The Feast of Roses (29 page)

Mehrunnisa suggested his name, and Jahangir agreed. Prince Khurram had not been tried on the battlefield yet, but he was a royal prince and had some notion of how to command an army, or if he did not, he would learn.

So Khurram left for Mewar.

He was sent away with many gifts of elephants, horses, and silks. Khurram did not take Arjumand with him, because she was pregnant yet again, with their third child. Mehrunnisa did not talk with Khurram about Ladli, and he said nothing to her either. But she wanted him to think, and deprived of Arjumand’s nearness, he might begin to think that Ladli would make a good wife also. Mehrunnisa had paid heed to Siddhicandra’s warning that a man’s decision was made at his own will, but she did not believe in it too much. If anything, Arjumand was too much like her, and had—this Mehrunnisa admitted to herself just once—as much of a hold on Khurram as she had on Jahangir.

She remembered Jahangir’s words too, that he had three other sons. Yet, when a problem of such magnitude as Mewar presented itself, who did they turn to? Why then even consider those other three sons as possible husbands for Ladli? No, it must be Khurram. How it would come about, Mehrunnisa did not know.

The court had been at Agra for many years now, mostly because it had not been necessary to move. But now Jahangir decided to shift to Ajmer, north of Mewar, to be near Prince Khurram’s campaign. The entire city of Agra emptied. Houses were shut up, and furniture drenched in
neem
oil to keep away white ants and termites. The bazaars closed down as the traders went with the court.

Now all eyes turned toward Mewar. If Khurram successfully routed Rana Amar Singh, the empire would be rid of this forty-nine-year scourge. But more importantly, given his suddenly tenuous relationship with Mehrunnisa, he needed support from other quarters.

I
t was no unusual thing for the Mughal Emperors to pack their belongings and move away from one place to another, spending months and perhaps years on the road. In their hearts, the Emperors were wanderers. Emperor Babur had been a nomad chieftain, much like his ancestors, Timur the Lame and Gengiz Khan. It was not until the last four years of his life that his household had taken root in India, where he finally laid out gardens and started to build a fort. His son Humayun had much less time. He was driven out of India by the Afghan kings Babur had displaced, and
his
son Akbar had grown up thus, living in a tent, not knowing in the morning where he would lay his head at night.

So when Akbar came to the throne he started to build. Foundations were laid, entire cities were born—at Agra, at Fatehpur Sikri, at Delhi and Lahore, and at Kabul and Kashmir. Akbar was leaving his mark on India’s map.
This
was what his empire would stand for, these magnificent creations of sandstone and marble, this rerouting of rivers to form vistas from terraces, this moving of the earth from one spot to another. This was the glory of the Mughal kings.

But somewhere in Akbar’s blood too lurked that gypsy gene. He set down roots in all these major cities of India, and moved from one to another as he wished. Summers were spent in the lush coolness of Kabul and Kashmir, winters were sometimes at Lahore and sometimes at Agra, and Fatehpur Sikri, of course, was abandoned early on. This traveling became so established a routine that for the first few years of his reign, Jahangir followed it, deviating only when Khusrau’s rebellion took him to Lahore earlier in the year than expected.

The Mughal Emperor was, in many senses, the empire itself. Where he sat, the throne stood, his voice alone directed the lives of the hundred and thirty million people within the empire. So when Emperor Jahangir decided to go to Ajmer, the soul of the empire moved with him.

When Jahangir’s great-grandfather was a mere chieftain in Kabul, his camp packed up in a few short hours, and everything—the tents, the cooking vessels, the water jars, the women, the children, the horses and camels and goats for milk—was transferred to another site in a day or two’s travel.

Things were no longer that simple. When Emperor Jahangir traveled, the court and the harem traveled with him. The imperial army came along too. The royal tents were elaborate now, no longer made of canvas but of silk and wood and embroidery in gold
zari,
standing at two or even three stories high.

A few days before Jahangir and Mehrunnisa set out toward Ajmer with their retinue, the
Paish-khana,
or advance camp, left Agra, traveling the route to be taken by the Emperor. There was no question of Jahangir waiting while the tents were pitched, so there were two identical sets of tents made. One, the
Paish-khana,
traveled before the Emperor, found a suitable spot, and set up the camp, awaiting the arrival of the entourage. After a stay of a few days, the royal party would move on to the next site and would find all in readiness of their arrival.

The caravan was so massive, consisting of camels, horses, elephants, goats, and cows along with the numerous humans, that it traveled only eight miles a day. Whole villages came out to watch. Children would wake early in the morning to line up along the road, sitting on rocks with a jute parasol over their heads, an earthenware jar of cool water beside them, rice and
ber
fruit pickle wrapped in
banyan
leaves to keep hunger at bay. This was how they entertained themselves for the eight hours it took for the entire procession, from head to tail, to pass where they sat.

The Mir Manzil, or Quarter-Master of the court, was in charge during journeys. It was his responsibility to scout the area and find a flat piece of ground suitable for encampment. Once found, the land was marked out into a rectangle and the ground leveled painstakingly. Then, large platforms of earth were raised to pitch the tents. The entire rectangle was enclosed by a
gulabar,
or the grand enclosure. Huge wooden frames, eight feet in height, covered by red calico cloth printed with reproductions of vases of flowers, were erected all around, forming an enclosed area. For purposes of security, while the Emperor was in residence, the imperial army surrounded three sides, and the fourth contained the offices and workshops of the court.

In the main courtyard of the encampment, a large pole, forty yards high, was set up, supported upright by sixteen ropes pegged to the ground. On top of this pole was a large lantern. This was the
Akhash-diya,
or the light in the sky. It was visible from miles around at night and helped guide soldiers and hunting parties to the imperial campsite. It burned all through the day and night, and ladders were used to climb to the top to feed the fire.

On the eastern side, a two-story pavilion made of canvas and wood was erected, which formed the
Diwan-i-khas.
This was the place for
jharoka
during travel, and Jahangir went there daily for his morning prayers. A smaller tent, the
ghusl-khana,
or private audience room, was erected inside the enclosure where the Emperor and Empress gave audience in the evenings. Beyond the
ghusl-khana
were the royal tents, enclosed by a set of screens lined with Maslipatnam chintz and painted with colorful flowers.

Behind the Emperor’s tents were the
zenana
quarters. Mehrunnisa, as the Padshah Begam, occupied the most important spot. Spiraling outward from her tent were the dwellings of the other ladies of the harem, each distanced according to her status and title. The floors of the tents were spread with thick reed and cotton mats and then covered with Persian carpets and divans. Each tent also had ornate wooden doors. Finally, on one side of the royal encampment, the merchants and traders accompanying the Emperor set up their shops and bazaars.

The camp was enormous; each set of tents required for its transport a hundred elephants, five hundred camels, four hundred carts, one hundred mules and a hundred bearers. The elephants carried the heaviest equipment, large tents and poles. The smaller tents and luggage were borne by camels, and mules and carts transported kitchen utensils. The bearers carried the lighter and more valuable items; porcelain and gold plates used at the Emperor’s meals and the delicate curtains and rugs that adorned the royal tents.

The imperial harem traveled in
howdahs
strapped onto the backs of elephants. Each
howdah
was made of gold, silver, or wood, decorated with precious stones and screened with silks and satins. The ladies also traveled by palanquin, a long bamboo bed covered by satin or brocade, carried by bearers.

•  •  •

Prince Khurram arrived in Mewar at the head of an army of twelve thousand infantry and cavalry. Along the way, as they rode hard from Agra, he consulted with his commanders, listened to their advice, and did what he thought was important. Even before he had left Agra, he had ordered an army of five thousand men to fly across the empire to Mewar. Most of these men were not soldiers; they were scouts and spies. Trained in the imperial army for this purpose, the men had chameleon-like, movable, and forgettable faces. They spoke almost every language in the empire—their gurus had been brought in especially to teach them the intonations and inflections and mannerisms of each dialect. The spies had no wives or children, no families who could lay claim upon them. The army was their life, the Emperor their only master.

By the time Khurram arrived near Mewar, the spies had done their jobs well. Many now lived in the surrounding villages and towns, mingled with the local people, heard their stories, and learned about Rana Amar Singh’s exploits. It was almost impossible to invade the land around the Pichola lake. The Rana had set up outposts in a fifteen-mile radius around the lake, and mines had been dug into the hard, flat ground. The imperial army’s abandoned cannons, now in Amar Singh’s possession, would be used to ignite the mines. The earth was so flat here that even at night Prince Khurram’s army would announce its arrival long before they were within fighting distance.

The prince again listened to counsel from his commanders. He was enraged at how effectively the Rana had fettered his hands. Mewar had been ignored for too long, much longer than a simple conquest of the palace at Pichola Lake—it would have taken Amar Singh’s men months to lay the mines. The plans had been in place for a long time, first the mines were set, then the existing imperial army was driven off, leaving behind their cannons and muskets, firepower without which the gunpowder under the earth would be harmless.

Mirza Aziz Koka, Prince Khusrau’s father-in-law, had been left here, in command of the army that had so shamefully lost Mewar. When Khurram arrived, Koka tried to tell him what to do, what plan of action to follow, how to lay out the campaign. They fought bitterly with each other, and Khurram wrote to Jahangir asking that Koka be removed from the scene of the battle. The message came to the Emperor while he was still on his way to Ajmer, and Jahangir agreed, ordering Koka to meet up with the traveling court and explain his side of the story.

Then Khurram and his men set about methodically ravaging the countryside around Mewar. Villages that had supported Amar Singh, either this time or in the past, were destroyed. Prince Khurram gave the people fair warning to leave; he did not order the villagers harmed. Mango and guava orchards were burned down, and only blackened stumps stood where once lush greenery had provided shelter for the parrots and fruit to fill empty stomachs. Villagers who had not heeded Khurram’s commands were driven from their homes. Imperial elephants demolished their brick-and-mud houses. Wells were filled in, or poison was added to the water. The wheat and rice fields were burned. The army smashed old Hindu temples that had stood for centuries. For days, smoke smoldered in the air, darkening the skies, until the winds came to blow it away.

From his newly acquired fortress on the banks of the Pichola, Amar Singh watched this destruction. He heard the cries of the villagers and their curses against him. Was this destruction, this absolute annihilation, this loss of their property, their lands, their cows and oxen and goats, their very livelihood, worth the Rana’s pride? Were they not Rajputs too, just like him? Hordes of villagers migrated from around Mewar to find new homes elsewhere. They could not come back for a few more years at least. It would take time before their water was pure, before their fields could hold life, before the pain would be erased from their memories.

Rana Amar Singh listened to everything—and still held out.

So Prince Khurram devised a new plan. He set up outposts all round Mewar and surrounded the land encircling the Pichola. Nothing was allowed in. No butter, no milk, no wheat or rice, no water,
nothing.

Weak with hunger, Rana Amar Singh was drawn out of his stronghold for a brief fight, and during that battle he lost fifteen of his elephants, among them one he had grown up on, played with in his childhood, a friend more dear to him than most humans. He heard that the elephants were sent to Emperor Jahangir and that they were now part of the imperial stables at Ajmer.

Rana Amar Singh held a conference in his palace. His commanders all came for the meeting, their faces ravaged by the harsh sun, their bodies thinned to starvation, their voices all but burned out from the months of battle. Peace was the only alternative to death. For if peace did not come, death almost certainly would.

Now it was time to surrender.

•  •  •

All through the day and toward the end of it, dust had been whipped up in huge clouds, blotting the sun, bringing a premature darkness, until Khurram had run to huddle within his tent. When the wind had died, a cloak of earth—so thick had it been that it could no longer have been called dust—lay over the tents, the horses and camels, the men who had not gone for cover. And then the clouds had gathered in the skies. Lightning had flashed, thunder had boomed, and the rains had come in torrents, pelting down in a fury, washing away the dust of the morning from the tents until they had been wetly green again.

It had rained for two hours now, and Khurram could hear the water gushing through the gullies dug outside. The months at Mewar had almost all been like this. The weather was extremely unpredictable: when it rained it threatened to drown everything; when the winds blew they killed every breath with the dust they carried; when the sun shone, skins were parched; bodies forever longed for water. Nothing was moderate here, nothing merely pleasant. And in this inhospitable climate, Khurram had waged war against the Rana. But now, he thought, it was finally over. He had been victorious.

The rain was held at bay by the waxed canvas of his tent, but within, moisture collected and hung as the gathered nobles talked and laughed. Wine was passed around and the voices grew louder and harsher. Sweat poured down faces. The talk turned to nonsense, to stories of imagined valor. Some of the commanders staggered to their feet and postured as they showed how the Rana had been routed, how his elephants had been captured, how he himself had been tamed. After all this time, they could finally celebrate. Mewar was now part of the Mughal Empire, the Rana was no longer a threat, the years of fighting were over. And they had been responsible for this. Jahangir would reward them richly,
jagirs
would be given out, titles bestowed, wealth amassed, and the Emperor’s favor would fall upon them. They drank some more, their speech began to slur, everything was funny.