His vision of peace, even with his violent death at hand, made me frantic with the fear of losing him. “Dara!” I shrieked above the clamor. He turned to me and I saw that his face was bruised and swollen. He tried to respond, but a melon rose toward Suleiman, and Dara threw himself in front of it. His son wailed, maddening me, as he was only thirteen and guilty of nothing.
“Free the child!” I screamed.
Aurangzeb spun in his saddle and motioned to a man riding beside me. The warrior laughed and used the side of his hand to strike my throat. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My neck burned and I gasped, finally managing to draw air through my nose. As I did, he slapped me.
Despite my brother’s dream of harmony between our people, and even though I also abhorred the idea of Hindus fighting Muslims, at that moment, may Allah forgive me, I wanted the multitudes of Hindus to rise up and overwhelm Aurangzeb and his men. I wanted our captors dead and their corpses dragged through offal.
The elephant bearing Dara and Suleiman was guided down the street. Thousands of people followed us, jeering Aurangzeb or proudly waiving his banners. We soon came to a square where a bloodstained block of wood lay on a raised platform. A muscle-bound slave stood on this stage, a massive sword in his hands. Dara was knocked from the elephant and carried toward the executioner. My brother nodded to me, tears in his eyes, and yelled good-bye to his son.
My world began to spin.
“My brother, Prince Dara,” Aurangzeb shouted, “is guilty of heresy! And in accordance to our laws, he shall be put to death!”
I leapt from my horse and ran through Aurangzeb’s warriors until I reached Dara. He whispered my name as I threw my arms around him. “Go to God,” I said before being torn from him. Aurangzeb’s men tossed me to the ground and one kicked my thigh. At this sight, even Muslims grew restless, for nobles and commoners alike knew me and didn’t appreciate seeing me mistreated. Angry threats ensued, as did calls to release me. Aurangzeb sensed the changing mood and came down from his horse to pull me up.
“Please, please, show him mercy,” I cried, but he twisted from me and nodded to his men. They dragged Dara to the executioner’s block, placing his head on the wood. Dara turned toward Mecca and I saw his lips quiver. I prayed with him, prayed so hard and fiercely that I trembled. I sobbed as I prayed, pleading with Allah to bring Dara swiftly through the gates of Paradise.
I didn’t see the blade as it rose, but saw instead images of us as children. We rode a pony together. I dressed him in Mother’s clothing, draping jewels about his neck. I swam with him, laughed with him, caught fireflies with him. Always he was kind to me. And always did he love me.
I closed my eyes as the sword fell, holding these images in my mind. A heavy thud of steel upon wood boomed and the crowd wept and roared.
The thud came again and I knew Dara’s son was dead also.
I fell to my knees, crying as I’d never cried as a child, weeping as only an adult could. For I had seen the light of my brother, and now, in his absence, the world was cloaked in darkness.
The darkness followed me like a shadow.
Later that day I was shoved into Father’s room, where he lay feverish on a horse blanket with his tunic tightly drawn about him. How he still lived was astounding but not miraculous, for I believed in no miracles that afternoon. He was asleep and I stumbled to him, dropping to the stone floor. I edged toward him until our bodies touched. He mumbled incoherently, his face very old.
Through my tears I gazed at our octagonal cell, perhaps twelve paces across. Nothing resided in the room save Father’s blanket and a chamber pot. Seven of its eight windows had been covered in wooden planks. Between bars freshly set within the eighth window could be seen the Taj Mahal, serene and brilliant in the sun.
The view reminded me of Isa, and I wondered again what he and Arjumand were doing. How incomplete I felt in their absence, as if the best parts of me had been stolen away and buried deeply within the Earth. I didn’t even need to talk to them, but simply to hear her laugh and hold his hand. I’d gladly have been beaten senseless for that instant of pleasure, though my lip still throbbed and my thigh ached. How long, I asked Allah, until I see them? A week? A year? Never?
My tears seemed infinite as I sniffed and hugged Father. I held him. I gave him warmth and he gave me strength. At last he opened his eyes, his face tightening with consternation when he recognized my mood. “What, my child, has happened?” he asked feebly. My voice in tatters, I told him all that had befallen us, starting with the battle and ceasing with the execution. I think he was too numbed to cry, for he simply closed his eyes and held me closer. “How I have failed,” he said. “I sought to create peace, and now…and now my son has killed his brother.”
“He felt no pain,” I mumbled.
Father nodded, and the lines on his face seemed to deepen. “Such a loss. For us. And for Hindustan. Only Dara could have truly brought our people together.”
“He wanted nothing more.”
Father grimaced, coughed and then whispered, “What of Isa and Arjumand?”
“They fled south, to Allahabad.”
A silence dawned and wouldn’t go. At length, Father lamented, “I’d like…to see your mother in Paradise.”
“She waits for you. With Dara.”
“Should I go to them now?”
I knew he wanted to but shook my head. “Mother would disapprove. She’d say that the Empire needs you more than you need her.”
“But what, my child, can a monkey do in its cage?”
I swatted away a fly that had landed on his bare head. He looked odd without his turban. What scant locks he possessed were the same iron-gray shade as his beard. I studied the signs of age on his face. My thoughts seemed distant, though, as if strangers in a crowd. “He can help,” I finally replied, “his daughter become a better woman.”
“She needs no help in that.”
I hugged him and we rested. I must have slept, for when I next opened my eyes, Aurangzeb, Ladli, Khondamir and a young woman stood in our cell. Aurangzeb was dressed in orange, while Ladli, oddly enough, wore a yellow robe instead of a sari. Khondamir’s belly stretched a leather jerkin, and his silk shirt and pants were equally filled. He was in the midst of devouring an oily drumstick. His companion, a girl of maybe fourteen, and as pretty as a butterfly, was clad in a transparent robe and shirt.
“A gift,” Aurangzeb said, setting Dara’s head on the floor. My older brother’s eyes were open and his face was frozen in horror. I retched at the sight and might have fainted if not for my aching body.
Father tried to rise but could hardly move. “Why? Why, Aurangzeb?” he wailed. “You could have banished him, imprisoned him, let him flee to Persia!”
“A fool, like you, would let an enemy flee. But I’m no fool.”
“You…you cannot be my son. For you are a coward and a villain…and no such blood flowed in your mother’s veins.”
Aurangzeb appeared to tremble. “Understand, fool,” he said, avoiding Father’s eyes, “that you’ll never leave this cell. I won’t kill you, for Islam forbids a son to kill a father. But you’ll die here. Die looking at her grave, die wishing you were with her.”
As much as Father must quail at such words, he sat taller. “Better to die here than to watch you destroy the Empire.”
My brother shrugged, as if Father’s opinion was now mere dust upon him. His gaze swung to me. “Did you know, sinner, that your old friend converted to the True Faith?”
I looked to Ladli in wonder, for though I realized she had done this deed only to further grace herself with Aurangzeb, I found her sacrifice surprising. She had always so loved her gods. “A mistake,” I finally replied, staring at her, avoiding Dara’s face. Impossible to think of my brother now. To think of him would break me.
“You,” Ladli retor
ted, “aren’t worth the pot Alamgir pisses in.”
Khondamir dropped his bone and laughed. “Once perhaps. But you do wither quickly. There’d be little pleasure in bedding you now.”
Though already thirty-one, I believed I was still modestly attractive. But his words stung nonetheless. And I was tired of pain. Father started to reply, but my voice rose above his. “What does your plaything think, Khondamir, of that twig you call your manhood? Or has your belly always hidden it from her?”
Khondamir started forward to hit me, but Aurangzeb shouted at him to stop. “Strike her later,” he ordered. “Nobles, certain powerful nobles, will come calling here. And I don’t want them thinking that our guests were mistreated.”
“But, my lord, as her husband—”
“Have your way with her in time,” Aurangzeb countered. “In a month, sell the sinner to a brothel. Or leave her naked in the desert. But for now, she’ll remain as such.”
“A brothel?” Khondamir repeated elatedly, wiping his greasy hands on his jerkin. “But she’d sell for so little.”
It had been years since I saw Aurangzeb laugh, but laugh is what he did now. And so I stood and took a step toward him, my sorrow turning quickly to rage. “I’ll always pray for you,” I said, “for you killed your brother, and you’ll never, never enter the gates of Paradise, as he has already.”
“Better to pray for yourself, sinner. You won’t last long in this world.”
I moved closer, until a hand’s breadth separated us. Looking up at him, I retorted, “If I should die, Aurangzeb, or if Father should die, know that a cobra will be placed in your bed. Know that it will strike you, and that you’ll die horribly.”
He stepped back. “A cobra? You lie.”
“Do you think that I have no friends? No spies among your men who would delight in slaying you? You child! You simple, witless child! I’ve always known this day might come, and yet you think I took no precautions. Am I such a fool?” His face twitched, and he glanced about, almost as if he was looking for cobras. I remembered only then that a gardener had once been bitten by one and, as children, we watched as the man, crazed with pain and terror, hacked off his poisoned foot. “If you wish to test my words, kill me tonight,” I dared. “But know that tomorrow, or the next day, a cobra will draw your blood.”
“Kill the bitch now,” Khondamir said, edging toward me.
“Silence!” Aurangzeb roared. His chest rose and fell as he massaged his temples. He seemed to be in sudden agony, as if my words were hornets in his head. “If it’s true, why not kill me tomorrow?” he asked suddenly. “Kill me and all your problems are naught!”
“Because, Aurangzeb, unlike you, I am no murderer! But if I should die it won’t be my hands that take your life. No, I’ll be drinking wine in Paradise with Dara and Mother when you soil yourself.”
Khondamir edged forward. “Let me sell her. Let me carve out her tongue.”
I could see the fear in my brother’s eyes and felt myself reeling in this unexpected power. How I hated these men! How they would destroy all that was noble to satiate their pathetic desires. “Did you know, Khondamir,” I hissed, “that Arjumand isn’t of your blood?” His face whitened and I continued relentlessly. “You think that twig of yours could ever lay but dead seeds? Do you—”
He screamed, his blow coming so fast that I had no time to react. It further split my lip and I fell. Aurangzeb cursed, throwing Khondamir from me. Yet I was unfinished. “How I laughed when you were upon me,” I raged, spitting blood. “I imagined you as a goat and found the image quite pleasing!”
“Silence, woman! Be silent or I’ll—”
“What?” I shrieked at my brother. “You’ll murder me, in front of our people, as you did Dara? You’ll create a thousand more enemies? A thousand more men who’d like to stick a blade through that stone you call a heart? No, Aurangzeb, you will do nothing! Because if we’re hurt, then my cobra will strike. And we’ll hear your pitiful wailing from our perches in Paradise!”
His fist caught me in the stomach and I doubled over, gasping for breath. The agony was so enormous that I couldn’t speak. My anger ebbed quickly, replaced by pain. Aurangzeb spat on me, pushed his companions from the room, and locked the door behind him. Father moaned, crawling toward me. He collapsed, and we lay together, with aching bodies and minds.
I wondered if I were in hell.
“Rest, my child,” Father said weakly.
The Qur’an is wrong, I thought dimly, for It says that hell is for the dead, and yet I, still breathing, am surely in its bowels.
Chapter 18
Curse of the Living
Time spent caged ceases to feel like time. It’s more akin to a long bout of illness, debilitating and wretched.
My first days in the Musamman Burj were dominated by an overwhelming sense of doom. As the dawns passed, I grew increasingly despondent, sleeping as much as possible, often rising only when lunch was served. I made no effort to comb my hair or bathe every day. Instead, I stood by the window and gazed at the Taj Mahal, thinking of Isa and Arjumand. I mused over each memory I possessed, each conversation I could reproduce. Constantly I lamented lost opportunities, moments when I’d been too busy to see my daughter, or too tired to secretly walk to Isa’s home. I cursed myself mercilessly for these failings.
I had always been an active woman, but my imprisonment stole my energy as a hot day might. To be truthful, I was a feeble woman then, and if not for Father’s health I might have simply shriveled up and blown away. But he was ill, and he needed my help. And so with what little resolve I maintained, I focused on him. I fed him soup, I bathed him each night and I cleaned up his mishaps. And gradually, so gradually that I could hardly discern it, he improved. I doubted he would ever be the man he once was, but some of his strength returned and his body went from gaunt to merely thin.
Two weeks into our imprisonment, perhaps a little more, Aurangzeb revisited our cell. He was upset, his mouth twitching with apprehension as he opened a sack and let a dead cobra fall to the floor. Shuddering, he kicked it toward me. Between his shouts, he hissed that it had been placed alive in his bed. The serpent’s fangs had been removed and it couldn’t bite him, but when Ladli’s screams awoke him, he bellowed for his men to kill it. Though shocked by this revelation, I pretended to be pleased, as if the scare had been my doing. I quickly deduced that Ladli, quite incredibly, had set the serpent within her bed so that Aurangzeb would believe my warning and leave me in peace.
Aurangzeb threatened me with his blade that day, but he was clearly afraid to kill me. In his paranoia over the snake, he had all his bodyguards executed and he replaced these men with others he trusted. Yet he trusted no one enough to murder me, for he believed that if I were to die, he would follow.
Perhaps to protect himself from me, perhaps to quench his insatiable thirst for war, Aurangzeb left Agra and marched northwest to attack the Rajputs. These warriors inhabited the Thar Desert, a wasteland far removed from Agra that had long been home to clans of Hindu warriors comprising the Rajput kingdoms.
Like the Deccans, the Rajputs warred against us for independence and were some of the fiercest fighters in Hindustan. They never fled an engagement and fought to the death wearing crimson-colored robes— they believed red was the color of holiness. If defeat was imminent, Rajput warriors swallowed opium and charged their enemies. Their wives and children subsequently performed the rite of jauhar, burning themselves alive rather than being captured and dishonored by their foes.
Aurangzeb marched into the Thar Desert with twenty thousand men, leaving the bulk of his forces to deal with the rising threat of the Persians. After the moon waned and waxed, we heard stories of my brother’s victories. Though he lost a quarter of his troops, Aurangzeb razed several Rajput strongholds. The heads of their men were piled together to form grisly mountains. The ashes of their wom
en and children coated sand dunes black.
Often I felt like sharing the fate of the Rajput women. How much easier death would have been, even a fiery death such as theirs, than living in my cage. But death wouldn’t bring me Isa or Arjumand. And so I lived.
Father did his best to buoy my spirits, engaging me whenever my mood became too despondent. Fortunately, his mind was still keen and we whispered of all things. His secrets became mine, and mine his. I even told him of Ladli.
One afternoon, as I stared unmoving through our barred window toward the Taj Mahal, he said, “At first, I feared that Aurangzeb would destroy it. But not now. Our people would turn against him.”
I continued to gaze at Mother’s mausoleum. We were still in the monsoon season and a storm raged. Though I had made curtains for the window, I’d pulled them aside, as the driving rain against my face reminded me of better times. I eased my robe down and let the water splatter against my neck and shoulders.
“Jahanara?”
I turned toward his voice, my gaze swinging across our cell, which bore little resemblance to its former decrepitude. Now we had carpets, mirrors, racks of clothes, cushions, a washbasin, candles and plates of fresh food. I had hung tapestries and paintings upon the walls, and even nailed a portrait of Mother to the wooden door.
All these goods were gifts from influential nobles. Aurangzeb was wise enough to understand that he shouldn’t deny us certain comforts, for we had visitors most days, and such men might be angered if our imprisonment was too harsh. After all, Father had many friends—nobles capable of understanding a son overthrowing his father, but not a son tormenting the man who had given him life.
“Can you hear me, Jahanara?”