconda too was swooping down like a vulture to mutilate the map of the Moghul Empire! Aurangzeb’s thoughts raced after these two rebels, carrying the brands of fire and hatred. His feet came to a staggering halt before his tent entrance, all fringed and canopied. He had espied Princess Zebunisa standing there, as if witnessing the arrival of some beautiful apparition from the lands forgotten. “Sated with sumptuous foods and plots, my princess, you have finally deigned to heed the summons of the emperor?” Aurangzeb shot the quick reprimand, his inner torment wild and churning. “This is the time you commanded me to come, Your Majesty. The unnecessary precautions of your royal guards are the cause of this little delay, if I may be as bold as to add,” Princess Zebunisa murmured demurely, her pallor accentuated by the coronet of rubies on her head. “Bold you are not, my charming spy of a princess!” was Aurangzeb’s anguished comment! “Covert and conniving, to be precise!” His thoughts were rocking on a swing of anger and bitterness. “How long have you been conspiring with your fool of a brother?” He held her captive in his gaze, bright and singeing. “All accusations base, Your Majesty, against which I feel defenseless,” the tremor of a protest escaped Princess Zebunisa’s lips. “And you have not been writing to him all these bleating months of war and intrigue? Supplying him with details about each and every move of the emperor, and encouraging him to take up arms against his father? Do you deny all that?” Aurangzeb’s anger was flaring, though he was holding it in abeyance inside the marshlands of his doubts and decrees.

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“I have written to him often, Your Majesty, that’s true. But not the sort of things I am charged with,” Princess Zebunisa responded sadly, her white hands knotted on her bosom, prayer-like. “The Rajputs are the ones to blame, Your Majesty! They are the ones who incited him to rebellion. I warned him against that,” she murmured inaudibly. “Such blatant lies, my beloved Princess! You have the audacity to deceive the emperor still?” Aurangzeb’s anger was the rumbling of a distant thunder. “Didn’t the traitor himself resort to base lies? Writing to me in a vain attempt at flattery when I warned him of his failures? How can the emperor forget? Each word of his is branded in my memory like wounds raw and throbbing, bled white with the sting of pain and betrayal.” He waved his arm as if to fend off the demons of past tragedy and present wickedness. “What did he say then? You had the privilege of reading that letter, didn’t you? I am merely learning the alphabet in the school of practical wisdom. Language can describe but a part of the pain and shame at the astonishing exploits of the cursed infidels. I have erred grievously through inexperience and human frailty. I beg Your Majesty’s pardon for these heavy faults, and promise that in future I shall not be the least remiss in caution and vigilance. Tell me, my wise princess, can you detect the veil of treachery and the hope of ambition in these words written by your traitor brother, to whom you are devoted?” He began to pace, as if neither demanding an answer, nor expecting one. “Prince Akbar is a pawn in the hands of the Rajputs, Your Majesty!” Princess Zebunisa ventured a hopeless plea. “He is not to blame. Even now, he is acting out the wishes of the enemy. Most probably not even knowing what he is doing—” She could not continue, her heart somersaulting in throes of agony and despair. “While in Ajmer, I believed that too! That he was led astray by the designs of the demonic Rajputs!” Aurangzeb murmured to himself amidst his ritual of pacing. “Didn’t I write, my beloved son, light of my eyes, part of my heart, Akbar. I write to you, swearing upon the word of the Ruler amongst kings, and be Allah my witness, that I esteem you and love you more than my other sons. You were ever my solace and consolation, and lightened my afflictions when you were present.” He recited his own missive as if spilling out the venom of his loneliness. Suddenly, he halted in his act of pacing, whirling around and standing there stock still. He faced his daughter, his gaze sightless. “And do you know what the unworthy wretch wrote back to me?” Only the glaze of pain and anger was alive in Aurangzeb’s eyes. “Quit the government, Your Majesty, and I will rule the kingdom as it ought to be done. Journey to Mecca, Your Majesty. During all these years you have

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ruled in grandeur and done what you pleased. Now that the shadows fall, it is time to retire and begin to care for your soul. Foul viper, my son and your brother! Do you still defend him?” “I—” A tremulous sigh choked Princess Zebunisa’s weak defense. “I don’t know, Your Majesty, why you summoned me here.” Her hands were crushing the pleats of her silken gown, to rustling protests. “I have summoned you here, you wicked changeling, that you may confess your crime of sending incendiary letters to your brother, which has brought us all to this disastrous front! A son taking up arms against his father! Your confession might win you a pardon for all your follies and offences.” Aurangzeb’s eyes were smoldering with edicts harsh and unvoiced. “Nothing to confess, Your Majesty!” was Princess Zebunisa’s anguished plea and response. “You lie like the cicadas! Most cunningly, my doomed princess! Did the emperor love you less than the other pack of royal rebels?” Aurangzeb thundered uncontrollably. “You, a lowly spider! Spinning an evil web around the heart of the emperor and the empire! Why don’t you fall to your knees and plead forgiveness?” “Forgiveness for crimes I did not commit, Your Majesty?” The pain of inquisition itself was goading Princess Zebunisa to boldness. “Would you forgive Prince Akbar, Your Majesty, if he came and prostrated himself at your feet?” “That filthy toad, my son! Did I not relent and send him another message to cast off the robe of rebellion and return to me?” Aurangzeb waved his arm in sheer exasperation! “I would have forgiven him then! But not now! Not after what he wrote in his last letter. I would surely return, Your Majesty, but with sword in hand.” “Is it no use, Your Majesty, pleading or offering proof of devotion? Your own suspicions have made us all victims. The swords of accusation—” Princess Zebunisa was trying to force back her tears. “May I leave?” Tears were pouring from her eyes, hot and stinging. “Yes. But shortly, you will be confined inside the fortress of Salimgarh. Deprived of all your comforts and allowances!” His wave of dismissal was paused halfway by the breezy arrival of Udaipuri. “I have heard it all, Your Majesty! You can’t send this innocent lamb to that wretched hole of a prison.” Udaipuri stumbled towards Princess Zebunisa, her arms held out to embrace the princess. But the weeping princess was leaving this den of doom and injustice. Udaipuri’s arms were falling limp to her sides, her half inebriated senses trying to clutch at the reed of reality, which had escaped her arms like a

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phantom of the night. Haze and stupor were blinding her sight, envisioning the emperor as another phantom who had turned to a pillar of salt. Anger and color had drained from Aurangzeb’s face, his eyes lit only with the incense of adoration. Donned in blue silks, with a pashmina shawl slung over her shoulders, Udaipuri appeared more like a courtesan than a queen who was the mistress of the emperor’s whims and vagaries. She too was rooted to one spot, her look bright and distant. She couldn’t remember the reason why she had come here, or why her lips were sealed and her heart numb. The cups of adoration in Aurangzeb’s eyes were glazed with the agony of desire. And before he knew it, he was beside her, crushing her to him in a wild embrace. He was kissing her with the hunger of a famished lover, utterly possessed and besottedly stricken. Tasting the salt of blood on her lips and the sweetness of wine on her breath, he released her abruptly, the hungers of his flesh still savage. “Leave the emperor, Udaipuri, before he ravishes your body and soul! He can’t afford to neglect his duties, and is expecting night visitors who are intent on destroying his life and empire, if he dares sleep but a wink.” Aurangzeb’s voice was wrenched out of the slime of his agony and bitterness. “Pray, when will you abandon this vile habit of drinking? The emperor must cut off the hands of the eunuchs who serve you poison behind his back.” He turned away, knotting his hands behind his back to still the fever of agony and desire. “It is an addiction sublime, Your Majesty,” was Udaipuri’s song of pain and elation! “Much like your addiction to cruelty and suspicion!” Her head was spinning, her heart light and exhilarated. “You are such a witless, drunken fool, my love! If I were not stricken with the curse of loving you, you would be flogged and sent to prison with the common herd of other rebels.” Aurangzeb began to pace, the torture of shame and guilt crushing his passion. “Leave the emperor, love! He is saving all his energy to fight his son tomorrow!” The chasm of loneliness inside him was swirling like a hurricane. “Your noble addiction, Your Majesty, is the cause of all this fighting too.” A peal of mirth escaped Udaipuri’s lips, mad and hysterical. “Haven’t you heard why Prince Akbar took up arms against you? Your suspicions alienated him from you. No wonder he sought the company of Durga Das and Raj Singh. No one dares tell you, Your Majesty, how those two Rajputs convinced Prince Akbar and Ajit Singh to seize the throne of Hind? They told him that his father’s bigoted attempt to root out the Rajputs is threatening the stability of the Moghul Empire. Also, refreshed his memory that his forefathers were all wise and tolerant, who had—”

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Her inebriated tirade was stalled by the rod of lightning in the emperor’s eyes and on his lips. “Leave the emperor alone, Udaipuri! And if as little as one drop of wine touches your lips, I will cut your tongue out before I hurl the whole pack of your maids and eunuchs into the pit of hell and damnation!” Aurangzeb thundered. “Pious discipline falls like a thorn of bigotry at the feet of any infidel.” His heart was breaking at the look of fright in his beloved’s eyes. “You must leave, love.” He drifted toward her like a ghost, tormented by the weight of his sorrow and loneliness. “Go, rest. Forgive.” He cupped her hands into his own, imprinting tender kisses. The emperor was alone once again in his tent of silk and damask. The stormy night was dark and rumbling. He was pacing and hugging himself as if to absorb the scent of his beloved’s hands into the aching tenderness of his heart, where kisses sweet were already buried to rest. Inside the hollow of his right palm was crushed an amber rosary, its beads glowing and hungering for prayers sad or sweet. Some sort of nuptial darkness was settled inside his soul, a hush so palpitating that he could hear the whisper of silence and the laughter of mockery, arrested there like some echo, eternal and unforgotten. Peering deeper into his soul, Aurangzeb’s thoughts groped for light and sustenance, but nothing could be seen, only lumps of deformity. Suddenly, a whiff of a cold breeze stirred out of the dark recesses of his soul, parading the rags of his piety and self-righteousness like pennants dull and colorless. The odor of the sea was wafting forth its reek from somewhere within him, the salt of ambition sitting there in lumpish formlessness. In a flash, he had seen the corruption of hate and bigotry, of rage and cruelty, in the thunderous deeps of his spirit and psyche. But his thoughts, aghast and defiant, were effacing all, donning the robe of purity and honor. And yet, rage was coiling inside him like a serpent wise and chivalrous, his heart expanding and constricting. The subtle odor of memories rude and astringent was reaching his awareness, where there was no love, no beloved, no Udaipuri. A primal cry of agony was a swollen lump in his throat, gathering the uproar of confusion from within and without. He thought he was listening to the chaotic silence from within, but in fact he was becoming aware of the voices from the main hall where guards and sentries were posted. Aurangzeb’s feet came to an involuntary halt by the chest of gold and ivory where his sword lay unsheathed. Standing there inert, he could catch the ebb and flow of voices, reaching closer and closer. The rhythmic motion of his fingers on the rosary was not even noticed by him, until it fell at his feet in one golden heap. He snatched it up swiftly, kissing the

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cold beads with a fervor akin to worship and superstition. Abandoning the rosary on the chest, he claimed his sword. His heart was attaining the rhythm of a drumbeat, loud and violent, his ears straining to catch each and every word down the hall. Why should I have ventured out of Prince Akbar’s camp to seek His Majesty’s audience, had I not thought that I had sinned beyond hope, hoping for pardon? Tahawer Khan’s voice was a blade of ice, crackling with rage. We are not questioning your intent. All we are saying is that we need to disarm you before you can see His Majesty, the voice of one guard was rippling forth with the sting of a warning. You don’t trust an officer of a high rank? Is that it? Tahawer Khan’s response was a bellow of contempt. Let me tell you how I have endangered my life regardless of the fact of what Prince Akbar is saying behind the scenes! He is telling us generals that he is tired of seeing the tyrannical acts of his father. Especially the abrogation of the rights and privileges that his venerable ancestors conceded to different persons in Hindustan! His message to the emperor is to mount his horse and prepare for a battle. Then why is he not coming out and waging war? The voice of another guard was a missile of derision. Didn’t the emperor send him a letter saying that the astrologers advised him to delay his advance, or he would suffer grievous consequences? The generosity of the emperor, even when dealing with a rebellious son? Tahawer Khan’s voice was loaded with the coals of sarcasm. That is insignificant though. You are wasting my time. Let me see the emperor, now! he demanded. If you would permit us to disarm you, no time would be wasted. You would be presented to His Majesty without delay. What? Would I be presented unarmed like a captive? Why should you take my sword and dagger away when my intentions are— “Let him enter with his tools of murder!” Aurangzeb’s command, balanced on the trumpets of rage, was a sure signal to the guards to murder this treacherous worm. The emperor himself had rushed to the scene, a blaze of molten rage and hatred pouring from his eyes over the pinioned victim, struggling for release. One swarthy guard punched Tahawer Khan in the chest, receiving in return a quick slap on the face for his insolence. In a flash, all the guards commenced a shower of blows on the wretched victim with their maces and swords, one of them slitting his throat most brutally. “Before you are condemned to the eternal fires of hell and damnation, o foul traitor, listen to this!” Aurangzeb slung his sword in his

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cummerbund, red as blood. “Your evil allies, the barbarous and uncultured Rajputs, will be reading the emperor’s letter in the morning. At least, one of them, addressed to Prince Akbar, but intended for their perusal alone. How lovingly I wrote! My dear son, my courageous son, well done! You deserve praise and congratulations on the wisdom and foresight displayed by you to entrap the enemy, so that I could slaughter them without mercy.” The severed head of Tahawer Khan and his body, stained with wounds in rivulets of blood, was the emperor’s audience, as well as the guards and sentries, their eyes radiant with zeal and pride, and their lips silent as the corpse with its head severed. “Remove this sewer of evil from the emperor’s camp and toss him into the pit of offal!” Aurangzeb commanded, turning to his heels. “In the morning, we must pluck out the thorns of rebellion from the eyes of my son and from the baggage of all his infidel friends!” He sauntered back to the gilded prison of his nightmares. The nightmares were beginning to descend upon Aurangzeb like showers of mercy against his guillotine of loneliness. He flung himself upon his bed of carpets, flanked by pillows. He was fully dressed, his sword poised before his own heart, though he himself was not aware of his stupor and fatigue. Drugged with hatred and disgust, he was being sucked into the vortex of his sins and crimes. The threadbare cloak of piety in his thoughts was frayed and disintegrating. It was revealing the severed heads of his cousins and brothers, murdered by his command. The swords of wrath from God’s own hands were suspended low in the sky, under the shadow of which he lay cowering and writhing. Prince Dara Shikoh was holding out his own severed head, his eyes shooting coals of mirth and mockery. The hot, scalding lava of his brother’s laughter was carving deep wounds inside Aurangzeb’s heart. Those wounds were attaining the size of cannon balls, swollen and abscessed. All the ghosts were swirling and throbbing inside the confines of Aurangzeb’s nightmares. The groans of his imprisoned father, loud and incessant, were cutting deep trenches of agony inside the colonnades of his body and soul. All hell was let loose, the spirits restless, dancing and stabbing. The face of the night outside, in convulsions of thunder and lightning, was entering the pit of chaos and storm within him. The shades and shadows of nightmarish reality were in a mood of festivity and celebration, holding the whip of damnation, and he was the only one suffering the tortures of the damned. The very fabric of his nightmares was ripped open, and he was drifting deeper and deeper into the abyss of chasms wild and violent. A piercing cry from the wounded heart of the night, and all doors to salvation were barred shut forever. A burning vortex

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of stars had swallowed him, but he could see the moon up there, lonesome and cankerous. Cain was standing inside the moon with a bundle of twigs in his arms, smiling. And in that smile was the promise of hope. A sliver of blood and benediction was branded on the lips of this old prophet. Pious rage was smoldering in Aurangzeb’s heart, a sigh of anguish on his own lips. The shutters of nightmares were cradling him deep in the bower of self-righteousness. This icon of piety, none other than Aurangzeb, was awakened in the morning by the rude pleas of the guards. His heart was heavy and his rage mutilated by the slingshots of nightmares. But he heaved himself up from the stupor of dreams and nightmares with the grace of a saint, all patient and benevolent. Forbidding all talk of reports dire or devastating, he had ordered water for ablution. After performing his prayers with utmost calm and reverence, he had admitted the morning intruders to his presence. Seated on his gold throne with the amber rosary spinning between his fingers, he seemed more like a hermit than the emperor of a vast empire. Aurangzeb had received news of Prince Akbar’s escape with no sign of astonishment. Then, he had retired for the rituals of bathing and breakfast, before convening this makeshift court in order to learn more about the flight of his son. His tent of damask was the palace of power, laden with carpets rich and scented with incense and candles. The gold throne was his refuge once again, this time welcoming the presence of his viziers and generals. His gaze was feverish, his ascetic features as white as the cotton robe which he was wearing. The conical beard under his chin appeared to be a white sword pointed at his own heart. He had closed his eyes, his thoughts a prayer wheel of pain and anguish. As he sat thus, listening to the reports of his son’s flight, he dared not open his eyes, lest the rivers of anguish escape his gaze and parade his weakness. “As intended, Your Majesty, the letter you wrote to Prince Akbar fell into the hands of Durga Das.” Shahibudin Khan was recounting these details as commanded. “It was late at night, but he hastened to Prince Akbar’s tent for an explanation. Prince Akbar was sleeping, and his guards would not let Durga Das disrupt the sleep of the royal prince. Then Durga Das demanded to see Tahawer Khan. He was quick to discover that Tahawer Khan had stolen away to the imperial camp a few hours ago. At once, he was convinced of the treacherous plot against the Rajputs, presuming Prince Akbar’s sleep a pretense, and his friendship a ruse to deliver them into the hands of the imperialists. All the Rajputs were alerted, and they galloped away in the direction of Marwar, but not before looting Prince Akbar’s camp of whatever goods they could lay their hands on. In the morning, Prince Akbar found himself deserted by the Rajputs,

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and was overwhelmed with panic and confusion. Gathering a handful of his followers, and mounting his camels with treasures, he too fled, following the tracks of the Rajputs.” “And none of the night-watchers noticed the flight of the rebel and the infidels?” Aurangzeb’s eyes shot open, his inquiry falling on Uighar Khan. “No, Your Majesty. They were busy disposing of the body of Tahawer Khan, confident of a battle in the morning, rather relaxing their watch on the enemy’s camp,” Uighar Khan murmured quietly. “It was not until morning, after the prince had fled and his soldiers who deserted him came to our side, that we got to know the events of the night.” “The negligence of the imperialists is the cause of all this heartache to the emperor! This den of unrest and intrigue where rebellions multiply by the hour and rebels flee unchecked to breed more rebellions!” Aurangzeb got to his feet, his look menacing. He was trying his best to restrain his anger and despair. “What have the imperialists done so far to redress this wrong, the folly of sheer negligence on their part?” His gaze swept over all with the threat of thunder and lightning. “We are waiting for your orders, Your Majesty,” Kamil Khan ventured the dithering response. “My orders!” Aurangzeb waved his arm in exasperation, his gaze stern and thoughtful. “Yes, the emperor’s orders are to pursue and arrest every rebel, and to blow out their brains in order to kill all the seeds of revolt!” He began to pace, noticing the absence of Prince Muazzam with a stab of premonition. “Already we have captured a lot of Prince Akbar’s followers, Your Majesty, including the four Qazis who signed the decree of deposition.” Shahibudin Khan let his boast follow the emperor’s pacing. “Those vipers most base, they must be flogged if not impaled alive!” Aurangzeb’s feet came to a slow halt before Shahibudin Khan, the beacons of vengeance shining in his eyes with the glow of hatred and cruelty. “Did the traitor prince take all his family with him?” “No, Your Majesty. One of his wives, two sons and three daughters are left behind,” Shahibudin Khan admitted a bit apprehensively. “They have been brought to the imperial camp and lodged with the ladies of the harem.” “You, Shahibudin, are to follow Prince Akbar right away,” Aurangzeb commanded abruptly! “If he chooses to fight, and even if he is killed, it is well. A rebellious son is unworthy to live!” “Yes, Your Majesty.” Shahibudin Khan bowed his head in absolute submission to the will of the emperor.

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“The emperor has more pressing matters to attend to,” Aurangzeb demurred aloud. “First, we need to chastise the Shia Lord of Bijapur, Sikander Shah.” “Your Majesty.” Sheikhul Aslam sought the emperor’s attention. “Bijapur is a Muslim state, and to invade it would be a clear violation of Quranic law.” “Shias are not Muslims, but infidels!” Aurangzeb’s rage spluttered forth unchecked. He whirled around to face the rude Qazi. “Though Bengal is Sikander Shah’s hell, well-stocked with bread, the emperor must save it from the fires of damnation. And as for you, my holy interpreter of the Quran, you are commanded to take a pilgrimage to Mecca, to explore the true precepts of Islam. And dare not—” His rage was swallowed by a sudden flood of music from the imperial band outside. “Who has sanctioned this heathen music to defy the edict of the emperor?” His eyes were spilling fires of outrage and inquisition. “The songs of victory, Your Majesty! To celebrate the ignominious flight and desertion of the Rajputs! Prince Muazzam himself has arranged a glorious spectacle out there, which will meet your approval.” Jafar Khan rose to the defense of the capricious prince, who had taken the trumpets of vengeance into his own hands to please the emperor. “The heedless prince will meet inglorious punishments if the emperor found this display lacking reverence and propriety.” Aurangzeb trooped out of his tent, wearing a crown of doubt as the only jewel on his unadorned turban. The stark, naked gaze of the morning was holding spears of sunshine and reigning supreme over this silken city of tents as Aurangzeb emerged forth as the lord of fire and vengeance. His white robe, smitten gold by the molten fury of the sun, was matching the flush of curiosity and vindictiveness on his sharp features. The shafts of sunlight met his burning gaze in a tremor of a challenge, which he deigned not accept. A splinter of a smile was teasing the taut ridges around his mouth as he absorbed the entire scene with quicksilver awakening. Aurangzeb halted a few paces away from the scene of torture and flogging, wave upon wave of elation and incredulity impeding his advance. The music from the band itself was a groan of victory from the instrument of exultation within his soul and psyche. He himself could not have planned the punishments with such brute ingenuity as Prince Muazzam! Aurangzeb’s heart was singing hymns of praise and approval. A group of rebels, naked to the waist, were being flogged mercilessly, their chorus of agony splintering the rhythm of the imperial band. The four

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Qazis who had sided with Prince Akbar were stretched full length on planks of wood, being buffeted with lashes sharp and whistling. “God’s miracle, my valorous prince! You have earned the blessings of the emperor this blessed day.” Aurangzeb sailed towards his son as if lifted on the wings of flaming clouds. Bronzed and exhilarated by sunshine, and by the inner fire of his pious zeal, Aurangzeb clasped his son in his arms. Then he stood gazing into the eyes of his son as if whipped by the flames of piety on the verge of insanity. “You will accompany Shahibudin in his pursuit of the rebel and hunt down your own brother! Devise punishments worthy and unique!” Aurangzeb stroked his beard, a volley of mirth and hysteria escaping his thin lips. “To Bijapur, to Bijapur! The emperor himself will chase the Shia dog.” He turned on his heel, hysterical bolts of laughter trailing behind him on his way toward his lonesome tent.

CHAPTER SEVEN TABERNACLE OF A THRONE

There had been a lapse of five years since Prince Akbar’s flight, and the town of Rasulpur in Bijapur had become the emperor’s permanent abode in the silken city of imperial encampment. Still a fugitive, the royal rebel had evaded arrest, fleeing from one refuge to another, hounded by the Moghul troops. Aurangzeb had waited three months in Dorahah with the hope of seeing his son brought to him, shackled and humiliated, before starting other campaigns. Since his hopes had been tarnished by his failures, he had marched to Bijapur with the intention of conquering the entire province of Bengal on the sandy tracts of Deccan. Aurangzeb’s pious resolve to drive the Shia dog out of Bengal had proven to be the most onerous of tasks he had ever undertaken. Difficulties had sprouted along the way, and throughout his empire, like the most hated of the murrains, in the literal and metaphorical sense of the word, without exaggeration. Five long, grueling years of war and strategizing, and Bengal had become his own hell of pious ambition, against the mighty defense and resistance of Sikander Shah. However, this particular afternoon, as he sat writing letters to his viziers and ambassadors, the thread of his hope had been unknotted with the promise of total submission from Sikander Shah. Shah had sent a letter this morning, professing fidelity and friendship to the emperor. He had written that he would appear in person to offer up the keys of his fort and his humble submission before the day was over. Seated at his rosewood desk inside his crimson tent, Aurangzeb’s thoughts were straying from letters to campaigns, to his own passion unruly and devastating. Absorbed thus, he looked more like a ghost of ages past than the man of flesh and blood known as the Emperor of Hind. The everlasting torch of his piety and ambition had drained much of his strength, though the sword of Islam unsheathed within his heart was still the lifeblood of his energy and perseverance. His features had grown more angular than before, matching his beard, white and conical. Perched high above his aquiline nose were his light gold eyes, the same as ever, concealing the fire of passion, and lit by the flames of zeal and hatred. The

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hunger of his passion was sated by night-long love-violence with his beloved Udaipuri. She had been the victim of his hungers, deep and insatiable, for the past three nights in a row. A victim indeed, since by staying in his tent, she was being deprived of her merrymaking with drink. Even now, as Aurangzeb sat writing with his back toward his beloved, his thoughts were hovering close to her beauteous form, cradled in sleep on the bed of carpets and draped in satiny coverlets. Aurangzeb had slept but little, making love half the night and slumbering blissfully between the interludes of agony and rapture. He had risen early, as was his wont, performing his prayers and ablutions with the utmost devotion before attending to his duties in reading reports and writing letters which needed his urgent attention. Donned in the white robe of piety as usual, Aurangzeb had stood gazing at his sleeping beauty, and had not had the heart to waken her. Then he had seated himself at his desk to read a much neglected pile of reports, simmering with intrigues and tragedies. His mind was a cauldron of conflicting emotions this particular morning, cherishing shafts of love and tenderness for Udaipuri where lust and violence had reigned supreme the previous night. Zeal and hatred were there too, drinking the hemlock of piety and ambition as he kept stirring the dark cinders of intrigue in the reports with the poker of his iron will. Only once had he abandoned the onerous task of his reading and writing, and that too at the single note of a reed flute from the guards outside his tent, who were commanded to give this kind of signal when Udaipuri was with him. Hearing this signal, he had stepped outside, hurriedly snatching the letter sent by Sikander Shah. Without exchanging a word, he had returned to the sanctuary of his own solitude. Once again, Aurangzeb had stood in the middle of his tent, gazing at his beloved. And yet, once again he had returned to his desk, driven more by the need to read the letter in his hand than by the sudden assault of guilt and tenderness for Udaipuri. The letter was a boon of victory from God’s own bounteous treasures, Aurangzeb’s thoughts had chanted piously. Sikander Shah had pledged submission, and Aurangzeb’s heart was flooded with the sense of power and euphoria. Elated he was, if not exultant, and Udaipuri was forgotten in the arena of his thoughts, where more wars were to be fought and more victories gained. In the distance, Golconda was looming like a brilliant treasure guarded by another Shia rebel by the name of Abul Hasan. Abul Hasan had become the emperor’s most formidable of foes, entrenching himself in the mighty fort of Golconda, and defying the emperor’s claim of sovereignty with open scorn. Tides upon tides of

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schemes to defeat and degrade this rebel took shape in Aurangzeb’s head as he turned his attention to other reports. He furnished his decisions with profusion of edicts and commands, his thoughts racing back to Chitor and Udaipur. Though both these provinces had been conquered five years ago, there were reports of the fresh kindling of unrest and rebellion. The fever of elation coursing through Aurangzeb’s thoughts took a detour, floating right into the stream of the muddied past, where Prince Akbar was a fugitive, still consorting with the enemies of the emperor. Prince Akbar had managed to flee successfully, foiling the efforts of Prince Muazzam and Shahibudin Khan, who had been intent on capturing the royal fugitive. Fear and despair were his demons, goading him to journey day and night without taking any rest, precaution and concealment his only food for sustenance. In a way, he had been favored even at the inception of his flight, since the Rajputs were not long to discover that a trick had been played upon them by the very hands of the emperor. So Durga Das, at the head of a small band of troops, had turned back to take Prince Akbar under protection. The Rajputs’ strict code of honor demanded that the wronged prince should be protected at all costs, so they had become his guardians and defenders. The emperor’s only means of keeping in touch with his fugitive son were the reports brought to the emperor after he had fled from one place to another in secrecy. The reports of Prince Akbar’s flight were a constant trickle of anguish and annoyance to the emperor, but he had not lost hope, always hoping for miracles where efforts had failed. At first, Prince Akbar had reached Sanchor, close to the borders between Gujarat and Marwar. Then he had found refuge in the court of Jai Singh in Udaipur. Since the Moghul troops were heading that way in hot pursuit, Durga Das had managed to smuggle the prince via Dungarpur toward the Southern Land, evading ferry passes guarded by the imperial picket, and succeeding in reaching Ahmadabad. Prince Akbar had then taken the route of Baswara, south of Malwa. He had crossed the River Narmada near the ferry of Akbarpur, and via Tapti had entered Burhanpur. Here too the imperial guards were posted at all major ports, and the prince had turned west through Khandesh and Balgana, seeking refuge in Konakan under the protection of Shambhuji. The volcano of hatred in Aurangzeb’s heart erupted forth at the sheer thought of Shambhuji, his fingers shaking with rage in his act of stabbing more words of advice into a letter to the Sharif of Mecca. His thoughts were now churning doubt and threats. The lava of hatred inside him was slithering toward Abul Hasan, who had formed an alliance with Shambhuji. Abul Hasan was also defending and supporting Prince Akbar. Muqarab Khan had been appointed to capture Shambhuji, but so far he had

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remained unsuccessful. Aurangzeb’s hand reached out to the pile of letters on his desk, searching for the one he himself had written to Abul Hasan. Instead, his gaze was arrested by the one written by Abul Hasan and sent to him a year ago. His eyes lit up with the flames of vengeance as he snatched the letter, his very gaze scorching the words to cinders. Your Majesty, only a mean minded coward like you would attack a helpless orphan like Sikander Shah, and I myself would send a large army to support Bijapur— Aurangzeb crushed the letter into a ball, his hands clenched into tight fists over the polished desk. The rivers of agony were set loose inside him, flowing backward over the tides of the recent past, where Abul Hasan had attained the stature of a dragon, never to be defeated. After swallowing the affront in Abul Hasan’s letter, Aurangzeb had sent a large army under the command of Prince Muazzam to conquer Hyderabad, where this Lord of Golconda was ruling and boasting of his power and wealth. Prince Muazzam had been unable to advance beyond Malkhed, overwhelmed by the strong army of Golconda. Aurangzeb had then devised a master plan, bribing the Commander-inChief of Golconda, Muhammed Ibrahim, and convincing him to desert his own post and join the imperialists. Bribery was successful where force had proven an utter failure. Muhammed Ibrahim had deserted Abul Hasan, not only joining the imperialists, but bringing along with him his great contingent of troops. Abul Hasan, being deprived of most of his troops, had no choice but to flee, entrenching himself in the strong fort of Golconda. Prince Muazzam had finally entered Hyderabad and gained possession. Abul Hasan had been granted a little respite, since the Moghul troops were employed in the siege of Bijapur instead of following him to his stronghold in Golconda. A petition had been sent to him, granting him pardon on the condition that he pay a fine of one million and twenty lakhs in rupees. He was also commanded to hand over the Hindu ministers, Madana and Akkana, into the custody of the imperialists, and to cede the territories of Seram and Malkhed to the empire. Abul Hasan had complied with all the conditions, with the exception of sending his ministers. For this indiscretion alone, the emperor had bribed the two dowager queens, who had had Madana and Akkana murdered on the streets of Golconda. Their homes had been plundered and their families slaughtered. Aurangzeb sat watching his knuckles, white and glistening, as if hypnotized by the immobility of his own fists. After the murder of his generals, Abul Hasan had challenged the Moghuls to a fair fight, and at this thought alone Aurangzeb’s heart was filled with impotent rage, the

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serpent of vengeance inside darting its tongue and hissing. The challenge had been accepted, but the impregnable fort of Golconda could not be scaled. The emperor had become a prisoner to his own siege at Bijapur, and could not march to Golconda to devise new strategies, but now— “Your Majesty.” A dreamy appeal from the lips of Udaipuri jolted Aurangzeb with the sting of reality. Unclenching his fists, Aurangzeb abandoned his seat of power, rigged with hatred and intrigues. His lean, anguished features relaxed into a smile as he stood watching his beloved, the light in his eyes a mingling of pain and tenderness. Udaipuri’s eyes were dark and shining; the glow of innocence and vulnerability in those dreamy pools usually had the effect of dispelling his rage and hatred, and today was no exception as he stood there, moved and humbled. She had draped a robe of Chinese silks over her negligee, toying with its blue sash absently. A portrait of youth and beauty she was, with lips as red as cherries and her small, white face glowing, as if bathed in moonlight. Aurangzeb’s heart unveiled this portrait with the pulse of wonder and adoration—wonder at this bloom of youth, while his own had withered, buried under the crust of age and wrinkles, and adoration at this miracle of beauty who belonged to his own husk of a body, ravaged by passions terrible and incongruous. So absorbed was he by his own sense of unworthiness, worshiping this priceless jewel before his gaze, that he didn’t heed her words until the name Princess Zebunisa grazed his awareness. “Your Majesty, why must you let Princess Zebunisa suffer the indignity of a prison life at Salimgarh? She is heartbroken, and will die of sheer grief, if not released soon,” was Udaipuri’s morning hymn of a plea! “She has all the luxury of solitude to pray and repent, yet she is guided by her vile thoughts,” Aurangzeb murmured to himself, recalling a poem which she had sent to Prince Muazzam under her pen name of Makhfi. “Studying not the Holy Quran, and giving her thoughts to vice in spilling verses foul and corrupt. No remorse, but wickedness! Listen to this and judge for yourself! Are the words of grief, or of love as sinful as any desire unlawful?” His eyes had attained a gleam of pain. “Seek not relief from the prison of grief, O Makhfi O Laila, there is no rest for the victim of love even in the grave Let no one know the secrets of thy love On the way of love, O Makhfi walk alone.

I should have arranged her marriage with Aqil Khan, if I had been granted a little respite from the horde of infidels.” He appeared to be lamenting his neglect in overlooking the affairs of his royal household.

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“How could I, hounded by wars and intrigues, and my sons turned rebels?” He began to pace, enveloped in the fog of bewilderment, where his love for one woman rose mightier than his hatred for all. “In the prison of wedlock, she might have escaped the prison of Salimgarh?” Udaipuri moaned quietly, scrambling herself up and getting to her feet. Snatching a pashmina shawl from the cushioned seat, Udaipuri tossed it over her shoulders carelessly. She was feeling pity for the emperor, whose shoulders were bent low under the weight of cruelties and tragedies he himself could not help gathering in the name of piety and divine justice. Her heart was sad and tender, and her soul longed for the wine of oblivion. A silver tray laden with exotic fruits was tempting her, but she tasted only one grape, thirsting for the real wine of her bliss and paradise. Pouring herself a glass of water from the gold flagon, she stood demurring, aware of the steady rhythm of the emperor’s pacing. “There is no evil or wickedness in poetry, Your Majesty. Instead, divine breath flows into poems from the holy rivulets of inspiration, God’s own gift of blessings to the souls suffered and suffering,” Udaipuri opined aloud. “If you could only hear the pain and tragedy of living in the verses of Princess Zebunisa, you would not humiliate her so. Her poems I can never tire of reciting, for they lend me courage to speak against tyranny and injustice.” She began to recite: “O foolish springs That bring not the Beloved to my abode Yea, all the friends of youth have gone from me Each has set out on his appointed road The storm sweeps around my house, its ramparts fall Its deep foundations sway before the gale I am a bird, who, flying home to rest Finds that the waters have o’erwhelmed his nest For many years have sorrows dwelt with me Yet I repine not, and so fiercely wage My war against despair, it turns to flee I am the Rustam of this later age.”

“As if the emperor knows not the pain and sorrow in living? Hounded by infidels from all quarters of his empire, and her adding more misery to his troubles by inciting her brothers to acts of treason?” Aurangzeb murmured again, meeting not her gaze lest he fell prey to his lust in the middle of the day, when matters more urgent needed his attention.

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“Infidels, Your Majesty?” Udaipuri’s eyes flashed with rage and disbelief. “If you could step out of the rivers of your hatred, Your Majesty, you would notice that God and His Love abound in every heart.” Her heart was shuddering after unleashing this grain of truth. She had long nurtured and cherished this truth inside her, aiming to fling it to the face of her puritanic husband, when ripe. “Are Shias infidels, Your Majesty, that you are bent on killing Muslims with the sword of Islam?” She was moved by such mighty resolve to unburden her heart that not even the fires of hell could silence her courage. “How dare you accuse the emperor of hatred in his great love for Islam?” was Aurangzeb’s stunned response, his feet coming to a stumbling halt. “Shia dogs, yes! It is not my hatred which is killing them, but the Hand of God for defying the laws of His Prophet!” “A Prophet, Your Majesty, who taught by the example of his own living a universal love for equality, social justice and divine remembrance!” Udaipuri’s eyes were lit with the sparks of some divine challenge. “A Prophet who said: a perfect Muslim is one from whose tongue and hands mankind is safe.” “Allah may forgive you for your ignorance, my love, which understands not the precepts of Islam,” Aurangzeb breathed the mild rebuke, his thoughts donning the mantle of piety and patience. “Allah means, Your Majesty, as you already know, the God of all religions, who is beyond any description and limitation.” Udaipuri was quick to unfold her treasure of knowledge, which she had been gathering during the past few years of wars unjust and devastating. “Allah is the God of Muslims alone, my false prophetess, and to believe otherwise is to defy the laws of God and His Prophet,” Aurangzeb muttered piously, his heart awakening to a flood of rage and chaos. “The same Prophet, Your Majesty, upon whose sword was inscribed: Forgive him who wrongs you. Do good to him who does evil to you,” Udaipuri sang sweetly. “The same one, my queen of heresies! Who upheld the sword of Islam, and fought the infidels to defend his Faith and the Law of Islam!” Aurangzeb’s tone was heavy with the threat of distant thunder, his thoughts aghast and simmering. “He did not, Your Majesty!” A ripple of derision escaped Udaipuri’s lips. “Laws of men, distorting the facts to suit their own passions of greed and possession! Prophet Muhammed gave no permission to fight with the exception of self-defense. And when he was forced to do so, he pardoned all after the victory. Isn’t it a shame to believe in all those lies that the

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Prophet ever fought with the intent of spreading the Faith, or that he ever coerced anyone to join the fold of Islam?” “Are you going to preach to the emperor what Islam is about?” Aurangzeb demanded, his heart sinking against the revelation of truth, which his piety despised. “No, Your Majesty. I want only for the wars to end, and the hatred be abolished.” Udaipuri’s heart was overwhelmed by a longing to escape this den of madness. “Not until this land is wiped clean of the infidels and the idolaters, corrupting the face of Islam with the fogs of incense and chanting!” Aurangzeb thundered a warning, more so to still his fears than to wave the wand of his authority. “Leave the emperor, Udaipuri. Use the back entrance. Your ladies-in-waiting will conduct you to your tent. And remember how excellent it is to fight in the name of Islam.” His gaze was reluctant to bid farewell. “How could one forget the injunctions of the Prophet Muhammed, as he recounted the excellence of one’s actions?” Udaipuri pulled her shawl closer, as if feeling a cold blast. “The most excellent of deeds are to gladden the heart of a human being. To feed the hungry! To help the afflicted! To lighten the sorrow of the sorrowful and to remove the wrongs of the injured.” She turned to leave. “Remember, God is closer to us than our jugular vein,” Aurangzeb murmured hopelessly. “If that is true, Your Majesty, then all of us has that part where God dwells, so God is within all of us!” Udaipuri turned back, her eyes a sudden kindling of fire and passion. “And if we raise our hand to strike one person, we are committing the very act of sacrilege against God within all of us. And if we hate even one, we are destroying the sanctity of love, which is God. And if we kill others, we surely are murderers, repeating the sin of slaying God over and over again—” She could not continue against the blaze of rage in the emperor’s eyes. “You have been under the influence of Hindu ladies-in-waiting for too long. They must embrace Islam, or forfeit their lives.” Aurangzeb waved dismissal. “They don’t need to embrace or discard any religion to be the angels of love and gladness, Your Majesty. And they are just that!” Udaipuri stood there defiant, fire and challenge throbbing in her eyes and on her lips. “If they have not read the Quran, they are ignorant of piety and virtue. And must be instructed, or face the wrath of God till eternity.”

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Aurangzeb’s thoughts were befuddled, and crumbling before his own idol of defiance and mockery. “They are much wiser than any saint of insanity, Your Majesty, drawing sustenance from the pure streams of love and understanding in their own souls,” was Udaipuri’s mockery of a song! “In temples, they kneel before their gods and goddesses, who waft the scent of beauty and compassion. And their devotion suffers no dearth when they enter a church and light candles before the icons of the Christ and the Virgin Mother. Fearing not the wrath of Allah, they sit on the steps of a mosque, surrendering themselves to the absolute will of God. Knowing that God is One with many countless names, and can’t be divided.” “If the emperor didn’t love you, my soul’s torment, he would have you impaled alive on the very cross of the heresies which your tongue proclaims!” Aurangzeb grunted another warning, his heart lonesome and bleeding. “Your love, Your Majesty, is as much a lie as your sense of piety and justice.” Udaipuri was fleeing. “Tainted with lust, it sees not its own corruption.” She tossed these words over her shoulder, disappearing behind the crimson screen. These words of truth, branded in Aurangzeb’s awareness, held his heart in pincers of agony. He took one step, and then his feet were chilled. His features were livid and his lips taut, the convulsions of pain and denial inside him seeking the rungs of piety and perfection. No! His love was pure, neither tainted with lust nor corrupted by selfishness. One puny thought in Aurangzeb’s head was struggling free from the tortures of the damned, and attaining the stature of a despot. The purity of his passion inside the canker of love was swallowed whole by this one despotic thought, and he was jolted out of the spell of his agony. In fact, he had turned to a pillar of salt, like one awakening to the blows of fates yet to be warded off with the amulets of piety and patience. He had begun to pace, forcing his pain and loneliness back into the shimmering tides of a mirage, which had become his only throne of reality. Illusion followed at his heels, but he was goading his will to the path of righteousness, where wars loomed close and hovered above the waters of might and victory. His thoughts, in conformity with his steady pacing, were now arrayed in disciplined ranks, marching obediently. Udaipuri was commanded to rest within the altar–abyss of his love terrible and love accursed, and his pain was banished to exile. He returned to his desk, carrying the scepter of faith, and lending voice to his decisions with the sword of Islam.

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Amidst the flurry of his decisions writ and unwrit, Aurangzeb was informed that Sikander Shah was on his way to offer his submission. It was time for noon prayers, so after offering his prayers and a light repast, he admitted his courtiers, his sumptuous tent now serving as an Audience Hall. His heart was throbbing with the violence of an impending storm for some nameless reason, gathering the clouds of anger in its wake. He had fixed a large ruby to his turban as an emblem of his power, his shoulders comforted by a silk shawl all embroidered in gold. Murmuring prayers on every pearl of his rosary, he seated himself on his gold throne. A group of viziers seated at the foot of the throne were whispering amongst themselves, but Aurangzeb seemed oblivious to their words or presence. The dewdrop prayers on his holy pearls were now tainted with the soot of anger, welling inside him like the storm-clouds. He was recalling the time when he had reached Burhanpur, finding the country laid to waste by the armies of Sikander Shah. They had even uprooted the grass, and not a grain of fodder was to be found for the sustenance of the beasts. The ships loaded with provisions for the imperialists, too, had been plundered by the pirates of Sikander Shah. Meanwhile, Shambhuji had resorted to guerilla tactics, crossing Khandesh and reducing the countryside of Burhanpur to ashes and rubble. The Moghuls, it seemed, were striking blows to water, while the enemy could be seen riding on the currents of safety and exultation. “Your Majesty.” A guard appeared at the entrance of the royal tent. “Sikander Shah is here, awaiting your audience.” His words lifted the emperor out of the babel of his thoughts. “Conduct him graciously to my presence,” Aurangzeb commanded, rolling his rosary into one soft ball and abandoning it on the brass table beside him. Sikander Shah, barely eighteen, bold and handsome, entered with the air of a royal monarch, though bowing with all humility. All eyes were riveted on him, glowing with shafts of curiosity. Aurangzeb’s gaze assessed the value of the large diamond in his green turban, and then slipped down to his saffron robe, gathered at the waist with a jeweled cummerbund. “Your Majesty. With these keys to my fort and palace, I offer my total submission to your rule and sovereignty.” Sikander Shah held out a bunch of glittering keys with the pride of a youth who had relinquished not his dignity, only worthless treasures. “Come and sit by the emperor.” Aurangzeb indicated a seat of honor to his right, eliciting a thin smile.

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Sikander Shah obeyed, while the keys were claimed most reverently by Kamil Khan. Aurangzeb waited till the lord of grace was seated comfortably, and then turned to him with an air of warmth and benevolence. “The emperor would exalt you with gifts and favors for your valor in submitting peacefully.” Aurangzeb’s gaze was sharp and penetrating, cutting through the soul of this princely youth, it seemed. “To start with, you will receive a pension of one hundred thousand rupees a year.” He paused. Some vague impulse had made Aurangzeb stall and ponder, his gaze straying toward his dagger, beside which his rosary lay in a glowing heap. He had named this dagger Rafizi-Kush, meaning heretic slayer, and this grain of recollection alighted in his eyes with a sudden flash. Quickly, he returned his attention to the honored youth, his look distant and contemplative. “But do tell the emperor, since you resisted for fifteen months, why this sudden change of heart?” Aurangzeb’s tone was kind and ingratiating. “No secret, Your Majesty. My troops are starving.” Sikander Shah smiled bravely. “The beasts are dying for the lack of fodder, and I can smell the stench of plague in the very breath of the air,” he muttered sadly and ominously. “Ah, the wrath of a just God, coming down to warn true Muslims of their duty towards faith and surrender!” Aurangzeb exclaimed piously. “Since you are so perceptive, can you smell the treachery of Shambhuji, or the downfall of my traitor son?” He sat weaving his web of inquisition, polished with kindness. “Bare facts need not seek the odor of perception, Your Majesty,” Sikander Shah murmured reluctantly. “Shambhuji’s only fault, if you deem it such, is in granting asylum to Prince Akbar. As to the downfall of Prince Akbar, no one knows. He is contemplating seeking refuge in Persia, that much I know.” His response was slow and guarded. “How long do you think Abul Hasan will stay entrenched in his fort at Golconda, defying the emperor’s rule? Is it possible that he too could be blessed with the kernels of wisdom, and submit peacefully?” Aurangzeb’s thoughts revealed only the subtle scent of flattery and diplomacy, not their labyrinth of strategies. “Not sure, Your Majesty. He is surrounded by faithful generals. One of them is Mustafa Khan,” was Sikander shah’s non-committal response. “The gift of fidelity, so rare and precious!” Aurangzeb heaved himself up, his look thoughtful. “You are permitted to rest here, while the emperor

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inspects the city of Bijapur.” He slipped his dagger into his belt, commanding his viziers to follow him. Leagues away from his royal encampment, astride his caparisoned horse, Aurangzeb issued orders with the precision of a cut-throat. Sikander Shah was to be confined inside the fort of Daulatabad. More spies were to be dispatched, following the tracks of Shambhuji in order to expedite his arrest without delay. Prince Muazzam was to be granted another contingent of troops for his siege of Golconda. After his bulletin of commands was exhausted, Aurangzeb alighted from his horse to mount his portable throne and inspect his domain of Bijapur. Installed royally in his magnificent tabernacle of a throne, Aurangzeb entered the city of Bijapur, scattering coins of gold and silver. The throne was hoisted on the shoulders of four men, all liveried in gold and crimson. The throne itself was dripping with fringes of gold and scarlet, lending his pale features the glow of flush and health. In the distance, the white minarets of a mosque were rising high, its bulbous domes smitten bronze by the sunshine. The shrines, old and quaint, and the grand palaces were throbbing with life, teeming with visitors and devotees. All of a sudden, a booming command escaped Aurangzeb’s lips, ordering an immediate halt. He abandoned his sanctuary of velvet and brocade, standing tall and imposing, the large ruby in his turban the wound of his zeal and bigotry. “The shrines of all corpse-eating demons are to be demolished!” Aurangzeb’s voice sliced the very flood of sunshine to rags. “All the pictures and Shia inscriptions on the walls of any shrine or palace are to be erased completely. The emperor wishes to go to the palace of Sikander Shah on foot.” He turned on his heel, followed by his anxious guards. The palace itself materialized before Aurangzeb’s sight like a dream strange and wondrous. He had visited it several times before, although it had been when he was a prince, and revolting against his own father. Escaping the trumpets of victory, Aurangzeb had dismissed all, and now stood under the rotunda of a large room, forlorn and lonesome. The frescoes on the ceiling, all gilded and colorful, were mocking his feverish gaze. His head was spinning against hurricanes stark and terrible from deep within. But his gaze swept over the walls with intensity akin to murder, as if he was ready to disfigure the carvings of gold and silver with the fever of his own disgust and outrage. Stumbling to a gilded seat nearby, Aurangzeb’s mind was hurled into the abyss of visions, dark and ghastly. The ghosts of his brothers were hanging around his neck and weaving a garland of blood and tears. The puritanical emperor was caught in the whirlwind of his sins and cruelties. Entering the gates of sleep and purgatory, he was tossed into the waters of

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torment, his eyes clenched shut and his arms falling limply to his sides. Drifting like a reed over the bloody streams of nemesis, he was whirled straight into the talons of Golconda. The ripples of his deceit were coiling around his heart, their eyes shining. His tortured spirit was sinking, murmuring. Udaipuri! Love. Come, help the— Aurangzeb’s thoughts themselves left the dark shores of reality and moved into dreams.

CHAPTER EIGHT FORTRESS OF GOLCONDA

The night was silent, holding in abeyance the threat of a storm, as Aurangzeb sat in his sumptuous tent, writing a note to Abul Hasan. Hasan had become a virtual prisoner in his own fort, besieged by imperialists. This Lord of Golconda had succeeded, over the past eighteen months, in defending his fort and palace with the valor and dignity of a born king. After the conquest of Bijapur, Aurangzeb had sent Prince Muazzam, at the head of a grand army, to conquer Golconda, but the prince had remained unsuccessful. And when he had attained a certain mark of success, he had had the audacity to sign a peace treaty with Abul Hasan without the sanction of the emperor. So the emperor had marched out of Bijapur on the clouds of rage to chastise his besotted son and the defiant Lord of Golconda. His princely son had been reprimanded and imprisoned. But for the past eighteen months, Abul Hasan had suffered only the assaults of the Moghul siege, offering compromise, yet holding at bay the act of personal submission. The sepulchral silence of the night was grazing Aurangzeb’s awareness as he concluded the note. His heart chilled all of a sudden, in contrast to his thoughts, simmering in pools of rage and distrust. He was seated on his gold throne, wearing a floral robe of Chinese silk and a large emerald in the middle of his turban. Since the victory of Bijapur, he had permitted himself the luxury of jewels and fineries, with the sole intention of engendering both awe and fear in the hearts of foes and friends. His tent too was furnished more sumptuously than before; a canopy fringed with pearls over his throne was further accentuated by the gold candelabras holding colorful candles beside him, as if fighting the gloom of the night in their feeble attempts to feel the light of the day. Surrounded by this sumptuous display of wealth and opulence, he was following not the dictates of his whims, but those of his fears, dark and sinister. The master of his own perception, keen and sharp as ever, he could not help noticing that his aura of power was fading, and that his strength was draining into the very cauldrons of the wars and intrigues!

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Even now as Aurangzeb’s gaze swept over his viziers, who were half dozing, half whispering at this late hour of the night, his thoughts were fighting the fatigue of time and timelessness. The hour indeed was late, a couple of hours past midnight, slithering onward toward the palace of another dawn! But since the imperialists were expecting to gain entry into the besieged fortress with the help of a night guard, the emperor was keeping this vigil as a rite of anticipation. He was rather anxiously waiting for any scrap of good news, or an opportunity to storm the fortress with cannon balls, if necessary. The night guard, of course, had been bribed by the Moghuls, playing the part of Judas for Abul Hasan. And the emperor was not taking any chances that might let this opportunity slip past into the dungeons of failure once again. Aurangzeb could envision the dark, stormy night outside his imperial haven, and the imperialists poised in ambush, waiting for the signal to rush to the fortress. His patience was running ragged, which is why he had written that note, his eyes now scanning his viziers with the intensity of a sleuth to select a messenger. “Rahullah Khan, you are chosen to stir this night into the dawn of victory!” was Aurangzeb’s abrupt shot at optimism, his very voice jolting all to alertness! “Deliver this note into the hands of our spy, who is ready to roam the halls of Abul Hasan’s palace.” He held out the note, his gaze commanding. “Your Majesty!” Rahullah Khan stumbled forward to claim the note, and stood there befuddled. “At this time of the night, Your Majesty, when—” His thoughts were the echo of his inner turmoil, which could not voice its fear. “If you stay in his palace long enough, you might gain the opportunity of bringing Abul Hasan to the emperor’s presence yourself!” Aurangzeb appeared to prolong the misery and stupefaction of his vizier with his fixed gaze. “Don’t you remember the appeal of mercy from Abul Hasan, which he sent months ago? I didn’t respond but with bullets and cannon shots!” “I do, Your Majesty,” was Rahullah Khan’s flustered response. “When was that, if you have not forgotten? And what did he say?” Aurangzeb was testing the memory and discipline of his general. “When rain fell in torrents, Your Majesty, and our supply of food was running low.” Rahullah Khan’s eyes were opening to that scene of horror, which he wished to forget. “That was when a few of our soldiers deserted, and when Abul Hasan’s army changed their tactics from defense to offence, killing many of our soldiers and taking prisoners. Abul Hasan then showed the prisoners his stores of corn and treasures, which were in abundance. Then he wrote to you, Your Majesty, that he would supply us grain and pay an indemnity in treasures, if the siege was raised.”

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“Good memory, but not perfect!” Aurangzeb elicited a thin smile. “Fear of hunger and nature’s own violence made traitors out of the imperialists. Genuine reasons for such vile conduct, some say! Though nature was not long in blessing us, when forty thousand sacks of provisions reached us from Berar as ordered.” He was cloaking his own fear of famine and pestilence, or rather, searching for the rags of hope in man and nature both. “Can you guess what the emperor has written in this note?” A sliver of caprice in his eyes was masking his fears. “No, Your Majesty.” Rahullah Khan was awakening to the rare luxury of humor in the emperor’s eyes. “Do you want to know?” was Aurangzeb’s capricious indulgence! “If you wish it so, Your Majesty,” Rahullah Khan breathed humbly. “There is no bullet in there which would explode and mar your features, if that’s what you fear?” Aurangzeb encouraged, divorcing his own fears into the pit of oblivion. “I have written to the Shia heretic that he should come to the emperor in the manner of a supplicant, with his hands clasped, and then the emperor will decide if he deserves mercy. Now make haste, and take care that this note reaches Abul Hasan. Before or after the invasion, it matters not, since he is doomed for sure!” He waved a quick dismissal, his eyes lighting up with the renewal of hope and victory. A rumble of thunder gained entry into the imperial tent at the exit of Rahullah Khan. The eyes of the generals were tinged with fear and presage, their hearts aching for the comfort of sleep and home. Rahim Khan was the first one amongst them to voice his fear, though his heart, full of greed, had no room for love and compassion. “May I express my opinion concerning Abul Hasan, Your Majesty?” was Rahim Khan’s low request. “The emperor favors all opinions, Rahim Khan, as you well know, and you are welcome.” Aurangzeb waved a magnanimous assent. “I have been thinking, Your Majesty—” Rahim Khan was flustered all of a sudden, his thoughts gathering fear and confusion. “Instead of fighting this infidel, Your Majesty, would you consider accepting the indemnity in grain and treasures, since the threat of famine and pestilence is our foe, more dangerous than Abul Hasan himself? By your generous acceptance of his apology, Your Majesty, we would gain peace and his submission, in addition to the treasures and provisions.” He was stricken dumb by the kindling of rage in the emperor’s eyes. “How could you even harbor such a thought on the brink of victory?” Aurangzeb muttered under his breath, trying his best to restrain his anger. “The evil deeds of that wicked man pass the bounds of writing. He has

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given reins into the hands of the vile and tyrannical infidels! Oppressing the holy men of Islam and abandoning himself to vice and debauchery! Drunkenness and recklessness, just to name a few! He knows no distinction between Islam and infidelity, between justice and tyranny, or between devotion and depravity. Waging wars on behalf of the infidels! And disobeying the laws of God, which forbid the aiding of the enemies of Islam. By this act of disobedience itself, he has cast a reproach upon the Holy Book in the sight of God and man. Have I not sent him letters of counsel and warning? Does he heed them? Has he ever desisted from helping and encouraging the wicked Shambhuji? Vice and insolence are his virtues—these two the greatest of his offences in the sight of the emperor, for which there is no hope of amendment for him in this world, or in the world hereafter.” His anger spent, he permitted himself the luxury of a smile, more so to ingratiate his generals than to accentuate his sense of piety. “Pardon me, Your Majesty,” Rahim Khan murmured contritely. “My ignorance, that I knew nothing about his vices of debauchery and drunkenness! Had I known, I would have never proposed that mindless suggestion.” “Ignorance breeds arrogance. Arrogance leads to insolence. And insolence leads one to ultimate ruin!” Aurangzeb declared profoundly. “But no time to think about such paradoxes, when war stands at our doors and greed outnumbers the fears of famine and pestilence.” He heaved a deep sigh, as if exploring the ruins of his shattered heart. “Talking of greed, Your Majesty, the Sharif of Mecca is intercepting the royal alms, and diverting money to his own use,” Hamidudin Khan opined aloud by the sheer necessity of his will to conquer sleep and boredom. “Send him a letter saying that the money sent is not intended for his own gain, but for the benefit of the poor and deserving,” was Aurangzeb’s stern command! “Or better yet, devise some means by which the money for alms is distributed directly amongst the mendicants, and touches not the hands of this unrighteous extortionist. Didn’t I make myself clear to the envoys of the greedy Sharif that my donations to Mecca are for the sole purpose of making the souls of the lovers of God happy, and not to proclaim my charity? And those lovers of God are the poor of that holy city. Why is it that the emperor’s edicts and injunctions are violated by men of sloth and greed?” “These wars, Your Majesty, maybe. They make men dull and forgetful?” Asad Khan ventured a spurious appeal. “They can think of nothing else but survival and possession.”

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“Men of valor and discipline should accept the challenge of war as their only means of survival and salvation. Lack of activity would make them cowardly and effeminate.” Aurangzeb breathed fire. “The Moghuls are men of valor and discipline, Your Majesty, but they are hoping for peace, and longing for the comfort of their homes.” Zulfiqar Khan dared unveil his plea for peace and prosperity. “Peace! When the infidels are trying to rule the emperor and the empire?” Aurangzeb closed his eyes, not willing to watch the anguished pools of doubt and unrest in the eyes of his viziers and generals. A hush stark and profound was all Aurangzeb could feel after he closed his eyes, his heart lonesome and thunderous. The viziers and generals had succumbed to silence, burdened with sorrow, their hearts wearied of the war and the intrigue. The thunderous fury in Aurangzeb’s heart sought the solace of silence, but confronted a swirling storm of fears dark and terrible. His thoughts turned back to the siege of the past few months, when the fort of Golconda had been attacked one slumbering night. Victory had been close at hand, but had proven illusive. A firework of cannon balls and rockets had blasted the trenches of the enemy, and the imperialists had advanced closer to the fort. Aurangzeb himself had sewn the first sack that was to be filled with earth, and then thrown into the ditch to be used as a bridge for the heavy guns mounted on the earthworks. This task was accomplished quickly, and hopes for victory were bright and fertile. But as soon as the imperialists had reached the ramparts, inching their way up the ladder erected for the purpose of gaining entry into the fort, a dog had given the alarm, upsetting the whole enterprise. The garrison of the enemy was quick to dislodge the ladder, and the imperialists had fallen back to where they started. And Abul Hasan, that hell-dog of a heretic, rewarded that dog of his with a golden collar! Aurangzeb’s thoughts resurrected that splinter of a memory with outrage, and drowned further in the pit of doubt and confusion. Fear was clutching Aurangzeb’s heart like pincers of agony, his thoughts a whirlwind of haze and imponderables. The siege itself had been weakened by the ravages of drought, causing a scarcity of rice, grain and fodder. Plague was sprouting here and there, not too far from the imperial encampment. It could wipe out the entire brood of the royal household, including— Aurangzeb dared not think beyond the confines of his fear and sanity. Skilled in invoking the vision of Udaipuri in his arms at any hour of the day or night, he succeeded in snatching the light of love and purity. Another vision which had become the solace and strength of his age and temperament was his daughter by Udaipuri, Princess Satiunisa. These

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visions alone were enough to drain the violence out of his thoughts, lending him a little reprieve. The endearing face of Prince Kam Bakhsh appeared too, bright and youthful. Prince Azam was emerging forth as the emblem of valor and filial grace. Prince Bidar Bakht, the son of Prince Azam, was a ray of hope too, fighting by the side of his father and lending the emperor the comfort of joy and pride. The veil of comfort in Aurangzeb’s thoughts was torn open all of a sudden, bright visions fading and admitting the clouds of rifts and tragedies. The East India Company in Bengal had dared stir revolt, though they were forced to leave, finding refuge in Madras. More cankerous thoughts uncurled their lips in Aurangzeb’s head. Amongst them, a rude trooper of a thought, announcing the waning of the morale and discipline in the ranks of the imperialists. Against the imminent assault of such doubts, Aurangzeb’s thoughts returned to his visions of comfort. But this sanctuary was soon invaded by a gust of noise, shooting through the silence like a bolt of warning. Rahullah Khan was stumbling close to the throne, drunk with pride and excitement. “Your Majesty, the fort of Golconda has capitulated. Abul Hasan has surrendered. He will be brought to your presence by Prince Azam.” Rahullah Khan fell panting at the feet of the throne. “Allah be praised! You are one of God’s happy messengers, chosen by His Will alone!” Aurangzeb declared with a surge of joy, his eyes the lamps of curiosity. “Look, how the light of God’s mercy is shining on us all.” He waved at his viziers, whose eyes were turned to beacons of astonishment and disbelief. “Tell us the details of our victory.” His doubts were washed away, relief shining in his eyes. “Sardar Khan, Your Majesty, the Afghan officer whom we bribed, opened the postern gate, allowing the imperialists to rush into the palace. Abul Hasan was rudely awakened and taken by surprise. With no chance of escape, he surrendered gracefully,” Rahullah Khan recounted breathlessly. “And none of his soldiers stirred to defend their lord of hell?” Aurangzeb sang with ecstasy, blood rushing to his cheeks in crimson blotches. “None but Abdar Razzak, Your Majesty!” Rahullah Khan could not mask the sudden impulse of his reluctance. “You are concealing some facts under your sleeve, my crafty messenger?” Aurangzeb watched him with suspicion, checking his surge of rapture, on the brink of giddiness. “No, Your Majesty. I am still overwhelmed by this night of magic and miracles,” Rahullah Khan murmured, as if goading his thoughts to

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discipline. “The note you gave me, Your Majesty, I entrusted into the hands of Abdar Razzak to deliver to Abul Hasan. Without heeding my request, he read the note himself. Suddenly, he ripped it into shreds, whirling on his feet to face his companions, who stood there weak and cowering. Abdar Razzak’s eyes were flashing as he exclaimed: I will fight till death like the blessed Husain at Kerbela. Brandishing his sword, he fell upon the imperialists, who silenced his insults with blows sharp and terrible.” “Almost dawn, not a night of magic and miracles. Such fidelity as Abdar Razzak’s is rare in this age and time!” was Aurangzeb’s enigmatic comment as he became aware of the pale streaks of dawn stealing through the hall where the sentries lay resting. “What took you so long in returning? Such happy news should never suffer delay.” His thoughts were suddenly sober and calculating. “I hurried as soon as I could, Your Majesty,” was Rahullah Khan’s prompt defense! “The imperialists permitted Abul Hasan to console the ladies of the harem, since he accepted his fate graciously, promising to ride to Prince Azam’s camp to be conducted to Your Majesty’s presence with utmost obedience. After comforting his wives, he returned to the audience chamber, and ordered breakfast. That’s when I left, Your Majesty, making sure that he would join Prince Azam soon after.” His voice was trailing, drained of all former excitement. “So, he can’t abstain from breakfast even at the hour of his defeat?” Aurangzeb breathed scorn. “And yet, we would partake of the same in his palace, much later, after his submission—” His eyes lit up with pleasure at the sight of Prince Bidar Bakht, who entered much like a whiff of morning freshness. “Come close, my gallant prince, come. Polish this morning with the tales of peace and victory!” Aurangzeb’s cup of joy was filling again, emptied of all doubts. “I would rather talk about the vanquished, Your Majesty.” Prince Bidar Bakht curtsied with a graceful sweep of his arm. “Abul Hasan is on his way to meet my father, and I am here to herald his approach.” “Twice blessed the hour when the hated foe offers his total submission.” Aurangzeb’s heart was singing. “Speaking of the vanquished, have you heard about Abdar Razzak, the faithful dog of the faithless heretic?” “Yes, Your Majesty. I saw him lying senseless under a cocoa-nut tree, covered with blood,” Prince Bidar Bakht responded solemnly. “I heard the soldiers counted seventy wounds on his battered body, though he still breathes.”

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“Not a dog, but a hero! The emperor has not ever heard of such faithfulness in his entire life.” Aurangzeb’s sense of euphoria was splintered by the canker of compassion, so rare in his world of piety and crusade. “Go, my beloved Prince, command the royal physicians to attend the wounded man. See if you can find that European physician, Manucci, he might be able to cement his body together!” He turned his attention to the silent pack of his viziers and generals. “Time for ablutions and prayers before the celebrations of victory!” He waved dismissal, bestowing smiles as everybody scrambled to leave. The scene was the same after prayers, with the exception that now Abul Hasan was present amongst the coterie of viziers and generals. All smiles were cloistered inside the cold tomb of Aurangzeb’s heart as he sat on his throne. He was facing his foe with a mark of kindness, which he could neither feel nor bestow. The hasty prayers in the fever of victory had inflamed his heart with more zeal than before, balancing his thoughts on the wheels of vengeance. Rage and elation were the smoldering of fires inside him, and he had let the name of Allah dance on the beads of his rosary with such fervor that his heart had succumbed to the rhythm of numb stupor. That was when he had mounted his throne, dressed as before, receiving his mighty prey, Abul Hasan, who was presented by Prince Azam. Aurangzeb had let this hated foe offer the humblest of curtsies, eliciting generous remarks as much as his pride could permit. Then he had resumed spinning his rosary in utter silence, as if oblivious to the foe whom he had deigned to pardon. This overt show of piety garnished with repose was premeditated, letting his thoughts harness the method to his madness. Inside the riddle of his madness lay the pearl of his wisdom, where Abul Hasan, though virtually pardoned, would suffer the pangs of a slow death in prison, if not murdered by the edict of his own mercy. This link of mercy with piety was spinning in Aurangzeb’s head faster than the beads on his rosary, and his attention turned to Abul Hasan, but not before he bestowed a tender smile on Prince Azam. “Abdar Razzak is the hero of this siege, no doubt! His fidelity to you, Abul Hasan, is remarkable and astonishing.” Aurangzeb broke his silence, his look calm and penetrating. “Had you possessed but one more soldier as loyal as him, our siege would have lasted much longer, don’t you agree?” “Had I been wiser, Your Majesty, I would have valued his friendship above all the treasures in the world,” Abul Hasan murmured regretfully. “Had you been wise, o king, you would not have encouraged the Brahmins and the idolaters,” Aurangzeb let slip the arrow of chastisement with the unerring skill of a great archer. “In discouraging the Moors from

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punishing the infidels, you have heaped upon your shoulders the burden of dishonor to the empire and religion.” “If I may be permitted to quote from the Quran, Your Majesty, my burden of dishonor might diminish a little?” Abul Hasan requested with a stoic grace. Noticing assent in the emperor’s eyes, he began to recite. “There should be no compulsion in religion. Surely, right has become distinct from wrong; so whosoever refuses to be led by those who transgress, and believe in Allah, has surely grasped a strong handle which knows no breaking. And Allah is All Hearing, All Knowing.” “Your dishonor will multiply, Abul Hasan, since you understand not the meaning of this holy Sura.” Aurangzeb clung to the hem of his stoic resolve. “The transgressors in this Sura are the idolaters, destined to eat the dust of hell!” “Though I am aware of the poverty of my intellect, Your Majesty, yet no great intelligence is required to understand this simple injunction when God commanded: It is not thy responsibility to make them follow the right path, but Allah guides whomsoever He pleases.” Abul Hasan was quick to unsheathe this dagger of truth, though donning a mask of humility. “To know the Quran by heart is no merit, unless one is endowed with understanding to interpret its divine message,” Aurangzeb murmured patiently, hugging the rags of his piety with seething rage. “Great sin it is to follow the evil inclinations of one’s own making. For then the reward from Allah is most terrible.” Puritanical rage was surfacing in his eyes. “No sin is greater than following the evil inclinations of one’s own sense of self-righteousness, Your Majesty,” was Abul Hasan’s subtle retort, another Sura from the Quran unfolding on his lips! “To, this, then, do you invite mankind. And be thou steadfast, as thou art commanded. And follow not their evil inclinations, but say: I believe in whatever Book Allah has sent down, and I am commanded to judge justly between you. Allah is our Lord and your Lord. For us, the reward of our works and for you the reward of your own works. There is no quarrel between us and you. Allah will gather us together, and to Him is the return.” “Why do you stand there mute, my Prince?” Aurangzeb flashed his anger at his son, as if desperate for the kernels of truth in piety which eluded him. “Are you not well versed in the Quran? Can’t you melt the ignorance of the heathens with Suras holy and much too profound for the minds of the simpletons?” He shifted his attention without waiting for a response. “Despite your sins of corrupting the government and favoring the infidels, the emperor bestows upon you the pension of fifty thousand rupees.” He got to his feet, returning his gaze to Prince Azam. “Enough pension for his family to live in luxury, don’t you think?”

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“Yes, Your Majesty,” was Prince Azam’s flustered response. “And as for this unfortunate king, send him to the prison of Daulatabad, choosing guards all armed and faithful,” Aurangzeb commanded, ignoring Abul Hasan as if he was not there. “And now straight to the fortress of Golconda! You are to escort the ladies of the harem personally, attended by your personal guards.” He dismounted his throne without even casting a glance at his fallen foe. The fort of Golconda, with rugged ramparts and spiraling columns, was cradled in the mists of the night, mournful and looming. The vanquished were forgotten inside the embrasures of the palace, all gilt and damask, and the victors were tucked into soft beds to rest and dream. Not all were sleeping. The ladies of the emperor’s harem were whispering secrets, or reciting tales of woe and love, while nibbling on sweets. Udaipuri had chosen the grandest of chambers for her repast and entertainment. After draining a whole flagon of wine, she had invited Prince Kam Bakhsh and Princess Satiunisa for a session of poetry and versification. They were to take turns to recite from the works of the Sufi poets, and drink deep of wisdom. Fortunately, Aurangzeb was ignorant of the evil pleasures of his beloveds this night, as he sat at an ornate desk in the Audience Hall, writing letters splashed with threats and warnings. He was sitting in the middle of the hall, the great rotunda overhead all gilded and painted. A tear-drop chandelier lowered its pale beams, and accentuated the exquisite designs on the furnishings of jade and ivory. Half of the frescoed walls were gouged or smudged by the impact of his orders to destroy every little speck of art, wicked and grotesque. The noble task of demolishing the rest of the artwork inside the palace was to resume at the holy hour of dawn, his command had been explicitly expressed. Commands and expressions flowed freely on the gold sprinkled paper too as Aurangzeb sat writing feverishly. The large sapphire in his turban, embedded in a circlet of diamonds, was creating its own sparkling edicts, absorbing sparkle from the teardrop eyes of the chandelier and glittering. He was oblivious to the clutter of Persian rugs rolled neatly beside the monumental couches, all covered with sheets of varied colors. Such precautions had been taken as a measure of protection against dust and water, while the murals were being defaced and obliterated. All day long, Aurangzeb had worked amidst this chaos of noise and clutter, taking rest at times and holding court sessions in the open or inside the palace. Aurangzeb had also inspected the pious purging of the palace walls, but now, as he sat writing, his strength was drained of all form and color in thought and decision. The fingers which held the jeweled pen, refused to

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move all of a sudden. He sighed to himself, resting his head against the back of his velvet chair. A familiar ache, more like the pang of sickness, shot through his spine, curving and piercing his breast, as if the splinter of his need-desire was bent on wounding and bleeding his very thoughts. For the past month, he had lived the life of a monk, though his heart was a furnace of passion, even when it was singed by the raging fires of zeal and hatred. Right now was the hour when the flames of his pious rage were snuffed out, and his love for Udaipuri was kindling a torch of agony and desire. He leaped to his feet as if stung, and drifted toward the dimly lit staircase. The marble steps, as well as his thoughts, were spiraling up and carrying him toward the upper chambers where the ladies of the harem were lodged. Aurangzeb’s feet came to a chilling halt outside the chamber of Udaipuri, and he seemed to be robed in white chills from head to foot. Only the sapphire in his turban was throbbing in its circlet of diamonds, absorbing glints from the sconces on the walls. Though turned to a statue of immobility, he could not fail to recognize the tinkling of mirth from Udaipuri’s lips, and the voice of Prince Kam Bakhsh spilling outrageous quatrains, this latter the cause of his abrupt halt and chilling awareness. More quatrains unfolded their wings, followed by pools of mirth from his beloved and Princess Satiunisa. He was suspended in some sort of shock, since this was the first time he heard Prince Kam Bakhsh and Princess Satiunisa indulging in the wicked art of reciting. The fact that Udaipuri cherished the works of all poets despite his ban on poetry didn’t come to his rescue. Instead, the sprig of this new knowledge, that the youngest of his children, too, were victims of the same affliction, fell upon him like an avalanche. He was rather stunned, caught in a vortex of chill and disbelief. His chilled senses could not help gathering sweetness from the dreamy voice of Princess Satiunisa: “My heart Has become capable Of taking all sorts of forms It is Pastures For gazelles And Monastery for the monks Temple for idols And Kaaba for the pilgrims It is the tablets of the Torah And

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Chapter Eight The book of Quran It professes the religion of love Whatever the place Toward which Its caravans wend And love Is My law And love Is My faith.”

Princess Satiunisa had barely finished reciting when Aurangzeb stormed into the room. “What heresy is breeding in my royal household?” Aurangzeb’s eyes flashed, his features livid with rage. “Your Majesty. I was just—” Princess Satiunisa’s plea was snipped short by the flashing sword of a command from the emperor. “Leave us!” Aurangzeb waved dismissal, his heart a lumpish blob of pity for his royal colts, frightened and cowering. Prince Kam Bakhsh and Princess Satiunisa scurried out, leaving behind the scent of anguish and hopelessness. Udaipuri’s own eyes were lit up with rage and scorn which she could not voice. Gathering her silks around her, she abandoned herself on the canopied bed, her eyes flashing. She lay there silent, the swath of emeralds around her throat and in her hair lending her white face the glow of disdain and mockery. Upon the crimson coverlets, with lace dripping in rivulets pure, she was the emblem of a lotus, rare and radiant. Aurangzeb, for one brief moment, was stricken dumb by the aura of her raging, shimmering beauty. He could not take his eyes off her, his gaze fixed to her poppy-red lips, curved in a crescent of a smile, both sweet and mocking. Her dark, sparkling eyes were cutting his soul to shreds of agony, where the corruption of lust and desire were waging their own battles, savage and devastating. “So, you have been teaching our children the art of heresy?” Aurangzeb muttered this reproof, the rills of pain and tenderness in his eyes blinding his sight. “And my children most beloved! Princess Satiunisa, my sweet innocent. And Prince Kam Bakhsh, the apple of my eyes!” “What heresy, Your Majesty?” Udaipuri sang sweetly. “Reciting the words of madmen and idolaters!” Aurangzeb took one step; his heart bled white with pain and longing. “Didn’t I forbid hoarding such books? Didn’t I ask you personally not to corrupt your soul with ideas vile and scandalous?”

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“Ibn Arabi was no madman, Your Majesty, and was never accused of idolatry. A great Sufi poet and a devout Muslim!” Udaipuri expounded with the hauteur of a young rebel. “Our Princess is fond of reading his works. She admires his wisdom and compassion. A noble occupation, I must say, in this world of wars and intrigues.” “Sufis are not Muslims, but imbeciles! Lunatics! Spinning the wheels of absurdities! Making the world go insane with a false sense of euphoria and drunkenness!” Outrage was escaping the deepest wounds of Aurangzeb’s agony and loneliness as he stood there, captivated by the beauty of his beloved. “Are wars not madness and insanity, Your Majesty? Tearing every shred of human dignity into rags foul and pitiful?” Udaipuri murmured to herself. “Wars are reason and sanity! The balm of healing and salvation for the idolaters! So they might be blessed with the knowledge of worshipping one God alone!” Aurangzeb knotted his hands behind his back, as if to resolve the battle of piety and passion within him with a treaty of peace. “To every people we have appointed ways of worship which they observe, so let them not dispute with thee in the matter; and invite thou to thy lord, for surely, thou followest the right guidance,” Udaipuri quoted from the Quran. “Had I not known this verse from the holy pages of the Quran, I would have thought you were reciting a poem!” Aurangzeb’s heart was suffering the pangs of dull, puzzling doubts, along with longings much like the stab of loneliness. “If poetry is the language of the Quran, Your Majesty, how could you ever think of poetry as evil or wicked?” was Udaipuri’s half sober, half inebriated comment, laughter trilling from her lips. “With a few exceptions, not all poetry is divine inspiration,” Aurangzeb murmured evasively. “All forms of art are divine and beautiful, Your Majesty. I can’t understand why you have to deface, or rather, debase the ingenuity of the artists!” Udaipuri reflected aloud. “The depiction of any image is prohibited in Islam, my pretty sage, and it must be effaced to exalt the name of Allah,” Aurangzeb intoned with pious indulgence. “It’s a pity Your Majesty, that you who know the Quran by heart, know not that there is no such injunction in the Quran! Some distortion snatched right out of the ether to cast believers into the pit of ignorance!” Udaipuri challenged.

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“If you knew my heart, my love,” Aurangzeb had ceased to heed her. “You would know the interpretations of the Quran rightly.” “There are a thousand and one ways to interpret the Quran, as Prophet Muhammed said! Now only mullahs claim to be the arbiters of truth and knowledge!” Udaipuri exclaimed with abrupt vehemence. “But to deface art is like destroying God’s own handiwork of love and creativity. The artists who painted such frescoes were inspired by God, and loved to share it with others who love! And religion without love is like a carcass, where believers are buried alive. Dying of suffocation, and praying for the doom of others. Hoping that the others too will share the same fate which has marked them as the victims of piety, misery—” Udaipuri’s lips were sealed with the violence of a hurricane, it seemed. The flame of passion in Aurangzeb’s mouth cut through her as he locked her into one crushing embrace. Soon, she was stripped naked of all fineries, and the lean vulture of an emperor was devouring her with kisses hot and searing. Panting with the agony of love which knew no surfeit, he was failing in his act of piercing the lotus of her desire. The fire of need and agony was a soaring convulsion inside him, but the torch of his love was shrunk and impotent. Nausea and sickness were welling up in his soul, and with a jolt of a shudder he disengaged himself, burying his head into the lap of his beloved and sobbing like a child. “No need to grieve, Your Majesty. When hatred leaves your heart, love will return with all its bliss and glory.” Udaipuri cradled him into her loving arms, her own heart breaking with shame and mortification.

CHAPTER NINE TORTURE OF SHAMBHUJI

Aurangzeb sat conducting his court outside the fort of Golconda. He was seated on his gold throne, his gaze sweeping over the large moat down below, which had rendered this fort, now in his possession, impregnable. He was anticipating warring expeditions, more grand and ruthless, if possible. The sharp blows of agony and impotence during the waking hours of the night had carved brutal lines around his lips this morning. His pallor was so transparent that his angular features seemed bare to the bones, almost fleshless. The large amethyst in his turban looked more like a purple wound than a bright gem, cut straight out of his heart, glinting and throbbing. The canopy of gold fringed with pearls had been erected over the throne of the emperor, below which were a succession of carpets to welcome the viziers, generals and grandees. The emperor’s gaze could be seen wandering from one to the other, imbibing both pleas and embassies, his commands gaining ascendancy when he felt that order and discipline were waning. Right this moment, his gaze was lingering over the royal trio; Prince Azam stood conversing with Prince Bidar Bakht and Prince Kam Bakhsh. Behind Prince Azam stood Hamidudin Khan, a head taller, and Aurangzeb’s eyes lit up with a sudden zeal as he summoned him nearer to the throne. “You are favored with the worthy task of destroying the temples in Bijapur and Hyderabad,” Aurangzeb commanded, acknowledging his vizier’s curtsy with an imperious wave of his arm. “Make sure that the idols are pounded to dust, but the jewels on them saved.” “Yes, Your Majesty. Your humble servant would prove worthy of this noble task.” Hamidudin Khan’s zeal was on the brink of exhilaration. “Where is Rahim Khan? I have noticed his absence since morning,” Aurangzeb asked suspiciously, the hopeless, helpless pain of impotence inside him sharper than his dagger of suspicion. “He is effacing foul depictions from the walls of the fortress, Your Majesty, as instructed,” was Hamidudin Khan’s prompt, yet puzzled response.

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“Summon him to the emperor’s presence.” Aurangzeb dismissed him abruptly, shifting his attention to Asad Khan, who was next in line to present reports. “Your Majesty.” Asad Khan bowed his head, his expression distraught. “How far you are in assessing the value of the possessions in this fortress? I hear that you didn’t sleep a wink, and kept the others awake too?” Aurangzeb attempted gentleness, though only harshness escaped his lips. “Obedient to your commands, Your Majesty! I couldn’t afford to postpone this assessment for another day,” was Asad Khan’s subtle, yet cautious response. “Approximately, all the property here is worth sixtyeight million rupees, not counting the jewels, or the vessels of gold and silver.” “What would be the potential revenue of this kingdom, annually, can you make a guess?” The look of eagerness in Aurangzeb’s eyes was bright and piercing. “At a rough estimate, Your Majesty, about thirty million rupees!” Asad Khan replied quickly, since he had anticipated such a question. Next, according to protocol, was Zulfiqar Khan, the son of Asad Khan. He was entrusted with the duty of collecting information about the moves of the enemy from couriers all over the empire and presenting it to the emperor without delay. Like his father, he was getting weary of wars, but was disciplined in his duty toward the empire and the emperor. Even now, he stepped forward gallant and courteous, waiting for the emperor to speak after his usual bow. “What good news are you hoarding this second auspicious day of our victory in Golconda?” A sliver of a smile alighted on Aurangzeb’s lips. “No bad news, Your Majesty, if that could be counted as good news? The couriers have been slack in synchronizing their reports.” Zulfiqar Khan sighed to himself. “Just this morning, I learnt about Prince Akbar’s final destination, though it has been a year since he reached there. The prince had been staying in Rajpur, protected by Durga Das. He is the one who managed to hire a ship for the prince to sail to Persia. That’s how Prince Akbar contrived his escape. He is in Isfahan, favored by the king and receiving a warm welcome in the court of Persia.” “Is the Shah of Persia going to support him in waging a war against the emperor?” Aurangzeb frowned, his heart missing a few beats. “So far, Your Majesty, the Shah is willing to aid the prince in a war against his brothers, but has declined to support him in the patricidal war

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against his father.” Zulfiqar Khan’s eyes were now beacons of caution and reluctance. “You are holding back some facts, it’s obvious.” Aurangzeb’s gaze was stern. “You wouldn’t like to hear what Prince Akbar said, Your Majesty. It is insignificant,” Zulfiqar Khan murmured. “Nothing is insignificant! Especially when it is linked with such unfortunate rebels as the emperor’s own sons!” Aurangzeb’s very eyes were shooting commands. “The prince says, Your Majesty, that he is praying for the speedy demise of his royal father,” Zulfiqar Khan could barely murmur. “Fate will decide who dies first!” Aurangzeb smiled with an abrupt spark of humor. Something gentle and astonishing inside him was demanding release, as if torn out of the very abyss in his psyche. “My heart cannot forget the words of the potter Who made a very delicate china cup and said to it I know not whether the stone flung by Fate Will break me or you first.”

His features turned ashen, as if he had recited a song of heresy. “Who wrote this quatrain? I know not. And why it breathed through my lips, is still a mystery!” He was regaining composure by virtue of his pride and self-discipline. “Where is the infidel Shambhuji hiding these days? Is he not the one who helped Prince Akbar too? Has Muqarab Khan made any progress?” The quiver of his inquiries was seen throbbing in his eyes, the amethyst in his turban shuddering against shafts of sunlight all of a sudden. “The doom of Shambhuji is imminent, Your Majesty.” Zulfiqar Khan was glad to empty his quiver of reports. “He is reported to be lodged at Ratnagari, while Muqarab Khan is in Sangameshwar, only twenty miles northeast of where the fugitive is hiding. It is common knowledge that he is rather careless about the safety of his life and of his followers. Muqarab Khan writes that Shambhuji’s days of plundering are over, and that soon he will be able to arrest him.” “The emperor himself is marching in that direction, so this infidel has no chance of escaping,” Aurangzeb breathed ominously, waving dismissal. His gaze was arrested by Rahim Khan, sandwiched between Niccolao Manucci on one side and Hamidudin Khan on the other. “Come, my sword of Islam,” he commanded. “The emperor has reserved for you the most holy of services to God and mankind!”

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“Your Majesty. I am almost done erasing the traces of the frescoes, evil and grand,” Rahim Khan breathed proudly, his eyes shining with zeal. “You will be rewarded bounteously on this earth and in heaven,” Aurangzeb intoned piously. “Under your command, the temples of the infidels in Golconda are to be razed to the ground. And you will be the architect of the mosques built on the very ruins of idolatry and infidelity.” “Mosques most grand and beautiful, Your Majesty, by the Grace of Allah!” Rahim Khan’s features were transfigured with joy and exultation. “Now, get back to your duty of erasing and effacing in order to get done before nightfall.” Aurangzeb dismissed him with an attempt at smiling. He commanded the royal trio to be brought to his presence. “Your Majesty.” Prince Azam was the first one to gain audience, his look somber and thoughtful. “Now that we are masters of Bijapur and Golconda, my prince, would you like the challenge of conquering the forts of Adoni and Sagar?” was Aurangzeb’s seemingly whimsical query! Inwardly, he was assessing the devotion of his son. “Since the forts of Sera, Karnul and Raichar are not far off, Your Majesty, could I be assigned the honor of conquering those too?” was Prince Azam’s wise request, since he had learned to read the devious designs inside the head of his father! “That would leave the forts of Bangalore, Bankpur, Belgaum and Wandiwash to be divided between Prince Bidar Bakht and Prince Kam Bakhsh.” Aurangzeb elicited a sprig of dry humor. “Which fort would you choose to conquer and rule?” He smiled at Prince Kam Bakhsh, suspicions smoldering on the battleground of his inner schemes and intrigues. “Bangalore is the paradise of my dreams, Your Majesty! But I would be delighted to annex Bankpur too.” Prince Kam Bakhsh’s eyes were lit up with the lamps of ambition. “Then Bidar Bakht would be the one subjugating the forts of Belgaum and Wandiwash?” Aurangzeb’s attention was shifting to his favorite of his grandsons. “Would that be a worthy challenge for you, my beloved Bidar?” “Your Majesty. If I am not unworthy of this great favor from your blessed hands?” Prince Bidar Bakht chanted with genuine devotion. “For countless blessings of God, the emperor himself is unworthy, my child.” Aurangzeb’s heart was tender and mournful. It was grieving for some nameless loss, which he could feel arrested in there, small and shuddering. “Wars are the legacy of the Moghuls, it cannot be denied. If the affairs of Deccan are concluded swiftly, I myself am ready to march to

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Raigarh! But first we must—” His thoughts were swallowed by a sudden commotion, caused by the stormy appearance of a eunuch. No one had noticed Itaqid Beg cantering out of the palace until he had invaded the arena of the court still in session. He landed near the throne with the swiftness of an arrow, panting and shuddering. Amidst the ritual of his curtsies, he tried to find his voice. “Your Majesty. Aurangabadi Begum. She is very ill—” Itaqid Beg could barely wrench out these scraps of words. “Vomiting. Blood too—” Aurangzeb heaved himself up, pale and distant. He beckoned the royal trio and Niccolao Manucci to follow him. Carrying a weight of lead on his shoulders, the emperor plodded toward the palace. A void of fear was left behind, as everyone knew that the real enemy, the plague, would be visiting the victorious. The blow of tragedy left Aurangzeb stunned outside the chamber of his wife, after Niccolao Manucci announced that Aurangabadi Begum had died of plague. Paradoxically, he was not grief stricken, only numb and shocked. Deaths were a commodity to him, and he himself had been the author of many, which had left no traces of pity or guilt in his heart galvanized by zeal and cruelty. And yet, the death of his wife and consort was a harsh reminder that his beloveds could be the next victims. He could not endure even the thought of such a tragedy. Life without Udaipuri would be a lump of agony, his being reduced to a gaping hole of a void, dark and terrible. Aurangzeb’s thoughts were yawning out of the abyss of shock and numbness. He was oblivious to the presence of his sons and grandson beside him, fear clutching his heart with pincers hot and scalding. Plague had not only entered his palace, but his heart, something ugly and grotesque to be wrenched out with the blades of penance and supplication! He stirred as if jolted out of a nightmare, the smoldering coals in his eyes pouring heat upon Prince Azam. “Arrange for the funeral rites and burial, as quickly as possible. Burn everything that is in that chamber of death,” Aurangzeb commanded, turning on his heel in a daze of stupor and oblivion. Alone and forlorn, sleeping in a cloister of a room adjacent to Udaipuri’s, Aurangzeb was transported to the battlefield of war in his soul and psyche. In reality, the palace of Golconda was his abode of rest and sleep, but his thoughts were searching for realms harsh and inhospitable. Before drifting into the furnace of dreams and nightmares, his pale ghost of a mind had slain Shambhuji, disappearing behind the mantle of justice to wrestle with his own soul and psyche. It could be seen dumping rivers of salt over the wound of his impotence, all abscessed and cankerous. A reek most foul was assailing the nightmarish chaos in his sleep. Out of this

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chaos sprouted forth the heads of his murdered brothers, their very lips painting the walls of the palace with the word plague, all fresh and glistening with the color of blood. His father was descending from the clouds of darkness, holding out a bottle of aphrodisiacs for him. Tides upon tides of nightmares were humming horror over the broken and bloodied strings of Aurangzeb’s heart. Behind the closed shutters of his eyes were chaos and turmoil, the scenes shifting and swirling. His father was now writhing in pain on his sick bed. The severed heads of his brothers were circling over his father’s bed, as if performing the rite of solace and comfort. Mists foul and black were enveloping all, and he himself was hurled into a desert of sand dunes, dancing in a whirlwind of fire and madness. Deep in the valley of death, he was sucked into tunnels narrow and tortuous. His body, all blistered and bleeding, was expanding and bursting like the eruption of a volcano. Finally, he was consumed alive by the swirling ether of the void and vacuum in sleep. Two months and a year had elapsed since the conquest of Golconda, and no void or vacuum, in time or timelessness, had consumed Aurangzeb’s zeal and hatred. The fire of these passions could be seen smoldering in his eyes as he sat enthroned in the garden of Bahadurgarh, waiting to wreak vengeance on Shambhuji. The court was in session with all the splendor of the Moghul wealth and opulence. It was intended that way, to pour awe and dread into the heart of the captive Shambhuji amidst the very fanfare of his doom and denigration. After winning the fortress of Golconda, the emperor had been on the road to victory, reaching Bahadurgarh in time to stage a scene of vengeance on the infidel Shambhuji. During the past fourteen months of successful campaigns, Aurangzeb had become the Lord Paramount of the Deccan and Northern Hindustan. The forts of Sera, Adoni, Karnul, Richer, Bangalore, Bankpur, Belgaum and Wandiwash had been captured and annexed to the empire. An additional victory had been gained in the town of Conjeevram, which had added an extra boost to the Moghul pride and wealth. And yet the emperor had become a bundle of grief, his thoughts marking him as the victim of a divine curse, afflicted with impotence. Though possessively passionate and buffeted with longings, he was to remain parched in the very ocean of his passions, hungering and thirsting for a drop of virility. To escape aphrodisiacs, he had resorted to the art of lusty imagination, but nothing could offer hope or solace to the loss of his virility. Since then, the cauldron of his zeal and hatred had bloated to the size of cosmic infinity, in which he had become the absolute center of piety and justice. The

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whole world was to revolve around his sword of Islam, which could cut holes through the very hearts of the atoms if they dared defy his pious will. Even at this moment, all dressed in white with emeralds and sapphires blazing in his turban, he seemed to waft the scent of might and brute will—a will which could cut open the mountains and split asunder the firmament to reach the grace of Allah. And yet, he had aged all of a sudden. His face was wrinkled and his body emaciated. The stamp of prayers on his brow was much like the tilak of the Hindus. It could be called the smudge of holiness over the Third Eye, the fiery sandoor! But this mark on his brow was a raw, throbbing scar, a result of touching his forehead to the bare floor in an endless ritual of prostrations. He had become obsessed with prayers, exceeding the limit of five daily prayers, as if holding on to the hem of piety and penance. Time had lost meaning to him. For him, fasting was not only for the month of Ramadan, but every bleating day of the year. Astonishingly enough, his health had not suffered, and the vessels of his zeal and ambition were full to the brim, and spilling over. The white, flowing beard and the gold, piercing eyes had become the emblem of Aurangzeb’s might and success. And yet he knew that these sentiments expressed by others were a thin mask, if not the mark of respect for the aging emperor, who would not ever tire of winning kingdoms as long as one breath of life was left intact in his withered body. Today, he was feeling rather young, endowed with the sting of the perception that his generals were wearied of wars and their thin masks of respect could crack open to challenge his will and command. The cold chills of suspicion were awakening in his thoughts, wild and frolicking. He was trying to catch the drift of the parlance amongst his viziers, but loneliness and distraction were claiming to be his sole companions. The musicians of the imperial orchestra, with all their glitter of gold and silver, were waiting to flaunt their talents, and Aurangzeb’s gaze was wandering over that shining sea with implicit regret and disapproval. The men in liveries of green with silver turbans were a jubilant group, since they had obtained permission from the emperor to raise a crescendo of music as soon as the hated captive was brought to the emperor’s audience. The viziers and grandees in plumed turbans were a part of this shining sea, joking and laughing with carefree abandon. Aurangzeb’s thoughts turned to Abdar Razzak, who had recovered, maintaining still his loyalty toward his imprisoned master. The emperor had bestowed great favors upon him and his family, but when asked to join the imperial service, his response had hit Aurangzeb more savagely than any naked blade of steel.

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No man who has eaten the salt of Abul Hasan, Your Majesty, could ever think of joining the imperial service! This subtle stab of a memory invoked fresh rage and unrest in Aurangzeb’s thoughts. After all, he was the mighty lord of a vast empire, if not the Prophet of Islam—not yet! One bellicose thought in Aurangzeb’s head was singing this bright litany. His attention returned to his viziers in attendance, unaware that the balloon of his rage and pride was soaring closer to the shrine of his ego and ambition. Asad Khan, wearing a resinous smile in his eyes, was seeking the emperor’s attention. “Your Majesty, many kingdoms we have won, and great victories achieved! God be praised.” Asad Khan attempted flattery as a prelude to his appeal. “Through the Grace of the Great Omnipotent, and the never-todecay fortune of Your Majesty, you possess a vast empire. Now, would it not be a good policy to let the imperial standards rest in paradise-like Hindustan, so that the world may know that nothing more remains for the emperor to achieve?” “How could an all-knowing hereditary servant like you make such a request?” Aurangzeb bristled with a spark of contempt. “If your wish is that men might know that no work now remains to be done, it would be contrary to truth. So long as a single breath of this mortal life remains, there is no release from work and labor.” He turned his attention to Rahullah Khan. “Is Rajram not enthroned at Raigarh as a future rebel, since his older brother Shambhuji is our captive?” “Yes, Your Majesty. That’s what we have learnt,” Rahullah Khan agreed. “Then our next mission is to purge Raigarh of all corruption, and arrest—” Aurangzeb’s gaze gathered bolts of lightning at the sudden blaring of drums. These bolts of lightning disappeared in the emperor’s eyes, followed by a smile on his lips, all smug and malignant. He had noticed the cause of this orchestral crescendo, which he himself had sanctioned. Shambhuji and his general Kavi Kalash, dressed as buffoons, were being paraded, with fool’s caps and bells on their heads, towards the throne in a jubilant procession of insults and imprecations. Muqarab Khan was leading, the air charged with currents of mirth and derision. The sunshine itself was dancing in rivulets of mockery, it seemed. Shambhuji’s head was held high, his eyes lit up with the fires of disdain and anguish. Swarthy and handsome like his father, his dark beard was trimmed neatly and his mustache curled up. Though stripped bare of all weapons, his eyes were shooting daggers at the merrymakers. Kavi Kalash’s head was bent low, his brow glistening with the beads of perspiration. In contrast to his

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master, he seemed to be melting under the burden of shame and denigration. Both men were unceremoniously dragged closer to the throne by their long hair, Kavi Kalash falling to his knees in a hopeless bow, but Shambhuji standing there tall and defiant. “O, proud vermin of Rajput dung, don’t you know how to conduct yourself in royal court?” Aurangzeb thundered menacingly. “Even a buffoon is endowed with the virtues of pride and dignity, and these very virtues lend him the courage to act accordingly.” Shambhuji proceeded with the defiance of a caged lion. “What need to witness more of the gold of Rajput courage and fidelity? Did Abdar Razzak not spurn the offer of your imperial honor? He would have rather licked the feet of a dog than take the crumbs of your favors.” Madness danced in his eyes, his nostrils flared and twitching. A hush more funereal than the blackest of the nights settled upon all. Aurangzeb’s gaze was a volcano of rage and murder, though he was fascinated more than he was outraged. He was almost compelled to prolong this moment of outrage, will-lessly, involuntarily! “You lunatic, had you any fear of God, you would know how to address the emperor and to learn the virtue of humility.” Aurangzeb’s lips, livid with rage, uttered these words, but his mind was pulling on the reins of restraint. “Yes, an emperor! The scourge of Islam! Hated by his own sons and despised by the very dust of his empire.” Insults spilled from the lips of Shambhuji like molten lava. “Did you not imprison your father and murder all your brothers? Shah Jahan, the architect of the Taj Mahal, and you, the architect of bigotry! When you deprived your father even of the basic need for water, didn’t he exclaim that a Hindu would not let anyone suffer thirst, and my own son heeds not my pleas? Yesterday, I was a sovereign of a whole empire, and today I plead for one drop of water; didn’t your royal father say that? Or have you forgotten? Senility has been kind to you in wiping clean the slate of all your sins and brutalities—” His delirium was checked by the thunderous fury in Aurangzeb’s gaze and voice. “You foul viper! Will nothing silence your tongue?” Aurangzeb’s emaciated cheeks were flushed, his eyes raining fire and brimstone. “Nothing! But a marriage promise to me with one of your daughters?” A volley of derision escaped Shambhuji’s lips as he stood there twirling his mustache. “Take this heathen away, and let him suffer the agonies of death in eternal damnation,” Aurangzeb waved at his guards. “Strip him naked, and let the rags of his pride and arrogance feel the pain of tearing and shredding. Impale him face down on that tree yonder, and pierce his limbs

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with blades till lies and depravity bleed through his veins, pleading for death.” He dismounted his throne, trooping past all in a blind rage to reach his tent of gold and crimson. The guards were already stripping the madman naked, and dragging him toward the tree of doom. Shambhuji’s mirth was loud and strident. Amidst the convulsions of his laughter, more insults were dripping from his lips. “You are a murderer, most vile and despicable, Aurangzeb! Your final abode is hell, and even there you will rage and envy, watching your father and brothers in paradise, reclining—” “Burn his eyes out with hot pincers, first! Tomorrow, cut his tongue out! Then hack his limbs off one by one each day, and then feed his flesh to the dogs,” Aurangzeb commanded over his shoulder, disappearing into his lone sanctuary. Inside his sanctuary of gilt and damask, Aurangzeb stood trembling with rage, the fiery tongues of truth coiling around his soul in a noose most awful and scalding. Sightless and swaying, he stumbled into the chair by his rosewood desk, and cupped his head in his hands. The scaffold of his sins was under his feet, and his head was exposed to the sword of an executioner savage and merciless. Death and damnation danced over his shoulders, and his ears were being split open by the songs of the demons, raucous and diabolical. And yet, those sounds were not figments of his imagination, distant and demonic, but earthly and awesome. They were the guttural cries of agony, most demented and heartrending, from the lips of a tortured soul—none other than Shambhuji. His torments were invading the emperor’s tent while his eyes were being pierced with hot pincers. Aurangzeb could feel his heart shuddering in the baptismal waters of pain and horror, his own soul bleeding, crucified! Darkness, absolute and profound, was lending him the cloak of sleep, rigged with nightmares bizarre and excruciating.

CHAPTER TEN THE EMPEROR, BESOTTED AND LONESOME

Astride his Arabian steed all caparisoned, Aurangzeb looked frail, his features taut and luminescent. Eight more years of unrest and warfare were the burden of age on his shoulders and inside his heart. He was an old man now, though his mind was sharp and dauntless, willing conquests where defeats lay sprawled after the advent of his victories. Donned in all white, his silken cummerbund matching his white beard, he seemed to be holding the reins of the underworld rather than those of his steed on the plains of Galgala. His turban, fringed with gold, held a large emerald in the middle, the emblem of his piety and power. Prince Azam, riding beside him, was plunged deep in despair, afraid and apprehensive. Both were silent, and the silence itself boded ill for Prince Azam, as he had been imprisoned before by the sheer whims and suspicions of the emperor. Prince Azam’s fears were groundless though, for the emperor was trying his best to nurture feelings of trust and confidence; his suspicions had shifted to Prince Kam Bakhsh of late. Prince Azam’s reticence and Aurangzeb’s tenacious hold on his sense of quiet dignity were pulling the son and father gulfs apart, rather than bringing them together into a bond of camaraderie. Prince Azam’s heart was quivering at the presence of the imperial guards behind him, rendering his own band of few soldiers insignificant. The emperor himself had commanded this pleasure excursion, but Prince Azam’s thoughts were viewing each step of the journey with dread and despair. His father’s stern and distraught demeanor was an additional sling of fright, loaded with threats and warnings. Aurangzeb himself had no inkling as to his own motive for this pleasure excursion, with the exception that he was fleeing his demons of sin and loneliness. Or rather, striving towards making amends for his past judgments, harsh and arbitrary. This particular afternoon, Aurangzeb’s puritanical sense of sin and unworthiness was riding along with him, making his ascetic features harsh and pinched. He had changed considerably during the past few years of warfare and personal ailments. His kernels of zeal and tyranny were still healthy, but a few saplings of doubt as to his sense of righteousness had

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sprouted forth to taint his temple of piety, which his thoughts dared not water and nurture. His only kernel of hope and comfort was his love for Udaipuri, even loving the bleak shadows of her scorn and drunkenness. They had become great friends as they had never been before, the canker of his impotence serving as a bridge of union between them, removing the taint of lust and purifying it with love pure and sublime. Right this moment, he could feel the presence of Udaipuri and Kam Bakhsh, both vapors of reality and illusion inside his head, some sort of ocean in thoughts and memories, mingling and separating with an astonishing speed of creative force behind the walls of destruction. Ruin and destruction were all that Aurangzeb’s thoughts could envision, though the outskirts of Galgala to the Southwest of Bijapur were a profusion of verdure and wilderness, like nature’s own paradise. He had stayed in this paradise after the execution of Shambhuji, sending heavy contingents in all directions to conquer and subjugate. Victories had been many, replaced by losses as soon the imperialists marched ahead to conquer more. In this charade of conquering and losing, the troops were at an utter loss, fearing to lose their sanity amidst the dwindling of their morale. The emperor, in contrast, though frail and suffering, even this particular afternoon, was the master of his sanity. After pointing out a few delightful sites to his son, he had ordered the retinue to ride towards the palace. The entire valley of Galgala had been converted into a campground, where the viziers and the contingents of troops were housed in all sorts of luxury befitting kings, so there were ample grounds of interest which Aurangzeb wished to point out to his son. His manner was becoming warm and congenial, and yet Prince Azam was alert and nervous, longing to flee to his own encampment where he could feel safe and unguarded. The lush, paradisiacal scenery was changing along the way, at times expanding into a tapestry of canals, then undulating into forked pathways, emerald and glittering. In the distance, soldiers could be seen engaged in their daily drills, and mahouts bathing their elephants by the shallow streams. Further down the campsite was a procession of camels, laden with food supplies and marching leisurely. Aurangzeb, after his unusual spurt of being a guide to his son in pointing out sites of interest and importance, had crawled back into his shell of quiet contemplation. His thoughts were cantering in rhythm with his graceful steed, but lost their grace on the road to the marshlands of the past eight years, lost in the intrigues and campaigns, all fierce and fruitless. After the downfall of Shambhuji, the emperor had been quick to annex more forts and territories in Bijapur and Golconda. Within a year he had

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become the overlord of Sera, Adoni, Sagar, Karnul, Bangalore, Bankpur, Belgaum, Wandiwash and Conjeevram, but his success had been shortlived. The eruption of rebellion by the clans of the Marathas had swallowed his conquests, leaving behind only the bonfire of guerilla warfare. All the clans were sedition-bound in the jungles of anarchy and lawlessness; the Rajputs, the Rathors and the Sisodias. The clans of Hara and Gaur had been quick to join the rest, lying in ambush between Malwa and Deccan. Ram Chandra, Shankarji Malhar, Parasheran Timbak and Prahald Nirji had formed a coalition to weaken the power of the Moghul Empire. Another chief rebel surging forth prominently had been Rajram, the brfor vengeance, launching a succession of raids and inciting others to follow suit. Rajram had been proclaimed King of Raigarh after the death of Shambhuji. Invested with this power, and outraged by the brutal murder of his brother, he had commenced a string of raids to challenge the authority of the Moghuls. His first move was to attack Aghar Khan in Dholpur. After killing him, he had made away with the booty of horses and treasure, also taking prisoners, several men as well as women. Evading pursuit, he had headed toward Sikandra, attacking Mahabat Khan on the way and plundering rich convoys laden with spices and silks. After these raids, he had sacked the tomb of Emperor Akbar, escaping with treasures including lamps, jewels, vessels of gold and silver and precious carpets. That was when the emperor had appointed Zulfiqar Khan to chastise him, styling Rajram as the Maratha Devil. But the Maratha Devil had escaped to Gingee, entrenching himself in its fortress, strong and impregnable. It had been four years since Zulfiqar Khan had laid siege to Gingee fort, and it was still in the possession of Rajram. Aurangzeb’s thoughts were caught in a cul-de-sac of doubt and despair, where Rajram was not the only foe, but there were also many more, all defiant and savage. Berar had been hosting a couple of rebels for the past two years; Santa and Dhana, who had been making raids and capturing Moghul territories. Of late, Santa had adopted the method of surprise attacks, looting rich caravans and killing indiscriminately. Aurangzeb had appointed Qasim Khan to intercept the advance of this daring marauder on his way to Mysore, with a strict command to arrest him dead or alive. The cul-de-sac in Aurangzeb’s head was invaded by shouts from the Sikh rebellion in the Punjab, but the great tumult beyond was louder than Sikh rebellion, where Durga Das was emerging forth as the most formidable of all foes. Durga Das, just after the execution of Shambhuji, had raided a Moghul garrison in Marwar, slaughtering many and wreaking terror.

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Along with Hada Darjan, he had carried his raids as far as the gates of Delhi. His next bold and astonishing victory was at Ajmer, defeating the Moghul governor and making Marwar the foothold for further intrigue and rebellion. The states of Marwar and Deccan had been gripped by the wildfires of revolt, and the situation had grown so desperate that the emperor had decided to befriend Durga Das. Durga Das had sent Prince Akbar’s daughter to the emperor in Galgala, honoring his promise to the fugitive prince that his daughter Safitunisa would be entrusted into the care of the emperor. After receiving his granddaughter, Aurangzeb had wished to employ a tutor for the religious education of the princess, but Safitunisa had confessed that Durga Das had taken care of that under the tutelage of a Muslim woman, adding that she knew the Quran by heart. Moved and astonished by this account, Aurangzeb had doubled his efforts in suing for peace with Durga Das. Aurangzeb’s thoughts were now escaping the cul-de-sac of this amorphous memory, splintered with doubt and disbelief. He was becoming aware of the palace grounds, walled by the sprawling city of tents, all bright and colorful. His eyes flashed all of a sudden as he turned his attention to the taciturn rider beside him, none other than his son, Prince Azam. “What need is there to keep all the attendants with you? Their presence will incite gossip in the royal camp. Dismiss them right here,” Aurangzeb commanded. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Prince Azam turned pale, waving dismissal at half of his attendants. “Are you ill? You have been exceptionally quiet during our ride!” Aurangzeb, noticing his pallor, watched him suspiciously. “No, Your Majesty. My health is perfect.” Prince Azam was flustered all of a sudden, blood rushing to his cheeks. “Prince Bidar Bakht has been on my mind, lately. He is too young to check the Rajput marauders who are ravaging the territories of Mewar and Marwar.” “Youth and valor are his virtue and strength, my prince,” Aurangzeb rallied unconvincingly. “Your fears are groundless. To set your mind at ease, the emperor will send Prince Buland Akhtar to keep him company,” he contemplated aloud. “Buland Akhtar, if you have not forgotten, is the son of your fugitive brother, the same age as Bidar Bakht. Your son will be happy to teach his cousin the art of warfare. A perfect opportunity for the cousins to get acquainted, now that Durga Das is bringing Prince Buland Akhtar to court! This very day, I am sure.” His expression was guarded and thoughtful.

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“Is Durga Das really coming here today?” Blood was draining from Prince Azam’s cheeks as if playing hide-and-seek. “Why? Do you doubt it?” Aurangzeb was just becoming aware that a few of Prince Azam’s attendants were still riding behind. “What? You haven’t dismissed all your attendants, have you? Or are they practicing the rite of disobedience?” “No, Your Majesty. I mean, they are devoted to me.” He waved another half-hearted dismissal, fear clutching his heart in pincers of hopelessness. “Durga Das might already be here! Waiting to be presented when I convene my court,” Aurangzeb murmured to himself, the truth dawning upon him that his son was afraid of him. “These endless wars, my son, have always obscured the face of truth from my eyes. And yet truth is Islam, still being pierced by the swords of infidelity. And yet, if we stopped fighting, the whole empire would crumble. The purity of Islam tainted by the blood of idolatry!” he demurred aloud as if questioning his own insight. “Truth has different faces, Your Majesty, if I may be as bold as to say? It never reveals itself in one face alone,” Prince Azam murmured. He brought his horse to an abrupt halt, against the wall of sentries who stood guarding the palace. “Come inside with me,” Aurangzeb commanded. He alighted from his horse slowly and deliberately, as if each muscle in his body was aching. The royal guards scurried forward to whisk away the emperor’s steed, while Prince Azam stood there in utter confusion. He was wondering if he should offer his arm to the emperor, or could decline to enter the palace without provoking imperial wrath. Three of his devoted attendants had still not left. So two of them took charge of his horse, while the third one edged closer, stultified. “Still attendants at your heels, my prince?” Pain and sadness surfaced in Aurangzeb’s eyes as he proceeded toward the palace. “Let that poor lamb of an attendant come in, but not until he is disarmed,” he commanded over his shoulder at his own devoted guards. “And let him stand guard outside the room while the prince and the emperor converse privately.” He made his way laboriously toward the gates. One small chamber, a miniature of Rajput splendor, stripped naked of all paintings and tapestries, was the abode of the prince and the emperor as they stood facing each other. The confetti of sunshine was flooding in through chinks in the damask drapes fringed with the tassels of gold and green, but the hearts of the son and the father were dark and despondent. Prince Azam was nervous, trying his best to conceal his fear and despair.

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And the emperor was failing in his attempt to gain the love and trust of his son. “Do you think Zulfiqar Khan is in league with Rajram, for the very obvious reason that he has not succeeded in capturing the fort of Gingee?” Aurangzeb posed this riddle while examining a loaded gun which he had just picked up from the heavy chest beside the wall. “No, Your Majesty,” was Prince Azam’s laconic response, his heart somersaulting. “Of course, Rajram’s wife, Tara Bai, is a genius in plotting. She might be concocting some plans to gain the friendship of Zulfiqar Khan,” Aurangzeb opined aloud, holding out the gun to his son. “Here, look at the beauty and craftsmanship of this gun. It is old, no doubt, made by an Afghan. Probably used by our ancestor, the first Moghul Emperor!” “A rare treasure, Your Majesty, priceless.” Prince Azam could barely breathe. “It is so hot in here.” Aurangzeb snapped open his vest, revealing that he was unarmed and hiding no weapons in his clothing. “Yes, Your Majesty, and stifling.” Prince Azam smiled with relief. He wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with a silken handkerchief, allowing himself the luxury of a little mirth and placing the gun back in its place. “Come then, embrace the emperor. Then you must leave before your soldiers revolt, wondering why their master is not back yet!” Aurangzeb held out his arms. Prince Azam was quick to obey, joy and relief shining in his eyes. After this brief, unexpected turn of events, with the emperor’s blessing, Prince Azam fled lest he be detained any longer. Aurangzeb stood stock still after the exit of his son, then crashed into a gilded chair nearby, his legs weak and trembling. Cupping his head in his hands, he let his thoughts surge and conspire, their downpour maudlin and ravishing. He wanted to lay down his head in the lap of Udaipuri and weep like a child bereft of all hope and consolation. The sudden and savage emotion inside him was like a cannon ball, and he knew why he felt that way—just because he needed to love and trust his sons amidst the jungle of his doubts and suspicions. Prince Azam reconciled and Prince Kam Bakhsh under suspicion? This stab of a memory raced through Aurangzeb’s heart like a blade of ice, tearing and cutting the old wounds of his past into lumps of deformity. Before these wounds could overwhelm the very onslaught of his thoughts, one little trooper of a thought stole away into the dungeons of his suspicions, where Kam Bakhsh could be the victim of dejection and

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imprisonment. Aurangzeb’s hands reached for his temples; his eyes were hermetically shut, envisioning the ruins of his actions with awe and bewilderment. Those mountains of ruins, generated by his actions, were roofed with edicts harsh and terrible. And inside the core of those mountains was embedded the face of truth, all crushed and disfigured. Aurangzeb’s thoughts were rising in revolt against his sense of justice and tyranny. Right at this moment, as he sat hunched in his chair, he could hear the mockery and hysteria of his thoughts, holding his ego under the flames of inquisition. Were the foundations of Islam so weak that he had to cut down the throats of infidelity in order to save it from crumbling? Was he not wrong in portraying Islam as the sapling of hatred and discord? Was Allah not All Merciful, All Compassionate, All Loving, All Forgiving? Did the Messenger of God not preach brotherhood, where love, justice and equality— Aurangzeb’s guardian thoughts, like zealous soldiers, spiraled forth to crush the mad revolt in his head. Aurangzeb stirred with the intention of fleeing and finding refuge in the bower of Udaipuri, where even the crumbs of her wisdom and mockery were precious morsels for his sustenance and perseverance, but he could not lift himself up. The burden of his duty to appear at court was heavy on his shoulders and his legs still weak and unsteady. He had left his staff, with its gold carved handle, in Udaipuri’s room, more so to train his body to the rod of his will than to pamper his pride that his inner strength could defy all ravages of aging and ailment. Right now he wished for the support of his staff, as he heaved himself up slowly and painfully. Bracing himself against the spasms of aches and pains in his legs, he plodded out of the room. Ignoring the salutations of his liveried attendants, he wended his way toward his scented refuge. A tinkling of mirth, like the downpour from a cataract in song and serenade, grazed Aurangzeb’s awareness as he approached the chamber of Udaipuri. Stumbling inside this scented refuge, he was confronted by a flood of mirth from the lips of Satiunisa, Safitunisa and his beloved Udaipuri. All mirth was truncated as soon as the royal ladies noticed the presence of the emperor. Udaipuri’s eyes were flashing all of a sudden. Aurangzeb was quick to dismiss the young princesses, nursing his pride and limbs in the cushiony deeps of a chair, all gilded and velvety. Udaipuri sat lolling against her maroon pillow, looking more like a portrait of fire and lightning than a queen resting on her davenport, sprayed with lace and damask. Swaths of rubies in her hair and around her throat were sparkling, much like the blaze of anger in her dark eyes. Her small, white face was still endowed with the smoothness of youth, and the mingling of

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fire and ice in her gaze was lending her the aura of beauty rare and divine. Aurangzeb’s heart was a quiver of awe and apprehension, shooting forth warnings even before the arrows of rage shot out from the lips of Udaipuri. “Where is Prince Kam Bakhsh, Your Majesty? I hear he is to be arrested? Your jealousy and suspicion are going to kill us all, your sons and daughters all, and no one to comfort you in your old age!” Udaipuri leaped to her feet with the agility of a young girl, her pink silks stitched with pearls rustling and protesting. “Evil canards to disrupt peace inside the emperor’s harem,” Aurangzeb murmured weakly. “Our prince was under suspicion of trafficking imperial honor with the Marathas, but the rumors of his arrest are all base and false.” “All false, Your Majesty?” Udaipuri began to pace in a mad, blind fury of distrust and bitterness. “Did Prince Muazzam not languish in prison? Is Princess Zebunisa not the victim of your suspicion and unkindness? Was Prince Azam not imprisoned for seven long years? Does he still not turn pale at the whiff of summons from you, fearing doom and imprisonment? Everyone is afraid of you, Your Majesty, but me! And you will have to kill me first before you send my son to prison!” She dared not look at the emperor, lest her anger be replaced with solicitation for the weak and aging emperor. “To even think of killing you, my love, I would be contemplating my own murder. You know the emperor’s weakness!” Aurangzeb sighed to himself, his thoughts clinging to the reeds of her scorn and beauty. “All these years, and still the ocean of my love for you rages, though the body has grown weak and infirm.” “From that ocean, Your Majesty, if you could but squeeze out even one drop of love, letting it flow freely, it would become a shower of blessings for all! Washing away the soot of wars and hatreds, and lending the light of peace and harmony!” Udaipuri’s rage was melting against the newly found need of her mission to work towards the salvation of the emperor’s soul. “No amount of love could absolve the Maratha dogs of their sin and infidelity, worshiping idols and heeding not the commands of Allah!” Aurangzeb exclaimed with quicksilver zeal, which ran not parallel with his inner doubts and forebodings. “Abuse not those whom they call upon beside Allah,” Udaipuri recited smoothly, since she had learnt the Quran by heart during these past eight years of warfare. “Do you recall this Sura from the holy pages of the Quran?”

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“This has nothing to do with wars.” Aurangzeb’s thoughts were girding themselves in self-defense. “We are fighting the infidels who are looting caravans, plundering homes and despoiling villages.” “In retaliation to your own campaigns, Your Majesty! And in defiance of your crusade against their gods and temples!” Half disdain, half compassion escaped Udaipuri’s thoughts, bent on their own crusade: saving the emperor from the noose of damnation. “To fight in the name of Islam is just, and to desist unworthy!” Aurangzeb declared piously. “I could recite the whole Quran, Your Majesty, and you would not desist from what you will!” Udaipuri chanted genially. “Does this sound familiar? Permission to fight is given to those on whom war is made, because they are oppressed. And again: Fight in the way of Allah against those who fight against you, but be not aggressive.” She abandoned herself on the gilt chair opposite the emperor. “Are you accusing the emperor of aggression, my soul-mate?” Aurangzeb’s query was a mingling of appeal and bitterness. “When all I did in the beginning was to punish offenders charged with blasphemy against Islam and the Prophet!” “In Mecca, Your Majesty, when an offender was brought to the Prophet, charged with blaspheming, and people demanded that his teeth be knocked out and his limbs dismembered, our holy Prophet replied: If I disfigure any of his limbs, God will disfigure mine. He was forgiven, unconditionally.” Udaipuri stressed the last word, as if tasting its sweetness. “Only God forgives! Prophets may intercede, but no heathen is exempt from hellfire on Judgment Day.” The flint of puritanic rage in Aurangzeb’s head was kindling its own fires. “Exactly, Your Majesty.” Udaipuri’s response was quick and subtle, loaded with the ammunition of bulletproof facts written in the Quran. “All the people who had accepted Islam had formed a coalition, recounting atrocities done by the Quraysh especially, of one woman by the name of Hind, the wife of Abu Sofyan. She tore out Hamza’s liver, the Prophet’s uncle’s, and chewed on it, stringing his intestines into a garland for herself! When the Islamic coalition pleaded with the Prophet to pray for the destruction of the Quraysh, what was his response? O Allah, forgive my people, for they do not know, adding, Mutilation is forbidden to the Muslims.” “Did Allah speak to you, my love, or do you heed the phantoms of lies in your dreams?” Aurangzeb muttered stoically, heeding only the lies of his own heart, where truth stood veiled.

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“From the phantoms of the past, Your Majesty! And from the holy pages of the Quran! Have you read the eulogy to the Prophet called the Burdah, composed by the famous poet Kabbin Zahair?” Udaipuri’s eyes were beacons of truth, pure and profound. “Did the same poet also write to let the heathens follow the path of ignorance, and guide them not on the road to Islam?” was Aurangzeb’s weak defense, his piety meeting not the eyes of truth. “No single conversion was sought by war or force during the lifetime of the Prophet, Your Majesty! The Prophet didn’t favor war or aggression. All who accepted Islam did so voluntarily. How the Muslims have forgotten! Or dare they not acknowledge what contradicts their false perceptions?” Udaipuri opined aloud, her heart brimming with dread and sorrow. “False, you say?” Aurangzeb’s maiden of self-righteousness was yawning to awakening. “The historians and the hypocrites, inspired by the devil, glorifying lies, ascribing evil to Muslims, and tainting the purity of their intentions! Why do you corrupt your mind with the words of the poets and the heathens? The Quran alone is the book of wisdom, containing the knowledge of both the worlds; this world and the world hereafter! As to forgiveness, my wise scholar, if you claim to know the Quran by heart, you must know this verse: If thou shouldst ask forgiveness for them even seventy times, God will not forgive them.” His heart was witnessing a battle between zeal and doubt. “A thousand and one ways to interpret the verses of the Quran, Your Majesty! And distortions, veiling the real from the literal!” Udaipuri smiled sadly. “I never thought I would be the champion of Islam. Islam, with all its truth and purity, that is! When the Chief of the Hypocrites died, didn’t our Prophet forgive him? The son of the deceased man came to the Prophet, requesting two favors. One was to give his shirt as a death shroud for his father, and the second to perform the funeral services; both these favors were granted. Though the followers of Prophet Muhammed protested, quoting the same verse you just recited, Your Majesty. But Prophet Muhammed said: Then I have to ask forgiveness more than seventy times, don’t I?” “All of us are not born prophets, my lovely sage. As lowly mortals, we have to fight for our ideals. And since Prophet Muhammed was the Seal of the Prophets, and Islam the last religion, it is destined to rule, purging the whole world of idols and false gods.” The inner battle of zeal and doubt in Aurangzeb’s head was raging. “There is no compulsion in religion, doesn’t this Sura in the Quran explicitly affirm it, Your Majesty? And this one! We have shown him the .

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way, he may be thankful or unthankful. The truth is from thy Lord, so let him who please believe, and let him who please disbelieve.” Divine inspiration shone in Udaipuri’s eyes, though her heart was swollen with pain. “And let the disbelievers tear down our mosques and erect temples of evil and darkness? Is that what you propose?” Aurangzeb’s zeal was inching closer to defeat, but standing there alert and menacing. “If you would leave their temples intact, Your Majesty, they would not touch the mosques,” Udaipuri ventured onto the slippery grounds, her heart trembling. “Prophet Muhammad’s generosity was extended to all faiths, the Jews, the Christians and the idolaters. He was very kind and gentle. Once a Jew greeted him with a curse: death on you! Aisha, the Prophet’s wife, upon hearing this, got angry and said to the Jew: may God bring death on you. Prophet Muhammed rebuked her, saying: God doesn’t like harsh words. He also told her: hold fast to forgiveness, as it has been revealed in the Quran.” “In this harsh world of needs and greed, mercy and forgiveness demand the ransom of valor and fidelity. Otherwise, the man of faith stands accused before the sight of man and God.” Aurangzeb’s defense was running ragged, his zeal standing guard. “I have not been sent as a curse to mankind, but as an inviter of good and as mercy. O Lord! Grant guidance to my people; for surely they know not,” Udaipuri recited to herself, her thoughts feeling the brunt of despair and anguish. “And We have not sent thee but as a mercy to the nations!” This holy verse escaped Aurangzeb’s lips, much to the chagrin of his zeal and selfrighteousness. “Isn’t this verse most divine and beautiful, Your Majesty?” Udaipuri’s eyes lit up with hope. “Why was Shambhuji ordered to be killed so brutally?” she couldn’t help asking. “Because he abused the Prophet and blasphemed most shamelessly,” Aurangzeb murmured distractedly. “The Holy Quran doesn’t allow the murder of an abuser, Your Majesty!” Udaipuri protested boldly, horrified afresh by the atrocities committed by her emperor-husband. “The emperor comes here for solace and comfort, and all he gets from his wife turned sanctimonious is a stark revolt against his rule of justice to proclaim truth and solidarity,” Aurangzeb murmured evasively. “Truth always must rise above the burden of my royal duties.” He rose to his feet, wearily. “Be kind and hand me my staff, my love. These legs won’t carry

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me to my throne on their own.” The pain and tenderness in his eyes were kindling some passion sweet, which he could not express. “These legs would carry you far, Your Majesty, if you could resist the journeys long and arduous of all these mindless campaigns,” Udaipuri shot the tender advice, fetching the gold staff. “I would be content if I could lean on your shoulders for support and strength, always.” Aurangzeb wound his arms around her waist, kissing her on the lips with the parched hunger of an ocean deep and insatiable. “Women should have no right to guide men; they make them weak and vulnerable.” He released her, claiming the staff without meeting her gaze. “Women shall have the same rights over men as men have over them,” Udaipuri recited, another verse from the Quran, under an abrupt spell of mockery. “That leaves us both worse for it, my love. You as the arbiter, and I the victim of my own surrender! As I have said before, a man submissive to a woman is worse than a woman.” He hobbled out, clutching his staff, but not yet accepting its support. The garden at Gulubar, with the palace looming not too far, and the imperial camp stretched out for miles on end, was the scene in which Aurangzeb sat on his throne. He was endorsing petitions and receiving embassies. His robe of white linen was coarse, but the great emerald in his turban was catching shafts of sunshine and glinting splendor. The throne was heavily gilded, furnished with pillows of silk and brocade. A silver footstool lay in front of him, on which he had abandoned his buckler and scimitar, along with his staff. A royal page in livery of white and gold was holding a green umbrella over his head to protect him from the heat of the sun. But Aurangzeb’s soul, all gloomy and lonesome, had no protection against the flames of sedition and intrigue, which were consuming his empire in the wildfire of unrest and anarchy. In order to portray a semblance of peace and power, this court at Galgala was opulent and colorful. A succession of rich carpets had been unrolled on the lawns for the comfort of the nobles and viziers. The court itself was enclosed by screens of painted calico, held in place by silver banisters, arcaded and embellished with hangings of silk and gold. The proceedings were arranged with meticulous care by the strict orders of the emperor. At the mere gesture of his arm, the intended commoner or nobleman could be presented to him, subject to his whim or favor, if not inquisition. After the petitions had been signed, Moghul Khan, who had been assigned to destroy the temples in Mewar and Marwar, was the first one to be presented.

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“Have you finished your good work of pounding all evil to dust?” Aurangzeb demanded, his look thoughtful and piercing. “The infidels might learn to worship one God if their temples, roofed with sins and sinful rituals, are demolished!” “Some are completely destroyed, Your Majesty. Namely the ones at Ellora, Trinbkeshwar and Narsinghpur!” Moghul Khan admitted reluctantly. “The ones in Pandharpur and Bhuleshwar are proving to be difficult. And the Hateshwar temple in Vadnagar, Your Majesty. That one is impossible to destroy, especially at this time of the year, when—” “The demolition of temples is possible at any time, since they can’t walk away!” Aurangzeb interrupted impatiently. “What seems to be the cause of hindrance?” “They are built very strong, Your Majesty, of iron and stone!” Moghul Khan expounded tremulously. “The hatchet-men don’t have enough strength. The foundations have to be dug up.” “Then hire strong hatchet-men, you short-sighted fool!” Aurangzeb flashed the quick rebuke. “Abdar Rahim in Golconda and Khan Bahadur in Bijapur are pulling down the altars of infidelity with much success!” He waved dismissal. “Your Majesty,” Moghul Khan pleaded weakly. “Hindus are revolting against the destruction of temples, and against their idols being desecrated. Hasan Ali arrested Sri Krishna, who took fifteen idols out of the temple before it was demolished. Then a band of Rajputs attacked Hasan Ali, and he had to grant freedom to Sri Krishna. Otherwise, they were going to kill him.” “Those idols are molded in base metal, much like the base-minded infidels! All will be destroyed in time.” The glint of hatred in Aurangzeb’s gaze was swift and cutting. “The emperor knows all about their idols, wrought in copper, ugly and worthless!” His attention shifted to the next in line. “Your Majesty.” Abu Turab bowed his head, waiting to be addressed. “Is Malwa the seat of rebellion again?” Aurangzeb shot this missile of an inquiry sternly. “Your face, Abu Turab, never fails to parade tales of woe, though the emperor has trouble deciphering them.” “Malwa is smarting under the burden of its previous tragedies, Your Majesty, but quite peaceful now, the Moghul governor affirms,” Abu Turab responded suavely. “The tales of woe are from Mysore, Your Majesty. Santa, after defeating Qasim Khan, plundered his camp, depriving him of all possessions. Then he demanded twenty lakh rupees for the ransom of the prisoners. Qasim Khan, mad with grief, and bereft of all succor, committed suicide!”

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“Proud and foolish! All my generals are becoming cowardly and effeminate.” The flicker of rage in Aurangzeb’s gaze was dark and formidable. “Santa’s insolence and insubordination must be stopped, before his tyranny spreads like a pestilence. Send a heavy contingent of troops to arrest this Maratha dog, so that the Moghuls can be saved from the affliction of rabies which he carries within his blood like sin and savagery.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” Abu Turab retreated, making room for another messenger of woe. “Does the Punjab promise any good news which might part the clouds of darkness over our empire?” Aurangzeb held Himmat Khan captive under the flash of daggers in his eyes. “I wish that were true, Your Majesty. Guru Gobind Singh is sowing the seeds of rebellion in the very heart of the Punjab. He has the following of Muslim saints too. Pir Budhu Shah is favoring his cause to fight against us. Said Beg and Maimu Khan have actively taken part in fighting against the Moghuls under the guidance of Guru Gobind Singh. At one point, Your Majesty, the imperialists were about to capture him, when by the stealthy designs of Nabi Khan and Ghani Khan, he managed to escape.” “Who dares call them saints, those maggots of Islam?” Aurangzeb exclaimed with pious rage. “If they are not roasted in hellfire by my anger, the tortures of the damned will be awaiting them in the nether world. The emperor might recall Prince Muazzam from Kabul to chastise this race of animals infested with lice. And you would be sent in pursuit of Santa, that worm most foul and cankerous! But do enlighten the emperor as to what is Guru Gobind Singh’s cause?” he demanded abruptly, trying to restrain his anger. “Guru Gobind Singh says, Your Majesty, he is sent by God to save the virtuous and to destroy the evil-doers. The goddess Durga appeared to him in a dream—” “Sinful dreams and evil thoughts!” Aurangzeb stalled him with an impatient wave of his arm. “The emperor wishes not to corrupt his ears with the effluvium of his boasts. Send him a warning at the head of a contingent that he and his sons will be slaughtered on the streets of Delhi if he is not willing to desist from his designs of evil and sorcery.” The flash of his anger shifted to Rahullah Khan, who had been entrusted with the task of gathering reports from Gingee. “Your Majesty, not much has been accomplished by Zulfiqar Khan as yet,” Rahullah Khan commenced promptly, noticing the daggers of impatience in the emperor’s eyes. “The fort of Gingee is still under siege,

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but Rajram has erected more defenses. Zulfiqar Khan requests reinforcements.” “The emperor has become garrulous, talking and talking, but none of his generals heed his words!” A cry of despair, not of anger, was Aurangzeb’s abrupt exclamation. “The emperor’s edicts and commands are being neglected. My craven and cowardly generals don’t need reinforcements in terms of troops, but enforcement of law and order. Command him to act quickly or his life will be forfeit, no matter how great the defenses of Rajram. Is there not a single man in the emperor’s audience today who would report of valor and victory, rather than of sloth and sedition?” His gaze fell on his other vizier. “Why is it, Jafar Khan, that Bengal yielded revenue of one-point-seven million during the reign of my father, and now it is yielding no more than five hundred thousand rupees?” “I can’t think of any other reason, Your Majesty, than that the reign of Emperor Shah Jahan was tyrannical and the people were oppressed,” Jafar Khan unsheathed his quiver of grand lies, always in readiness to flatter the emperor. “And now, Your Majesty’s reign is holy and compassionate, allowing the people the freedom of peace and prosperity.” “If there were a few more men like you to lend hope, Jafar Khan, all people in our empire would embrace the holy precepts of Islam.” Aurangzeb’s holy heart was clinging to the reeds of flattery. Giovanni Careri, an Italian tourist, was presented to the emperor as a doctor of civil law and an avid naturalist. Aurangzeb’s eyes lit up with the lamps of curiosity; his manner became kind and ingratiating. “What brings you to our great empire?” Aurangzeb elicited a sliver of a smile, his eyes flashing all of a sudden. “After visiting Egypt, Turkey and Persia, Your Majesty, I was pressed by the sudden desire to see the greatest monarch in Asia,” was Giovanni Careri’s gallant and flattering response! “By the grace and mercy of God I possess this great empire, but the English and Portuguese merchants are a flood of greed trying to rob our empire of its gold and treasures.” Aurangzeb’s pride and doubt surfaced in his eyes like the stars of fortitude. “You are welcome to stay, though the emperor is wearied of Englishmen, with all their greed and arrogance,” he intoned generously. “The honor is great, Your Majesty, but unfortunately I am entrusted with a message to the Emperor of China, and commanded to return home,” Giovanni Careri responded brightly. “Warn your government of English pirates and traders. They settle in foreign lands in the guise of merchants, and their very greed for riches goads them into acts of plunder and anarchy. By the evil designs of British

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pirates, our pilgrim ships are not safe anymore. But may you proceed without danger and reach home safely.” Aurangzeb waved dismissal, espying the approach of Durga Das. Durga Das was being led by Khafi Khan. Both were emerging forth from a colonnade of red taffeta on silver poles, where nobles and generals stood humming awe and disapproval. Prince Buland Akhtar was trailing behind, almost concealed from view. His handsome face appeared all of a sudden, revealing a mauve turban fringed with pearls. Khafi Khan had stopped all of a sudden, facing Durga Das and demanding that he relinquish his sword before approaching the throne. Durga Das was quick to unsheathe his sword, brandishing it boldly before the face of Khafi Khan, and declaring that he would be presented to the emperor armed, or would retract his promise of submission. Khafi Khan, under the spell of half shock, half embarrassment, had no choice but to resume his duty of presenting Durga Das to the emperor, his sword now sheathed and slung at his waist. Khafi Khan, recovering from his shock as soon as he approached the throne, whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around the wrist of Durga Das with the swiftness of a magician. This gesture was a clear indication that Durga Das was being presented as a captive. “Untie that handkerchief at once,” Aurangzeb commanded the guard beside him. “You are welcome, Durga Das.” He smiled graciously. The hated handkerchief quickly removed, Durga Das bowed, murmuring greetings. Prince Buland Akhtar was presented to the emperor, his demeanor pensive yet gallant. The rare and astonishing grace with which the emperor had conducted himself so far was extended to his grandson too, but after inquiring about his health and education, Aurangzeb commanded Khafi Khan to conduct the prince to the palace. Soon after, he commanded Itaqid Beg to bestow on Durga Das a gold pendant, a jeweled dagger and a string of pearls. “Gracious gifts, Your Majesty, my heartfelt thanks and gratitude,” Durga Das beamed, admiring the jeweled dagger with much interest. “You have been made the commander of three thousand men and horses, Durga Das, and have to prove your valor to earn more favors from the emperor,” Aurangzeb waved the dagger of a command, waving dismissal too. “Your Majesty.” Sheikhul Aslam edged closer to the throne, burdened by his need to voice his grievances. “May I have the favor of your audience?” he appealed with great urgency. “No lengthy sermons, my venerable Qazi! The emperor needs rest,” Aurangzeb commanded. “Proceed without delay.”

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“Your Majesty, my humblest appeal is that you look at the consequences of these wars,” Sheikhul Aslam began feverishly. “The imperialists are tired and frightened. They capture one fort, and another slips out of their hands. The Marathas are getting bold, and plundering even the Moghul camps. Our generals have grown corrupt, and unwilling to fight. Hunger and poverty abound in the villages, while the soldiers demand the utmost luxury when they journey from one city to the other. If these wrongs are not corrected, Your Majesty, or peace restored, all of us will die of hunger. The beasts are already dying due to the dearth of—” “Cease your tirade, Qazi,” Aurangzeb silenced him with a violent gesture of his arm. “The emperor has no time to listen to the prattle of the ignorant and narrow-minded.” He got to his feet, holding the crutches of his piety in his very eyes. “If you do not find your grievances redressed, pray to the Almighty to grant you some other ruler!” He clutched his staff, dismounting his throne laboriously. “The wars raging between the sultan and the princes of Hungary are less fierce than the ones raging in my soul.” He plodded past the swarm of nobles and attendants without saying another word. The blaring of the trumpets and kettledrums was the signal that the court was no longer in session. The emperor, garbed in the puritanical shroud of his will and might, drifted toward the imperial refuge. But his will and might shattered as he entered his solitary tent, abandoning himself on the bed of carpets in sheer fatigue. This tent of gold and crimson was his gloomy prison; his heart was aching and lonesome. Slipping the brocade pillow under his head, he closed his eyes. He lay there supine, the ghost of his late father visiting him, arrayed in all splendor. His very soul was constricting, willing his thoughts to absolve the curse of his sins, and to forget that he had imprisoned his father and murdered his brothers. I have failed. Failed most grandly and gloriously! This heartrending cry in Aurangzeb’s soul was poetic, and sprinkled with the soot of tragedies. The ghosts of the past, his own brothers, crowded around him, mockery shining in their eyes. The veil of his piety was torn to shreds, revealing hatred and heartlessness. The white fingers of his murdered brothers were chiseling away his puritan self, separating the thick layers of zeal, cruelty and bigotry with utmost concentration. Tide upon tide of lies, knotted on the currents of distortion, danced within the storms of his tragedy and bewilderment. Aurangzeb dreamt of his father, Shah Jahan, returning with the aura of his former youth and glory. He was carrying the Peacock Throne in his arms and hurled it straight at the phantom of his living son, Aurangzeb.

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All the jewels had caught fire, their flames licking Aurangzeb’s flesh, and his body was racked with torments indescribable. Consumed by the shafts of its agony, his very soul was burning, reduced to dust and ashes. Death was a palpitating reality, darkness itself digging the graves of the sins in his psyche. If evil were to die today, good would cease to live! If light were gone, darkness would cease to be! Aurangzeb’s psyche was whimpering. Why carry the burdens of the past on your shoulders on this journey in life? Slough off all sins! Walk light, freedom bound! Float free without the burden of regrets. Discard all. The phantom-Aurangzeb was dissolving inside the ether of the mists and dreams. Our dreams and thoughts are much like islands in the clouds. Hovering above and dissolving into nothingness. The emperor looked into the eyes of death, shrinking away from the demons of his sinful past!

CHAPTER ELEVEN GURU GOBIND SINGH

The palanquin, all gilded and dripping with silks, hosted the aged emperor on his journey from his encampment to his newly won fortress in Sattara. This small palanquin, blazing with jewels, was hoisted on the shoulders of four liveried men with crimson turbans, but they could barely feel its weight. They were perfectly at ease, trooping along jauntily amidst the fanfare of the drums and the trumpets, followed by a procession of viziers and grandees. Aurangzeb, in his usual robe of white, his turban studded with rubies, seemed to be riding on the clouds of illusions grand and shifting. Illusions had become his shield and protection against the battlegrounds of hopes ravished and doubts sprouting afresh, with zeal more savage than his belief that he was the Savior of Islam. A wild, feverish glow in Aurangzeb’s eyes, in contrast to his pale, emaciated features, was lowering its beams of pride and power, some sort of tinsel mask woven from the very spool of illusions! But underneath this mask of silver were despair and heartache, which he alone felt and guarded. Caprice and bravado were his armor too this sultry afternoon, as he wished to impress upon his royal entourage that, despite his feeble health and old age, he was still eager to lead more campaigns on the road to victory. Unsheathing his sword all of a sudden, his thin arm shot out of the window of the palanquin, carving cuts in the air right and left, as if fighting a duel. This gesture of the emperor was not new anymore. He had adopted it a couple of years ago, when he had become constrained to riding in a palanquin. And all who accompanied him on such journeys were accustomed to his moods of bravado, returning the emperor’s smiles in accompaniment to this strange gesture with applause. Gratified by this show of attention, Aurangzeb replaced his sword in its scabbard, and rubbed it with a cloth as if polishing. Satisfied with this task of rubbing and polishing, his attention was diverted to another task, less dramatic and more predictable. Smiling to himself he picked up his bow, and poised it before him as if ready to shoot an arrow. The applause was loud and raucous this time, and he lowered his bow beside him slowly and thoughtfully. A spasm of pain shot through his arm up to his neck, and he

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fumbled for the shawl over his legs, draping it around his shoulders with trembling hands. The maroon shawl with gold embroidery was not lending him any comfort; his hands fell limp into his lap. His bony fingers reached out to the rosary beside him, and felt the round pearls in some ritual of a prayer unvoiced. He closed his eyes, shutting the doors of reality and illusion both, where life stood shuddering on the verge of death and darkness. In a twinkle, in a minute, in a breath The condition of the world changes

This couplet from the very rungs of inevitability slithered through Aurangzeb’s pain and loneliness like the serpent of time and timelessness. Time was whirling back five years hence, to the submission of Durga Das. It halted somewhere in between, congealed and splintered with doubts and failures. The river of memories below was weaving its way in a serpentine deluge down the abyss of his youth, where ambition lay splattered with the blood of murders and tyranny. The pearls of the rosary evoked sharp reflections in Aurangzeb’s head, shifting scenes from the murder of his brothers to the imprisonment of his father. His father, Shah Jahan, had vowed in his cell of a prison that he would pound these pearls into dust before relinquishing them into the hands of his son, Aurangzeb. Aurangzeb’s hands were shaking now, the cold, smooth pearls gathering no warmth from mute prayers and supplications. More memories, harsh and brutal, were flaring up, licking his thoughts with tongues of ice and flame. His greed and ambition too, inside the pools of his youth, were rippling forth, bloated with the abscesses of follies and hatred. He could see the wounds of his sins, scarlet and throbbing, the eyes of his soul aghast and contemplating. Life, so valuable, has gone away for nothing. Aurangzeb’s eyes shot open at this sudden regret and reproof from one of his militant thoughts. They pulled him back to the field of combat, where defeats were the children of fate from the wombs of victories. Aurangzeb’s dreamy gaze reached out and swept over his royal entourage, as if harnessing the chariot of awareness. He saw his viziers, with velvet housings on their saddles and their charges adorned with bells and ornaments, as the most sad and tragic of scenes. His heart sank, its own eyes witnessing the show of pomp and glory which had depleted the Moghul treasury, letting it suffer the pangs of poverty and bankruptcy. From the depths of his puritan rage, all mangled and bleeding, erupted forth the lava of despair, ripping open the silken robes of his viziers, and clothing them in raiments of valor.

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Padded dandies! This epithet in Aurangzeb’s head held a sling of reprimands over the shoulders of his viziers and guards. But his thoughts were stumbling down the rungs of victories, grown slippery after the birth of defeats. The past five years of grueling warfare were unfolding in Aurangzeb’s head like a mirage, illusive and shining. His thoughts were murmuring that he was not seated in a palanquin, but racing down into the desert of hope in one last desperate attempt to flee the currents of death and devastation. Reality chased the shadows of war and famine, and illusion was bathed in the glitter of sunshine. A shining gulf, all equipped with shades and shadows, was flitting past the battlegrounds and gaping open a large rent in his thoughts. His mind’s eye was holding in abeyance the incult fields and the barren vistas. The garden at Galgala where Aurangzeb had received the submission of Durga Das was dissolving into mists gray and swirling. Before marching forth on campaigns to exterminate the Maratha dogs, Aurangzeb had entrusted Prince Muazzam with the rulership of Sindh, Punjab and Afghanistan. He himself had journeyed to Brhamapuri, making it his central location to expedite the invasion of the entire of Deccan. But when the Marathas had adopted guerilla tactics to shake the morale of the imperialists, the emperor had left Brhamapuri personally in chase of the rebellious heathens! Aurangzeb’s thoughts were repeating their edict. While the emperor was on the road to subjugate Deccan, Muqarab Khan, at the head of a large contingent, had been dispatched to Gingee. He was to join Zulfiqar Khan, still laying siege to the fortress guarded by Rajram. A succession of swift campaigns had consumed two years in a blink, and fort after fort had fallen under the sway of the imperialists. But as the emperor had kept marching in hope of further conquests, all those forts had slipped out of the possession of the imperialists as swiftly as they had been captured. At the same time, the fortress of Gingee had finally been captured by the Moghuls, and Rajram had fled to Sattara amidst the carnage and bloodshed of his own troops and supporters. The next two years were a familiar tale of loss and gain, as Aurangzeb had marched toward the West under the laurels of euphoria and short-lived victories. Amongst the sweeping victories were the forts of Parli, Panhala, Vishalgarh and Basantgarh. They had been swept back into the whirlwind of fresh rebellions by the Marathas, who had been quick to reclaim their losses, since no Moghul troops were left behind to guard the conquests. Meanwhile, Rajram, in Sattara, had been sending a band of guerillas to mock and confound the imperialists wherever they could be seen marching with the intent of capturing new forts. Rajram was greatly

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successful in aiding and defending the claims of the Maratha chiefs. His guerilla warriors had even been raiding the Moghul camps, and plundering before retiring to the haven of their own safety. So daring were the ventures of Rajram that he could raid and plunder the entire camp of the Moghuls in broad daylight and then escape, leaving behind terror and devastation. One splinter of this terror pierced Aurangzeb’s heart with a sudden violence as he recalled Rajram’s letter, brought to his notice during the fever of his own losses and victories. This letter was the reason that the emperor had embarked on this rough journey to reach Sattara. He had been ill and fractious, and the burden of fatigue on his shoulders was still the same as it had been when he had marched to Sattara. The storm clouds of incessant wars and endless campaigns had buffeted his vision of Islam, and yet he had continued his ritual of campaigns, oblivious to the charade of losing and winning. Even now, his will to fight was drumming a painful beat in his heart, grown weak and vulnerable, though his thoughts were holding a flint of rage over the letter of Rajram. We have launched the full force of our armies against the emperor. Led a furious attack upon the imperial camp! Captured the emperor’s own daughter! Attacked a convoy of ten thousand pack animals carrying supplies! The Moghuls have lost all courage, and can make no effort to win the fort of Sattara. We now take no account of this powerful emperor, whom, God willing, we shall soon put to rout— Aurangzeb’s thoughts effaced Rajram’s words with the dust of perdition. Foul viper of a liar! Hateful serpent of lies! Am I not in Sattara, chasing the filthy dog to his stinking lair? Aurangzeb’s thoughts were a volcano of puritanic hatred. The emperor’s gaze was rippling out of the palanquin, and scorching the scanty verdure all around. He swallowed a crumb of solace: the palace was not far off, where he could rest his weary limbs. His fingers spun the pearls of the rosary indiscriminately, much like his thoughts, weaving prayers and unweaving evil incantations. They vacillated between the fires of rage and disbelief, rigged with doubts and warnings. He could feel his thoughts entering the dark prison of their own confessional, and murmuring great secrets. Half of the boasts by Rajram were true, and the other half might come true if the emperor were to succumb to despair and illness. And yet, Aurangzeb’s thoughts were rallying, filled with the helium of ego and soaring high like a bright balloon. His thoughts were turning to the siege of Sattara, which he himself had planned, when a mine had exploded accidentally. Several of the Moghul soldiers had been killed, and the

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imperialists had grown despondent. And Aurangzeb, condoning all pains of the body and mind, had appeared on the scene, as if in defiance of ill fate and ill health. Mounted on his Arabian steed, he had commanded that the dead bodies be piled into a human ravelin and the siege be continued with a fresh assault. Soon, the fortress of Sattara had succumbed, Rajram managing to escape once again. Prince Bidar Bakht had been sent after Rajram, but he had managed a swift flight to Ahamadnagar. This son of a devil must be killed and fed to the holy cow whom he worships, Aurangzeb’s thoughts were whimpering, carving their way into the pool of his own doubts and weaknesses. A whimper of a warning splintered Aurangzeb’s ego with the knife of reality. It was true that half the victories had been gained through bribery and treacherous means, his thoughts were confessing. Each gain was purchased at the price of jewels pilfered from the royal treasury, and each loss at the ransom of lives and tragedies. The tragedies numbered few on the side of the Marathas, all surfacing now in Aurangzeb’s head like puddles foul and muddied. Santa had given offence to Rajram, who in return had challenged him to a war, in which Santa had emerged victorious. After his victory, Santa had been attacked by the other Maratha chief, Dhana, but Santa had gained victory once again. Dhana had been quick to rally more forces, launching another attack. He was successful this time, defeating Santa, since Santa’s own followers had defected. Santa had escaped, but been murdered later while taking a bath in the foothills of Mahadev, not far from Sattara. The Maratha dogs! Barking always, and feeding on the flesh of their hateful brethren. The flood of puritanic hatred in Aurangzeb’s heart was swelling. This flood of hatred was carrying him on the wings of hope. His gaze cut through the pageantry of color and sparkle in his entourage to reach the palace gates. The great palace loomed in the distance, ugly and monstrous. The moats were muddy and brackish, and the gardens invaded by ivy and thrush, all wild and tenacious. The arena of squalor and stagnation before his gaze was the mirror-image of his thoughts, where all events were either clinging to the reeds of the past, or grounded deep down in the marshlands of chaos and confusion. Durga Das, though stationed at Aahilapataka under an oath of fidelity to the emperor, was reported to be supporting Rajram in his escapades of pillaging and plundering. At Agra, the Jats were rising in rebellion, and the Sikhs were sowing the seeds of contention in Multan. The royal treasury was empty, and the wages of the soldiers were being eked out of the taxes with dwindling revenues.

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Aurangzeb’s mind was becoming empty and his hopes dwindling as his palanquin was lowered on the front steps of the palace. The stone steps, spruced with Persian rugs, and the silk pennants in yellow and scarlet fluttering over the ramparts, lent an aura of warmth and welcome. The emperor, leaning on his staff and waving away all assistance, dismissed the guards as the bronzed doors were flung open. Escaping the crescendo of drums and trumpets and ignoring the obsequious smiles of the royal pages, Aurangzeb plodded along to reach his harem. He was in a hurry to nurse the ache in his body and mind with the salve of sanity and gentleness from the eyes of his beloved. His beloved Udaipuri, almost seventeen years younger than the emperor, was still beautiful and vivacious. She had retained the sparkle of sunshine in her eyes, and now this sunshine comforted the emperor with the sheer warmth of her presence. The secret of her youth was wine, and yet during these past five years, her moods and passions had mellowed. Though profound and perceptive, she could not accustom herself to the ravages of old age and illness so visible in the form and demeanor of the emperor. The invasion of old age upon her husband had landed on her like a bolt of shock, as if some capricious act of nature had transformed a rock of invulnerability into a tree-trunk, all brittle and hollow. Her intellect, which had been sharp before, was now honed to perfection. She was awakened to a sense of duty and compassion toward her husband, these emotions fanned by the incense of love and tenderness which had been her dower since youth. Her mission, or rather longing, was to feed the hollow of this tree-trunk with love and bathe its shards with the light of purity in living and surrendering. She had renewed her efforts in purging the soul of the emperor of all hatred, lest it take flight all of a sudden in a cloud of fire and rage to realms unknown and nameless. This was a monumental task for her, venturing forth on this crusade, while her own mind was on fire and her heart trembling at the mere thought of heaping more torments upon the aged emperor. She could not stop him from launching more campaigns, but she had succeeded in grinding holes in the tent of his hatred and bigotry, allowing him ample time to explore his errors and shortcomings. This afternoon, too, Aurangzeb’s tent of inner torments was pierced with the arrows of truth as Udaipuri sat talking and consoling. She was seated on a davenport of all velvet, its scarlet hue in wild contrast to the pale silks she was wearing. The sprinkling of white in her dark hair was visible under the coronet of diamonds, their sparkle lending her eyes the light of magic and mystery. Aurangzeb, seated opposite her in a gilt chair stuffed with brocaded cushions, seemed hypnotized. He was rather

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entranced, fascinated by the tale unfolding on the lips of his beloved. A few words with subtle connotations were seething in his awareness and carving deep wounds into his soul, already sore and bruised. “I can’t remember who wrote this one, Your Majesty, but Princess Satiunisa read it to me last night,” Udaipuri was saying dreamily. “There was a great maharaja, who couldn’t bear the thought of anyone being greater than him. One evening he summoned his viziers and posed this question. Which of us is greater, I or God? Hearing such a question, all fell silent. They knew that exile would be their lot if they displeased the maharaja, so they asked if they could be granted some time to think about it. After this request was granted, one of the viziers consoled all by promising that he would have the answer ready next morning. This vizier happened to be a pundit also, and when the court was convened next morning, he appeared with ashes in his hair and his hands joined, palms upwards. You are the greater, maharaja, he said, for you can banish us from your kingdom while God cannot! For truly all is His kingdom and there is nowhere to go outside Him.” She smiled as if holding the vision of truth inside the cups of her dark eyes. “Sweet Udaipuri. Why do you have to repeat this tale to me, all besmirched with the dust of pride and idolatry?” Aurangzeb murmured, feeling the sting of his pride and self-righteousness. “Because pious Hindus have brought you to this state of woe and endless war, Your Majesty!” Udaipuri declared with a stab at sarcasm and tenderness. “This is God’s earth, Your Majesty, and they have as much right to live here as any lowly worm or a mighty Muslim!” Her eyes were kindled like the lamps of a crusade. “God’s earth, my love; that’s why the emperor is carrying the burden of jihad on his shoulders, to purge this land and sea of all the idols and idolatry,” Aurangzeb could only mutter defensively. “Jihad, Your Majesty, as Prophet Muhammed told us, is a struggle against the lower self within us,” Udaipuri intoned sweetly. “And no one need carry this burden, if one’s heart is pure and loving. Prophet Muhammed offered the sweet water of peace even to his sworn enemies.” “You think you have mastered Divine Law by merely reading the Quran and the Hadith?” The wall of defense in Aurangzeb’s thoughts was crumbling, his heart doubtful and vacillating. “To humble oneself before Allah and to serve Him in propagating the name of Islam is the duty of every Muslim. The Divine Law of Islam must shine forth, even if it has to rise like a shining sword over the heads of the infidels, dissolving their communities into dust and rubble.” The vacillating heart inside him was appealing to the crumbs of poetry in his thoughts.

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“Would anyone dispute this Sura in the Quran, Your Majesty?” Udaipuri smiled in return. “For each We have appointed a divine law and a traced-out way. Had God willed, He could have made you one community. But that He may try you, He made you as you are. So vie with one another in good works,” she recited without comment. “Isn’t it a blessing that God did not assign to women the task of interpreting the divine law?” Aurangzeb declared evasively. “And who appointed men, Your Majesty? As the arbiters of divine law, that is?” Udaipuri chanted gently, knowing that her crusade was inching its way towards the rungs of truth. “God did! Allah, through the lips of His prophets!” Aurangzeb clung fast to the hearth of his puritanical judgment. “Women can never serve as the arbiters of theology, for they would mould each kernel of truth into a pulp of love and tenderness to suit their soft hearts. Forgiving each sinner and infidel in the name of holiness!” He tapped his staff, as if to check the riot in his thoughts. “Doesn’t it say in the Hadith, Your Majesty, that when someone asked Prophet Muhammed, who is the greatest of God’s servants,” our Prophet replied: The one who forgives when he is in a position of power,” Udaipuri began cautiously. “Love and forgiveness were taught by Prophet Muhammed, and such truths were not dictated by the lips of tender-hearted women!” “The emperor comes here with a little hope of rest and peace before the vultures of duty carry him back to his court,” Aurangzeb sighed to himself, groping for answers inside the carcass of his doubts and beliefs. “And instead of lending me comfort, you begin preaching the doctrine of religion, about which you know nothing.” “For the peace and comfort of your soul, Your Majesty, may I recite a verse by Rumi, then?” Udaipuri laughed, her look sad and pleading. “You may, love, since you can’t desist from this heathenish practice of reading the works of the Sufi heretics.” The ache of love and pain in Aurangzeb’s heart reached out to his one and only beloved. “You mean the true disciples of Islam, Your Majesty?” Udaipuri sang fervently. “I have given each being a separate and unique way Of seeing and knowing and saying that knowledge What seems wrong to you is right for him What is poison to one is honey to someone else The ocean diver doesn’t need snow-shoes The Love-Religion has no code or doctrine Only God.”

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“The only God! The emperor is under His sway day and night,” was Aurangzeb’s suffered cry; for help, it seemed. “The Sufis know not which God they worship! What religion they believe in! What Law they obey! Blind and ignorant, they dance on their heels to reach the fire of hell! I myself must be reaching the gates of damnation, for I let you recite the works of heresy. Why, I don’t know!” “Because, Your Majesty, you are fascinated by the glimpse of heaven in their noble thoughts!” Udaipuri chanted with the sudden exuberance of a young girl. “Deny as much as you will, Your Majesty, their words are soothing to your wearied senses, and you detect no hint of heresy in them, or you would drown me into a flood of reproof. Wouldn’t you?” “How could I, when you are my only love and religion, next to my love for Islam.” Aurangzeb’s eyes were gathering mists dark and profound. “The part of my life devoted to you, I find worthy, and the other one, in service of religion, ravished by doubts I dare not voice.” “You have worn religion around your neck like a millstone, Your Majesty, and it is not to be donned, but experienced,” Udaipuri chirped ecstatically, encouraged by the crumb of a rare confession from the emperor. “Sufis find religion simple and heartwarming. One Sufi taught: We must open everything each religion has. We have to open each of the religions. If we open the religions and look inside, then we will see only one point, one family, one God, and one truth. God’s story, the story of mankind, and the point of truth will be inside. There will be no discrimination, no differences, no separation, and no hell inside. There will be only one Light.” “There is no light in the den of infidelity!” The puritanical wound in Aurangzeb’s thoughts was asserting its power and tyranny. “God knows I have done my duty, but I know not where I started, or where I am going? Was any good done in all those years of labor and striving?” His puritanical thoughts were shivering as if caught into a net of absurdities. “You alone can answer that question, Your Majesty, if you look inside you!” Udaipuri’s response was a blister of hope and despair. Another verse from the Quran came to her rescue. “Be mindful of your duty to God and do good works: and again, be mindful of your duty, and believe; and once again, be mindful of your duty, and do right. God loves the doers of good.” “Parables all, to a mind grown weary, and a body weakened by age and hardships.” Aurangzeb closed his eyes, his heart troubled and his thoughts awakening to the sting of doubts and regrets. “I must rest before I return to the court. The Sikhs and Hindus have grown talons, if not horns, to torment the emperor on his journey towards death.”

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“You are not dying, Your Majesty, only weak and distraught,” the agony of a plea escaped Udaipuri’s shuddering heart. “Is that the cry of love, or the slap of compassion to beat the emperor’s sins out of his soul?” Aurangzeb’s eyes shot open, the rills of anguish in them sharp and cutting. “I am much older than you, my love. My youth gone and my energy drained. You are still young. Live for me, for my love, offer prayers for my salvation. You would not suffer—” He closed his eyes again, overwhelmed by despair and loneliness. “Where are my sons? On the battlefields, I know.” The court scene in the palace garden of Sattara was shadowed by the slanting rays of the sun that late afternoon. Aurangzeb, seated on his gilded throne, appeared to be wearing the robe of destiny over his shoulders. A long Kashmiri shawl woven in colors of ochre and blood was draped over his shoulders and falling down clear to his knees, the large ruby in his turban glinting and throbbing. The pale shafts of the sun were grazing the silken marquee, its gold blending with crimson in this flowerless garden of pomp and pageantry. A succession of marquees was the silken blooms in this garden, laden with rich Persian carpets, almost protesting under the gold-pointed shoes of the viziers and the grandees. All were garbed in exquisite robes of silk, their turbans ablaze with jewels and colorful plumes. The royal orchestra was glinting its own aura of wealth and power, the musicians in liveries of green and silver poised to strike their shining instruments at the will or the whim of the aged emperor. This show of pomp and pageantry was Aurangzeb’s will alone, to gild his defeats in the colors of euphoria with the hope of convincing his generals in favor of launching more campaigns. So lonely and desperate he had grown during these past few years of war that he could not help but grant permission to the royal orchestra to flaunt their talents, despite his long-lasting ban on music. If my generals are happy and drunk with the music of power and serendipity, they will remain obedient to my wishes, Aurangzeb had thought. Similar thoughts now pierced his awareness, as he sat presiding over his court this afternoon. His pale features were turning ashen as his mind tried to absorb the waves of sedition from all quarters of his empire. Rahullah Khan was recounting the uprisings of the Sikhs, incited by the Guru Gobind Singh. “Guru Gobind Singh is in Anandpur, Your Majesty, urging all Sikhs to raise their swords, and to end this Age of Kali.” Rahullah Khan’s look was dark and troubled. “He is referring to the Kali Age of the Hindus, Your Majesty, and telling his disciples that the Kali Age has reached such a stage that success will come only if a brick can be returned with a stone.”

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“Why is this Guru blackening his tongue with the bricks of lies? Didn’t I send him a letter of peace offering?” A flash of anger kindled in Aurangzeb’s gaze. “In my letter, I invited him to my court. What’s his response?” “Nothing of much consequence, Your Majesty, only threats and complaints!” Rahullah Khan offered reluctantly. “Everything is of consequence, if it lets the hell-dogs of infidelity loose on the streets of the Punjab!” The fever of hatred in Aurangzeb’s heart was escaping his gaze. “Tell the emperor exactly what he said!” he commanded, blood rushing to his emaciated cheeks in a sudden flush. “He says, Your Majesty, that he has not forgotten the wrongs and the persecutions at the hands of the emperor,” Rahullah Khan was quick to obey. “He reminds his followers that he could never forget the sufferings inflicted upon his father. His message to them is that when all remedies have failed, it is lawful to resort to the sword.” “The sword of Islam is mightier than the swords of the infidels!” Aurangzeb declared with puritanic rage, unlocking not the gates of cruelties long-forgotten, inflicted upon the father of Guru Gobind Singh by his own orders. “How dare he challenge the emperor? How things have come to such a pass, the emperor fails to understand! His boasts are easy to crush, no doubt. What weapons does he have, besides lying and cheating? Does he have armies to defend himself against the might of the imperialists?” “He has a great following, Your Majesty, and has collected a great body of troops,” Rahullah Khan unfolded the layers of his own knowledge carefully and cautiously. “He accomplished all this after months-long rituals most strange, and amidst the fervor of feasting and celebration.” “And the emperor was not told? Could not the imperialists follow him to crush the surge of his evil activities?” Despair and disbelief were surging in Aurangzeb’s gaze, his anger deflated and simmering. “Almost all the troops are employed in Deccan and Marwar, Your Majesty. The rest are guarding Agra and Delhi.” Earnest regret shone in Rahullah Khan’s eyes. He relaxed his caution and added boldly: “The majority of our soldiers are posted right here in Sattara, Your Majesty. Just a couple of months ago, a few of these contingents were dispatched on the tracks of Rajram to check his bouts of pillaging and plundering.” “How exactly did Guru Gobind Singh attract such a following? And what strange rituals?” Aurangzeb’s sense of foreboding posed this question, his thoughts swimming in puddles of omens and doubts. “It is reported, Your Majesty, that in his dream he was visited by the goddess Durga. The goddess told him that he has been chosen to destroy

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the evil-doers.” Rahullah Khan’s very thoughts longed to escape this inquisition, much prolonged. “Heeding the call of his dream, he invited Pundit Kesho to perform a sacred ceremony in order to invoke the blessings of the goddess. There was ceremonial burning of incense and the chanting of hymns, at the end of which, he came out with a naked sword in his hand, declaring that salvation was to be obtained in this life, here and now. He was heard singing inspired verses of his own, inviting all men to offer their heads in the service of God, truth and religion. Five men swore absolute allegiance to his cause, and were initiated into the fold of this religion by dipping their sword-blades into a cauldron of blood drawn from goats. They were then served sweetened rosewater and sugar cakes under the name of baptism. Five Beloved Ones, he called them, styled as Khalsa. Many in droves joined him a few months after this ceremony, professing their allegiance to him and to the Khalsa. Khalsa means pure, Your Majesty! Those who are part of it are enjoined to wear long hair, carry a comb, wear a sword at their belt, a bracelet on their arm, and linen underwear. Equipped thus, they chant: Wah-e-Guru ji ka Khalsa Wah-e-Guru ji ki Fateh Praise be to the Guru of Khalsa Praise be to the Guru of Victory

The Khalsa are everywhere now, Your Majesty. Their numbers have grown. Especially in Multan and Punjab!” he concluded, dipping his head histrionically. “The ransom of their vice and vainglory they will pay with buckets of their own blood,” Aurangzeb murmured with subdued indignation, his curiosity still unsated. “What verses did he sing in the name of divine inspiration?” “Pardon me, Your Majesty, if I do not recall them correctly,” Rahullah Khan began exigently, hoping to be dismissed. “I bow with love and devotion to the Holy Sword Assist me that I may complete this work Thou art the subduer of countries, the Destroyer of the armies of the wicked I bow to the Sword and Rapier which destroy the evil Thy greatness is endless and boundless No one hath found its limits Thou art God of gods, King of kings Compassionate to poor and cherisher of the lowly.”

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“Their holy sword as their god, they know not yet, will slit their own throats when confronted with the sword of Islam.” Aurangzeb’s zeal and anger leapt in his gaze like blades of fire. “Command Vazir Khan, the Governor of Sirhind, to wipe out the entire clan of Khalsa. These savages, with vice and wickedness dripping from their tongues, must die.” He waved dismissal, his gaze shining with the gloss of power and authority. Rahullah Khan, after murmuring obedience, beat a quick retreat. The next victim to fall under the mantle of interrogation was Kamil Khan. Aurangzeb stirred in his seat, as if ready to leap over, his gaze fixed and piercing. A complete hush had fallen over all, their looks defiant and troubled. Kamil Khan bowed low, while the large ruby in the emperor’s turban throbbed like a wound, as if ready to spill blood through the very shafts of sunlight. “Why is Durga Das being tardy in presenting himself to the emperor? Where is he hiding?” Aurangzeb demanded, though keeping his anger in check. “He says, Your Majesty, that he is to stay in Marwar to keep peace and order by the emperor’s own command!” was Kamil Khan’s discomfited response. “Wasn’t he informed of the summons to present himself at the court?” Aurangzeb’s eyes lit up with suspicion. “Yes, Your Majesty. But he pleads forgiveness on the grounds that, since the emperor is on the march from one campaign to the other, he is not sure when to present himself and where!” Kamil Khan confessed boldly. “A viper of lies!” Aurangzeb declared impatiently. “Instruct Prince Azam to summon that deceiving heathen to the court at Gujrat. And if he doesn’t appear there, that means he is brewing a potful of lies, which will boil over his own head one of these days.” He waved dismissal, his hand clutching the staff beside him for support and dismissal. “Your Majesty.” Jafar Khan was next in the proceedings, presenting himself with the swiftness of a courier. “Your Majesty’s order for further campaigns as proposed is proving to be a difficult task. The finances are depleted, and the soldiers are complaining. They are demanding their arrears, and refusing to march through the villages, all pillaged and destroyed by the fires. No fodder for the beasts.” “More reason to chase the Maratha dogs who wreak such havoc!” Aurangzeb’s tone was gathering the violence of storm clouds. “Fix the corruption of the finances on your own! The emperor is not to be disturbed with petty matters such as these,” he thundered the command. “All these infernal foot-soldiers of ours! Are they not croaking like rooks in an

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invaded rookery?” He tapped his staff. “Duty and honor! Are these virtues divorced from the hearts of the Moghuls? The Jats, the Sikhs and the Rajputs in rebellion and the Moghuls—” His rage was choked by the breezy intrusion of a rider aiming straight for the throne. This intruder was none other than Danishmand Khan, as if riding on the clouds of victories. After alighting from his horse, he sailed towards the throne, the sea of courtiers parting to accommodate his haste and temerity. The bright green plume in his turban made its own mark as he swept his arm in a gallant bow and exploded forth ecstatically. “Your Majesty. Rajram is dead!” Danishmand Khan shot this missile of news, his eyes lit up with excitement. “Let the trumpets blare and drums roll with the songs of rejoicing!” Aurangzeb commanded with a quick surge of joy. “Another son of infidelity has been removed from our path,” he appeared to sing amidst the sudden eruption of music and applause. Tide upon tide of mirth was rolling from the lips of the courtiers, and the music rose to a crescendo. The mood in this open court was one of euphoria and jubilation. No one noticed, with the exception of the emperor, that the face of the sun was obscured by a rude wisp of a cloud. Aurangzeb’s heart thundered all of a sudden, voicing ill omens, his gaze fixed on the dark cloudlet menacingly. More islands of cloud could be seen surfing aloft the blue horizon, but Aurangzeb’s gaze returned to Danishmand Khan. His eyes were beacons of curiosity, veiling their fears and doubts. The music was jarring to his frail senses, and the onslaught of fresh suspicions was drumming its beat amongst the violence of his heart. With a wild gesture, he stalled the orchestral clamor, his attention returning to the messenger of good news. “How did this slippery rebel meet his end?” Aurangzeb asked. “He was suffering from an inflammation of the lungs, Your Majesty. Vomiting and spitting blood. He died in his home at Sinhgarh, while coughing up blood, along with phlegm and spittle.” Danishmand Khan’s voice was quivering, as if he himself was witnessing the horrors of death. “I thought Prince Bidar Bakht had gained the honor of killing this infidel!” was Aurangzeb’s cry of anguish and disappointment! “Prince Bidar Bakht defeated him at Piranda, Your Majesty, driving him towards Ahmadnagar. But the inveterate rebel succeeded in plundering the town of Dhamoni before succumbing to this death most terrible,” Danishmand refreshed the emperor’s memory, his excitement waning. “With the chief rebel dead now, the Marathas will fall under our sway without much effort,” Aurangzeb demurred aloud, his gaze holding

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Danishmand captive. “We must take action and seize all the Maratha forts before his widow comes forth to lay false claims.” “Your Majesty, the conquests might not be as easy as you think,” Danishmand Khan began thoughtfully. “His widow, Tara Bai, has already earned the title of Bandit Queen. She has arrested the other widow of Rajram, by the name of Rajas Bai, who dared claim that her son Shambhuji the Second was the rightful claimant to the Maratha throne. After confining her rival, Tara Bai is confident that Shivaji the Second is the only rightful heir of Marwar. She is a woman of spirit and determination, I have heard, already gaining the support of Parasteran Timbak, and planning to reign over territories vast and grand.” “Does she know that the late Shambhuji’s son, Shahu, is still in our custody? And we can use him as a pawn to deflate the claims of all contenders, old or young?” Aurangzeb murmured, as if contemplating a chess match, in his heart an imperceptible shudder of woe and devastation. “She knows, Your Majesty,” Danishmand Khan affirmed. “But her wisdom, if not cunning, made her husband win many battles where defeat was imminent.” “She will succumb soon to fate’s decree, which has already marked her lost and forgotten.” Aurangzeb’s heart was blackened with the soot of anguish, much like the dark clouds hovering above. “The emperor has no intention of drowning in wars with women, or in the waters of Mother Nature!” He held on to his staff, getting to his feet. A distant clap of thunder echoed the adjournment of the court, along with the sounding of the drums, as Aurangzeb dismounted his throne painfully and laboriously. Blue tongues of lightning spiralled out of the West, and pierced the heart of the sun like glittering swords. Aurangzeb’s heart was stung with fear as he plodded towards his palace, leaning on his staff and followed by a coterie of guards. Another clap of thunder in the wake of lightning could be seen shuddering through the bosom of the dark clouds. A banshee’s cry, it seemed. And the rain began to fall in torrents. The emperor was protected by a crimson umbrella hoisted over him by the guards. He could be seen hobbling through the bronzed doors into the safety of his palace. The dark mists hovering outside entered Aurangzeb’s heart as he sought the sanctuary of his private chambers. Once inside the comfort of his gilded cage, he abandoned himself on the davenport, drowning in the flood of his own tears and tragedies. His limbs were aching, absorbing the thunderous fury from outside, and he felt the tears of rain bleeding through his heart in rivulets of blood. With his eyes closed, he could see his doubts invading his mind like an army of maggots.

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Aurangzeb’s thoughts were falling low, lame and cankerous. His life was stretched out on the map of his empire like a terrible mirage, reflecting the face of truth, all flushed and disfigured. All his life wasted in the marshlands of war and cruelty, the cankers of his sins bloated like purple wounds. There was no love in his heart, only hatred. The heads of the infidels, caked with blood, were lying at his feet, the reek of his piety assailing his nostrils with an odor rancid and intolerable. Fever and delirium enveloped his senses in a mantle of agony and torture. But sleep was holding out its comforting hands, and cradling him inside the vast ocean of his turbulent soul, where even the smallest teardrop of his love for Udaipuri was the brightest star, pure and untarnished. The boat of the emperor’s sleep rocked, splintered with dreams, and carved a portrait with the blade of his psyche. This portrait was most handsome, sorrowful and compassionate. It decpicted the face of a Sufi— the greatest of all the Sufis. The Sufi of Islam, none other than Prophet Muhammed himself. His eyes were dark and profound, spilling love and sadness in light upon light. The fair features of the Prophet were gathering the luminosity of the moon, his lips parting in the manner of a fresh wound, red and tender. A string of rebukes both mild and harsh were breaking loose on his rose-tinted lips, and scooping the thorns of falsehood into a handful of contemplations. Didn’t I say that there is not a nation on the face of earth but has a Divine messenger of its own? Didn’t I teach my followers to refrain from speaking ill of even the obviously false deities of others? Do not abuse those whom they take up as gods beside Allah, is it not written? Did I not say, come to an equitable proposition between us and you? Does this not mean take what is common to all religions as a basis, and build a superstructure thereon, a universal religion of love, equality and brotherhood? Aurangzeb could hear no more, consumed alive inside nightmares of death and horror. Somewhere deep in his psyche, the earth was shattering, and the sky was crumbling, spewing forth a hurricane of words. If you must live with God, then live with Light, not with darkness. God undivided and indivisible is Light. And God divided, ignorance profound. Darkness All!

CHAPTER TWELVE DWINDLING OF THE GREAT EMPIRE

The octogenarian emperor, swathed in a pashmina shawl over his white robe, his turban wound with ropes of pearls, was presiding over the remnants of his court with a sense of stoic dignity. After five years of grueling wars, he had finally reached Bijapur. He had convened this court outside his encampment in the village of Devapur, on the very banks of the Krishna River. The pomp and glory of the Moghul camp had faded, and the few nobles and grandees accompanying the emperor had grown indolent, if not impudent, demanding luxuries and entertainment. Aurangzeb, seated on his gilt throne with velvety cushions to support him, appeared more like a skeleton preserved for viewing than an aged emperor intent on performing his duties. The maroon shawl with floral designs over his legs and around his shoulders was lending him warmth, but not the scent of life. His aquiline nose, jutting over his white beard, marked his features as more angular than before, but his eyes were still keen and sparkling. Some sort of pain and fever had settled in the light gold cups of his eyes, more enhanced due to the pallor and transparency of his features, wrinkled and emaciated. Just recently, he had partially recovered from an illness lasting twelve days, and was anxious to maintain his aura of power and authority over the dwindling horde of his generals— a horde who had ceased to care about the solidarity of the Moghul Empire. Seated thus, intermittently resting in between court affairs and petty complaints, Aurangzeb was losing his aura of power and authority. Seemingly resting at this particular moment, his thoughts were a sibilant march over the ruins of his life, ravaged by wars and doubts. The transparency of his features and the rills of anguish carved around his lips painted a portrait of sorrow. It seemed he was seated in a hall of despair, longing to wade through the murky waters of devastation, and hoping to reach the shores of tranquility. His thoughts were liquid and turbulent, tracing the patterns of wars and tragedies, where death alone stood mighty and victorious. Clutching the news of Rajram’s death as a talisman, Aurangzeb had marched out of Sattara to conquer more forts. Appointing his sons to quell

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the rebellions of the Jats and the Sikhs, he had ventured on journeys long, intoxicated by his will to conquer and subjugate. The dream in which Prophet Muhammad had appeared to him as a portrait, blessing him with the jewels of truth, was forgotten. The jewels of his hatred and bigotry were still bright and precious in propagating Islam, and extending his empire to the four poles of the world, if possible. His fever of ambition was not to break, despite the fact that his victories were illusive and shortlived. All dissolved into the mud of reconquest by the enemy as soon as his troops were on the road bound to further conquests! He himself had begun to doubt his aim and mission in life in the cauldron of zeal and warfare, witnessing them with horror, or believing that all wars were fought on the chessboard of timelessness, where gains and losses were numbered in squares black and ivory, then swept aside into oblivion. Heeding his contemplations, his eyes still closed, nothing was forgotten by Aurangzeb, though his thoughts were aware of the hum of the voices invading their privacy. His memory was impeccable, a ledger of sins, hatreds, tragedies and temptations, all sorted under the heading of Islam, where God’s own angels watched the trials and tribulations of pious mortals like himself, so very small and helpless. Aurangzeb’s thoughts went back into the jungles of the past, as was their wont, for he either lived in the past, or chased the future with a rod of ambition. The present, for him, was only a moment, ephemeral and insignificant. Marching out of Sattara, he had captured fort after fort, but all had been retaken by the Maratha lords or bandits as soon as he had left the winning territories behind in search of more victories. Prince Muazzam had been sent to Kabul to check the rebellions of the Afghans. Prince Azam had been made the Governor of Gujrat, and Prince Kam Bakhsh was instructed to quell the uprisings of the Sikhs. Meanwhile, Rajram’s widow, Tara Bai, had taken matters into her own hands. Allied with the powerful Maratha lords, she was ravaging the territories of the Deccan as far as Sironj, Malwa and Mandisor. Plunged knee deep in wars and conquests himself, Aurangzeb was to learn that Durga Das was her secret ally, aiding her in plundering Ujjain, to the very borders of Ahmadabad. The emperor’s scheme, whereby he had instructed Prince Azam to invite Durga Das to his court and murder him, had failed. Durga Das had discovered this secret plan and fled, joining Ajit Singh in open rebellion against the emperor. The storm clouds of war and intrigue had become the emperor’s companions, and he had marched on and on for two whole years, as if pressed by fate. Princess Zebunisa had died in prison, adding another burden of sin and tragedy to his soul. But he was compelled by the whip of his need and zeal to race to the very doors of

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ruin and devastation, all gilded under the banners of conquests, so petty and short-lived. Another year of warfare, humming with threats from Tara Bai, and Aurangzeb had decided to release Shahu, the son of Shambhuji, hoping that this would cause dissention amongst the warring lords of Mewar and Marwar, giving some respite to the imperialists. But this decision had been left unattended in a succession of campaigns lasting a whole year. While embroiled thus in wars, Aurangzeb had learnt that Prince Akbar had died in Persia. But the whip of fate was goading him to conquer more forts, and his last conquest had been the fortress of Waginera. After this conquest, Aurangzeb had moved to Devapur with the intention of journeying to Ahmadabad and Agra, but had fallen ill. He was literally crushed by the agonies of the body, mind and soul, thinking that he was dying, but then he had recovered miraculously. News of the Sikh rebellion in the Punjab was reaching him daily, and he was still hoping to reach Agra. Udaipuri had succeeded in planting the seeds of love and mercy in his heart, but his deep-rooted hatred for the infidels could not be winnowed out of the marshlands of his piety and ambition. Aurangzeb’s thoughts crawled to the bosom of Udaipuri, the sore and abscessed wounds in his heart pleading for the balm of healing. She had healed some with the salve of song and poetry. Sheikh Ganja was the poet whom she had appointed to recite poems during his illness, for the comfort of his body and soul. A quatrain by this poet fluttered in Aurangzeb’s head all of a sudden, as if ready for flight. He opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping over his viziers before espying Sheikh Ganja. His gaze was arrested by the poet, and Ganja, feeling the intensity of the emperor’s gaze, turned his head toward the throne. A sliver of a smile uncurled on his lips, bathing his features in the light of compassion. Aurangzeb’s lips parted in a thin smile, spilling forth the quatrain, tainted with omens dark and terrible. “When you have counted eighty years and more Time and fate will batter in the door But if you should survive to be a hundred Your life will already be death to the very core.”

Aurangzeb compressed his lips, as if tasting the poison of poetry to its very dregs. “Didn’t you compose this poem to mock the emperor, Sheikh Ganja?” he asked indulgently. “Peace be with you, Your Majesty,” Sheikh Ganja sang tenderly. “A prelude of a couplet which I sang in my heart, when you couldn’t hear me, gave birth to this quatrain, Your Majesty. May I recite it now, Your

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Majesty, since you are recovered, and guide us all by the Grace of God?” His eyes were shining. “I was good in reading minds, not hearts, but that faculty too has left me along with my youth and strength,” Aurangzeb demurred aloud. “The emperor has no love for poetry, though your poems fascinate me, more so your honesty. One couplet and no more, then the emperor must lick the soot of intrigues before retiring!” He raised his thin arm as a signal of consent. “In such a state lift up your heart: remember The thought of God lights up a dying ember,”

Sheikh Ganja recited melodiously. “Divine, divine!” Aurangzeb applauded with a sudden whiff of animation. Applause broke forth on the lips of the courtiers too, accompanied by a thunder of clapping! “You may recite this couplet to the soldiers. Their hearts will soar up to the very throne of God.” He silenced the applause with a weak gesture of his arm. “Write this couplet down for me, Sheikh Ganja. I myself will recite it over and over in praise of Allah, till my heart touches the hem of His Throne.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” Sheikh Ganja beamed with pride, yielding to the protocol which demanded the emperor’s attention. “A grievance to be redressed, Your Majesty!” Jafar Khan breathed exigently, fearing, lest the emperor relapse to rest and brooding. “A satirist by the name of Chandra Sen has made fun of all the courtiers, even writing snide verses against the emperor. He must be punished, Your Majesty, or we will all become the laughingstock of the nobles and peasants alike,” he appealed with a fiery vehemence. “Such matters, small and mundane, are not worth the emperor’s attention, my grand vizier,” was Aurangzeb’s impatient response! “It is not possible to cut out the tongue and sever the neck of everyone who speaks against the emperor and his courtiers.” He waved dismissal, his heart feeling light and magnanimous. “Your generous disposition, Your Majesty, makes me bold in requesting a favor?” Zulfiqar Khan emerged forth, ignoring the injured expression of Jafar Khan, who had no choice but to retrace his steps. “I am even willing to pay an indemnity of one hundred thousand rupees, if I may be permitted to leave my post, and return to Delhi.” His boldness and arrogance crumbled against the piercing intensity in the emperor’s gaze. “I can’t be a part of another campaign, Your Majesty. Famine and poverty all around have taken a toll on my valor and strength.”

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“Famine in hearts and poverty in souls have made us all weak and vulnerable,” Aurangzeb murmured under the sting of pain and profundity. “No more forts to conquer, and the emperor himself is longing for Delhi and Agra. You may return earlier, if you wish. Due to my ill health, my own journey will be long and arduous,” he consented without anger or bitterness. “Your slave in devotion and gratitude, Your Majesty!” Zulfiqar Khan seemed humbled, stepping back to let Uighar Khan voice his concern. “While we are fighting the infidels, Your Majesty, the Jesuits in Kerala are intent on converting Hindus to their heathenish beliefs.” Uighar Khan’s eyes were lit up with the flames of zeal and disgust. “They are issuing their own edicts, forcing the newly converted Hindus to adopt Christian names. The brides of such converts are urged to wear a cross, instead of their wedding pendant called the mangal suter. The wedding rituals of the Hindus are forbidden to them, like cracking a coconut as an offering to their gods. These Jesuits have even banned the Hindu converts from bathing in the river, allotting certain days for bathing, rather than—” “The emperor has concerns much more dire than Christian heresy or proselytization!” Aurangzeb cut short this vehemence with an imperious wave of his arm. His heart was suddenly a cauldron of anger, vast and nameless. “The emperor is concerned more about the Sikhs who destroy and plunder than the Christians doling out salvation in the name of charity and goodwill. Where is Danishmand Khan? Wasn’t he assigned the task of gathering reports about the activities of the Sikhs, their acts of terror and treachery?” “He is here, Your Majesty, equipped with the latest news,” was Uighar Khan’s sullen response! “His latest one might be a year old, if not more!” Aurangzeb breathed in disdain, his gaze sweeping over his viziers and espying Danishmand Khan. He was weaving his way closer to the throne. “You are slack in reporting, Danishmand,” Auranzeb chided, ignoring the flourish of his bow. “In these times of war and intrigue, a year is as short as a day. And it has been a year indeed since I sent Vazir Khan in chase of Guru Gobind Singh, and no news?” “All the roads were blocked by bandits, Your Majesty, and no couriers could pass through,” Danishmand Khan muttered apologetically. “And the news I received just this morning is a year old indeed, as predicted by you.” “If I could be as good in keeping my empire intact as in my predictions, I would die content,” Aurangzeb sighed to himself. “But proceed, the emperor is getting tired.”

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“Guru Gobind Singh, Your Majesty, has made several raids, all the way from Jammu to Srinagar. Always dodging the Moghuls, and always succeeding in fleeing. He kept his quarters at Anandpur, gathering a large body of troops. He was defeated once at Anandpur and expelled, but returned as soon as the imperialists were gone. The numbers of his soldiers swelled day by day; even Muslims enlisted. The imperialists too returned and recaptured the fort at Anandpur five times, but Guru Gobind Singh persevered. Finally, his provisions ran short, and there were desertions within his army. Vazir Khan started negotiations, offering a peace treaty, and swearing on the Quran that he would let him and his followers go peacefully, if the guru was willing to vacate the fort, showing him—” “That was nine months ago, not a year! And the emperor was fed with such crumbs of news to the verge of nausea,” Aurangzeb interrupted with a fierce thump on his staff, as if ready to get up. “A letter was sent to the guru then as proof of Vazir Khan’s sacred oath. Pick up the crumbs from there, and start all over.” “Guru Gobind Singh was given a proper escort towards Nahant in Serum state, Your Majesty,” Danishmand Khan began apprehensively. “He and his followers had left Anandpur, and had camped near Sarsa River. Barely had they pitched their camps when rain came down in torrents. Vazir Khan, though lending support to the guru and his followers, was keeping a watch on them secretly, not far behind. So, at night, as the rain kept pouring, he thought it was a good opportunity to arrest the guru. Forgetting his oath, in that dark, stormy night, Vazir Khan launched a surprise attack. Guru Gobind Singh, along with his followers, including his two older sons, Ajit Singh and Juihar Singh, managed to cross Sarsa River and escaped. A great many of his followers were drowned, but his two younger sons, Fateh Singh and Zorawar Singh, were captured. They were brought to Sirhind, Vazir Khan pressing them to accept Islam. They refused, and Vazir Khan ordered them to be bricked up alive inside the wall of the fortress. Meanwhile, Guru Gobind Singh took refuge in a mudbuilt house in the village of Chamkaur. Soon, Vizier Khan was at his heels, though the guru escaped once again. Most of his followers perished in this fray, the prominent ones amongst them his two sons, Ajit Singh and Juihar Singh, and three of his beloved ones. It was reported later that the guru escaped in the guise of a Muslim saint with only five Sikhs as his disciples. The rumor is that he headed toward Nander, Your Majesty, and the rest is conjecture,” he concluded breathlessly. “The man has suffered enough, be he a saint or a rebel.” A drop of compassion escaped Aurangzeb’s lips, straight from the spasms of agony inside his heart. “If anyone finds him, deliver this message to him: the

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emperor sympathizes with his sufferings and regrets that things had to come to such a pass. Also, send him a letter to come to the court, and the emperor will befriend his cause.” He waved dismissal, acknowledging Khafi Khan’s bow with disinterest. “The news from Bombay is disconcerting, Your Majesty. The British have built a fort there, their men parading in front with muskets in their hands. Even their children are seen everywhere, wearing pearls on the borders of their hats.” Khafi Khan spewed out his report as if eager to be dismissed. “Didn’t the emperor command that they either be arrested, or expelled from all the ports of the Surat and Bombay?” Aurangzeb demanded, a stealthy storm brewing violence inside the rivulets of his heart. “Yes, Your Majesty. A few of their pirates were arrested, but the British soldiers stood defiant,” Khafi Khan proceeded reluctantly. “They have a great army at their disposal, and have made Bombay their home. One of their officers fell into an argument with the imperial guards who had arrested the British pirates. Why have the Moghuls imprisoned the English factors? He asked. Because they seize the pilgrim ships, one of the guards replied, adding: You must recall the hereditary kings of Bijapur and Golconda and the good-for-nothing Shambhuji, who didn’t escape the hands of the emperor. Another guard asked: Isn’t it treason that you have coined your own rupees with your names inscribed? The Englishman just laughed and replied nonchalantly: The coins of Hind are of short weight and much debased; we are making the better ones. That’s how matters stand, Your Majesty, and there is nothing the imperialists can do to route them out.” He nodded his head in a gesture of helplessness. “Hind is not their home, and their boldness would be silenced with shots from the cannons.” Aurangzeb lumbered to his feet, clutching his staff to him. The cistern of rage inside him was churning and frothing. “The emperor will decide their fate in the next court session.” He dismounted his throne slowly, as if warding off the demons of rage and hatred within him. The viziers and grandees stepped aside to let the emperor pass, their faces grim and wearied. The emperor himself looked forlorn, his pashmina shawl concealing the tremors of weakness in his limbs, his face as white as the pearls on his turban. His eyes were feverish, alighting on Khalil Muhammed, and he stopped in the act of walking. “Are the seditions in Pandhapur quelled?” Aurangzeb rushed his one quick inquiry. “Yes, Your Majesty. But the town was plundered by the Marathas before they left,” was Khalil Muhammad’s dejected response.

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“Take Khidmat Rai with you, and demolish the temple of Pandhapur. Also, command the butchers of the camps over there to slaughter cows on the very steps of the temple.” He plodded away towards the sanctuary of his encampment, where Udaipuri occupied the royal tent next to his own. This royal tent, lined with red velvet and hand-painted chintz, was the emperor’s lonesome abode. He sat at his small desk, hugging his shawl close to him, and trying to control the trembling of his hands. Actually, he was forcing his thoughts to be disciplined with the intention of writing letters to his sons and viziers, but failing in this attempt, his thoughts growing dark and ominous. A stab of pain shot up his right leg to the back of his spine, jolting him to awareness of himself and his surroundings. His gaze was arrested by the silver candelabra, its half-consumed tapers bloated with tears of wax. The candles flared all of a sudden, as if mocking his despair and loneliness. The rosewood desk absorbed the dance of light from the very tongues of the candles, the gold-sprinkled papers too gathering their warmth and sparkle. His hands were reaching out, his thin fingers erecting tents over the candles, his look glazed, as if reading the lips of fate in the fire. He concentrated his attention to catch any sound from Udaipuri’s tent beyond the sandalwood screen, but no sound reached his ears. His heart longed to kneel at the feet of his beloved and shed tears of pain and repentance, but he could neither stir, nor abandon his lonesome abode. He could feel a sudden tingling coursing through his veins and fingers, and snatched his hands to himself, listening to the voice of his heart, all wounded and blistered. I have failed! Grandly and gloriously failed, the familiar thought in Aurangzeb’s head repeated its verdict. Aurangzeb’s eyes closed, courting sleep, but his thoughts journeyed back to lands muddied with death and bloodied with hatred. All was ruin and devastation, the blight of hope and the decay of ambition. Sleep was somewhere out there, lurking far off like some mirage, bright and illusive. It could be seen coasting over the tombs of his sins, murders and tragedies, like a spirit lost and restless. He was almost dozing, the sins of his past marching within the colonnades of his subconscious like ghosts wild and awful. The ghost of his brother, Prince Dara Shikoh, was alive and throbbing. He laughed and hugged his severed head to his breast. The ghost of his father, Shah Jahan, emerged forth, tossing brands of fire into the eyes of Aurangzeb. His eyes shot open. The pain and profundity in his psyche clamped his thoughts into a gazebo of solace and inspiration. The reason we don’t want to wake up is that during sleep we are in that primordial state of bliss which is called Cosmic Connection. Once awake, we lose that Connection and find ourselves imprisoned in the

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physical plane with all its pain and suffering. Knowing only illusion and impermanence, unable to pierce the veil of truth! Aurangzeb’s thoughts stood aghast inside a labyrinth of a revelation. What bliss? What connection? Agony supreme and torment everlasting. His hand reached out to the jeweled pen, as if seeking the edict of eternal damnation. A face emerged in Aurangzeb’s mind’s eye, and it was that of his vizier, Asad Khan. His hand held the pen firmly, and his fingers moved on the gold sprinkled paper with a will of their own. “Alas, my life has been wasted in vain I have merely consumed a quantity of Water and fodder.”

Aurangzeb’s very nerves were imbued with the ink of poetry, his thoughts abscessed with agony indescribable. Praised be God that in whatever place and abode I have been, I have by passing through it withdrawn my heart from all things connected with it, and made death easy for myself— His fingers were chilled all of a sudden, as if they had eyes and could read the prophecy of death in words and thoughts. Aurangzeb pushed the gold-sprinkled paper aside, the weight of loneliness inside him one enormous rent, insufferable and throbbing. Alone and friendless, he could see himself foundering in the waters of death and darkness. His very soul was on fire, the flames of pain and fear inside it curling up and licking his wounds. He was suffering the tortures of hell even before dying, though death was hovering above with torches ablaze against the furnace of punishments eternal and excruciating. The face of death was terrible and unfriendly, and Aurangzeb had no one in the world to guide him in his passage from life to death. The passage itself was sprinkled with hot coals, of deeds cruel and greeds smoldering. His whole body, it seemed, was caught amidst a curtain of fog, hot and searing. The fog was swirling and expanding. It burst forth into sparks red as blood, and revealed the faces of his sons. Sons! Yes, he had sons. The spark of a thought poured consolation into the furnace of Aurangzeb’s soul. The familiar ache of love and suspicion slithered inside his heart like the serpent of fate, but his thoughts were goading him to make his sons his confidants. His fingers moved again, obeying the will of his jeweled pen and blackening the page before him with blotches of shame and agony. In fact, shame and agony were pools of chaos and delirium in his head, trickling onto the paper in a cataract of blood, sparse and congealed. The face of Prince Muazzam was a reed of a

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friend to his agony unvoiced. His thoughts held it captive, waving a flag of fear and loneliness. Dear Prince Muazzam. Owing to my marching through deserts and forests, my officers long for my death— The mask of death in Aurangzeb’s thoughts crashed, broken and mutilated. Another gold-sprinkled paper was pushed aside with the violence of disgust and self-recrimination. Aurangzeb’s face was white as death, the pearls in his turban catching glints from the candles and turning livid, his hands trembling. The jeweled pen had slipped through his fingers, drained of its will, his hands feeling the folds of his shawl as if nursing the age-old wounds, all dry and caked. Yet, within his heart were wounds fresh and throbbing, sprinkled with the salt of despair and loneliness. He could feel the shroud of death cradling his weak limbs, and he knew that his end was near, terror clutching his heart in the pincers of agony. Aurangzeb’s hands sought the pen of fate once again, the volcano of his sin, corruption and unworthiness gurgling with the lava of pain and hopelessness. His very soul and psyche were rivulets of torments wild and intolerable. So stark and terrible was the volcanic eruption inside him that the glacier of his heart was lit to one solid conflagration. The lava of his pain and regret was a deluge uncontrollable, breaking all barriers of piety and zeal. If only this torment could be appeased, a lamp of fire and fury in his mind was wavering, pleading, shuddering. The faces of his sons were haloed by the flames of his suspicions, yet the flame of his loneliness was kneeling before them for comfort and consolation. Peace be with you, dear Prince Azam. Aurangzeb’s pen had become the instrument of his loneliness, as if lit by the fire of agony. I am grown very old and weak, and my limbs are feeble. Many were around me when I was born, but now I am going alone. I know not why I am and wherefore I came into the world. I bewail the moments which I have spent forgetful of God’s worship. I have not done well by the country, or its people. My years have gone profitless. God has been in my heart, yet my darkened days have not recognized His Light. Life is transient and the lost moment never comes back. There is no hope for me in the future. The fever is gone, but only skin and dried flesh is mine. The army is confounded and without heart or help, even as I am, apart from God, with no rest for the heart. They know not whether they have an emperor or not. Nothing brought me into this world, but I carry away with me the burden of my sins. I know not what punishment is in store for me to suffer! Though my trust is in the mercy and goodness of God! I deplore my sins. When I have lost hope in myself, how can I have hope in others? Come what will, I have launched

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my bark upon the waters of farewell, farewell, farewell! Whatever the wind may be, I am launching my boat on the water. The pen was poised before him, glinting and mocking. The soot of pain and poetry on the gold-sprinkled paper was etched before Aurangzeb’s gaze like a river of tragedy. He could see its depths profound, its waves churning the fears of death and the tortures of the hereafter. His heart constricted, the abscess of his agony and loneliness a rivulet of despair. This rivulet floated toward Prince Kam Bakhsh, whom he genuinely loved despite his fears and suspicions. My son, my liver, my Kam Bakhsh. Aurangzeb’s hands trembled, the pen between his fingers protesting. My end is near, dear prince. Anxiety about the army and camp-followers has been the cause of my depression of mind and fear of final torment. When I was full of strength, I could not at all protect them, and now I am unable to take care of myself. My limbs are weak and aching. The breath that subsides, there is no hope of its return, what else can I do in such a condition than to pray? I am in trepidation. Should I bid farewell— The pen slipped from his fingers once again as a pair of comforting arms encircled his shoulders from behind. Udaipuri had stolen in unnoticed, but Aurangzeb was neither startled nor surprised. He had become accustomed to her stealthy visits, as if she could hear the cries of his wounded heart, materializing beside him to bandage it before it could shatter and die, carrying along with it all the sins and torments of his life. That was exactly what she was wont to tell him while consoling him, being with him like the angel of salvation, and bathing his soul with the baptismal waters of purity and gentleness, hoping beyond hope that his heart would be purged of all hatred and sorrow before sailing aloft to meet its creator. Udaipuri’s own heart was a cauldron of fears, willing the emperor to live, and unwilling to see the briars of ruin and anarchy outside the harem walls. Unlike Aurangzeb, her one and only love was for her son, Prince Kam Bakhsh, but she loved the emperor no less. Her heart bled for his pain, and shared the torments of his body and soul, as if her own self was the womb of such afflictions! Right now, as she stood leaning with her cheek pressed close to his own, two tears rolled from her eyes, wetting the emperor’s beard. “What fresh grief, my love?” Aurangzeb brought her right hand to his emaciated cheek and held it there. “Do you pity the emperor? Weak and broken with age and tragedies?” Since Udaipuri didn’t speak, smothering her sobs and tears, Aurangzeb unwound her arms gently, easing himself up slowly and painfully. Linking his one arm with hers, his other clutching the staff, he

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led her to the davenport. This davenport was his travelling couch, smothered with pillows, and it could be transformed into a sumptuous bed at night. He made her sit beside him, stroking her hand, unable to voice his fears or torments. Udaipuri held back her tears, her pallor accentuated by the coronet of rubies on her head. She was wearing a dress of pink silks stitched with pearls, but that too was lending no warmth to her pallid cheeks. Aurangzeb sat gazing into her dark eyes, speechless. The pain of his love for her was more savage, his thoughts were muttering, than all the tragedies of the years and continents on the map of his ambition and hopelessness. “Why are you holding back your tears, my love?” Aurangzeb murmured hoarsely. Her sadness molded his pain into the petals of poetry. “Spill these pearls! I would catch them with my cupped hands, before my sinful lips could claim them, absorbing their hurt into their own. The emperor fears no more. Why? Because the mountains of grief, and hopelessness have ceased their assaults!” He paused, but as Udaipuri still didn’t respond, he added. “Could you ever forgive the emperor for making you suffer thus?” “Forgiveness is of God, Your Majesty. His Mercy and Judgment too!” Udaipuri smiled through a mist of tears. Now her tears were slipping down her cheeks, and grazing her red lips like pearly dewdrops. “My sufferings are insignificant compared to yours.” “Then I must plead God’s fercy and forgiveness.” Aurangzeb kissed her tears, his lips, his heart trembling. “Some fresh grief has moved you to tears and sorrow. Won’t you tell the emperor?” “Jani Begum died in Gujrat, Your Majesty. Princess Satiunisa unsealed that tragic missive with her own hands,” Udaipuri confessed. “Death is chasing us all to our graves, my suffering Queen. Prince Azam must be heartbroken, he loved her so. My only hope is that our sons live to keep the empire intact,” Aurangzeb could barely murmur. The fear of his own death was closing around him in a shroud of inevitability. “I am afraid, Your Majesty, more for the safety of my son than for the disintegration of the empire!” the hopeless lament escaped Udaipuri’s lips. “Prince Azam is mired deep in intrigue, plotting against Prince Kam Bakhsh, and paving his way to the throne.” “So the war of succession has already begun, though the emperor still lives?” was Aurangzeb’s cry of anguish, the map of his own succession crackling in his head in streams of cruelty and bloodshed! “No kindness and generosity in their hearts! They might have borrowed some from you, my love! The emperor’s own heart is tainted with cruelty and hatred. My

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armor and shield against the infidels to nurture and maintain the purity of Islam.” “Hatred, as a weapon of defense, Your Majesty, is for the weak. People with inner strength don’t need it. The same thought I conveyed to Prince Kam Bakhsh in my letter, hoping this kind of advice will save him from the anguish of needless wars and mindless intrigues.” Udaipuri’s thoughts were gathering the reeds of truth for the salvation of the emperor’s soul. “I have failed—failed most wretchedly!” Aurangzeb repeated, under the spell of fever and delirium. “Every enterprise that I began came to naught. My love for you and for Islam have been my only ambitions in life, not only to conquer and subjugate the kingdoms, but your heart and soul too. Is there no peace in life, only suffering?” Haze and despair clouded his eyes. “If God guides you not into the road It will not be disclosed by logic Logic is bondage of forms A road that is long and hard Leave it for a reason, like Moses Cast away the staff And enter for a while, the valley of Peace,”

was Udaipuri’s dreamy consolation! Her heart ached with pity and sadness! “A pity, Your Majesty, that you didn’t care for Sufi wisdom. Even this one verse by Mahmud Shabistari makes life easy for the ones who truly seek peace.” “Peace with the infidels, and lawlessness? It could only be attained by the might of the devil, my love. Only the well-versed in the laws of politics and sovereignty understand that.” Aurangzeb’s torment was absorbing soothing currents from the nearness of his beloved alone. “They believe in their own gods, whom you call infidels, Your Majesty,” Udaipuri intoned sadly and soothingly. “Doesn’t the Quran attest to the same fact? For each we have appointed a divine law and a traced-out way. Had God willed, He could have made you one community. But that He may try you, He made you as you are. So vie with one another in good works.” Her heart, rigged with fear and pain, reached out to the emperor. “The emperor knows the Quran by heart, Udaipuri, and he has studied the Hadith down to the bare bones of theology.” Aurangzeb’s heart was sinking, his look tender yet distraught. “Yet, one Sura alone doesn’t expound the truth in Islam. The emperor’s mind is laden with the puzzles

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of Holy Scriptures! And he thought he knew the truth! Now, he is not sure.” He claimed her hand, as if seeking the warmth of her love and strength. “This Sufi tale might pave the way for understanding, Your Majesty.” Udaipuri elicited a brave smile. “Kushyar, the sage and teacher of Avicenna, was once visited by an astronomer. Anxious to display his great wealth of knowledge, the astronomer talked profusely before requesting Kushyar to become his disciple. Kushyar refused to accept him as his disciple saying: You are like a vessel full to the brim, you will learn nothing from me unless you empty out all that you contain.” “Too old and wearied to understand anything, my love, Not even your attempt to save my soul from hellfire and eternal damnation,” Aurangzeb desperately appealed, his heart a little comforted by the smooth touch of her hand. “This Chinese wisdom then, Your Majesty!” Udaipuri was quick to churn her will and memory to save the emperor’s soul. “We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside which holds whatever we want.” “The Quran itself is many worlds within a world. All wisdom and knowledge are contained in there, and no one needs to study anything more, if one can absorb those holy revelations without a dint of doubt,” Aurangzeb murmured evasively. “What change is necessary when one has grasped the worth of the true precepts in the one and only religion, which is Islam?” The doubt and despair in Aurangzeb’s gaze made his utterance empty of all truth. “Rumi is of different mind, Your Majesty, though a devout Muslim,” Udaipuri began with a sudden animation, her eyes lit up with the beacons of revelations. “Little by little, wean yourself. This is the gist of what I have to say. From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood, move to an infant drinking milk, to a child on solid food, to a searcher after wisdom, to a hunter of more invisible game. Think how it is to have a conversation with an embryo. You might say: the world outside is vast and intricate. There are wheat fields and mountain passes, and orchards in bloom. At night there are a million of galaxies, and in sunlight the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding. You ask the embryo which stays cooped up in the dark with eyes closed. It replies: There is no other world. I only know what I have experienced. You must be hallucinating.” “It’s not to Rumi’s credit that the emperor didn’t fall asleep while listening to the words of this heretic, but to you, my sweet. The sweetness of your voice comforts my aching and wounded heart.” A lone surge of pain and tenderness escaped Aurangzeb’s lips and heart. “Old and broken, in body and soul, even my prayers don’t reach the Almighty!”

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“I listen to the prayer of every supplicant when he calls Me,” Udaipuri recited swiftly. “And you tell me, Your Majesty, you know the Quran by heart?” A glint of challenge was surfacing in her eyes, as of old, youthful days when she herself was heedless. “My only prayer to Allah is to take me back to Agra. I want to die near the Taj Mahal, plead forgiveness from my mother, father—” Aurangzeb could not continue, choked by emotions stark and abysmal. “How selfish, Your Majesty! To leave me alone! Buffeted by the hurricanes of war and intrigue!” Udaipuri’s eyes still held the challenge, but her heart was foundering in pools of fear and agonies profound. “I would fain keep you with me till eternity, my love,” Aurangzeb murmured wretchedly. “You are so young and so beautiful still! The agonies of my heart cannot be put into words. My love for you, my only talisman of sanity! Though old and weak I have grown, madness tends to be more my friend than sanity. My only friend!” He paused, noticing the rills of fear in the eyes of his beloved. “Why it is that madness attracts me more than sanity, though I wish to remain sane till the end of my dying day?” “I don’t see any shadow of death hovering over your head, Your Majesty. Why talk about it?” Udaipuri winnowed out a whiff of optimism, divorcing her pain and hopelessness. “You will reach Agra, Your Majesty. God has heard your prayer.” She breathed encouragement against the mantle of her own hopelessness. “Maratha dogs following at our heels, my love!” the pain-filled prophecy escaped Aurangzeb’s lips. “Why do you call men dogs, Your Majesty? They are as human as any Moghul.” Udaipuri’s eyes flashed pain, if not reproof. “Infidels, and infidelity! Even the Moghuls could be branded with the same epithet. Are they not howling like wild beasts to claw at the flesh of the emperor’s old bones?” Aurangzeb’s cheeks were suffused with an unhealthy flush. Pain and anger welled inside him with the violence of a hurricane! “We should leave for Agra as soon as possible, Your Majesty,” Udaipuri pleaded discreetly. “Yes. The emperor has to be carried in a palanquin, and the journey will be long.” Aurangzeb could feel the spasms of pain in his legs, his body shuddering imperceptibly. “Pardon me, Your Majesty, for intruding, but—” Princess Satiunisa emerged forth from behind the sandalwood screen, as if pressed by urgency. “May I borrow your inkpot, Your Majesty?” She sprinted toward her parents with the buoyancy of a young girl.

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“Yes, my lovely princess, yes,” Aurangzeb consented with an abrupt burst of warmth. “Forgive the emperor for wasting his life embroiled in wars, and neglecting your education.” He watched his daughter as if seeking the nectar of youth and sunshine. “You didn’t, Your Majesty. All those learned theologians to guide me!” was Princess Satiunisa’s flustered response! “Our princess is well versed in sciences and literature, Your Majesty.” Udaipuri sought the emperor’s attention. “Under my strict vigilance, she has been tutored and guided most wisely.” “Most probably burdened with the ammunition of heathenish tales and wisdom of the Sufis, if the emperor’s guess is correct?” Aurangzeb shot a tender reproof. “Imbibing all knowledge forbidden by the precepts of Islam!” “Your Majesty!” was Princess Satiunisa’s laconic lament as she fled toward the desk, her silks and jewels a cascading brilliance! “It is education which enables its possessors to distinguish what is forbidden and what is not. This is what Prophet Muhammed told his disciples, Your Majesty, adding: Really, it is our friend in the desert, our society in solitude, our company when bereft of friends. It guides us to happiness, it sustains us in misery,” Udaipuri recited passionately, holding the emperor prisoner in her flashing eyes. “One more sermon from you, sweet Udaipuri, and the emperor will be hurled right into the waters of perdition.” Aurangzeb hugged his shawl closer, not even noticing the swift flight of the princess. “Where did our elf vanish?” he asked feebly, his gaze sweeping over the furnishings in this prison of a tent. “She fled from the tablets of your sanctimonious reproof, Your Majesty, which you reserve only for the victims of your love!” Udaipuri smiled, a shadow of mischief and tenderness washing over her features. “You are so good to me, my love,” Aurangzeb murmured contritely. “Pain and fatigue are making me restless, yet I do need rest. Would you be an angel and throw some covers on me, while I try to sleep?” He closed his eyes, abandoning his head on the pillows. “You will wake up sore and hurting if you sleep this way, Your Majesty.” Udaipuri sprang to her feet. “Here, Your Majesty.” She lifted his legs up, squeezing a pillow under them. Then she tucked him under a velvety coverlet, all neat and comfortable. “So good to me!” Aurangzeb murmured. “And so very patient! Won’t you stay till I fall asleep?” “Only to lull you into the bower of sweet dreams, Your Majesty.” Udaipuri’s eyes were spilling poetry and sadness. “A story about patience,

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Your Majesty, your lullaby to pave the way toward peace and comfort!” She squeezed her legs between the emperor’s feet, heaping cushions against her back. “Your voice, my sweet, the sweetest of lullabies!” Aurangzeb closed his eyes. “I am listening, love.” “Patience and compassion both, Your Majesty, the highest of virtues praised by our Prophet,” Udaipuri began dreamily. “Once Prophet Muhammed was talking to the faithful in a large assembly, when a cat came and sat on the hem of his robe. The afternoon had dwindled to evening when the assembly broke up, and the men started to leave. But Prophet Muhammed didn’t stir. The cat had fallen asleep, claiming the edge of his robe as her bed, and he sat watching the blissful state of the cat in sleep with utter fascination. A few men were still lingering around, when he took a knife out of his pocket and cut off the part of his robe on which the cat was sleeping. Then he got up slowly and cautiously, so as not to disturb the cat while she slept.” Her own eyes were closed against the weight of fears and torments she could not voice. The emperor had fallen asleep, Udaipuri could tell by the sound of his even breathing. Her own head sank deeper into the velvety pillows. Hurricanes of grief and despair entered her compassionate heart, where years rolled by in a succession of zeal and warfare were the emperor’s only foes, resulting in tragedy for him and for the empire. Fear licked her heart, her thoughts caught in a clap of thunder. She herself was hurled into the abyss of past regrets, alone and helpless, unable to torch the will of the emperor amidst his bouts of zeal and cruelty. Her lips thirsted for the nectar of wine, but the weight of aching tenderness inside her plunged her deeper into the valleys of stupor and inertia. All strength was drained from her limbs and thoughts, the flagon of wine just a dream, distant and unapproachable. Her thoughts had ceased to torment here, hugging the sanctuary of oblivion and surrender. Instead, the parched hungers of her soul were yawning to the light of a rude awakening. Sorrows of the past, gilded with hopelessness, gathered around her like the troopers of time and tyranny. How could one plead salvation for the soul of a tyrant? A bigot and a zealot? Isn’t this enterprise the glittering mirage of fools and drunkards? So well I have done in both! Fooling myself in the chase of some noble cause, and drowning my sorrow in drunkenness? Udaipuri’s soul, for once, peeled away the layers of despair and deception. Her soul, naked and unashamed, was knocking at the doors of her mind and psyche. The glitter and sparkle of the euphemisms in her thoughts were fading, almost defacing the face of lies, and hacking away

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the flesh of dream–reality. The fog of memories, swift as the couriers of devastation, was swirling in her head and lancing the very eyes of the emperor’s sins with the brands of inquisition. Are the emperor’s viziers still not clinging to him like the parasites? And priests too? A retinue of sycophants who must be fed and clothed! Famine and poverty! Weavers, whose hands tremble in toil to fashion rich robes for the grandees, going naked themselves? Zeal and tyranny of the emperor! No poet or artisan left to polish the souls of the poor and the wretched? Trade in shambles, the rags of poverty? Bribery floating over the streams of blood, caked with the curses of the hopeless, helpless in bondage? Peasants singing their own dirge of sorrow and defiance: Why should I toil for a tyrant who may come tomorrow and lay his rapacious hands upon all I possess and value, leaving me, if such should be the humor, the means to drag on my miserable existence? Her thoughts were gathering the brambles of facts and rumors, and kindling a pyre of truth to scorch out lies. Udaipuri’s thoughts succumbed to sleep, her head tilted to one side. The journeys in her head were dark and terrible. The royal entourage was homeward bound toward Agra, hounded by hordes of Maratha dogs, as the emperor had predicted. Agra was far away, slipping away further from the crimson tent of the royal couple, where the only visitors were fear and hopelessness. A low moan escaped the lips of the emperor. A great sob was choked in the ocean of Udaipuri’s dreams.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN INCEPTION OF THE BRITISH RAJ

The ailing emperor, though frail and in agonies of the body and spirit, willed his thoughts to drain their laments onto the gold-sprinkled paper, his gaze fixed and burning. Aurangzeb was seated at his desk in the small palace of a fortress at Ahmadnagar. One whole year on the road in hope of reaching Agra and so far his arduous journey had brought him only into the city of Ahmadnagar, his cavalcade suffering the assaults of bandits and Maratha dogs, as prophesied by him. The entire journey from Devapur to Ahmadnagar had been marred by hardships and skirmishes. The imperialists had barely escaped from the rebels and robbers, before finding a safe haven at Ahmadnagar. Months in succession rigged with fears and discomforts had marked the end of hope for Aurangzeb. He had reached Ahmadnagar, ill and distraught, hugging this refuge in the very waters of his despair and laments. Laments were escaping Aurangzeb’s jeweled pen this moment, as if obeying the very edicts of fate. Fate was dark and leering, hovering above the emperor’s shoulders, and aiming the arrows of his commandments, harsh and inviolate. His woolen shawl, with floral designs in black and maroon, was draped around his shoulders, cradling his burden in an embrace warm and cheerful, it seemed. No warmth or cheerfulness could be seen on his features grim and ascetic, his white beard conical and scraggly. Divested of his turban, his head was a parched island, with a scanty growth of hair, all silver. He looked much like the crow painted in the quatrain by his late Sufi brother, his heart as black as the raven’s face and plumage. Though his face was ashen, his thin flesh clinging to his bones, his nose loomed larger than life. It could be seen sitting on the crescent of his lips, as if to mock the fever and glitter in his eyes. His eyes were glittering with the fever of inner torments indescribable. His lips were taut, as if licking the fog of memories from the parched hunger within his soul. The fog and mist were thickening in Aurangzeb’s head too, resurrecting memories awful and horrendous. His pen was tireless and his fingers hurting, obeying the commands of his thoughts and moving stiffly.

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A cold shudder shot up his spine from the toes upward, weaving knots in his stomach, and sending the chills of warnings that he must rest. Replacing his pen into the jade inkstand, he rested his head against the cushioned back of his chair, loathe even to look at the bleak furnishings in this room, which had become his haven and prison both. Almost a year had slithered past, gathering the dust of deaths and insurrections, since he had landed from his palanquin in the corridors of Ahmadnagar. This palace had become his haven in the sense that the warring lords were fighting amongst themselves in other regions of the empire, hoping to gain riches and kingdoms. It had also become his prison, in the literal sense of the word, since his ailing body could not permit him the luxury of embarking on another long journey to reach Agra. Ill health was not the only reason he couldn’t stir from the palace of Ahmadnagar; the fear of rebels and marauders was more threatening, since bands of Sikhs and Rajputs were on the road to pillage and plunder. Moments slipping and sliding into moments, of stupor and hopelessness, were Aurangzeb’s companions as he sat resting, his head tilted to one side. He could smell the odor of death, even from the damask drapes, yellowed with age and neglect. And he could hear the sepulchral silence all around, as if the heavy, gilded furnishings were plotting and conspiring. A bedstead, rough and unimposing, which he had commanded to be hauled into this room, was whispering tales of the agonies of death, and of the punishments of the hereafter. The silence was palpitating, seething with threats, as if the velvet coverlets on his bed were rustling, and challenging him to fend off the assaults of fate and purgatory. Weak and vulnerable, this phantom of an emperor was visited by fates more evil than those blackened with the promise of peace in death. The living fates, almost pulsating with the rhythm of violence, swirled in a mad, mad dance of glee over the tides of ruin and devastation yet to come. His head was throbbing, splitting open a globe of continents, all blasted by war, famine and plundering. The past two years of his puritanic struggle were the bellows of memories hot and turbulent, pumping down molten lava into the crevices of the old bones between his flesh, brittle and shrinking. The dejected remnants of Aurangzeb’s army had started from Devapur, donning the mantle of hope that soon they would reach Agra. But the ailing emperor, travelling in a palanquin, was a sure cause of hope and advantage for their ever-vigilant foes, tracing the map of his journeys. Even at the inception of their homeward journey, the exultant Marathas had been at the heels of the imperialists to cause delay and disruption. They had adopted the method of attacking the emperor’s cavalcade from the rear, guarding the passes and staying in ambush. So adept they had

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become in guerrilla tactics with their pre-planned strategies that they had succeeded in cutting off the supplies of the imperialists in advance, no matter where they had decided to pitch their encampments. Day by day, the Marathas could be seen swelling in numbers, their demeanor bold and fierce. Armed with artillery and musketry, even the emperor’s encampment was not immune from their night attacks. The Marathas had launched a successful raid, plundering the rich trading center at Baroda. The province of Aurangabad was ravaged intermittently by the assaults of the Rajputs. A Moghul convoy had been plundered on the way from Aurangabad to Ahmadnagar. The chief rebel Dhana was laying waste to the territories of Berar and Khandesh. The Jats and the Rajputs were making claims on seizing imperial Agra. The Sikhs were planning to rule over the Punjab, making the city of Multan their base of rebellion and their watchtower. The city of Bijapur was besieged by the Maratha armies, and Deccan had become the cauldron of unrest and anarchy. The imperialists had lost heart and were demoralized. A large body of scheming Marathas had been driven back with a staggering ransom from the imperial treasury, since the soldiers were not willing to fight and defend. A succession of months, all caked in folds of losses and indignities, had finally brought the emperor to the banks of the River Bhima. The emperor and his troops had experienced a sort of reprieve for forty days in their royal bivouac at Bhima, without any threat or attack from the bandits of the night. The holy month of Ramadan had slipped past peacefully, and the imperial cavalcade had left Bhima for Ahmadnagar under the clouds of the wars and rebellions. The fortress of Ahmadnagar had become Aurangzeb’s house of terror and mourning. For here it was that the news of his crumbling empire reached him in droves, along with the news of the deaths of his kindred. Malwa, Gujrat and Khandesh were caught afresh in the wildfire of rebellions, and insurrections were sprouting in every part of the empire. Amongst the royal deaths were the emperor’s nephews and his youngest sister, Princess Gauhara. Princess Gauhara’s death had affected Aurangzeb the most, for she was the last link to the legacy of the Moghuls. Her birth had been laden with tragedies for the late Emperor Shah Jahan, for that was when his beloved Queen had died in the agonies of childbirth. From the wounds in Shah Jahan’s own heart had been fashioned the Taj Mahal, the monument of the emperor’s grief in love and loss. Now, this monument rose in Aurangzeb’s thoughts like some omen dark and deathly, not as the beauteous wonder in marble as which it still stood, pure and chaste.

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Aurangzeb’s head slid further to the side, the spasms in his legs sharp and excruciating. But his thoughts, dark and ominous, did not heed the physical discomforts of the body, and were intent upon polishing the puddles of confusion and hopelessness. Rills of pain were shooting through his thoughts too, hot and scalding. They were watching the war of succession amongst his sons as a spectacle of woe and tragedy, holding his death in abeyance in hope of peace and filial propriety. Aurangzeb’s head was the pasture of haze and unreality, his sons the phantoms of greed and ambition. The princes were dancing the dance of deceit and intrigue over the heaps of the empire, vast and crumbling. Prince Azam was trying to get rid of his youngest brother, Prince Kam Bakhsh, and seize the throne all for himself. The emperor had wished to keep Prince Kam Bakhsh near his deathbed, but had been forced to send him to Bijapur, hoping to keep him away from the malicious schemes of Prince Azam. The day of Prince Kam Bakhsh’s departure alighted in Aurangzeb’s head like one teardrop of a bubble. He had been seen weeping at the leave-taking of the Benjamin of his old age while the imperial band played outside the fortress to one shuddering crescendo! Prince Azam had been commanded to repair to Malwa. More teardrop bubbles forced their way into Aurangzeb’s thoughts, revealing the face of his beloved Udaipuri. The face of his beloved was bloated with wine, her dark eyes glittering like coals, burning with omens and tragedies yet to befall the Moghul Empire. Udaipuri was wedded to wine again; only Princess Satiunisa remained the emperor’s lone companion on his journey toward death. An angel of a companion, Princess Satiunisa was, tending to the emperor’s afflictions both mental and physical with the gentlest of concerns and consolations. This angelic vision left Aurangzeb’s thoughts, replaced with one demon of a son who was posted far away, none other than Prince Muazzam himself. Prince Muazzam was in Kabul, and in secret alliance with Guru Gobind Singh, the emperor had been informed. He was aspiring to rule, and to kill all the contenders who dared oppose him. Aurangzeb’s head jerked up, his very scalp tingling as if the scorpions of fear and rage in there were running wild and stinging him. Snatching the pen from his inkstand, he began to write under some spell of urgency, feverish, maddening. Prince Muazzam. Your designs of treachery are not concealed from the emperor. Listen to this and tremble. The passages of my horoscope composed by Fazal Khan, from the day of my birth till after my death, have all been verified by actual experience. In that horoscope, it is written that after me will come an emperor, ignorant and narrow-minded.

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Overpowered by injuries, whose words will be all imperfect and whose plans will be immature. He will act towards some men with so much prodigality as almost to drown them and towards others with so much rigor as to raise the fear of utter destruction. All these admirable qualities are praiseworthy characteristics found in your nature. A bellow of a sigh escaped Aurangzeb’s lips, his fingers relinquishing their hold on the pen. Aurangzeb pressed his temples as if to drive away the demons of his own sins and murders. The bloodied heads of his murdered brothers were sitting on his shoulders, with grins on their lips and laughter in their eyes. His hands fell limp into his lap, terror shining in his eyes. He could hear the demoniacal mirth of his brothers, whom he had killed in his ambition to usurp the throne while keeping his old father imprisoned. Fever and despair coursed in Aurangzeb’s veins, and his arms shot up in one desperate gesture before reclaiming the pen once again. The missive to Prince Muazzam was brushed aside impatiently. The anguish in his soul goaded him to blacken another page with the soot of his laments and sorrows. However, the sorrow within him longed to reach the threshold of his favorite son, Prince Kam Bakhsh. Prince Kam Bakhsh. Soul of my soul! Now I am going alone. I grieve for your helplessness. But what is the use? Every torment I have inflicted, every sin I have committed, every wrong I have done, I carry the consequence with me. Strange that I came with nothing into this world, and now am going away with this stupendous caravan of sins. Wherever I look I see only God. I have greatly sinned, and I know not what torment awaits me. Let not Muslims be slain, and reproach fall upon my useless head. I commit you and your sons to God’s care, and bid you farewell. I am sorely troubled. Your sick mother would fain die with me. Peace. Aurangzeb’s pen was poised before him like a poisoned arrow, as if to pierce his heart with the swiftness of an executioner. Death was standing face to face with Aurangzeb’s psyche, and this vision alone made him cringe and shudder. His heart thundered all of a sudden, leaping out to feel the nearness of his beloved, pleading with her. Knowing that her sickness was none other than grief and drunkenness. Grief in parting from her beloved son, whose life had become that of just a lowly rook in the chess game of intrigue and succession! And drunkenness, the curse of her youthful heart, to banish all troubles into the bliss of oblivion. The curse of his sins was hammering at Aurangzeb’s memory, appealing to his father, whom he had imprisoned in his own palace to suffer and perish. Shah Jahan himself came alive in Aurangzeb’s thoughts and contemplations. The late emperor was old and weak, holding out the

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rod of nemesis, his lips pouring out curses that Aurangzeb’s sons would follow the design of his own deeds, all evil and wicked. The dagger of a pen poised before Aurangzeb raided another gold-sprinkled paper, this time a joint message to all his sons. Dear and unfortunate all. Desist from shedding the blood of your own brothers, and strive not against each other for the possession of this burdensome throne. May God, the ruler of hearts, implant in yours the will to succor your subjects, and give you wisdom in the governance of the people! Shun the fratricidal struggle for power, and look to the sufferings of the people— Aurangzeb’s fingers trembled, reading the edict of his own death to their very fingertips. The stark, awful revelation of his death was a hiss and a murmur in the air, sibilant and merciless. Clarity and clairvoyance were the pulse of time, squeezed into his bony fists, and throbbing like cankerous wounds. He could hear the litany of terrors in the afterlife, granting him the favor of the perception that death was waiting for him at the portals of dawn, with fangs bared and claws chiseled to the razor sharp steel of daggers invincible. His own dagger of a pen was scribbling his last will. Four rupees and two annas, out of the price of caps sewn by me, I have left for Aia Beg. Take that amount and spend it on the shroud of this helpless creature. Rupees three hundred and five, from the wages of copying the Quran, are in my purse for personal expenses. Distribute them to the fakirs on the day of my death. Do not spend it on my shroud and other necessities. Bury this wanderer with his head bare, because every ruined sinner who is conducted bare-headed before the Grand Emperor, God, is sure to be an object of mercy. Cover the top of my coffin on my bier with a coarse white cloth, and erect no canopy over my grave. Carry this creature of dust to the nearest burial place, and lay him in the earth with no useless coffin— Aurangzeb’s fingers, burning with the fever of death, were arrested in their act of scribbling more instructions. A gong of hysterical mirth from the lips of his sweet Udaipuri had arrested him in this state of inertia. His inebriated beloved was a whiff of silks, all perfumed and bejeweled. She was wont to invade the emperor’s solitude in this chamber of torture, as he called it, at the dictates of her whim or caprice, and now was sailing towards the bed, oblivious to her bliss in drunkenness. Abandoning herself on the velvety coverlets, she buried her head into the wealth of silken pillows. Aurangzeb managed to spin his chair around with the painful effort of a man ravished by despair and loneliness. He could see the familiar string in her hand, all crimson and knotted, while she played with it in utter

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fascination. The emperor knew the significance of this string; each knot representing a rung of his age. This string was kept inside the harem, and now seeing it into the hands of his beloved, Aurangzeb’s heart was a volcano of agony. It rattled inside his old bones in some furious attempt to escape the weak, yet tenacious flesh. “The love of my life and soul! Sweet Udaipuri! My only consolation in my old age! Why have you turned against me?” was Aurangzeb’s low lament, his look feverish and agonized! “The victim of your mirth and drunkenness, my love, you would send the emperor to his grave earlier than ordained. A few hours to live, such torment and sorrow, I should be grateful to you for hastening my end.” “I am not hastening your end, Your Majesty, but working toward prolonging your life.” Udaipuri’s bloated features quivered against the assault of fresh mirth and delirium. “Look, Your Majesty, eighty-nine knots in all, and I am tying another one in sweet anticipation!” Her fingers were struggling to make another knot. “I am going to tie one thousand and one, and more and more!” Her laughter ebbed and crackled. “Ah, sorrow and sadness!” Aurangzeb murmured to himself. “Princess Gauhara dead too! She and I alone were left amongst Shah Jahan’s children, and now me, perishing alone and unloved.” He wrung his hands, more so to keep them warm than to make a hopeless gesture. “She died a year ago, Your Majesty, and you keep that canker of grief with you, as if she is the only one amongst your royal household who has died!” Udaipuri declared hysterically. “What about Princess Mihrunisa and her husband Izad Bakhsh, who died but recently? And the royal brood of grandchildren! Are they not dying too?” Her inebriated senses were oblivious to the lamps of pain and hopelessness in the emperor’s eyes. “Oh, death and devastation!” Pain shot up Aurangzeb’s legs, his throat dry and parched. “God! Does this sinner deserve Your mercy? Countless sins! What have I done, what have I done?” “You have done all, Your Majesty, to rob the empire of its riches and dignity!” Drunken rage was Udaipuri’s stealthy arbiter, bold and imperious. “Those venerable mullahs still feasting on your state impoverished like hateful parasites. Zeal, not piety, is their only virtue, drooling with hatred and hypocrisy.” “Without them, we would not be sitting in the safety of this prison, my besotted Queen,” Aurangzeb attempted the weak defense. The ache and fever of loneliness within him was lending him the courage to receive these shafts of truth with utter surrender to the will of God and to the caprice of his beloved. “They are the only ones who can keep and hold the remnants of our generals in chains of fidelity. Otherwise, we would be

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exposed to the tyranny of our foes, wild and savage.” His arm reached out for his staff, his fingers clinging to the gold knob for support and consolation. “The whip and the cudgel compel your generals to obedience, Your Majesty.” Udaipuri’s thoughts were bent on draining the measure of their grief and disgust against the haze of her pain and hopelessness. “Burdened with years of cruelty and hardships, no wonder they revolt, and their desertion is checked only by force. Oh, my sweet Prince Kam Bakhsh; hemmed in by the talons of his avaricious brothers! Why did you have to send him away?” “Dearest to my heart he is, my innocent sparrow of a son!” Aurangzeb wailed without restraint, pain licking his soul and tongue. “If it was not for separating the hawk from the sparrow, I would have kept him near my deathbed.” “If the hawk is Prince Azam, Your Majesty, then he is not far away. You think you have sent him to Malwa, but he is lingering nearby.” The fire of love and pain in Udaipuri’s eyes was a tremor of awareness, the fog of her drunkenness dissipating. “Could you, love, ease a little the earthly torments of the emperor in his last hours of living and suffering?” Aurangzeb appealed with a feeble gesture of his arm. “This reprieve you see is but the herald of death, I can feel. Five whole days since Prince Kam Bakhsh left! And fever and torture for the same number of days in this ocean of separation! That fever is still with me, my love! In ambush, waving the challenge to a final combat, and marking death as the winner.” “Death and darkness, Your Majesty, everywhere!” Udaipuri’s eyes were flashing the light of past regrets and present tragedies. “Those long, grueling years of cruelty and warfare! The death of everything! Art, poetry and architecture! The ruin of morals and extinction of self-respect! Bribery and corruption! Alien nations invading your lands, if not the hearts of your foes! Where is justice? Zeal has triumphed. Pirates hovering over your ports like vultures, Dutch, Englishmen, Portugese!” Her heart was pounding all of a sudden, knowing the daggers of her fear, and the helplessness of the emperor. “The East India Company making a permanent home over the ruins of your empire, Your Majesty? Forgive me. I should be the one easing your pain, not aggravating it.” The poetry and sadness in her eyes were the rivers of her own inner torment. “A moment, a minute, a breath can deform And the shape of the world assumes a new form.”

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Aurangzeb recited this couplet, which had become his favorite during the past five days of fever and delirium. “You have succeeded in making me appreciate the sweetness of poetry, dear Udaipuri, and I am grateful for that.” The rills of pain in his eyes and inside his limbs were making his features more ashen than before. “A gift from you in my old age! And a blessing at the door of death in hope of salvation! Hatred and tyranny my burden of sins, dear Udaipuri! Do you think God will ever forgive me?” he asked feebly. “God is Merciful, and Forgiving, Your Majesty.” Udaipuri stopped in her act of getting down from the bed, her attention shifting to Princess Satiunisa, who had just entered. “My Mercy overpowers my Anger,” She recited under her breath. “My princess! My sweet consolation of old age! Come, my blessed daughter, help the emperor to his bed.” Aurangzeb clutched his staff, unable to rise. “I will, Your Majesty. But may I deliver the message of Aia Beg first?” Princess Satiunisa murmured apologetically, touching the emperor’s knees with utmost devotion. “From your sweet lips, my princess, even the poison of an evil message is licked clean of all corruption.” Aurangzeb’s gaze shifted from his daughter to Udaipuri, who had come lumbering after her daughter, mute and apprehensive. “Aia Beg, after consulting the astrologers, sends this request, Your Majesty.” Princess Satiunisa smoothed her citron silks, her look warm and pensive. “Concerning your health, Your Majesty, the astrologers advise that you should give away one elephant and a valuable diamond to ward off the blows of sickness and suffering.” “My viziers, all dull and besotted! Still clinging to the vines of infidelity!” Aurangzeb declared with a sudden burst of pious rage! “Inform my vile advisor that the offerings of the diamond or elephant are the practices of the Hindus and the star-worshippers. Let the treasurer send four thousand rupees to the Chief Qazi for distribution amongst the poor. And don’t forget to remind him: carry this creature of dust quickly to the first burial place, and consign him to the earth without any useless coffin.” The thoughts he had consigned to paper were drumming in his head, his look wild and imploring. “Your Majesty!” A murmur of an exclamation escaped the lips of princess Satiunisa. “Your Majesty!” A cry of agony was Udaipuri’s abrupt exclamation. “My love, is it possible that you love the emperor?” Aurangzeb’s features were contorted with pain. “Help me, loves, to bed. The emperor

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needs rest.” Pain and haze in his eyes were blinding his sight, his gaze shifting from his queen to the princess. “May I fetch you some fruit and sherbet, Your Majesty?” Udaipuri supported him possessively, while Princess Satiunisa wound her arm around his thin waist. “No, my love! The emperor hungers and thirsts for rest and peace.” Aurangzeb staggered in his impatience to reach the bed quickly. “Anarchy and desolation everywhere! The black winding sheet of death over my shoulders, and over the streets of my empire!” He lowered himself to the bed. The spasms of pain in his head and in his body were making him giddy and delirious. “Gujrat flaring up in warring flames! Aurangabad threatened with the fear of unrest. Agra, too far.” He closed his eyes, his lips closing with a tremor. “May I summon your physician, Your Majesty?” Princess Satiunisa murmured, while sliding a pillow under his head. “No, my sweet princess, no!” Aurangzeb opened his eyes, fever and delirium in his gaze imploring his daughter. “Leave us, my love. A moment with your mother, and then the emperor must rest.” Princess Satiunisa kissed her father on the brow and fled, her heart heavy with grief and hopelessness. Udaipuri stood there stricken, now that the fever of wine had abated in her veins and thoughts, her eyes glistening with tears. “Forgive me, love, and pray.” Aurangzeb’s aquiline nose quivered, his lips compressed. “What is there to forgive, Your Majesty? God is Merciful.” Udaipuri tried to force back her tears, her heart breaking with pity and grief. “Yes. Merciful God!” Aurangzeb’s eyes were beacons of agony. “Didn’t I hasten the ruin of a great empire? Violence and intolerance, running rampant by my edicts, and all means of treachery employed to win— I must rest now! Sweet innocence! You! Did I even kill the music in your voice, and the love in your heart?” His look was feverish, longing for peace in death. “God’s will, Your Majesty, and the edicts of destiny! The music in my voice is still alive, I hope. And you have not succeeded in killing my love for you. Though I fear for my son’s life, I fear more for yours—” Udaipuri’s voice was choked, drowned in the flood of pain and misery from the emperor’s own gaze. “Yes. After my death, a deluge will come—” Aurangzeb closed his eyes. “Farewell, sweetness. Let this lunatic of an emperor rest. Then you must come, and sit with me.”

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“Peace be with you, Your Majesty.” Udaipuri kissed the emperor’s cheek, stroking his beard and wetting it with tears before she too fled. Aurangzeb’s opiated thoughts caught glints of memories as he lay on his bed under the spell of haze and stupor, hugging the velvety coverlets under his chin. The ghosts of his past and the demons of his own selfrighteousness returned in droves to splinter the bowers of his sleep, holding the pincers of punishments terrible and blood-curdling. The sinners and the infidels, whom he had held in contempt, torturing them to death, had come back, holding out the torches of nemesis in the bowl of ether. They were garlanded with light, molding their wounds into balls of fire and tossing them at his old and weak flesh with the swiftness of lightning. Aurangzeb’s limbs writhed in pain during the waking, slumbering hours of his rest, as if all the blows of cruelty dealt to others had ricocheted back to him, leaving him bruised and mangled. While his body suffered these intolerable agonies, his senses were honing their blades of vengeance to split open his ears, which had remained deaf to the cries of others. Saint Sarmad was there, unrolling thunder upon thunder of mirth from his naked body, and raining down coals of curses upon Aurangzeb’s head, the flames scorching the emperor’s face and beard. Shivaji was riding a chariot of fire, and tearing open the clouds in flashes of lightning. He was brandishing his sword of vengeance, and hacking off the limbs of the emperor with blows sharp and violent. Guru Tegh Bahadur was lowering his own furnace of anger from a cobweb of rainbows. He shot countless arrows from the quivers of his eyes, and punctured each cell in the emperor’s body into a sieve of wounds. A whole host of gods in the pantheon of fury and storm, their temples roofed with lightning, were hurling fire and brimstone over the fortress of Ahmadnagar. The palace was on fire, and the occupants of the royal household turned to dust and ashes. The tortures of hell and the nightmarish reality in Aurangzeb’s head made him toss and turn on his large bed, as if buffeted by storms wild and savage. A bed of nails was his resting abode, it seemed, and a wildfire of fever and delirium flowed limpid in his veins. The haze and stupor in his nightmares lifted a gossamer veil, revealing the form of love: the Taj Mahal. This monument of love pressed his bruised and bleeding limbs to its tender bosom. This cold marble dream with ethereal arms cradled his wounds, and licked the pain out of his mute, anguished cries with the lips of flowers, all jeweled and perfumed. But this reprieve was one dewdrop moment, fading into oblivion. The white marble of the Taj Mahal was

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crashing, its jewels flowering into wounds fresh, and writing down the names of his murdered brothers and kindred in the color of blood. All the royal brothers and nephews were coming alive from the wounded heart of marble. Their heads were severed and their eyes drunk with poust. All those heads created a wreath of a dance around Aurangzeb’s face, and poked it with needles sharp, as if carving the tapestry of doom and damnation. Aurangzeb’s hands, even in sleep, felt the pricks of these needles, and tried to ward off the ghosts of the past. Prince Dara Shikoh’s head, with eyes gentle and compassionate, was looming in the distance, haloed by sunshine. Your arrogance alone, Aurangzeb, is the cause of your agony and eternal damnation. Prince Dara Shikoh’s tone was sad and tender. Even one grain of arrogance has the potency to stick to the palate of any foe or friend, filling their mouths with bad taste, as if they are forced to swallow pellets of poison. Yet gaiety and kindness are like perfumes rare and precious, wafting forth the scent of friendship, delighting all, and comforting each soul with the wine of joy and bliss. A few moments of solitude teach one to— Prince Dara Shikoh’s head sailed away, aiming for a golden oriole of a planet, out of reach of the nightmarish reality of Aurangzeb. Aurangzeb, though bruised and battered in nightmares, caught each scene with wonder and fascination. Shah Jahan appeared, seated on his Peacock Throne, his gaze meeting the torture and torment in Aurangzeb’s eyes. The late emperor was rolling the pearls on his rosary, his lips moving in prayer. It was the same rosary which Aurangzeb had coveted while he imprisoned his father. Shah Jahan was smiling, though voicing in his rage that he would pound these pearls to dust before he relinquished them into the hands of his tyrant son. The word tyrant was a dance of mirth on Shah Jahan’s lips, his fingers moving on the rosary slowly and gently. Aurangzeb’s mother, Mumtaz Mahal, claimed her seat beside her husband; Shah Jahan’s look was tender and adoring. The queen was arrayed in all the glory of the heavens, as if seated near God’s throne and bathed in the light of bliss. Shah Jahan’s lips were parting in a crescent of a wounded smile. God is nearer to us than our jugular vein, my puritanic son. Didn’t you know that? Shah Jahan’s look was radiant and profound. Since everyone is born with a jugular vein, God is near us all, and the same God is within all of us. If we raise our hand to strike another, we are committing the very act of heresy to injure our own God. If we hate another, we are destroying the sanctity of Love which is God, for God is Love, and Light. And if we become the instrument of killing, we have

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tainted the purity of our own body and mind, shunning wisdom, and guided by ignorance. And if in rage, heeding the voice of cruelty, we have harmed but one soul, we have defiled the very altar of our homage where God dwells. I put these words into the mouth of sweet Udaipuri. His visage of splendor disintegrated. There was nothing left of Shah Jahan but a handful of gold dust. Mumtaz Mahal scooped this dust into her own white hands, and sprinkling it over her head. Her dark, plaited hair was dusted with gold and glitter. Her eyes fixed on Aurangzeb with the heartrending cry of a mother who had gone mad with grief at the death of her royal brood. Sadness upon sadness, Aurangzeb! Who counseled you to wear the noose of piety around your neck? Such ruin and devastation! Zeal and bigotry! Murdering your brothers, imprisoning your own father? Dogma alone has been your foe and tormentor. Dogma, you should have known, is preached by men of zeal, in the name of God. Distorting truth, and misinterpreting the message to suit one’s own passion for piety and power. She was floating away toward the Taj Mahal suspended in the clouds. Her robe of light was splattered with scarlet wounds, as if bearing the burden of the sins of the fallen and the condemned. Aurangzeb sank deep into the abyss of sleep, holding on to a boat of reeds as his hope for salvation. The night air was stifling. The murky waters of greed and ambition were lit by the radiance of the moon. His reed-boat was laden with the cargo of his sins and hatreds. Suddenly, the ocean, deep and profound, was churning a storm. The invisible victims of his tyranny were uttering cries of agony and horror. The bales of need and greed, from eternity to eternity, were Aurangzeb’s share too, dreams shattering in sleep, nightmares awakening. Another day! Today and tomorrow! Drugged with desires? Longing for the valley of peace in sleep! The emperor had seen the face of death, grotesque and gloating. Against the violence of another dawn, Aurangzeb awakened, body and soul. It seemed he was hurled to earth straight from the underworld to face the horror of death before returning to his final abode of torment everlasting. The face of dawn was livid and luminous, the voice of the muezzin sharp and threatening. Aurangzeb’s eyes were swollen and stinging. But he could see the chinks of light escaping the damasked drapes, his heart feeling an astonishing sense of peace and surrender. Aurangzeb was aware of the heat and silence in the room, his mind unfolding the sprig of the revelation that he was going to die this very day. This holy day! This blessed day of Friday! Aurangzeb’s thoughts murmured in comfort and disbelief. The astonishing sense of peace which he had felt upon awakening was still with him. It was lending him

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clairvoyance, worthy of saints and sinners both. Another revelation was fluttering open its wings: nature outside was brewing a storm most violent and devastating. Aurangzeb was cradled in the arms of sleep once again, the reed-boat of his thoughts posing no threats. It drifted away smoothly, carefree and guideless. The baptismal waters of healing were all around him, massaging his old limbs, and draining out all physical discomforts. His heart was light, singing songs and humming prayers. He wanted to get up and perform the rites of ablution before immersing himself in the ritual of prayer and supplication. But the dream-boat of his thoughts was straying, and stumbling over the waves of memories old and forgotten. Let green grass only conceal my grave Grass is the best covering of the grave of the meek

This couplet, written by Aurangzeb’s sister Princess Jahanara, was throbbing in his dream in the semblance of a pearl well-preserved, smooth and glowing. From the eyes of this pearl, vistas upon vistas of magic and mystery were unfolding. A strip of dry land with wisps of grass struggled to make its will known. Inside its parched womb was cradled a marble coffin, with the inlay of a single Kashmir Lily embedded in the green jade. This was the grave of Princess Jahanara in Delhi, its headstone adorned with the blooms of her own couplets. Her lone grave was screened by a filigree of marble, beyond which lay the great tomb of Nizmaudin Aulia, a Sufi saint revered by Emperor Akbar. Great Akbar! He was Aurangzeb’s great-grandfather, materializing beside the grave of Princess Jahanara in a flash. The resting abode of this Sufi Princess should have been the Taj Mahal. Emperor Akbar’s voice was loud and sonorous. He was looking into the eyes of Aurangzeb with warmth both sad and tender. Such warmth Aurangzeb, in his entire life, had not seen in the eyes of any living man! His heart was a volcano of grief all of a sudden, envisioning his Sufi sister inside the prison of the Jasmine Tower, along with his father, Shah Jahan. He could see her ministering to the needs of the ailing and imprisoned emperor with the tenderest of care and devotion. These royal prisoners seemed content, sharing the wisdom of the Sufis and the wealth of their solitude with couplets divine and awe inspiring. And I despised poetry as something dull and shallow, sheer vanity, evil and hollow? The dream-boat in Aurangzeb’s sleep was rocking itself to fever and delirium. Udaipuri, beloved! I silenced the music in her voice. Now I know what she meant! I killed the music in the whole empire. Edicts

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harsh and horrendous— His dreams were a shuddering reality, appealing to his beloved with tears of shame and penance. A blanket of silence and sadness was spread over the emperor’s heart, in dreams suffered, and in visions unsuffering. Guilt and loneliness were his strange companions. His love supreme, for Udaipuri alone, had fashioned oars of ice, chilling his dream-boat in the waters of sins terrible and sins unpardonable. Small whirlwinds, carrying cold gusts in their hearts, hovered above, whistling and frolicking. His own sons and daughters, spirits wild and restless! Prince Sultan Muhammed! Prince Akbar, Princess Zebunisa! All were dancing in a circle around the harp of death and darkness. Death and darkness were concealed behind the curtain of peace and salubrity as Aurangzeb prostrated himself in the ritual of morning prayers. In fact, the time for morning prayers was past gone when Aurangzeb awakened, afflicted with the fever of piety and penance. After his customary ritual of ablutions, he had fallen into a trance of compulsive prayers, the prayer-rug under him bearing the brunt of his recitations and supplications. The drapes in his room were drawn back, secured with golden tassels, admitting fresh air, but no sunshine. The morning was gray, with clouds scudding overhead, as if murmuring omens dark and disturbing. Aurangzeb was oblivious to the doom and gloom of nature outside his room, kneeling and prostrating and reciting the Kalima. This was how Udaipuri found him upon entering his room while he sat genuflected on his prayer-rug of silk-wool, absorbed in the litany of his prayers. “What do I hear, Your Majesty, ordering the mullahs to recite the Fatihah? Have you been praying like this all morning?” Udaipuri stood in the middle of the room under a spell of shock and bewilderment. “All the pains in your legs are gone then, and no fever?” She seemed suspended there in disbelief and abeyance. Aurangzeb lifted his head, straightening his back while sitting there crouched, his feet tucked under him, numb and chilled. Moving his head left and right three times, he murmured the Kalima again, and then lifted his gaze to Udaipuri. Stroking his beard with one hand and smoothing his white robe with the other, he watched his beloved in utter silence. The rills of pain and fever could still be seen burning in his eyes, all red and swollen. Udaipuri herself was dressed in white, diamonds dripping from her ears and glittering around her throat. Awe and agony surfaced in Aurangzeb’s eyes in rivulets bright and feverish. He was thinking that here was his beloved, all beauty and perfection, whom he had failed to cherish amidst the marshlands of his hatreds and cruelties.

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“God’s mercy! The unmitigated curse of life has been lifted from my shoulders, beloved. The emperor is to die today. This holy day of Friday! And to make this journey swift, I must pray and recite the Kalima. All my sins, they are with me, the torments of hell too. Pray for me, with me, before I die, after my death too.” His voice was a feeble murmur, an agony of a prayer. “Your Majesty, you are well and will live.” Udaipuri was still suspended in her own aura of light and purity. “Come, sweet angel, lend the emperor your hand and his staff. My legs are weak and numb,” Aurangzeb implored, his gaze now gilded with the haze of fear and delirium. Udaipuri was jolted out of her state of immobility, drifting toward the emperor as if sleepwalking. She supported him tightly while he clutched at his staff, and she managed to lay him down on the bed, his eyes now the pools of dream-oblivion. Udaipuri’s lips were sealed, her throat parched and hurting. Yet, she obeyed the commands of the emperor with utmost obedience, mute and disciplined. She seemed like a marionette, pulled by invisible strings, popping pillows behind the emperor’s back, and covering his legs with the velvet coverlets. As the emperor had instructed, she secured the pearl rosary into his trembling hands, falling back into her former state of shock and immobility. Aurangzeb’s fingers were spinning the pearls on his rosary in rhythm with his recitations, his gaze fixed on her in feverish devotion. He was repeating the words of the Kalima as if grinding the wheel of fate. The glacier of Udaipuri’s shock and bewilderment cracked open, her thoughts wild and singeing. “Your majesty. Why are you doing this?” Udaipuri’s flashing eyes broke the spell of the emperor’s piety. “Let me fetch you breakfast, your body needs nourishment.” Grief and despair alighted in her gaze. “The emperor needs only spiritual nourishment, my love. Don’t grieve. Stay. Pray for me.” Aurangzeb’s eyes were half closed. “Fetch Princess Satiunisa. The emperor must beg forgiveness—” His feeble request was swallowed by the churning of thunder outdoors, a bolt of lightning following. “You must eat, Your Majesty. Grow strong.” Udaipuri leaned over, her hand feeling the emperor’s brow. She could feel the chill of death under her moist palm, inhaling the odor of storm and dampness from outside. “La ilaha illa Llah—” Aurangzeb was muttering, his fingers moving slowly over the pearls of his rosary. “Your Majesty. Open your eyes! Look at me,” the desperate appeal was torn out of the ocean of Udaipuri’s fear and hopelessness.

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Another drum of thunder rolled down its terror, the tongue of lightning hissing and splitting. They were entering this chamber of death like the serpents of fate and nemesis. Princess Satiunisa, clothed in the raiments of fear and intuition, had come floating into the room, shuddering inwardly. She stood trembling by the great bed, hugging her mauve silks, unable to move or speak. Udaipuri had abandoned her head on the emperor’s chest, her hand groping for his pulse. “La Illaha illa Allah. Mohammed Ar Rusul Allah.” One last feeble murmur of this creed from Aurangzeb’s lips, and his fingers were limp. The rosary of pearls had slipped through his fingers, and his lips breathed no more prayers. A heartrending lament from the lips of Udaipuri was tossed into the clapping hands of the thunder and lightning. The fury of rain and storm was knocking at the windows of the dead and the living. It seemed that the clouds of death and doom were swirling around the fortress, lashing and stinging the very walls of the palace. A whirlwind with the speed of a hurricane was howling and shedding tears of rain, as if hell were let loose on earth. A shroud of darkness, thick as the Scythian night, lowered over the city of Ahmadnagar, its tear-streaked eyes pouring down rivers of hail and madness. Inside the palace of the Moghul tragedy, the puritan emperor lay dead, witnessing not the two defenseless forms in puddles of silks and diamonds, huddled together. They could hear the splitting and crackling sounds of the thunder and lightning, frightened by the maddening fury of the wind and the storm. The fury in the wind and the devastation of the rain were entering their own hearts, the rippling of pain in there much more savage than the violence in the heart of nature. Udaipuri buried her tear-stained face in the bosom of her young daughter, her lips unfolding consolations from the pages of the Diamond Sutra. “Thus shall ye think of all this fleeting world A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream A flash of lightning in a summer cloud A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.”

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Lane-Poole, Stanley. Aurangzib and the Decay of the Moghul Empire: Low Price Publications, 1930 —. Mediaeval India under Mohammedan Rule: Low Price Publications, 1903 Dunbar, Sir George. History of India from the Earliest Times to the Present Day: Low Price Publications, 1936 Srivastava, A. L. The Moghul Empire: Shive Lal Agarwal & Company, 1952 Joshi, Rekha. Aurangzeb: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers Pvt Ltd, 1979 Majumdar, R. C; Chaudhuri, J. N; Chaudhuri, S. The Mughul Empire: Bhaharatiya Vidya Bhavan, 1994 Bernier, Francois. Travels in the Moghul Empire: Low Price Publications, 1994 Warshaw, Steven. India Emerges: Dialto Press, 1998 Hansen, Waldmar. The Peacock Throne: Motilal Banarsidas, 1986 Harry, N. India and the Mughal Dynasty. Discoveries Series: Abrams Inc, 1976 Majundar, R. C. The History and Culture of Indian People: Bhaharatiya Vidya Bhavan, 1994 Early, Abraham. The Lives and Times of the Great Mughals: Viking, 1997 Amini, Iradj. The Koh-i-Noor Diamond: Roli Books, 1994

INDEX Abdal Wahhab,, 23, 52 Abul Hasan, 60, 61, 78, 103, 115, 116, 117, 124, 127, 128, 129, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 148 Afghanistan, 70, 72, 74, 171 Afghans, 44, 68, 69, 70, 72, 74, 75, 187 Afzal Khan, 11 Agra, 5, 13, 17, 25, 30, 31, 32, 41, 42, 52, 58, 61, 76, 87, 88, 96, 98, 173, 179, 188, 190, 200, 203, 204, 205, 206, 213 Ajit Singh, 73, 74, 79, 80, 89, 100, 101, 106, 187, 191 Ajmer, 22, 46, 54, 84, 86, 87, 88, 91, 92, 93, 98, 100, 101, 102, 104, 153 Akbar, 9, 13, 33, 34, 53, 54, 62, 68, 69, 72, 74, 80, 83, 84, 86, 88, 89, 93, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 104, 105, 106, 108, 109, 110, 111, 113, 114, 116, 124, 142, 143, 153, 154, 188, 217, 218 Allah, 12, 16, 21, 24, 30, 42, 52, 53, 64, 80, 81, 85, 93, 94, 104, 120, 122, 132, 134, 135, 139, 144, 147, 157, 158, 159, 175, 176, 184, 189, 200, 220 Asad Khan, 39, 43, 44, 46, 59, 68, 130, 141, 142, 148, 194 Audience Hall, 5, 16, 17, 18, 40, 41, 43, 54, 57, 98, 123, 136 Aurangabad, 206, 213 Aurangabadi Mahal Begum, 10, 13, 39, 83 Aurangzeb, iv, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48,

49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 67, 68, 69, 70,71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221 Azam,, 9, 72, 80, 132, 151, 211 Baroda., 206 Bengal, 44, 54, 60, 112, 114, 132, 165 Bidar Bakht, 132, 133, 141, 144, 154, 173, 182 Bijapur, 52, 55, 76, 84, 94, 97, 103, 112, 113, 114, 117, 118, 125, 127, 141, 144, 152, 163, 186, 192, 206, 207 Bombay, 192 Buland Akhtar, 154, 166 Chitor, 89, 91, 92, 93, 100, 101, 116 Danishmand Khan, 17, 18, 47, 48, 60, 182, 183, 190, 191

218 Dara Shikoh, 5, 45, 85, 97, 102, 109, 193, 215 Delhi, 17, 30, 40, 41, 42, 51, 55, 57, 67, 70, 71, 72, 73, 76, 79, 80, 86, 87, 98, 153, 164, 179, 189, 190, 217 Dilras Begum, 9 Durga Das, 73, 74, 80, 101, 106, 110, 116, 142, 153, 154, 155, 166, 170, 171, 173, 181, 187 Francois Brenier, 20, 40, 52, 60 Galgala, 151, 152, 154, 162, 171 Gauhara, 10, 206, 210 Giovanni Careri, 165 Golconda, iii, 53, 60, 61, 77, 78, 94, 97, 103, 115, 117, 118, 124, 125, 126, 127, 131, 132, 136, 141, 142, 144, 145, 146, 152, 163, 192 Guru Gobind Singh, iii, 55, 59, 78, 164, 169, 178, 179, 190, 191, 207 Guru Tegh Bahadur, 23, 41, 59, 78, 214 Hadith, 175, 176, 199 Hindus, 6, 33, 34, 35, 42, 44, 45, 56, 58, 63, 73, 76, 78, 85, 88, 147, 163, 175, 177, 178, 190, 212 Hindustan., 5, 20, 93, 146 imperialists, 32, 44, 45, 53, 54, 57, 59, 68, 69, 70, 73, 76, 79, 80, 98, 100, 101, 102, 110, 111, 117, 123, 127, 128, 131, 132, 133, 152, 164, 167, 171, 172, 179, 188, 191, 192, 204, 205, 206 Islam, iv, 12, 13, 15, 16, 18, 21, 23, 30, 35, 36, 39, 41, 42, 44, 55, 56, 63, 70, 77, 79, 81, 82, 85, 86, 91, 93, 94, 112, 114, 120, 121, 123, 129, 139, 143, 147, 148, 149, 155, 157, 159, 160, 164, 165, 169, 172, 175, 176, 177, 179, 181, 184, 187, 191, 198, 199, 201

Index Jahanara, 10, 12, 13, 40, 41, 42, 53, 63, 64, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 96, 97, 217 Jai Singh, 10, 22, 26, 32, 116 Jami Masjid, 51, 52 Jamna, 5, 7, 56 Jaswant Singh, 10, 32, 62, 70, 73, 79 Jihad, 175 Kam Bakhsh, 32, 33, 36, 37, 53, 73, 83, 131, 136, 137, 138, 141, 144, 151, 152, 156, 158, 187, 196, 197, 198, 207, 208, 211 Khalsa, 78, 180, 181 Khyber Pass, 68, 69, 73, 74, 75 Mahabat Khan, 43, 46, 47, 62, 68, 153 Malik Salih, 19 Malwa, 22, 100, 116, 153, 163, 187, 206, 207, 211 Maratha, 153, 158, 164, 171, 173, 182, 183, 187, 200, 203, 204, 206 Marhamat Khan, 18, 19, 21, 22 Marwar, 73, 74, 80, 81, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 92, 93, 100, 110, 116, 153, 154, 162, 179, 181, 183, 188 Mewar, 73, 80, 81, 87, 89, 92, 100, 154, 162, 188 Mihrunisa, 10, 11, 53, 210 Muazzam, 9, 10, 11, 32, 61, 71, 72, 80, 84, 85, 89, 93, 102, 111, 112, 116, 117, 118, 125, 127, 158, 164, 171, 187, 195, 207, 208 Muhammed Sultan, 9, 33, 71, 72 Muqarab Khan, 116, 143, 148, 171 Muslims, 12, 13, 33, 34, 41, 42, 53, 60, 62, 112, 120, 124, 139, 159, 160, 191, 208 Nawab Bai, 9, 11, 40, 83 Nawaz Khan, 23, 24, 61 Niccolao Manucci, 20, 40, 143, 145 Orissa, 25 Peacock Throne, iii, 5, 18, 26, 27, 38, 43, 57, 67, 74, 168, 215, 221

Inception of the British Raj Peshawar, 23, 44, 51, 52, 62, 68, 70 Prophet, 12, 23, 24, 43, 64, 85, 86, 120, 121, 140, 148, 159, 160, 161, 175, 176, 184, 186, 201, 202 Punjab, 59, 153, 164, 171, 179, 180, 188, 206 Quran, 12, 13, 15, 23, 24, 35, 41, 42, 48, 53, 85, 96, 112, 118, 122, 135, 138, 139, 140, 154, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 175, 177, 191, 198, 199, 200, 209 Rahullah Khan, 78, 128, 129, 132, 133, 148, 164, 178, 179, 180, 181 Raj Singh, 35, 89, 90, 91, 93, 100, 101, 106 Rajputs, 31, 59, 73, 80, 84, 85, 88, 89, 93, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 106, 109, 110, 112, 116, 153, 163, 182, 205, 206 Rajram, 94, 148, 153, 155, 156, 165, 171, 172, 173, 179, 182, 183, 186, 187 Ram Singh, 26, 27, 31, 32, 44, 45, 54 Roshanara, 10, 13, 53 Salimgarh, 9, 71, 105, 118, 119 Santa, 153, 163, 164, 173 Satiunisa, 15, 32, 37, 83, 131, 136, 137, 138, 157, 175, 197, 201, 207, 212, 213, 219, 220 Sattara, 169, 171, 172, 173, 178, 179, 186, 187 Shah Burj, 5 Shambhuji, iii, 6, 12, 26, 32, 44, 76, 77, 97, 101, 116, 123, 124, 125, 130, 141, 143, 145, 146, 148, 149, 150, 152, 153, 161, 183, 188, 192 Sheikhul Aslam, 23, 45, 79, 112, 166, 167 Shias, 44, 112, 120

219

Shivaji, iii, 6, 7, 10, 11, 12, 17, 24, 26, 27, 30, 31, 32, 33, 44, 46, 52, 53, 58, 59, 70, 71, 72, 76, 77, 78, 84, 94, 183, 214 Siddi Kamil, 20 Sikander Shah, 84, 103, 112, 114, 115, 117, 123, 124, 125 Sikhs, 41, 42, 52, 55, 56, 59, 63, 78, 82, 173, 177, 178, 182, 186, 187, 190, 191, 205, 206 Surat, 44, 52, 192 Taj Mahal, 5, 7, 61, 87, 97, 149, 200, 206, 214, 215, 216, 217 temples, 12, 16, 20, 41, 45, 56, 58, 63, 73, 78, 81, 86, 87, 90, 91, 93, 94, 95, 122, 141, 143, 156, 159, 161, 162, 163, 208, 214 Tibet, 22 Udaipur, 58, 88, 89, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 100, 116 Udaipuri, iii, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 13, 14, 15, 16, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 36, 37, 38, 39, 48, 50, 52, 64, 65, 66, 67, 69, 70, 81, 83, 84, 86, 87, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 98, 105, 106, 107, 114, 115, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 126, 131, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 145, 151, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 184, 188, 193, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 207, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220 Zabdatunisa, 9, 11 Zebunisa, 9, 11, 12, 37, 39, 40, 54, 74, 80, 83, 84, 86, 95, 96, 99, 103, 104, 105, 118, 119, 158, 187, 218 Zulfiqar Khan, 61, 62, 131, 142, 143, 153, 155, 156, 164, 171, 189, 190