elephants from Emperor Shah Jahan’s stables were mustered behind the standing men. The imperial horses were brought in; two cages with newly captured leopards were wheeled by the keepers of the royal menagerie. The first announcement of Shah Jahan’s presence at the jharoka was preceded by the beating of the huge kettledrums in one corner. The heart of every man in the maidan thudded to the accompaniment of the drums, as the beaters’ muscles strained and stretched and sweat began to pour from their foreheads. The trumpets joined in, a twirl of breeze swung the yak’s-tail standard, held high above the assembly, and finally, the conch bearer raised his shell to his lips and let out a huge blast.
The crowd bowed in unison as Emperor Shah Jahan filled the empty doorway of the jharoka and then stepped outside, dressed in a splendid, pure white. His qaba and the wrapping of his turban were silk; there were diamonds in his aigrette, pearls around his neck and on his hands, diamonds glittering on the broad cummerbund around his waist, just visible to the men standing below through the stone railing of the balcony ledge. But what astounded them most was that the man they beheld, their Emperor, was not the man they had seen under these very circumstances just over a week ago. Where was the clear gaze fixed upon them in benevolence and firmness? This man was crouched over his own stomach, his hands seemed to shake as he put them out to balance his weight on the balustrade, his face was aged, the hair on his head more white than they had imagined.
“Padshah Salamat!” they shouted, their voices petering into nothing.
This was not Emperor Shah Jahan. Whether in court, or at a private audience, or at the jharoka, no one was allowed to move even the slightest bit in the Emperor’s presence or speak before being spoken to or asked for a response to a direct question. Every event where the Mughal Emperor was present was silent—thronging with men and animals but quiet as a stillborn wind. Coughs were to be stifled, itches scratched later; even breaths had to be hushed. For the first time, when the men below the jharoka balcony raised their heads and doubted the evidence of their eyes, a slow quiver of movement passed through them. They glanced at one another. They bumped shoulders. They gazed at the man on the balcony, their master, with a steadiness unbecoming to servants of the Empire.
• • •
Her heart thumping, Jahanara leaned against the opening of the jharoka, just out of sight of the men below. The balcony itself was of a slender width and length, two feet by five, and from where she stood, she could reach out and touch her father. When the sun lifted itself from the arms of the night and bathed the upper ramparts of the fort at Burhanpur, it would light up Shah Jahan’s face with its newly minted glory and create awe, just as the jharoka appearances were always meant to do. Bapa would speak very little during the jharoka —he rarely did, even when small petitions were brought to him—this much he, and previous Emperors, had decided would be the practice at these appearances. So how then to convince them that the man who stood before them was their king?
Even as she thought this, Jahanara felt a warm flush cover her face, for she had in her own mind created a doubt, or rather picked up on it from the outside.
“What is happening?” said Dara in a low voice.
“I don’t know.”
“They think . . .” But he did not finish his sentence; he could not either.
Jahanara glanced at her four brothers and at Roshan, hovering behind them. She had ordered them all to be awake and present at this jharoka appearance without really knowing why. Complaints had poured into her bedchamber all night, in the form of letters from Dara and Shuja and a visit from both Roshan and Aurangzeb. They had not wanted to rise so early, they did not think it necessary to be present at the jharoka —this was their father’s
The crowd bowed in unison as Emperor Shah Jahan filled the empty doorway of the jharoka and then stepped outside, dressed in a splendid, pure white. His qaba and the wrapping of his turban were silk; there were diamonds in his aigrette, pearls around his neck and on his hands, diamonds glittering on the broad cummerbund around his waist, just visible to the men standing below through the stone railing of the balcony ledge. But what astounded them most was that the man they beheld, their Emperor, was not the man they had seen under these very circumstances just over a week ago. Where was the clear gaze fixed upon them in benevolence and firmness? This man was crouched over his own stomach, his hands seemed to shake as he put them out to balance his weight on the balustrade, his face was aged, the hair on his head more white than they had imagined.
“Padshah Salamat!” they shouted, their voices petering into nothing.
This was not Emperor Shah Jahan. Whether in court, or at a private audience, or at the jharoka, no one was allowed to move even the slightest bit in the Emperor’s presence or speak before being spoken to or asked for a response to a direct question. Every event where the Mughal Emperor was present was silent—thronging with men and animals but quiet as a stillborn wind. Coughs were to be stifled, itches scratched later; even breaths had to be hushed. For the first time, when the men below the jharoka balcony raised their heads and doubted the evidence of their eyes, a slow quiver of movement passed through them. They glanced at one another. They bumped shoulders. They gazed at the man on the balcony, their master, with a steadiness unbecoming to servants of the Empire.
• • •
Her heart thumping, Jahanara leaned against the opening of the jharoka, just out of sight of the men below. The balcony itself was of a slender width and length, two feet by five, and from where she stood, she could reach out and touch her father. When the sun lifted itself from the arms of the night and bathed the upper ramparts of the fort at Burhanpur, it would light up Shah Jahan’s face with its newly minted glory and create awe, just as the jharoka appearances were always meant to do. Bapa would speak very little during the jharoka —he rarely did, even when small petitions were brought to him—this much he, and previous Emperors, had decided would be the practice at these appearances. So how then to convince them that the man who stood before them was their king?
Even as she thought this, Jahanara felt a warm flush cover her face, for she had in her own mind created a doubt, or rather picked up on it from the outside.
“What is happening?” said Dara in a low voice.
“I don’t know.”
“They think . . .” But he did not finish his sentence; he could not either.
Jahanara glanced at her four brothers and at Roshan, hovering behind them. She had ordered them all to be awake and present at this jharoka appearance without really knowing why. Complaints had poured into her bedchamber all night, in the form of letters from Dara and Shuja and a visit from both Roshan and Aurangzeb. They had not wanted to rise so early, they did not think it necessary to be present at the jharoka —this was their father’s
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