Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) by Gupta Ruchir Page A
Authors: Gupta Ruchir
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got up, went over to her jewel-studded cabinet and moved her jewels from one of the shelves. She found behind them a small black box, returned to Aurangzeb’s side and handed it to him. She said, “Open it and see what’s inside – but don’t touch it.”
Aurangzeb slowly opened the lid from the box and found a few brown stands of hair inside; but obeying Ami’s instructions, he didn’t touch them. He said, “What are these, Ami?”
“This is the most valuable treasure in the world, one passed down to me by my mother and to her from hers. I want no one else to have it because I don’t think anyone but you would treasure it with the respect it deserves. These are actual strands from the beard of the Prophet.”
“Mohammed?”
“Yes, the Prophet Mohammed. Before he died, he gave a few strands of his beard to each of his disciples. Few people today still have the originals; you are now one of them.”
Aurangzeb looked awestruck at what he was being given. Never before, I presume, had he been given any gift of true personal value to him – he thought his father’s riches worthless.
“But son,” Ami added, “you must promise me this: Now that you have these, you will never do anything that violates the Prophet’s teachings ever again. You will never hurt any Hindu or Christian or non-believer, ever. Promise me!”
“I promise, Ami,” cried Aurangzeb, and he hugged Ami for the priceless present he’d been given. “I’ll never do anything to harm anyone, I promise.”
4
THE EVIL HAND
3 rd September, 1629
A mi closed her eyes, placed her palms before her, and began to utter words softly aloud so I could faintly hear them as I sat beside her. “Allah, hear my prayers: Please help me make Aurangzeb a better person.”
I opened my eyes and looked at her. Her demeanour had been sad for the past several weeks, and I knew why: She’d suffered another miscarriage, and with each of these, Ami had told me she felt as though she herself was dying. Were all these miscarriages a prelude to something much more serious and tragic? Keenly aware of her own mortality, she began immersing herself in service to the unfortunate, perhaps hoping that helping those in need would absolve her of any sin she might have committed, and that she’d be granted a long and prosperous life, alongside her first love – Aba.
Now she prayed: “You’ve taken seven of my children, I’ve never questioned your will, and I don’t dare do so now. But, Creator of this World, understand a mother’s anguish at watching her child take the path of evil. To watch as your child, whom you’ve held and hugged and kissed, walks the path of injustice is unthinkable. Give this peasant servant of yours this one wish: Take my life, but spare Aurangzeb’s soul!”
I looked at my mother in surprise, but then quickly closed my eyes and resumed my own prayer. I couldn’t bear the thought oflosing my Ami, the anchor that held everything together. If there was one person against whom no one in the family had any complaint – not even Nur Jahan – it was Ami. Her leaving this world would be a disaster not only for me, but the entire imperial household. I began to pray more fervently, hoping that my prayer and not my mother’s would be answered.
“Please take
me
, Allah,” I pleaded in my mind. “Take all my riches, and let me live my life in the mud huts on the far side of Agra, and give me a painful death. Deny me any children and any love, and I will still say my life has been blessed. But please spare my mother. Don’t let her die!”
On the far side of Agra were districts where the peasants lived in simple huts made only of mud and straw. These would often disappear during extreme weather, as the wind and rains washed the inhabitants into the river along with their homes and belongings. While the nobles were often rewarded with hundreds of acres of lands and cavalry, the peasants, the backbone of our revenue system, toiled all day in
Aurangzeb slowly opened the lid from the box and found a few brown stands of hair inside; but obeying Ami’s instructions, he didn’t touch them. He said, “What are these, Ami?”
“This is the most valuable treasure in the world, one passed down to me by my mother and to her from hers. I want no one else to have it because I don’t think anyone but you would treasure it with the respect it deserves. These are actual strands from the beard of the Prophet.”
“Mohammed?”
“Yes, the Prophet Mohammed. Before he died, he gave a few strands of his beard to each of his disciples. Few people today still have the originals; you are now one of them.”
Aurangzeb looked awestruck at what he was being given. Never before, I presume, had he been given any gift of true personal value to him – he thought his father’s riches worthless.
“But son,” Ami added, “you must promise me this: Now that you have these, you will never do anything that violates the Prophet’s teachings ever again. You will never hurt any Hindu or Christian or non-believer, ever. Promise me!”
“I promise, Ami,” cried Aurangzeb, and he hugged Ami for the priceless present he’d been given. “I’ll never do anything to harm anyone, I promise.”
4
THE EVIL HAND
3 rd September, 1629
A mi closed her eyes, placed her palms before her, and began to utter words softly aloud so I could faintly hear them as I sat beside her. “Allah, hear my prayers: Please help me make Aurangzeb a better person.”
I opened my eyes and looked at her. Her demeanour had been sad for the past several weeks, and I knew why: She’d suffered another miscarriage, and with each of these, Ami had told me she felt as though she herself was dying. Were all these miscarriages a prelude to something much more serious and tragic? Keenly aware of her own mortality, she began immersing herself in service to the unfortunate, perhaps hoping that helping those in need would absolve her of any sin she might have committed, and that she’d be granted a long and prosperous life, alongside her first love – Aba.
Now she prayed: “You’ve taken seven of my children, I’ve never questioned your will, and I don’t dare do so now. But, Creator of this World, understand a mother’s anguish at watching her child take the path of evil. To watch as your child, whom you’ve held and hugged and kissed, walks the path of injustice is unthinkable. Give this peasant servant of yours this one wish: Take my life, but spare Aurangzeb’s soul!”
I looked at my mother in surprise, but then quickly closed my eyes and resumed my own prayer. I couldn’t bear the thought oflosing my Ami, the anchor that held everything together. If there was one person against whom no one in the family had any complaint – not even Nur Jahan – it was Ami. Her leaving this world would be a disaster not only for me, but the entire imperial household. I began to pray more fervently, hoping that my prayer and not my mother’s would be answered.
“Please take
me
, Allah,” I pleaded in my mind. “Take all my riches, and let me live my life in the mud huts on the far side of Agra, and give me a painful death. Deny me any children and any love, and I will still say my life has been blessed. But please spare my mother. Don’t let her die!”
On the far side of Agra were districts where the peasants lived in simple huts made only of mud and straw. These would often disappear during extreme weather, as the wind and rains washed the inhabitants into the river along with their homes and belongings. While the nobles were often rewarded with hundreds of acres of lands and cavalry, the peasants, the backbone of our revenue system, toiled all day in
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