The tomb had faded to be replaced by other visions — Mumtaz in the agonies of labour, soaked in blood and sweat, screaming for the baby to come and for relief from her pain … then more blood, this time dripping from the executioner’s blade as the head of his half-brother Shahriyar rolled across the floor … then a different scene: Jani, stricken with grief at her husband Khusrau’s death, approaching a brazier of burning coals with tongs … gazing into its red-gold glowing heart … carefully selecting a small, single coal … lifting it out … feeling its scorching heat on her face as she brought the tongs closer … closing her eyes and opening her mouth to receive it … her screams as she swallowed it. Then, certain he could smell Jani’s singeing flesh, he had woken, shaking and confused.
There had been so much death and destruction within his family. What had the Moghuls done to deserve it? God had allowed them unbounded power and wealth but denied them the peace and harmony that even the humblest family had a right to expect. His name meant ‘Ruler of the World’, yet as he sat there, alone in the darkness, the words seemed to mock him.
Shah Jahan shifted his position a little to get more comfortable. The Turkish concubine, with her wiry dark hair and startling amber eyes, had departed at dusk back to the haram. She had exhausted his body but his mind was restless. He had not slept for several nights. He must tonight. Standing, he went over to a locked chest on a low table and turning the key took out a small bottle of wine, into which he dropped a pellet of opium. He knew Mehrunissa had damaged his father with such potions but he must sleep. Soon he was drifting into a world of sensual, soft-scented dreams. He and Mumtaz were lying beneath a jasmine-covered arbour in the garden of their first mansion in Agra, bodies close. He touched Mumtaz’s cheek and, seeing her answering smile, pulled her gently to him. Slowly he began unfastening the emerald buttons of her choli, marvelling at the velvet swell of her breasts beneath the tightly fitting silk.
‘Please, wake up … the cloth has been spread for the evening meal and we’ve been waiting for you … had you forgotten?’
A voice — a woman’s voice — was intruding into his idyll. Opening his eyes he tried to focus but the pink-clad figure in front of his divan was only a blur. Even when she came closer and knelt beside him, he still couldn’t distinguish the features, half hidden as they were by a sweep of dark hair. Slowly he sat up, confused. Was it Mumtaz? Yet how could it be if she was lying beside him? But as the figure leaned yet closer he caught the scent of orange blossom — one of Mumtaz’s favourite perfumes which she distilled herself. It was her after all. Reaching out, his fingers touched the yielding smoothness of her breast and began to caress it.
‘Stop it! What are you doing? … Please don’t …’
As she tried to pull away, he gripped the breast harder and with his other hand felt for the mound between her thighs. Through the soft fabric of her clothes her flesh felt firm and warm and welcoming, contradicting her words, which she couldn’t mean … Mumtaz had never denied him anything. This was just a teasing game to heighten his desire …
As she continued to struggle, Shah Jahan relinquished her breast and putting his arm round her neck pulled her down beside him, breathing in the fragrant scent of her body. ‘You know what you mean to me …’ he whispered, feeling her heart beating against him. She had always responded to him. From their very first night she had known how to give and to receive pleasure and so it would always be between them. But as he moved closer, she suddenly twisted away and scrambled off the divan, hair tumbling about her face. ‘Where are you going? Don’t go …’ Shah Jahan leapt up but as he reached for her she grabbed a brass bowl and flung it at him, catching him on his right temple. Blood streamed down his face and he felt dizzy. Gasping with pain he gripped a pillar for support and for a moment shut his eyes.
‘Father!’
Opening his eyes again, he saw Jahanara, the front of her choli ripped open, revealing her breasts. What was happening? He shook his head as if that motion could drive away the clouds in his mind. As he stared at his daughter … saw the shock and revulsion on her tear-stained, kohl-smudged face … he began to grasp what he had tried to do. ‘Jahanara … I didn’t mean …’ He took a step towards her but she backed away, the breeze blowing in from the terrace behind her ruffling her pink muslin skirt.
‘No … don’t come any closer!’ Her voice sounded strange — hoarse and high-pitched — and he saw her glance towards the doors leading from his apartments, but he was blocking her path. He let go of the pillar and was about to move aside when he stopped. How could he let her go like this? He must make her listen to him … ‘Let me explain …’
‘No!’ She stared at him, then without warning turned and darted out on to the terrace.
‘Jahanara …’ Shah Jahan staggered outside. At first his eyes couldn’t focus as he peered into the soft light of the oil lamps and wicks burning in their saucers of oil, but then a noise told him where she was — near a stairway at the far end of the terrace that led directly down to the haram. ‘Wait …’
For a moment she looked back at him, then gathering her muslin skirt she turned and ran towards the stairs. Suddenly she lost her footing and tumbled forward, putting out her hands to try to save herself. As she came crashing down, the hem of her skirt brushed a naked flame. Shah Jahan watched in horror as a tongue of orange fire spread into the fabric and his daughter began to scream.
Shah Jahan half ran, half lurched forward, but before he could reach Jahanara female haram attendants who must have heard her cries ran up the stairs. Seeing what was happening, two dropped to their knees beside Jahanara, one trying to beat out the flames with her bare hands, the other trying to remove the burning skirt. They had some success until one leaned right over Jahanara and her long hair caught light and she too began screaming and clawing at her head. Almost simultaneously the second attendant’s clothes caught fire and as she rose and ran towards a fountain a breeze fanned the flames, turning her into a human torch.
By now other servants were pouring ewers of water over Jahanara, dousing the flames before turning to help the other two women. But Shah Jahan had eyes only for his daughter. Kneeling low over her, he began peeling away the shreds of burnt clothing, fearful of what he was about to see. She was lying on her face, parts of her back and left leg horribly burned and much of her once lovely hair frazzled. As the smell of scorched flesh caught his nostrils, he began to heave.
‘Your hakims are coming, Majesty,’ he heard someone say. With the fumes of intoxication dissipating under the shock and tears coursing down his face, he tried to stand as strong arms reached out to help him. Minutes later, he watched as two hakims bent over Jahanara. ‘She’s breathing, but the burns are bad,’ one said at last.