‘Jahanara, is that you?’
‘Yes, Father.’ Jahanara took his hand. How soft his skin felt. How little flesh there was on his palms and his long fingers.
‘Good. I am so glad.’
For a moment or two neither said anything more. Watching Shah Jahan’s shallow, rapid breathing Jahanara realised her forebodings had not been misplaced. His condition had deteriorated even in the few hours since she had last seen him. Then her father put her fears into words. ‘I feel my life ebbing from me.’ Seeing tears well in Jahanara’s eyes he went on, ‘Do not weep. Every man has his time to die and sometimes I feel I have gone beyond my own. I have no pain, just a sense of the life force draining from me.’ Then his voice strengthened. ‘Before I go, lift me higher against the bolsters so I can see your mother’s tomb.’
Struggling to contain her tears, Jahanara hoisted her father’s frail body up the bolsters and tucked more cushions behind his back.
‘Thank you. Now give me your hand again. I have things I must say.’
Taking his hand once more in her own, Jahanara realised the futility of trying to convince him that he was mistaken about his condition and so just nodded. ‘Go on. I am listening.’
‘It may not matter to him, but tell Aurangzeb that I forgive him … Above all beg him to do all he can to avoid conflict with and between his sons. Such animosities have plagued our dynasty since we first entered Hindustan. I wanted to end them … but to my lasting regret I failed.’
‘I will, Father,’ Jahanara said softly.
‘I hope I have not sinned too greatly. I know that I have done things that are wrong and done so more frequently than many men. But I believe that was because my ambition and my subsequent position gave me greater freedom than others and not because I was more wicked at heart. I have done what I have done out of love for my wife and my children and my dynasty.’
‘None of us can doubt your love, Father. God will forgive you for your sins. Here on earth the tomb you have built for our mother will prove an incomparable monument to your great love which will long outlast other memories of you.’ Jahanara heard her father’s breathing become irregular and he gasped for air as she clasped his hand more tightly. ‘Soon you will be in the gardens of Paradise with Mother.’
‘I see her,’ said Shah Jahan, fixing his eyes on the Taj Mahal standing proud above the Jumna mist. Slowly his pulses faded and his eyes glazed. The fifth Moghul emperor was dead and, as she realised this, his eldest daughter collapsed over his body, weeping warm tears for him, his wife and for all his children alive and dead, herself included.
After a minute or two, however, she lowered her father’s body back on the divan and stood up, composed herself and straightened her back. She must remember she was a Moghul. She had a duty to give her father the burial he deserved. If he could not have a black marble tomb of his own he would join his wife in the luminous white one he had raised as a monument to her and to their love.